The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Three of them, moving smoothly into the campsite. Tall, lean and with faces painted black, green and brown. Two carried short slim blades, the third had a hand in a pouch at his belt. Erys tried to contain his breathing and the urge to run. He heard movement and the black cat, the size of a war dog, stopped beside him. It sniffed the air, knowing something was amiss but seeing nothing with its keen eyes. It moved on, a low growl in its throat. And after it came another elf. White and black halved face, the stark contrast in the dark was terrifying, like the half-face was floating, ghostly. He too looked square at the delicately retreating Erys but didn’t stop.

  Poor Awin was surrounded. He straightened now and dropped his sword. He held up his hands.

  ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I surrender.’

  But they said nothing, just carried on advancing. Two came to his sides and grabbed an arm each. The third stepped up, pushed Awin’s chin up with one hand and drove his blade through the man’s neck with the other. The cat roared, the black and white elf exulted.

  It was all Erys could do to stop himself crying out. He put his hands behind him, feeling his way. They found the trunk of a tree. Erys carried on, edging himself around it. His foot came down on a twig which snapped with a report like thunder in his ears. Elves and animal looked towards him. Awin’s body dropped to the ground and he died ignored.

  Erys fought the urge to stop moving, to become even more silent. He saw them speaking to each other. They couldn’t see him. One of them came towards him, his eyes piercing green, catching the first shafts of sunlight. Erys kept on taking his gentle steps. He wanted to turn and run but was fearful of letting them out of his sight.

  The elf came on but he was shaking his head. He said something then turned and rejoined the others. Another brief conversation and the cat and the spectral elf ran off to the north. The three others bent immediately to their task, and as Erys watched and the forest slowly obscured his view, packs were torn apart and bodies were searched. Erys’s last memory was of the elves systematically shredding every item of kit and clothing.

  Wanting nothing more than to find a place to hide, Erys clung onto the CloakedWalk, turned and walked forward at last, hoping to find the river to follow all the way to the coast.

  Yron had done everything he could. Dragging Ben-Foran into the obscurity of the forest, he’d laid him down on a clear patch of ground and used his soaking leather jerkin as a pillow of sorts. He’d lit a fire using rubbed bamboo and fashioned a rough tripod from damp wood. They both still carried the mugs they’d run from the temple with; Yron had forbidden Ben to discard his, knowing they might prove vital. He’d filled both from the river and balanced them on the tripod.

  Taking off his shirt, he’d cut it into strips and put them in the water to boil. Finally, hoping no predators were attracted to Ben’s bloodied body, he made a quick hunt for legumia bark, rubiac fruit and vismia stems. He found none of the latter. He could have done with its antiseptic qualities and reminded himself to keep looking, assuming Ben survived.

  The youngster was conscious when he returned and incredibly was struggling to sit up.

  ‘Lie back, boy,’ said Yron. ‘Best you don’t look.’

  ‘It’s bloody agony,’ said Ben.

  ‘I know. I got the odd nip myself.’ It was an understatement. Though the piranha had concentrated their attack on Ben’s legs, the Captain had been the victim of more snaps than he could count. Most were little more than exploratory attacks but enough were full-blooded bites to cause him serious pain. He mustn’t forget to treat himself. Ben would not be served by his own death.

  Yron dropped the bark into the mugs and waited as it bubbled and spat.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Ben,’ he said. ‘You’ve broken nothing. It hurts like hell but I can numb the pain later. For now I have to clean it. That’ll sting but you’ll know it’s doing the job, right?’

  The commentary was as much for Yron as it was for his frightened lieutenant. Yron stared up at the sky, seeing the smoke trailing up into the canopy. The cloud had disappeared and strong light was shining down, bringing with it humidity and heat. He was aware they’d have to try and move soon. The smoke, while keeping away the flies, was a beacon for any watching TaiGethen and their silent ClawBound brethren.

  When he’d waited as long as he could, Yron took the mugs from the tripod and placed them by Ben. He cut the remnants of Ben’s trouser legs away, took a deep breath at what he saw and gave the stricken man a reassuring smile.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.

  ‘Liar,’ replied Ben. ‘Sir.’

  Yron hooked a piece of cloth from a mug with a stick, let it cool a little in the air, then dropped it into his hands where he balled it up.

  ‘Try not to cry out,’ he said gently. ‘I have to do this.’

  He began to clean the right leg, beginning at the foot. At the first touch of the infused cloth, Ben tensed and bit down on a scream. Yron pressed on; he really had no choice.

  He had no real idea how long he worked. Meticulous and tireless for hour after hour, he cleaned each wound separately, biting his lip as he looked at the torn flesh, the flaps of skin and the deep bite wounds. The right leg was torn to bits. Bone and muscle were exposed and he covered what he could with the makeshift bandages. Perhaps magic could save it but they were far from such help and Ben’s survival chances were already low.

  The left leg was better but his buttocks had both taken bites as had hips and lower stomach. Yron cleaned and bandaged, refilled the mugs again and again, kept the fire going and, latterly, made rubiac poultices for himself to try and combat any infection.

  Finally, he dressed Ben in the remains of his trousers, helped him back into his leather armour, having used his shirt for bandages too, and sat him up. Ben-Foran was shivering in the heat as the shock of the attack began to set in. It was after midday.

  ‘We can’t stay here, Ben,’ Yron said, keeping his face close to the boy’s, forcing him to focus. ‘We don’t have to go far but we do have to go. Now I want you to prepare yourself, all right? Think strength, and know I’ll be supporting you. We can still make it.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said Ben. His face was pale and sheened in sweat.

  Yron smiled as best he could. If the infection didn’t get him, the blood loss or the shock just might. He turned from Ben to the fire, noting how the blood was already soaking through the boy’s bandages, and put out the blaze, trying to minimise the smoke as he did so. Ordinarily he’d have hidden the site, the embers and the remnants of the tripod to put off any pursuit, but with the TaiGethen it was pointless. Even without the fire these elves would have enough signs to track them easily.

  Yron put his leather jerkin back on and stooped over Ben. ‘Come on, son. One arm around my shoulder, let’s get out of here.’

  Gasping in pain, Ben hauled himself up Yron’s body. He leant heavily against the captain, not daring to put his right foot on the ground.

  ‘You should leave me, sir,’ he said. ‘You could make it on your own.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ said Yron as they moved slowly off, Ben in a half hop, half drag, wincing at every movement. ‘My duty is to my men. You represent my men.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Decision’s made, Ben. Let me assure you, if I was carrying anything important I’d have left you. But I’m not. So shut up and save your energy for shambling.’

  Through his pain Ben-Foran chuckled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Chapter 26

  The east gates of Xetesk opened on a mild cloud-strewn morning. Three hundred cavalry and mages trotted from the portal, followed by fifteen hundred foot soldiers and dozens of wagons.

  At the front of the column, riding with the Xeteskian commander, Chandyr, was Rusau, senior mage and member of the Lysternan delegation. He looked with dismay on the litter of bodies and rags that covered what had once been the refugee camp, now brutally cleared. Carrion birds took to the sky as
the horses passed, clouds of flies buzzed angrily over the flesh left to rot and the air was tainted with decay.

  ‘Look at what you have wrought, Commander Chandyr,’ he said as they rode past. ‘They were human beings and you have driven them away like animals. You killed so many.’

  Chandyr looked across at him, no hint of remorse evident. He was a career soldier in his early forties and had seen a great deal of action in the last decade. His face was pockmarked and he sported livid scars on his chin and forehead. Clad in mail-covered leather, he was a ferocious sight and his views were simple.

  ‘First they were victims, now they are parasites. We have to look to our own problems, not take on other people’s. Dordover is a powerful adversary.’

  ‘But you could have chosen to help these people cut wood for new homes, plough fields for new plantings. Your blacksmiths’ wagons could have been the forges that made new hope.’

  ‘Building is preferable to dying in battle,’ said Chandyr, ‘but we have to defend ourselves before we can disperse ourselves across Balaia helping the people. Have you travelled the country in the last season?’

  ‘No,’ confessed Rusau. ‘My duties kept me in Lystern.’

  ‘You should talk to the mages who come in. It is true that the Black Wings are feeding the flames of hatred for us but the country is not quite as destroyed as they would have us all believe. There are blacksmiths out there. There are woodmen too. There are builders and farmers. The regeneration of the country must come from within. We as a college army are duty bound to protect our borders.’

  ‘But this is a fight that can be solved around a table. By reason and discussion. War only feeds the fires of hate. And, after all, the issues are trivial, aren’t they?’

  ‘The issues do not concern me. The protection of Xetesk does.’

  Rusau took a breath. In front of them, the gentle sweep of the Xeteskian mage lands stretched north-east to Lystern and north to Dordover. It was undeniably beautiful. Shades of green dappled the landscape; trees, shrubs, brackens and grasses. And everywhere were splashes of colour as the first spring flowers pushed through the soil, a symbol of the enduring strength of nature.

  ‘I can stop this,’ said Rusau, and inside he firmly believed that he could.

  ‘Really?’ asked Chandyr. ‘Like the Dordovan delegation, perhaps? What have they managed so far apart from outrageous demands that do nothing but lighten the mood in the officers’ mess?’

  ‘It is the nature of negotiation to begin at an unattainable level and settle for compromise.’

  ‘Compromise!’ Chandyr spat the word. ‘We are defending ourselves from unwarranted aggression.’

  ‘And Xetesk is blameless in your view?’

  Chandyr’s face darkened. ‘You ride at my side because I like you, Rusau. And because my Lord of the Mount, Dystran, wants independent reporting of what we find. But we are not the aggressors. We did not invite this conflict, it was thrust upon us. It is not our forces herding refugees into neighbouring lands. It is not us using innocents as pawns. But we will not stand by and watch it happen. Dordover will not be allowed to encroach on our lands. We will fight to preserve what is ours.’

  ‘I meant no offence, Commander,’ said Rusau. ‘But when we find the Dordovans I urge you to stand off and let me speak, whether they are on Xeteskian land or not. Words are one thing, significant loss of life is another. When they see you and hear me, they will think again.’

  ‘You are naive to believe that,’ said Chandyr. ‘But I pray you are right. Remember, though, that soldiers go where they are ordered and fight as directed. It is accepted that not all those who enter battle will leave it alive. I don’t think you will find anyone in the Dordovan force able to make the decision to stand down.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but would you choose not to fight if I could negotiate a truce to allow the rulers to speak again?’

  ‘I will assess the situation when we encounter the Dordovans,’ said Chandyr. ‘But we are at war, Rusau, and I will not take any decision that risks our borders.’

  ‘But I must be allowed to cross the battle lines,’ said Rusau.

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Chandyr. ‘I go to defend my lands. And I will take such action as I see fit in discussion with the senior mage. If you get in the way of such action it will be on your own head. I trust you understand. Now I must think. Please fall back to the centre of the column.’

  He looked at Rusau, and for the first time the Lysternan mage felt a pang of doubt.

  ‘Now, Rusau. I don’t want to have you removed.’

  Rusau did as he was ordered, and for the rest of the day’s march and the day following he kept his distance from the Xeteskian commander. Late in the afternoon of the second day, with light cloud covering what had been a warm spring day, he was summoned forward.

  He found Chandyr in conversation with the senior mage, Synour, a man fast rising through the echelons of Xeteskian power. They were riding towards the crest of a low hill and Rusau knew that beyond it a shallow valley swept away to the River Dord, which flowed through Dordover and eventually let out into the River Tri just to the north of Triverne Lake. The Dord marked the northern border of the Xeteskian and Lysternan mage lands.

  ‘Commander,’ he said, as he rode to Chandyr’s free side.

  Chandyr acknowledged his presence but finished his conversation before turning in his saddle.

  ‘My scouts have reported,’ he said, voice matter of fact, ‘a force of perhaps eighteen hundred Dordovans setting up camp just north of the river. There are an estimated five hundred refugees there too. They are corralled by the Dordovans but are south of the river. On Xeteskian land. You will see that they have been very careful to allow no one to occupy Lysternan land. I think their message is quite clear.’

  ‘And what are your intentions?’ asked Rusau.

  ‘The refugees must be freed immediately to return to rebuild their homes. The Dordovans must not stand in their way. I am sending a message to that effect to their commander, whoever he may be. You are welcome to ride under the parley flag but you will not interfere with the delivery of the message. We are not negotiating this point. Those refugees will not be used against us.’

  ‘I will see what I can do,’ said Rusau.

  ‘Try not to endanger your own life,’ said Chandyr. ‘I am not responsible for you and neither are the Dordovans. My messenger will return with their answer as soon as he is able. If that answer is negative, we will advance immediately, while there is daylight enough.’

  ‘Commander, you have to give me a chance,’ implored Rusau.

  ‘No, Rusau, I do not,’ he said. ‘I sympathise with you but my orders are quite clear. Dordover has invaded us. I will repel that invasion. The time for talking is when they are north of the Dord. I suggest you work quickly or get yourself to a place of safety.’

  Rusau nodded. ‘I had hoped for more understanding from you. Where is your messenger?’

  ‘He is being briefed by the sergeant-at-arms now. You’ll find them to your right.’ Chandyr indicated a pair of riders slightly apart from the rest of the column. ‘And Rusau, I understand very well. We didn’t ask for war but we will wage it. Perhaps you can talk sense into the Dordovans, but if you ask me, the time for talking is done.’

  Rusau joined the messenger as he cantered up the the rise and over the crest into the valley. Below them a wide grassy plain fell away down a shallow slope to the banks of the River Dord a mile and a half away. A mass of humanity waited on the south side. ‘Corralled’ was the right word. They were in a tight group, Dordovan cavalry and foot soldiers guarding them. To the north of the river, tents were pitched, fires burned and pennants flew. The sound of hammering and the whinnies of horses filtered up to them as they rode in silence towards the Dordovan army.

  As they passed the refugees, a Dordovan cavalryman detached himself from the guard and fell in beside them.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Xeteskian,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You sh
ould have saved your horse’s legs and your breath. While you still have it to waste, that is.’

  ‘What is the name of your commanding officer? I have a message for him.’

  The cavalryman laughed. ‘Very disciplined, I’m sure. Turn around. Mark my words, boy.’

  ‘His name,’ said the messenger.

  ‘Master Mage Tendjorn,’ said the cavalryman. ‘He’ll eat you for breakfast.’

  He peeled away and rode back to his companions. They shared an over-loud laugh.

  ‘Commendable,’ said Rusau to his companion.

  The messenger didn’t reply. He kept his pace even, riding through the shallow waters of the Dord which, though thirty yards wide at this stretch, barely reached his boots. Unchallenged, they rode to the centre of the camp, where they dismounted. The command tent was obvious, its sides pinned back. A table inside was bare but for a scattering of goblets and a few bottles. Five men stood inside and waited for them to enter.

  ‘You took your time,’ said one. Rusau supposed him to be Tendjorn. He was an ugly man with a wide nose, small ears and thinning unkempt dark hair. ‘And you? Sent a Lysternan lackey to beg, have they? We’ve enough of your sort plaguing us already.’

  ‘I am Rusau of Lystern,’ he confirmed. ‘I seek peace, as I believe ultimately we all do.’

  ‘Well there’s your first mistaken assumption,’ said Tendjorn. ‘Xetesk’s protection of the Nightchild was the first act of aggression in this war and now we are delivering the consequences of their invasion to their door for them to deal with.’

  ‘These people are not consequences of this dispute,’ said Rusau. ‘You cannot use them as such.’

  ‘Can’t I? Xetesk prevented us from dealing with the Nightchild at the earliest opportunity. They were complicit in her prolonged survival, hence the prolonged elemental attacks on Balaia. Therefore these refugees are their problem.’

  ‘Your memories are coloured,’ began Rusau, but Tendjorn cut him off with a snap of his fingers.