The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Raven, let’s go!’ called Hirad as the camp dissolved into chaos. From somewhere on the wind he thought he heard laughter. He broke into a run, heading for the base of the tower in which Ilkar and Denser both now stood. FlameOrbs sailed out, diving into the tents at the northern end of the camp and splashing fire across tribal standards, scorching Wesman and canvas alike. New screams joined those already mingling with barked orders, shouts of alarm and the roar of two dozen blazes. Wesmen ran in all directions, carrying buckets, salvaged stores, and burned and dying comrades.

  A handful of Wesmen warriors ran to intercept The Raven and gain the tower.

  ‘Forget a shield, Erienne,’ said Hirad as they took up position, the mage behind the trio of swordsmen. ‘We need offence. And quickly.’

  ‘Right.’

  Hirad roared and closed with the first Wesman. The Unknown, three paces right, waited for the flanking attack.

  The barbarian sliced left to right, his enemy blocking and leaping backwards. Hirad followed up with a cut to the neck which the Wesman turned away but he was in no shape for the third as Hirad switched grip and opened a huge gash across his chest. Blood welled through his heavy furs and he stumbled. The Raven warrior stepped up and pierced his heart.

  Turning, Hirad saw The Unknown taking on two, sweeping his blade into one’s side and kicking out straight into the other’s stomach. More Wesmen were gathering and Hirad weighed up their options.

  ‘Ilkar, we need you two down here,’ he called.

  ‘We’ve got a better idea,’ Ilkar shouted back. ‘Head for the shore, we’ll see you there.’

  Hirad refocused on the battle. Fire raged on in the centre of the camp. Fanned by the wind, more and more tents fell victim and the anguished cries of terrified animals rose above the noise of blaze and clamour of voices. Directly in front of The Raven, twenty Wesmen broke and ran at them. The Unknown tapped his blade on the ground, waiting.

  ‘I’ll take left,’ he said, sensing Hirad’s eyes on him.

  ‘Will to my right,’ said Hirad. The wiry man trotted into position. The Wesmen ran on, their momentum the greatest immediate threat they posed, their weight of numbers enough to overpower the thin Raven line if they so chose. Hirad tensed for the fight but at twenty yards the charge was shattered.

  Erienne stepped forward between Hirad and The Unknown. She crouched and spread her arms wide.

  ‘IceWind.’ The temperature fell sharply as the cone of dread cold air streamed from Erienne’s palms, whistling as it went and taking the centre of the Wesmen advance. Its broad front caught six men full on and they fell, clutching their faces, lips seared together, eyes frozen and cracked, their cries of agony little more than desperate hums inside useless mouths.

  At the periphery of the spell, blood chilled in exposed flesh, blades fell from numb fingers and heads turned away, the whole line stumbling to a stop in the face of the sudden blast of glacial air.

  As quickly as it had come, the IceWind had gone but there was no respite for the stricken Wesmen. Trying to bring some order out of the mayhem caused by the spell, they were taken completely unawares by Thraun. The wolf’s approach had been silent but now he howled and crashed neck-high into the enemy, ripping the throat from one, his huge flailing paws knocking another from his feet to lie stunned on the ground.

  Hirad made to wade in but The Unknown’s voice stopped him.

  ‘No, Hirad. Leave him to it. They can’t hurt him. Let’s get to the shore.’ The barbarian nodded.

  ‘Just as we planned,’ he said, and headed north to skirt the first group of burned-out tents. A dark shape flew over his head and ducked low towards him. He flinched and brought up his sword. Denser hovered in front of him, ShadowWings deployed, Ilkar in his arms and caught around his neck.

  ‘We’ve got more damage to cause. Get the boat and get out in the Inlet. I’ll fly in,’ said Denser. Ilkar said nothing, his eyes closed as he prepared a spell.

  ‘You be careful, Denser,’ warned Erienne.

  ‘The thought is lodged in my mind.’ He shot up and back, heading for the southern end of the camp. Hirad followed the flight; the black shaft of an arrow silhouetted against the light swept past them. Immediately afterwards, the gates of the cow- and horse-pens shattered and the animals stampeded.

  ‘Let’s go, Raven.’ Hirad ran for the shore, leaving Thraun to his slaughter and the mages to their destruction.

  Thraun could smell the fires, the fear and the blood mixed with the scent of prey animal and dog. He picked his way quickly through the grass, pale brown body blending with the colours of night, paws silent. He stopped at the perimeter of the human occupation, myriad scents vying for dominance. He ignored them. In front of man-packbrother, enemies gathered. They threatened, their sharp weapons raised. With the sound of the pack echoing in his mind and the smell of the forest forward in his memory, he charged.

  The first enemy hadn’t even faced him. He leapt, jaws closing on unprotected throat, left paw connecting with his chest, right beating another to the ground. Blood filled his mouth and coated his nose, his growl of pleasure the last sound his victim heard.

  Panic gripped the enemy. They broke and ran. Thraun turned his head. Man-packbrother and the others were moving swiftly away. Water. His brain fought to remember. He would meet them on the water. He looked down, lashing a paw into the man he’d knocked down. He stopped moving, blood covering the wreckage of his face. Thraun howled again and set off, tracking man-packbrother, fighting the urge to chase down the prey animals that bolted here and there, their terror a tempting taste in his mouth.

  Man-packbrother moved along the edge of the occupation. Thraun was inside the first line of dwellings, most of which burned, their occupants either dead or running blindly. There was no order. From his right, he heard sounds of alarm. Three enemy moved towards man-packbrother. Thraun hit them at a dead run, catching the first on his chest and sending him sprawling into the others. Consumed with the blood, he ripped and tore, his fangs chopping into flesh as he worked his head left and right, his paws beating, claws dragging.

  From above, an enemy hit him with his sharp weapon. It stung his hide and he yelped, rounding on his tormentor, whose eyes widened. It had been a hard blow but Thraun’s side had not split. He bared his fangs and advanced.

  Denser flew back towards the blazing marquees, rising high to assess the mayhem he had so spectacularly initiated. Panicked Wesmen beat at the edges of the fires, their bucket chain scarcely making a dent in the heat and destruction. Ilkar’s ForceCone had knocked the animal picketing flat on a twenty-foot stretch and in the confusion of fear and fire, horses and cattle stampeded away from the bright yellow blazes licking the air, trampling man and tent indiscriminately.

  To his left, Thraun clamped his jaws on the sword-arm of a hapless Wesman warrior and further on in the shadows cast by the fire, he caught the odd glimpse of The Raven, tracking towards the shore, unmolested for the moment.

  Ilkar, cradled in his arms, was getting heavy. Denser was a strong man and the ShadowWings he had cast were trimmed for weight but there was a limit and the growing ache in his limbs was beginning to threaten his concentration.

  ‘What have you got left?’ asked Denser.

  ‘FlameOrbs or another ForceCone. I want to keep enough to shield the boat,’ replied Ilkar. ‘More to the point, what have you got left?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ said Denser.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ll start falling.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Just get concentrating on those Orbs. If we can disrupt the bucket chain, we might get clean away.’ Ilkar nodded and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly, fingers describing intricate circles in the air. Denser leaned back to counter the shift in balance.

  Denser watched the expert movements of the efficient mage, arms almost still, hands creating the shape with the words his mouth framed. Nothing was wasted, no mana stamina escaped. He was a consummate mage, his magic lea
rned through long years and honed through sometimes agonising practice. Denser knew this because it had been the same for him.

  Yet, despite Ilkar’s clever use of his stamina, he was beginning to tire while Denser felt as fresh as he had before he had cast his CloakedWalk. Something had happened to him during his casting of Dawnthief. A new linking with the mana, a coupling forged deep in the core of his being. And it had given him new ways to construct his shapes. Much as Styliann harnessed mana in a way so thrifty and quick it took away the breath, so Denser had that understanding. But it was more than mere understanding. It was fundamental coexistence with the fuel of magic.

  Ilkar nodded, Denser’s signal that he was ready to cast. His eyes were now open, focused on the target ahead. Denser flew above the bucket chain, out over Triverne Inlet and round again, coming up the line giving Ilkar the widest target area he could.

  ‘FlameOrbs.’ Ilkar clapped his hands and opened his palms. A trio of orange globes rested there, growing to the size of apples before he jerked his hands down and apart, the FlameOrbs flashing away. They grew as they fell, to the size of skulls when they collided with the unprotected Wesmen, splashing fire that consumed fur and flesh, the screams of the burning rising over the crackle of the fires that engulfed the camp.

  Denser, his arms pained from shoulder to wrist, headed down to the beach.

  Hirad broke into a sprint as Ilkar’s FlameOrbs destroyed the bucket chain, fracturing the Wesmen’s fragile organisation. He raced around the final tents before the shore, leading The Raven across the sand, the Wesmen forgetting all thoughts of saving their tents, turning instead to help kinsmen whose agonised cries split the night.

  Ahead of him, Thraun paused, looked to see that Will was safe, and streaked across the sand towards Denser and Ilkar who had landed near the boats. Hirad pushed on, crunching sand underfoot, the rhythmic fall of small waves on the shore contrasting with the clamour of noise from the ruined camp. Ahead of him, Thraun brought down a Wesman warrior from behind, the man’s bucket flying from his grasp, the warning sounds of his kinsmen too late to save him.

  There was a dip in the level of the bedlam. The fires raged on but the Wesmen paused, making a concerted move for their weaponry as it dawned on them exactly what was happening.

  ‘We’ve got to move fast,’ said The Unknown by Hirad’s shoulder.

  ‘Raven!’ shouted Hirad. ‘Raven with me.’ He charged towards a knot of Wesmen who had gathered near Thraun. The wolf snarled, darting in, jaws snapping, claws whistling through the air. Wary, the Wesmen kept their distance. But they couldn’t avoid The Raven.

  ‘Erienne, find a boat. We need a fast sail. Will, defend the mages. Unknown, with me.’ He tore into the Wesmen, sword chopping through fur and flesh. Beside him, The Unknown’s blade caught the glare of the fires as it plunged into his victims. Thraun, sensing he was helped, howled and leapt, jaws burying into a shoulder.

  Hirad parried an axe sweep to his head, his sword sliding down the shaft, shaving wood and chopping the gripping fingers from his assailant’s hands. The man shuddered, mouth open in shock, axe falling. Hirad’s next blow took out his throat. More Wesmen saw them. Thraun ran over his latest kill to attack the oncoming pack. Swords rose and fell but Hirad could see as he smashed a fist into an enemy nose and brought his blade through his stomach, that Thraun sustained no wounds.

  From behind them, blue lightning arced across the sky, piercing the eyes of three Wesmen who fell clutching at their smoking faces. The attack faltered. Hirad batted aside a clumsy thrust, stepped inside, head-butted his opponent back and followed up with a stab clear through the heart. Beside him, The Unknown raked his blade across two chests, blood fountaining from a sliced artery and smashed lung while Thraun’s snarls and growls accompanied Wesmen cries of desperation.

  Hirad glanced over his shoulder. Ilkar and Erienne had pushed a boat out on to the water. At twenty feet long, it would easily take them all. Will was tugging at the sail stays, slightly unsteady as he stood on the rocking vessel. It was time to fall back.

  The Wesmen had lost their appetite for the fight. Thraun ran at small groups who scattered, keeping them away from the beach. Hirad and The Unknown moved backwards across the sand. More lightning from the fingers of Denser, more Wesmen fell, faces blackened, eyes gone.

  ‘Get in and we’ll push out,’ ordered Hirad. Arrows flew the gap across the beach, clattering off Ilkar’s HardShield. Hirad grinned. The Raven slick as ever, an unshakeable unit.

  When he hit the water, he turned as did The Unknown, running and jumping through the shallows to push the stern of the boat on which the three mages and Will sat, the cold water shocking his muscles to new life.

  ‘Tell me if they start following us,’ said Hirad. More arrows bounced from the shield. The boat moved through the gentle tide and waves, the wind bringing nothing more than choppiness to the Inlet this near the shore. Behind him, he heard splashing and in the boat Will straightened. Hirad turned. Three Wesmen ran at them, circling axes above their heads and roaring battle cries.

  To his left, The Unknown tapped his blade into the water, the normal ring of steel on stone reduced to a splash and muffled grate on the shingle below. They waited but the Wesmen didn’t make it. From their right, the water exploded upwards and Thraun surged from the surf he’d created to bear one down into the water, fangs deep in his thigh. A shout rang out from the shore and the others turned and ran, their kinsman left to float in as the tide dictated, his blood slicking the moonlit water.

  Hirad yelled in triumph, exulting at the fires that scored the dark above the burning camp. The Unknown clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this boat moving.’ The old friends scrambled the few yards to the small craft and climbed aboard, Thraun paddling strongly beside them. In moments, the sail was unfurled, the wind snapped the dark canvas taut and The Raven headed back to the East. Home.

  Chapter 13

  Sha-Kaan and a dozen of his lieutenants flew from the Broodlands, already aware that they were almost certainly too late to save Jatha and the party of Vestare who were supposed to meet The Raven.

  In the skies above Teras, the gateway hung in the sky, myopic gaze expanding inexorably. Around its surface, the guard flew their defensive holding pattern, at ease in the clear sky that day and comfortable that their vision would give ample warning time to assemble a defence to quell any attack.

  But how long would the clouds stay away? How long before Sha-Kaan was forced to deploy more and more of his tiring Brood to fly patrol in the banks of thick, rain-bearing cloud that periodically swept down from the mountains of Beshara, drawing moisture to deposit on his lands? The rain fed the Flamegrass but the cloud obscured their enemies. Right now, clear skies were preferable. The River Tere, running through the heart of the Broodlands, was full and powerful and the Vestare could channel it to the beds of cultivated Flamegrass. It was in the open plains that their harvest would suffer, for the Flamegrass was greedy for moisture and wilted quickly without it.

  But away towards the devastated lands of Keol, where Septern’s gateway lay hidden by Vestare cunning and design, new columns of smoke smudged the sky, new fires coloured the earth. Sha-Kaan took his dragons high into the bright sky, calling barks of welcome and warning to the guard as they passed. As they flew hard over the hills of Dormar and the wastes at the borders of Beshara, the dark shapes in the sky revealed themselves to be of the Brood Veret.

  The Great Kaan was surprised and pulsed a query to his cohorts. Slender and quick, the dragons of the Veret were semi-aquatic, normally inhabiting the caves and seas to the north of Teras, never straying far from their Broodlands deep in the Shedara Ocean. They were characterised by blue and green colouring, thin muzzles which jetted slim concentrations of fire, short necks, four even, webbed feet and long, slightly flattened tails that powered them through the water.

  They possessed poisonous spikes of bone that ran along skull and neck but their wings, small and sw
ept back for speed through air and water, were their weakness. Gone was the reservoir of secreted oil that lubricated landborne dragons and resisted fire, replaced instead by a veined water lubrication lattice. The lightweight system gave their wings greater manoeuvrability but, with armour non-existent, it was vulnerable to being burned off by the scorching temperatures of dragon fire. But they had to be caught first.

  The Kaan closed. Sha-Kaan could feel Jatha’s fear, sensing his pounding heart and his laboured breath as he and the Vestare ran to escape the Veret. There were eight of the enemy Brood, all intent on their quarry. What taxed Sha-Kaan as he commenced his first attack dive was why the Veret had strayed so far inland and whether their interception of his Vestare was by coincidence or design.

  The Veret didn’t sense the threat of the Kaan at first, had no idea that above them, Sha-Kaan’s fire was ready, his jaws open and dripping fuel. He glided hard down, slipstreaming a young marine-blue Veret only half his own length who was chasing down a lone Vestare.

  The man was neither quick nor agile enough, his dodging among stunted, blackened trees not adept enough to confuse the Veret’s approach. Sha-Kaan could see him, darting left and right, back and forth, stopping and rolling, sprinting and standing, just as he had been taught. The theory was there - the momentum of dragons in the sky robbed them of the manoeuvrability to accommodate sudden changes in pace and direction but the practice against the more agile Veret was lacking.

  And so it was that as Sha-Kaan lined himself up behind the young male Veret, the enemy dragon, having tracked his quarry with deft wing alignments and slight movements of head and neck, opened his mouth and exhaled two tight jets of fire that tore through the Vestare’s body. The victim was hurled from his feet into the bole of a tree, his flaming corpse flopping to the ground, chest holed massively, head aflame. Around him, wood blazed in the sudden inferno and the wave of flame rolled away into the forest, igniting branch and leaf and scattering birds.