Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (65 page)

The next two days followed the same pattern. Adelmar would rise, aching and fatigued, from his seat within the wheelhouse, wash, eat and remount for another day’s ride. A dozen hours later the column would stop, he would dismount and return to the carriage. Adelmar was acutely aware that his work was mounting up and that his officers would be chafing to speak with him and report on the progress of the levies under their command.
One more night
, he told himself.

His presence was not really required in the wheelhouse now, he knew. Amelie was almost fully recovered and the colour had returned to her face. She and Rosalynd had even begun to tease one another mercilessly as siblings often did. Both Adelmar and his wife watched their antics with fond smiles.

But sleep still evaded him. Most of the next day passed him by as if he were in a trance. He played no part in packing up the camp, and was only dimly aware of the flurry of activity taking place around him. Even the splash of cold water upon his face did not rouse him from his near-catatonic state, and the normally unflappable Bergen looked alarmed as he helped his general into the saddle.

Their luck with the weather ended that day. In the afternoon the heavens opened. The sky darkened so that it almost seemed as though night had arrived prematurely, and a torrential downpour beat remorselessly upon their heads. In a vain attempt to keep himself slightly dry, Adelmar pulled on his steel helmet for the first time on that march, and the sound of heavy raindrops drummed in his ears.

An experienced campaigner, Adelmar was well-used to marching in such conditions, but it was still a miserable feeling. Nevertheless, as damp and chafing as he was within his riding clothes, he was still grateful to be at the head of the column. It would be even worse for those behind. The further you went back, those soldiers would be splashing through a churned mire of wet mud; not forgetting the excrement of hundreds of horses and war-dogs. It occurred to Adelmar that Jarrod was among those trailing behind his own heavy cavalry and, despite his own discomfort, his mood brightened.

He felt greatly relieved when one of the outriders, whose job it was to find suitable ground for the army to make camp each night, rode up and told him they were approaching a large hostelry. A few minutes later, Adelmar saw a dark, hulking shape appear from the gloom. As they drew closer, he recognised the Bull and Boar, a coaching inn that sat almost exactly halfway between Ehrenburg and The Vigil. It was an establishment he had patronised several times in the past; one of the few outposts of civilisation between the two cities. He hadn’t expected to arrive here so soon, however. Despite the conditions, they had evidently made good time on the march.

He raised a hand, and Bergen trotted up on his chestnut charger. “Sound the signal to halt,” Adelmar told him.

“My lord?” The younger man appeared confused. “It is barely past noon.”

Adelmar glowered. “I’m well aware of the time. Are you so eager to risk drowning in this weather that you would spurn the chance to warm your feet by a fireside for a few hours?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good.” Unlike his brother, Adelmar was not a habitual drinker, but the thought of a tankard of warming ale and a roaring hearth was a very welcome one. “We’ll stop here awhile. There’s room enough at the inn for all the officers, and stables and outbuildings for some of the men to keep the rain off their heads for now.” He thought for a moment. “Not those from Bard’s Lea, though. We’ll see if we can wait out the storm, but if not we’ll make camp here for the night and continue tomorrow.”

As the horns sounded all the way down the column, calling the ranks of soldiers to a halt, Adelmar rode on. Bergen caught up with him as he entered the inn’s yard, the ground of which was thick mud. Dudley splashed through the puddles behind, leading their horses towards a nearby stable.

The young soldier entered the inn first, and spoke to the bearded, nervous innkeeper while Adelmar strode purposefully towards the hearth. A fire burned merrily within, and with a sigh of relief Adelmar seated himself before it. His boots were already gently steaming when Bergen appeared again at his side.

“It is all settled, my lord, as you directed,” the captain confirmed. “He nearly fainted when I said that we brought five thousand men with us, but recovered when I said the troops would take care of themselves. There is food and drink enough for the officers, and if we stay for the night there are rooms enough for your family and a few others.”

The rooms were basic, from what Adelmar could recall, but clean and dry. A warm glow filled him at the thought of finally spending a night in a proper bed. The girls would still be more comfortable inside the wheelhouse, which was more luxurious than any accommodation the inn could offer, and he looked forward to an undisturbed rest.

Bergen left to relay orders to the soldiers outside, while Adelmar stretched out happily. Fatigue still dulled his mind, and before long he felt his eyelids start to droop in the warmth from the fire. He forced himself back to wakefulness, however, when others began to troop inside. Jarrod, in particular, looked like a drowned rat. He appeared so utterly despondent that Adelmar couldn’t help but laugh out loud when he caught sight of him.

“At least you’ve found a sense of humour at last, even if it is at my expense,” the younger prince said sourly, taking a seat beside him at the hearth. He flicked a strand of hair away from his face, sending droplets into the flames, where they disappeared with a hiss. “I trust my general is satisfied with my display of solidarity with the rank and file? I hope your heart is cheered by the thought of the chill I shall no doubt develop, that will likely send me to my deathbed before I ever see the sea.”

“That it is, Jarrod,” Adelmar replied genially. “That it is.”

They sat there awhile, listening to the sound of revelry behind them. Adelmar sensed that Jarrod itched to join in the merriment, but was loath to leave his spot by the hearth. Before long, two flagons of ale were set on a table between them, and Adelmar glanced up to see a young barmaid with flame-red hair. The innkeeper’s daughter. The last time he had visited was five years ago, at least, when she had been but a girl in pigtails.
Time passes so quickly.

The girl’s face reddened as their eyes met, perhaps only then realising who it was she served. Quickly, she looked down again at the floor, as Adelmar tried in vain to recall the girl’s name. Just then a shout for more ale went up from the men and she disappeared back into the crowd with an apologetic smile.

When he turned back to Jarrod, he saw his brother’s eyes lingering on the girl’s retreating back. There was a hungry look to them that disturbed him, but a heartbeat later Jarrod’s attention waned and he faced the fire once again. His brother reached for his flagon and Adelmar did likewise. He took a deep draught of the bitter ale within and sighed contentedly.

“I heard your man Bergen talking to the innkeep as I entered,” Jarrod said airily, wiping foam from his lips with the back of one hand. “He mentioned several rooms were available for the night. Should we choose to stay, of course.” Adelmar grunted assent, and Jarrod continued. “Would I be right in thinking that you will be taking one of these rooms for yourself?”

Adelmar scowled. “I had thought to. Myself, Bergen and one or two of my officers I have yet to decide upon.” Feeling oddly as if he needed to further justify himself, he added, “There are many reports I must read. The work has lain idle too long while Amelie has been... unwell.”

“Yes, I heard about that.” Jarrod took another swig of ale. “Poor girl, I trust she is sufficiently recovered from her malady?”

“She is better, thank you,” he replied stiffly, irked by the insincerity in his brother’s tone.

“Glad to hear it,” said Jarrod vaguely. “Anyway, you would have read your little reports happily enough in your tent the last few nights, so it doesn’t strike me as entirely necessary for you to claim one of the only rooms for yourself.”

Adelmar grew wary. He knew his brother well enough to sense when he was about to become the butt of one of his japes. “What are you driving at?”

“Why not make sport of it? The men are nearly out of their minds with boredom, and seeing their general bedding down in a sumptuous carriage each night while they lie on the cold, hard ground has hardly helped morale.” He saw Adelmar’s face darken and held up a placatory hand. “I know the difficulties you have had, dear brother, and I have shared your pain. I merely report what others are saying.”

“What sport, then? What are you talking about?”

“We’ll play cards for the rooms, you and I.” Jarrod smiled slyly. “The winner gets a bed for the night, and the loser takes to his tent. The men will get a show and everyone’s happy.”

“I won’t gamble with you, Jarrod,” Adelmar growled. “It is unseemly for a general to be humiliated in front of his men.”

Jarrod sighed, and pressed on as if speaking to a simpleton. “Choose a champion, then, someone to play for you. What about that captain of yours? Your second-in-command versus my own. Trayner has some skill at the gaming table.”

Adelmar brooded, considering the proposal. It was true that the men had started to grumble, about the weather and his own inattention thus far on the march. A bit of harmless entertainment could be just what was needed to lift their spirits. “Very well,” he said wearily.

“Capital!” Jarrod clapped his hands together. “I’ll go and explain the stakes to our brave combatants.” He jumped eagerly from his seat.

Moments later, Adelmar heard a loud cheer erupt behind him. Already he was starting to regret his decision; Jarrod’s bright ideas had always had a way of hurting him in some way. He stood, and saw Bergen and Jarrod’s man, Trayner, taking up places opposite one another at one of the benches.

Jarrod had produced a deck of cards from somewhere and now placed it upon the table with a theatrical flourish. The throng of men that had gathered around them cheered again. “What shall the game be?” he asked. “Perhaps our lord commander can suggest one?”

Adelmar smiled dutifully and shook his head. “Let the players decide.”

“Fisherman’s Bluff,” grunted Trayner, grinning to reveal ugly rows of missing and broken teeth. Jarrod’s own adjutant had been one of the Legion’s most notorious fighters before accepting a more comfortable position within the imperial household guard as his middle years approached. “Nice Whitecliff boy like you must know that one, Bergen.”

The younger man’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he took hold of the cards. “I believe I’ve heard of it,” he said. “My father was fond of the odd game when he was in his cups.” Bergen’s hands suddenly started to move in a blur, shuffling the cards from one to the other at dizzying speed, before dealing six cards to each of them. “Knaves wild?” he asked, with an eyebrow raised. Trayner smiled nastily in response and took up his cards.

As the game began in earnest, Adelmar patted Bergen on the back and made his way through the crowd to the door. Outside, the weather was as poor as it had been when they arrived. Rain cascaded down from black, tumultuous clouds, and although it was still the afternoon the gloom made it difficult to see far beyond the inn’s yard. He marched over to the wheelhouse, his boots splashing through ankle-deep puddles.

Aside from the inn itself, his family’s grand carriage was probably the driest place within a hundred miles, and his wife and daughters were in fine spirits when he entered. Ellara and Amelie were practising their needlework, while Rosalynd’s nose was pressed up against one window as she gazed out into the storm, her breaths puffing mist over the glass. “Do you think we’ll get washed away in the night?” she asked him as he sat next to her. She seemed excited by the possibility.

He stayed with them for perhaps an hour, the sounds of cheers and jeers floating to his ears intermittently from the inn. Eventually, he saw the door open and the shape of the young soldier picking his way towards the wheelhouse. Bergen’s face when it appeared at the window told him how the game had gone.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said sadly as Adelmar climbed back down into the rain. “I won the first couple of hands, but after that the luck of the cards changed and everything went his way.”

Adelmar laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t punish yourself, captain. Trayner always was a wily old fox, and I doubt he’s lost any of his tricks in the years since he left the Legion.” He sighed. Part of him had known that it was folly to become too attached to the idea of sleeping in a proper bed for the night. “You’d best grab Dudley from whatever burrow he’s scurried into and put up my tent. I doubt we’ll be leaving here before the morning.”

As he sat beneath the canvas that evening, soothed by the rhythmic patter of the rain, the sound of continued revelry drifted across the yard. He didn’t mind overmuch. That small taste of comfort he’d had earlier that day had refreshed him somewhat, and morale would be much improved when they continued their march south. There would be some sore heads among the men the next morning, though, judging by the clamour.

He pored over the scouting reports by candlelight. It was clear that a frontal assault would not work; the Tenebrian coastal defences were too strong. In daylight, their lens-towers cast rays that caused invading ships to burst into flame, as had been the fate of their first armada. The only ships to have survived were those far enough behind the flagship to be able to escape before they suffered the same fate. At night, flotillas of unmanned hulks stuffed with dry timber and barrels of oil roamed the channel, ready to be ignited by archers the moment enemy ships came within range. However, the contents of one document bearing the imperial seal and Slake’s spider-like scrawl had proven very interesting, and the beginnings of a strategy had started to form in Adelmar’s mind.