The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Come on and have a go,’ muttered Suarav. ‘I’m sick of using my sword as a pointer.’

  Forty or fifty were advancing carefully from across the width of the courtyard. It was littered with bodies and rubble. Their weapons were trained on the small knot of defenders but they had yet to open fire. From behind Suarav, he heard confirmation of shields dropping into place in front of them.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Chandyr at his side.

  Suarav shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Think we’ve scared them?’

  ‘Well, if it helps, I think we’ve worried them enough for them to want to wipe us out to the last man.’

  ‘Ever the voice of comfort, though I happen to agree.’

  ‘They fear the Cleansing Flame,’ said Gythar. ‘They’ve countered most offensive spells. Not that one.’

  ‘Then we should use it,’ said Chandyr.

  ‘No. They will sense the lessening of our shield cover.’

  ‘Gythar’s right,’ said Suarav. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world. It is they who are in a rush, it would seem.’

  The enemy soldiers loped on, their big strides eating up the distance. At thirty yards, each slung his weapon back over his shoulder and drew what looked like a short sword though with an extremely thin blade. White light seemed to play up and down their edges.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ muttered Chandyr.

  ‘They mean to take us on hand to hand. Inside the shield.’ Suarav raised his voice. ‘Not one of those bastards gets past our sword line. Protect the mages. Look to your flanks. They are playing in our world now.’

  At twenty yards the Garonin broke into a run, taking Suarav by complete surprise. It was not just that this was the first time they had seen any Garonin do anything other than walk, they were fast too. Very fast.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ called Suarav and he set his sword to ready, holding it out front and in both hands. ‘Blunt the charge.’

  The Garonin loomed tall and powerful. The drum of their feet sent shivers through the ground and up through his body. He took his own orders and braced his feet as best he could. The Garonin soldiers struck.

  Suarav ducked a flashing blade and buried his sword to the hilt in his opponent’s stomach. The momentum brought the Garonin clattering into Suarav and both men tumbled to the ground. Suarav’s blade was ripped from his grasp. Suarav shovelled the dying man from his legs. Right above him, a Garonin blade beat the defence of a young guardsman. It sliced straight through his neck, down through his ribcage and out of the side of his chest. The stink of cauterised flesh rose. The side of the guard’s body slid away and the rest of him collapsed.

  ‘Dear Gods falling.’

  Suarav snatched up the fallen man’s weapon and swiped it as hard as he could into enemy legs. He felt it bite deep despite the flaring of the armour. He dragged it clear and hacked upwards as he came to his feet, his blade meeting chest armour and bouncing clear.

  Suarav backed away a pace. The Garonin had torn the guard line to pieces. Chandyr blocked a weapon aside and struck high to slide his own blade into the eye slit of his enemy. Another guard near him lost his arm to an easy swipe of a Garonin blade.

  ‘They’re amongst the mages.’

  Suarav saw some space and ran into it. He carved his sword through the back of enemy legs at the knee, feeling bone collapse. He kicked the Garonin in the calves and he fell backwards, arms flailing. A guardsman ran past him and leapt onto the back of another, ramming a dagger again and again into the side of his neck.

  Suarav sensed danger and ducked. A blade buzzed over his head. He saw enough of it to know it was steel but edged in mana, pure and deadly sharp. Something Xetesk had been trying to perfect for generations. Suarav spun away. The Garonin followed him, stabbing straight forward. Suarav sidestepped, grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him off balance. The general brought his sword round high above his head and felt it connect with helmet and then bone.

  Above him, the Defence spell flickered and steadied.

  ‘Gythar!’ he called.

  The old mage was in the thick of the melee, defended by two guardsmen. One fell under a mana blade that stabbed clear through his body, spitting and smoking as it went.

  ‘Chandyr! To Gythar!’

  Chandyr nodded. He brought the pommel of his sword down on the head of a Garonin trying to rise and smashed a knee into his faceplate for good measure. Enemy slaughtered mages but some fought back, having discarded the obsolete spell shields.

  Suarav saw one calm young mage leap up and grab a Garonin faceplate to feed a superheated flame of mana inside it. The Garonin screamed. Three others turned and bore down on the youngster. Suarav diverted from his course and hammered his blade into the neck of one. The second went down under another tightly cast spell but the third sheared his blade left to right and opened up the mage’s back.

  Gythar was still standing. Chandyr was near him. Garonin closed. A third of the defence mages were down. Above, a weapon cycled up to fire. Suarav knew they wouldn’t be able to resist the impact. Garonin blades halted in the act of falling. Faceplates turned skywards. A hideous sound rang out from the machines floating above.

  Suarav saw an opportunity and swept the throat out of an enemy neck.

  ‘I didn’t agree a ceasefire,’ he growled.

  And the next moment they were gone. All of them. The machines blinked out of existence, the detonation clouds dispersed and the foot soldiers simply ceased to be. Suarav turned a quick circle, looking for the counterpunch but there was no one to deliver it.

  Xetesk was silent.

  Densyr had wondered how, without screams from Diera, he would know when Sol was dead. But in the end it was as obvious as it got. Sirendor, Thraun and Ilkar dropped soundlessly to the ground, Thraun’s wolves howled grief and padded across to Diera’s boys, and there was an extraordinary explosion of sound from above. An alien sound like rage but metallic in tone.

  Densyr opened the door and was first through it, the boys and Sharyr hard on his heels. Wolves and a more stately Vuldaroq came along behind. Diera was sitting on the floor, cradling the still form of Sol. His head was against her chest and she stroked the side of his face. Her weeping was quiet, reverential, and Densyr found a lump in his throat that would not swallow away.

  Above her, the doorway was plainly open. Its properties had changed. The grey mist had cleared and a wan light shone out. He could see nothing within but there was a very slight breeze heading up into it. He found the thought that it might be returning souls a comfort.

  Jonas and Hirad had run to their mother and were clinging to her. Densyr and Sharyr walked around to crouch in front of her. The sight of Sol, King of Balaia, the Unknown Warrior of The Raven, lying dead, was truly shocking. As close to an immortal as Densyr had ever considered any man. And to think he had betrayed this great man’s trust.

  ‘Diera?’ said Densyr.

  Both of her boys were crying too and the three of them put their faces close to one another, sharing their grief, gleaning what strength they could from each other.

  ‘Diera, we should move him. Somewhere safe. Now more than ever he deserves our protection and our respect. Diera?’

  Diera opened her eyes. They were red-rimmed and puffed.

  ‘So brave,’ she said. ‘So determined and so full of belief. We must all believe that he has done the right thing. He said it would help.’

  Densyr nodded. ‘And I do. Belatedly, I do. I mean that. He is Raven. And they are not prone to wasting their efforts. We should remember that.’

  Diera moved the boys aside just a little bit and the two wolves padded over. She looked at them briefly but realised they were no threat and laid Sol’s head on a rolled-up cloak which Sharyr had placed on the ground. Diera kissed his lips and smoothed his cheek one more time.

  ‘Don’t cover his face. Let him see. Let the air pass over him. He always loved the breeze on him. When you have to take him, take him where you must bu
t still don’t cover him.’

  She turned back to her sons and Densyr heard her ask a question though he only heard Hirad’s over-loud reply.

  ‘Thraun told them to take care of us. And he told us to make sure they got home,’ the boy said proudly.

  ‘What now?’ asked Sharyr.

  Densyr gazed about him. There seemed to be bodies everywhere. Hirad and Sol in here, the other three in the antechamber. His gaze alighted on Vuldaroq, who was bending over the kneeling forms of the TaiGethen cell.

  ‘Poking them isn’t usually advisable,’ said Densyr.

  Vuldaroq looked round. ‘I don’t think they’ll notice. They’re dead. All three of them.’

  Densyr started. ‘They’re what?’

  ‘Dead,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘Check if you doubt me.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  Try as he might, Densyr couldn’t get himself around this. First Sol and now Auum. Two of the finest warriors ever to grace Balaia. Both gone in moments.

  ‘They are Ynissul,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘The long-lived of the elves. Immortal, actually. I mean that in its literal sense. They can be poisoned and die of an arrow or a sword thrust but, left in normal health, they do not ever have to die.’

  ‘Well they’re dead now,’ said Densyr.

  ‘Because, and this is a presumption but an educated one, they chose to die.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sharyr.

  ‘Presumably they felt they could be more help to Sol than to us,’ said Vuldaroq.

  ‘We could have done with them here,’ said Densyr. ‘Their sort of fighting is always useful.’

  ‘But haven’t the Garonin gone?’ asked Sharyr. ‘That sound we heard. And it’s quiet above.’

  ‘They’ve gone after Sol,’ said Jonas. ‘Haven’t they? It’s why Father wanted Sha-Kaan to know what he was doing.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Densyr. ‘All I do know is, the Garonin came for our mana. They want to rip out the Heart of Xetesk. That is why they are at our gates and in our skies. And whatever Sol has done, that won’t change. They may have gone for now but they’ll be back and we have to be ready for them.’

  ‘We’d best get ourselves outside then,’ said Sharyr. ‘See what’s left.’

  Densyr nodded. ‘Vuldaroq, if you would be so good as to see Diera and company to more comfortable quarters and organise the moving of our departed to the Master’s Morgue, I’d really appreciate it.’

  Vuldaroq inclined his head. ‘Of course, my Lord Densyr. And anything else I can do . . . Um, one favour though?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dystran’s condition is a concern.’

  ‘He’s top of my list,’ said Densyr. He moved to go but brought himself up short before Diera. ‘My Lady Unknown.’

  ‘Only Hirad calls me that.’

  ‘I know but . . . well, you know. Sol’s sacrifice. It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever known anyone do. And I have seen some truly stunning acts.’

  Diera nodded but could not raise a smile. She had a son under each arm and the wolves flanked them.

  ‘It doesn’t stop him being dead though, does it?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you, Densyr. Really. It is bearable, just, to know the reasons why he has done what he has done. What would be truly unbearable, would be for it to be a waste. That means you and your college have to try and save as many souls as you can.’

  ‘That’s exactly where I’m going now.’

  ‘And one more thing. We haven’t got along well in the last few days but I won’t forget what you’ve done for my family in the last ten years. Dismal shame though it is, you’re pretty much all I’ve got of the old life barring my two wonderful boys. So when you go out there, be sure not to die.

  ‘We need you. The old you. Denser.’

  Chapter 37

  Densyr picked his way over the rubble having already scared himself a dozen times on the way up the remains of the spiral stair to his formal dinner chambers. He was amazed the tower still stood. Holes had been blown in the walls in too many places to count. Several timber floors had collapsed, but it was testament to the original builders that all the stone floors, placed to strengthen the tower in key areas, remained intact.

  He looked up to the open sky, mercifully clear of Garonin machines, and wondered at the sheer level of the destruction and whether they could possibly rebuild. A matter for the future, should they have one. Meanwhile, he and Brynar moved aside beams, shelves, burned portraits and tapestries on their way to where Dystran still sat in the chair next to Septern’s abandoned borrowed body. A body that looked very suddenly about ten days dead.

  ‘Doesn’t smell too good, does he?’ said Brynar.

  ‘Strange. Presumably, the returned soul holds off decay but only to the extent of hiding it. I wish I knew how that worked.’

  Dystran was partly covered by a beam that had fallen across his chair. Coming closer, Densyr could see that the beam had lodged between the back and side panels of the chair, which had broken its fall and stopped it from crushing the old Lord of the Mount’s skull.

  ‘How close we came to ultimate defeat,’ breathed Densyr.

  ‘Then you think he’s still alive?’ asked Brynar.

  ‘Of course he’s still alive, idiot. If he wasn’t, the Heart would have been destroyed by mana feedback.’

  ‘Oh right, yes.’

  ‘Gods drowning, Brynar, you really ought to meet Hirad Coldheart again. You’d get on like a house on fire with your similar-sized intellects.’

  Densyr helped the young mage shift the beam and blow the dust from Dystran’s face. He looked very peaceful. His breathing was deep and sure and his body was uninjured so far as they could see. Densyr knelt by him and took his hand, dropping into the mana spectrum right by him.

  Dystran’s aura pulsed strongly where it rested as a perfect buffer to the loose mana charging around the ruined grid. Densyr could see that Dystran had done good work in allowing some peripheral areas of the grid to feed back into the Heart under control. But still enough remained to do severe damage and most likely destroy it.

  ‘My mother would have said it is like unpicking a woollen knit,’ said Dystran, making Densyr jump. ‘You have to retain the integrity of the pattern, you see, or else the whole lot just falls in a knotted heap. Something like that, anyway.’

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ said Densyr.

  ‘Told you they’d not see me here.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely true. Have you seen this place? It isn’t how I left it.’

  ‘A little more untidy, is it?’

  ‘You could say.’ Densyr waved in Brynar’s direction. ‘Have a look round, see if by some miracle any water has survived in a container.’

  ‘Bless you, Densyr. Tell me, how are we doing?’

  ‘Average to awful,’ said Densyr.

  Dystran managed a dry chuckle. ‘You really must go back to your propaganda classes.’

  ‘Only when I can issue blindfolds to all the sceptics too. The college is in ruins. Two towers are gone. This one and Nyer are on the verge of collapse. The other three are relatively sound but only because binding work went on all through the attacks. The dome is rubble, most of our outbuildings are destroyed and the population are scattered and, we presume, chased by Garonin.

  ‘Sol is dead and, again we presume, travelling with The Raven and with Auum’s TaiGethen cell, who also took their own lives down in the catacombs.’

  ‘Oh. Ynissul deciding that enough is enough, I suppose.’

  Densyr shook his head. ‘You and Vuldaroq really had too little to do down in your rathole of a suite, didn’t you? Too much time to study ancient elven lore and history.’

  ‘No, no, no. We did all this during the Elfsorrow crisis, trying to work out how they manage to live so long. Not my fault if you never bothered to consult the popular texts on the matter.’

  ‘I w
as otherwise engaged, if you recall,’ said Densyr. ‘The question I need you to answer for me now is, can we move you? We are assuming the Garonin are chasing The Raven but we don’t really know why since the mana in our Heart is enormous compared to anything they have around their souls. But in any event the Garonin will surely return to complete the job. And you have to be somewhere safer.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you.’ Dystran’s aura pulsed as he tested his mind. ‘All I will say is, be gentle. And I’d like to go back to my chambers if you consider them safe enough. Rathole or not, they smell good.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ Densyr turned to Brynar. ‘You heard the man. Bring up a stretcher party, though they might want to just pick up the chair with Lord Dystran in it. Less mucking about, I’d say. And ask them not to drop him. There would be . . . repercussions.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘And Brynar.’

  ‘My Lord.’

  ‘Your antics out in the city earlier. With The Raven.’ Densyr paused and let Brynar sweat. ‘Good work.’

  Brynar’s smile was broad. ‘Thank you, Lord Densyr.’

  ‘Sentimental nonsense,’ muttered Dystran.

  ‘I remain lord of this pile of redesigned stone and wood,’ said Densyr. ‘And hence I shall be as sentimental as I like to whomsoever I choose. Thank you very much for your input. Time to relax. Help is at hand.’

  ‘Did the young pup find any water?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  Densyr made his careful way down the stair, already feeling nervous about Dystran’s journey to the catacombs. He passed Brynar’s team on the way up and favoured them with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. At the base of the tower, guards and mages were at work trying to make a path to the shattered complex doors and to clear the rubble-strewn mess that cluttered the entrance to the catacombs.

  The evacuation alarm still sounded across the city, and while it had merged into the background for a while, Densyr heard it loud and clear again now. He clapped his hands for attention.