The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘You are in no position to forbid anything, Great Kaan,’ said Sytkan, clearly unaware of his own vulnerability. ‘We are in charge here, and I suggest that if you do want to return to Beshara, you let us set the timetable. That means we leave to employ our research in a practical fashion before turning to lesser matters.’

  Sha-Kaan almost swatted him then and there but refrained, Hirad’s caution echoing in his mind.

  ‘You tread delicate ground, frail human,’ he said. ‘The timetable as you call it states that we do not have the luxury of waiting on your whim. And, as you will discover if you choose otherwise, there are no greater matters than completing your work to send us home.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Sha-Kaan,’ said Sytkan. ‘We have foreseen your reaction and taken appropriate steps. Without your fire you are much weakened, as the Dordovans discovered. Don’t think we will hesitate to defend ourselves. Together, we are very strong.’

  ‘But individually, very weak,’ said Sha-Kaan.

  His head snapped forwards and he scooped Sytkan into his jaws, wings unfurling to project him into the sky and away from danger.

  Nos-Kaan, take to the air. The Xeteskians have to be stopped.

  In his jaws, Sytkan struggled. Sha-Kaan brought his head to a foreclaw and deposited the mage in it, bringing it in line with an eye.

  ‘You have very little time,’ growled Sha-Kaan. ‘Remove your work from your ship before we sink it.’

  ‘And lose everything for which we have worked and that could benefit you?’ shouted Sytkan into the wind. ‘It stays there. You don’t dare touch it. Set me down.’

  ‘You think me a foolish reptile, I am sure. Ignorant. But I hear much and am told more. I know the exactitude of a Xeteskian mage. All your papers are in watertight containers, are they not? And I am a very good swimmer.’

  He watched Sytkan’s fragile confidence disappear and proper fear replace it. But the mage was not done.

  ‘Release me or Nos-Kaan dies now.’

  Sha-Kaan swept round to face the hillside. Nos-Kaan was hovering, waiting for him. Below, hidden by the curve of the slope, a dozen mages. Nos hadn’t seen them and they were casting.

  Sha-Kaan bellowed in rage and arrowed down towards them, pulsing alarm at his Brood brother.

  Fly! They are below you. Fly!

  Nos-Kaan moved as the mages cast their spell. An orb of fire thirty feet across raced from their position, catching Nos-Kaan’s left wing on the downbeat and rolling along its length to scour his back. Flame ate at his scales and burned the wing membrane. Nos roared pain and, smoke trailing from his savaged wing, spiralled into the sky, heading for the quenching ocean.

  Sha-Kaan powered on, Sytkan forgotten in his claw. The Xeteskian mages could not react fast enough. The huge dragon landed just upslope and slid down on them, his great hind claws tearing up the ground as he came, his wings beating again, his weight shuddering the earth. His head launched forward, his fangs slicing through human flesh, jaws snapping open and shut to crush puny bodies. His claws scythed through torso and limb, dug up stones and dirt and flung them down.

  With the next beat of his wings he took to the air again, banking sharply to check for any survivors. One was running, the rest either dead or dying. He powered in again and seized the running mage in his other foreclaw before chasing out to sea after Nos-Kaan.

  The dragon’s entry point was clear and the smell of burning scale and membrane hung in the air. Sha-Kaan put Sytkan to his eye once again, seeing the mage shaken but still just conscious.

  ‘Weak am I? Pray to your false gods that Nos is still alive. Pray that your lungs can hold and your body does not break.’

  With that he dived into the ocean, tucking his foreclaws in to protect the mages from the impact. He might have need of them. His eyes pierced the clear blue waters easily and he didn’t have to swim deep before he saw Nos-Kaan struggling to the surface, his left wing dragging him back, his tail stroking weakly.

  Nos-Kaan, I am here.

  Sink the ship, Great Kaan. I will survive. But his thoughts were feeble. They must not escape.

  They cannot outpace me. I will be back.

  Sha-Kaan stormed back to the surface and broke into the air. In his claw Sytkan gasped a lungful of air. The other mage hung limp. Sha-Kaan discarded him. He flew towards the ship, which still lay at anchor, keeping high to avoid the spells. On deck he saw two groups of mages crouching together, spells no doubt on their lips.

  ‘So anxious to get on board,’ he said, Sytkan once again large in his vision. ‘Let me help you.’

  He threw the mage down, watching him cartwheel as he fell. The human prayed he hit the water. His Gods did not hear him. Sha-Kaan turned from the splayed mess far below on the deck and dived back after Nos-Kaan.

  The wounded dragon was close to the surface now. Sha-Kaan swam under him and pushed him from below, moving him fast towards a nearby island with a beach on which he could rest. He could feel the pain through Nos-Kaan’s mind. The dragon, who had never fully recovered from attack by Dordovan mages out in the Southern Ocean two seasons before, was dreadfully injured.

  He heaved Nos-Kaan from the waves. The stricken Kaan laid his neck out on the sand, leaving his tortured burned body in the salty water.

  Tell me, Nos. Your injuries, can they heal?

  But he already knew the answer. Nos-Kaan’s wing lay on the surface of the sea, outstretched, membrane ruined in so many places. And the scales along his back were puckered and oozing.

  It has been a great adventure, Great Kaan. And I would have loved to rest back in our Brood lands, but it was ever a dream I feared I would never realise.

  Then rest now, my brother. Rest now. You will be avenged.

  But Nos-Kaan couldn’t hear him.

  Sha-Kaan rose up on his hind legs, beat his wings and bellowed grief, rage and torment. Birds took flight and lizards scattered on the beach. Back at anchor, the Xeteskian ship lay waiting. He decided not to keep them any longer.

  But even as he rushed into the air to revenge himself upon them, a voice sounded in his mind. It spoke reason and sympathy and it took the edge from his rage. It told him that he must live. That the Brood Kaan would wane without him, that there were other places to fight the battle. It told him it loved him and that it would see the research into the hands that would help.

  The voice was that of Hirad Coldheart, his Dragonene, and it surely saved his life.

  Chapter 35

  Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, was in excellent spirits. He had enjoyed his lunch enormously and took the remains of his wine out of the dining room he had shared with the rest of the Circle Seven into the Corridor of the Ancients. Looking along the impressive line of portraits in the brightly lit corridor, he reminded himself to organise his own. Every other master on the walls was very old. A dash of youth would be just the job.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Ranyl was walking slowly towards him, pain obvious on his face but defiantly upright despite the natural desire to stoop to try and relax the pain from the cancer in his stomach. He smiled as he approached.

  ‘My Lord Dystran, I have more news,’ he said, ‘concerning the search on Calaius.’

  ‘Really?’ Dystran’s pulse quickened slightly. ‘Good I hope?’

  ‘I would welcome a seat and a glass of whatever it is you have.’ Ranyl smiled.

  Dystran raised a hand. ‘I’m sorry, my manners.’

  He led the old and dying master back to the dining room, where they sat at the end of the cavernous chamber away from the inquisitive ears of the rest of the Seven. Servants were clearing plates and glasses from the long rectangular table on which seven candelabra supported strong white flames. In the wood-panelled room, voices echoed loud so Dystran lowered his voice as he poured wine and sat down with his adviser.

  ‘You’ll be glad to hear, old friend, that our key researchers are even now returning to Balaia from Herendeneth. There was trouble with the Kaan dragons but they e
scaped intact. They’ll land in approximately nine days and be in the college inside twenty. Fifty Protectors are with them. The answers are close, Ranyl. Very, very close. If we can hold our borders for just that little bit longer.’

  ‘Well, Heryst’s caution still plays into our hands though Rusau’s unfortunate demise was regrettable. Intelligence indicates he is mobilising his forces. His strength could yet be pivotal. We should consider talks of some kind,’ said Ranyl. He smiled as he drank from his glass.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It hardly matters,’ said Ranyl. ‘As long as it stops any concerted invasion for long enough. Why not discuss the dispersal of the Herendeneth research? It won’t stop Vuldaroq but it might give Heryst pause, and that is all we need to see our people home.’

  ‘The timing will be important,’ said Dystran, a warm feeling creeping into his bones as he saw the sense of Ranyl’s plan.

  ‘Indeed. We should act as soon as possible. You might try personal Communion with Heryst. Soothe his pain, so to speak.’

  ‘My dear Ranyl, I will never find another to replace you,’ Dystran said, and squeezed the old man’s free hand. ‘But this isn’t what you wanted to tell me about. Calaius.’

  ‘Ah, my Lord, the Gods are organising everything to speed your ascension,’ rumbled Ranyl through a cough. ‘I have had Communion from our fleet. They are on their way back from Calaius. They have the writings we need.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Dystran. He felt elation rush through his body.

  ‘It was a difficult operation. We lost many lives but both Erys and Yron survived. Erys is as sure as he can be that what they have is the text you had in mind.’

  ‘How difficult?’

  ‘We lost almost one hundred and ninety people,’ said Ranyl quietly.

  ‘What!’ Dystran’s voice echoed across the dining room and stilled the hum of conversation from the remainder of the Seven. His next words were an angry whisper. ‘What in all the hells happened? Did they run into a storm or something?’

  ‘Elves,’ said Ranyl. ‘TaiGethen, Al-Arynaar. They are apparently far more deadly than the myths suggested they were.’

  Dystran sighed. ‘Yes, but even so, we had a complex enough illusion pattern. What happened to that?’

  ‘It was fine until the mages started to get sick or exhausted,’ said Ranyl. ‘They couldn’t keep it up. By the time they reached the forward campsite, it was unsustainable. Yron was surprised at the tenacity of the temple defence and from then on the elves were closing in. We were lucky anyone got away.’

  Dystran drained his glass and refilled it, his earlier good humour ebbing away. He was still buoyed by the thought of the elven text he craved - the key to their longevity - but the scale of the disaster that had befallen his raiders would leave a bitter taste.

  ‘What about the elders? When can we expect the demands?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ranyl. ‘But we can replicate the text quickly enough. We’ll have the time. I’ll word a particularly compelling apology.’

  ‘Do that.’ The Lord of the Mount stared at Ranyl, whose eyes were sagging, drawn with fatigue and pain. He’d be taking the loss of life personally. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have lost friends.’

  Ranyl shrugged. ‘It’s not so much that. There’s something else you should know.’

  ‘Someone drop the writings in the sea, did they?’

  ‘The Raven were there. Fighting with the elves.’

  Dystran was about to dismiss this final item of information with a wave of his hand but stopped in mid gesture, cold trickling across his mind. He almost shouted again but checked himself.

  ‘How the hell did they get involved? Why?’ He was blustering and he knew it, but their presence raised so many questions. ‘How did they know what we were trying to do? And why, Gods burning, was I not told they’d left Herendeneth?’

  Ranyl waited until he was sure Dystran had stopped asking questions.

  ‘It’s impossible for them to have known our mission to Calaius. I feel it was a coincidence, though admittedly a very unfortunate one.’

  ‘I’ll say it is.’

  ‘Please, my Lord. Yes, it is unfortunate, but I think we should turn our minds to why they were in the middle of the rainforest at all. They’re up to something. As to why you weren’t told they’d left Herendeneth, it’s because it wasn’t a question that was ordered asked of the Protectors.’

  The smile reappeared on Dystran’s face. ‘Well, we can soon put that right, can’t we? Denser’s still Aeb’s Given mage, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Well, get to finding out exactly what The Raven were doing there. Find out what they know. Aeb can’t refuse to answer a direct question.’

  ‘Should we not rescind the Act of Giving for this Protector?’

  ‘What? And give up our spy in the camp? I think not, Ranyl. He may be powerful muscle but he’s only one man.’

  ‘You should know that Denser swore to hunt Yron down,’ said Ranyl.

  ‘Did he? Well, that may answer some of our questions about what they know now, if not why they were there in the first place.’ Dystran thought a moment. This was an unexpected and potentially serious irritation. ‘They mustn’t be allowed to get their information, whatever it is, into the hands of anyone friendly towards the elves. And that means Heryst and Lystern. Presumably they’re after Yron.

  ‘Come up with a plan. We need safe passage for Yron, Erys and the research team from Herendeneth. It may be necessary to clear a path. But that’s not all. The Raven are a risk I’m not prepared to take. I want them caught or killed.’

  A black cat trotted smoothly into the dining room and leapt onto Ranyl’s shoulder, where it turned to face Dystran before morphing into the demon form of the old man’s Familiar. Dystran screwed up his face.

  ‘I can’t understand why you are determined to keep that thing,’ he said. ‘How long have you had it now? Must be decades.’

  ‘Friend,’ corrected the Familiar, stroking Ranyl’s face.

  The old man smiled. ‘He’s right. And, more than ever, I need companionship. Dying is a lonely business.’

  Dystran shuddered. ‘Not me. Think I’ll stick to women. Gods, why do they have to be so ugly?’

  He took in the monkey-sized winged and hairless body, the pulsating veined head and the tongue which hung from its fanged mouth, dribbling spit onto Ranyl’s collar.

  ‘It can prove useful for the uninitiated victim,’ said Ranyl.

  ‘I’d keep it as a cat if I were you,’ said the Lord of the Mount.

  ‘But the cat can’t talk. And the cat can’t fly.’

  ‘They are of little real use though, talking pet apart.’

  ‘Not so, my Lord,’ protested Ranyl. ‘Indeed, I am encouraging more of our mages to adopt them now we have some limited linkage back with the demon dimension. They are useful as spies, and unless you know how are particularly difficult to kill.’

  ‘Perhaps you should send them after The Raven then, prove to me they are worth the revolting body and endless drool.’

  ‘Perhaps I will.’

  It was early evening seven days after Selik’s brief and predictable meeting with Blackthorne and Gresse. He had brought his men to a stop half an hour’s walk from the garrison at Understone. He wanted them to rest because in the early hours of the morning they had to be at their ruthless best.

  They lit a fire in a shaded copse, knowing the light would not be seen in Understone, and ate very well from a deer one of his archers brought down with an astonishing shot as they rode into their temporary campsite. As he watched them eat and talk, even share the odd snatch of song, Selik knew they felt it. This was the march of the righteous. No one could stand before the Gods and stand in their way.

  ‘Rest!’ ordered Selik, once the carcass was stripped. ‘Sleep if you can; we have justice to serve.’

  There was no complaint. They knew he was right. Come the end of the night some of them would b
e dead but a blow would have been struck. The first of many. While they slept, Selik watched and reflected. He had little need for rest these days, his mind churning endlessly with thoughts of duty and destiny.

  When it was time to wake his men, Selik did so feeling like a father waking reluctant children. He served them hot tea himself, feeling closer to them than at any time and starkly responsible for what he was about to begin. For a moment these twenty men with dreams of their own - who wanted life, had wives and children - were more than just pawns to him. They were people he should nurture and protect. Just for a moment.

  The walk was made in total silence. All the talking had been done. In the blank dark of early morning, deepened further by the looming shapes of the Blackthorne Mountains at their backs, the Black Wings took up their positions. It had been relatively simple. Anders, the garrison commander, posted no guards outside the compound, having long since abandoned the ghost town to its ethereal residents. This mistake allowed the Black Wings to lay their trap and, when they were ready, to spring it.

  Across the quiet of the night came the sound of a lone horse, galloping hard. Its rider could be heard urging it on, begging it for more speed. The animal tore up the last twists and turns of the southern path before bursting into view in the dark cloudy early morning, sprinting for the only puddle of light it could see. Understone barracks.

  Voices were raised inside. Feet could be heard running on earth and wood and the odd lantern was hung outside the walls, augmenting the firelight within and the braziers ranged along the top of the stockade.

  The rider swung into the street and slewed to a halt in front of the gates in a cloud of dust, horse steaming and sweating, froth oozing from under the saddle and dripping from its bit. The rider all but fell from his mount, staggering to the gates and hammering on them, pleading with those watching from above to let him in, fear threatening to overwhelm him.

  ‘Please! Please let me in. Dear Gods, they’re right behind me. Please!’

  ‘Who are?’ demanded a voice. ‘Calm down, man.’

  ‘Black Wings,’ gasped the rider. ‘Can you not hear them?’