The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  It was over. Hirad and Darrick quartered the field checking the bodies of the Xeteskians, quick thrusts killing those that still breathed. Aeb, at Denser’s instructions, came back to the fire. The Unknown followed them, as did Ren and Thraun.

  They had been lucky. Very lucky. The Unknown wanted to know how they had been found and attacked so easily and there, still trapped beneath a log by the fire, was the route to the answers. Damaged by FlameOrbs but still spitting and cursing was the surviving Familiar.

  The Raven gathered around it.

  ‘See to Aeb, will you?’ said The Unknown to Denser. ‘I’ll ask this some questions.’

  ‘His master is dead,’ said Denser. ‘He’s fading but still dangerous. Don’t let him up.’

  The Unknown nodded and knelt by the creature. It stopped its squealing stream of abuse and fixed its gaze on the big shaven-headed warrior.

  ‘Sol,’ it hissed, dragging out the word.

  ‘Yes, Sol,’ confirmed The Unknown. ‘And you are dying.’

  ‘Soon,’ said the Familiar, its voice like a rake over gravel. ‘Let me up.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said The Unknown. ‘But maybe I will if you answer me truthfully.’

  The Familiar’s hairless head pulsated, veins throbbing. It spat into The Unknown’s face. ‘Traitor.’

  The Unknown wiped the fetid spittle from his cheek. ‘No. We did not start this.’

  ‘We will finish it. Raven will die.’

  ‘How did you find us?’

  The Familiar chuckled. ‘You know already. Your allegiance is your weakness.’

  ‘Aeb,’ he said, and the Familiar smiled, its fangs revealed, slicked in blood. Its tongue licked out. ‘Why do you want to kill us?’

  The Familiar coughed. It was fading quickly and its voice was weaker now. ‘You would stop us. Take what we need . . . Not allowed.’ It was struggling for words. ‘There will be more.’

  The Unknown watched the fury in its eyes dim as its heart failed. ‘You will not beat us.’

  ‘We hold the power.’ Its head fell to the side and it breathed its last.

  The Unknown stood and looked at The Raven, Darrick, Denser and Aeb all with wounds. Aeb’s looked bad. Denser had blood running from his face and Erienne was seeing to him while Ilkar moved his hands slowly over Aeb’s burned back. The elf’s hands were shaking.

  ‘Are you all right, Ilkar?’

  He nodded through his concentration but didn’t look round. ‘I’m just tired. I don’t like losing spells suddenly. It drags at the reserves. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘We’ve got to get on. We need to find secure rest and we have to get into Xetesk tomorrow night. Something tells me we’ve run out of time.’

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Ilkar nod.

  Chapter 42

  Yron waited and waited. He threw the windows of his chambers wide to let in the fresh air, he paced the room, he ate from the fruit bowl on a side table, he plunged his head into the cold water of his wash bowl. He played word games in his mind, he fenced against the full-length mirror, polished his already gleaming axe and holster. Anything to focus his mind, sober up and stay awake.

  He waited while the college quietened and the last of the revellers staggered to their chambers. He waited while the servants cleaned the banqueting chamber, cleaned the table and mopped the floors. He waited until the deepest depths of the night. And only then did he slip from his room, rough travel cloak covering his new clothes, cleaned leather and glittering axe holster, and into Erys’s room.

  The mage was lost to sleep, flat on his back and snoring gently. A smile played on his face and his arms were flung wide across the luxurious bed. Yron placed one hand over Erys’s mouth and shook him hard awake. The mage’s eyes flew open and his hands scrabbled at Yron’s in sudden panic, only relaxing when he saw the captain’s smile. Yron removed his hand.

  ‘Don’t worry. Just me,’ he whispered. ‘Get up.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Erys hissed. ‘It’s the middle of the bloody night!’

  ‘I’ll explain while you dress. We’ve got to do something. Now.’

  Erys frowned and passed a hand over his head, breathing out heavily. ‘Is this your idea of a hilarious joke?’

  ‘No,’ said Yron sharply, dragging the covers from Erys. ‘Now get up. And you’d better be able to cast.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Never tried it after so much wine.’ He sighed and heaved himself from the bed, heading for the wash bowl. He poured a jug of water over his head. ‘So what’s it all about, Captain?’

  Yron told him, and by the time he had dressed Erys looked both awake and stone cold sober.

  ‘You are with me, aren’t you?’ asked Yron as he walked to Erys’s door.

  ‘I can’t be a party to genocide, unwitting or not,’ said Erys.

  ‘I thought not. Now, Dystran will have taken the thumb to his chambers.’

  ‘You’d better hope not. Have you any idea how many Protectors guard him up there?’ Erys jerked a thumb upwards.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Yron.

  ‘Don’t worry about it? Are you crazy? It only takes one, unless you’ve got an even better axe arm than I think you have.’

  ‘Just show me the way.’

  Erys closed his eyes for a heartbeat and led the way from his chambers into the silence of the Tower. The two men walked back past the banqueting and audience chambers, down the darkened corridors that made up the wide base of the Tower and back towards the main doors.

  Before they got there, Erys directed them down a left turn, through a curtained entrance and around another sharp bend and into a small oval chamber. The walls were lined with benches and hung with portraits of Lords of the Mount long dead. Directly ahead of them, in front of an intricately carved heavy wooden door, stood a pair of Protectors, silent and unmoving.

  ‘You’d better be right about this,’ said Erys.

  ‘Have faith, boy,’ said Yron.

  He walked forward, feeling none of the confidence he hoped he was exuding, and stood before the Protectors. For one hideous moment he felt their hostile eyes sizing him up and thought he’d got it all horribly wrong.

  ‘You will not harm him,’ said one, and the pair turned away, their backs forming a passage to the now unguarded door.

  Yron turned the handle and opened the door inwards, its travel silent on oiled hinges. He beckoned the open-mouthed Erys on and began to climb the spiral stair in front of him. It was carved from a pillar of marble and set on the western side of the Tower’s central shaft. Above, six levels ending in Dystran’s private chambers. Below, entrance to the catacombs and labs and the passages that criss-crossed under the college.

  ‘How did you organise that?’ said Erys.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Yron. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Taking every step gently, his boots ghosting the surface, Yron climbed, refusing to let himself think about where he was or what he was doing. His heart thudded in his chest, his palms were damp and his breathing was shallow and rushed. His limbs were shaking and his muscles felt weak. He forced himself to go on, one step at a time.

  They passed level after level. At each one, a Protector stood on a tapestry-hung landing in front of a door to a set of offices, personal audience chambers or guest rooms. Each masked man stood silent, watching them pass and making no move to interfere.

  ‘This is suicide,’ whispered Erys.

  ‘And if we don’t, it’s genocide,’ said Yron, pleased at his clever response.

  Finally, they stood at Dystran’s door and it all came home to him. He, Captain Yron, was about to enter the most private chambers of the Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, Balaia’s single most powerful man, and steal a prized treasure. He shuddered the length of his body as the pair of Protectors moved a pace aside to allow him entry.

  ‘Just the thumb,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing else.’

  Centre stage of the big open room was Dystran’s curtain
ed bed. To the left, a screened-off washing area, to the right, wardrobe and dressing areas, and at the foot of the bed, the prize. Yron saw it immediately and held out an arm.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said, voice barely audible. ‘Keep the door open.’

  Erys nodded and Yron stepped delicately into the room, his boots soundless on the thick rugs that covered the stone floor. On a table flanked by tall candle stands, on a silk-covered dish, rested the thumb of Yniss.

  Sweat ran into Yron’s eyes and he wiped it away, smearing his palm against his cloak. He leaned over the table and reached out a quivering hand. He swallowed hard and picked up the fragment, finding its touch cool and comfortable. He took in a grateful breath and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to smile at Erys but the look on the mage’s face froze him where he stood.

  He was looking to Yron’s right. The captain twisted his head as far as he could and peered out of the corner of his eye. The curtains around the bed were moving. A long slender leg appeared, followed by the rest of a naked woman. For two glorious paces, she moved directly towards the screened-off area and then, as if feeling their eyes upon her, she stopped and turned gracefully towards them.

  ‘Oh shit,’ breathed Yron, and he moved, fast.

  She was going to scream. Reflexively, she covered herself with her hands and arms, drew in breath and opened her mouth wide. Yron’s punch took her square on the jaw and she staggered back, falling dazed to thump against the floor, head bouncing on the rugs. She yelped once and lay still.

  A groggy voice sounded from inside the curtains and they moved again. Dystran’s head appeared. He took in the woman sprawled on the ground and Yron standing over her and very close to him.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Yron.

  ‘What the fu—’

  Yron’s fist swung again, swiping into the side of Dystran’s head. The Lord of the Mount grunted and sprawled but remained conscious.

  ‘Erys, get in here. He needs to sleep very deeply.’

  Dystran dragged the curtains aside.

  ‘Guards!’ he barked, before Yron got a hand over his mouth.

  Erys was casting as he came, Protectors only a couple of paces behind him. A touch from the mage and Dystran stopped struggling and slumped. Yron laid him down gently and faced the two masked warriors, both of whom had axes ready.

  ‘He’s not hurt. Just sleeping. Please.’

  ‘Your time is short,’ said one. ‘Run.’

  ‘See me go,’ said Yron. ‘Erys.’

  Yron sprinted from the chamber, Erys a beat behind him, and clattered down the stairs.

  ‘Erys, which way at the base?’

  ‘Dystran’ll have a pulse out. The college will be waking,’ said Erys.

  ‘Don’t tell me how bad it is; tell me how we get out.’

  ‘Straight through the front of the Tower and head right to the long rooms. Let’s go for the west gate.’

  Yron nodded. It made sense. They could lose themselves in the artisans’ quarter of the city more easily than anywhere else. He leaped the last step, slid by the Protectors in the oval room and kept on going, rounding the bend, tearing the curtain aside and racing towards the front door of the Tower.

  As he headed across the marble entrance hall to the door, it opened and a pair of mages strode in. Yron ran straight at them while they dithered, shouldering one aside hard, sending him crashing into a wall. There was a crack behind him as Erys straight-armed the other.

  They burst into the night, seeing torches and lanterns waving all over the college grounds as their holders ran towards the Tower. Going right, they raced round the base of the Tower, Erys dragging Yron right again and down the side of the first long room. Erys now leading, they turned behind a lecture theatre, along the side of the refectory and into the press of narrow passageways around the barracks and stables. Beneath a stone stairway to a hayloft, they stopped to catch their breath.

  All around them, sounds of pursuit echoed in the dark. Harsh voices organised search parties and doors banged open near them, feet clattering down stairs and across cobbles.

  ‘No one’s going to open a gate for us,’ said Yron. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘The postern door by the west gate,’ said Erys, breathing hard. ‘It’s small enough. I can focus a ForceCone, probably crack it.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Erys. ‘It may not burst but a kick should finish it.’

  ‘You’d better be right,’ said Yron.

  ‘Your turn to trust me.’

  Yron waited while Erys gathered himself and formed the shape of a ForceCone in his mind. His eyes moved under closed lids, his hands teasing at the mana Yron would never see. The captain was in awe of mages; they were blessed with a vision he couldn’t imagine and an ability at which he could only guess. Erys opened his eyes.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, voice elsewhere as he concentrated hard.

  Yron led off, pacing evenly down the passage, keeping himself hidden in deep shadow. Twenty yards ahead, a team of soldiers ran across their path. Yron slowed further, approaching the crossway. Beyond it a short run and then the open space by the west gate. It might be full of men and mages. There was only one way to find out. He listened at the crossway. All was quiet in the immediate surroundings. Offering a short prayer, he hurried across the space, Erys behind him. His ears strained for the shout that would tell them they had been seen but he heard nothing.

  He began to hope. Dangerous, he knew, but he did it anyway. At the end of the passage he could see flickering lights and hear more voices. He crept up to the corner; the walls to left and right were the mana bowl and the infirmary. Three paces from the end and a figure strode into the passage, tall and masked. Yron’s heart sank and he drew his sword.

  ‘Keep behind me, Erys,’ he said.

  The Protector marched towards them, axe and sword ready. He stopped in front of Yron, looked at him briefly, and walked on.

  ‘Now or never,’ said Erys over Yron’s relief.

  The postern gate was a forty-yard run directly across the marshalling area for the Xeteskian cavalry. Only a few soldiers were there and all were moving to join the search.

  ‘When you start, keep running, Captain. I have to stop to cast then I’ll be right behind you.’

  Yron nodded. He didn’t want to leave Erys but there was no choice. ‘Don’t get caught,’ he said. ‘Ready? Let’s go.’

  The two men sprinted into the yard and had covered ten yards before the shouts went up. Left and right, soldiers ran in to cut them off. Yron pushed harder. Crossbow bolts skipped off the ground at his feet. He heard Erys slide to a stop.

  ‘Good luck,’ he breathed and, giving Erys clear sight of the door, ran on.

  The air was full of torchlight and shouts for him to stop. Behind him, he heard Erys’s command word, felt the shadow of the spell rush past him and saw the postern gate buckle outwards, hearing timbers creak and snap. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the mage surge to his feet and chase after him.

  Left and right, his former colleagues closed in, yelling warnings, urging him to give himself up. Fresher and mostly younger, they were gaining fast, and he knew if he stopped at the gate he’d be caught. Already feeling the pain he was about to experience, he ate up the last few yards and shoulder-charged the spell-weakened iron-bound oak gate.

  As he struck he didn’t think it would give, but, with the crack of splitting timber, the gate gave way and he sprawled out into the streets of Xetesk. His shoulder shrieked in pain as he dragged himself to his feet, sparing a glance back inside.

  ‘Come on, Erys!’ he shouted.

  The mage was running hard, head down, legs and arms pumping. Framed in the gate arch he seemed so close to freedom. But from the side, a soldier rushed in, swung his sword and caught Erys a glancing blow across the shoulder. Yron saw the blood spray and Erys tumble heavily onto the cobbles before an arrow whipping past his head brought him back to himself and he tore off into the maze of roads, alleys and
passages that made up Xetesk’s artisans’ quarter, cursing all the way.

  Merke and her Tai were deep inside Xetesk. They and seven other TaiGethen cells were scouting the city at night, looking for information, looking for weaknesses but above all looking for a way into the Dark College itself. For all the Xeteskian soldiers and mages marching to battle the other colleges, the walls, the Protectors and their watchers, the TaiGethen had pierced the city defences easily enough, scaling the walls in four places and scattering into the night.

  Three cells were combing residential areas, two were around the markets and three studied the college itself, including Auum’s. But for once he had not chosen the right place. From where Merke, Inell and Vaart were hidden, overlooking one of the gates of the college, they had seen an extraordinary sight.

  Right before them, a side gate had buckled. Heartbeats later, a man had crashed through, rolling over, dragging himself to his feet and running from the college, heading down an alley not twenty yards from them. They waited for the pursuit and it duly came: men with swords and the masked Protectors, splitting into groups of three, four and five, scattering into the blank shadows of the warehouses and stinking foundries. Some ran straight past them, others took the alley their quarry had used.

  Merke looked at her Tai. Vaart shrugged.

  ‘The one running is more likely an ally than an enemy.’

  ‘It’ll do as a reason for now,’ said Merke.

  The Tai moved, ghosts over the ground, unslinging bows, un-snapping jaqrui pouches and scabbard covers. Merke was ahead, Inell and Vaart left and right, emerging from the alley where they’d watched it all unfold, across the front of a warehouse and down its far side.

  The blank walls of its neighbour were no more than fifteen feet away, sheer sides rising up better than thirty feet to angled tiled roofs. They hemmed in the TaiGethen like no rainforest ever could, the smells of city life mixing with the drab buildings to produce a place Merke couldn’t believe any sane man would want to live. But live here they did. And die.