Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1)
Read Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Online
Authors: Jonathan Renshaw
DAWN OF WONDER
Book 1 of The Wakening
By Jonathan Renshaw
© 2015 Jonathan Renshaw
All rights reserved
Cover art by Richard Allen and JR
Scene sketches by Richard Allen
All characters and events in this book, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Chapters
Spoiler alert!
This table is intended as a reference, not a door
for sneak previews.
of the less
obvious names and places.
Allisian—a-LIS-ian
Aedan—AY-din
Castath—CASS-tith
Clauman—CLAW-min
DinEilan—din-EE-lin
Dresbourn—DREZ-born
Kalry—KAL-ree
Kultûhm—kull-TOOM (kull as in full)
Lekrau—LEK-rouw (rouw as in now)
Liru—LEE-roo
Malik—MAL-ik
Mardrae—MAR-dray
Mardraél—MAR-dray-EL
Merter—MER-ta
Nymliss—NIM-liss
Orunea—a-ROO-nia
Osric—OZ-ric
Pellamine—PEL-a-meen
Torval—TOR-vil
Ulnoi—ULL-noy (ULL as in FULL)
Vallendal—va-LEN-dil
Wildemar—
WILL
-dim-ah
Yulla—YOO-la
Even the wind now held its breath.
A hush of anticipation swept through the trees,
causing forest creatures to hesitate in their scratchings and birds to falter
in their songs. The woods grew still as everything was pressed under a deep,
vast silence.
It came from the east, from the mountain
wilderness of DinEilan. It was like a swelling of the air, a flexing of the
ground, as if some enormous power had been hurled into the earth hundreds of
miles away sending tremors throughout the land.
Directly over a country lane, a young squirrel was
clamped to the limb of an ancient walnut tree. Tawny hair all over its body now
rose and quivered as moss began to prickle underfoot.
The deep, shuddering stillness flowed through the woods.
In and amongst the trees, fur and feather trembled in a vice-grip. The squirrel
may have lacked the words for what stole into its mind, but in the same way
that it knew the terror of jackal teeth and the lure of high branches, a vague
yet frightening awareness was taking shape. Somewhere, many miles distant, something
was stirring, changing … wakening.
Then the feeling passed as swiftly as it had
arrived and the squirrel released its breath and looked around. It lifted a paw
and examined the mossy bark, sniffed, and turned quick eyes to the ground, to
the leaves, to the sky – all in vain. As before, there were no answers to be
found. It was the second time since winter that this alarming thrill had surged
through the air, departing without a trace.
But something else now caused little eyes to dart
and ears to twitch, something quite different. The leaves strewn across the forest
lane were beginning to quake and shiver. Several pigeons that had been huddling
on the ground burst away in all directions with a wild clapping of wings. For
the squirrel, this was warning enough. It fled across the branch, disappearing
up the walnut trunk and into a knot hole as if drawn by a string.
Before it had a chance to push its head out, a horse
and rider hurtled around the bend, apparently unaware of the recent quieting of
their surrounds. Hooves slipped on the moist surface, flinging up dark clods,
but there was no slowing of pace – wide eyes and foamy flecks suggested that
the pace had not slackened for many miles. The tall rider’s green military coat
whipped and snapped around him as he leaned forward in the stirrups, head close
to the horse’s plunging neck. In his fist, crushed against the reins, was a
rolled sheet of paper. The speed, the foam, the clutched paper … Anyone he
passed by would have instantly read the look on his face: Please, let me not be
too late!
–––
A few miles up the road was the farm of Badgerfields. It held
tumbling meadows working their way ever upwards in the early sun, sheep and
cattle working away at the meadows, and an assortment of labourers who were
engaged in something that did not resemble work at all.
Ploughmen whose harrows lay discarded in the fresh
new earth were balancing on a fence for a clearer view. They were placing bets,
grinning. On the far side of the river, a cart loaded with dead wood creaked to
a halt. The driver scrambled onto the heap of timber where he peered out over a
lush green pastureland, chuckled to himself, and dug his boots into the wood
pile until he had a steady footing. This was something he was not going to
miss.
All around, farmhands dropped their tools, and
even the long grass, silvered and heavy with dew, caught the mood and leaned
forward.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on an old stone bridge
over the Brockle River. The walkway was narrow, the stones doubtful, the wall
slippery, and there was a lot of air underneath. To the farm’s adventure hunter
who would give his name as Aedan and his age as almost thirteen – though he had
only recently stopped calling himself almost twelve – it was irresistible. It
wasn’t just the lure of danger, but something it afforded that was far closer
to his heart – friendship.
Under a scruffy head and smudged face, there was
no missing the eager young eyes that were bright with hope for the morning’s
project. Adventures, he had discovered, became cold and lonely things if he
couldn’t, at some stage, get friends to share them. And friends, even old
friends, were never quite on the level of companions until they shared his
adventures.
Whether or not the friends actually
wanted
to share them tended to have little effect on the outcome. Aedan had become an
expert in coaxing and nudging – and perhaps one or two of those nudges might
have been misunderstood as shoves, but they had been given with the best
intentions. Everyone was always glad afterwards. Mostly.
It had taken much work and
perhaps one or two improvements on the facts about the landing, but Aedan had
finally convinced Thomas to attempt the dreaded jump. The images he had painted
with his words were irresistible –
the thrill of the leap, the wonders
of soaring flight, the softness of dropping into water. Deep, icy, emerald
water that clinked and rattled in the chasm below.
Thomas, after explaining to Aedan once again that
he did not want to do this, and being assured in the most ardent terms that he
did, finally conceded and lifted his shaking hands from the lichen-coated wall.
He raised himself by unsteady inches until he stood wobbling on the cold stones
a dizzy height above the river. The soft, pink skin on his back was alive with shudders.
Many eyes watched from
various points along the sheer banks but only one other person was on the
bridge. Kalry,
a year older and half a head taller than Aedan, bit her
lip as she glanced at Thomas and then peered beyond him, over the wall. It was
a long, long way down.
“W – what if I land on a fish?” Thomas was staring
past his toes into the hungry river. “These trout have got spines on their fins.
If they are pointing up and I’m going down, it could be like the time I …” He
turned a glorious ruby red and glanced over at Kalry.
When she smiled encouragingly at him, he attempted
a careless chuckle, swung his arms, and almost lost his balance.
“Oh tripe!” he gasped, regaining control of his shivering
limbs only just in time.
Aedan was getting worried. He had to help his
friend past this remarkably creative pessimism. How did Thomas manage to think
of trout fins?
“Fish always keep one eye looking up,” Aedan said.
“They think falling people are eagles, so they get out the way.” He had a
strong suspicion that this might not be entirely true, but it should be, which
was almost as good.
Kalry’s wrinkled nose told him what she thought of
it, but he shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling. Disarming encouragement
radiated from this short, scruffy boy.
Mischief lurked.
He tried again, “Once you’re in the air it feels
just like flying. The only frightening part is before you jump,” he said.
Kalry frowned at Aedan and opened her mouth to
speak, but he fixed her with a stare and shook his head. She narrowed her eyes,
but held her tongue.
He was about to try the angle of “If you don’t do
this now you’ll hate yourself forever” when he was distracted by a sound that
drifted over from the main farm buildings.
The faraway pounding of hooves that had been
steadily growing erupted into a harsh cobblestone clatter. He looked just in time
to glimpse something pale and green flashing across the gaps between dairy,
stables and feed barns. The last opening was broader and revealed a large grey
horse and a uniformed rider. They dashed between labourers at a reckless pace.
Instead of halting before the main courtyard rail, the horse actually jumped it
and pounded up the fine lawn to the very doorstep of the manor house. Then the
timber shed blocked the view.
Aedan’s curiosity caught alight, but he stamped
the flames down. Nothing could be allowed to distract him now. The
interruption, however, gave him an idea, a spark of inspiration that matched
Thomas for creativity.
“The rumours of lowland bandits or slave traders
could be true this time, Thomas. This might be your last chance before you are
made a slave for the rest of your life. Or beheaded. Or … or … locked in your
room while our soldiers fight them for years and years until you are too old to
make the jump without getting killed.”
Thomas flinched. “You mean people can actually die
from this jump?”
“Of course not. Even Kalry’s done it.”
“But you just said it would kill me if I was too
old.”
Aedan frowned and kicked the stone paving. “I
didn’t mean that part. It sort of sneaked in there without me actually wanting
it.” He glared at Kalry with an unspoken demand for help, but the girl’s hazel
eyes were now full of laughter. She shook her head and buried her amusement
behind a tousled mass of sun-and-barley hair. Aedan had to soldier on alone.
“Think of it, Thomas. Once you jump you’ll be one of
us, one of the Badgerfields Elites. And … and you can have my second sling.”
“Didn’t you break it yesterday?”
“It could be fixed.”
Kalry, the smile still lingering, held her hands
up with a look that was really a soundless groan. Aedan was equally unimpressed
with the strength of his arguments, but he was grasping now. The golden moment
of decision was passing by, and it would not come again.
Just then a cloud drifted in front of the sun.
Thomas shuddered as an inquisitive breeze explored his soft skin.
“I – I think I’ll wait for it to warm up a bit
first,” he said. “Anyway, I want to know what’s going on at the manor house. I
can see lots of people running.”
Aedan’s and Kalry’s eyes met, and something flickered
between them. As Thomas bent over – the first of several careful manoeuvres in
getting down from the wall – two pairs of hands reached up and provided the
“encouragement” that they would later claim he had as good as requested.
The howl of terror that split the morning and
echoed down the chasm would live on in Aedan’s dreams for years to come, always
bringing a sigh and a smile. The falling boy actually ran out of breath before
he hit the icy river, allowing a theatrical pause before the sharp smack of
belly and limbs. It was the loudest landing they had ever heard.
“Aedan, I think we might have killed him,” Kalry
said, her eyes on the frothy impact point far below.
Without a word, Aedan was over the edge and in the
air, plummeting towards his friend. Kalry was not far behind. She was airborne
by the time Aedan hit the water.
The river crashed up around him. He always said
that cold water felt less wet, more like liquid stones. It certainly felt that
way now as the brisk current jostled him downstream. His feet throbbed from the
impact, and he’d forgotten to block his nose resulting in a stinging shot to
the brain, but there was no time to worry over such things. The moment he
surfaced, he spun around looking for Thomas.
Kalry landed about six inches away and gave him
the best fright of his young life. By the time he could see again, she had
taken the lead in the rescue of their friend.
“Kalry, you wind-brain!” he spluttered. “You – you
could have made me shorter!”
Kalry laughed as she swam away with the current
towards the disturbance in the water that was Thomas. He was gasping in
snatches. Eyebrows raised almost to his hairline indicated that he was still
experiencing the full force of the shock and the cold – the Brockle was a river
born of snowmelt and hidden by forest until it rushed into the sun only a mile
upstream. The two rescuers caught up and guided their friend out of the current
onto a sandy bank. He crawled from the water in a series of desperate jerking
movements.
“I’m going to kill you Aedan,” he gasped.
“Kalry helped.”
“Then I’ll kill you twice.” He panted and coughed
up an impressive quantity of river. “I’m going to hang you and after that I’ll
skin you alive.”
“You mean ‘skin me dead’. That’s what people are
after you hang them.”
If Thomas was impressed by Aedan’s expertise in
the area, he did not show it. He whimpered as he touched his belly. It was
blushing like sunrise, as if he’d spent the day sprawled out on the sand and
been scorched to a crimson perfection. Even Aedan winced at the sight, but he
recovered quickly and leaned forward.
“So did you catch a fish?” he whispered.
“Aedan!” Kalry said.
Thomas glared, assembled his still-wobbly legs
beneath him, and clumped away. He seemed to have forgotten that he was a mild
boy and stopped after a few yards to cast a very dangerous look back at the
guilty pair.
Aedan tried to look apologetic but then realised
he didn’t feel apologetic. He knew Thomas would thank him one day. Well,
perhaps not quite thank him, but at least join in the laughter.
Or at least not scowl at the memory.