The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Standing shoulder to shoulder, the Shamen raised their arms above their heads, hands splayed. White fire crackled between their fingers, the strands combining above their heads into four twitching beams which searched for purchase in the air like darting snakes’ tongues. The beams combined to form one pole of shimmering white light which sprang at the town walls, forking like lightning and flickering over them, knocking away dust, mould and lichen. For a moment, there was no discernible effect, then the light could be seen inside the walls, a map of pulsating, flaring veins. The Shamen cut off the beam and threw themselves to the earth, ignoring the swordsmen scant paces away. A two-hundred-foot section of the wall exploded outwards, sending stone fragments fizzing through the air at enormous speed. Blackthorne’s men never stood a chance, taking the full weight of the explosion.

  The Baron’s plans dissolved as the wall came down, spilling archers and mages and causing pandemonium along the wall. More arrows flew, this time piercing the bodies of the unprotected Shamen, but the damage was done. Seven thousand Wesmen roared their way towards a breach Blackthorne’s men could not hope to fill.

  ‘Dear Gods,’ said Blackthorne. He turned to Gresse, his face white. ‘We’ll have to take them hand to hand through the streets. I—’

  A flash lit up the sky. FlameOrbs soared away to the closing Wesmen ranks, exploding on impact, deluging men with mana fire. The screams of the unshielded victims rose above the war cries of the survivors.

  White fire flared again as the Wesmen approached the breach. The southern gate house collapsed. Spells flickered across the sky, HardRain poured on to the Wesmen in the centre of the charge, IceWind tore through a flank, a quintet of Shamen were destroyed by the columns of a HellFire, but the Wesmen charge was undaunted.

  From the base of the castle, soldiers and mercenaries ran to positions around the town, originally fallbacks, now desperate defence.

  ‘Saddle every horse in the compound,’ Blackthorne ordered an aide. ‘When the time comes, we’ll have to take to guerrilla moves in the foothills and plains trails. We can’t let them unleash this at Understone.’

  The Wesmen reached the devastated gate and walls of Blackthorne and poured through the gaps into the town, sweeping aside the pitifully thin defence. From the standing walls, mages and archers rained fire, ice and steel on the invaders, but by now the Shamen had grouped for defence, and too often the rain bounced off shields, the arrows were knocked aside. And for every Wesman who died, a dozen more took his place. They surged through the town, firing buildings as they passed and cutting down the defenders who fought them at every street corner.

  The wall defenders followed the Wesmen’s progress through the flaming town, attacking where they could but too often under attack themselves as the Shamen, unhurried groups of arrogant swagger, launched fine meshes of white fire or great rods of hard flame that fell like wet rope on the ramparts. Blackthorne Town was burning down.

  ‘We’ve lost this one!’ shouted Gresse above the roar of the Wesmen, the fires, the calls of the wounded and the crackle of the Shamen’s magic.

  The stern Baron nodded, jaw set, eyes rimmed with tears. Less than ten minutes had passed since the Shamen had brought the walls down. He signalled the emergency order. Flagmen and trumpeters announced the loss of Blackthorne, and its defenders and people took to the foothills of the Blackthorne Mountains.

  From there, they could track the Wesmen north to Understone Pass, harrying them all the way. But unless the Wytch Lords’ magic was taken from the Shamen, Blackthorne feared nothing could stop the rout of eastern Balaia.

  And if they were to lose it, he hoped that at least he and Gresse could watch the Wesmen tear Pontois and the rest of the KTA limb from limb. It would be scant satisfaction, but right now it was all that kept him breathing. Everything he had was gone.

  Chapter 29

  The Arch Temple of the Wrethsires was set in a lush glade fed by hill streams. To the east, a lake sat at the base of the Garan foothills, providing peace. The solitude was completed by steep cliffs climbing two sides, sheer and menacing.

  The Temple itself was a low dome, ringed with forty spires and having a diameter of perhaps two hundred feet. A single needle spire rose from the centre of the planked and slated wooden roof, and the walls, marble and stone, shone in the post-rain sunshine.

  The Wrethsires were as disparate as the four Colleges were intensely familial. Small temples were scattered all over Balaia, but were sparse in number in the west when compared to the east. The order believed in a death force magic that had nothing to do with mana energy and so drew the unswerving scorn of every mage.

  They did harness something, that much was admitted, but whatever it was had proved unstable to control - far more so than mana - and the reports of accident and disaster were well documented throughout the two hundred years or so that the order had been established.

  The Raven had arrived late the previous evening after a sodden but otherwise uneventful journey through forested hillsides, steep valleys and swollen streams. Had it been dry, the landscape would have been beautiful.

  It had been dawn before the rain stopped, and the silence it brought was blessed relief from the incessant patter and drum. Full dawn was a brilliant sun from a cloudless sky, and quickly the land began to dry, steam rising from leaf, grass and shrub.

  Thraun had brought them to a stop in a dense area of woodland three miles from the Temple. Approaching unseen would be close to impossible during the daylight, but Denser had agreed to undertake a CloakedWalk around the dome later that morning. For now, though, the talk was of the Wrethsires themselves.

  ‘They are actually very quiet as an organisation,’ said Erienne.

  ‘With plenty to be quiet about,’ said Denser.

  ‘But they’ve got something, isn’t that right?’ asked Jandyr.

  ‘You could say, I suppose.’ Denser shrugged.

  ‘Come on, Denser,’ snapped Thraun. ‘We’ve all got to go in there.’

  Denser bridled. ‘They are a quasi-religious, quasi-magical - though I use the term very loosely - organisation. They pray to some idea of an earth death force, pretend they can harness it and claim some sort of brotherhood with the four Colleges because of it. They are frauds, their magic is flawed and their contention to be the fifth College is nothing short of repellent. Anything else?’ Denser fetched his pipe from his cloak, filled the bowl from a bulging tobacco pouch courtesy of Lystern, and lit it from a flame on his thumb.

  Hirad flicked absently at a piece of leaf mould, his eyes spearing the Dark Mage.

  ‘In case it had slipped your mind, Denser, incomplete information has already claimed the life of my closest friend. And look at you. In fact look at all three of you mages, choking on the contempt you hold for these Wrethsires.’ There was an uncomfortable shifting around the campsite. ‘Now I don’t know whether this contempt is fair and I don’t, frankly, give a damn. What I and my friends without their noses stuck in the air want to know is exactly what we might face in there. What spells do they have, are they weapons users, how many are there, you know. If you can’t tell me because you don’t know, fine. But don’t keep me in the dark because you don’t think it’s important. Got it?’ He shook his head at them. ‘Bloody mages on bloody pedestals.’

  Denser contemplated Hirad’s words, raising his eyebrows at Ilkar who, unaccountably, was trying to suppress a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hirad,’ said Denser at length. ‘You’re right. But they aren’t magical and you can’t call their castings spells.’

  ‘I don’t care what you call them. Tell me what they do before I start getting irritated.’

  ‘Start?’ Ilkar’s smile surfaced.

  ‘Right.’ Denser clapped his hands on his thighs. ‘What we know about the Wrethsires’ castings is patchy. We know that they are based in prayer utterances and that all their work is done in groups - the more Sires, the stronger the result. Their power, such as it is, is based on violent elemental forc
es like wind, rain, fire and so on and the death force they are supposed to produce.

  ‘The thing to watch out for is that they don’t control it well. It makes all their castings unstable and so unpredictable both to them and, in this case, to us.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Jandyr.

  Denser shrugged. ‘Duration, power, direction, random result, backfire. You name it. Another belief is that when they die, their death force strengthens the Temple whole and that much of their combined power comes from this death element. It gives them a rather misplaced confidence.’

  ‘And you’re saying they don’t harness this force?’ said Will. Denser nodded. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty sure.’ The Dark Mage’s smile at Ilkar was somewhat embarrassed. Ilkar pursed his lips but said nothing.

  ‘Are they aggressive?’ Hirad looked back from Ilkar to Denser.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not like Wesmen, although for whatever reason, the Wesmen leave them completely alone. Or so we understand. ’ He looked round The Raven. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘How many of them are there?’ Thraun took him up.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘I mean in the Arch Temple. Are we talking thirty, three hundred, what?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘Great,’ said The Unknown and Hirad together.

  ‘The temple will take several hundred but it was built for worship, don’t forget. The Gods only know how many Sires they have down there, or blades for that matter. Hopefully I’ll have some idea later.’

  But he found nothing. Travelling to the edge of the woodland by the Temple with Thraun to avoid being seen, Denser cast his CloakedWalk and strolled up to the pillared entrance. It was shut and he couldn’t risk trying the grand polished brass rings that hung on the oak-striped doors. He moved in a clockwise direction around the Temple, taking in the ornate mosaics and carvings that decorated the walls. Great vistas of mountain and forest, sea and cliff and plain and desert mixed with representations of fire, wind through the sky and one particularly grim mosaic depicting a walk of the dead.

  Not a sound came from inside. Vents were shuttered, side and rear doors were closed and the spires, beautifully worked cones of black marble standing twice his height, gave no clue to the whereabouts of the Wrethsires. He returned to Thraun and they made their way back to the campsite.

  ‘Should we be surprised, or not?’ asked Will, his eyes bright under his now completely grey hair.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t see why,’ said Denser. ‘Like I said, it’s a place of worship. Very few, if any, will actually live there. And it’s still only mid-morning. But I don’t know . . .’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Hirad pulled himself to his feet and stretched. ‘Sounds to me as though we could get in and out right now and save ourselves a lot of trouble.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind too,’ agreed Denser. ‘But I can’t help thinking that if it was my temple, I’d have it guarded. Particularly with what’s going on around here right now.’

  ‘I don’t get where you’re going with this,’ said Hirad. ‘If they’ve screwed up leaving the place unguarded, that’s to our advantage.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Denser, ‘It just didn’t feel right.’

  ‘Sixth sense?’ Erienne ran a hand through Denser’s hair.

  He nodded. ‘Something like that. I just think we should be careful.’

  ‘We were always going to be that,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘So do we move now or stick by the original plan?’ Jandyr looked to Hirad but it was The Unknown who spoke.

  ‘In daylight, we risk Wrethsires coming to the Temple; in the dead of night, we don’t. I can see no reason to rush in, we’re not in any danger here. Hirad?’

  Hirad looked into the chasm of The Unknown’s eyes and wondered if they would ever be full again. But though his soul was empty, his mind was sharp, and his voice carried all of its old authority. While he had been gone, Hirad had missed that.

  ‘I agree. Why rush? Let’s rest up, make sure we’ve got our tactics straight and keep to our timetable. I don’t think we’re going to have too much spare time after this.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Darrick is good but there are a lot of Wesmen in his way.’

  Baron Blackthorne stood at the entrance to his most profitable mine, half a mile above his blazing town, and looked down on his fallen world. As night fell, the fires died down but the Wesmen encampments burned bright with lights and the noise of celebration.

  He and Gresse had a handful fewer than two thousand men at their disposal. Most of them had horses, taken either from the courtyard or the many tithe farms over which he was Lord. Again, the Wesmen hadn’t given chase when he had retreated, demonstrating an awful confidence in their ability to secure victory at their leisure. It was a confidence Blackthorne found it hard not to share.

  The death toll in the town had been high and the Baron had decided to send his untrained reservists, those that still lived, to safer areas where they could bolster the standing defences of key population centres: Korina, Gyernath, the College cities, even Baron Corin’s lands to the far north-east. Even the farms lay idle, their tenants packed on to wagons and ordered east to wherever would have them.

  Blackthorne tapped his fist again and again on the rock by his head, his anger undimmed, his humiliation complete. But beneath it was a wash of pride. As he’d ordered the retreat, the horns, backed by flags, blaring out their message, he’d seen his men in the town redouble their efforts to keep the Wesmen back. Closing ranks, they’d grouped in a tight formation in the market crescent, drawing the Wesmen on and providing stout final resistance. Without their selfless action, Blackthorne wondered whether he would be standing where he was now or lying dead in his own blood.

  He stared down at the lights blazing in the castle. Someone else would be sleeping in his bed tonight. An enemy. He seethed. Gresse came to his shoulder.

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ he said. ‘At least this way we live to fight on.’

  ‘But for how long?’ Blackthorne’s voice was bitter. ‘We’ve got no defence against the Shamen magic.’

  ‘But at least we survived to warn Darrick and the Colleges. If mages can effectively shield walls, we can still win.’

  ‘But we leave our men open to magical attack,’ said Blackthorne. ‘We have no idea how many Shamen there are, and without the scale of magical offence we had been counting on, our soldiers can’t fight the odds. There are too many Wesmen. You heard the reports. Eighty-five thousand. Altogether, the east has barely half that number in soldiers worth the name. And the Wesmen are already on their way to Understone and, I expect, Gyernath. We had to hold them for three days to give The Raven a fair chance and we managed ten minutes.

  ‘If Understone Pass goes the same way, The Raven will have nothing to return to. It’ll already be too late.’

  Gresse put a hand on Blackthorne’s shoulder. It was the Baron’s darkest hour and his assessment of their situation felt uncomfortably accurate. He had lost his home and his people were spreading over the country. Many would never return and he had not, could not, put up any fight. There was no real consolation, but Gresse tried anyway.

  ‘Even if the Wesmen are drinking wine from the KTA vaults in Korina, if the Wytch Lord magic is taken from them, we can rout them.’

  Blackthorne turned to him, shaking his head. ‘Gresse, if the Wesmen take Korina there will be no one left to rout them. Gods, if they sack the College Cities we may as well sail south and leave them to it.’

  Gresse let his head drop. Blackthorne was right. And if the Wesmen strength at Triverne Inlet was as strong as the one camped in and around Blackthorne, they would be at the gates of Julatsa in four days.

  The afternoon and evening passed without incident for The Raven. Thraun and The Unknown spent much of the time watching the Temple and its approach. They saw no one, adding to Denser’s unease.

  Before movi
ng on to the Temple, The Raven ate in the fading light. The mood was sombre.

  ‘If our failure becomes inevitable, we must ensure that Dawnthief is destroyed before the Wytch Lords get it,’ said Denser.

  ‘How?’ asked Will.

  ‘Just melt the catalysts, or one of them,’ said Denser. ‘It’s simple.’

  ‘So we could take this spell out of the game right now,’ said Will.

  ‘If we wanted to throw away our only chance of beating the Wytch Lords, yes.’ Denser shrugged. ‘But there’s one thing I must make clear. If I am killed and it becomes obvious that none of us is going to live to return the catalysts to Xetesk, one or all of them must be destroyed. Because if the Wytch Lords get hold of it, there is no chance. Not even for the Wesmen.’

  The Raven exchanged looks around the stove. Hirad helped himself to some more coffee from the iron pot on its hot plate.

  ‘All right then,’ said Jandyr. ‘Say we do what we have to do and the Wytch Lords are gone, what then?’

  ‘It won’t stop the Wesmen, that’s certain, although it will remove their total arrogance and belief in victory,’ replied Denser. ‘You have to understand that it now seems the Wesmen have been preparing for this for perhaps ten years. They are united, they are strong and they are determined. But what’s more important is that they know the east is fragmented. They’ll believe they can still take Balaia with or without the Wytch Lords. And if they retake the pass before our armies are ready, they might just do it.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a little overdramatic, Denser?’ Hirad was smiling. ‘Surely your mages can hold the pass indefinitely with that water spell of yours.’ Ilkar tutted. Denser shook his head and smiled at Erienne. ‘You know something, I really hate it when you mages get smug.’

  ‘Sorry, Hirad, you’re not to know,’ said Denser. ‘But to us, that statement is like us wondering why you can’t fight so well with one arm or something.’

  ‘So tell me,’ said Hirad.