Ravensoul

by James Barclay

  Ilkar just laughed. ‘Call it what you like, Denser.’

  The air had stilled and Sol turned back to the devastation the Xeteskian spell had wrought. Small fires burned all over the ground and the base of the machine flickered with dozens of flames.

  ‘We need to see to the wounded.’ Denser was behind him, talking still.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Erienne. ‘A somewhat unexpected result, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Denser. ‘I hope no one is too badly hurt. Something wrong, Sol?’

  Sol didn’t reply. He began walking towards the husk of the machine. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, burning parts and charred debris were disappearing, plucked by an unseen hand. So were the bodies of the beasts.

  ‘This can’t be good.’

  The wreckage of the machine blinked out of existence, leaving baked earth beneath it and runner marks as the only evidence it had been there at all. Sol stopped and began to back away. At the edge of his hearing there was a whine like the distant buzzing of bees.

  Fifty men stood before him, no more than a hundred yards away. Big men. Eight feet tall and more. Armoured from head to toe. Another fifty. Then another hundred. Another harvesting machine appeared behind them. Sol was rooted to the spot. He could hear Hirad shouting from just a few paces behind him but could do nothing but stand and stare.

  Every one of the enemy had something in his hands. Not a sword nor a spear but surely a weapon of some kind. They raised the weapons and pointed them at Sol, at The Raven, at the whole Xeteskian force. And they began to march.

  The Unknown swallowed.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  Chapter 13

  The south walls of the college rocked once and simply crumbled. Heryst, standing on the wide raised courtyard of Lystern’s tower had not even seen what had hit it. It hardly mattered.

  The enemy had reached the city boundaries and not even paused for breath. Terrified people ran before them. The few who stood up to them had been trampled underfoot, rendered to dust. A swathe of destruction two hundred yards wide and expanding angled directly towards the college gates. Buildings had rippled and fallen. He’d seen streams and teardrops of pure white light streaking out from the approaching attackers.

  Mages had dropped spell after spell on them. And all it seemed to do was bring more of them to the fight. Twenty armoured soldiers walked lazily over the rubble they’d created. In their wake came the machine his mages told him was sucking the mana from the air. The Heart of the college was next.

  College guard and mages streamed into the lower courtyard below him. City folk were running in the opposite direction, fleeing north, heading out of the city.

  ‘Volley!’ he yelled into the tumult, unsure if anyone could hear him to relay his message. ‘Volley!’

  In truth, his orders were immaterial. Order existed but barely. Archers, the precious few he had, were firing at will. A truly pointless exercise it seemed with shafts bouncing off armour wherever they hit. But still they tried.

  The noise seemed to intensify with the heat belched out by the machine. Another cloud was forming above it, crackling with energy, shot through with green light, draining away the power of Lystern, college of magic. Heryst fought the urge to cry, to turn and run from his utter helplessness. He was surrounded by his leading mages and every one of them looked to him for direction.

  ‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Give them everything you’ve got. Pour fire and ice on them. Take them down. They can’t reinforce forever.’

  Mages began casting and Heryst did too. A wildness gripped him and he found he did not care if what he did stopped them or not. He just wanted some of them to die at his hand. Heryst had always been an accurate and efficient mage. His casting was sure and quick; IceBlades were his favourite attack.

  He targeted the centre of the enemy line, brought his hands together palms up and sides touching, and blew gently along the line of his fingers. The casting fled away, multiple flechettes of ice, flat, needle-pointed and with razor-sharp edges, flying to their mark. Heryst kept his hands steady. In the smoke and dust the enemy would not even see them coming.

  Moments later they struck, snipping through armour and biting deep, pushing and burrowing before the heat of the target body rendered them useless. The enemy howled in pain. Blood spurted and streamed from countless wounds in his chest and head. He dropped his weapon and put his hands to his helmet. He fell to his knees and pitched forward.

  More spells poured in from the upper and lower courtyards. More ice and fire, deluging their foe. Three more were cut down, two bodies burning where they lay. Lystern gathered a little confidence. Heryst prepared to cast again. Once more his preparation was smooth.

  The enemy continued to advance, curious light chasing itself across their armour, illuminating what looked like runes or figures. Heryst chose his target and cast. The Blades struck the enemy’s armour, which flared blinding white in response. Heryst shut his eyes reflexively, opening them again to see the armour of every invader beginning to pulse.

  In moments the figures were obscured by the glare coming from the lettering covering their bodies. Tongues of light lashed out on the crest of a wave of force. The tower of Lystern rocked on its foundations. Below Heryst, men and women were screaming. He had never seen such carnage. Heads, limbs and body parts littered the ground where just a heartbeat before sixty and more mages and archers had been standing. Some had survived the onslaught but the enemy turned on them. White light like teardrops poured from the complex rods they carried, tearing into the helpless wounded, blowing them apart.

  ‘No!’ screamed Heryst.

  ‘Time to go, my Lord,’ said Kayvel, returned from the dead and still standing by him though his new body was hardly more healthy than the one in which he had died.

  ‘We must fight.’

  ‘We cannot, Heryst. It is as I told you. They are too strong. Cut the head from one beast and ten more appear.’

  All the energy, all the strength and belief flowed from Heryst and he sagged, letting the sound of the machine and the dying cries of his own people wash over him. From the upper courtyard mages still cast. One section of the courtyard wall exploded inwards. More died. It was a procession.

  ‘Then what can we do?’

  ‘The only thing that is left. Get to the Communion Globe and warn the others. Tell them to run.’

  Heryst nodded, direction giving him something to cling on to for just a while longer. He ran from the courtyard shouting to his people to run, to save themselves in any way they could. The rumble of falling masonry was loud in his ears. The stonework shook beneath his feet. The tower of Lystern was coming down.

  Heryst took the long spiral staircase two steps at a time. Everyone he met he ordered away from the college. Down beneath the still-beating Heart he went to the chamber of the Communion Globe. Outside the door two frightened-looking guards remained at their posts.

  ‘There is no hope,’ said Heryst. ‘Go. Save yourselves if you can. Do not fight. Run north.’

  ‘My Lord, we are sworn—’

  ‘I release you from all such bonds. Go. Please.’

  He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Peace descended. All he could feel was the rumble of the approaching machine and all he could hear the distant crump of collapsing stone. Not long now.

  ‘Xetesk. I must speak to Xetesk.’ Heryst half-threw the nearest mage from his chair. ‘Enact the ward. Lock that door.’

  He sat down and placed his hand on the silk.

  Sharyr had retired from the research and casting of dimensional magics after the demon wars. The fact was, he couldn’t stand casting at all after it was over. His hands weren’t steady, his mind wasn’t sharp and he had simply had enough. But when Denser asked him to be master of the Xeteskian Communion Globe, he had felt it was a job he could safely accept. Not difficult and yet commanding great respect among the colleges and even the elves.

  Since the failure of the Globe on Calaius, S
haryr had spent much time in the chamber, set away from prying eyes, deep in the catacombs. Rumour had it that not even Dystran knew where it was but Sharyr didn’t believe that for a moment.

  They had not raised a whimper from the elves.

  Sharyr was not an old man, though like every veteran of those terrible days he surely felt like one. He’d managed to keep his hair, an achievement of which he was proud. But still the nightmares plagued his sleep and tripped up his bladder. One day he was certain it would all fade away. One day.

  He sat in one of the six low chairs with his hand on the silk, on call just in case he should be needed to help channel messages through to Denser out in the field. Just like his last conversation with Heryst over in Lystern. The enemy would be at their gates now. But their Globe was still active and stable. In Xetesk they could feel it.

  ‘What if the Calaian Globe isn’t actually down but the focus of the spell has shifted for some reason,’ he said as the thought occurred. ‘We assume a certain shape to their construct, and it is that we cannot find. What if we should be looking for a slightly altered shape. We should think what the construct might look like if it was, you know, just ever so slightly tuned out or something.’

  ‘Master Sharyr. It’s Lystern,’ said a voice from across the Globe.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Sharyr.

  He settled more deeply into the chair, flattened his palm against the silk and fed his own Communion structure into the Globe where it joined with the other five to amplify and solidify the contact with Lystern.

  ‘I am Master Sharyr and this is Xetesk.’

  What came back when the contact was open sounded like screams and rock falls. Nothing should penetrate the sanctity of the Globe chambers.

  ‘Lystern, speak.’

  ‘They are at the doors. They’re at the damned doors,’ shrieked a voice consumed by terror.

  ‘Heryst? My Lord Heryst, is that you?’ Sharyr’s heart was pounding. He could feel the anxiety of his team adding to a rippling in the construct. ‘Steady. Steady.’

  ‘Sharyr, listen to me.’ A second voice. Calmer. This was Heryst. ‘The enemy have breached the college. The tower is coming down around us. They—’

  A massive crash sounded. Sharyr pressed his hand to the silk to stop himself jerking it away to hold over his ear. He winced as the report fed through the Globe. At least one of his team lost the casting.

  ‘Get yourself back in,’ he hissed. ‘Steady it. Come on. Breathe.’

  ‘Dear Gods above. The Heart. Stop them.’

  More sounds of destruction. Sharyr heard a scream, cut off abruptly. The Communion flickered and steadied.

  ‘Heryst. Can you hear me?’

  Sobbing from Lystern. Screams and explosions. It had to be happening right outside the chamber. Or within.

  ‘It’s gone,’ managed Heryst, his voice tight and whispering. ‘They’ve ripped it right out of its cradle. Dear Gods burning, we are finished.’

  ‘What, Heryst, what?’ But he knew.

  ‘The Heart, Sharyr. Taken and consumed. Listen to me. Run. Do not fight them. You cannot possibly win. Tell Denser. Call off his attack. Save lives, it’s the only—’

  A cracking of timbers.

  ‘They’re here. They’re inside,’ hissed Heryst.

  ‘Who?’ urged Sharyr. ‘Who is inside? What are they?’

  A strangled cry and the Globe flickered.

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded an alien voice that bounced in Sharyr’s skull. It was strangely melodic but this did not disguise either the power or the menace.

  ‘Who?’ Heryst’s voice was cracked and desperate.

  ‘Those who light the way. Those who will seek the path to us.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Heryst. ‘Please, you have what you want. Spare my people.’

  Sharyr heard the sound of something cracking. Bone and cartilage. The alien voice said something else but he couldn’t pick it up. The voice of another of the Lysternan Globe team began to speak. Something fell, something heavy.

  The Communion Globe was silent, reducing to a dull grey.

  ‘Heryst? Heryst, can you hear me? Any of you?’

  Sharyr kept his hand on the silk still, praying for the contact to be re-established. Futile. All he could hear was the hard breathing of his team.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said one. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Did anyone catch what the other voice said?’ asked Sharyr, his cracked voice echoing painfully in the Communion chamber.

  ‘I believe so, but it hardly matters,’ said the mage to his right. ‘Garonin, or something.’

  ‘Everything matters right now. Go and look up that word. Any clue as to who they are could help. I’ve got a feeling I heard it before when we were researching dimensional alignment. Those texts weren’t in the library; they’re still down here in my old work-shops. ’

  ‘As you wish, Master Sharyr.’

  ‘And the rest of us, let us not be next,’ said Sharyr. ‘Let’s get this construct back steady. We have to get hold of Lord Denser.’

  ‘Unknown! Get down!’

  The impact in Sol’s back sent him sprawling to the scorched ground. The earth vibrated beneath him with the force of multiple explosions. He heard screams and rolled onto his back. His scabbard dug in painfully. Hirad and Ras were both above him, looking towards the enemy.

  ‘What di—?’

  ‘Down!’

  Hirad again. The barbarian in a merchant’s body flung himself on top of Sol. There was a distinct clicking sound like the unlatching of many doors. An arc of white pulses in the shape of teardrops fled over Sol’s head and slammed into helpless mages, soldiers and mounted guards.

  Defensive shield castings collapsed under the onslaught, flaring deep blue as they failed. Light ripped through bodies, obliterating people, punching holes in torsos and tearing horses apart.

  ‘It’s going to be a slaughter,’ said Hirad.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Sol. He pushed Hirad off him, got to his feet and snapped his sword from its clasps. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  ‘Raven!’ roared Hirad. ‘Raven, with me!’

  Sol was ahead of him, charging towards the slowly advancing line of enemies. They were huge, all of them tall and powerfully built. Covered from head to toe in armour that seemed to glisten in the sunlight. Numerals and lettering woven into breastplates and leg guards shone.

  ‘Get amongst them,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They can’t shoot at you if you’re inside their guard.’

  More fire spat from enemy weapons. Sol felt the heat as a teardrop fizzed past his shoulder. There was no time to check how far behind the rest of The Raven or the Xeteskian guard were. He ducked his head as more fire whipped about his ears. He felt the pain begin to flare in his damaged hip and whispered an apology to his wife and sons.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, old man?’ he muttered.

  Sol brought his sword to ready and hoped he remembered how to use it. There was not a flicker from his target. The enemy were well spread out, marching forward carefully. Detonation followed detonation but Sol dared not look behind to see what was happening.

  The man in front of him had turned his weapon. Sol ducked reflexively. A teardrop smashed into his blade, shearing the top clean off above his head. His hands rang with the vibration of the impact. Sol swung the remainder of his blade through two-handed. It thudded hard into the midriff of the enemy just beneath his arms. Sol’s momentum carried him straight on, barging the man off his feet.

  Sol landed on top, snatched a knife from his belt and jammed it under the chin strap of the enemy’s helmet. The scream of death was a keening wail. Blood pumped from the wound briefly and the man lay still. Sol rolled away, coming to his feet in time to see Hirad and Ras enter the fray. A few paces behind them came the rest of The Raven, mages behind warriors, magical shields in place for what good they would do. He knew it was them behind the masks of their borrowed faces but still he
worried. They looked so ordinary.

  The Xeteskian mage team had been largely annihilated. Four still stood of the thirty who had cast. They were casting again. God’s Eyes of blue fire sailed over Sol’s head to crash into the ranks of the enemy.

  ‘Form up, Raven!’ ordered Sol. ‘Dead or alive, get your memories working.’

  The Raven surged across the open space. As one, the enemy stopped moving. Hirad buried his blade to the hilt in the neck of his victim, having to angle high to reach his target. Ras sliced through a leg guard and his opponent fell. The front rank of the enemy dropped to one knee; the second rank remained standing.

  Sol frowned and squared up to his next target. His two-handed blade was useless. No balance and no bludgeoning point. He discarded it and drew a second knife. Many eyes had turned towards him and The Raven coming up fast in support.

  ‘Shield covering you,’ said Ilkar. ‘We have projectile and spell covering. Those teardrops are mana based.’

  Sol relaxed just a little. The Raven took their positions. Angled chevron. Just like the old days. Well, almost. They advanced. In front of them the enemy, still widely spaced, checked their weapons, made small adjustments and brought them back to bear. Still Xeteskian spells dropped in their midst but now a white flaring told of their impotence.

  ‘Hit them hard, Raven,’ said Sol. ‘Let’s go.’

  The Raven ran in. Every enemy weapon fired. The front rank spewed teardrops. Others launched projectiles that trailed smoke in lazy arcs. Multiple impacts shivered into Ilkar’s shield. Sol heard him grunt with the effort of maintaining it. But behind no such strength prevailed. Explosions ripped the Xeteskian guard apart. Volley after volley landed in their midst. And each detonation sent red-hot fragments of metal in all directions. Flesh was flayed from bones. Skulls imploded. Limbs shredded or torn from bodies entirely. Souls shrieked as they were cast into the void.

  Sol heard a drumming sound. Metal shards were raining against the projectile shield. Erienne gasped, a terribly frail sound from her young mouth. The shield flared the intense brown of the One magic casting, the ancient original magic discipline reborn in her daughter, Lyanna, and that had passed to her on Lyanna’s death. The Raven halted. The fire on them intensified.