The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘We won’t strike first against you,’ said The Unknown. ‘But force our hand and we won’t hesitate.’ He gestured to the mess surrounding them. ‘See to your wounded then go.’

  Tolmek nodded. ‘Be lucky, Raven. I—’ He paused and frowned. ‘Where’s Ilkar?’

  Hirad’s heart dropped at the sound of his name. ‘He’s dead, Tolmek. Elfsorrow took him. Xetesk is to blame.’

  Tolmek raised his eyebrows and began to turn his horse. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. And perhaps I can make Xetesk sorry too.’

  ‘Just leave us alone, don’t follow us,’ said The Unknown. ‘Tell the trade. Don’t try to stop us. It isn’t worth it.’

  The Raven moved to let Tolmek take his surviving men to their fallen.

  ‘I wonder how big the reward is,’ said Hirad, The Raven gathering to leave.

  ‘Huge, I would hope,’ said The Unknown.

  ‘I’d be insulted by a small one,’ agreed Hirad.

  ‘So why didn’t you ask?’ Darrick, like all of them, was dismounting.

  ‘Best not to know,’ said Hirad. ‘After all, however big, it could always be bigger.’ He put an arm round the general’s shoulder. ‘Now, while Tolmek is sorting out the mess you organised, why don’t you see if there’s anything round here you like. It’s your right, after all and besides, that rake of yours has seen better days and I think we should avoid bloodying your uniform any further.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘All right, what have we got?’ asked Dystran, once seated around the dining table with his elven archivists and dimensional research teams. Ranyl was on his way, apparently. But it would, as with anything in these last painful days, take him some considerable time.

  To Dystran’s left, an old master dimensional mage was about to begin when Dystran held up his hand for further silence.

  ‘I realise my last question may have given you the impression that I am merely after a quick update on our current state of research. Let me disabuse you of that particular notion.

  ‘In case it has escaped your attention, we are at war. There are thousands of souls beyond our gates whose express intention it is to nail me to the walls of my Tower. Probably upside down. We may have won a recent victory but the tide is still against us. Our people live in fear of invasion. Hundreds clamour every day to leave.

  ‘In this war, either Xetesk triumphs or we become a husk, never to reclaim our rightful position. Now, in order for the former and not the latter to be our fate - and let me assure you, if it is the latter you will all experience your fates before I do - there are certain things we must do, and do right. For that, I require your individed attention and assistance.’

  He paused and looked around the table. Eight men between the ages of thirty and eighty had lost their appetites for the vegetable stew and bread before them. Wine and water settled in glasses.

  ‘So let’s start with the easy one. Was it the One magic cast in Lystern last night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kestys, that was his name. Dystran had never been good at remembering names. But he remembered faces all right. And this man’s, unremarkable and slightly reddened as it was, was utterly familiar.

  ‘And the caster?’

  ‘That we have not yet ascertained.’ Kestys looked for help to either side of him. It did not come.

  ‘I see.’ Dystran sucked in a breath slowly and carefully. ‘Stop me if I make a mistake here. We still have Protectors on Herendeneth, meaning we have muscle and we have the means to communicate between there and here, correct? Yes. And you have presumably requested that the Al-Drechar be questioned about the identity of our mysterious practitioner?’

  ‘Of course, my Lord,’ said Kestys, shifting in his seat, a light sweat on his brow. ‘But they have not been forthcoming.’

  Dystran pushed his hands through his hair. ‘On that island, our people face one dragon with no fire, one woman and a baby, half a dozen servant elves and two old mages. How is it they have been allowed to be “not forthcoming”.’

  ‘The Al-Drechar retain considerable power.’

  Dystran smiled thinly. ‘They do. They are also very, very old, and dying. They spent themselves trying to protect the Nightchild from her own power and they have never fully recovered. Two of them died. Pressure them further. And if they resist, threaten someone else. The baby, for instance . . . any latent talent there that could scare five Xeteskian mages? I think you understand me.’

  ‘My Lord.’

  A door opened behind him. Dystran turned to see Ranyl shuffle in. The cancer-ravaged mage was leaning heavily on two sticks but still refusing the aid of the mages trying to cluster around him. The room focused on him while he dragged himself to his chair next to Dystran and sat down, propping the sticks against the table. His face displayed his pain, his eyes his undimmed determination.

  The Lord of the Mount poured him a glass of chilled water. Ranyl drank deeply.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  ‘Any time,’ said Dystran. ‘We will continue if you are ready.’

  Ranyl smiled. ‘Make no allowances, my Lord. I am here, therefore I am capable.’

  A dry chuckle ran around the table. Ranyl commanded enormous respect from every mage in Xetesk but there was more to it than that now. Every senior mage knew that Dystran would respect Ranyl’s wishes on his successor to the Circle Seven.

  ‘So that we don’t delay you any longer than necessary, we will deal with the progress of our research into the elven writings. I was hearing about a breakthrough?’

  ‘Small but very significant,’ said Gylac, the chief archivist and the only man truly capable of deciphering the ancient elven writings. Another man whom Dystran feared would die before his work was complete. ‘I have found a common thread in all the pieces we recovered from Calaius. It speaks of the encasing of all elven people in a sheath of magic that sustains them in the tasks laid down for them by their gods.’

  ‘The key to their longevity?’

  ‘It is the closest we have got so far, my Lord,’ replied Gylac. ‘What I find interesting is the similar language we have found in the admittedly vague references to the Elfsorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Gylac gestured at Ranyl. ‘My Lord Ranyl has theorised on the subject to a greater extent than I. I am concentrating on translation. ’

  ‘Gylac is being rather modest,’ said Ranyl, inclining his head. ‘This is not a small breakthrough. If we are proved correct and can understand fully the interaction between elves and mana, we should be able to create a spell that disrupts this sheath. Synthesise Elfsorrow, if you like. The construct is already in development but we have too many unknowns to complete it thus far.’

  Dystran’s heart rate was up. It was more than he could have hoped at this stage. ‘How long?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ said Ranyl. ‘Gylac’s team are working as hard as they can but some of the language is so arcane it defies translation. I suggest we increase our efforts to capture an elf or two who could help us.’

  Dystran nodded. ‘I am meeting our military commanders shortly and will discuss that option with them. Thank you. All of you. This is good news. But only as far as it goes. We must have new weapons or we will eventually lose this war.’ He paused. ‘Now, our dimensional experiments.’

  ‘Complete,’ said Ranyl. ‘We have re-established full contact with the demon dimension; the Al-Drechar’s information has allowed us to redraw our map of inter-dimensional space and calculate dimensional alignment events. When they occur, our full range of dimensional spells will be available for the event’s duration. We are ready. We are back in control.’

  Dystran smiled again. ‘I want the alignment information passed to the army so we can factor it into our attack plans. When will the first helpful event occur?’

  ‘Three days,’ said Ranyl.

  ‘Then that informs our timetable.’ Dystran jabbed a finger at Kestys. ‘You need to do more work. Get me the identity of the One caster on Balaia and get it for me in three day
s. Given that we are again linked to the rest of dimensional space, we can send that damn dragon home. Perhaps you should offer a deal. Actually, I don’t care. If I catch you sleeping before this task is complete, I will feed you to the demons.

  ‘Eat quickly. This meeting is closed.’

  To his credit, Riasu had despatched a fast rider towards the Wesmen Heartlands immediately he’d taken Devun in. To Devun’s irritation, he hadn’t advised the new Black Wing leader of the fact for over two days. They were two days when Devun alternately feared for his life and saw the potential of Selik’s plans open up for him.

  Riasu wasn’t a particularly difficult man but he was suspicious. And his grasp of standard eastern Balaian was fragmented, though still far better than Devun’s tribal Wes. His suspicion was well founded and explained his initial hostility.

  He had been tricked by eastern devils before, he had said, and he would not be again. One mage and his army of walking dead, blank-faced men had promised the Wesmen help in destroying all the colleges bar Xetesk six years before. He had been a liar, like all easterners. Many brave Wesmen warriors had gone to the Spirits because of him. He, Devun had discovered after more difficult questions, had been Styliann, former Lord of the Mount of Xetesk; and killed by a dragon in an alien dimension.

  Still, it gave Devun his first glimmer of hope. Riasu had been very pleased to hear of Styliann’s demise. But it had still taken Devun two days of fragmented discussion to persuade Riasu first not to kill him and second, to take him to meet Tessaya.

  And so to this. Devun and his few Black Wing guards, riding unarmed under the hostile gaze of ten times their number of Wesmen warriors. None of their hosts bar Riasu had horses but they seemed unconcerned by hours of jogging, leaving Devun impressed despite himself.

  There had been a glint in Riasu’s eye when he revealed Tessaya had already been contacted and that a meeting point had been arranged. Devun had firmly gritted his teeth and consigned the memories of fear and uncertainty to the back of his mind. All that mattered was that he was making progress and Riasu could have his little victory. He was acutely aware, though, that Riasu was one hurdle, Tessaya another entirely.

  The terrain they travelled was spectacular if bleak. Great shale and rock slopes fled away to the north while ahead a line of scrub-covered hills promised difficult conditions for man and horse.

  ‘Tell me, Riasu, did your people suffer under the bad storms?’ asked Devun, keeping his language deliberately simple as he referred to the elemental destruction wreaked across the continent by the Nightchild.

  Riasu turned a harsh face to him as they rode together. The dark, unruly hair that surrounded his gruff, wrinkled face was shot with grey. His lips were small, his nose bulbous, having seen too much wine over the years, and his eyes were buried deep beneath his brow.

  ‘Warriors died with no enemy to fight,’ he said. ‘Children’s bellies swelled though no food was inside. Elders perished early to join the Spirits. We suffer still but nothing breaks the Wesmen.’

  ‘I am giving the Wesmen that enemy,’ said Devun.

  He paused, fighting the urge to speak more quickly. Conversation had been little short of torture at times.

  ‘So you say.’ Riasu shrugged.

  ‘Do you not believe me?’

  ‘I believe you hate magic,’ said Riasu. ‘But can you give us our enemy? They will hide within their walls and cast their evil. Are they really broken or do you lie like all your kind? The Lord Tessaya will say.’

  Riasu still hadn’t properly understood. Devun felt as if he expected the Black Wings to march the mages from the gates of Xetesk in chains. He hadn’t even tried to fully explain the ramifications of the war now consuming the colleges, nor his support from the non-mage Balaian population. It would have been pointless. Fortunately, the man he was being taken to meet was possessed of a far higher intellect.

  Lord Tessaya had been the first Wesmen leader to unite the warring tribes in over three centuries. First, it had been under the banner of the Wytch Lords, and fear as much as respect had driven the Wesmen to a single purpose. They had so nearly succeeded too, their ultimate failure a combination of the sheer strength of the combined colleges and their magic and the extraordinary intervention of The Raven. So few, yet responsible for so much.

  But the mark of the Tessaya’s true influence was the maintenance of tribal unity in the aftermath of defeat. He was still their leader, still their greatest hope of victory. And the only man worth talking to in the whole Wesmen nation. He was not to be underestimated. That was why Selik had hatched plans to ally with him.

  They travelled all day and well into the early evening, covering a great deal of stark and barren ground, endlessly climbing and descending slope after slope, but still Devun felt frustrated. A rough calculation of the mid point between the Wesmen Heartlands and Understone Pass had them riding for at least three days before the first possibility of a meeting.

  It was with great surprise then that, late in the evening, a glow emanating from behind a hill resolved itself into a camp lit by a ring of what smelled like dung fires and crisscrossed by braziers. A palatial tent was pitched at the camp’s centre and around it in clusters of two or three, a dozen smaller, circular tents were grouped by campfires, standards flying over each one.

  Approaching closer, Devun could see that the standards were all identical, depicting the bear’s head and claws of the Paleon tribes. Fifty yards from the pool of light, Riasu halted them in the shadow.

  ‘Dismount,’ he ordered. ‘None may approach the Lord Tessaya on higher seat.’

  ‘What?’ Devun blurted out. Riasu looked at him askance, demanding he explain. ‘Tessaya is here?’

  He’d been prepared to believe a camp could have been constructed but not that the Wesmen leader could have travelled here already. Riasu simply nodded. Devun signalled his men to dismount but his mind was racing. He walked round the front of his horse.

  ‘How can he be here? Is this where he lives?’

  ‘No,’ said Riasu, that sparkle in his eyes again. ‘He lives in the Heartlands.’

  ‘But he is here to meet me?’

  Another nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how can he be here already?’ Devun gestured at the camp. ‘I mean, how fast was that rider?’

  ‘The rider ordered the camp built,’ said Riasu.

  ‘So how . . . ? Did Tessaya fly or something?’

  ‘Horse,’ said Riasu. He laughed. ‘You think us savages. But those touched by the Spirits are closer to the Gods than you will ever be.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Devun.

  ‘No,’ agreed Riasu. ‘You are not Wes.’

  Devun was desperate to know how they’d communicated. Would a bird have been fast enough? Possibly. He knew they used them but still the distance was significant and the method uncertain. It was clear, though, that Riasu was happy to perpetuate the mystery.

  ‘What happens now?’ he asked.

  Riasu smiled at his next small victory. ‘Your men will stop here with my warriors. They may move no further into our lands. You will come with me.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Devun’s deputy who had overheard the exchange.

  ‘We’ll do exactly as he says. Just keep yourselves quiet, demand nothing and you’ll be fine. Don’t let them provoke you.’ Devun indicated their empty sword belts; all their weapons were being held at the pass. ‘Remember our circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Devun turned to Riasu and pulled his cloak close, feeling an unseasonable chill in the evening air.

  ‘Lead on,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck,’ said the deputy.

  ‘If I have to rely on that, I think we’re in trouble,’ said Devun, a wry smile on his face. ‘But I appreciate the thought.’

  Riasu led him towards the camp. At each fire stood a quartet of warriors. Around each tribal tent and fire group, men and women busied themselves cooking, eating and checking weapons. Around the palace tent, gu
ards stood watchful. Tessaya was taking few chances. Just beyond the ring of fires, Riasu stopped him.

  ‘Wait. I must seek permission for you to enter.’

  Devun watched him go, walking proud and tall, nodding curtly to the guards who stood aside for him to pass before turning to glare at Devun with undisguised malevolence. He stared back, becoming aware of his vulnerability. If things went awry, he would be dead very quickly.

  While he stood waiting, the scents of the camp drifted over him. Wood smoke and cooked meat, rich herbs and even a hint of canvas wax. It was a very well ordered camp but he expected nothing less. Lord Tessaya was an impressive man; and that was before Devun actually met him. He felt a nervousness he hadn’t experienced since he was first introduced to Selik.

  Riasu wasn’t long, walking quickly back to the camp perimeter and waving him in.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  Devun strode by the guards, hearing one of them mutter something. Though he couldn’t understand the words, the tone and intent were clear enough. He stopped and looked deep into the eyes of the Wesman who was a head shorter than him.

  ‘Say what you will,’ he said pointlessly. ‘But we will be allies. You will respect me one day.’

  ‘Devun!’ snapped Riasu. He uttered a stream of angry Wes and the guard paced back, hand moving from the hilt of his sword. ‘No games.’

  Devun walked over to Riasu and the two men passed by the six-strong guard at Tessaya’s tent entrance. Down a short canvas hallway, another guard held aside a gold trimmed, deep green and tasselled curtain.

  ‘Show respect to the Lord Tessaya,’ warned Riasu.

  Devun smiled at him, feeling his anxiety growing. ‘I had never thought to do otherwise.’

  He walked into the grand single room of the palace tent, taking in the netted four-posted bed that stood at the far wall, the fine carved table and six chairs to his right and the plain woven rugs that covered every inch of grass. And he took in the group of three low, dark red plush sofas arranged around a rectangular table on which stood a jug, two metal goblets and a spread of meat and bread.