Ravensoul

by James Barclay

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Sol stared at the merchant, looking for the lie in his eyes. ‘A soul cannot return. You cannot be here.’

  ‘Think I want to be? It hurts, Unknown. Badly. Ilkar will be here soon enough, I’m sure. He’ll make you understand.’

  Sol put his head in his hands. ‘This can’t be happening. Not really. I have . . . dreams.’

  ‘Told you.’

  Sol snapped his head up. So like him, those words. So typical. The merchant was standing over him, offering a helping hand.

  ‘If you promise to hear me not hit me, I’ll help you up. We could have a glass of wine. Does Blackthorne still do that red of his? I wonder if I can taste it?’

  The merchant wore a crooked smile. Sol glanced over at the picture of Hirad and shuddered. He allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

  ‘I have truly lost my mind.’ Sol gestured to a chair. ‘Pick it up and sit on it. I’ll get us a drink. While my back is turned, you have the option to leave. If I come back and find out you’re lying, I will kill you where you sit.’

  ‘I have missed your administrative guidance,’ said the merchant.

  Sol jabbed a finger into his chest again. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  He blew out his cheeks and wiped a hand across his head on the way back to the bar. There were footsteps on the stairs. Diera appeared and treated him to a scowl as she tied on her apron. She looked beyond him into the inn.

  ‘Been rearranging the furniture, have you? Can’t say I like the upturned chair and broken glass look. What the hell has been going on? And who is that? We aren’t open yet.’

  Sol stared at her for a moment, considering the lie that would best placate her. He dismissed every option. He plucked two pewter goblets from the bar top and wrapped his little finger around the neck of a stoppered bottle of wine. Half empty and not the good stuff.

  ‘He says he’s Hirad Coldheart, back from the dead.’

  ‘And you believe him?’ she asked. Sol said nothing. ‘My darling husband, where have you gone?’

  Diera cupped her hands around his face. A single tear fell from her left eye. She sucked her lip, turned and walked out of the back door and into the yard, where the children still played.

  Chapter 3

  ‘I take it the good Lady Unknown doesn’t believe me?’

  Sol said nothing while he poured them each a goblet of wine. He sniffed his to make sure it was still drinkable and took a hearty sip. The Gresse red had a mellow flavour and a strong aftertaste.

  ‘Good with stew,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll remember that next time I’m cooking.’

  Sol stared at the man. Young and proud-looking. Shoulder-length brown hair tied in a ponytail. Sharp green eyes stared back above a crooked nose and a mouth in which the teeth were starting to discolour. The wound in his left shoulder was deep. Deep enough to be fatal. Sol could see torn flesh and bone showing through the ripped clothing. He should have been pumping blood onto the inn floor. Sol was thankful for the mercy.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll repeat it until you believe me, you know,’ said the merchant, eyes twinkling briefly. ‘You do believe me really, don’t you?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ll listen to you. Give you a chance this side of doubt. But believe? What’s to believe?’

  The merchant took a sip of wine and a look of almost beatific pleasure crossed his face. ‘Now that was almost worth coming back for.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Another time, Unknown. But for now accept that returning from the dead isn’t all it might be.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Sol cursed himself, feeling drawn in already and wanting more. He wanted it to be true, that much he would readily admit.

  ‘Look, think about this logically.’

  Sol laughed. ‘Logically? Now that is something very much in the Hirad mould. The ability to choose absolutely the wrong word at will. You appear at my door, sporting a wound that should have put you on the slab, and claim to be my friend returned from ten years dead. Logic? Please.’

  ‘All right not logic then, just what is in front of your eyes. Rely on what you know.’

  ‘I know Hirad Coldheart is dead. I am still counting the days, wishing it wasn’t true.’

  ‘And you also know that this wound has carved through my left collarbone and has torn nerve, sinew and artery. It’s a killing blow and you’ve seen enough to know one, right?’

  ‘Which means I’m looking at a fake of some sort. Because dead men cannot walk.’

  ‘Put your finger in, then. Give it a wiggle.’

  The merchant demonstrated. Sol winced.

  ‘Isn’t that painful?’

  ‘It’s fucking agony.’

  ‘Well, stop it, then.’

  ‘Do you want a go?’

  Sol stared at the merchant yet again. Memories thronged his mind and dragged to the fore emotions long-buried. Thousands of words that should have been said. Wrong body, wrong voice. An impossible return. And yet there in the cock of his head and the manner of his speech. So much familiarity.

  ‘It cannot be you,’ he said. ‘How can it be you?’

  ‘I take it you’ve had your fair share of fakes?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Sol.

  ‘What people will do for a free drink, eh?’

  ‘They’re just the sad cases.’ Sol rubbed his nose. ‘It’s the ones that trade on my memories for profit. They make me angry.’

  The merchant reached out and patted Sol’s hand.

  ‘Well you hide it very well.’

  Sol burst out laughing. He refilled both their goblets. ‘Remember you’re still on probation here. Though I must admit, I’ve never seen anyone as convincing thus far.’

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve had others come to you like this?’

  Sol nodded. ‘People claiming they were possessed by the spirits of one or other of The Raven fallen.’

  The merchant straightened his shoulders, grimacing at the pain. ‘Recently?’ he asked.

  ‘Last four or so years . . . until I introduced the cudgel.’ Sol frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Anything very recent might not have been a fake.’

  ‘You mean I might have beaten the backside out of Ilkar or something?’

  ‘Ilkar’s rather confused living host, to be precise. We were trying a number of ways to get hold of you.’

  ‘A number?’

  ‘Two.’

  Sol sighed. ‘If you are Hirad, I have to tell you your jokes have not improved.’

  ‘It’s important, Unknown.’

  ‘All right. But you’d better surprise me or it’s the cudgel and a trip face down along the river.’

  ‘Ilkar is much better at this stuff. Basically, we’ve been trying to get to you through your dreams but although if we got together we could sense you, all we could do was the equivalent of wave at you in the fog. You were always so close but just out of reach. And then, when the walls of the dimension started to fall, we started to try sending ourselves out and getting hold of bodies to speak for us. They were always of the living and I guess you just found possessed people annoying. But I thought I might as well give this a try. Y’know, finding someone freshly dead and using them. Didn’t have to wait too long in the north alleys to find a host.’ The merchant paused. ‘Are you getting this so far?’

  ‘What? Sorry. Just trying to work out how it is you could describe my vision to me.’

  ‘Because we sent it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Raven’s dead.’ The merchant stared into Sol’s eyes. Desperation and bottomless pain flooded out. ‘We need you, Unknown. They are come and we cannot stop them.’

  Sol bit back on the threat of tears.

  ‘I’m losing my mind,’ he whispered.

  ‘No you’re not, Unknown. This is real.’

  Sol’s vision was blurred. He wiped a hand across his eyes. He couldn’t stop hi
mself. With Diera, it was too fraught. With this stranger, as natural as sunlight.

  ‘Don’t you know how much I want that to be true? Every day I walk past those paintings and I crave the company of the men and women I see. I want it so much I see movement within the frames. I crave our bond and to live by our code once more. The pride of standing in line with them. The sheer energy of our battle. The closeness that comes with facing death together day by day and living till morning yet again. The knowledge that any of them would die for me and that I would do the same for them. Things I can only embrace now when I sleep.

  ‘I want to tell them so much. About my joy that I can see my sons grow up; that I awake each morning and see my wife. That I am living everything I dreamed of but that it is just a puff of smoke rising from the embers of the life I had, and to which I can never return. That on some days, too many days, I wish I too had fallen that day. A hero to live on in the memory, not growing fat behind a bar and dreaming of glories past.’

  The merchant was silent. He drained his glass. Sol did likewise and refilled them both. He cleared his throat and stood up, needing to fill his hands with something, anything. The Raven’s Rest felt a little gloomy. Apt in one sense but no good for the custom Sol expected through the door later. King or not, he still had an inn to run.

  The fire needed laying but that would wait. He lifted a lantern from its alcove and retrieved flint and steel from his pocket. He was aware of the merchant’s gaze on his back.

  ‘Don’t repeat any of that,’ said Sol.

  ‘You’ll be able to tell them all personally before long. And you’ll wish you couldn’t.’

  ‘Why would I wish that?’

  Sol struck sparks onto the oiled taper which sputtered to yellow life.

  ‘Because with the best will in the world, Unknown, we are not happy to see you. Not here, not in this dimension. We’re dead, big man, and we want to stay that way. But we’ve been attacked. Our dimension has been plundered and we are cast out. It hurts and it is lonely.’

  ‘And you want my help to get you back where you belong, is that it?’

  ‘If only it was that simple.’

  The Unknown chuckled. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. If you’re telling the truth, that is. It’s just that—’

  ‘Nothing’s ever that simple with The Raven.’

  Sol nodded, feeling the warmth of familiarity return. It felt like grasping an elusive childhood memory. He put the taper to the lantern wick, trimmed the wick to stop the flare of flame and replaced the glass before returning the lantern to its alcove. The light cast garish shadows in the dim room.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to light the whole lot n—’

  The taper dropped from Sol’s fingers. The merchant was casting a shadow on the opposite wall. It spoke of a powerful upper body, long hair tied into waving braids and a thick fist wrapped around the goblet. It was utterly at odds with the man sat at the table and Sol knew the silhouette so well.

  ‘Gods burning, Hirad, it is you.’

  Sol’s heart slammed in his chest and he shuddered throughout his body. His face felt hot and for a moment he thought he might faint. He strode to the table and stopped only when Hirad held up a hand.

  ‘Best not hug me, big man. This shoulder’s really starting to sting.’

  ‘Then we’ll bring Denser down to fix it. I’ll send one of the boys. How could you possibly find me? How did you know I was here? How will the others get here?’

  Sol felt giddy, light-headed like after his first sword fight. A mixture of excitement and fear but this time overlaid with an odd sense of detachment.

  ‘This can’t be real,’ he muttered.

  ‘I wish it wasn’t,’ said Hirad. ‘Look, I can’t answer everything. Ilkar understands it so much better. And Erienne too. It’s to do with the familiarity of our souls. Almost like they are linked in some way. It meant we could all find each other when the attack started.’

  Sol’s elation dissipated. He sat back down and looked at Hirad in the merchant’s body. He was quite still and in his eyes was an aching sadness.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Sol.

  ‘How do I explain to the living how it feels to be thrust from rest?’

  ‘Is that what it feels like when you’re dead? Rest? What does it look like?’

  ‘There aren’t the words, Unknown. Or I certainly don’t have them. There is no time; there are none of the things you associate with life. I don’t know if there is colour but I do know there aren’t trees, cities, any of that stuff. People assume that a glorious death will be like the sunniest day they can remember. It’s nothing like that. Maybe Ilkar can describe it to you. I can’t. But I do know it is peaceful and it is comfort and it is happiness. Or it was.

  ‘We cannot fight and we cannot defend ourselves.’ Hirad allowed himself a small smile. Sol was struck by how characteristic it was of him despite the merchant’s face. Hirad continued. ‘And that hurts almost as much as being here now. All those dead around you, you can sense them, you see? And you can taste their fear and feel their despair. They had nowhere to run. Most of them. Nowhere to go.’

  Hirad’s expression had become vacant and the body of the merchant wobbled before steadying. A hand gripped the table. The other put the wine goblet to his mouth.

  ‘Fear makes you call out for those you love, Unknown. To be saved and be saviour. That’s how we found each other again. And when the skin of the dimension was finally torn, we could sense you too. And Denser. You represent the end of a path and we found we could travel it, though it is like clinging to a rope in a hurricane. We dare not let go. Souls cast into the void will never be found and will roam without rest.

  ‘None should suffer that. Not even the most evil of men.’

  ‘But they are suffering it, aren’t they, Hirad?’

  A tear fell from Hirad’s eye and ran down his pale cheek to drip onto the table top.

  ‘Thousands of years and countless souls. No wonder the demons tried so hard to open the door to the dead. So many are already lost to the void and immeasurably more will follow. Any who cannot find a path back to the land where they once lived will become victims.’ Hirad looked up and he was pressing his jaws together to hold back a sob or worse. ‘You can hear them scream when they are torn away. Each one like a piece of skin ripped from your living body.’

  Sol heard someone coming through the back gate and it reminded him he needed Jonas or young Hirad to go and ask for Denser up at the Mount of Xetesk. Just a short and familiar walk.

  ‘What can be done?’ asked Sol. ‘Who is this enemy? Why do they attack you?’

  ‘I have no answers,’ said Hirad. ‘We cannot see or feel them. All we know is that they are tearing our resting places apart and that they are following the fleeing dead too. We have to find a way to stop them. Should they wish to plunder Balaia too, we could all be lost.’

  ‘But you have no reason to think that they will.’

  ‘And also none to think they will not.’

  ‘What do they want?’ Sol’s delight at Hirad’s return had given way to a chill anxiety.

  ‘I don’t know, Unknown; I’m dead. We don’t spend our time gazing out at the living and being happy for your continued life, you know. Can you imagine how frustrating that would be?’

  ‘We need Denser,’ said Sol.

  ‘Then it is fortunate that Denser is here already.’

  Sol turned. Denser was walking around the bar, Diera following him. She was wringing her hands and had obviously been crying. He looked much as ever: frowning, severe and with the cares of the world on his shoulders.

  ‘Pull up a chair. Diera will furnish you with a goblet, I’m sure,’ said Sol.

  He tried to catch her eye but she would not humour him. Instead she walked behind the bar and stooped to get a goblet for Denser.

  ‘I’m here because Diera believes you have finally taken complete leave of your senses.’

  Denser sat next to Sol and stared at the m
erchant, nodding minutely.

  ‘But you don’t think so, Denser. Do you?’ said Sol.

  ‘It is hard to know what to believe.’ Denser glanced over at Diera. She was watching, listening, reluctant it seemed to come closer. ‘Your wife was very upset. She didn’t say much about why, just that you had caved in, just like she feared you would.’

  Denser sucked his lip and turned to glare at Hirad.

  ‘You know, I don’t appreciate total strangers grinning at me like they’ve known me all my life,’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Denser?’

  ‘No. I would have thought that was obvious.’

  Sol found himself smiling and tried to cover it.

  ‘Well, it’s no surprise,’ said Hirad. ‘This isn’t my original body after all. But I have to be honest, Xetesk-man, the years haven’t been kind.’

  Denser gaped. ‘What?’

  ‘Beard’s gone grey, you’re looking a bit paunchy in the cheeks and you’re probably bald under that skullcap. Mind you, I see you’ve been promoted. Congratulations. Good to see you finally made something of yourself.’

  Hirad pointed at the embossed bronze circle on the front of Denser’s skullcap, which denoted his position as Lord of the Mount of the College of Xetesk.

  Denser’s eyes had narrowed and his cheeks were pointed with red.

  ‘Clearly, you’re angling for a matching wound on your right-hand side. Who is this cretin, Sol?’

  ‘You ought to recognise the lack of tact if nothing else,’ replied Sol. ‘This is Hirad. Or rather, Hirad’s soul in the body of a dead merchant. ’

  ‘God’s falling, it’s pathetic,’ muttered Diera from the bar. ‘See what I mean, Denser?’

  But Denser didn’t hear her. He was staring at Hirad, one hand absently scratching at his beard.

  ‘It is technically possible, you see,’ he said as if to himself. ‘How are you doing it? Is the heart beating?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hirad. ‘If it was, I’d die again, pushing blood out of this wound.’

  ‘Well, we can soon fix that. Tell me how it works?’

  ‘One soul leaves, another enters. Mine in this case. I was attracted to the body and filled it. I don’t know how. Ilkar probably does. But it isn’t too badly damaged or sick inside so I can hang on. Just about. But it hurts. I can make it move as if it were my own. But I need to get the heart to beat soon or Ilkar says I’ll decompose.’