Ravensoul

by James Barclay

  ‘Now you see,’ Ryish said, croaking through a cracked throat. ‘We are lost.’

  ‘I don’t know what I saw,’ said Auum.

  ‘There is no path for the dead to travel,’ said Ryish. ‘Nowhere for the soul to rest. Shorth deserts us.’

  Auum glanced at the priestess, whose body was quivering on the altar.

  ‘She is . . . ?’

  Ryish was nodding. He grabbed Auum’s arm. His fingers, red raw and black from the flames, gripped hard, smearing the TaiGethen’s ritual camouflage.

  ‘She cannot walk the rainforest yet she cannot rest with Shorth. Her doom is the doom of any who now die. Neither dead nor alive. No end to pain. Only fear.’

  Ryish broke down and Rebraal rocked him in his arms as if he were a child in distress.

  ‘Her soul will find rest.’

  ‘It will not,’ sobbed Ryish. ‘It cannot stay within her body and it cannot find a path to the embrace of Shorth. It will be cast adrift. Lost for eternity, never to know the Communion with the living, never to feel the strength of the dead.’

  ‘That cannot be,’ said Auum. ‘We cannot exist if we fear to die. There must still be a path to the dead.’

  All three were silent for a while. Ryish composed himself and sat up again, nodding his gratitude, wincing his physical pain.

  ‘And what of the dead?’ asked Rebraal.

  Ryish shook his head. ‘My mind is a desert, my soul a dry ocean bed, my will a forest blackened and destroyed. I cannot feel them. I cannot speak with them. The heart of Calaius is rotting away.’

  Rebraal wanted to ask more but Auum stopped him.

  ‘Ryish, what did she say? What was the word she uttered?’

  Ryish took a deep breath and swallowed before he spoke. The word was jagged glass dragged through flesh.

  ‘Garonin.’

  Auum and Rebraal shared a glance. Garonin. A word that denied hope.

  ‘I have not saved my people from the Arakhe merely to lose them to this evil,’ said Auum. ‘We must call a Harkening.’

  ‘There is no salvation if they have truly seen our hiding places,’ said Ryish. ‘All we can prepare for is extinction.’

  ‘If there is a way, I will find it. If there is not, then we must seek a new place for our people. A new home.’ Auum turned to Rebraal. ‘Summon the ClawBound.’

  Chapter 2

  But it was a shifting grey and an indistinct horizon this time. Not like any other time. Yet the same. The abject helplessness still ripped at his soul and the cries for aid speared his head like needles driven into his brain. And the hands reached for him and the faces were of those he loved drawn into pictures of torment. Their desperation bit deep inside him.

  He reached out for them as he always did, to help as he always had done and always would. Though when he did he could not reach them. A barrier he could neither see nor sense kept him from them, kept their fingers from locking together. And the more he strained and grasped, the further they were from him. He shouted for them to come back but the smoke engulfed them once more.

  Sol was bolt upright in bed. The sweat was slick on his face, on his shaven head and across the powerful chest on which grey hairs had begun to dominate. He knew his eyes were wide, sucking at the half-light, desperate to see. He tried to drag in his breath quietly. Failed.

  ‘Sol?’

  Sol looked down at the shape next to him in the bed. Earlier that afternoon, they had been as close as he had remembered for a very long time. Like a memory of a decade past. Now, the veil of disappointment had risen once more. One word was all she had said. And it carried so much frustration.

  ‘I’m sorry, Diera.’

  ‘Same dream, huh?’

  ‘What would you have me say?’ he asked.

  ‘That you believe it is a dream. It’s all I ever want you to say.’ Diera whispered the words.

  Sol reached out a hand to her, touched her bare shoulder where the sheet had fallen from her soft skin.

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ he said.

  Diera shrugged off his hand, threw the covers aside and stood up, her back to him. He watched her take in a deep, relaxing breath before she reached for her shirt and skirt. There was nothing more to be said. There never was. But he couldn’t let her leave the bedroom like this. It was a mistake too often repeated.

  ‘I’ve tried to tell you how real the vision is. How intricate the detail is that I have seen and, Gods drowning, I have seen it so many times. How can it be a dream?’

  ‘How can it be anything else?’

  She wouldn’t face him.

  ‘It’s a message.’

  Now she did and on her face, still beautiful and framed in fair hair streaked with grey, was the contempt that had become depressingly familiar.

  ‘And one day you’ll be able to tell me what it says, right? And when will that be? Right now? Tomorrow?’ She picked up a shoe and threw it at him. ‘Never?’

  Sol caught the shoe and dropped it onto the bed. He pushed back his covers and stood. They stared at each other for a time from opposite sides of the mattress. Diera snatched her shoe back off the bed and rammed a foot into it.

  ‘The visions have been more vivid of late,’ he said into the void. ‘But I still don’t understand it all.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ said Diera, expression a warning, the bed an inadequate barricade. ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘They’re in trouble. I cannot ignore it.’

  ‘Trouble? How can they be in trouble?’ Diera jumped onto the bed. She raised her fists to beat him but he snared them easily enough. ‘They’re all dead, Sol! Dead. Their troubles are over.’

  Sol caught her gaze and held it. He could see the pain within her. The desperation for him to be other than he was. As for the love, that was fading. He let go her fists and her arms dropped to her sides.

  ‘Death is no guarantee of peace,’ he whispered. ‘The demons taught us that.’

  Diera sobbed. Her face crumpled and she held the sides of his head in the palms of her hands.

  ‘But the demons are gone,’ she said. ‘You of all people know that. The threat is finished. It’s over.’

  ‘I want nothing more than to believe that is true,’ said Sol. ‘But I don’t.’

  Diera slumped to the bed and buried her head in her hands. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Five years, Sol. Five years of this and you’ve been getting worse and worse. The Raven is gone a decade past. We are your life now, me and the boys.’ She raised her face to him and the tears spilling from her eyes drew some to his own. ‘Please, Sol, this obsession is killing us. Let the dead be. Come back to me. I need you. We all need you.’

  ‘And I am here,’ he said. ‘But I must find out what is happening. I cannot rest until I am sure they are at peace.’

  ‘How can you ever know? They’re dead!’ Diera shouted the word into his face, levered herself from the bed and strode towards the door.

  ‘There—’

  ‘I won’t hear this any more, Sol. I won’t.’ Diera smoothed her skirt and faced him, forcing herself to relax. ‘I can’t deal with it. When you were hunting the demons I understood. Because I wanted a future free of those things for our boys just as you did. But this? This is chasing shadows. It will always be unfinished and I am sorry for that. But you have to accept it. Open your eyes to what is in front of you now, don’t keep them on the distant past.’

  Sol sat on the bed and massaged his hip. It was beginning to ache. The spell was wearing off again.

  ‘It doesn’t feel distant. Not to me.’ He looked up at Diera. She was studying him but wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I stood in that doorway and watched Hirad die. I could have done something. I could have saved him.’

  ‘And that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Redemption for you, for your imagined failings.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll never understand why you torture yourself. None
of the other survivors are. They know what they did and they know what you did. You’re the living embodiment of a hero, Sol. Why can’t you see that?’

  ‘Because heroism didn’t save Hirad or Erienne, or Ark or Thraun, did it?’

  ‘No, but it saved Balaia and me and Jonas and young Hirad. Those of The Raven died doing what they always did. Be proud, not desolate.’

  ‘I am proud. And that’s why I have to know if there’s trouble.’

  Diera shook her head. ‘You hear but you do not listen. And you are blind to what you are doing to me and the boys.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Sol, moving around the bed towards her. ‘It is as much to protect you as it is to help my friends if I can.’

  Diera gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t try and justify your obsessions using us, Sol. At least be honest with yourself even if you can’t be anything else. I’m asking you one last time. Think, really think about this. Then come down and join your family or don’t come down at all.’

  There was a hammering on the door downstairs. Diera cracked.

  ‘Can they not give us a moment’s peace?’ she shrieked. ‘We’re not open for three hours!’

  Sol was in front of her in a moment, taking her by the shoulders and sitting her back down on the bed.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said quietly.

  He pulled on his clothes and left the bedroom without saying more though his mind was drenched with words. His heart was beating hard and he was aware of a growing confusion. Sol shivered and tied his shirt tight at the neck. On the stairs, pain flared in his leg, an old memory resurfacing. The docks at Arlen. The sweep of a sword. Hirad saving his life. Again. The imagery was so intense it was within a ghost of being real. Sol leaned against the wall and descended more slowly, letting his shoulder slide along the age-smoothed dark timbers.

  The hammering on the door was repeated.

  ‘Patience!’ roared Sol. ‘I’m coming. The Gods save me from the curse of the impatient drunk.’

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sol could feel the heat from the ovens in the kitchens to his right. A clatter of pans told him at least one of the staff was already in. Evenings at The Raven’s Rest were always busy. It helped that so many of the city’s influential people were regular customers but Sol liked to think that both the food and the wine cellar were worthy of those he served.

  Ahead of Sol, a short passage led out to a fenced yard where he could hear at least one of his sons, Jonas probably, playing a loud game with friends. And to his left, his pride and joy, if he could be said to experience joy these days. His bar. No. Their bar. A place of laughter, memory and reminiscence. The place where he always retreated when he tired of the attentions of state. When he was allowed to.

  The place where The Raven would live forever.

  But now, walking towards the heavy, bound oak door that let out on to the street, he wondered if this shrine to his past really was poisoning his mind. Diera thought so. Sol walked slowly past the portraits of his friends a decade and more dead. He didn’t feel the barbs of grief as he had done in the early days but he didn’t think he’d ever shake the regret that he would never stand with them again.

  Sol could hear Diera’s voice in his head, telling him to move on. Celebrate their triumphs, learn to smile.

  He couldn’t. He never had been able to, and now his head was full of disaster like it hadn’t been in five years, ever since he stopped hunting demons. Sol let his gaze trail over the portraits of Erienne, beautiful of face but sad of mind; Thraun, forever troubled but so loyal; and Ilkar, sharp-featured and acerbic, before pausing as he so often did at Hirad.

  The barbarian’s scarred face was packed full of belief and raw power and it sported that damned smile with which he had died.

  ‘So, old friend, what is it? I’m either right or I’m losing my mind. No in between, as you’d have said. Trouble is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to begin. Any ideas?’

  It was a moment before Sol became aware that he was actually waiting for a response.

  ‘Talking to a picture.’ Sol shook his head. ‘I think we have an answer, don’t we?’

  Another bout of hammering on the door, and this time Sol was relieved to hear it and let it distract him from himself.

  ‘All right, all right. I’m here.’

  He strode to the door, drew back the top and centre bolts, kicked up the bottom one and turned the key in the lock. The levers moved back with a satisfying, heavy sound. He pulled the door open, stepping back as he did so. You can never be too careful.

  The man who stared at him with an expression bordering on elation was young and smartly dressed very much in the style of a merchant. There was blood all over his left shoulder and chest. Sol frowned. He looked at the wound and wondered how the man was still standing.

  ‘Unknown, is it really you? Did I really find you?’

  Sol flinched at the sound of his old name. The man made to move forward, his arms reaching out.

  ‘No one calls me that,’ said Sol, his voice gruff. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Shame,’ said the man, raising his eyebrows. ‘I always thought it rather suited you. It was one of Ilkar’s better nicknames.’

  Sol’s skin prickled and his head cleared. He stepped forward and jabbed the man in the chest.

  ‘You are treading a very fine line with the memories of my friends.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, big man?’

  ‘Clearly not,’ said Sol. ‘And be assured that if you make one more familiar remark, I will deck you.’

  ‘The body is unfamiliar but the soul and the shadow are mine, Unknown. And you have to help me. You have to help all of us.’

  Sol felt cold. He straightened. The man’s eyes held a desperate sadness, and he was frightened. Not of Sol but of something far, far more deeply embedded in his mind. There was something about him Sol couldn’t grasp, something recognisable. But he’d been begged for help by passing acquaintances before. Everyone knew Sol’s face and reputation.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The man smiled and a spark lit his eyes just for a heartbeat. He spread his arms.

  ‘It’s me. It’s Hirad.’

  Sol decked him.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The merchant put a hand to his left eye. It was already beginning to swell. ‘Didn’t lose your strength when you got the wrinkles, did you?’

  Sol paused for a moment and glanced up and down the street. The Thread was busy as always. Heads were turning and no doubt jaws already exercising opinions laced with ignorance. There were always stories to be invented about the first and reluctant king of Balaia. Sol stooped and grabbed the merchant by his lapels. He pulled the man upright and threw him inside the bar, where he slithered to his knees. Sol walked in and kicked the door shut behind him.

  The merchant displayed no fear when Sol loomed above him.

  ‘I’ll give you one more chance. An abject apology just might save you from a few more broken bones.’

  ‘You need to believe me, Unknown. Balaia’s in trouble. The whole dimension and loads of other things only Ilkar understands.’

  ‘Right, that’s it.’

  Sol grabbed the merchant by his wounded arm and dragged him to his feet. He clamped a hand around the back of the man’s neck and marched him to the picture of Hirad.

  ‘Take a good close look, you little bastard. This is Hirad Coldheart. This is the heartbeat of The Raven. A man I loved and a man I miss every single day. You will not pass yourself off as one of Balaia’s great heroes. Do I make myself clear?’

  The merchant nodded. ‘You do. And it’s a good likeness though I remember my teeth being straighter than that.’

  ‘Fucking weasel.’

  Sol hurled the merchant across his bar. The man knocked aside two chairs, sprawled across a table and collided with the back shelf, upsetting a candelabra and smashing the glass in two lanterns. He scrabbled for purchase. Sol could see his eyes. There was fear of him in them now. Too
late.

  Sol’s cudgel for the control of the unruly was hanging in its brackets on a cross beam just above his head. He fetched it down and advanced.

  ‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’ The cudgel’s face slapped against his open left palm. ‘No one plays with the memory of The Raven. Certainly not some puffed-up pretty boy like you. I’m going to make sure that cut on your shoulder is the least of your concerns.’

  The merchant pushed himself to his feet and backed away. There was nothing behind him but the corner of the alcove into which he had been thrown. He felt the wall behind him and held out both hands.

  ‘Unknown, please. You have to believe me. I’m not taking the piss. Please.’

  ‘No one calls me that and walks out of here. Not any more.’

  Sol pushed a chair aside and dragged the table from in front of the merchant. The back of his neck was hot. The cudgel felt good in his fist. It had been a long time since anyone had tried it on with him. It seemed that not quite everyone had got the message.

  ‘I love that you are the protector of our memories. But we’re in trouble. You have to listen. I know you’ve been having dreams. Ilkar’s been—’

  ‘It’s about respect,’ said Sol. ‘And the young never seem to show any these days. I try and be reasonable but some of you just don’t do reason, do you? So be it.’

  Sol stepped into range and cocked the cudgel for a blow to the legs. The merchant tried to protect himself with his hands.

  ‘Unknown, no! I can show you where you died. Where your body still lies. Please.’

  It was an arrow to the heart of him. Sol froze and swallowed hard. The cudgel dropped from his hand. The fury drained from him and the strength left his legs. He sagged to his knees, supporting himself with a hand on the table top. His fingers rested on last night’s candle wax.

  ‘No one knows about that,’ he said, his voice a whisper, blood pounding in his head. ‘How can you know about that?’

  ‘Because I am Hirad, Unknown. I know how I look. The body is different but the soul is the same. And we need you. The Raven dead need you. You are our beacon. The rally flag on the battlefield. And we have to make a stand or we are all lost. The living and the dead.’