Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (16 page)

At their approach, Cole thought he noticed a change in Raven’s demeanour. Her back and shoulders were stiff, her jaw clenched. She seemed reluctant; nervous, even. He wisely decided against commenting.

When they were a hundred yards away from the house, she suddenly turned to him. “Stop,” she said softly. “Wait here.”

Before he could respond, she swung down from the saddle, and walked towards one of the fields, where a man was raking at the ground. He stopped and looked up when she drew near. As Cole looked on, Raven spoke briefly to the man, then reached into her cloak. He saw a glint of gold as she placed a small object in his hands. For a few moments they both stood still, then the man suddenly embraced her.

Cole shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Whatever was happening, it was clear it did not involve him. He glanced over to the tree, fifty feet away. Something on the ground caught his eye and he jumped down off the horse for closer inspection. By the time he landed he realised it was actually two objects, and before he was even halfway there he knew what he was looking at.

Four short branches had been lashed together with twine, forming two crosses. These had been planted side by side at the foot of the tree. He stood staring at them for a while, his face blank.

“Four men came to the house one morning,” said a quiet voice behind him. Cole must have been there for longer than he’d realised. “Dariel had climbed down the cliff to catch some fish. His wife was at home, while their daughter played in the fields. She was seven.”

Cole turned around. Raven stood there, the hood of her cloak pulled down. She was looking at the wooden crosses. He said nothing, and she continued, “He ran as soon as he heard the screams, but it took a long time to climb back up the cliff. Too long. When he reached the top, they were riding away, and there was nobody left to save. He never found out what they wanted; food, or money or anything else. Perhaps all they wanted was to rape and kill. All that was taken was a simple gold locket, torn from his wife’s neck.”

Cole remembered his earlier comments, and felt wretched. “How did you know?”

For a long time, Raven stood silently. “I have travelled here before,” she said at last. “I knew Dariel a little, and Abigail and Pia. They always welcomed me in, keen to hear news from the south. They seemed happy. When I rode past the last time, instead of open arms I found Dariel making these crosses. I promised him I would find the four men.”

Cole grimaced. “Dirk and his sons.”

Raven nodded. “I tracked them, always a day or two behind, as they roamed the Weald, preying on the unwary. I finally caught up with them the night you walked into the tavern. I followed you, and when I saw all four of them together I kept my promise.”

“You did all that for a stranger?”

“I told you, that day in the clearing,” replied Raven grimly, “I hunt monsters.”

She turned and began to walk back towards the horses, which were grazing happily where they had left them. After a moment, Cole followed.

As they mounted, he saw no sign of the man, Dariel. Doubtless, he had gone back into the house. His conversation with Raven had been short, but what else was there to say?

A thought occurred to him. “Raven,” he asked. “What’s inside the locket?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, steering her mount back towards the ridge and the long trek to the town they had looked down upon earlier. “I didn’t ask.”

CHAPTER 8

U
p close, the town of Hunter’s Watch was a great deal larger than it had seemed from atop the ridge. What had appeared to be a collection of tiny, squat cottages were in fact thatched, hardwood houses, built on stone and mortar foundations. These were spread out across several streets that converged on a central square.

It was true that Westcove was bigger still, but its ramshackle buildings looked hastily thrown together from whatever materials had washed up on its shore. Here, the houses looked solid; it was obvious that no little skill had gone into their construction.

Pride, too. As they walked through the streets, Cole noticed that on many of the houses, the wooden eaves of the roofs had been intricately carved. Each was unique; on some the patterns were floral, others carried the likenesses of different animals. Cole spotted deer, wolves, bears – and a few he did not recognise. The overall effect was pleasing to the eye, and Cole spent so much time gazing upwards that it was some while before he noticed how busy the town was.

Stalls of all kinds had been set up around the town square, between which throngs of people milled about, browsing the wares. The air was filled with the sound of voices; talking, laughing, shouting, bartering. So many different goods had come together in one place it was dizzying. Cole’s nose became a battleground where a plethora of clashing aromas fought for dominance. The stall of a flower-seller, an eye-catching splash of vibrant primary colours, sat next to that of a fishmonger. The wares of the latter were dried and salted but no less odorous for that, and in combination with the heady, floral smell the result was overpowering. Other stalls sold herbs both medicinal and for cooking, while every which way he turned Cole caught the scent of fresh vegetables, fruit and the raw, metallic tang of fresh meat.

It was a shock to see so many people packed into so small a place and, constantly jostled by passers-by, Cole began to feel overwhelmed by it all. There had been around fifty Brothers and novices living on the Crag, but the size of the castle had made it seem somehow less populated. In Westcove, meanwhile, he had only walked its streets at dawn and at night and never experienced its busiest hours.

Raven must have noticed his startled expression. She stopped pushing through the crowd, and turned to smile at him. “Your first time in the Watch, I take it?”

Cole nodded, and was nearly sent flying as someone pushed past him from behind. “How many people live here?” he asked, after they vanished into the crowd.

“Three hundred, perhaps, maybe less.”

“And they’re all
here?
” he asked in disbelief.

“Some, not all,” she laughed. It seemed to Cole as if her spirits had risen almost from the moment they entered the town. “Many of the trading caravans that pass between Westcove and Whitecliff stop off here. They buy game, furs and trinkets they can sell for a profit on the coast, and there are always eager buyers for the goods they bring with them. There are a number of outlying homesteads as well. When word of a caravan reaches them, half of the Weald descends upon Hunter’s Watch.”

Cole looked all around them. When you knew what you were looking for, it was not difficult to pick out the visiting traders from the inhabitants. Many of those in the square were dressed opulently in colourful silks, their fingers adorned with gold rings thick with precious stones. Their finery could not be in starker contrast to the drab woollen garb of the stall-holders and a number of the shoppers. Cole could see leather patches sewn on to their clothes, no doubt where the cloth had torn or grown thin. It was as if a handful of common hedge-sparrows had landed in the midst of a flock of magnificent, preening peacocks. The well-kept buildings of the town spoke of a prosperous past, while the attire of the current residents indicated leaner times in more recent memory.

On the far side of the square was a small slope, at the top of which stood a building larger than the rest. It was twice as long as any of the houses, while it appeared somehow sterner – devoid as it was of any of the ornamentation of those that surrounded it. The roof was comprised of roughly hewn logs, unceremoniously lashed together to form a peak that ran the length of the building. “Who lives there?” he asked, pointing.

Raven followed the direction of his outstretched arm. “That’s the langhus. It’s more of a meeting place for the town elders, but it’s true that Yaegar resides there.”

Before Cole could ask anything more, a massive roar erupted above the din of the square. “Raven!” A man’s voice bellowed the name of his companion from behind them. Turning around, he saw a tall figure shoving his way through the crowd towards them.

Cole saw Raven tense. Surreptitiously, he reached behind his back and placed a hand on the hilt of his knife. The tall man, who he now saw was wearing a sleeveless shirt that exposed muscles the size of his head and a thick leather apron, continued to push his way through the throng. Most of his face was hidden behind a thick beard, red as flame, but his brows were locked in a furious scowl. “Raven!” he roared again. “How dare you!”

“Who is-” Cole began, but before he could finish the question, the bearded man was standing over them, glowering down at Raven. “How dare you,” he repeated. “We don’t see you for months at a time, and then you have the nerve to come back here,” the red beard parted in a massive grin, “and you don’t even stop to greet an old friend.”

Raven smiled up at the man, squinting in the sunlight. “Hello, Bjorn.”

The tall man roared again, laughing this time, then grabbed her in a rough embrace and span her around. “Ah, it’s good to see you again,” he said, as he dropped her back to the ground. “It’s been too long. Six months?”

“More like a year,” she said. “I’ve been busy.”

“Ha! Always the same Raven, dashing off in the night to Valdyr knows where. Who’s this?” he asked, noticing Cole for the first time.

“This is Cole. He’s... a friend.”

“Ah?” Bjorn stared at Cole from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. The red whiskers were long and plaited, tied at the ends with thin leather thongs. “Well, lad, any friend of Raven is a friend of Bear.” He thrust out an enormous hand. Cole shook it, and felt his arm nearly jolt from its socket. The red-haired man was as strong as he looked.

“Now then,” Bjorn declared, “Did you want to stand here lollygagging all day being shoved by fat merchants, or shall we go to the tavern? Have you eaten?”

“Food sounds good,” Raven replied. Cole’s stomach rumbled in agreement. “Why don’t you lead on, it will be easier with you clearing a path.”

With a bark of laughter, Bjorn strode off across the square, Raven close behind and Cole following in their wake. Sure enough, the going
was
a lot easier, though Cole felt the need to apologise to the affronted bystanders who turned to glare at him after being shoved aside by their burly companion.

The tavern proved to be close by, a short way down one of the narrow, earthen streets that branched off from the square. As soon as they left the market the crowd thinned, until they were the only ones in sight and could walk side by side.

“You chose the wrong day to come back, Raven,” Bjorn grumbled. “We get fewer caravans lately, but when one comes in it gets crazy for a day or two.”

“I don’t mind it,” she replied. “Sometimes it’s nice to simply lose yourself in a crowd.”

“For you, perhaps. Crowds just make me angry. I have to hide indoors most of the time, in case I get the urge to start bashing people all around with my hammer.”

“The town wouldn’t survive without the caravans, Bear.”

He nodded glumly. “So Yaegar says. Me, I make a decent living off the Legion. But others are not so fortunate.”

The tavern was larger than the surrounding houses, but built in the same style. As Bjorn pushed open the door for them to enter, Cole glanced up. Flowers had been carved elegantly into the wooden eaves, roses mainly, and were painted in vivid reds, yellows, purples and other colours besides. It reminded him of the Elder’s solar on the Crag, ringed with orchids.

There were only a few others within, picking at the remains of their lunch and sipping from pewter tankards. They found an unoccupied table with ease. Bjorn sat with a heavy thump, and called out for food and ale.

“Why aren’t many caravans coming through now?” Cole asked, after the landlord had bustled from the kitchen to place three foaming tankards and a plate stacked high with steaming bread rolls and roasted fowl on spits before them.

“It’s the war,” Bjorn replied, tearing off a lump of bread and cramming it into his mouth.

“I don’t understand,” said Cole. “Why would war far to the south affect trade in the north?”

Bjorn swallowed with a loud gulp. “Look,” he said, grabbing their tankards and placing them at either end of the table. “Whitecliff and Westcove. One the gateway to the exotic east, with all its silks, spices and other Xanshian junk of no interest to a simple blacksmith. The other in the west, source of whale meat, seal skins and more fish than you can count. And between them,” he picked up the plate and slammed it into the centre, “the Spiritwood, a dark, dank, woebegone mess that nobody in their right mind would want to enter.” Finally, he tore off a small chunk of bread and placed it a small distance to the left of the plate. “Hunter’s Watch,” he explained.

“For as long as anyone can remember, the men of the Watch have patrolled the Spiritwood, doing what they can to stem the darkness within,” said Raven. “As their trade grew, the great houses of the Whitecliff merchants and Westcove fisherfolk saw the need for greater access to either coast, without having to rely on the icy and treacherous seas far to the north. So, they built a road from east to west, through the heart of the Spiritwood, and paid the hunters to see them safely through it.”

The red-haired man pulled the leg from a charred pigeon. “Not a duty that ever appealed to me, but many hunters kept their families fed for a long time on the back of it.”

“But no more, I take it,” said Cole. “Why? What happened?”

“The emperor in all his wisdom looked to the north and decided he wanted it, is what happened,” said Bjorn, shaking his head. “When the north fell, the Legion arrived shortly after. They erected their watchtowers at either side and another in the Spiritwood itself, standing guard over the only bridge across the Ymbral. A bridge built by hunters’ hands, no less.”

“I see,” said Cole, retrieving his tankard from the makeshift map and taking a long draught of ale. He blanched at the bitter taste. “So, now the Legion controls the traffic through the wood.”

“Aye,” Bjorn replied, grumpily biting off another mouthful of bread. “Through those blasted towers of theirs. Dawn in the east, Moon in the west and Dusk, right in the heart of that cursed forest.”

“It sounds like it would have been easier to cut it down.”

“It would have been, if they had had a hundred years to do it in. The Spiritwood is bigger than you can imagine, boy, and it has a way about it that turns axes aside. When the Watch was first settled, our forebears preferred to look to the west for the timber, rather than the forest practically on their doorstep.”

“Anyway,” Raven interjected, “to answer your original question, Cole. With the emperor once more making war, this time in the south, most of the Legion has gone with him. Only a handful of soldiers remain at the towers of the Dawn, Moon and Dusk. Barely enough to escort a caravan, while patrols along the rest of the road have ceased altogether.”

“Did you know the merchants have turned once again to the Watch for assistance?” Bjorn asked, noisily sucking grease from his fingers.

“No, I hadn’t heard.” Raven frowned. “I haven’t been this way for several months. When did this happen?”

Bjorn shrugged. “Five weeks ago, maybe six. When a bird arrived with a message asking for safe conduct, Harri insisted on leading the hunt through the Spiritwood to meet the caravan and escort it west. It arrived yesterday without him. Yaegar is nearly mad with worry.”

“I’m sure he’ll return,” said Raven. “You know what he’s like.”

“Aye, probably chasing shadows as we speak. He always was a headstrong boy. The rest of the party returned with the caravan, though, and said he vanished a few miles from Moon and didn’t return. Another day, and I think Yaegar will gather the hunters and lead a party into the Spiritwood himself.”

“Who is this Yaegar?” Cole asked. “You keep mentioning him.”

Bjorn looked surprised. “I thought most of the north knew of Yaegar,” he said. “The most skilled hunter the Watch has ever seen.”

“It’s more of a title than a name,” Raven explained. “He is the Lord of the Hunt. I don’t think anyone now remembers what he was called before. Hunter’s Watch has no ruler as such, but everyone respects Yaegar and accepts his counsel.”

“We’ve always been governed by the strongest.” Bjorn upended his tankard and drained the rest of his ale in a single gulp. He rubbed the foam from his beard with the back of his hand. “When Yaegar speaks, men listen. He’s not interested in trade or the clink of coins, so the elders look after the day to day. For Yaegar, it is always about the hunt. Our ‘sacred duty to watch over the Spiritwood’, as he puts it. But, since the Legion came...” He frowned. “He sits in the langhus and broods. He lacks purpose.”