Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) by Alan Ratcliffe Read Free Book Online Page A

enough. He lacks not for enthusiasm, but his instructors say he continues to fight too much with his heart and not enough with his head. It is control that he lacks.”
    The Archon nodded thoughtfully. “My servant has been known to wield a stave on occasion.” He smiled at Cole. “What say you to one more bout, initiate?”
    Cole sensed that a refusal would not be looked upon kindly. “If my lord pleases,” he replied, at a loss what else to say.
    Without a further word, the Archon turned and snapped his fingers towards a group of unfamiliar Brothers that lingered at the edge of the courtyard. His attendants, no doubt , thought Cole. He eyed them with interest, wondering which he was to fight.
    But instead, the brown-robed figures parted. From behind them strode another – taller by a clear head than any of his fellows. He wasn’t simply tall, Cole realised as he neared them. Everything about him was on a larger scale than anyone else he had ever laid eyes on. Powerful shoulders and a chest like the tuns of mead kept in the elder’s cellar were covered with a roughspun wool tunic, which ill-concealed the muscles beneath. One huge arm, its bicep as large as Cole’s head, was bare, the other oddly covered by a grey cloak that hung only on one side. The giant’s face was hidden behind a steel mask, fashioned with ghoulish, inhuman features. This was held to his face by a number of tight leather straps that encircled his skull – itself as large as a bull’s.
    A pair of fierce eyes stared out from the depths of this unpleasant visage. While holes had also been cut into the metal to allow its wearer to breathe, no such provision had been made for the giant’s mouth.
    As the huge figure approached, it almost seemed as if the ground trembled with each heavy footfall. Around the courtyard, the Brothers and novices gawped.
    The giant reached them within moments, his long strides carrying him across the ground deceptively quickly. He stopped before the Archon and loomed silently above the three of them.
    “Your servant... I, ah, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like,” stammered the elder.
    The Archon smiled. “Impressive, is he not? I found him many years ago, the last captive in a forgotten dungeon in the Shadowlands. The wretch was half starved and near death. He was a slave, I presume, and tortured. Unfortunately, the exact nature of his confinement remains a mystery, as he is not too communicative. Isn’t that right, Dantes?” The giant growled, and fell silent again.
    “Why does he wear that mask?” The elder asked the question all in the courtyard were wondering.
    “For modesty’s sake, elder,” the Archon replied. “I regret to say that his former captors were not kind, and quick to apply hot irons and pincers. They took his tongue and also, perhaps to control such a man,” the Archon swept the cloak aside, “his arm.”
    There were gasps and a few shocked cries from those assembled. Even the elder looked momentarily taken aback. In place of his right arm, to the giant’s shoulder was attached an array of metal bands and leather straps, held together in such a fashion so as to resemble the limb they replaced. These were interwoven with metal circles and discs, where a normal man’s elbow and wrist would sit. At the end of the bizarre contraption was a metal hand, made of similar constituent parts but on a smaller scale. This close, Cole could see the workmanship was exquisite. Impossibly so, even. It was hard to believe there was a smith in the Empire who could fashion such a contrivance.
    “A prosthetic? My my, how ingenious.” The elder peered more closely at the workings of the metal arm. “A terrible thing to lose an arm, of course, but this is very impressive work. Does it function?”
    “A little.” The Archon turned back to Cole and raised an eyebrow. “So, is the initiate prepared for a training bout with my servant, one with such an unfortunate disability?”
    Cole was still