The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Blades flashed in the sunlight, crashing into the Wesmen’s stout defence. Axe and sword fell remorselessly as the Protectors forced the pace, their onslaught withering and awesome. The clatter of weapon on shield, the dull thud of blade on body, the sparking clash as metal found metal; all drifted over Styliann on a cloud of Wesmen blood. Three more times, at Cil’s request, he launched devastating FlameOrbs into groups of archers or individual bowmen. Three times, fire washed the sky. Three times, the acrid smoke rose to mingle with the dust and the blood.

  The Wesmen were brave and resolute and Styliann admired their spirit while pitying the futility of their action. And they didn’t simply queue up to die. From the rear of their lines, more than five hundred broke ranks to skirt the battlefield, aiming to flank the Protectors. Watched all the way by the scouts concealed left and right, they were met by a force of the Xeteskian warriors who peeled from the line to confront them before they could pose any threat to Styliann.

  Even that didn’t deter them. Ultimately, it was the Protectors’ defence that broke their morale.

  The battle had raged for well over an hour and the Protectors had maintained their steady, silent advance, walking through the bodies of the Wesmen, never looking down to find their feet, each pace sure and certain. Those behind the fighting line directed movement, leaving them free to focus on attack, while others stooped to pull fallen brethren from the carnage.

  It was a hopeless task for the Wesmen. Even when a Protector fell, their line was never in danger of being breached. Almost before the warrior had hit the ground, another was in his place, completing the defensive net.

  Each Protector attacked without a flicker of a glance to his flanks. And while his sword or axe drove at his latest opponent, his chosen second weapon blocked and parried both strikes to his own body and those of the brother next to him; all directed by the soul mind whose conscious strength lay in Xetesk and whose eyes looked from five hundred faces. They missed almost nothing, gave the Wesmen no consistent target, and any hope that flickered was snuffed out by the turn of a blade at the critical moment.

  Styliann saw the end. To the right of the battle line, the Wesmen mounted a desperate push. Spearmen jabbed between the sword and axemen, adding a new dimension to the fight. They roared their battle cries, summoned every ounce of spirit and hurled themselves forward.

  Instantly, and almost imperceptibly, the Protectors responded. The slightest closing of their ranks, the merest quickening of their strike rate, the smallest increase of the defensive response. Wesmen axe and sword found nothing but steel; spear thrusts were caught in the gauntleted hands of the second-line Protectors, their wielders dragged to their deaths. Bodies dropped, the wounded screamed, and blood ran over the feet of those still standing. In a matter of moments, the Wesmen effort to break the Protector line was reversed, the Xeteskians punched a hole in the enemy defence and their order broke and scattered.

  Across the battle front, they turned and ran, the orders of their captains ignored, the belief gone and their spirit broken. The Protectors made no move to give chase, merely standing and watching them go.

  Styliann laid a hand on Cil’s shoulder. The Protector turned smartly to him.

  ‘You may take the masks from the dead. But be quick with your rituals. We must be back in Xetesk before nightfall tomorrow. There is much to be done.’

  They’d found Thraun curled by the foot of Will’s bed. The infirmary staff hadn’t dared to move the big blond warrior, instead throwing a blanket over his nakedness to give him some warmth and dignity.

  And that was all they could do for him because flooding through the doors had been Julatsa’s wounded and dying. Every bed was occupied; dark red had joined the light colours of the infirmary, and the wails of pain and fear mixed with the clatter of buckets, the whispering of mages, the urgent shouts of the tenders and the running of feet in every direction.

  Will had lain in the bed, his face covered by a sheet, waiting for The Raven to take him and honour him, the area around him and Thraun a pool of sad quiet in the hubbub of the infirmary. There had been a Vigil but no burial. Victims of the siege were to be stored in the cellars beneath the Mana Bowl, where it was cool and dry and the air heavy with incense.

  Now, with Thraun lifted on to the empty bed and left to sleep, his eyes dark hollows, his mouth moving soundlessly, framing words of grief and anguish, tears squeezing from his eyelids, The Raven took time to sit and talk in a quiet chamber in the Tower. Outside, the Wesmen gathered their forces, brought up their towers and catapults and prepared to attack, while in the skies above the sun shone down, an inappropriate warmth and freshness drifting over Julatsa.

  Hirad took them all in, knowing their first action should be to sleep all day. They had had no rest since Sha-Kaan’s arrival, had fought almost constantly and Ilkar and Erienne, he was sure, were both spent as far as casting was concerned. Of Denser, he wasn’t so sure. The Xeteskian appeared relatively fresh and alert, his pipe, as ever, clamped between his teeth. But his eyes had that distant look that Hirad didn’t much care for. Like he was thinking greater thoughts than those in his company should be allowed to share. Still, it was an improvement on the sullen disinterest he’d shown since leaving Parve.

  ‘Will’s death triggered his change back, I presume,’ said Ilkar. Erienne nodded.

  ‘Had to be,’ said The Unknown. ‘But I think such speculation is not the best use of our very limited time.’

  ‘We need to try and understand or we won’t be able to help him,’ said Erienne.

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got significant problems, other than Thraun, that I am afraid some of us seem to have overlooked in the recent excitement,’ said The Unknown, his tone forbidding any interruption. Hirad almost smiled but quashed it. Denser and Erienne wouldn’t have seen him like this, not really. This was The Unknown he needed. The calm assessor and practical planner as well as the colossal warrior.

  ‘We came here to find Septern’s texts; let’s not forget that. But we don’t know how long the College can hold out against the Wesmen. The task is further complicated by the fact that part of the Library is now in the Heart below us. We have no idea how long the search will take and Barras cannot spare us many, if any, mages from the College defence.

  ‘We will have to play our part in securing the College from the Wesmen, not least to give ourselves time enough to search the Heart and Library.

  ‘We also have to tend to Thraun until he is fit enough to travel and, when we have what we came for, we have to get out of Julatsa whether the siege is over or not. The rip widens daily. It will not wait for us and we’ve already been delayed too long. If the measurements are correct, we have only seven days to close the rip and the only gateway we know of is three days’ ride away at least.’ He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

  ‘But look at us, Unknown,’ said Hirad. ‘We can’t fight or cast effectively right now. We’re all shattered. The first thing we need is rest.’

  ‘We’ve made something of a rod for our own backs, haven’t we?’ said Denser, applying flame to his pipe. ‘It was a heroic rescue but they’ll merely expect more of the same.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that incisive contribution,’ said Ilkar. ‘Any other words of wisdom you’d care to share with us?’

  ‘I just felt it needed saying,’ said Denser with a shrug.

  ‘It makes no difference what people expect,’ said Hirad. ‘The Raven do what The Raven have to do. And what we have to do now is rest. I don’t want to see any of us on the ramparts today unless there’s a breach, which is something I doubt.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll expect us to advise, or just be there to raise morale?’ said Denser.

  ‘We’ve told Kard all he needs to know,’ said The Unknown. ‘We have to look after ourselves for now. Ilkar, what’s your condition?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ said the Julatsan. ‘I can replenish quickly here in the College. We all can, though Denser and Erienne have to mo
dulate the flow they accept. It’s you, Hirad and Thraun who need the rest. I’m going to the Heart to start the search and I’ll sleep at night, Wesmen willing. If Erienne and Denser want to help, the Library will be open to them.’ Both mages nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘Another thing before we break,’ said Hirad. ‘The Raven do not fight apart. I don’t want to see any of us fighting or casting alone. I for one, will not stand on the ramparts without the rest of you. We are The Raven. Remember that.’

  ‘You’ll never let us forget it,’ muttered Denser.

  ‘Still alive, aren’t you, Denser?’ snapped Hirad. ‘Think on why that is.’

  Styliann had lost only twenty-three Protectors, an astonishing testament to the power and skill of the soul-linked army. He estimated that almost half of the Wesmen lay staring sightless at the sky and, before he left the battlefield, birds were circling over and walking among the dead, a fresh feast theirs for the taking. The rest of the routed army would report back to Tessaya and their terror would do more long-term damage than any blade.

  The gates of Xetesk were closed to the former Lord of the Mount when he arrived, not that he was surprised. Dystran had few defences left and, he suspected, even fewer friends. As he rode towards the gates, the blustery, cloudy day drawing quickly towards dusk, Styliann reinforced the natural shield around his mind. He smiled as he felt the tendrils of a spell push at his barrier. They, whoever they were, had no hope of sundering the shield but he would have been disappointed had they not tried. To remain Lord of the Mount required consummate skill at protecting the mind.

  Styliann dismounted and seated himself on a convenient grass-covered rise, around fifty yards from the gates and a stone’s throw from the main trail. There was a quickening of the pulse as he took in the dark-walled power of his beloved city.

  To either side of the grand East Gate tower, with its ornate arched windows, multiple oil runs and three levels of reinforced ramparts, the dun-coloured walls ran away for over a mile, lost to sight as the dark closed in. Studded along their length with functional mage and archer turrets built in dark grey stone, the walls turned west for around a mile and a half before meeting the great west wall which faced the Blackthorne Mountains.

  With deep foundations and internal buttressing, the walls, never less than fifty feet in height, sloped very slightly outward as they rose, overlooking an area of gently undulating grass and shrubland, cleared for over a hundred yards in every direction to provide defending mages with a clear field of vision.

  And inside, Styliann could see the lights beginning to shine in the Towers of Xetesk. The sight saddened him more than he cared to admit to himself, his unwanted exile pulling at his heart.

  With a hundred eyes staring at him from the walls and gate towers, Styliann considered the problems he faced in gaining entry to Xetesk. Guessing the next likely action depended very much on your point of view. The average Xeteskian guardsman looking out at their Lord of the Mount and the Protector army would be confused. The more enlightened would surmise political unrest on the Mount but none would know yet that there had been an attempted usurpation. Even Dystran was not fool enough to claim stewardship until he could parade Styliann’s corpse.

  Inside the Mount, those few remaining loyal to Styliann would be working on a way to see him safely into the College, knowing that he couldn’t fly in without weakening his mind shield - an almost certainly fatal act. Presumably, they would be negotiating with Dystran and his aides, demanding audience for Styliann in controlled conditions, probably a Cold Room.

  For his part, Dystran, because he was a dithering imbecile without the wit to govern, would be hoping in vain for some pre-emptive action from Styliann and his Protectors. Anything that would allow him to unleash magical offence with the blessing of the Xeteskian public. But even then he would have to exercise caution. Any aggression aimed at Styliann would trigger the Protectors and they could do significant damage to Xetesk and the College before they were stopped. All Styliann could do was wait. He wasn’t kept long.

  Perhaps an hour after his arrival, and with a cool moonlit night giving Styliann’s quiet camp an eerie hue, the gate tower filled with archers and mages and the gate itself edged slightly ajar. One man stepped out. The gate closed. The archers and mages remained on station. Styliann rose to his feet and walked away from the warmth of his fire to approach the lone man, Cil at his shoulder, the rest of the Protectors bearing mute witness from a short distance.

  ‘Well, well. Dystran. I am honoured.’ Neither man offered a hand though Styliann had to admit some small respect that the new Lord of the Mount had chosen to meet him personally.

  ‘What is it that you want, Styliann?’ demanded Dystran, attempting to appear disinterested though the flicker of his eyes betrayed his nervousness.

  ‘Oh, just a bed for the night. I am but a weary traveller,’ said Styliann, his tone caustic. ‘What in all the hells do you think I want?’

  Dystran flinched at Styliann’s sudden ire. ‘I cannot let you back in. The decision has been made. I am Lord of the Mount.’

  Styliann’s lips thinned. ‘But I came back, didn’t I? You knew that I would.’

  ‘Once I knew you were still alive and in the East, yes,’ admitted Dystran.

  ‘Yes,’ said Styliann. ‘Unfortunate for you, wasn’t it?’

  Dystran’s mouth tugged up at the corners. ‘A little.’

  Styliann studied his face carefully, letting the silence grow.

  ‘At the present time you preside over very little,’ said the former Lord of the Mount. ‘An unrestrained rip eats at the sky threatening cataclysmic invasion from another dimension and only I and The Raven have the wit to try and search for an answer. The Wesmen are battering at the gates of Julatsa. They hold Understone and the pass and tens of thousands are poised to sweep towards Korina at will. And what have you and your supporters done in my absence?

  ‘Rather than conduct research to my instruction or organise serious defence and send soldiers to the battle for Julatsa, you have chosen to further your own personal ends. And how sorry they will look when the dragons are taking the Towers apart, brick by brick.

  ‘If you were half a man you would see that our dispute has to be set aside until the threats to us all are gone. Right now, I need access to the Library. The destination of the Stewardship is currently unimportant.’

  ‘The Library? Then you wish to do in Xetesk what we have so far failed to do and what The Raven are trying to do in Julatsa?’

  Styliann tensed, his expression hardening. His eyes bored remorselessly into Dystran’s. ‘The Raven have reached Julatsa?’

  Dystran nodded. ‘Contrary to your low opinion of our efforts, we are back in contact with Julatsa following the dispersal of their DemonShroud. It coincided with the rather extraordinary arrival of The Raven who apparently then released several thousand prisoners from a city swarming with Wesmen before setting to work on searching the Julatsan Library.’

  Styliann laughed aloud, a reaction Dystran clearly wasn’t expecting.

  ‘Gods falling but they’re good,’ he said. ‘You have to hand it to them.’ The humour dropped from his eyes and face. ‘Tell me, how long have they been in Julatsa?’

  ‘Since before dawn this morning,’ replied Dystran.

  Styliann bit his lip. He would have to hurry or they’d pass through into the dragon dimension without him, something he could not allow. And then the mists cleared in his mind and the answer to his problems was there before him.

  ‘Let me make you a proposition,’ he said, seeing Dystran frown and make a reflexive move backwards. ‘I think it will be to your advantage.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Chapter 27

  On the walls of Julatsa, the battle raged. Spells swept across the cobbled apron around the College, detonations shook foundations. The ring of metal, the shouts of men and women, the dull thud of catapult, the wash of mana flow as spell barrages ebbed and
flowed; all of it filtered down into the Heart where Ilkar sat.

  With one ear constantly tuned to the fight outside, and ever ready to react should the quality and atmosphere of the sound change, he flicked through text after text, searching for note, reference and passage discussing Septern’s work.

  Nearby, in the Library, Denser and Erienne taxed the librarians and archivists Barras had spared them, hoping for a breakthrough that looked increasingly unlikely as the day progressed to a blustery late afternoon.

  And in a chamber as far from the sounds of death and momentary glory as the College confines would allow, Hirad and The Unknown slept. Not that they needed the quiet. Part of the career warrior’s art was the ability to sleep practically behind the front line. Hirad was particularly adept at snatching rest as the blood spattered his face, his innate sense of danger always waking him before his life was threatened. No, they didn’t need the quiet but Ilkar was anxious to see they rested deeply. There were hard times to come.

  Ilkar rubbed his eyes and stared gloomily at the mass of books, scrolls and bundled papers he had still to sift through, next to the relatively small pile he had completed. He had known it would be difficult. Complete texts by Septern were rare and that pile of five bound volumes already sat at his right elbow, having been among the first brought to the Heart by Barras when the Wesmen threat grew. But all three Raven mages knew that much of Septern’s wisdom, scribbled down on scraps of parchment, annotated on other texts or sketched on the backs of scrolls, was either lost, hidden or transcribed. All they had was reference, cross-reference and the incomplete knowledge of the archivists. Following another vague lead offered by the preceding parchment, he frowned, sighed and read on.

  In Julatsa’s Library, the hours crawled, though the work had a deadline neither could forget. Erienne and Denser’s arrival had, despite Barras’ assurances of good faith and assistance, been greeted with total suspicion by the archivists; three old men and a young student, who stared down their identically long noses and sniffed at every request.