Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (8 page)

Tears stung Cole’s eyes. Before he could turn away, Merryl spoke again. “Before you go, Cole, one final word. Your powers...when you reach the sanctuary, you may find some of the answers you seek.”

Cole nodded. “Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, and pushed with his mind.

*      *      *

When he returned to himself, he was greeted by the sound of screeching metal away beyond the end of the bridge. It seemed that he was out of time.

On the floor before him, the body of Brother Merryl lay still. The old man’s eyes were shut fast, and he looked at peace. There was nothing more Cole could do. He looked down and saw that his fist was still clenched around the old man’s small crystal pendant. Gently, he lifted the silver chain over Brother Merryl’s head, and slipped it over his own.

At another urgent screech of metal on stone, Cole leapt to his feet. With a loud crash, the portcullis smashed into the roof of the gateway, and armed men poured through the opening. Behind them loomed the unmistakable hulk of the Archon’s giant, stamping along in their wake.
No mystery about who lifted the gate
, thought Cole bitterly.

As the figures dashed onto the bridge and neared the solar, Cole edged away. His back bumped into the stone rail that separated him from the long drop into the roiling waves below. The men burst through the dangling foliage, and with his back pressed against the rail, Cole circled around until he was behind the elder’s stone desk.

“You must come,” said one of the cowled men. Cole could not tell whether he was one of the two that had cut down Brother Merryl, but he spoke in the same odd, lifeless tone.

Cole twisted his head, towards the distant waves. A hundred-foot drop.
At least
.

Armed men approached him from either side of the desk, the tips of their blades pointed toward him. Before they could reach him, Cole clambered onto the top of the rail. His legs trembled.

Between the long drop to the sea and the men spread out before him, there was no escape. Just then, Dantes pushed his way through the throng, his gaze fixed on Cole. There, at least, was emotion. The giant’s eyes burned through the mask like hot coals.

Cole’s mind raced as he tried to find a way out, but there was none. In a way, the lack of options was liberating. The only choices left were to be caught by the Archon’s men, or jump.

He jumped.

Rough hands grabbed after him, but it was too late. He was already falling. He filled his lungs with air and tried not to think about whether he had made the right decision.

As he fell, a large head and broad shoulders appeared at the rail, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Cole closed his eyes and braced himself for the imminent impact, feeling a small exultation of victory.

A moment later, when the shadows of other men joined the first at the rail and peered down at the sea, the boy was nowhere to be seen. There were only the waves, dashing themselves into white foam on the rocks below.

CHAPTER 4

T
he harbour town of Westcove was in many ways a reflection of its inhabitants; rough, vibrant and irrevocably bound to the ocean.

Ramshackle buildings lined both sides of the only street in Westcove worthy of the name, which climbed steeply up from the sandy bay. Many of the shops and houses of the town were built from the driftwood that regularly washed up on the shore, a gift of the sudden squalls and rocky coastline to the south that had been the end of many an unwary vessel and its crew.

A number of these buildings seemed to lean at dangerous angles, as if perpetually on the verge of tumbling back into the sea from which they had emerged. It would not be for the first time in Westcovian history.

A cursory inspection would uncover the basis of the town’s livelihood. The shops of fishmongers and ship-chandlers were dotted along the main street, the air of which was thick with the smells of freshly caught seafood, thick tar and oils of various types and purpose. Set behind these were large, rickety workshops of shipwrights and sail-makers. Sat right in the centre of the main street was a building larger, and somehow even more ramshackle, than the rest. Outside this establishment hung a painted sign, bearing the likeness of a coy-looking woman with a silver-scaled tail. Crudely painted letters along the wooden frontage proclaimed it to be the Mermaid’s Bounty Tavern.

Along the waterfront itself squatted several long and low warehouses, each of which was adorned with the coat of arms of one of the Westcovian Fisher Houses, as faded as the fortunes of those once-great seafaring families. Like the town from which they had sprung, the fate of these houses was inextricably linked to the ocean; unlike the others of the Empire, their holdings were predominantly at sea, with great swathes of the north-western ocean carved up between them. In contrast, they owned only relatively small holdings of the surrounding lands. Harder times had pinched the nobles of the west every bit as much as its people, and it was not unusual for the once-bustling warehouses of Westcove to stand silent and darkened for days at a time.

At its furthest reach, the town extended into the ocean itself; two short wooden piers reached out over the waves, supported on thick pilings driven deep into the seabed. Along each pier were moored a dozen or more fishing boats, laden with nets and cages.

Whatever was beyond the dock was hidden behind a blanket of mist that lay across the surface of the water, giving the bay a ghostly feel in the half-light of the early dawn. At this hour, the dock and street were both deserted, adding to the eerie atmosphere. Even the tavern, usually rowdy throughout the day and night, was at rest.

A large shape glided through the mist, soon revealing itself to be a wooden vessel. It approached the dock silently, the mist serving to deaden the sound as it cut through the water.

When it reached the nearest pier, several men jumped from its deck and secured the vessel to the moorings. That done, they then busied themselves unloading crates and cages that bristled with the sharp spines and pincers of assorted shellfish.

The vessel’s captain strode along the deck, issuing orders to the bustling crew, who rushed to see them carried out. He stood watching for a few moments with a keen eye, running a hand absently through the wiry hair of his beard. Though still in his middle years, he had already noticed it begin to grey; a life spent at sea often made the men of Westcove age before their time. The black felt tricorn that he was rarely seen out of doors without also helped conceal a worrying thinning of the coarse brown hair on his scalp. Like the russet longcoat he wore, it was always impeccably maintained. Evidently satisfied with what he saw from his crew, the captain then strolled towards a figure sitting huddled in the prow beneath a rough woollen blanket.

“Well, lad, we’ve made land at Westcove as promised, and once we’ve unloaded, my boys will be heading to their beds. Have you somewhere to go?”

The young man shook his head miserably. He had barely spoken a word to the captain or crew since they had dragged him, half-drowned and barely conscious, from the sea some five leagues from shore. After being revived, he had asked their destination, before slumping down in the prow. Not a word had passed his lips since, and he’d spent the short voyage back to the town staring moodily into the mist.

The captain considered turfing the boy onto the dock and washing his hands of him. His muscles ached from a long night at sea, and tiredness seemed to seep into his very bones. The warm bed that was waiting for him not three hundred yards away up the hill was calling to him. His instincts also warned him that pulling the boy, whose attire marked him as hailing from the Crag, from the sea was unlikely to bring good fortune to any of them.

In the end, his natural curiosity got the better of him. “If you’re hungry, the good lady wife always has a pot of stew waiting at home after a long night,” he offered. “Or if you want a bed to rest up in awhile, could be you’ll find one of those as well. It’s not soft, but it’s clean and free. I don’t believe you’ll find many better offers in the whole of the ‘Cove.”

The boy looked up. There was a pause as he weighed up the captain’s offer, then he nodded wearily. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wondering vaguely what had happened to his young charge to cause such sorrow, the captain nodded brusquely, then turned and stamped across the gangway onto the shore. The boy watched him for a moment, then clambered to his feet to follow after him.

The captain strode past the dock buildings and up the main street, the boy trailing in his wake. Neither spoke. The windows of the buildings they passed were all dark, and it almost felt as though they were the only people awake in the entire town. There was a chill in the predawn air, and the boy shivered in his still-sodden clothes.

The house the captain had spoken of turned out to be one of a cluster of small, wooden cottages behind the main street. A maze of dingy, damp alleys led the way to his door. As the captain wended his way easily through the warren, the boy’s head darted warily from side to side.

At length, the captain pushed open a door indistinguishable from any of the others that they had passed, and gestured for the young man to enter.

They entered a room that, while small, was scrupulously clean. A table and pair of chairs sat close to a stove that was burning merrily. Upon its top sat a bubbling pot. Whatever lay within it filled the room with a mouth-watering aroma.

The captain collapsed into the nearest chair with a contented sigh. Still somewhat cautious, the young man tentatively sat down across from him. Just then, a woman bustled into the kitchen from another room. She opened her mouth to speak, and stopped as she caught sight of the unfamiliar boy seated at her table.

“Olyvar, you didn’t tell me to expect company,” she chided.

“Unforeseen circumstances, love.” The captain looked sheepish. “We picked up some unexpected cargo on the return voyage.”

“Unexpected indeed.” The captain’s wife folded her arms. “Ye’ll both be wanting something to eat, no doubt. It’s a good thing I made plenty.”

The woman’s face was stern and careworn, her golden hair tied up in a severe bun that was practical rather than an attempt to adopt a particular style. A short-sleeved blouse revealed forearms that were red to the elbow, signs of a life of hard work and toil. She brought two bowls to the table, then gasped as she caught a closer look at their guest. “Olyvar,” she cried. “Did you not even offer the lad some dry clothes? Look at the state of him, soaked to the skin!”

The captain murmured an embarrassed apology, as his wife helped the young man out of his wet cloak and shoes. Then, as she disappeared into the house in search of fresh garments, he stood and ladled a thick, brown stew from the bubbling pot into each bowl.

As he set the steaming bowl down in front of the boy, his wife reappeared with a stack of clothes, and laid them down on the table. The young man hesitated, and she smiled. “There’s a bedroom down the hall,” she said. “You can change there and spare your blushes.”

The boy thanked her as he took the clothes and left the kitchen. A short time later he rejoined them, looking much improved. The captain’s shirt and breeches were large on him, but not ridiculously so. “That’s better,” said the captain’s wife. They waited for him at the table, steaming bowls as yet untouched. “Now, come and break your fast.”

The young man did as he was bid. His mouth watered at the smell of the stew, and after taking a first small polite spoonful, he eagerly gulped down the rest. The captain and his wife shared a smile and tucked into their own meals at a steadier pace. “How is it?” the older man asked.

“Delicious,” replied the boy, scraping his spoon across the bottom of the wooden bowl to catch the last few drops. “What is it?”

“
Lab skaas
,” said the captain. “A Westcovian specialty; onions, carrots, potatoes and fish. Frey likes to add a little ale to warm you up. Eat up, it’ll put hairs on your chest.”

Without waiting for a second invitation, the young man hastily ladled another helping into his bowl. “Olyvar,” said the captain’s wife as he began to attack the stew with relish, “you haven’t even told me our young friend’s name.”

The captain shrugged. “I cannot tell you what I don’t know meself.”

“Cole,” said the young man in response, between mouthfuls.

“Is that your first name or your last, lad?” asked the captain.

“First.” The boy swallowed. “I haven’t a family name, or at least none that I know of. I’ve lived on the Crag since I was born.”

The captain grunted, pleased that his guess had proven correct. His wife smiled kindly. “Well met, Cole. I am Freyja, and my husband here is Olyvar, or Captain Brandt to those reprobates he calls a crew.”

“Freyja, captain, thank you for your hospitality,” said Cole quietly. “You’ve shown me more kindness than I had any right to expect.”

“They teach manners up at that old castle, at least,” Freyja replied. “But as far as I know, the priests there have never taken wives. How is it that you came to be born in that place?”

“Well, in actual fact, I wasn’t.” Having finally satisfied his hunger, Cole placed his spoon down in the wooden bowl. “But I have lived there all my life. I was a foundling,” he went on, seeing their puzzled expressions. “The Brothers raised me as they would any other young child that came to them, but I never took their vows. I was never told who my parents were, or where they came from.”

Freyja grimaced. “What a terrible thing, to give up a child.”

Captain Brandt watched his wife for a moment, but she did not look up to meet his gaze. “Whoever they were, they may not have had a choice,” he said at length. “Times are hard all over.” With that, he leaned back from the table and lit a small clay pipe. He puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. “So how was it that you came to be swimming out to sea in the middle of the night?”

His wife threw him a disapproving look but didn’t intervene, obviously interested in the boy’s answer.

“I fell,” Cole said simply.

The captain watched him patiently for a long time, exhaling grey clouds that quickly filled the air of the small kitchen. It became clear that no more was forthcoming. “You were lucky we came upon you when we did,” he said carefully.

“Lucky indeed,” Cole agreed. “If you had not seen me, I would have drowned, I have no doubt.”

The captain, an astute man, decided to put another guess to the test. “Some of your fellows were in town a day past, seeking passage to the Crag,” he said airily. “If you like, I can ask around and see when they will return, so you can rejoin them?”

The young man’s head snapped up, startled. “No... I will make my own arrangements,” he replied cautiously. “You have my thanks, however.”

Captain Brandt chuckled. “No need to worry, lad. I recognise a runaway when I see one. Your reasons are your own and we won’t pry any further. My nose tells me we’re better off not knowing, anyhow. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, until you get back on your feet.”

Cole bowed his head in thanks. “I must leave soon, by tonight if I can. But perhaps I could rest a little before then?”

Freyja stood and gathered up the empty bowls. “As Olyvar offered, you can stay as long as you wish, Cole. He’ll show you to the back room. It isn’t a palace by any means, but you’re welcome to it.”

Cole followed the captain from the kitchen, to a room at the end of the hall. Freyja had not exaggerated. The room he was shown into was cramped and sparingly furnished, but kept fastidiously clean. He felt he could stretch out his arms and be able to touch both walls at once, and half the floor was occupied by a plain wooden cot. Small it may have been, but to Cole’s weary eyes it was perfection.

“Get some rest, lad,” the captain said, in a strangely subdued tone. “I’ll be getting some shut-eye meself. Freyja will be pottering around the place, but she won’t disturb you.” Cole bent his head in thanks, and the captain left, closing the door behind him. Cole heard his footsteps retreat back up the hall, and then a creak and click as another door was opened and shut.