Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1)
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Authors: Alan Ratcliffe
DAWN OF THE
DREAMSMITH
Book one of
The Raven’s Tale
ALAN RATCLIFFE
Copyright © Alan Ratcliffe 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First edition, 2016
Visit the author’s website at:
www.alanratcliffe.co.uk
@alanrratcliffe
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Luke Horsman
Map illustrations by Verity Hollingshead
Table of contents
To my family for their unwavering support, my wonderful wife and our own little princesses
W
here does a story begin?
Some will say that a story is like a piece of string, with a beginning, a middle and an end. A perfectly simple sequence of events. A young girl is sent to carry food to her grandmother’s house in the middle of a forest. She encounters a wolf who devours them both, before, depending on the mood of the storyteller, they are saved by a passing woodsman. The end.
They are wrong.
What has happened in this ancient’s life that, bed-ridden and infirm, she has taken refuge in this forest, where such predators are known to dwell? Is she fleeing some past mistake that leaves her unable or unwilling to live among her own kind? Was she once wedded and now widowed by one of the woodsfolk, perhaps even the ancestor of the one who would later – or not – save her life? And what of the wolf himself? Capable of devising stratagems well beyond the ken of normal beasts, and even of speech, is he the victim of some arcane experiment, or a member of hitherto unknown species? What is the girl’s relationship with her mother, that she would happily dispatch her to journey, alone, through a dangerous forest?
Sometimes, where a story starts and where it begins are very different things.
But if even a simple tale is not a string but a tangled knot, then the big stories, the stories that affect the fates of entire worlds, are an ocean. They are vast and fraught with dangers. They will carry you drifting upon them towards mysterious, unknown shores. They will thrill you and chill you, leave you breathless at the unimaginable wonders that dwell below the surface and trembling at the dark and near-infinite depths that yawn wide beneath your feet.
Where does an ocean begin?
There are those who would say that this story begins within the black tower crouched upon the howling plains, and the incident with the mirror. Many things came before that, of course, but it could be said that it was there that all the troubles began.
But between that unfortunate event and this story are numerous other tales, each as grand and important as the last, and to recount each in turn would drag us down into the icy depths long before the end.
Like an ocean, big, world-changing stories are fed by hundreds – thousands – of rivers and tributaries, each one the life of a mortal being, flowing with a multitude of needs, desires and motivations.
Far from the shore, there is a tiny stream, little more than a miniscule trickle just about dampening the pebbles upon its bed. It would barely wet the boots of any traveller who cared to step into it. But from such humble beginnings even the mightiest torrents may arise.
A girl is born.
At first, she is as small and insignificant as the stream. As she grows, the waters begin gradually to swell, becoming stronger and faster. Soon, if that same traveller continued to wade downriver, it would soak their ankles.
For a time, little of interest occurs. The girl, like any being, is remarkable in some ways but decidedly unremarkable in others, her days filled with the various joys and dramas that form the tapestry of a life. There is little sense yet of what influence, if any, this little brook will have on the vast ocean that awaits.
Then, one day, another tributary connects with the stream, one of an altogether different hue, and everything changes.
The rumble of distant, rushing water fills the air.
* * *
“Tell me child, of what do you dream?”
The girl stared up, astonished, at the bright green eyes peering down at her. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Past experience told her that when you bumped into a grown-up, most of the time they either shook their heads or clucked their tongues. Sometimes they even cuffed you behind an ear, though her father’s habit of visiting those people later that day to, as he put it, ‘have words’ meant that such occasions were rare.
What they never did was ask peculiar questions.
She decided to ignore it. “Papa says I’m not to talk to you.”
The green eyes crinkled at the edges, as the mouth beneath them smiled. They glittered with what could have been amusement, mischief... or both. “Ah, our inestimable blacksmith,” the man said. His voice was not like the other grown-ups in the village either. His tone was faintly mocking, even if his words were not. “Did he tell you why?”
The girl shrugged. This didn’t seem to satisfy the strange man in the brown robes, into whose back she had collided moments before as she rushed home, so in a small voice she told him, “He says that what you tell people is foolish and dangerous. He says that it’s hearsay.”
“Really? I doubt that very much,” the man replied with a grin, as the girl’s cheeks reddened. “I expect that what he meant was ‘heresy’.”
“Oh,” the girl said. Then, when her brain caught up with what she had heard, she added, “How did you know papa is the smith?”
The green eyes rose and stared back at the collection of squat thatched huts that made up much of the village. These were interspersed by narrow, dirt tracks, which had been baked hard by the summer sun. Several people bustled past on business of their own. The man watched them until they disappeared from sight. “My Brothers and I have been here now for a fortnight,” he said at last. “In that time we’ve spoken to nearly everyone, and you are the only one who looks as you do. Surely you know this?”
The girl toyed nervously with a strand of dark hair. Not just dark, but a perfect black, the colour of midnight. With eyes downcast, she thought about the taunts of the village children, of the nights spent lying awake, her eyes misty with tears, wishing to be as fair as they. She nodded miserably.
“It would be stranger, then, if I did not know you,” the man went on, not unkindly. “More so, since in all the places we have visited, towns and villages across the realm, never before have we seen your like.”
Perhaps it was intended as a comfort, but hearing his words the girl was dismayed. She didn’t want to be different, to stand out from the others. In her mind she heard the taunt that always stung her the most when flung in her face by the other children.
Freak!
Her lip quivered, but a sudden determination not to let this stranger see her cry hardened her heart.
If the green-eyed man realised what effect his words were having, he did not show it. “It’s a shame,” he continued, oblivious. “The others of his profession that we have encountered have all embraced our message, seeing how it can aid their craft. Alas, it takes some longer to come to the Faith than others, but I am confident that all will get there in time.”
The girl thought about her father and was sceptical, but did not say so. She went to move around the man and continue on her way, when a firm hand grasped her shoulder. Her skin squirmed beneath its touch. An icy coldness spread out from his fingertips, raising goosebumps along her arm. “You still haven’t told me,” the man said.
“Told you what?” The girl scowled and tried to pull herself free without making it obvious that was what she was doing.
“Your dreams, child. I would have you speak of them.”
“I don’t know,” she replied petulantly. She tried to think of what the silly, giggling girls of the village would dream, of what a normal girl approaching her sixth summer would desire. “Stupid things, like ponies, sweet-cakes and-”
The grip on her shoulder tightened. The green eyes bore intently into her own. “I think you can do a little better than that.”
The girl thought about lying again. Or, better still, breaking loose and running for her father’s forge and having him chase this unsettling Brother and his fellows from the village for good. But something inside her yielded. She thought about the images that came to her in the night-time... not the ones that faded with the morning light, but those that stayed with her right through the day, their meaning unclear. “There’s a tower, as tall as the sky,” she said, in a faraway voice. “At the top of the tower are a man and a monster. The man is nice, but the monster... isn’t.” She began to tremble, reliving the dream. “The monster tries to catch me, but before he can, the green fire comes and takes me away.” She looked up at the robed man, who was watching her with great interest. “Then I wake up.”
At first, the man said nothing. A smile crept slowly over his face and he released his grip. His eyes stared at her searchingly, and she wondered what he was looking for. “There are those who will tell you that they can make your dreams come true,” he said finally. “Such men are liars and charlatans. Nobody wants that. Most dreams are silly and foolish, some strange and inexplicable. Others still are dark and frightening, and those who have them pray they will never come to pass.
“What they are of course talking about is not dreams, but desires. This is just as foolish. What everyone desires is power and wealth, but only one man can be king. If one man possesses all of a country’s wealth, then everyone else lives in poverty. You cannot grant every person their deepest desire.”
The girl took a step backwards. “I don’t-” she began.
The man reached into a pouch that hung at his hip, and withdrew an unseen object clasped tightly in his hand. “What I am saying is this: that while others will come to you with empty promises and falsehoods, I offer the world.” He opened his fingers and there, sitting on the palm of his hand, was a large green gem. It caught the light and sparkled prettily. Despite a voice of warning deep inside, the girl drew near to see it better.
“Is it valuable?” she asked, unable to tear her eyes away.
“It has a worth beyond all the gold of the Empire,” the man answered.
“What does it do?”
The man closed his fingers again around the stone, and the girl felt a faint tug of longing for it. “It is a bringer of miracles,” he said. “Keep this by your side as you sleep, and everything that your heart desires will be yours. It will keep the bad dreams away.”
He pressed the crystal into her hand, which she wasn’t even aware she had raised. It was smooth and fitted nicely in her palm. There was a slight warmth to it that was not unpleasant. Just then, a loud ringing filled the air, the sound of metal on metal, and it was as if a spell was broken. The girl glanced back up at the green-eyed man. “I have to go,” she said.
This time he made no attempt to stop her, merely inclining his head and smiling after her as she scampered away towards the village square. As she went, she unconsciously slipped the crystal into the pocket of her dress.
Just as she had thought, her father had thrown open the doors of the forge, in a vain attempt to let some of the heat of the furnace out and some fresh air in. She cut straight across the square towards it, ducking and weaving through knots of people milling around, chatting and enjoying the sunshine.
In the forge, her father was bent over his anvil, briskly hammering a length of blackened metal. Without a word, she pushed inside and hopped up onto a workbench. For a while she sat in silence, content just to watch him work. His powerful arm rose and fell rhythmically as his hammer beat the metal into shape. A damp line of sweat ran down his back, staining his shirt dark.
After a time, he straightened and wiped his sweat-streaked brow with a large hand. Then he turned and smiled at her. “Back already?”
The girl shrugged and nodded which, combined, seemed to accurately sum up her current feelings.
Her father looked her up and down. He took in the mud stains on her dress, the fresh scuffs on her shoes. To a parental eye, these said a great deal. “Been playing with the other children again?”
Another shrug. A scowl.
“I see.” Her father dragged a stool over to the workbench and eased himself down onto it. They sat in silence for a while, each waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, the blacksmith clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Well, back to work,” he announced.
“They call me a crow,” the girl murmured suddenly, in a voice so quiet it could barely be heard above the crackling of the furnace and the faint hum from the square outside. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Ah.” Her father sat down again. “Children can be cruel,” he said, patting her knee. “They see something that’s different and single it out. Most of the time they don’t understand what they’re saying or why. If we lived somewhere else they’d pick on that Daisy girl’s birthmark or Judd’s boy’s pimples. I’d bet most of them only say those things because they know if they didn’t it’d prob’ly be them being picked on.”
“Crows are horrid,” the girl sobbed. “They’re stupid ugly birds that eat
dead
things!”
Her father stared off into space sadly. “Well, perhaps you do look a bit like a crow, with those dark locks,” he said finally. He saw her open-mouthed shock and laughed. “But then, so do ravens. And ravens are wise, clever birds. As the hunters tell it, they can even be trained to talk. No other bird, from the ice floes to Sentry Bay, can do that. That’s why you’re my little raven.”
“Raven...” She tried out the sound of it. “I like that better.” She sniffed and smiled weakly, more than anything else to show her father she appreciated his words.