The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Hirad felt the mage judder and heard him gasp. His legs weakened but the barbarian kept him upright. Sha-Kaan dropped the twitching corpse and turned his eyes their way, the piercing blue shining cold in the darkness.

  ‘Hirad Coldheart, I leave you to complete the message.’ The Great Kaan took flight and led his Brood out to the hunt.

  Hirad stood holding the mage, letting the terrified elf take in the slaughter around him. He could feel the man quivering. The smell of urine entered his nostrils and Hirad pushed him away.

  ‘You’re living because I chose you to live,’ he said, staring into the elf’s sheet-white face. ‘And you know the word you are to put around. No one who comes here after the Kaan will succeed in anything but their own quick death. Dragons are not sport and they are more powerful than you can possibly imagine. You understand that, don’t you?’

  The mage nodded. ‘Why me?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ demanded Hirad.

  ‘Y-Yeren,’ he stammered.

  ‘Julatsan aren’t you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘That’s why you. Ilkar is short of mages. You’re going to the College and you’ll put out the word from there. Then you’ll stay there and help him in any way he sees fit. If I hear that you have not, nowhere will be safe for you. Not the pits of hell, not the void. Nowhere. I will find you and I’ll be bringing friends.’ Hirad jerked a thumb up into the mountains.

  ‘Now get out of my sight. And don’t stop running until Ilkar says you can. Got it?’

  A third nod. Hirad turned and strode away, the sound of running feet bringing a grim smile to his lips.

  Chapter 2

  The last few days had been the most tranquil and relaxing period of Erienne’s remarkable life. They had been the days aboard ship when she knew that she had escaped the fetters of the Colleges at long last. Not just Dordover, all of them. And in the calm, late summer waters of the Southern Ocean, with the temperature rising to a beautiful dry warmth, she and Lyanna had finally been able to rest and let go the cares of what had gone by and think on what was to come.

  Looking back, the voices in her head had become so regular they had seemed a part of her. Urging her to leave and be with them. She recalled the night her decision had been made. Another night in Dordover, another nightmare for Lyanna. One too many as it turned out.

  Dordover. Where the Elder Council of the College of Magic had taken her in after she had left Xetesk. Where they had treated her with a mixture of awe and disdain over her chequered recent past. And where her daughter’s extraordinary gifts had been nurtured and researched by mages whose nervousness outweighed their excitement.

  In the year the Dordovans had tried to help, they had produced nothing Erienne had not already known or that she and Denser hadn’t guessed. The fact was that Lyanna was beyond their introverted comprehension. They could no more develop her talents safely than they could teach a rat to fly.

  One magic, one mage.

  The Dordovan elders hated that mantra and hated the fact that Erienne believed in it so fervently. It went against the core beliefs that drove Dordovan independence. And yet, at first, they had taken on Lyanna’s training with great dedication. Maybe now they were aware of the scope of her abilities, it was affecting their desire or, more likely, they felt threatened by it.

  But the whole time someone had understood. Someone powerful. And their voices had spoken in her head and, she knew it, in Lyanna’s. Supporting her, feeding her belief, keeping her sane and calming her temper. Urging her to accept what they offered - the knowledge and power to help.

  And then had come that particular night. She had realised then that, not only could the Dordovans no longer help Lyanna, their fumbling attempts were putting her at risk. They couldn’t free her from the nightmares and she was no longer being allowed the space to develop; her frustration at being kept back would inevitably lead to disaster. She was so young, she wouldn’t understand what she was unleashing. Even now her temper wasn’t long in the fraying; and in that she was very much her mother’s daughter. So far, she hadn’t channelled her anger into magic but that time would come unless she learned the boundaries of what she possessed.

  The nightmare had set Lyanna screaming, her shrill cries scaring Erienne more than ever before. She had cradled the trembling, sweat-soaked child while she calmed, and knew things had to change. She remembered their conversation as if it had just occurred.

  ‘It’s all right. Mummy’s here. Nothing can harm you.’ Erienne had wiped Lyanna’s face with the kerchief from her sleeve, fighting to calm her thrashing heart.

  ‘I know, Mummy.’ The little girl had clung to her. ‘The darkness monsters came but the old women chased them away.’

  Erienne had ceased her rocking.

  ‘The who, Lyanna?’

  ‘The old women. They will always save me.’ She had snuggled closer. ‘If I’m near them.’

  Erienne smiled, her mind made up for her.

  ‘Go back to sleep, sweet,’ she had said, resting her back on her pillow and smoothing her hair down. ‘Mummy has some things to do in the study. Then perhaps we can go on a little trip away.’

  ‘Night, Mummy.’

  ‘Good night, darling.’ Erienne had turned to go and had heard Lyanna whisper something as she reached the door. She’d turned back but Lyanna wasn’t speaking to her. Eyes closed, her daughter was drifting back towards what, Gods willing, would be a calmer sleep, free of nightmares. She had whispered again and, that time, Erienne caught the half-sung words and heard the little giggle as if she were being tickled.

  ‘We’re co-ming. We’re co-ming.’

  Their night-time flight from Dordover soon after still made Erienne shudder, and her memories were of anxiety, fear and the perpetual proximity to failure; though it was now clear that they had never really been in great danger of capture. Eight days in a carriage driven by a silent elven driver preceded their uncomfortable three days in Thornewood. At the time she’d thought that ill-conceived but it had become obvious since that the Guild elves had left very little to chance. There followed a final urgent carriage ride south and east towards Arlen before they had taken ship and her cares had eased effortlessly away.

  The ship, Ocean Elm, was a tri-masted cutter, just short of one hundred feet from bowsprit to rudder. Sleek and narrow, she was built for speed, her cabin space below decks cramped but comfortable enough. Kept spotlessly clean by a crew of thirty elves, Ocean Elm was an attractive ship and felt sturdy underfoot, her dark-brown stained timbers preserved against the salt water and her masts strong but supple.

  Erienne, whose experience of ocean sailing was very limited, felt immediately comfortable, and their firm but kind treatment by the busy crew helped the air of security. In their off-duty moments, they delighted in Lyanna’s company, the little girl wide-eyed in wonder at their antics on deck, juggling oranges, tumbling, singing and dancing. For her part, Erienne was glad for a while to be somewhere other than the centre of attention.

  And so they had rested, drinking in the fresh air, the complex smells of ship and sea, and seeing their guides at last smile as Balaia was left behind them. Ren’erei, their erstwhile driver, had found her voice and introduced her brother, Tryuun. Tryuun had done little more than bow his similarly cropped black hair and flash his deep brown eyes, the left of which, Erienne noted, had a fixed pupil and was heavily bloodshot. The socket around it too, was scarred and she was determined to ask Ren’erei about it before they reached their destination.

  Her opportunity came late one night, four days into the voyage. Supper was over and the cook pots had been stowed, though the ship’s carefully netted fires still glimmered. Above them, the sails were full, the wind chasing up cloud to cover the stars. Lyanna was asleep in her bunk and Erienne was leaning on a railing, watching the water speed by beneath them, imagining what might be swimming just below its surface. She heard someone walk to stand near her and looked along to see Ren’erei mimicking her stance. />
  ‘Mesmeric, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful,’ agreed the young elf. She was tanned deeply from a life around the Southern Continent, Calaius, her jet black hair cropped close to her head and into the nape of her neck. She was young, with angled green eyes, leaf-shaped ears sweeping up the sides of her head, and proud, high-boned cheeks. She was standing a few feet away and in the dark her eyes sparkled as they caught the stars’ reflection off the water.

  ‘How long until we get there?’ asked Erienne.

  She shrugged. ‘If the winds stay fair, we should see the Ornouth Archipelago before sundown. Then it’s a couple of days to shore, no more.’

  ‘And where is “there”? Assuming you can tell me now, that is.’ Erienne had been persistent in her questioning during their carriage ride but had learned nothing of any consequence whatever.

  Ren’erei smiled. ‘Yes, I can tell you now,’ she said. ‘It is an island deep inside the archipelago, which we call Herendeneth, which means “endless home” in your language. I don’t know if it has a common name. There are over two thousand islands in the Ornouth, many not even on a map. To chart the whole area would be the job of more than one lifetime, which is to our benefit. Herendeneth isn’t much to look at from the sea, I’m afraid, all cliff and black rock where so many are all sand, lagoons and trees; but it serves our purpose.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ said Erienne drily.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful inland. But if you want to get there you have to know the way. The reefs show no mercy.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘You don’t, but you will.’ Ren’erei chuckled. ‘None can reach us that don’t know the channel.’

  ‘They can fly.’

  ‘It is just barren from the sky, though appearances are deceptive.’

  ‘Got it all sewn up, I see,’ said Erienne, her natural scepticism surfacing.

  ‘For three hundred years and more now, yes,’ returned Ren’erei. She paused and Erienne could feel the elf studying her face. ‘You miss him, don’t you?’

  Ren’erei’s words startled her but there it was. However subconsciously, she’d held out the hope that Denser would be able to follow them eventually but now . . . Gods falling, he wasn’t a sailor and with the island’s identity apparently disguised from the air as well . . . she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

  But the truth was, she felt isolated, away from everything she knew and she missed him despite the delight that was Lyanna. She missed his touch, the sound of his voice, the feel of his breath on her neck, the strength he brought to everything he did and the support he showed her so unflinchingly, despite their long separations. And though she knew her decision had been right, the unknowables gnawed at her confidence and spoke of unseen dangers for her daughter. Denser would shore her up. They would shore each other up, only he wasn’t here and she had to dig deep into her considerable reserves of strength to keep believing.

  Ren’erei helped. She was a friendly face. Respectful and understanding. Erienne made a note to keep her as close as she could for as long as she could. The Gods only knew what she would face on Herendeneth.

  ‘You know we would welcome him but there are others who have less sound motives for wanting to find us besides those who have already tried,’ she continued, sparing her the need to answer. ‘They hunt us day and night and have done so for more than ten years. They and their enemies would all see us fall.’

  Erienne frowned. It didn’t make sense. Surely the Dordovans were the only ones who pursued them still.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Witch Hunters,’ said Ren’erei. ‘Black Wings.’

  The strength went from Erienne’s legs and she sagged down, clutching at the rail. With astonishing swiftness, Ren’erei moved across the deck and caught her. Erienne couldn’t find the words to thank her. Her pulse was pounding in her throat, the blood roaring in her ears, her mind releasing the memories she’d buried so carefully years before.

  She saw it all again. Tasted the atmosphere of the Black Wings’ castle, the stench of fear in her twin boys’ room, the hideous torture of separation from the sons she loved and the sneer of Captain Travers, the leader of the Witch Hunters. Again and again she saw the blood from their slit throats spattered over the bed clothes, their faces and the walls. Her boys. Her beautiful boys. Slaughtered for a risk they didn’t pose, by men who were terrified of magic because they could not understand it. Again, she felt their loss, just like it was yesterday, just like every day.

  And the Black Wings hadn’t been destroyed despite everything she and The Raven had done. They hadn’t been destroyed and now they hunted that which was most pure. Lyanna.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she whispered. ‘Not again.’

  ‘I am a fool and I’m sorry,’ said Ren’erei, wiping a tear from Erienne’s face while she clutched the elf’s forearm. ‘It was wrong to tell you that. We know what you lost to them and we have grieved. But you have to know so that you can understand that you will be safe with us where you weren’t before, not even inside the walls of your College. Tryuun has suffered at their hands. You have seen his face. He escaped their torture but not without cost. But one day we will finish the Black Wings. Finish what The Raven began.’

  ‘But they are finished,’ mumbled Erienne, searching her eyes for the lie. ‘We destroyed their castle.’

  Ren’erei shook her head. ‘No. One escaped the castle and others have joined him to raise the banner again in the wake of the Wesmen withdrawal. Selik.’

  ‘Selik is dead,’ said Erienne. She pushed away from Ren’erei, moving to sit on a crate lashed to the deck, nausea sweeping her stomach. ‘I killed him myself.’ Ren’erei stood.

  ‘Tell that to Tryuun,’ she said solemnly. ‘Selik is disfigured, almost unrecognisable to look at, but his manner is all too easy to recall. The left-hand side of his face is cold and dead and his eye droops toward it, blind forever. His hair was scorched in the flame and he bears the scars of many burns, but his strength of arm remains. He is a dangerous adversary and he knows a great deal about us. More than any man living.’

  ‘So kill him.’ Erienne’s voice reflected the cold dread she felt inside though the night was warm. ‘He can’t be hard to spot.’

  ‘But we have to find him first. Tryuun escaped him ten weeks ago and we haven’t heard of him since. But we will and this time there will be more of us, I promise.’ She crouched in front of Erienne who looked into those ocean-deep green eyes. Her smile had returned. ‘He can’t follow us here. No one can. You are safe, Erienne. You and Lyanna. No one can harm you on Herendeneth.’

  She knew Ren’erei was right but the shock of her words kept Erienne from sleep that night. Irrational fears drifted across her tired mind, snapping her to heart-thumping wakefulness whenever she drifted close to its embrace.

  Denser was still in Balaia, heedless of the danger that lurked somewhere in its borders. Dear Ilkar too. Both had borne torture at the hands of Black Wings once. That some had survived and would repeat the horror sickened her. Perhaps Selik’s disappearance meant they had somehow infiltrated the crew on board. Perhaps when they reached Herendeneth, all that would greet them would be death. Black Wings were everywhere in her imagination and each one had a dagger with which to slit a helpless child’s throat . . .

  The Ornouth Archipelago appeared out of the haze of the setting sun the next day, a string of islands that looked almost as one so far as the eye could see in either direction. Through a thin bank of cloud, the sun cast red light across the archipelago, bathing land and sea in a warm radiance.

  Erienne and Lyanna stood at the prow of the Ocean Elm, drinking in the splendour as the islands became gradually more distinct, with what they thought at first sight to be mountains on one island, resolving themselves as belonging to entirely another.

  From tiny rock atolls, jutting from the sea like fists grabbing at the air, to great swathes of white sand, miles long, the Ornouth swept west to east, a tail
off the northern coast of Calaius, beautiful but treacherous. Riddled with hidden reefs, beneath even the calmest waters, the power lurked to rip the bottom from any ship and Erienne could feel tension begin to grow among the sailors as they neared the outlying islands.

  It was small wonder the archipelago hadn’t been mapped. The journey to the island closest to the southern mainland couldn’t be risked in anything smaller than an ocean-going vessel, and with shallow-draught boats the only way to be confident of charting the myriad central islands, it would truly be a labour of love. Unsurprisingly, much of what lay deep inside Ornouth was uncharted and, to a large extent, untouched.

  The Ocean Elm cut confidently across the sea towards the outer islands but as they approached close enough to make out individual trees bordering the beaches, and boulders on the shingle, the tension reached a new level.

  From the wheel deck, the first mate rattled out a series of orders that had elves scurrying to the sheets and up into the masts. Much of the sail was furled, leaving only the jib and forward mast topsail to drive the ship. And all those not engaged in rig work leant over the sides or swung plumb lines to measure the fast-varying depth. The skipper steered a course between two islands, keeping very close to the one where a shelf led to deep water just off shore.

  With the passengers ignored, the crew waited, tensed, reacting immediately to every quarter turn of the wheel, every order to trim or loose the sails, while a constant stream of calls echoed back from the prow as sailors scoured the water in front of them or measured the depth again and again.

  The ship crawled along the channel. Erienne noticed long poles stowed beneath the gunwales and it didn’t take much imagination to understand what they were for. She never wanted to see them wielded. Not a word was spoken that wasn’t directly relevant to the task at hand and the taut expression on the face of every sailor told its own story about their proximity to disaster, despite their obvious experience.