Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) Read online

  What was happening? She had no answer, no idea who was fighting who in the streets outside. Bandits? she wondered. Surely they wouldn’t be so bold as to attack the whole village?

  A figure ran towards the smithy, and she heard the front door click open and slam shut. Her blood pounded in her throat as she tiptoed to her bedroom door. Holding her breath, she eased it open a crack, just enough to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

  A girl, only a few years older than she, was leaning with her back pressed against the door, panting heavily. She saw a pale nightdress smeared with ash and soot, and thought she could see other stains as well, dark and wet. The girl looked up, saw her and gasped.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she cried. “Please, you have to help me.” She took a few hesitant steps forward. Then the girl stepped into the light of the oil lamp her father had left on the dining table, and she saw a distinctive birthmark covering one cheek. Daisy. If not for that she would have had trouble recognising her; the girl’s hair was dark with soot.

  “They came while we were sleeping. I heard mama and papa shouting, then mama started screaming... I woke up and I ran.” Daisy started to cry. “They’re... they’re taking people, dragging them away somewhere. Some of the men tried to stop them, but there were too many. I... I lost mama and papa. I don’t know where they are, don’t know if...” She stopped, as another shaking fit took hold of her.

  “Who is it?” the girl hissed.

  Daisy looked up, tears streaking her face, glistening wetly in the lamplight. “I don’t know. I... I thought I saw...”

  “Saw what?”

  Daisy frowned, confusion momentarily breaking through her terror. “I thought I saw people I knew, from the village. Only... they were helping the men. But, I must have seen it wrong...” She met the girl’s eyes again, pleading. “Please, you have to help me!”

  Running feet outside the door. Men shouting. Then clearly: “In there, the smith’s girl.”

  Hammer blows rained down on the door. Daisy screamed. “Help me!” she wailed. The door burst open, and a heartbeat later she slammed her bedroom door closed. The sight of Daisy’s face, contorted in terror, was burned into her memory.

  She heard the heavy stamp of boots as she ran to her bed and slid underneath. A gruff male voice cried out, “There she is, take her,” followed by Daisy’s animalistic screams. “No, I’m... I’m not...” There was a sharp slap, and the screams turned into sobs. The sound of footsteps grew fainter. Gone.

  She stayed curled up under the bed, too petrified to move. They came for me. The thought chilled her. They knew her, and they could come back at any moment if they realised their mistake.

  She lost track of how long she lay there. Outside, the shouting and sounds of struggle continued unabated. Eventually she crawled out from under the bed, and went back to the window. She raised her head above the sill just enough to see outside, scared that someone would spot her.

  Fewer groups were fighting now, but the attackers, whoever they were, were meeting fierce resistance. In the middle of the square was a huge figure, standing a full head taller than those around him. A powerful arm grasped a hammer, and was laying about itself in a fury. Any man that came within range was swatted aside with a mighty blow.

  Papa.

  As she watched helplessly, he seemed to be beating a path towards the forge, like a man crossing a field knocking aside tall grass with a stick. He roared like a bull, throwing attackers to the ground as if they weighed no more than a child’s toy.

  An angry shout rang across the square, and the attackers withdrew. They stood in a wide circle around the giant blacksmith. He moved towards one, but they skipped away beyond his long reach. From outside the circle, another man approached slowly. He was broad-shouldered and nearly as tall as her father.

  The man spoke to her father, but she was too far away to hear the words. Whatever he said enraged the smith, for he charged forward, bellowing in rage.

  Her father swung his hammer towards his foe, but met only thin air. The man span away with catlike agility, and responded with a lightning-fast punch to the side of his head. It didn’t look particularly powerful, but there must have been surprising force behind the blow. Her father staggered, momentarily stunned. Then, with a grunt, her father spun the hammer around in a chest-high circle, but the man ducked easily under it. Another quick succession of punches saw her father drop to his knees. The man pulled an object from his belt, and struck the fallen smith in the head with a savage blow. Her father collapsed to the ground, insensible. It was over.

  She tried to scream, but fear locked her throat tight. The only noise she could make was a ragged croak. I even sound like a crow. Near-hysterical with panic, the thought rose unbidden in her mind. She could only watch as the man gestured to those around him. Several of them darted forward, and heaved her father up, carrying him between them. Just beyond the square was a row of covered carts, and the men threw him inside the rearmost one. Beneath the canvas cover she could just see a barred door, which was then slammed shut.

  More dark figures swarmed around the square, but it seemed that her father had been the last to resist. A handful of others – men, women, children – were being dragged, weeping, towards carts, but soon it was done. As he turned to leave, the man who had felled her father glanced towards the forge. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. She gasped, and dropped to the floor. It had only been a fleeting glimpse, but enough to recognise the face she had seen only that morning. The Brother with the bright green eyes. When she got back up and risked another peek, he was already striding off across the square. He climbed onto one of the departing carts, and soon it trundled away out of sight.

  The fear that had paralysed her broke then, and she ran out of the bedroom, flew down the stairs and into the street. Papa! The word streaked through her head, as bright-hot as a spark from the furnace. She raced through the carnage, not looking at any of the still, prone shapes that lay scattered around the village. She ran through the square in a blur, past the houses and along the road beyond, her feet pounding the dry, cracked earth.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the rearmost cart. As it rumbled along the track, she threw herself at it, clinging to the bars. “Papa!”

  Strong hands found hers, then wrapped around her. Arms that she had always known would keep her safe. Her father pressed his face to the bars, one eye swollen and closed. “I couldn’t reach you,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I... I wasn’t strong enough.” He sounded ashamed.

  She didn’t know what to say, so she just held him. She was afraid of what would happen if she let go.

  Her father let out a shuddering sigh. “When that monster told me they had you, what they would do...” he tailed off. “I’ve never seen a man move that fast before.”

  “Daisy was there when they came. I hid.”

  He patted her hair. “You’ve always been a clever girl, and brave. Now you need to be even braver. You need to go back, go into the smithy. Search ‘neath the thatch, in the corner by the furnace. There are things you can use. Help you stay safe.”

  She stared, not understanding. “Papa, I don’t think I can go back and then find you again.”

  He carried on as if he hadn’t heard her, his voice strained. “Take the other road out of the village, in a day or two you’ll come to another one. There’s a man there, a good man. Fletcher. Tell him about what happened here. He’ll take you in.”

  “Papa, no.” She shook her head violently. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. The strongest man she had ever known looked at her sadly. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “You have to fly now, little raven. Never forget that I love you.”

  “Papa!”

  With a grunt of effort, her father swung her sharply to one side. She flew through the air before landing in a patch of low bushes beside the road. Branches pricked her arms. She landed with a thud, and a sudden sharp pain exploded in the back of her head.


  The world went black.

  * * *

  Over the next two decades, the stream continues to flow, gathering speed, growing stronger, its course forever changed. Soon enough, it will be a stream no longer, but a torrent, racing towards an ocean upon which it will leave its mark.

  As for what happens to it in the meantime... that’s another story.

  CHAPTER 1

  Brother Merryl hauled himself cautiously up the spiral stair, wheezing like a broken bellows and trying to ignore the sharp protests from his joints that greeted each laboured step. He gripped the wooden staff tighter, using the solid haft to push himself upwards, relieving some of the strain from his aching knees.

  In days past he might have offered up a short prayer to the Divine to see him safely to the top, but such things were now frowned upon. Instead he paused to catch his breath and tried, unsuccessfully, to put his faith in his own strength. There is none greater than Man. The doctrine of his Order. He opened his eyes and waited a moment longer, but he felt no different. Cursing his lack of mental fortitude, he resumed the climb.

  “Too old, and that’s the truth,” he muttered to himself. As if in assent, his left knee went into spasm. It was all very well trusting in Man, he reflected, but when the man in question would never again see his seventieth summer it became another matter entirely.

  Moments later, in solidarity with its colleague, his right hip took up the protest. The boy will be the death of me, he thought, wincing.

  With great relief and no little surprise, he finally reached the top of the winding staircase. Before the plain wooden door he took a moment to allow his pulse to slow, and listened. Silence. There was no outward sign that the garret’s occupant had heard his approach.

  Merryl knocked. When there was no answer, he pushed open the door.

  The cramped garret was one of the keep’s highest points. It was small but airy. A crisp breeze blew in from the one window, carrying with it the distant cries of seabirds and the susurration of the waves far below. The sea that surrounded them on all sides was a sight that Merryl never tired of.

  Inside, the garret was sparsely decorated. Aside from a small washstand in one corner, the only furniture was a wooden bed topped by a thin, straw-stuffed mattress. On this was sat a young man dressed in a simple initiate’s robe. As the door opened, the room’s sole occupant looked up, his face impassive.

  “I trust the morning finds you well, Cole?” Merryl ventured.

  “Brother Merryl.” The boy’s face split into a wide grin of genuine warmth. “It is good to see you.” A pair of grey-blue eyes, in colour not unlike the sea far below them, met his own from beneath an unruly thatch of brown hair.

  Merryl nodded, smiling. It was difficult to maintain the Order’s official stance of stern disapproval in matters of indiscipline, when he had such affection for the initiate in front of him. “You have had time to reflect on your actions?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  The boy put a finger to his lips and stared at the ceiling, as if deep in thought. “I think that next time I should definitely expect the feint, and knock Eirik onto his spotty arse instead of the other way around.”

  Merryl chuckled as the young man, Cole, jumped up from the bed and stretched, his arms flung wide. “Nothing, then, regarding the punch you threw in retaliation, one that sparked an unseemly brawl between yourselves and a dozen others?” He clucked his tongue. “I suspect Elder Tobias would be unhappy with your conclusions.”

  “I suspect Elder Tobias would be unhappy even if one night he retired to find two of Westcove’s most limber ladies of negotiable morals waiting in his bed.” Cole shook his head in mock sadness. “A sourer man I have not met.”

  Merryl smiled, before remembering that he was meant to present an authoritative face. “You’re a very wicked boy,” he chided. For good measure, he wagged a gnarled finger in the boy’s direction.

  “I was always told that honesty is a virtue,” Cole retorted, grinning once more. “Come, Brother, tell me my confinement is over and that I may return to the fold. Suitably chastened, of course.”

  The old man sighed. “You may. Elder Tobias has expressed his hope that this will be the last time you are excluded from the Hall of Novices.” He winced at another twinge of complaint from his knee. “I share his hopes.”

  The boy placed a hand over his heart, his face solemn. “I promise that I will make every possible effort to become just as stuffy and joyless as the rest of my Brothers.”

  Brother Merryl shook his head in mild disapproval, turned, and shuffled from the room. After a moment, the boy followed.

  They descended the spiral steps in silence, which pleased the aged Brother. Oftentimes, he enjoyed the initiate’s company, providing as it did a welcome relief to the earnest nature of his fellow brethren. But, in the twilight of his days, he’d learned to appreciate the quiet. It was in these moments that he could be alone with his thoughts, rather than attempting to keep up with the verbal jousting that was a regular feature of conversations with the boy. Merryl concentrated instead on the descent, trying to put faith in his ailing strength in the hope that he would not lose his footing and pitch forward. He had no wish to end his days in an ungainly tumble of limbs, the sole comfort of which was that after the first turn of the stairs he would no longer be in a position to care how foolish he looked.

  Narrow slits were cut vertically into the stone of the tower at regular intervals, and as he carefully picked his way down the steps, Brother Merryl stole a glimpse through to the ocean beyond. Far below, waves sparkled in the afternoon sun. This late in the autumn, there were many days where there was a distinct bite to the wind that blew through the draughty passages of the fortress, carrying with it the promise of the approaching winter. Today, though, the weather was fair and the sight of the calm ocean soothed him.

  After nearly three score years spent on the tiny isle of Stelys, Brother Merryl was as familiar with the sight of the sea as he was his own face, knew its many seasons and moods. In the depths of winter it was iron and sullen, gripping the keep in a chill that reached into his bones and persisted until spring arrived, no matter how long he spent huddled beneath wool blankets before the roaring hearths of the Great Hall. Spring brought warmth and unpredictability. It was a season of sudden squalls that might last for days, or blow over as quickly as they arrived. But on a bright day such as this, so reminiscent of summer, the sea was a deep, inviting blue, as still as a mirror. It was at such times that he felt grateful to still be alive. If there was one thing that made him hope for just one more winter, it was the promise of another summer to follow.

  The mountainous island that crouched in the middle of the ocean was little more than a rocky outcropping, a clenched fist of stone emerging from the waves. Atop this sat the fortress, encompassing almost the entire summit and as ancient as the island itself. Who had built this venerable bastion, or what name they had given it, was a mystery, its early history lost and forgotten. To the Brothers of the Order of Enlightenment who now inhabited it, and the folk of the mainland to the east, it was simply the Crag. Over the years, curious Brothers had occasionally spent time within the Deep Archive, searching the musty, faded tomes within for clues about the island fortress’ origins, to no avail. Brother Merryl was not among them, for spending time in those chilled, dank vaults that seemed to delve into the very heart of the island itself was not an attractive prospect.

  Despite such efforts, it appeared that whoever had raised the fortress simply held little interest in recording its history, nor maintaining it. If not for the Brothers’ careful and constant restorations, the Crag’s walls would have long ago crumbled into the waves it had for so long gazed down upon.

  A gentle tap upon his shoulder startled Merryl from his reverie. “Brother?”

  He glanced around, disorientated. They were both standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the garret. Lost in his own thoughts, he had failed to notice. “Forgiv
e me, my son,” he said finally. “Sometimes, the mind wanders.” More and more, the older I get.

  He watched the boy’s face for a trace of mockery, but none came. The young initiate waited patiently.

  “Yes, well,” Merryl continued, “you have missed lunch I fear, but I’m sure we can scare up a crust of bread if you’re hungry. Some cheese perhaps?”

  The boy shook his head. “I’m fine. Just a bit restless. Three days is a long time to spend sitting in that pigeon coop.” He grinned as an idea came to him suddenly. “How about a little sparring on the training field, Brother?”

  Merryl sniffed haughtily. “It would not be seemly for a senior member of our Order to scuffle in the dirt with an initiate, and an unruly one at that. Besides,” he smiled benignly, “never forget that while youth may have the advantage of strength and speed, elders such as myself have a long lifetime of experience to call upon. Or, as I prefer to call them, dirty tricks.”

  Cole grinned. “With as much experience as you have Brother Merryl, you must be among the deadliest fighters in the realm.”

  The old man shrugged. “Let us pray neither of us ever needs to find that out. If nothing else comes to mind, I suggest we continue with your studies.”

  Side by side they walked down near-identical passageways, heading towards the keep’s east wing. It was there that the novice and initiate sleeping cells, training rooms and other facilities could be found. It was a journey familiar to them both; Brother Merryl had walked every passage within the fortress more times than he could count in his lifetime, while the route from the garret to the east wing was one the boy had come to know well.

  They stopped outside a plain wooden door, that looked much like any other within the keep. As Brother Merryl pushed it open, there was little remarkable inside, either. Just a wooden table in the centre, a chair on either side and a small metal pedestal in the centre.