The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘What is it we’re looking for, Denser?’ Richmond turned to the Dark Mage as they tramped across the dry earth, its crumbling texture crunching underfoot.

  ‘I haven’t a clue, to be honest. It’s information we need, not pieces of this, that or the other, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘So, some parchment, maybe?’ suggested Richmond.

  Denser shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or another amulet. Perhaps even some sort of carved jewellery. Whatever, it ought to stand out amongst all the rubbish over there. It’ll be Balaian, of that I’m sure.’ He gestured again at the buildings. Collapsed though they largely were, it was plain that their design bore only nodding acquaintance to anything the races of Balaia might build. Many had openings that were probably doors. But they were oval and did not sit flush with the ground. And of those that were still partially roofed, all had a similar oval opening towards the apex of the domed structure.

  In a way, they reminded Hirad of kilns, though they were wood and stone, not shaped stone like the Wesmen built. They were, or would have been, tall, each maybe twenty or more feet high. For a single-storey structure, that seemed high, although the absence of anything recognisable as a window meant he could be mistaken. There were other levels inside.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Hirad. He shivered.

  ‘So you’ve said, but I agree,’ said Ilkar. ‘It’s not right. I feel as if I might fall any moment.’

  ‘The less time I spend here the better.’ Hirad shook his shoulders to relieve sudden tension. ‘What the hell could Septern have wanted to come here for?’

  A sheet of lightning flooded the night below the platform, illuminating everything it touched with a momentary mauve radiance. Shadows were plunged into even sharper relief and the after-effect lingered in Hirad’s eyes for a few seconds. It was then that he saw the movement. The Raven moved as one, dipped sword points suddenly at the ready.

  From inside and around the edges of the buildings, walking and half stumbling, came the inhabitants of the village. In a few moments they had filled the space in front of the buildings and had begun a ponderous move towards The Raven. Hirad tried to make a count, but at fifty their movement fooled his eyes, and surely there were many times more than that.

  From this distance, they looked thin and pale, a confusion of limbs, but within a few strides, what they were became plain.

  ‘Gods in the ground, I don’t believe it,’ whispered Hirad. The Raven, again as one, stopped.

  ‘ “Though death takes the breath from their bodies and the flesh from their faces”,’ quoted Denser, his voice a mutter.

  There was something wrong with the way they balanced - or rather, didn’t. Not that there should be a right way for a dead creature to balance, thought Hirad. He shuddered. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but as the villagers continued their painfully slow approach, he thought he could see their backs twitching, almost with every stride.

  One of the leaders stumbled over a rock and reflexively unfolded wings to steady itself. But they were nothing more than bone connected with shredded membrane, and it fell. The others moved on, now only seventy paces away.

  It was impossible to take in. A force of dead avian people, rotted cloth covering bones, oval heads centred with huge empty eye slits, and all walking at the same dull pace. They were moving to fill the space to either edge of the plateau. And they were closing remorselessly.

  ‘Any suggestions?’ asked the barbarian, a cool feeling of panic edging around his heart. The dead would be on them in a couple of minutes.

  ‘They’ve got no weapons. What are they going to do?’ asked Talan.

  ‘Just walk on, I should think,’ said Denser. ‘After all, we’ve got nowhere to go except back through the rip and we can’t hope to stand up to that number. They’ll just keep on coming and eventually you won’t have the room to use your swords. And if you aren’t careful they’ll push you straight off the edge.’

  ‘But how can they be moving?’ demanded Hirad. ‘They’re just bones, they’re dead.’

  ‘Is it some sort of spell?’ asked Richmond.

  ‘Perhaps something that tied their lives and deaths to that promise they made Septern,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Let’s worry about it later. We have to get behind them somehow, ’ said Hirad. ‘Whatever it is we’re looking for and they’re defending has got to be in that village somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Denser. ‘Want to hear it?’ Hirad nodded. ‘Ilkar casts a ForceCone at them and punches a hole in the line. Me and you run through to search the village. Everyone else keeps them occupied as long as possible, then gets through the rip before they’re pushed off the edge of the platform.’

  ‘Why don’t we all go?’ asked Richmond.

  ‘Because they’ll just turn around. Or I think they will,’ replied Denser. ‘I’m hoping if there are people in front of them, they’ll keep coming and you can delay them, give us time to look. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

  There was a brief silence, punctuated by the ominous dry brushing noise of the approaching dead, now only a minute away, their density increasing as the plateau narrowed towards its edge, forcing them closer and closer together.

  ‘It’ll do,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Make it a good one,’ whispered Denser.

  ‘It’ll be nothing less,’ Ilkar said coldly.

  Hirad came to stand by Denser and just to Ilkar’s left. ‘Talan, Richmond, when Ilkar’s cast the spell, make sure you all stand in front of the rip. At least when you get pushed back you’ll have the best chance of falling into it instead of down there . . . wherever there is.’

  Talan nodded. ‘And what about you?’

  Hirad shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just keep your fingers crossed, all right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just a couple of things,’ said Ilkar. Hirad turned to him. ‘I’m going to put a colour in the Cone so you can see it, and when I cast it, get down there quickly. When I can see you next to the villagers, I’ll let it go. Then it’s up to you.’ Ilkar closed his eyes and began to shape the mana. An initial stab of alarm when he felt nothing was washed away by relief when a jolt shook his body as the base fuel of magic in Balaia breached the dimensional divide, drawing on the static power source that held the rip in place.

  Ilkar wobbled on his legs, steadied and formed the ForceCone, adding speed and what he expected to be a swirling green to the spell’s innate power. A short intonation followed, then Ilkar opened his eyes and chose an area close to the left-hand side of the platform.

  Speaking the command word, he jabbed his hands forward and the Cone crashed into the advancing villagers, shattering three on impact, their bones hurled in ail directions. It ploughed on, driving a wedge through the ranks of the dead, pushing bodies to either side and causing mayhem. Skeletons fell like dominoes left and right. Bone wings flapped uselessly as legs were swept away by falling comrades, and at the edge of the platform, some slipped over the edge and into oblivion.

  The Cone held firm, Ilkar edging it back as the villagers slowly re-formed and advanced. Hirad turned to Talan and Richmond.

  ‘Don’t risk yourselves, don’t come back and don’t let him do anything stupid.’ He jerked his thumb at Ilkar. The warriors said nothing, inclining their heads in tight-lipped acknowledgement.

  Hirad placed a hand on Denser’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go. Stay behind me.’ The barbarian hefted his sword and trotted off down the clearly defined Cone. As he closed, the sight of the villagers was shocking. Collections of bones shambling forwards, some with hands missing, others with ribs, hips or shoulders smashed, all with black streaks discolouring the white of their bones. But it was the lifeless heads which never moved that caused Hirad to flinch as he looked deep into the black caverns that were eye sockets.

  Inside was nothing. No light, no life, nothing. Yet still they moved. Still they had purpose. If one had spoken, the barbarian would have turned and fled.

  Five paces from the
front rank of the villagers, Ilkar cut the ForceCone, leaving them a gap through which to run. Hirad pulled his sword in front of his face and increased his pace to a sprint, hearing Denser right on his heels. The cat streaked through his legs, on past the skeletons and into the village. For a moment, the dead continued as they had with the Cone in place, but as Hirad moved through the first of them, the line started to close. He shuddered as he ran, crying out as bone hands snagged his leather and slashing in front of his face as a skull appeared right in front of him. His strike swept it from its neck and the body collapsed.

  It was tight. Denser’s breathing was loud in his ears, and he cursed under his breath. Hirad swung his sword through double-handed again and again at chest height, feeling it shatter bone and crunch into wing membrane, head and shoulder. And never once did a villager lift a hand to strike them.

  They broke through the line, stumbling to a stop after a dozen or so paces and turning to see what they’d left behind. The gap was closed. The villagers walked on towards the rip, not looking back, advancing on The Raven trio who stood with their backs to the moving darkness that was the dimension gate, swords at the ready. Ilkar managed a wave and Hirad responded before turning a face running with sweat to Denser.

  ‘We’d better be quick,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘Once those three are forced through the rip, the villagers will be coming back, only we don’t have anywhere to fall except down or through the other rip.’ Hirad raised his eyebrows, nodding nervously.

  The two men trotted into the village, where they stopped again, staring at the derelict settlement. All around, they could see the crumbling remnants of a civilisation. Buildings, blasted and blackened, scorched and falling to rubble; large pots, jugs, and cauldrons lying over the ground. What was once furniture, tables, chairs and pedestals, could be seen in the ruins of the houses. Cloth had rotted to dust, pottery was cracked and chipped, wood was splintered and burned, and all that was left was chaos.

  ‘How did they live up here?’ asked Hirad, picking up the handle piece of a broken jug. ‘I mean, it’s so small.’ He stared back the way they had come, looking afresh at the empty earth. From the settlement, he could see squares of darker ground meshed in a grid of lighter areas. Plots and paths. Gods, they had been farmers. Farmers who could fly. ‘And what’s down there?’ He threw the jug towards the edge of the plateau. It shattered on the ground a long way from its intended destination.

  ‘Nothing, at a guess,’ said Denser. ‘I expect that’s why they came up here to live.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Hirad. ‘Why would there be nothing down there?’

  ‘You can’t use Balaia as a reference to explain this. Hell, I’m just stabbing in the dark. All we know is, this is how they ended up. Draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘But why did they die?’

  Denser shrugged and turned away, scanning the village. ‘I have no idea and we haven’t the time to think it out just now. Start looking.’

  Hirad peered inside one of the buildings, seeing a microcosm of the village itself reflected in its age-ridden remains. Bones littered the floor and a skull hung from the great oval hole in the roof. Black soot covered every surface.

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘How many more times?’ said Denser, moving away in a random direction. ‘I don’t know. Look, let’s split up and see if anything is obvious. I don’t know. I’m expecting it to be different from the rest of this bloody mess: something brought here, not made here.’

  Hirad glanced behind him before setting off away from Denser. The villagers were still walking and The Raven were still standing. Still waiting. At that moment, he felt a wash of pride. Those men, his friends and companions, would never turn their backs.

  He picked his way at a run past ruin after ruin and everywhere he looked it was the same. Broken buildings, rotten furnishings, smashed pottery. And scorched, as if some monstrous fire had swept the village aside like dust in the wind. He moved through the village, taking in what had been the far side of the platform and the other rip hanging in the sky. Even as he wondered what lay beyond it and considered that he wasn’t in a hurry to find out, he heard Denser shout. Glancing to his left, he could see the Dark Mage running towards a building at the edge of the village on the way to the rip.

  The barbarian scampered through the rubble and raced in through the opening of yet another half-fallen dwelling just a few paces behind the Xeteskian. And there, being circled slowly by the cat, sat a small child. A splash of light and colour and very much alive.

  She wore a blue dress, and a matching scarf was tied around her long blonde hair. Her eyes were large and blue, and below her tiny nose was a mouth which displayed no humour. She was staring at the cat, following its slow movements around her, clutching a small chest in her bare arms.

  ‘Kill it, Hirad,’ hissed Denser. ‘Do it now and do it quickly.’

  ‘What?’ said Hirad. ‘No! Just take the chest and let’s get out of here.’ He made a move towards the girl but was stopped by Denser’s hand on his arm.

  ‘It’s not what it might seem,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘Open your eyes, Hirad. Do you really think she could live here as she is?’

  The girl turned her gaze from the cat and to the two men at the doorway, noticing them for the first time.

  ‘Keep your sword ready,’ said Denser, drawing his own blade and taking a half-step to the side.

  Hirad glanced at the mage’s face. It was set, his eyes were on the girl and they were scared. The barbarian hefted his blade.

  ‘Can’t you cast a spell or something?’

  A shake of the head. ‘It won’t wait that long.’

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘I’m not sure. Nothing ordinary. Septern must have created her. Just keep your eye on that chest. We mustn’t lose it or damage it.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  The girl smiled. It was a gesture quite without feeling and it left her eyes cold. Hirad shivered. And when she spoke, though the sound of her voice was that of a nine-year-old, its weight and power set the back of his scalp crawling.

  ‘You are the first,’ she said. ‘And you shall be the last and only.’

  ‘And what are you?’ asked Denser.

  ‘I am your nightmare. I am your death.’ She moved. Lunged forward at blurring speed. And as she moved, she transformed. Hirad screamed.

  The villagers closed. Ilkar, Talan and Richmond had backed to within half a dozen paces of the rip. The flanks moved inwards, forcing a still greater pressure on the press of skeletons scant feet from them.

  Behind the lines lay the sheared bones of perhaps forty of the walking dead, victims of the hacking and slashing swords of the Raven trio. And now, with sweat-slick faces and lungs heaving, they were staring at imminent defeat.

  ‘We haven’t slowed them at all,’ rasped Talan, kicking the legs from under a skeleton and dashing its skull with the butt of his sword.

  ‘No impression,’ Ilkar agreed, and indeed there didn’t seem to be. Their immediate vision was still crowded with jostling arms, legs and the remains of wings. And all they could hear was the hollow sound of fleshless feet on the hard-packed earth and the click of bone on bone, over and over.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ said Richmond, straightening from a strike which had shattered three spines.

  ‘Hundreds.’ Talan shrugged. ‘Where the bastards come from, though, is another matter.’

  They stepped back once more, feeling the edge of the rip at the backs of their thighs. They struck out again, sending slivers of bone flying and villagers crashing into one another. Still on came the dead. Never once raising their arms to attack, but then, it wasn’t necessary. They pressed in from the sides and the front and the sheer weight of their numbers made the end inevitable.

  ‘See you on the other side,’ said Ilkar. He was pushed backwards into the rip, and even as he fell, followed moments later by Talan and Richmond, he saw the skeletons turn and head
back to the village.

  The girl’s legs, suddenly brown, fur-covered and thick with muscle, thrust forwards, shooting her upright. Clawed feet scratched at the ground, a tail, spiked and leathery, sprouted from the small of her back, and as her dress melted away, it was replaced by a heaving bull chest with prominent ribs above a taut and hairless stomach. Her arms bulged to power, muscles bunched in her biceps and triceps, while those delicate hands swelled, grew and stretched, the fingers clawing to razor-sharp talons.

  But the head. It was the head that drew the scream from Hirad’s lips. The girl’s face fell into itself like water down a hole but those eyes held, still blue until the last, when they too disappeared to be replaced by flat black slits. And out of the hole sprang forth fangs in a wide mouth, dripping saliva. The blonde hair remained; the brow was heavy, chin pointed and jaws snapping. A thin tongue licked out of the creature’s mouth and it hissed as it struck.

  Reflexively, Hirad brought his sword in front of his face and the creature’s claw skittered off it, nicking the flesh. It howled in pain and backed off a step, small chest still clutched in the other clawed hand.

  ‘Fuck!’ spat Hirad, shaking all over and moving to cover Denser.

  ‘Careful, Hirad.’

  ‘What else do you think I’m going to be?’

  The creature flew forwards again, arms flailing, tail whipping in front of it. Hirad side-stepped and slashed downwards into the blur of the attack, praying he’d connect before one of those talons raked or skewered him. His blade connected with wood, then flesh as it hammered through its arc. There was a keening wail, a whiplash sound and a heavy crash. Splinters of wood flew in all directions.

  Hirad straightened, trying to take it all in. Denser was lying prone, half in and half out of the door to the building. He wasn’t moving. The creature had retreated to the back of the room, clutching at the stump of its left hand, trying in vain to stop the pulses of blood gouting from the wound. Its hand lay on the floor close to Hirad’s feet, and in amongst the debris of the broken wooden chest lay a single sheet of parchment, folded, brown and dog-eared.