The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘It takes a certain sort to organise a library, don’t you find?’ Denser had said soon after they arrived.

  ‘They could be brothers of those in Dordover,’ Erienne had agreed.

  ‘One magic, one mage,’ Denser had said, covering her hand with his. Erienne had smiled and placed a hand low down on her stomach, imagining her child moving within her though in truth she could feel nothing.

  ‘I hope so,’ she had said.

  The archivists’ frosty attitude had warmed over the following hours as it became obvious that The Raven’s mages had no intention of pillaging Julatsan secrets. Curt responses, thumped-down books and half-thrown scrolls had given way to slight smiles, words of help and encouragement and, eventually, to direct research assistance.

  The archive student sat at the desk with them, poring over a referential text of Julatsan lore, every now and then lifting a nervous head as the sounds of fighting reached his young ears.

  ‘We’re in no immediate danger,’ said Denser.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked the student, Therus, his freckled face displaying his awe of the Dawnthief mage next to him.

  ‘Because Hirad Coldheart hasn’t appeared to order us up to the walls,’ replied Denser. ‘Keep calm. Your soldiers have great hearts. They won’t crumble.’

  Mollified, Therus went back to his reading. Erienne smiled and Denser leaned back and stretched his aching neck, taking in the vast shelves of magical text, theoretical research, casting analysis and lore - the latter incomprehensible to him and passed to Ilkar if any potential use was indicated.

  They were seated at a desk near the door to the Library, facing an aisle flanked by five-tiered shelves that, studded by more desks, ran away fully two hundred feet. Five more such aisles made up the lower level and further shelves ranged around the walls, their highest texts accessible only by ladder. Two galleries held yet more of the accumulated wisdom of Julatsa and her allies, their ornate polished balustrades reflecting the gentle illumination cast by static Light-Globes. Below he knew, but hadn’t seen, older and more delicate texts were stored in carefully controlled atmospheres where the light seldom shone.

  Julatsa’s Library, like that of Xetesk, was heavy with age and history, its dry paper-dust mustiness a delight to the bookworm’s nose. But, curiously for a building containing so much latent knowledge and power, the Library bore no mana weight. No yoke-like mass hung on the neck and, as Denser kneaded the taut back of his own with one hand and Erienne’s with the other, he was very glad of the fact.

  ‘Where are we at?’ he asked of anyone who cared to answer.

  ‘Nowhere particularly useful,’ replied Erienne, nodding her thanks as further ribboned parchments were edged onto the desk at her right hand. ‘We have established a possible link between Septern’s contained rip-building and the DimensionConnect used at Understone but nothing so far on the lore to combine the two into a closing pattern.

  ‘Therus vaguely remembers a note in the margin of a Julatsan text pertaining to mana flow and dimensional disruption caused by rip construction but can’t find it and you have discovered a way to maintain your pipe bowl at a temperature that burns the weed more effectively.’

  ‘And very important it is too,’ said Denser, a glint in his eye. Erienne thinned her lips.

  ‘It’s a disgusting habit.’

  ‘It’s my only vice.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  Therus cleared his throat. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I’ve found something.’

  ‘Good?’ asked Denser.

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear it.’

  The dreams chased themselves across Thraun’s mind with a clarity he would be unable to forget on waking. All the thoughts, feelings, scents and urges of his lupine half played out in his human mind and, for the first time, he would remember everything.

  His consciousness fought to surface through the morass of his exhaustion and grief. A pit was open in his heart, and the protestations of his strained muscles, and bruised and stretched sinews and tendons merely added symphony to his sorrow.

  He lifted his lids on a reality he had previously seen only through other eyes. The white, he remembered. It was the colour of the walls, the sheets and the bandages. The people too, some lying still, others moving amongst them. Here there was comfort but it was mixed with death.

  Thraun mumbled the first of a thousand apologies to the friend he had failed and whose eyes, closed forever, no longer saw the world. The sound he made moved from whisper to growl and almost immediately he felt a hand on his brow, then the cool touch of a damp cloth. He focused, looking up to the face of an elderly woman whose lined skin surrounded eyes of stunning clear blue. She smiled down at him.

  ‘You do not have to fear retribution for what you are here,’ she said, her voice quiet. ‘Here you can rest secure.’

  That they should be aware of his other form had not impinged on Thraun but he was calmed by the reassurance nonetheless. He didn’t have the energy to frame the words of thanks but the woman seemed to understand.

  ‘Do not hide your grief,’ she said. ‘It is human to cry. Your friends paid him great respect and he is at peace. Rest now. There is water by your bed. I am Salthea. Call me when you need me. Rest now.’

  Thraun nodded and turned his face away, unwilling to let her see the first of his tears.

  While waiting for Ilkar to arrive, Denser read and reread the entry Therus had found, Erienne doing the same. Its meaning was clear enough. There were other writings; important ones, detailing the living construct of interdimensional rips, how they sustained themselves against the buffeting of the void they travelled; how they affected the space around them, the implications of linking two dimensions and the implications of dissolving that link. To devise some kind of answer quickly enough to the problem staining the sky over Parve, they were writings The Raven needed.

  Septern, said the entry in a report made to the Julatsan Council over three hundred and fifty years before, had delivered a series of lectures to a high-level symposium at Triverne Lake covering a good deal of his theoretical understanding of dimensional magic. His lecture papers he had bequeathed to the sponsoring college. It was a typically Septern-like act - he had never felt allegiance to any college despite his Dordovan birth.

  It was just a pity the sponsoring college on that occasion had been Xetesk.

  ‘Would you believe it?’ said Erienne.

  ‘Given Styliann’s desire to get to Xetesk alone and unaided, yes I’m afraid I would,’ said Denser.

  ‘You think he knows about these texts?’

  ‘Without a shadow of a doubt. He and Dystran both.’

  The door to the Library opened and Ilkar strode in, hands massaging his neck to relieve tension. Denser briefed him.

  ‘Next move?’ asked the Julatsan, shaking his head. ‘What’s your reading of Styliann on this one?’

  ‘He knows what we have to do and he’ll be aware of the importance of these writings. The fact that he didn’t tell us about them back in Parve tells me one thing. He wants to come to the dragon dimension with us.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Ilkar.

  ‘Well, it’s possible that he doesn’t trust us to find the solution alone but, given our respective talents, I rather doubt that. No, I think he’s curious, which doesn’t worry me, and I think he wants to eye up potential gain for himself and Xetesk, which does.’

  ‘Gain?’ Erienne was dismissive.

  ‘All I’m saying is, if he can do a deal with the dragons, or get some guarantees that aid Xetesk, whatever, he will.’

  ‘But he can’t get there without us, can he?’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Erienne.

  ‘Because we hold both the keys to Septern’s workshop,’ said Ilkar. ‘So he still needs us to help him get to the dragon dimension. And frankly, I’m confident the Kaan won’t just roll over to his demands. I’m not sure he quite understands how powerful they are.’

  �
��Such is the arrogance of the Lord of the Mount,’ said Erienne. Denser shot her a sharp glance but said nothing.

  ‘So we’ll take him with us?’ he said.

  Ilkar shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t see we have much choice. And I’m sure Hirad and The Unknown will see it that way. We have to close the rip first and worry about Styliann’s motives later.’

  Denser nodded. ‘In that case, and returning to your original question, our next move, or rather my next move, is to commune with Styliann. Since we appear to need each other, we’d better at least know each other’s position.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ilkar. ‘And then we’d better wake the others and put our heads together and think of a way to get out of here.’

  ‘How’s the battle going?’ asked Erienne. All three of them became aware again of the noises outside.

  ‘Exactly as you might expect. The Wesmen are making thrusts towards the walls but are being knocked back by arrows and spells. Their catapult rounds are being held off the walls by our shields and they aren’t really trying to get them over and into the College proper. They know what they’re doing and so do we but there’s nothing we can do about it. They’ll wear the mages down and they know it. And then they’ll mount a serious offensive and eventually take us.’ Ilkar’s face was impassive but Denser knew the turmoil he’d be feeling inside. Not only was he witnessing the probable sacking of his College, he also knew he’d be forced to leave before it fell.

  ‘And the Dordovans?’ asked Denser.

  ‘Well, clearly they represent our only real chance. Estimates are they’ll reach us sometime tomorrow morning but it’s critical they attack in the right place. That may also present us with our best opportunity of getting away from here unscathed.’ Ilkar paused and scratched his head. ‘Anyway, I’m going back to the Heart. Erienne, any news on Thraun?’

  ‘He’s woken once but is sleeping again. Physically, he’s just tired. Emotionally, who knows?’

  ‘Keep me posted, will you?’ He turned to go. ‘See you a little later.’

  Denser watched the door close behind him. ‘I’m going to rest, love. I’ll commune after dark.’ He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Don’t forget to replenish yourself. We need you.’

  Erienne reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine on a night’s sleep. But you be careful. Communion with Styliann is dangerous.’

  Barras stood with the Council on the north walls of the College as he had done for much of the day, safe under a static HardShield and on ramparts secured by binding spells against the threat of catapult and battering ram. Even though the Wesmen hadn’t laid one hand on the walls, he watched the progress of the battle with an increasing sense of hopelessness.

  The day had started with an outrage, the Wesmen dousing the Julatsan dead with oil flung from heavy crossbow and light catapult and setting the corpses on fire with flaming arrows.

  With pallid skin and clothing tinder-dry, the bodies caught and burned quickly, removing from their loved ones the chance to honour and dignify them in death. And even as the choking, vile grey-black smoke boiled up the walls, sending ash and soot to cloud the early morning sky all around the College, the Wesmen had mounted their first attack under cover of the dreadful fog they’d created.

  Though a predictable move, it was nonetheless the most difficult of the day to repel. From a breathable distance away from the choking, blinding smoke, mages blanketed the area outside the walls with FlameOrb, HotRain, and DeathHail. Forced to Spell-Shield the walls themselves against the inevitable inaccuracy and flashback, it was an expensive and wasteful barrage, called to a halt only when cloth-masked soldiers signalled Wesmen retreat.

  And thus, as the smoke cleared, was the tone set for the day. Sporadic but sustained attack on any of two dozen points around the walls. Never enough to mount a serious threat to the integrity of the walls but enough to force continued spell deployment. Senedai knew what he was doing and he kept his own casualties at a minimum while he did it.

  Had Barras heard Ilkar’s swift assessment of the siege, he would have agreed with every succinct point. The Wesmen had time, or thought they did, and the Julatsans would tire eventually just like they had on the city borders. And one break was all the Wesmen really needed.

  Barras rubbed at his eyes. Unusually for Wesmen, he was certain they would attack all night, probably with greater ferocity, forcing more mages and soldiers to remain on the walls while keeping those stood down from true rest. And all who stood guard faced the morale-sapping enormity of it all.

  In the relative calm of the courtyard’s edges and even ascending the steps to the ramparts, it was possible to detach oneself from the reality of the siege. But first view changed all that. Because, standing out of spell range in the rubble of the buildings they had demolished to make their muster areas, stood the Wesmen. Thousands upon thousands of them. Waiting. Sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring their songs of victory and hate or just chanting and taunting, voices echoing harshly off the college walls.

  They were a rippling sea, waiting for the storm to whip them into a tidal wave. They were locusts, poised to strip the ripe fields.

  And yet they still feared the magic. It made them cautious, just as before. It was Barras’ only solace. Had they not been so, surely the first attack would have proved enough. But Senedai had not committed enough of his armies.

  As a result, the Julatsans, though temporarily relieved, had to beat off jab after jab, forever weakening ever so slightly while they were forced to watch the rape and destruction of their city. Fires burned in dozens of places. The sound of falling rubble and collapsing timbers filled the air when the Wesmen’s voices did not, adding to the dead weight on the shoulders of every man, woman and child who heard or saw.

  There was no way out but still Barras kindled the faintest hope. The Raven were inside the College, however temporarily, while outside—

  ‘When will the Dordovans arrive?’ he asked of Seldane who had recently returned from Communion.

  ‘Their progress is slow,’ she said. ‘There are Wesmen scouting and raiding parties all over the place, now they think the fight is nearly done. They’ve been forced into the woods three hours away. If they can make up the ground overnight, they’ll attack just after dawn. If not, well your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘I must remember to wake early,’ said Kerela.

  ‘What’s your latest assessment of our magical strength?’ asked General Kard. He had stood with the Council between tours of the walls with one or other of them throughout the day. Kerela nodded for Vilif to speak.

  The ancient, stooped and hairless secretary to the Council raised his eyebrows. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘Not good at all. HotRain and FlameOrb, while effective, are draining over these distances and repetitions. Assuming a similar intensity of attack throughout the night, I should think we’d be largely exhausted by mid-afternoon tomorrow. And then, my dear friend, we will all be in your very capable hands.’

  Night had fallen on Julatsa but, as expected, many of the Wesmen had not stood down. Still, the catapult rounds thudded against shielded walls or dropped sporadically beyond, causing occasional damage to buildings and those foolish enough to loiter in the open.

  Denser, tired and yawning, sat by Erienne in the bare Tower chamber. Erienne had just completed Communion with Pheone who had joined the Dordovan force. Conversely, feeling fresh and eager, Hirad and The Unknown demolished plates of meat and vegetables and were planning to spar for an hour or two before resting with The Raven until near dawn. Thraun still slept.

  ‘We could go on searching for days,’ said Ilkar. ‘But I don’t think we’d turn up much more here. We’ve found some vital detail but the prize is in Xetesk and there’s no point pretending otherwise.’ He felt angry that Styliann had stolen a march on them but somehow was not surprised.

  ‘To be honest, it may be a blessing,’ said The Unknown. He took a long swallow of ale and wiped his hand across his mo
uth. ‘We’ve all identified that the diversion the Dordovans will cause is our best chance of getting out. Not only that, if they don’t manage to break the siege, this College will eventually fall and, sorry Ilkar, but what we’re doing can’t be interrupted to help save it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ilkar. ‘We all know. We are prepared.’ There was a brief silence.

  ‘We have to brief Kard and the Council,’ said The Unknown. ‘We need horses, supplies, someone to open the North Gate at the right moment and, if we can get it, back-up to punch through the line.’

  ‘We’ll get it,’ said Ilkar. ‘Kerela is no fool. She can see the bigger picture. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Denser. Styliann?’ invited The Unknown. Denser dragged himself from his slouch and rested his arms on the table.

  ‘It was not an easy Communion,’ he said. A chuckle ran around the table despite the mood. ‘Styliann is clearly determined to come with us though he hasn’t said as much. He knows we have to have the texts he’s found and says he’ll meet us at Septern Manse to discuss them. We all know what that means.’

  ‘When is he travelling?’ asked Hirad, only vaguely annoyed at Styliann’s apparent plan. He’d gone way past being surprised at anything he saw or heard. Dawnthief and dragons did that to a man.

  ‘Tomorrow, same as us. He may even beat us there.’

  ‘Protectors?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘How many?’ Hirad scowled.

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ said The Unknown, finality in his tone. ‘Erienne, tell us about the Dordovan situation.’

  ‘There’s not much that’s new to tell you,’ she said. ‘The Dordovans are marching slowly towards the North Gate and have been joined by a few of the disparate groups of Julatsans hiding out in the wilds. I took the liberty of telling Pheone of our need to break out and she will pass that information on to the Dordovan commander. However, their first duty is the liberation of Julatsa. That’s it, really.’