Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (69 page)

Cole heard Conall’s voice ring out over the Brother’s sermon, giving orders to his men while appealing for calm to the onlookers. One of the guardsmen stumbled as the crowd pressed in upon him, mostly due to the mass of people behind pushing to get closer to the front. The soldiers on either side of him immediately pushed back against the crowd, and Cole saw one raise a mailed fist and strike at the face of a bearded man. Blood poured from his nose, and his fellows began to shout at the guards.

“This is bad,” Raven muttered. “I fear the duke has already delayed for too long.”

“Freaks!” One woman’s voice screeched out above the other raised voices. “Send them back to the emperor, they have no place in our city!” The cry was immediately taken up by others, and soon insults rained down upon the guardsmen and the people they shielded. In the face of this verbal assault, the Brother’s voice was no longer discernable.

The jostling at the front of the crowd ceased abruptly as the stone in the centre of the square began to glow with an eerie green light. Those outside the ring of guards took a step back, their faces bathed in the sickly glow. “It’s happening again!” someone cried.

In the centre, the Brother who had delivered the sermon finished speaking, and raised his arms to the sky. The others in brown robes did likewise, while those that knelt on the ground looked up towards the stars, their faces rapt.

With a low booming sound that seemed to resonate through the soles of Cole’s feet, green fire suddenly shot into the sky from the tip of the stone. Within the square, it was almost as bright as daylight. He looked up and saw the writhing column disappear into the clouds, which crackled with green lightning. When he turned back to the crowd, he realised that the small crystals each of the kneeling figures wore around their necks were glowing as well, identical in hue to the larger stone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, but over the noise he could hear Conall bellowing instructions. The crowd, initially cowed by what they had seen, now pressed in against the guardsmen with redoubled fervour.

Cole grabbed Raven’s arm. “We should go back to the castle,” he yelled, above the noise in his ears. “Tell the duke that...”

Before he could finish his sentence, madness erupted in the square. A rock suddenly flew from the crowd and struck one of the Brothers in the temple. Cole never saw who had thrown that first missile, but others soon followed. The Brother who had taken the first blow lay prone, a dark pool gathering on the flagstones around his head. Screams tore open the night, as bricks and stones rained down upon those congregated around the crystal. They raised their arms against the barrage, but several more fell. The guardsmen raised their shields to hold back the crowd, who responded by attempting to yank them from their hands.

Another large rock looped through the air and struck a guardsman on his helmet. That seemed to break whatever resolve had been holding the soldiers back. Suddenly, Cole saw swords being drawn and steel, shining in the torchlight, slashing at the crowd. Men and women fell bleeding to the floor, clutching gaping wounds in their necks and stomachs. Further screams filled Cole’s ears. Those at the back of the crowd continued to pelt the people cowering at the stone’s base, and also prevented those at the front from escaping the guardsmen’s blades. With little option, those at the front surged forward, overwhelming the soldiers through sheer weight of numbers. Before his eyes, one guardsman was yanked from his feet and dashed upon the ground, to be crushed beneath the stamping boots of the crowd.

Raven was screaming into his ear, pulling at his arm. “What?” he asked dumbly. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“We have to go, now!” Raven shouted, tugging him towards the bridge. “It’s too late.”

Cole looked towards the square, where chaos reigned. “Can’t we help? You have your swords.”

Raven stared at him like he was mad. “Help who, Cole? All I see is innocent people. They’re frightened, and I can’t even say which side is more in the wrong here.” She stared helplessly at the frenzied mass of civilians and guardsmen. “We have to go, while we can still cross the bridge. We have to let the city guard handle this.”

A commanding shout rang out above the screams. Cole glanced back towards the square, where Conall was rallying the remaining guardsmen. They had formed a shield wall, and the young guard-captain was hauling the Order congregation to their feet and shoving them towards the river. Those that could, fled, running past Cole and Raven with blood trickling from their wounds and tears in their eyes. The guardsmen began to retreat towards them, keeping their shields pressed against the fury of the crowd. Cole could hear the thud of improvised weapons beating against wood and steel.

Suddenly, the square was plunged back into darkness. The column of green fire ceased, its tail disappearing up into the clouds. It was then that he caught sight of orange light flickering nearby. Soon, flames licked up the side of the building from which the Brothers had emerged only minutes before. There was a crash as one of the stained glass windows shattered. “The church is on fire,” Cole gasped.

Conall reached them moments later. His temple was cut open and blood streamed freely down one side of his face. He was breathing heavily, and the blade of the sword in his hand was stained dark. “Raven, you must leave, now. We will hold this bridge, and try to contain the riot to the north of the city.” His armour glittered orange as the fire took hold of the church behind him. “There is nothing you can do. Go to the south gate, you will find your horses at a stable there. I don’t know what it is you mean to do, but if it’s related to what you’ve seen here tonight... I wish you good luck.”

“Thank you Conall.” Raven clutched his forearm in a gesture of camaraderie. Then she leaned close to the young guard-captain. “Tell your father to tear it down,” she told him. “Send birds to Caer Lys and the Rock, telling their lords to do the same. If it isn’t too late already.”

Conall nodded in acknowledgement, then turned back to his men, shouting instructions as they reached the bridge. Raven grabbed hold of Cole’s arm and pulled him across it. Soon, they were dashing through darkened city streets, past the walled estates of Strathearn’s wealthy citizens. Eventually, the sounds of fighting and the orange glow of the burning church receded into the distance.

They found the southern gate with little difficulty, and the stable Conall had mentioned stood just beyond. The owner had been expecting them, and with little ceremony they were soon on horseback, galloping across snow-covered farmlands with the towering city walls at their backs. Within days they would reach the Empire’s capital at last, the end of their journey.

Raven had hardly spoken since they left the guardsmen at the bridge, but as Cole glanced across at her face, with the cold winter air stinging his eyes, he saw fierce determination there. He decided he would not want to be in the Archon’s place when his companion finally caught up with him.

CHAPTER 28

T
he parchment fell from Adelmar’s fingers and drifted gently down to the desktop. Once again, he eyed the broken seal and again judged it to be genuine. The imperial mark, an indentation in the shape of a bull’s head, was pressed into the red wax.

Not that he doubted its veracity. He would recognise his father’s handwriting anywhere. In the words themselves, however, the Archon’s influence was so obvious he may as well have wielded the pen himself. He scowled at them, trying to discern if there was some other interpretation beyond the obvious. It did not seem likely. He glared at the last line suspiciously, as though the words were snakes that would rise up from the page and strike at him:
You must do what needs to be done.

For perhaps five minutes Adelmar sat there, lost in his own thoughts. Then, at last, he reached a decision. He neatly refolded the letter and laid it beside the one that had arrived two days earlier, bearing the Maccallam crest. When he crossed the floor of the study and opened its door, Bergen was waiting outside, as he had known he would be. The young soldier saluted when he caught sight of his commander.

“Send for the duke’s sons.” There was no need for him to say to which duke he referred. After issuing the order, a weariness descended upon him. As the captain hurried away to carry out his summons, Adelmar went back into the study.

While not large, the room was bright and airy. Behind the hardwood desk, three lead-framed windows looked out over the endless, blue-grey ocean. But he turned his back to these, heading instead for the opposite wall where a pair of glazed double doors opened onto a small stone balcony.

The entire castle and its surroundings were laid out below him, and he drank in the sight of it. It was hard not to be impressed. The Vigil, as it was known, was a hulking, square fortress built on top of a rocky islet in the centre of Sentry Bay, a wide, crescent-shaped cove. It was almost entirely hollow; the inner courtyard below was a wide-open space used for training, and even now he could hear the distant clang of steel meeting steel as Legion drill-masters put soldiers through their paces. Four round towers stood at each corner, and it was these that housed most of the soldiers and servants, as well as the kitchens, cramped dining halls and the castle forge. There was no great hall, for the Vigil had no lord and entertained no guests; it was a bastion, a military stronghold for the Empire in the south. Instead it had an enormous tower built into its southern wall, overlooking the Calladorian Channel.

The upper floors of this tower were given over to private apartments, of which the study in which Adelmar now stood was a part, while at the top was a large signal fire. This was never allowed to go out, and in even the darkest nights it helped steer ships towards one of the vast harbours that book-ended the bay; to the west a military harbour large enough to contain an entire fleet of warships, to the east civilian wharves used by fishing and trading vessels. At each point of the crescent, past the furthest end of each harbour, were two beacon-towers, identical in appearance and purpose. However, unlike The Vigil’s signal-fire, these beacons were kept dark, only to be set alight in one particular circumstance. If the look-outs stationed at either tower caught sight of an invading fleet, the fires would be lit, giving warning to those within the bay. Such occasions were rare; in even his grandfather’s lifetime, those beacons had remained dark and cold.

Adelmar looked to the north, where a wide stone bridge, half a mile long, led from the fortress gatehouse to the coast. On the far side of the water, another pair of tall round towers stood guard over the entrance to the bridge, the only way to reach The Vigil by foot. Between them was a thick curtain wall broken only by an entranceway fortified with a pair of heavy steel portcullises.

To the west of this great gatehouse was the mouth of a wide, fast-flowing river, the Adamant, on either side of which two very different settlements had sprung up. On the eastern bank was the town of Dunford, a motley collection of ramshackle timber houses, taverns and stores. Adelmar often felt that the only barrier to the entire populace falling into piracy was the close proximity of the Legion. Instead, it housed fishermen and dock-workers, who managed to eke a living on the scraps that didn’t make it to the far wealthier harbour of Ehrenburg, only a three-day voyage further north.

The greater part of the town’s economy, in fact, was built upon the second settlement across the river to the west. Here, behind the military docks, was an enormous, semi-permanent army camp; a city-sized maze of tents and pavilions, ringed by a tall palisade of thick wooden stakes driven into the ground. Currently, with the troops Adelmar had brought with him that morning, the camp was full, with near twenty thousand soldiers stationed within.

There was an almost constant stream of traffic crossing the bridge between the settlements, as supplies from the town were brought to the palisade. Adelmar knew that a great many camp followers would be among them: washerwomen taking in dirty clothes for a handful of coppers, hawkers of food, alcohol and trinkets, and dozens of women from the town who, with nothing else to sell, sold themselves instead. There would be no shortage of soldiers looking for a warm body to share their bedrolls at night, happy to spend whatever coin they possessed for such fleeting comfort.

A few moments later, Adelmar saw the distant figure of his adjutant emerge from the base of the tower and march towards the fortress gatehouse. The soldiers and commanders from Strathearn, like all the levies, were housed within the army camp. It would likely be some time before Bergen returned with Kester and Fearghus Maccallam.

He mind turned then towards the two letters still sitting on the desk behind him. They had been pressed urgently into his hands by the nervous castellan, Sir Ghyle, almost the moment he had set foot inside the gatehouse less than two hours earlier.

He had been waiting there for Adelmar, in the passage between the two raised portcullises. An old knight with his fighting days far behind him, Sir Ghyle’s head looked almost as though it had been placed upon his neck upside down. Not a single hair remained upon his crown, leaving it as bald as an egg while, in sharp contrast, his beard and whiskers reached down past his chest. This was his pride and joy; thick, neatly combed and almost pure white in colour, this magnificent beard lay upon a fine silk tunic of deep viridian. He had been a doughty warrior in his time, one of those who had distinguished himself during Caderyn’s rebellion, and Adelmar had always thought of him as a dependable custodian of a stronghold of such strategic importance.

Yet, when Adelmar had arrived, marching at the head of his own regiment, Sir Ghyle had been wringing his wrinkled hands in consternation. “It is good to see you, my lord,” he’d begun, the smile upon his lips betrayed by the worry in his eyes. “Your journey went well, I trust?”

Adelmar glowered, recalling his daughter’s sickness and his fight with Jarrod. He wondered idly whether the wretch had yet made it back to the capital, or whether he’d succumbed to either the elements or one of the gangs of bandits that roamed the Empire’s highways. If he had, then it would be no less than he deserved. “We are here,” he replied gruffly. “That is all that matters.”

The castellan’s smile faltered. “You are right, my lord, of course.” He gestured towards the bridge, but before moving on, Adelmar glanced behind. In the distance, he could see the bulk of his army; rows upon rows of armoured soldiers marching and riding on horseback, crossing the bridge that led to the army camp. Although he was not within sight, Adelmar knew that his brother’s former adjutant, Trayner, was at their head.

He watched them a moment before turning away, satisfied. He was pleasantly surprised by how Jarrod’s man had reacted to the loss of his company commander. Following that night at the inn, Trayner had been obedient and industrious, leading the regiment of his father’s household guard with aplomb. Not only that, he had shown a knack for more logistical matters; each night organising their camps so that the men from each of the lowland houses had been kept far away from one another. Up until then, the simmering feuds that still existed between the people of Strathearn, Caer Lys and Creag an Tuirc had resulted in several scuffles, but once Trayner took on organisational duties not a single fight had broken out. In recognition, Adelmar had named him as camp commandant, placing him at the head of the entire army settlement. It was a burdensome duty in truth, but such was the strength of the impression the grizzled veteran had made on him, that Adelmar did not expect his new-found trust in him to be misplaced.

As they crossed the bridge, sunlight pouring through a rare chink in the iron-grey clouds above struck the white stone and dazzled his eyes. The castellan prattled on about matters that interested him little, and Adelmar found himself gazing out across the bay to his right, where the quays and wooden piers were thick with a forest of masts. The sight pleased him. A large part of the Empire’s naval strength was here, a mighty armada to carry an army across the sea.
Soon.
As ever, when his nostrils caught the scent of upcoming battle, he felt alive.

“... and my wife and I have vacated our chambers for your use during your stay, Highness,” Sir Ghyle was saying.

Adelmar grunted acknowledgement, indicating that such basic courtesy was unworthy of gratitude. It was to be expected that whenever the Lord Commander of the Imperial Legion was present at The Vigil he would occupy the grandest chambers of the Beacon Tower.

“There is... one matter in need of your attention, Highness,” the castellan went on, before apologetically handing both letters to him. “The first arrived two days ago. It bears the Maccallam crest, but as it is only the imperial seal we do not break, I took the liberty of reading it.”

Adelmar glanced at the letters in his hand. “And?” he demanded.

“It is from the duke. A report of an incident that took place in Strathearn a few nights past. Property belonging to the Order was destroyed, and their elder killed. An entire district of the city was burned and a number of guardsmen lost their lives in the riot that followed.” Adelmar looked up sharply and the castellan sighed. “A terrible incident, and all the details are there for you to read in the duke’s letter. Then, just this morning, we received a second letter, this one bearing the imperial seal. I thought it best that I deliver it to you the moment you arrived.”

Adelmar turned the second letter over and examined the sealing wax. It was unbroken. He frowned. Two days was enough time for a bird to reach The Vigil from Ehrenburg. If the emperor had received a similar letter explaining what had occurred in Strathearn...

“I will read these in my study,” he replied. Sir Ghyle appeared relieved. Shortly after they reached the fortress and, after inviting Adelmar and his family for supper that evening in their new chambers, the castellan hurried away on some errand. As Bergen started to organise the troops around the courtyard, Adelmar had marched to the Beacon Tower, where he’d found the contents of his father’s letter to be much as he had feared.

After ruminating once again on the events of that morning, Adelmar turned his back on the activity taking place outside and strolled back inside the study. While he waited for his adjutant to return with the duke’s sons, he seated himself behind the desk and ran his fingers thoughtfully over his father’s letter. Adelmar would be the first to admit he did not have a mind that lent itself naturally to politics, preferring the simplicity of a blade in his hand to the labyrinthine plots and schemes one had to negotiate when dealing with diplomats and the various feuds of the land that had festered for generations. Yet even he was able to see the pitfalls of whichever path he chose this day.

He was still deep in thought when there was a rap upon the study door, which opened to admit the three men he had been awaiting. Behind Bergen stood two soldiers, tall like their father, their chests crossed with the distinctive blue-green
breacan
sashes of their House. Though possessing similar features that marked them as kin, the brothers were different otherwise in appearance. Kester, the elder, had auburn hair, almost red, that tumbled to his shoulders, and a clipped beard of the same colour. Fearghus, meanwhile, was  clean-shaven, his brown hair cut short. He also lacked his brother’s barrel-chest and strong shoulders. Both eyed him warily as they entered. Either they had learned of the recent events in their homeland, or were simply unsure why they had been summoned.

They stood stiffly in front of the desk, while Bergen left the room and closed the study door behind him. Adelmar regarded them silently for a time, hoping in vain for another solution to present itself. Finally, he took up the letter from the duke. “Are you aware of what has occurred in Strathearn while you have been away?” he asked.

The brothers shared a look. He read tension in their faces. “A rumour has been circulating the camp,” Kester replied cautiously. “We have had no official word as yet from our father, but-”

“But I have,” Adelmar finished, brandishing the letter. He passed it to the elder brother to read. “The facts seem clear. Members of the Order and those of their faith were attacked in the city four nights past. Many on both sides were killed, along with a number of guardsmen caught in the middle. A church and statue belonging to the Order were destroyed.”