The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Tell me what to do, then. I can help.’

  ‘By guarding us, letting us have peace and saving your questions. Where are the rest?’

  Now Hirad drew breath and nodded. ‘We met some others. They’re here to rescue some woman. We’re Raging. The castle will be ours in a few minutes.’

  Ilkar pushed himself painfully to the floor and lay beside Denser. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’ He closed his eyes just as the far doors opened once again. Seeing its chance, the cat streaked through them and away. Hirad tensed and moved out of Ilkar’s line of sight.

  ‘Isman.’

  ‘Hirad.’

  And Jandyr would have laughed had the sight in front of him not been so pitiful. The man lay in the middle of a floor smeared with blood, his mouth open, unmoving. A weapon was clutched in one still hand and the wine he had been drinking dripped from the overturned goblet on to the ground.

  ‘A man who will not face his own death is no man at all,’ said Jandyr. There was no movement. ‘Dead men do not cough, my friend. You might as well abandon your pathetic charade. At least face me.’ Still no movement. ‘I have no time . . .’ Jandyr stretched his bow.

  ‘Please!’ The man jerked to a sitting position. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Like I said, I have no time.’ He loosed the shaft, nocked another, turned and moved back up the stairs.

  Travers rested on one wall of the narrow passage to the tower, frowning. The Raven were still moving through his castle. The shouts still echoed, though they were intermittent now. What worried him was that there were clearly more than three people attacking. He shrugged and moved on to and through the door to the guardroom. His two men stood to attention, swords drawn ready.

  ‘Good,’ he slurred. ‘We can’t leave this to chance. Those bastard sons cannot be allowed to leave the castle. Kill them.’

  ‘Sir?’ They exchanged a glance and hesitated.

  ‘They are not mere boys. If the bitch takes them back they will be powerful beyond all our capacity to control. See to it.’ One of the guards nodded and trotted up a spiral staircase in the corner of the room. There was the sound of young voices and then a door clanked shut.

  Thraun sprinted along the top-level corridor. On his right, windows let on to an open quadrangle into which dim light spilled. He could hear the sounds of fighting from across the way. Ignoring a small opening to his left, he charged to a right-angle bend to the right, another roar ripping from his lungs. Double doors were ahead. They looked important. He kicked them open and ran inside.

  Talan and Will split as they reached the top of the stairs. To their left, windows on to the quadrangle Richmond had taken. And right, an opening and two doors spaced further along the corridor. Will took the opening, saw a door in front of him and made towards it. Talan crashed through the first of the pair of doors and found himself in a large pillared room full of beds. Most were occupied, but some weren’t. Perhaps enough.

  He squared up, cleared his head with a shout and bared his teeth. ‘Come on then, anyone think they can take me?’

  Will heard Talan’s shout and tumbled through the door he’d found, drawing his dual short swords as he came up in a crouch position. His eyes widened and his heart missed a beat. The room seemed full of men and the only thing he could say with any certainty was that none of them had seen him. They were all moving in on Talan.

  ‘A pity,’ said Hirad. ‘You should have joined The Raven.’

  Isman snorted. ‘One young blade in a band of old men. Instead I’m the man who’ll be responsible for the end of you all.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Hirad’s mind cleared as an adrenaline rush hit him. He flexed the muscles of his arms. ‘You died the same moment as Sirendor Larn, and The Raven will see this castle burn.’

  He sprang forwards, sword before him, aiming a cut at Isman’s midriff. The Black Wing blocked it, moving sharply right and coming to a ready stance. Hirad searched his eyes for fear and found none. The two men circled each other. Hirad looked for a flaw in Isman’s posture and was impressed to find nothing. Both men used the long sword, both were finely balanced but only one had the enormous combat experience and the knowledge of countless one-to-one victories. It was he who launched a ferocious attack.

  Initially stabbing forwards, Hirad used the momentum given him by Isman’s anticipated defence to follow up with a powered swing, bringing his blade through an arc from shoulder to hip. Isman couldn’t hope to be ready in time but his body reaction was pure instinct. He leaped backwards, Hirad’s strike missing him by less than an inch.

  Out of position, the barbarian straightened in time to field Isman’s return before slashing horizontally in riposte. This time, Isman evaded with room to spare.

  Hirad came back to ready, his muscles suddenly aching. He shook himself and the ache dimmed. Isman smiled and drove forwards, delivering four cross-strikes in fluid succession, driving Hirad up the room beyond where the two mages lay in helpless audience. Hirad heaved a breath and arrowed in a return, beating Isman’s guard and nicking the swordsman’s leather jerkin.

  The Black Wing’s eyes narrowed and he squared again, wary now. Hirad switched his sword between his hands twice. His legs were leaden and dragged in his next attack, all but exposing his chest to Isman’s defensive swipe. Something was badly wrong. Hirad could feel his stamina flooding away but knew he couldn’t afford to tire in front of Isman.

  The younger man lunged again; his disguised flick left tore a section of padding on Hirad’s left shoulder armour and his follow-up to the neck was blocked, but only just. Hirad was sweating hard and a cramping nausea gripped his stomach.

  Isman’s smile widened, leaving his eyes hard. He strode forwards, his overhead strike knocking Hirad from his feet though his sword caught the force of the blow. The barbarian scrabbled backwards into a half-crouch and Isman slashed at his head. He blocked, ducked and even managed to stand but was ill prepared for the uppercut which knocked the sword from his hands. The blade clattered away over the stone-flagged floor and Hirad, his body shaking its pain and its fear, looked into Isman’s face.

  ‘I told you to go home, but you wouldn’t listen,’ he said, and plunged his sword into Hirad’s defenceless stomach. The Raven man’s legs gave way and he fell, not feeling the blade as Isman pulled it clear. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything. Or see anything. He could sense himself falling. It was a long way down.

  Thraun had run into a large, plush room, dimly lit by the embers of a fire and two guttering braziers. It was all the light he needed. Standing in front of a door near the far left-hand corner of the room were two swordsmen. Thraun ran at them, uttering a roar that made one flinch visibly. He leapt a table and sofa in one bound and, two paces later, struck the sword arm from the first man.

  Blood was everywhere. The man, too shocked to cry out, stared at the stump, gasping, his eyes wide and filled with tears of purest torment. The other faltered and Thraun took him through the chest, pushing his half-hearted block aside with contemptuous ease. The one-armed man had collapsed, whimpering, barely moving. Thraun pulled a dagger from his belt and opened his throat.

  Pulling the bodies aside, he opened the door and ascended the stairs he found. At the top, another door was bolted shut. He slid the bolts back then paused in the act of turning the handle.

  ‘Erienne?’ he ventured. He heard a movement. ‘Erienne?’ he repeated. Nothing this time. He continued. ‘It’s Thraun. Can you hear me? Don’t prepare or cast. I am here to help.’ He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  For a second time, Talan slithered on the blood-slick floor and took a pace back from the three bodies already at his feet. Another trio were advancing, albeit without much conviction, having seen the short work Talan had made of their comrades.

  But The Raven man was damaged. A cut on his right thigh was bleeding well and beginning to ache, and a slash across his chest made him very conscious of his breathing. And worse, he felt a heaviness in his limbs as if he’d been fightin
g all day. It was growing steadily and he wasn’t entirely sure he could fend off the next attack for too long. Still, there was one more ace up his sleeve. None of them had seen Will. The little man was behind them now and Talan didn’t think he was the kind of man to ask them to face him before he struck.

  The three Black Wings closed. Talan breathed deep and squared up. He shook himself to relieve his tiredness, feinted right and struck left. His intended target blocked the blow, forcing his blade downwards as he jumped up and back. He was in no position to defend a second attack but Talan couldn’t risk exposing his right flank. He turned, fielded a clumsy overhead, and drove his blade deep into his assailant’s neck. One down.

  He shuddered as he stepped back, ready for the attack he knew would come. The muscles of his back felt as if they were about to lock and his next breath was constricted and shallow. His eyes lost focus for a second and he slipped as he put his foot down. Seeing him off-balance, both men moved in. Talan braced himself, cleared his vision and roared to try to clear his mind.

  From his left came a stab to the stomach which he blocked with a cross-sweep, left to right. Even so, blade on the right side of his face, he only half blocked the strike from the other man, deflecting the blade aside but allowing the fist to crash into his jaw. He staggered backwards, tripped and fell, the base of his skull connecting sharply with a pillar—

  Will speared a short sword into the nearest man’s kidney, knowing that even if he lived through it, the wound would cripple him for enough time to allow an escape. He glanced up as Talan fell like a bundle of rags, surely dead. His killer made the mistake of stopping to survey his handiwork, unaware for a fatal second that someone was behind him.

  Will wiped his blades on the body of the second man and stopped to listen. Outside, he thought he could hear voices, though he wasn’t sure he recognised them. He decided to lie low for a while and take in the atmosphere. No sense in them all dying after all.

  Courtesy demanded that he be sure Talan was dead, though it seemed a mere formality; the warrior hadn’t moved. Will took a pace towards him and heard a door open behind. He spun round, blades ready, and for the second time in a matter of minutes, his eyes widened. Even as he backed away, the excuse was forming on his lips.

  Alun had reached the big open room. It was cold and dark but he could see a shattered chair and the door was open at the other end. There was fighting and he could hear shouting. He could hear it all around him. His sword hung limp from his hand. He had absolutely no idea what to do. At least he understood the look that Hirad had given him when he talked about the Rage. Not contempt, but worry. And a lack of confidence in him. He sat in a plush chair and shook all over.

  Travers didn’t wait for the outcome. He shambled back down the narrow passage and opened the door to the main corridor on the upper level. He had walked out and shut it behind him when he was attacked. From the stairs dead ahead it flew like an arrow and, with a flurry of leathery wings, spiked tail and fangs, it hit him. Its claws tangled in his hair, its tail coiled around his left arm and its face appeared, upside down, in front of his own. It was no larger than a market monkey.

  He recoiled but the face came right back with him. He would have sworn it was smiling but it couldn’t be human. Indeed, he knew it was not human, and the stench of its breath chilled his spine. Yet he could not take his eyes off it.

  It was completely hairless, its scalp taut and shining, its brain pulsing in its skull, sending rivulets of movement through the veins in its face. It cocked its head slightly to one side and then it did smile, revealing upper and lower sets of needle teeth that knitted as its mouth closed, but not before its pointed tongue had darted out to lick Travers’ mouth.

  He thought he would vomit but its eyes held him in thrall. They were black and sunk into hard ovals of bone. And deep. Deep enough to fall into and drown in the depths of his terror. Travers could feel his heart pounding as he stared at the thing, its flat slits of nostrils sucking in air, its tiny ears pricking at the slightest sound.

  And then its hands came down and gripped his cheeks, its claws digging deep, bringing blood to his face. It leaned in closer, firing its stinking breath into his eyes. He blinked and tried to lean away.

  ‘Come,’ it said. Its voice rattled in his throat, soft like an old man’s, yet brimful of malice. Travers shivered and squirmed, hanging on desperately to his bowels. ‘Walk with me.’

  ‘Where?’ he managed. Again it smiled - a hideous movement. Travers closed his eyes but it was still there, etched in his mind.

  ‘My Master demands your presence. It is not far. Walk.’ The face disappeared but the talons tightened in his hair. Its tail constricted his right arm, which was held up and away from his scabbard so that his forearm dangled parallel to his face.

  Travers began to walk, knowing with complete certainty that it was the last one he would ever take.

  Alun came to his senses with a start that made his head spin. He could hear fighting above him, the sounds of men dying. And some of them were fighting and dying for him. His boys were in here. His wife was in here.

  He stood up, an anger as pure as a virgin’s kiss flooding his body. He wanted to make someone pay for the anguish and loss they’d put him through. The days like months, the months like years. But today it would end and his sword would spill blood for the first time.

  They’d be held upstairs, of this much he was certain. He ran to the open door and took the stairs at a sprint, pausing when he reached the top. Someone was at the other end of the corridor and walking towards him, something on his head. He ran towards them, the man never once focusing on him. He stopped again and raised his sword to strike but then locked eyes with the cat he’d seen Hirad carrying. Something in those eyes stopped him cutting the man down and instead they turned him to look at the door at the end of the corridor.

  Alun nodded and ran on again, dimly aware of fighting to his right and the flap of wings behind him. His trophy was close. He could feel them. Gods, he could almost smell them! They were his boys and he would rescue them.

  He stormed through the door and up the narrow passageway, bursting into the guardroom and all but knocking the solitary guard from his seat. Before he could react, Alun opened his throat with a furious swing and, not daring to think about what he had just done, clattered up the spiral staircase.

  She came at him, a rage of blonde hair in a shabby and torn dark nightshirt, her arms outstretched, hands gripping at his shoulders.

  ‘My boys?’ she shouted, eyes darting all over his face. ‘Have you got my boys?’

  Thraun shook his head. ‘No . . .’ he began, but she was past him, screaming.

  ‘Fools. They’ll kill them. They said they’d kill them!’ She flew down the stairs, across the room and out into the corridor, Thraun right behind her. She tore left and through a door into a narrow passageway. There was a cry from up ahead, then a clash of swords. Erienne increased her pace.

  ‘Come on, Selik, killing me would serve no purpose. I mean, I still owe you.’ Will backed up further, knowing there was a door a few paces behind him. He sent a prayer that it was not locked.

  ‘Yes, you do. Once it was just money, and now it’s your life.’ Selik ducked under the doorframe. Will swallowed hard. The equation was simple: if the door behind him was locked, he would die. He slid back another step.

  Selik was Will’s greatest mistake. He’d seen a farmer’s boy who’d be an easy take and he’d never been more wrong. He’d owed the gifted swordsman ever since.

  ‘I’ve got a lot of money coming, Selik. All I need is a little more time.’

  ‘You have never fooled me, Begman, and you never will, because time is something you just don’t have any more.’ Selik advanced, drawing his sword. ‘Try and offer some resistance.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Will. He turned and ran for the door, yanked it open and headed for the stairs, his relief turning to dismay as Selik barred his way, appearing from the door Talan had u
sed earlier. The Black Wing shook his head. Will skidded to a stop and fled in the other direction, racing through the first door he found. It let into a narrow passageway and he heard voices ahead. One was female. He ran on. It was too late to turn anyway, and company was about the only chance he had.

  Alun hauled open the door at the top of the spiral staircase, rushing in to live his dream but discovering his waking nightmare.

  A man stood with his back to him, leaning over a double bed on which two children lay, the blood and their stillness telling its own story. Alun’s breath caught in his throat, his legs weakened and his sword point struck the floor as his arm lost the strength to hold it aloft.

  He’d contemplated no other scene but his boys rushing into his arms, their faces alight, their mouths chattering identical delightful gibberish, their bodies warm against his face. But they would be silent for ever. He couldn’t move, not in or out, until the man turned, talking as he came.

  ‘I was just making sure they were de—’

  Alun mouthed the word ‘you’ and attacked with his sword, his feet his hands, his teeth - a frenzy of raw fury. The guard fell back, fielding blow after blow on stained dagger blade and armoured forearm, taking cuts, bruises and scrapes all over his body. But Alun’s frenzy had no clear purpose and one wild sweep of his blade left him hopelessly exposed. The guard simply swayed inside and stabbed him through the heart.

  Relief flooded Alun’s dying mind, his children called him and he thought he heard the man say sorry.