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

Merryl explained.
    The ramparts ran the whole length of the curtain wall. They would be exposed to any eyes within the courtyard that chanced to look up, but luck was on their side; the night was overcast, the moon and stars hidden behind banks of cloud. Brother Merryl was right, if they were careful, there was a chance they would not be spotted.
    Once they reached the wall, they proceeded in silence. As they hoped, the way was clear, and a short time later they reached the walkway that skirted the upper storey of the gatehouse.
    Taking care to not step into the torchlight, Cole peered down toward the main gate. The two guards he had seen before still stood sentry.
    Just then, across the courtyard, the doors of the Great Hall opened and dark, cowled figures spilled out, silhouetted by the light of the fires within. Even at this distance, Cole could see they were armed. Barked instructions rang out, and the shadows scattered. Half a dozen trotted towards the Hall of Novices.
    “Come, we must make haste,” Brother Merryl whispered urgently.
    They continued on, as silently as they could. Soon, the gatehouse was behind them, and before long they had reached another flight of steps. “Down, quickly,” Merryl hissed. “This should bring us near to the solar gate. I fear we have tarried too long already.”
    Cole bounded down the steps, Merryl close behind. The old man was breathing hard after their flight across the keep.
    “There!” Cole spotted the open portcullis, beyond which lay the bridge to the solar. It already seemed like a hundred years since he and the old man last crossed it, though it had actually been but a scant week earlier.
    No sooner had Brother Merryl reached the ground than there was a shout behind them. Cole’s heart leapt into his throat. He turned to see two robed figures rushing along the corridor towards them, brandishing swords.             
    “Hurry, boy, through the gate!” Cole felt a shove at his back, and he leapt through the opening. He heard the old man’s sandals slapping on the flagstones behind him.
    Their pursuers were less than forty feet away when Merryl limped through the gateway, feeling every one of his seventy summers in his joints. The instant he was through, Cole pulled a lever set into the wall. Chains flew up into the brickwork with an ear-splitting screech and the portcullis dropped with a crash. The winch to raise it again was hidden in a small alcove nearby, on the other side of the arch, and he hoped it would take their pursuers a while to discover it.
    Brother Merryl breathed a sigh of relief. “Well done, my son, that should buy us a few moments. Follow the wall to the left, there are some handholds carved into the cliff face. Eventually you will come to a path that-”
    Cole watched, dumbstruck, as metal burst through the old man’s chest, dripping with gore. Merryl gasped and crumpled to the ground.
    “Merryl!” Cole lurched forward to grab him as the blade withdrew. The old man was limp in his arms. Blood gushed from the wound in his chest, pumping his life away with every beat of his heart.
    Two hooded faces stared at him from the other side of the metal grille, their expressions strangely blank. One of the men still held out the blade he had thrust into Merryl’s back.
    “Open the gate, boy,” called the other, his voice flat.
    “The master wishes to speak to you,” said his companion, in the same strange inflectionless tone. They sounded almost bored.
    Cole backed away, half-supporting, half-carrying Brother Merryl. The old man’s breaths came in wet, whistling gasps. Cole fought to keep his rising panic under control.  Not knowing what else to do, he dragged them both to the long stone bridge that led to the rock spire, upon which sat the elder’s solar.
    Behind him, Cole could hear the clang of metal as the cowled men made ineffectual attempts to raise the portcullis by hand. He caught a few words that sounded much like “get the