The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘So do you believe him, Ilkar?’ Talan leaned forward in his chair, draining his glass and holding out a hand for the bottle that The Unknown proffered.

  ‘Why would he lie about this? He’s risking me making a report to Julatsa about Dawnthief, and he’s right about the reaction he’d get if I did. Gods, what a mess.’ Ilkar chewed his lip and sagged back to hunch in his chair.

  ‘So, what are our options?’ asked Talan.

  ‘We don’t have any,’ said Ilkar. ‘Not really. I mean, we could decide to refuse him and go after the Witch Hunters ourselves but what if he’s telling the truth? We’d have turned our backs on the fight for Balaia, and worse still, we’d have left Xetesk and the Wytch Lords as the only competitors for Dawnthief. And Dawnthief means absolute domination, it really is that powerful, believe me. Make no mistake, if the Wytch Lords are coming back, they will be coming back to destroy us all.’

  ‘Are they really that bad?’ asked Richmond.

  ‘Yes. Gods, yes,’ replied Ilkar. ‘You have to understand where they came from. They used to be part of the original single College but were banished across the Blackthornes for their beliefs. They spent centuries brewing their hate and developing ways of making themselves immortal. When they succeeded, they came back to take what they thought was theirs. That time, we won. This time, we won’t, not without Dawnthief.’ He paused, seeing they weren’t quite with him. ‘Look, the Wytch Lords won’t want to conquer, they want to destroy, to wipe out everyone to the east of the mountains. It was the promise they made when they were pushed into the mana prison. In my view, we have to go with Denser . . . Put it this way, I’m going whether The Raven do or not, but I want the rest of you to do the same. We’ll probably all die, but at least we’ll have tried.’

  ‘Martyrdom for my country is not something I’ve ever considered as an option,’ said Talan.

  ‘Still, it’ll certainly be a new departure for The Raven,’ said Richmond. ‘Not just doing it for the money, I mean.’

  ‘Retirement brings a new outlook to things.’ Ilkar shrugged, but his smile was forced.

  ‘It certainly did for Sirendor.’ Hirad’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Yes, it did. And we must never forget the full circumstances of our accepting this job. Assuming, of course, we all accept?’ The Unknown looked around.

  ‘I need it written into the contract that I go to see Dawnthief properly used against the Wytch Lords only. I’m working for Balaia, not Xetesk,’ said Ilkar, his tone uncompromising.

  ‘And I want an undertaking on Denser’s part that we will attack the Witch Hunters the first chance we get.’ Hirad was looking over at Sirendor.

  ‘Got all that, Talan?’ asked The Unknown when no one ventured further thoughts. Talan nodded. ‘Denser needs to sign the contract at first light, so you’d better draw it up now. Anything else from anyone?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Richmond. ‘Shouldn’t we be guarding Denser? Or the amulet he’s holding, to be more accurate.’

  ‘Don’t worry. His cat’ll see him safe,’ said Ilkar.

  Hirad looked askance at the elf, imagining the animal holding off several large armed men. ‘Good with a sword, is it?’

  Ilkar chuckled in spite of the mood. ‘It’s a Familiar, Hirad. It retains a part of his consciousness, for want of a better word, and I dare say it can take on more than one form.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Hirad, not seeing.

  ‘I’ll explain another time. Just trust me for now, all right?’

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ said The Unknown, standing. ‘Back here in an hour for the Vigil. Until that time, I suggest we all leave Hirad to air his grief in private.’

  Hirad smiled his thanks, tears already forming. When they were all gone, he allowed himself to weep.

  Chapter 7

  Selyn’s escape from Terenetsa had an element of fortune to it, although she liked to think she was never in any real danger. She was certainly irritated that the Shaman had managed to see her so easily despite the spell she had used to conceal herself, and had ducked low as the arrows flew.

  With the Wesmen advancing behind a hail of shafts, she had gathered together her concentration and cast another CloakedWalk before diving through an unshuttered opening at the side of the hut in which she had been hiding and watching.

  Landing on hard-baked mud, she had scattered chickens as she rolled, the fowl looking on in blank confusion, sensing something but seeing nothing. She had come fluidly to her feet and sprinted away into the forest, changing direction at the tree line and hearing the sounds of pursuit die away as she slipped unseen further and further into the forest.

  Several hours later, as night fell, she had held communion with Styliann before sleeping deeply under a stand of low bushes she had hollowed out to accommodate her slender frame.

  Selyn awoke the next morning with the sun dappling her face. The forest was quiet but for the sounds of nature, and the still air warmed quickly. She set and lit a fire before recovering the rabbit from the trap she’d laid the night before, then skinned it effortlessly and spitted it for breakfast. She was on the move in less than an hour.

  The lands to the north-west, her direction of travel, were crawling with Wesmen raiding parties as the tribes sought local populations to subjugate and new areas for staging posts. As she moved quietly past encampment after encampment and saw the Wesmen building calmly and carefully, she wondered at their apparent lack of urgency. It was as if they were waiting for something. She feared finding out what.

  As the first afternoon of her journey to the Torn Wastes began to pale towards dusk, she felt a sudden and involuntary spasm of fear. What she found in Parve would almost certainly herald chaos throughout Balaia and a war the scale of which hadn’t been seen for over three hundred years - the last time the Wesmen invaded. She only hoped she could relay enough information back to Styliann before she was caught and killed. Because, if Styliann was right, she wouldn’t be leaving the City of the Wytch Lords.

  Her sense of fear was quickly quashed, replaced by one of loss, and for a time she struggled with her motivation. She knew it was best if she forgot all thoughts of a return to Xetesk. They might cloud her judgement, make her too careful. She substituted them with the cold desire to prove herself beyond all question Xetesk’s greatest mage-spy. She had never doubted. Others had, simply because she was a woman in a male-dominated order.

  And more than having her name exulted in her own ranks, she had the chance to achieve the ultimate sacrifice for the greater glory of Xetesk. She might even change the course of the war that was surely coming.

  Desire rekindled, she focused very deliberately to build her inner strength. Supple but strong leather boots covered her feet and calves, their dark matt-brown colouring blending with the forest shades. Each boot carried a sheathed dagger. Mottled green trousers and jacket completed the camouflage picture.

  On her hands, black gloves, skin tight, with fine grips sewn into palms and fingertips. Inside the sleeves of her jacket and under those of her brown woollen shirt, a spring mechanism attached to either wrist. Locked into each was a barbed bolt fatal in close combat but with no real range. Three more daggers hung from her waist belt in addition to a pick set, and on her back, beneath her jacket, hung a scabbarded short sword.

  Her head and neck were wrapped in a long cloth scarf which, when tied for covert action, left open only the skin surrounding her large brown eyes. She kept her black hair cropped close to her head, her nails short but sharp and her feet in perfect condition. Her body, slim and athletic, long-legged and small-breasted, was built for agility and speed, attributes she used to the full.

  She was fast and deadly because being clever enough to breach places undetected was only half the job. Being able to get out when the mana ran dry was the reason she survived. Styliann had quipped that she’d make a fine assassin, but personally she found the thought of killing to order abhorrent. Mind you, more than once her path had been sprink
led with the corpses of those who’d tried to stop her.

  Selyn smiled. Maybe she would see Xetesk again after all. With care and belief, anything was possible. She was under pressure to reach Parve quickly. Knowing only one spell that would satisfy that pressure, she used it, moving off northwest through thinning trees towards increasingly mountainous and barren terrain that gave ample places to hide, but few in which to find any comfort. The western lands were characterised by sheer valleys and studded with ranges of mountains over which sudden and violent weather broke almost without warning. But for now, with the sun warming the earth, cold rock seemed a world away.

  The sun was already past its zenith when The Raven rode out of Korina by the North Gate, heading for the ruins of Septern’s mage house, three days’ ride to the north-west. The morning had been taken up by Sirendor’s funeral, an event to which Denser was not invited.

  Now clear of the scene of sorrow, they rode in loose formation on the trail. Denser, drawn and sunken-eyed, was at the head with Talan and Richmond. The Unknown Warrior and Hirad Coldheart rode together some twenty strides behind. Ilkar was well adrift of them and had kept silent from the moment they saddled up.

  It was an hour since their exit from Korina and Hirad had been half expecting an attack, particularly from the Witch Hunters. The idea that they had sent only one assassin after Denser made Hirad wonder what sort of organisation they were, and he found himself a little disappointed in them. He was relying on their determination to see Denser dead, and as he gazed at the Dark Mage’s back, he had to smile. It was an odd situation for sure.

  ‘Why is it Ilkar dislikes Xetesk so much?’ he asked, still staring at Denser.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ returned The Unknown. ‘It’s about time he joined up.’ He turned in his saddle and beckoned the mage to join them, but it wasn’t until Hirad turned too that Ilkar spurred his horse forwards.

  As he moved closer, Hirad frowned. Ilkar displayed the import of Denser’s revelations of the previous night in his face like a wound. He tried to smile as he joined his friends but couldn’t muster any more than a raising of the eyebrows.

  ‘Are you all right, Ilkar?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘That’s a bloody stupid question,’ replied Ilkar. ‘What can I do for you two?’ His voice was flat and shocked. Hirad knew how he felt.

  ‘Hirad was wondering what you had against Xetesk, exactly,’ said The Unknown.

  ‘Everything,’ said Ilkar. ‘But putting it simply, in magic terms Julatsa and Xetesk disagree about all things magical. What it’s for, how to research it, how to build mana stamina . . . everything. When we say stop, they say go. In Julatsa, it’s a crime to work for the Masters of Xetesk. Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Hirad.

  Ilkar sighed. ‘Look - and stop me if you know this - but the reason the Colleges split was largely moral, concerning the direction of research and the uses of magic that the research was leaning towards. It was also due to the methods used for gathering mana, and, not to put too fine a point on it, the faction that became Xetesk found a quick way to replenish their mana that was based on human sacrifice. Now I can forgive Xetesk many things, but not that.’

  ‘Do they still practise sacrifice?’ asked The Unknown.

  ‘According to them, no, but the fact is that the method still works despite the fact that they have found other, hardly less reprehensible methods. Anyway, the point of it all is that two thousand years on, our lore - that is, our understanding of the physics of magic - is now so divorced from Xetesk’s that we can understand very little of how they construct and use spells.’

  ‘So could you cast Dawnthief?’ asked Hirad. ‘I mean, it’s not a Xetesk spell, is it?’

  ‘No it isn’t, and no I can’t,’ said Ilkar. ‘Well, in theory I can. I know the words and lore because Septern was careful to publish them to all Colleges. But in reality, having done no work on the mana shape or studied the intricacies of speaking the spell, I’d be certain to fail.’

  ‘So we’d better keep Denser alive, then.’ Hirad curled his lip.

  ‘Until we discover whether he’s telling the truth or not, at least.’

  ‘Yeah. Until then,’ muttered The Unknown.

  They fell silent for a time. Hirad digested what Ilkar had told him and wished he’d paid more attention to what made mages beat. More important, though, was finding out what made Witch Hunters beat. The two, he reflected, would be linked.

  ‘What do you know about these Witch Hunters, Unknown?’ he asked.

  ‘You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?’ The Unknown turned up the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Thinking was only part of it, big man. Well?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’ The Unknown shrugged. ‘Their leader is a man called Travers. He was the commander of the garrison that finally lost control of Understone Pass while we were fighting for the Rache Lords up north in the early days of The Raven. He was a dangerous man but he must be getting old by now.’ The Unknown paused. ‘Ilkar’s your man for this, I think.’

  Now at least Ilkar smiled. His ears pricked and he kneaded his forehead between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘I’m an elf, Unknown,’ he said. ‘It’s not a great story, I’m afraid. Travers is either a shining hero waging a long war against the evils of magic, or a once great soldier who’s blind to today’s reality. It depends which side of the fence you’re on.’

  ‘And which side are you on?’ Hirad leaned forward in his saddle, his hands on its raised pommel, stretching his back and breathing in the smell of leather mixed with the strong odour of his horse. He found it strangely comforting.

  ‘The blind man,’ said Ilkar. ‘Look, it all started out as a grand scheme and there were many people who wanted him to succeed. I was one of them. After Understone Pass, he founded a group dedicated to creating a kind of moral code which was aimed primarily at restraining the destructive magics of Xetesk and, to a lesser extent, Dordover. Not outlawing, mind; he didn’t believe they should be stopped, not then; just monitored and kept to quiet research.

  ‘Anyway, at that time they were called the Winged Rose and had tattoos put on their necks of a red rose head in between a pair of white wings.’ He stroked the left side of his neck in a circle as he spoke. ‘It was supposed to signify passion and freedom, I think.’

  ‘Does that make sense?’ asked The Unknown.

  ‘Sort of,’ replied Ilkar. ‘Initially their ideals were pure. It was all about their desire to see the country freed from the shadow of what they saw as dark magic, and they were going to pursue that aim without recourse to violence.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Hirad.

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ said Ilkar. ‘As you can gather, the ideals slipped by degrees, and what had been a plan for, I don’t know, regulation, I suppose, became a witch hunt; and one aimed at any College’s adepts Travers deemed dangerous. That, of course, now includes me, particularly since my unfortunate association with our glorious would-be leader up there.’

  ‘Do they still wear this tattoo?’ Hirad indicated his own neck.

  ‘Not quite,’ said The Unknown. ‘They’ve recoloured it a rather unoriginal all-black now, although the motif itself is the same.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Ilkar. ‘Black Wings, they call themselves. The rose must be an embarrassment or something.’

  ‘That’s how I knew the woman was trouble.’ It was a beat before Hirad realised that The Unknown wasn’t talking to either of them. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Unknown?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘I recognised that tattoo, didn’t I? If I’d acted sooner, I could have saved Sirendor. Maybe. The trouble was, for a moment when I knew she was after Denser, I had no desire to stop her. I couldn’t have cared less if he lived or died, and in some ways I still can’t.’

  ‘Until Dawnthief came along,’ remarked Ilkar.

  ‘If you believe that,’ said The Unknown.

 
‘Still sceptical, are you, Unknown?’

  ‘Still an elf, are you, Ilkar?’

  The buildings of the Korina Trade Alliance retained the grandiose air of centuries gone by.

  The halls, offices, kitchens and rooms of the once proud organisation were set in gardens still tended beautifully by the City’s gardeners thanks to a legacy gifted by the third Earl Arlen in recognition of the KTA’s sacrifices in the first Wesmen wars three hundred years before. How the Arlen family’s fortunes had changed since then, swallowed up by the rising power of Baron Blackthorne on the back of the new rich trade in minerals.

  The KTA put on a brave face for the public. A sweeping drive through ornate iron gates led to a pillared frontage whose double doors of ebony sat within a marble frame. The main building rose three storeys and was formed from quarried white stone brought from the Denebre Crags some seventy miles north and east.

  It was inside that the cracks showed. The entrance hall was lined with standing armour, all dull and dusty. There was no money to employ the polisher any more. Paintwork peeled, damp and mould inhabited the corners of walls, and the air was musty in the nostrils.

  The banqueting table was chipped, scarred and rutted, its chair fabrics torn, stuffing oozing from rents in the faded material. As for the rooms, no Lord or Baron would take one without a trusted bodyguard in attendance.

  The whole atmosphere depressed Baron Gresse. His initial optimism that the meeting had been called at all disintegrated as the usual internecine bickering grew among the dozen delegates who could be bothered to attend.

  Lord Denebre, who had called the meeting following losses he had suffered in a Wesmen raid on one of his convoys inside Understone Pass itself, was the nominal Chairman of the KTA, and popular belief held that he would be the last. He had contested that Tessaya, the tribal leader holding the Understone Pass treaties, had broken the safe passage agreements and that military action was necessary to keep the trade route open.