The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘What will we do?’

  ‘Give me a moment, son,’ said Avesh.

  The crowd was rippling again. No, not a ripple, a wave heading outwards away from the gates.

  ‘Gods falling,’ he breathed. He gripped Atyo and Ellin, turning them both to him. ‘They’re trying to clear the camp, the bastards. If we get separated, we’ll meet back at the crossing of the River Dord to the north. Can you both find that?’

  ‘Why would we be separated?’ asked Ellin.

  He didn’t have to answer her. The wave hit them instead. He grabbed them each by a hand.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’

  The press was thickening but Ellin hesitated.

  ‘Our things.’

  ‘Leave them. Come on.’

  Avesh could feel the surge through the ground now. A drumming like a thousand hoof beats. But this stampede was human. He swung them both around, stumbling against somebody who rushed past. He caught the briefest glimpse of an ashen face before it was lost in the throng.

  They began to run. There was only one direction. To try and cross the path of the crowd would be suicide. Avesh held them firm, taking care to move at the same pace as his boy, but when the youngster tripped anyway, Avesh scooped him into one arm and ran on, his wife right beside him.

  He could see nothing but flailing limbs, hair streaming and the backs of countless desperate people driven to run though they barely had the strength. It was a chase that would exhaust itself quickly, and already the weakest were falling, their legs powerless to keep them upright, their spirits unable to take them a single pace further. And those that fell were left. There was nothing anyone could do, not even family, as the packed horde fled on, dragging the crying survivors with it.

  Avesh ignored the ache in his wasted left arm muscles where he clutched Atyo and dared a look down at his wife. Ellin’s face was determined as she ploughed on, transmitting her fear through the painfully tight grip on his hand.

  Through the screams, the shouts and the thrumming of feet across the ground, Avesh could hear horses and the rhythmic heavy thud of men running in unison, closing fast. The crowd gathered sudden extra impetus. Worse, it split. Avesh pulled left, Ellin went right. Their hands slipped agonisingly apart. Avesh tried to change direction and reached out his hand. Their fingers brushed but that was all and he caught only a glimpse of her gaunt face and despairing hand as the crowd swept her away from him.

  Riders galloped through the gap, voices hoarse, shouting orders to move.

  ‘Ellin!’ Avesh yelled. ‘The Dord. Remember the Dord!’

  ‘Mummy!’ screamed Atyo, wriggling around, straining to see her.

  Avesh saw her just once more, bobbing like a bottle in a stormy sea, helpless, unable even to struggle as she vanished from sight.

  ‘Mummy!’

  ‘It’s all right, Atyo,’ said Avesh, head down and running again, breath heaving painfully into his lungs. ‘We’ll find her. We’ll see her soon.’

  Right in front of him, a man tripped and fell. Reacting fast, Avesh hurdled the sprawling figure. His left foot came down on slimy wet mud and slipped sideways. Hopelessly unbalanced, he pitched right, holding hard on to his son as he went down.

  The sound of horses was very close again. He rolled over, people scrambling past him cursing, shouts chasing them, that rhythmic thump of feet mingling with hoof beats reverberating through the ground.

  Avesh clambered to his feet, presenting his back to the streaming mob threatening to knock him back down again. His muddied and terrified son was screaming, out of control, clutching handfuls of his clothing.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ said Avesh. ‘We’ll—’

  He was standing in a space that suddenly contained too much horseflesh to dodge. He turned left and right, his vision filled with black and brown flanks, greaved legs and riding boots. He felt a heavy impact as a stallion reared near him, its rider yelling at him to move, but he could do nothing more than fall flat on his back.

  He lay still, hooves coming down close to his head and body on their way past, driving the wailing refugees further and further from Xetesk. The relative silence flooded him. He gasped a breath.

  ‘We’ll be safe now, boy, safe now,’ he said, stroking Atyo’s head. His hand came away wet. Blood. He froze.

  ‘Atyo?’ The boy was limp in his arms. ‘Atyo?’

  He scrabbled frantically into a sitting position and held the boy in his lap. Atyo’s head lolled to one side, blood matting his face. And, just below the hairline, his skull was stove in, caught by a horse’s hoof. He had never stood a chance.

  ‘No.’ The word was barely audible. ‘No.’

  Avesh rose to his feet, holding his dead child to his chest. After all they’d been through, huddling in the intense cold, saving scraps of food from the ground and going days without. The boy had survived it all, only to be murdered by those he’d begged for succour.

  The tears began rolling down his face, smearing the dirt as they came. Avesh fought back the nausea that swept through him, the blackening of his vision and the clouding of his mind.

  His boy. Dead.

  His vision cleared and he took in the litter of the camp, the scattering stragglers missed by the soldiers and the dozens, maybe hundreds, of prone forms lying where they’d fallen, clothes ruffling in the breeze. Some moved, most did not. And he saw the line of cavalry backed by the masked abominations that were the Protectors, their pace unremitting. Thump, thump, thump.

  He looked down. He was standing on a tattered blanket. He laid Atyo on it and wrapped it around the boy’s body. At least he wouldn’t get cold. With a last look at that face so casually ruined, he kissed Atyo’s forehead and closed the blanket. He stood.

  The blank walls of Xetesk faced him. They could not be allowed to escape justice but he would not toss his life away in a futile attempt at vengeance. That would mock Atyo’s death.

  His body shaking. Avesh turned and walked away towards the north and the crossing of the River Dord, there to find his wife so they could bury their son together.

  Then he’d be back. And he wouldn’t be alone.

  Chapter 12

  By the time they reached the canopy rope crossing of the huge sluggish brown force of the River Ix, Rebraal wasn’t sure who was supposed to be rescuing who.

  A night where they’d both slept long through sheer exhaustion had given way to two days where it seemed the rain was Gyal’s tears, sweeping across the forest and drenching it almost incessantly. Sometimes it abated to a fine mist, but more often it fell in torrents with angry thunder cracking above the canopy.

  Rebraal’s shoulder was agony, his multiple cuts and scratches from being dragged to the pile of bodies by the strangers and away again by Meru itched in unison. They’d done what they could - legumia root paste for the deep crossbow wound, poultices of rubiac fruits for his scratches and long drinks of menispere to ward off the effects of fever - but he knew he was getting sick. He should be resting, not running home, wading rivers and climbing high into the canopy to use the hidden walkways and ropes to pass the great rivers and waterfalls.

  His muscles were tortured, his back aflame with searing pain and his mind often muddied and confused. He’d mistaken bird and monkey calls more than once, had blundered into a swarm of ants and escaped a crocodile by a mere heartbeat.

  But for all his many woes, his greater concern was Mercuun. His was a sickness that defied understanding or remedy and attacked him apparently at random, leaving him gasping for breath one moment and driven with manic energy the next, though the latter was becoming increasingly infrequent. Meru had assumed it was something in his stomach and they’d searched and found a good supply of simarou bark with which they made strong infusions, but it did no recognisable good.

  Between his bouts of energy, he lost muscle strength and bulk, his balance was dangerously off true and, on the second morning, Rebraal had wakened to hear Mercuun coughing as if his organs were fighting their way
into his throat. His friend could not disguise the blood that flew from his mouth in a spray every time he convulsed.

  Later that afternoon, they’d rested long by the banks of the Ix, sheltered from Gyal’s tears and prayed to Orra, the God of the earth’s life blood, for an end to the illness that plagued Mercuun. Rebraal had looked at him where they sat close together under the great broad leaves of a young palm and seen death stalking across his face. He seemed to be collapsing from the inside out, and for all their herbal lore they could find no antidote.

  ‘You’re sure you haven’t been bitten?’ probed Rebraal, moving his back against the bole of the palm and feeling a new pain shoot through his legs and neck.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Mercuun, his voice a hoarse whisper, his throat raw from wracking coughs. Every time he breathed, he shuddered.

  ‘Have you checked yourself? If not a viper, a brush with a yellowback is all it would take.’

  ‘It’s not poison,’ said Mercuun.

  ‘Then what is it?’ Rebraal was at a loss.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mercuun shook his head and lifted his face to Rebraal. He was scared; his eyes betrayed him and tears of frustration and fear welled up before he could catch them. ‘Shorth is coming. I can feel it.’

  ‘You aren’t going to die, Meru.’ Rebraal reached out a hand, which his friend grabbed and held tight. ‘We’ll be in the village before nightfall. There is help for you there.’

  Mercuun dropped his head back to stare at the muddied ground. ‘There is nothing their healers know that we don’t.’

  ‘But they will also employ magic should they have to,’ said Rebraal, giving Mercuun’s hand a reassuring squeeze before climbing stiffly to his feet. ‘Come on. One more climb and it’s all down from then on.’

  But as he looked up into the canopy and their hundred-foot climb, his confidence wavered. He had seen Meru stumble over the merest root. And he himself could only rely on one arm. The other was as good as useless, the strength of his grip diminished by the wound in his shoulder.

  ‘It seems so high,’ said Mercuun, staring up and out over the river.

  High above the muddy flow, where the canopy leant in on both sides, the practised eye could see a trio of tensed ropes among the leaves and branches. Used by elves and monkeys alike, the crossing spanned the one-hundred-yard width of the River Ix. Upriver, a waterfall more than five hundred feet high plunged into a huge sheltered pool, its outflow slackened by long lazy twists in the deep river. Way downstream, where the Ix narrowed, rocks hastened the water through a cramped ravine before the river spilled back out into its natural slow state. And everywhere along its length, death lurked beneath the surface.

  ‘We can make it,’ assured Rebraal, leaving unspoken the fact that they would never swim the river. They were too weak and too much blood scent clung to them. They’d been lucky with panthers and jaguars. That luck would not hold out there in the water. ‘You go first. I’ll watch for you. I won’t let you fall.’

  Mercuun dragged himself to his feet, leaning against the palm to steady himself before following Rebraal down to the towering banyan around which the ropes were fastened on this side, lost beneath a tangle of vines and secured from rotting by resin, oils and the occasional spell. He breathed deep, clenched his fists, took a brief glance up and began to climb.

  ‘There’s something wrong here,’ said The Unknown. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  Hirad shrugged. They were sitting in an eatery on the docks with Darrick and Thraun. Ilkar said it was a typical elven establishment, characterised by long tables and benches, high ceilings, plenty of windows and exotic-tasting soups and meats. It was busy but there was clear space between them and the rest of the predominantly elven clientele.

  The Julatsan and Ren had agreed to meet them inside, while Erienne and Denser visited the city markets. Aeb, who had drawn the odd interested glance when they docked, was at the inn, speaking to his brothers, communing in the Soul Tank.

  ‘Elves don’t like us very much, you mean?’ said Hirad.

  ‘No, not that. And they’ve been perfectly civil so far, if a little reserved. No. There’s an atmosphere, like a growing fear of something. I can’t put my finger on it. You don’t feel anything?’

  ‘No.’ Hirad shovelled more soup-soaked bread into his mouth.

  The Unknown shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I bother. You’ve got a skull thicker than a dragon’s. Darrick, what about you?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ said the former Lysternan general, leaning forward. ‘There’s an air of vague disquiet round the docks but that’s just lack of trade, I’d say. Nothing really sinister in it.’

  Hirad looked at The Unknown, feeling a familiar sense of unease. Fifteen years he’d known the big man and he was hardly ever wrong. And since his, albeit brief, time as a Protector his instinct for trouble and danger had heightened still further. His expression told Hirad he was sure about this one.

  The barbarian switched his attention to Thraun. The shapechanger had been feeding himself as though he’d not eaten for days but was now staring at The Unknown, mouth half open and next spoonful forgotten. The Unknown indicated him.

  ‘Thraun knows what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘Don’t you, Thraun?’

  There might have been the merest suggestion of a nod, but aside from that no reaction.

  ‘So what is it?’ asked Darrick.

  ‘Just a hint at the moment,’ said The Unknown. ‘Like overripe fruit. Sickly sweet and on the way to rotting. Whatever it is, it’s below the skin of the city now but won’t be for long.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ said Hirad.

  A moment later, Ilkar walked in with Ren and confirmed everything.

  ‘There are sick people all over the place,’ he said, sitting down and waving at a servant boy to come over. ‘It’s weird. Everywhere we’ve been.’

  ‘Plague?’ The Unknown raised his eyebrows.

  ‘If it is, it’s a new one on me. We’ve spoken to mages who can find no cause, just effects. And the traditional healers are struggling with the numbers. Only started a couple of days ago, apparently.’

  ‘You were right then, Unknown,’ said Hirad.

  ‘Unfortunately.’ he said. ‘What’s your view, Ilkar?’

  The Julatsan shrugged. ‘Information’s patchy but there’s no obvious pattern or epicentre. Whatever, I think it’s a good job we’re leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ve found a boat, then?’ asked Darrick.

  ‘And a guide. It’s not easy to navigate. I’m glad I don’t have to rely on my memory. Watercourses change, local landscape alters . . . you know.’

  ‘Not really, Ilks, no,’ said Hirad. ‘But then you’ve been around a lot longer than the rest of us, haven’t you?’

  ‘You could say.’ Ilkar smiled. It was always a slightly sad smile, Hirad thought. The subject brought home to Ilkar his relative immortality.

  ‘How worried should we be?’ asked The Unknown.

  ‘People are scared,’ said Ren. ‘Not so much here - the dock doesn’t seem affected yet - but fear spreads. They’ll be looking for something to blame and it doesn’t take much to figure out where the finger’ll be pointed first.’

  ‘Better get yourselves elven ears quickly,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘I’d rather take the abuse,’ said Hirad.

  ‘No pun intended but can we return to the point?’ The Unknown rapped his fork on the table. ‘Tell me who’s getting this thing and what happens when they do.’

  ‘From what we’ve seen it’s indiscriminate. Young, old, male, female, rich and poor,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think it’s to do with living conditions. There are no outward signs - no sores or boils.’

  ‘No, nor any fever,’ added Ilkar. ‘From what we’ve been able to find out, it affects balance, brings on bouts of sickness and muscle weakness. One mage we found said she thought there was organ damage but it’s too early to say.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Darrick. ‘And how many ha
ve died?’

  ‘So far none, but it’s early days,’ said Ren. ‘Perhaps it’ll run its course and people will recover, but if there are deaths and no cure is forthcoming, it’ll just accelerate the panic we’ve already seen.’

  ‘And you’re hoping to get mages to leave here and travel to Balaia?’ said The Unknown. ‘You’ll be lucky if any ships are allowed to sail if this is a plague.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind. And no mage will leave here while there’s work they feel they can do.’

  ‘I’d have thought it a great reason to leave,’ said Hirad. ‘They might be saving themselves, after all.’

  Ilkar shook his head. ‘You don’t understand elven society, Hirad. It’s honour-based, not driven by profit and magic like Balaia.’

  ‘So you should stay too?’ said the barbarian.

  ‘That’s a tricky one,’ said Ilkar. ‘If this is serious I’ll have to think about it, but I don’t belong here. My home is Julatsa. I feel no ties like elves who have lived here all their lives or only visited Balaia to train. It wouldn’t be dishonourable to leave, but that won’t make it easy.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said The Unknown. ‘We have to find mages to help you raise the Heart of Julatsa or this disease, whatever it is, will seem a mere inconvenience by comparison.’

  Hirad could see they were attracting glances from further down their table and behind them.

  ‘I think we should keep our voices down,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We should do more than that,’ said The Unknown. ‘Let’s get back to the inn and stay in our rooms until first light tomorrow. I don’t like what I’m feeling. Anyone know when Denser and Erienne planned on getting back?’

  Ilkar shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t worry about them. They’re mages and any elf will know it. They won’t be harmed. Asked to help maybe but not harmed.’

  They stood up to go, Ilkar apologising to the serving boy who’d brought a plate of meat and cheese. He left coins for everything and led them outside.

  ‘Will we catch it, do you think?’ asked Hirad.