The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

Gresse’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t like you, Blackthorne. How would it be if they were approaching your vines, eh? Kill from a distance, is it? It’s like you’ve lost your nerve.’

  Blackthorne felt a surge through his body and bit back his first words. He leaned close to Gresse, his eyes boring into the older man’s bright gaze.

  ‘Damn right I lost my nerve. I watched the demons take my lands, my town and the souls of my people. I heard them battering on the doors of my castle. I had to stay strong for the ever-dwindling number of survivors. I lost my dearest friends, my closest advisers and I lost my Luke. Taken from right under my nose.

  ‘Right up until the end they hammered and picked and gathered ground. Each day they gained strength while we weakened. We were alone, barricaded into the kitchens in the final days. Twenty thousand reduced to a paltry handful. Men so terrified by the relentless grind and the knowledge that a single touch meant perpetual torment that it was only memory that kept them going, kept them fighting.

  ‘All the while, the demons delighted in our suffering. They knew our souls were as good as theirs and they waited for the inevitable. They could taste the fear; they breathed it, exulted in it. Day after long, tortured day. Night after desperate night. No respite, no rest, no salvation. No hope.’

  Blackthorne’s hands were clutched tight around the reins of his horse and trembling violently. He straightened in his saddle, trying to calm himself. But the visions flooded him. The masses outside his defensive spell ring, clawing to get in. The demon master, Ferouc, chilling and determined. The hordes of baying minions waiting their chance. His people standing with him even though they must have known he could not save them. Fighting and falling at his side. Luke, cold and dead in a place Blackthorne had told him was safe.

  ‘But you did it. You won.’ Gresse’s voice was quiet and gentle.

  Blackthorne scoffed. ‘Won? It was not victory. Not for us. Survival of the very few because The Raven did what had to be done and laid down their lives for us all.’

  ‘It is what we all had to do,’ said Gresse. ‘Just try to stay alive and pray someone would do something to free us. We had to make sure there was still a Balaian people to rebuild. We had to make sure there was something left.’

  ‘I cannot shake the nightmares, Gresse. I have forgotten what a peaceful night’s sleep is. They left so little behind. And that is why we cannot afford to talk to those who would take what we still have. That is why you should be pounding them with Cleansing Flame and Winter’s Touch. Ripping their flesh with IceBlades.’

  Gresse reached out a gloved hand and squeezed Blackthorne’s forearm through his riding coat.

  ‘I will be forever sorry I was not standing with you, old friend.’

  ‘You had your own battles to fight. Though I would have gained strength from your presence,’ said Blackthorne. He sighed. ‘You must do what you feel to be right. These are your lands.’

  Gresse nodded. ‘But all the same, should I fail, at least you have a plan, eh?’

  ‘Yep. Cast everything I have and run for it. Some plan.’

  ‘See you back at the lodge for that fine dry white I was talking to you about.’

  ‘Don’t die,’ said Blackthorne. ‘After all, I don’t know where you keep your best cut crystal.’

  Gresse took his twenty men and set off down the slope. So easy to be brave when you had the advantage of height and the buffer of distance. But this was like riding into the shadows of mountains. Gresse had not grasped quite how big the invaders were, how vast their machine or how immense their beasts.

  His horses, a quarter the size of the other animals, would not close further than a hundred yards. Gresse couldn’t blame them. Down here, on the flat and even, the reason for the invaders’ confidence was clear enough. They dwarfed everything else. The vibrations through his feet shook the vertebrae in his back. Each footfall of a beast rattled the earth under his boots. Each drag of the machine was like the thrum of a thousand horses. Each blast of the machine’s infernal workings was a rake of fear dragged across his heart.

  The stench was powerful, nauseating. It brought tears to the eyes and a turning of the gut. This close, the ambient heat of the machine brought sweat to his brow. But he walked as steadily as he could to within fifty yards and stopped outside the line of his first vines. His men gathered about him, some casting guiltily envious glances at the three left behind to keep hold of the horses.

  Watching the men and their machine approach, Gresse was acutely aware that, should they decide not to stop, there was little he could realistically do to save his party from being trampled underfoot. They might be able to bring down the walkers but halt the machine? Hardly.

  Gresse was too in awe of the scale of those approaching to be truly frightened. But the moment he realised the giants had taken notice of him, he began to shake. It wasn’t dramatic but it was there, in his heart and in the deeps of his courage. Anyone able to look into his soul would see his fear.

  Only ten yards from where he stood the central figure waved a hand, a languid gesture in keeping with their unhurried, strolling gait. The mighty beasts snorted, shook and bowed their heads, bellowing their displeasure. The sound startled man and horse alike. Gresse heard a shout and the thundering of hooves.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be walking back to the lodge then,’ muttered a guardsman.

  ‘The exercise will do us no end of good,’ said Gresse. ‘Face forward. Don’t flinch.’

  The machine halted and fell silent. The quiet was almost as shocking as the noise had been. Gresse could not hear a bird. But as the heat haze began to fade in the machine’s wake, he had his closest glimpse yet of what was being done to his country. The accompanying anger did nothing to quell his dread.

  The three figures approached. As Blackthorne had guessed, they were a good eight feet tall. Every stride ate up the space, the thud of their footfalls like tolling bells.

  Those boots, their leggings and breastplates were all like leather but not. Apparently flexible yet burnished the way only metal could be. The designs upon the armour, if such it was, were as alien as anything the Calaian elves might dredge from their long and isolated history. A homage to ancient Gods perhaps. There were supplicating hands, spears of fire and great open maws wrought in chaotic fashion across the centre of each wide chest. And surrounding the images were either letters of a language he could not begin to fathom or angular scrollwork.

  ‘They look like mathematical symbols,’ he said.

  ‘Beguiling, almost, my Lord,’ said his captain.

  The designs were picked out in a silver-coloured material that seemed to shimmer, even move, as the figures took each stride. It was not until the three of them stopped just five paces away that Gresse saw that his eyes had not deceived him. The silver settled to a gentle pulsing, only hurrying around those disturbing full-face helms as they looked down upon him.

  Gresse could discern nothing about the figures inside. The narrow eye slits betrayed nought but shadow. More of the leather-like armour hung from the base of the helmets to cover the neck completely. The face plates themselves were carved with more of the symbols and with mouths open to scream. Of hands clawing for mercy. Livid images of pain.

  ‘You are on the borders of my lands,’ said Baron Gresse. ‘I would know your intention before requesting you turn aside. You may not bring your machine any further.’

  The figures did not respond at once. The three heads angled towards one another and moved as if they were conversing, yet without words. Gresse exchanged a glance with his captain, who shrugged his own uncertainty.

  ‘I will have a response,’ said Gresse at length.

  The centremost figure turned back to him.

  ‘My . . . apologies. Your language is seldom heard and less well understood.’

  Gresse was startled. The words flowed like music, though slightly discordant. Symbols on the figure’s clothing shone briefly. The figure cleared his throat and this time was beautifully in tu
ne.

  ‘That is better. We cannot accede to your request. Our route takes us one way only. If you stand on your lands as you say then we shall be walking across them. The lines of energy dictate such. But have no concern. We will take nothing that we do not need. We are simple foragers but we must collect or many will perish.’

  ‘Collect what?’ asked Gresse, transported so far by the gorgeous tones of the figure’s voice that he found it hard to be angered by the rebuff.

  ‘Material for our fight. Energy for our weapons and strength for our armour. Our foe grows more powerful and our need grows with it. If we are not to be defeated, we must bring fuel for our fires. Clear the path. Our time is precious.’

  Gresse held up both hands, the spell of the glorious male voice broken.

  ‘Whoa, whoa! I don’t think so, forager. These are my lands and I decide who crosses them. And you will turn aside and you will not operate that machine in my country. You are destroying our lands and that cannot be allowed.’

  The forager glanced back over his shoulder. Gresse thought he might have seen the ghost of a shrug.

  ‘Damage is temporary. Your vegetation will regrow.’

  Gresse gaped. ‘Temporary? You bastard.’ He jabbed a finger at the devastation. ‘People lived out there. They won’t regrow, will they?’

  ‘People must learn to avoid the compass of the vydosphere. Until then, there will, unfortunately, be casualties.’

  Gresse looked briefly at his captain. The soldier stared back, shaking his head, mirroring the baron’s disbelief.

  ‘And you think I’m just going to let you amble across my lands and swallow your temporary damage and unfortunate casualties, is that right?’

  The forager straightened; Gresse hadn’t realised he was leaning forward. The other two turned their heads and there was another silent exchange.

  ‘We consider that you have no choice. We are Garonin. Stand aside. Our conversation is at an end.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Gresse. ‘Captain, let’s cut these bastards down to size.’

  Gresse heard the noise of the machine roaring back into life. He heard his captain order the attack. He even drew the sword one of Blackthorne’s men had lent him. And the last things he remembered clearly were the sensations of swift airborne travel and of heavy impact.

  ‘Take them down, take them down!’ yelled Blackthorne at his mages.

  The baron was already running towards Gresse, who had landed in a heap and rolled three times before coming to a stop. Action was all that prevented Blackthorne from refusing to believe what he had just seen. A brief conversation, plenty of finger pointing and, latterly, drawn swords. But never mind all that. Lines on the armour of the figures had blazed with light which had lashed out at Gresse and his men.

  The invaders themselves didn’t so much as move a muscle. Yet Gresse was hurled fully fifty yards back and he was the lucky one. Others who had rushed in more quickly were lying dismembered amongst the first row of vines. A few had survived the initial onslaught and were being ignored by their attackers while they screamed their agony clinging onto the stumps of hands, fought with boiling entrails or stared wide-eyed at terrible gashes. And all in the blink of an eye.

  The invaders moved on. One stopped to brush what must have been gore from his boot and then all reassumed their long, casual stride, the machine following in their wake.

  ‘Get messengers back to the lodge. Every mage to be ready. Every horseman saddled and awaiting a message to take out to the cities and towns.’

  Blackthorne shouted his orders over his shoulder as he ran headlong down the slope, using vines to break his speed. Gresse was moving but it meant little. One leg was broken at the knee and jammed under his body at a sickening angle. There was crimson staining the dry earth. The enemy would roll right over him.

  Every fear that Blackthorne had for Balaia surfaced once more. Every nightmare revisited him in those few moments while he slipped and slithered to his friend. And all that Gresse had said so recently hung in the air to taunt him.

  The air flashed yellow. Blackthorne turned to see God’s Eyes arcing high towards the enemy. Six of them, moving fast.

  ‘Catch those, you bastards,’ he said.

  Blackthorne saw the trio tracking the skull-sized orbs of mana fire. They made no attempt to run and he got the impression they were merely curious about what was coming at them. They didn’t break stride, they didn’t flinch. The orbs struck them square on. Armour flared. Yellow light swept across the valley floor. An alien screech echoed out.

  And when the light faded, Blackthorne could see the invaders lying motionless, burning brightly. Behind them, the machine and the animals that pulled it had stopped. Blackthorne jumped to his feet and punched the air.

  ‘Die screaming, you fuckers!’ he shouted, and cheers rose from the watching riders and mages.

  At his feet, Gresse coughed. Blackthorne knelt to tend to him and found the older baron smiling.

  ‘You still can’t shake it off, can you?’ Gresse said, voice sounding strong and sure.

  ‘What, old friend?’

  ‘That gutter language Hirad Coldheart taught you when he was living in the Balan Mountains all those years back.’

  Blackthorne chuckled. ‘He had a unique way with words, it’s true. Effective if a little lacking in sophistication at times. Right. Think I’d better arrange a stretcher for you. That leg looks bad.’

  ‘You should try knowing how it feels,’ said Gresse.

  ‘Lie still.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought to leap nimbly to my feet.’

  Blackthorne stood and waved a rider to him. ‘I need four men and I need a stretcher rigged up. There’ll be plenty of material back at the lodge. Be quick. And send a mage. Baron Gresse needs his pain removed.’

  ‘I do not need a mage, thank you very much.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Gresse. Trust me on this. Go.’

  ‘Yes, Baron.’

  The rider turned and put his heels to his horse. The animal galloped away. Blackthorne sat on the dusty ground next to Gresse and looked down over the valley. The corpses of the invaders still burned. Behind them, the machine was quiet and the beasts were still, staring straight ahead. Some of his mages were making a slow and wary approach. One glanced in his direction and he nodded his permission for them to continue.

  ‘I wonder who they were,’ said Blackthorne.

  ‘Garonin. Or I think that’s what one of them said.’

  ‘Well it’s a name, but I was thinking a little more widely than that.’

  Gresse drew in a pained breath.

  ‘There’ll be a mage here soon,’ said Blackthorne.

  ‘I’ll try to contain my excitement,’ said Gresse. ‘So what do you think? From another dimension?’

  ‘Probably. Good to see them folding under spell attack, though. It means we can fight them.’

  ‘And win.’

  ‘Easily.’

  A smell of burned mana drifted across them. A moment later the valley was crowded with Garonin. Blackthorne shot to his feet, gaping. Fifty and more of them where a heartbeat before there had been none. Materialising as if dispelling a massed Beyen’s Cloak spell. And these had not come merely to walk in front of the machine. As the beasts’ roars split the air and they began to walk, Blackthorne could see what he assumed were weapons in the hands of most of the new invaders. They advanced.

  ‘Gresse, I don’t think we can wait for that stretcher.’

  Chapter 7

  The mournful calls of the ClawBound soared above the anxious rainforest, a companion to Auum’s run north with his Tai towards Ysundeneth. The proud roar of the panthers, the guttural call of the elves combining to summon the nation to the Harkening. By day a clarion call to action. By night a haunting resonance that denied rest and demanded movement.

  Every creature in the rainforest heard the song. For Tual’s denizens, it was an alien sound that kept them in hides, burrows and nests; for the elves, a sign of mort
al peril that none dare ignore.

  From every corner of the mighty rainforest they came. Temples were left untended. Villages and towns deserted. Crops abandoned and fishing fleets drawn up onto riverbanks. All making the journey that had existed before only in legend and myth, lost in the ancient writings of elven history. Still, some had personal memories of the time before they would rather forget. All gathering at the huge natural amphitheatre that the elves called Ultan-in-Caeyin, where Gods are heard.

  The last gathering here had taken place in the aftermath of the Elfsorrow which humans had unleashed on Calaius and which other humans had helped defeat. Auum had not been in attendance. This time it had to be different. Then it had been in celebration, now it was in fear of extermination.

  Ultan-in-Caeyin was a gem unearthed not long after the founding of Ysundeneth on the northern coast of Calaius. A huge bowl of stone and grass banks on the edge of the rainforest, carved by the Gods for their words to be heard. Ringed by sheer cliffs, bordered by river and ocean, it had been embellished over the years. A vast stage stood at the northern end away from the entrance. Bridges and paths had been laid for people to walk the short distance from the city’s western edge. Hundreds of brackets for torch and lantern had been hammered into the walls. Benching had been built in vast concentric arcs. Ultan-in-Caeyin could seat two hundred thousand comfortably.

  Auum shuddered as he approached the wide entrance. Elves were streaming in and that was bad enough. But inside there were, he was told, upwards of thirty-five thousand already assembled. He stopped and stared at the masses inside. The gloom of evening was descending. Cook fires were being lit all across the bowl.

  ‘Is there no other way to the stage?’

  ‘Straight ahead is the only way,’ said Ghaal.

  Auum looked over at the stage, impossibly distant through the throng and blazing with light that taunted him. The walls of the Caeyin appeared to press in, sheer and impassable, pushing the crowd in, shoving them towards him. He backed up a pace.

  ‘I don’t like crowds,’ he said.