The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Kessarin stopped immediately, lantern slide pushed all the way across, darkness complete. He pressed himself against the left-hand wall, thinking. This was an area he knew little of, particularly with no light. He had a vague memory of an opening out to both sides and above but, in truth, couldn’t be sure. He was skilled in the feel of the rock at either end but, in the middle, his knowledge was slight. There hadn’t been time.

  He listened closely. Still no sound of Pelassar and his men. No echo of footsteps along the rock walls, no change in the air told of imminent meeting and, straining his eyes along with his ears, no light pushed at the blackness. Just that faint taste of blood. There one breath, gone the next.

  Kessarin was, by nature, a calm individual but the silence and the dark were moving in on him. Sounds he knew could not be there whispered in his ear. The cry of a child, the lowing of cattle. All distant, the tricks the mountains above played. He shook his head and forced himself to focus. He had two choices.

  He could either report back the silence and the hint of blood in the air or he could move on, knowing Tessaya would be growing impatient, and find out whether his fears were justified.

  Actually, it was quite simple. To find favour, he had to go on and hope that Tessaya’s anger would subside as he heard Kessarin’s report. He looked again into the darkness. Here, deep in the pass, no natural light would ever penetrate. He couldn’t even see the wall with his nose touching it. Here, even the slightest chink of light would push back the blackness like a beacon fire. Up ahead then, he could be sure, there was no one.

  He moved back the slot of the hooded lantern, aware that the limited air within the glass would soon be gone if he didn’t expose an airhole. The sound was loud in the silence, like pushing open a rusted iron door. Kessarin allowed himself a smile.

  With his left hand brushing the wall, he moved forward again, carefully, the light down and to his right, illuminating a slight incline in the passageway. A couple of paces further on, he stepped in a patch of stickiness that slicked across the floor.

  He stopped to look, knowing it was blood, and then they simply melted out of the darkness ahead, a pale light gently illuminating their nightmare masks. One grabbed his neck with astonishing swiftness. He dropped the lantern, which shattered on the hard stone floor. He tried to speak but no sound came, his arms thrashing uselessly, his eyes staring wildly, taking in the sea of blank faces which parted to let through a tall man with black hair. Behind him floated a glowing sphere. The face came close.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You almost had us believing you weren’t there. Almost. Now, you are alone, I take it?’

  Kessarin, terrified, managed to nod his head, jaw against the gauntlet of the silent masked man.

  ‘As I thought.’ His head turned away. ‘Is it full dark outside?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Good. Cil, we have work.’

  The hand around Kessarin’s throat tightened and all his dreams of glory fled into the darkness from which he would never return.

  The only question that remained was the reception at Understone but the captured scout removed some of the uncertainty. Styliann considered that Tessaya would want to wait for the scout’s report before deciding how heavily to arm his defence. At this stage, Tessaya still had no genuine cause to believe that the Lord of the Mount’s non-appearance was anything other than irritating delay.

  Styliann and his Protectors moved quickly, the LightGlobe faint but significant, providing light enough to see a few paces all round. That, combined with the innate sense of the enthralled warriors, was quite enough. In less than two hours, they were approaching the eastern end of the pass. Stopping perhaps four hundred yards from the entrance and hidden by a series of outcrops and shallow bends, Styliann assigned his LightGlobe to Cil, dismounted and cast a CloakedWalk on himself. He could have selected a Protector as the spell’s target but the nuances of the Cloak made its retention far more difficult than a LightGlobe or ShadowWings.

  ‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘They will not see me.’ Styliann disappeared from their view, his hand trailing the left-hand wall, a dull luminescence taking the totality from the darkness. He walked briskly, his eyes adjusting to the increasing light that filtered along the passage. It was, he guessed, around four hours from dawn. Night was full outside but, in comparison to the black of the pass, the sky was bright. Inside it was chill and damp and Styliann was glad of his cloak.

  There were no obvious signs of build-up at the entrance to the pass but a guard of eight or so sat around a fire just outside. Styliann pitied them. The Xeteskian storm would see them to their graves before they knew it had broken.

  He continued walking slowly forward, coming to within a dozen paces of the guards where he crouched behind a slide of rock caused by the spell his own mages, organised by Dystran, had cast to massacre so many Wesmen. The scent of death would remain in the pass forever.

  None of the guard was facing into the pass, which Styliann found a little strange. Over-confidence caused carelessness. He looked beyond them to what he could see of Understone itself. Darrick’s defences had been considerably strengthened and watch-towers sprang from eight places that Styliann could count. His view was partially obscured by the slope down to the base of the gates Tessaya had constructed but the glow of further fires told of more guards outside the town.

  Understone was quiet. The Wesmen slept while above the sky was clear and the air was still and cool. He wouldn’t get a better opportunity. Styliann, again cloaked by magic, slipped back to join the Protectors.

  Understone’s night was uneasy. Tessaya stalked the quiet streets, for once unsure of himself. Kessarin was among the best, the duty Captain had assured him of this. He would find the guard and report back but, if he had to travel the entire pass, he would not return until early morning, shortly before dawn.

  But the situation was patently wrong. How could the delay be so great that Styliann still had not appeared? And if this was so, why had no word been sent? Never indecisive, Tessaya found himself torn. His senses screamed at him to wake every man and destroy the cursed mage the moment he appeared in the east. But his tactical brain begged him to play it softly and patiently. To wait for Styliann’s arrival and greet him with open arms. Let him place himself exactly where Tessaya wanted him.

  The Lord of the Paleon Tribes looked to the sky for inspiration but found none. The air was still, silent and cool. He had come to a standstill close to the inn but resisted the urge to seek Arnoan’s advice. Besides, he knew what the old Shaman would say. ‘Bring the mage to me. Let me work my magic on him.’ But of course he had no magic. Only chants and potions, bones and books. Styliann could destroy him with a wave of the hand.

  What should he do? He walked back up the main street to the gates of the town, climbing up the watch-tower that controlled them. The two guards bowed their heads at his appearance.

  ‘Keep watching,’ he said. They turned again to look at the empty black that was the entrance to the pass, illuminated to the right by the fire of the pass watch. ‘Has there been no sign?’

  ‘No, my Lord,’ replied one, unsure whether to turn or not and ending up awkwardly half faced towards Tessaya. ‘They have seen nothing down there and the paths to the north and south are both empty.’

  ‘What in all the hells has happened to them?’ demanded Tessaya.

  Still unsure, the guard ventured a reply. ‘He is a mage, my Lord. Not to be trusted.’

  Tessaya opened his mouth to slap down the guard, whose response was not required, but found himself in total agreement. Instead of barking, he nodded and relaxed just a little.

  ‘Yes. Why should I be surprised, eh? I’m glad to see you understand who we are expecting.’ He turned to go. ‘Be very vigilant. I cannot have this man loose.’

  And then the entrance to the pass was engulfed in sudden violence.

  Masked warriors surged into the night, scattering the watch-fire and slaughtering the guards, who plainly hadn�
��t seen them coming. The shouts of alarm were cut off so quickly. Without a pause, the warriors continued at a dead run and in their midst, a lone man on horseback, riding at a canter. The dread force surrounded him completely, the warriors moving easily at speed. There was no fuss, no struggle and no doubt. Only a frightening efficiency of pace and stride and a total focus. Not one glanced towards Understone as the whole turned north and ran up the trail, the bemused stares of the watch-tower guards following them as they ran quickly away.

  Tessaya swore to break the hypnotism of the moment, slamming his fists down so hard on the tower rail that it shuddered beneath him, one timber cracking under the strain.

  ‘Wake the tribes!’ he yelled. ‘I want every man from his bed. I want this town empty and I want it now. Every warrior. I want those bastards caught and slaughtered. Move!’

  Alarm bells rang out all round Understone. Tessaya stared after Styliann. It had to be him on that horse. Loose in the east with his damned masked warriors and heading straight for Xetesk. And even as he watched, a new chill stole over him. There went Styliann, but where was Darrick? And where were The Raven? He dismissed the new worry from his mind, knowing it would return once his fury had subsided. For now, he had but one target in his sights.

  ‘By the spirits of the Paleon dead, I will drink your blood, Styliann of Xetesk,’ he growled.

  But as the clamour of the waking army engulfed his ears, he thought he heard laughter echoing from the mountains in the still night air.

  And so it was for the next three days. The Council of Julatsa made the awful pilgrimage to the North Gate to see Senedai and the Wesmen murdering innocents. Sacrificing them on the altar of the DemonShroud. On the first day, a further hundred died, fifty at noon, fifty at dusk. On the second, three hundred met their deaths, many with the same proud face as the old mage, but more and more with reluctance, defiance and angry words shouted at the Council who watched them all and, in their eyes, lifted not a finger in their defence.

  On the third day, that unrest had shifted within the walls of the College and with the sacrifice of one hundred and fifty older women at noon, the Council turned from the gate ramparts to find themselves facing an angry mob held at bay by Kard and a line of College Guards. Behind the steel defence, mages stood ready to cast ForceCones to fragment the crowd if necessary.

  At the front of the crowd of perhaps two hundred were their appointed spokesmen and the soldier whom Kard had reprimanded at the first sacrifice. The General had succeeded in quieting them but the silence had a menacing quality, every eye on the Council. Kerela nodded.

  ‘Well, I suppose we had to expect this.’

  ‘This is hardly the time to talk to them,’ said Seldane.

  ‘There will be no right time,’ said Kerela. ‘Though I had hoped Kard’s talks would have a longer-lasting effect.’

  ‘I suspect those that listened to them are praying rather than demonstrating,’ said Barras. ‘We were never going to convince everyone. ’

  ‘What do they hope to achieve?’ asked Endorr. The junior Council member scanned the crowd nervously.

  ‘Well, let’s go and ask them, shall we?’ Kerela led the way down the stairs inside the gatehouse. As they emerged into the courtyard, a whisper went around the crowd. Kerela strode across the space and waved Kard and his soldiers aside. She stood, Barras at her left shoulder and the remainder of the Council grouped behind them, and looked solemnly into the faces of the frightened angry city folk whose friends were dying in increasing numbers outside the relative sanctuary of the walls.

  Barras decided to let her have the first words though many naturally looked to the Chief Negotiator for comfort, or a solution, anything.

  ‘This is the hardest time of our lives,’ said Kerela, and the whisper of voices stilled instantly. ‘Our people . . . your people are dying in their hundreds, forced into the DemonShroud by a mob of murderers who seek the destruction of this College. But to remove the Shroud now would put the life of every Julatsan at risk.’

  ‘But if the Shroud goes, the killing will stop,’ said a voice from the crowd. Others joined in support.

  ‘Will it?’ asked Kerela. ‘Why do you think the Wesmen are killing the very young, the very old and women they deem beyond child-bearing age? They are a conquering army. Those of no immediate use are merely extra mouths to feed and extra enemies to watch over. Maybe they could sell the children as slaves across the Southern Oceans but the rest? Just an expense. And right now, they cannot afford any extra expense. I’m looking around you now and one in three of you will die if the Shroud is removed before we are ready to act. Anyone who doesn’t believe how selective the killings are, is welcome to view from the North Gate at dusk.’

  ‘We can’t just sit here and watch the bodies pile up,’ said the spokesman, a youngish brown-haired man named Lorron. ‘You understand that.’

  ‘I do. And I am mystified that you know nothing of our plans in development. Here you stand with a member of the city Guard, to whom General Kard will be giving further instruction later, and yet he has clearly told you very little or nothing.’ Kerela stared at the soldier whose defiant expression began to wilt under the pressure of the old elf’s gaze. ‘I do hope you haven’t just been stirring up trouble,’ she said gently.

  ‘I’ll tell you our problem,’ said the soldier. Barras could feel Kard tense and could only imagine the look on his face. ‘It looks like you’ll do anything to keep your College secure. Even if that means every prisoner out there dies.’

  ‘Yes, but I see you managed to find sanctuary in here. Is our accommodation no longer to your satisfaction?’ The tips of Kerela’s ears were reddening. Barras knew there was an explosion to come. It was just a matter of when. ‘Tell me,’ said the High Mage, her voice awfully calm. ‘What would you have us do?’

  ‘Fight!’ said the soldier, and a brief murmur rose around him. ‘Gods in the ground, what else?’

  Kerela nodded. ‘I see. And presumably, you think we’ll triumph despite the odds stacked against us, do you?’

  ‘We can try. We have magic,’ said Lorron.

  ‘And it will be used when the time is right!’ thundered Kerela, the sudden power and volume of her voice jolting the entire crowd. Barras fought back an unwanted smile. Kerela continued.

  ‘Do you think I want to stand and watch while innocent Julatsans die? Do you really? But I’m afraid I have to. Because more than half of my mages are unable to cast through injury or mental damage caused ensuring that you stand here alive and well today. And General Kard has drawn up plans for an attack but the beds are still full of wounded men. Would you have me leave them to die? Are they somehow less important than those outside?

  ‘Dordover has sent soldiers, and probably mages, to our defence. Shall we not bother to wait for them? And shall we rehearse our plans in the courtyard here under the eyes of that damned tower, giving away our intentions as we do so?’ She pointed to the Wesmen’s tower which, manned day and night, was even now being pushed to a new position, presumably to observe better the current dispute.

  ‘The slaughter outside the North Gate sickens my very soul but worse is the thought that any of you believe I am complacent in my duties.’ Her voice lowered again. ‘We are few against many and our attack has to be on our terms and its timing exactly right or we will be slaughtered. I understand your impatience but, my way, we will save more lives overall. Should that not be our aim?’

  ‘And what about the College?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘It is the hand that feeds us and the power that drives us. We will defend its integrity with everything we have. I will not lie to you. Any attack we mount in an attempt to break the siege must not leave the College at the mercy of the Wesmen.’ Kerela stopped, awaiting a response. ‘No Julatsan will die in vain. No life will be wasted while I am High Mage. Does anyone wish to say anything else at this stage?’ People in the crowd looked at each other. Heads dropped.

  ‘Good,’ said the High Mage. ‘Just o
ne more thing before you go. I am High Mage and this College is under my direct control, along with the Council and, because we are in a siege situation, General Kard. Anyone who thinks that this is not an acceptable situation can try walking the Shroud with my blessing. Do I make myself clear?’ Some nodded, some didn’t. Most found their shoes very suddenly the most interesting part of the College. Kerela nodded, gathered the Council and walked away towards the Tower.

  Behind them, Kard’s voice rang clear. ‘Break it up. Get about your duties. Not you. Come here, soldier. Come here!’

  Thraun stood at the stern of the single-masted sail-boat, growling at the Wesmen grouped on the shore. He was in the way of the tiller and Denser, under the watchful eye of The Unknown, had to reach around his rear to control their direction. There was no pursuit. The flames of the devastated camp lit up the sky, casting dancing shadows on the water that played in the ripples caused by the wind. Cloud had rolled up to all but extinguish the moon’s watery luminescence.

  Hirad sat back and pulled off his boots, emptying water over the side. He was tired. Six days of hard riding and walking followed by a fight they hadn’t planned. He sat the other side of Thraun and looked along the boat. The sail was full but not tight, driving them across the inlet. The Unknown Warrior was sitting opposite the boom wringing out his socks. On the covered prow in front of the mast sat Erienne and Will, out of the way of the tackle, while Ilkar, his hands gripping the gunwale, was right next to Hirad, his gaze fiercely inboard.

  They had escaped but it hadn’t been comfortable. Fortunately the back-up plan had worked well. Even so, Hirad wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘What happened, Ilkar?’

  ‘Clumsy Wesman,’ said Ilkar, raising a smile. ‘I think he was trying to wrestle Denser’s dagger from his throat but he knocked their alarm bell off instead.’

  ‘We had to attack before we reached the platform,’ said Denser, supplying the answer Hirad wanted. ‘Ilkar couldn’t come back because he’d have lost his Cloak for a beat and stepped on me, so, with the guard blocking the entrance, we had no other choice.’