Ravensoul

by James Barclay

  Denser looked past Dystran to the grand fireplace, above which a portrait of the man in his younger days looked down. It was one of a set depicting the last eight Lords of the Mount in what could loosely be termed relaxed attitudes. Dystran was smiling.

  ‘And one day your picture will hang above the fireplace and mine will be consigned to the corner by the old broken window over there.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Denser. ‘I have told the committee that deals with such things, whatever it’s called—’

  ‘Heritage and History.’

  ‘Yep, them. That the most relaxed painting of me they’ll get is when I’m dead.’

  Dystran laughed hard. ‘Very good, Denser. Very good indeed. I’m glad your sense of humour remains intact.’

  ‘It has been some time since I made that remark,’ said Denser. ‘Now tell me what you want. I have much to do.’

  ‘Indeed. One of the few survivors, I understand. Even King Sol is missing and, we presume, lost.’ Dystran’s attempt at a sympathetic expression was poor, more resembling a smirk. ‘No doubt the last few days have been . . . difficult for you.’

  Denser gaped.

  ‘Difficult? I have witnessed a massacre. I have seen my best field mage teams obliterated. I have seen my guards dismembered, literally, right before my eyes. I have seen The Raven dead torn to pieces . . . and I have seen my wife, my wonderful wife, burn. Gone in moments. And I was helpless and so I ran. I ran, Dystran. Like a scared child behind the legs of its mother, hoping the monster wasn’t real. But it is real. And it is coming this way. So yes, you could say things have been just a little tricky.’

  He grabbed Dystran’s plate from him and shoved over to him the thin remains on the serving dish instead.

  ‘And I come back here to find my city in chaos. The dead are bunching together towards the east gates because too many of my people think they are a curse on the living or whatever. Refugees are sleeping on every street corner and in every doorway and I have no way to feed or house them all. And profiteering appears rife. Such are the mercies of our wonderful city folk, eh?’

  ‘The problems within the city can wait a while. There is more to your massacre than you think,’ said Dystran.

  Denser spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘Meaning.’

  ‘Meaning you need to ask more questions of those here to help you and lean less upon the dead you choose to trust. The solution is plain to see but you have allowed old loves and loyalties to obscure it. You have witnessed a massacre, yes. But you have also witnessed the path to defeating this enemy.’

  Denser scratched at his head under his skullcap. A pain was growing behind his eyes.

  ‘It’s an interesting version of events, I’ll grant you that. My own battlefield mathematics reckons we lost about two hundred, maybe more, once the wounded are brought back or not. Whereas the enemy lost one machine, a couple of animals and, what, twenty men? All of whom were replaced by ten times that number as quickly as you can snap your fingers. If this is the path to victory, then damn right it is obscured from me.

  ‘You know, I’ve had a really trying day on top of about ten really trying days. I don’t think I want to hear your befuddled reasoning if it’s all the same to you.’ Denser stood. ‘And if the words “you can’t trust the dead” are in anyway allied to your theory, I suggest you go and speak it to the deepest stone in the catacombs because I already don’t believe it. They warned me this enemy was too powerful. I should have listened.’

  Dystran remained in his chair and eyed Denser coolly. His hands were trembling but not with the effects of his nightmares. Not this time.

  ‘Then you are more stupid and obstinate than even I had imagined. And you will consign us all to death. I should warn you that Lords of the Mount holding the reins of inevitable disaster are often thrown from their runaway wagons.’

  Denser felt a cold breeze across his entire body. A smile played on his mouth and he pointed a finger at Dystran.

  ‘You’re threatening me,’ he said. ‘I really don’t believe it.’

  ‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘I really am your friend and ally. One of the few that remains, I suspect, within or without the Circle Seven. I will take my leave now; my appetite has diminished considerably since you came in. But I will say this. Ask yourself why it is that the enemy is not currently heading directly for Xetesk. There is a man here who knows why. I believe him at any rate. A most trustworthy man. And you might want to speak to your Communion Globe master too. He has a name for this enemy. Amongst other things.’

  Dystran stood and walked to the door. He paused there for dramatic effect.

  ‘Your dead want you to run. They spread dissension among those who will listen in Xetesk, and some have taken heed and departed. The dead do not wish for you to see. The enemy creates a barren wilderness where nought but a floating soul could possibly find joy with its fellows. I see glory for Xetesk and I want to be standing before the man who will finally deliver it to us.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Denser, ringing the communication bell.

  ‘I am yours to call.’ Dystran smiled. ‘When you need me.’

  Brynar entered before the door was fully closed.

  ‘You summoned me, Lord Denser.’

  ‘Bring me Sharyr. And Barons Blackthorne and Gresse. And someone who can tell me how far the surviving Raven dead are from the gates.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘And, Brynar?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord?’

  ‘Dystran is not to leave the catacomb chambers he scurries about in with Vuldaroq. Neither is anyone to have access to him without my express permission. His cook, his bed-maker and his arse-wiper can live with him until I say otherwise. Am I clear?’

  Brynar nodded. He was chewing his bottom lip.

  ‘It is time, young apprentice, that people understood who is really in charge on the Mount of Xetesk.’

  ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

  Denser gave a wry smile in defiance of his heavy heart.

  ‘Go to the top of the class.’

  Chapter 15

  Sol was seated. Not uncomfortably though he could not move his arms or legs to any great degree. Looking down he could see no ties or chains binding him yet the chair sucked his body into place, it seemed. He could recall little from the moment the Garonin had spoken to him and Balaia had vanished. A vague sensation of movement was all. And now he was here, wherever ‘here’ was. Sol looked about him.

  His first thought was that he recognised this place, yet that was plainly ridiculous. It had no memorable features whatever bar the fact, he supposed, that it was completely featureless. The ground, if such it was, ran away endlessly. He could see no walls. Everything about him was the same pale ivory in colour. Even the chair on which he sat, though that at least had solidity. He’d have clung to it had he not been secured to it.

  Dark motes wandered across Sol’s vision. He blinked but they remained. It was a while before he realised that they were not dust in the air close to his eyes but figures moving in front of him. Distance was impossible to gauge and the figures were all faint, shimmering as if only partially there. Some were tiny and he assumed them far from him but it could be a trick of the even, gentle light.

  Sol felt no fear. He was beyond that particular emotion. The enemy had not killed him and so they wanted him alive, temporarily at least. Curiosity, then, that was what drove him. And frustration. He wondered how long he would be made to wait.

  Not long.

  Figures resolved from the emptiness. Three of them, walking slowly towards him. They wore no armour and appeared the epitome of three friends out for a stroll. Long robes covered their huge, powerful bodies. Hands the size of Sol’s head hung from thick wrists. Their heads were large and covered in bone ridges. Their eyes were bulging and black. They had no noses, but slits in the centre of their faces opened and closed in what he assumed to be a breathing action. And when they opened their mouths, he could see no teeth. They reminded Sol
of a lesser strain of demon but it was plain enough that they had infinitely more power than those dangerous creatures.

  The three came to within a few feet and towered above him where he sat. They fell silent, the melodious tones of their voices echoing away into the vast space, bouncing from whatever it was that formed this place. They studied Sol, their gazes so intent he turned his head away until a force he could not resist turned it back.

  ‘You have achieved that of which few are capable.’

  The words flowed like music about Sol’s head. He fancied he could see symbols flashing to brief life in the air in front of his eyes. Sol did not answer. In truth he took a while to realise he was being addressed.

  ‘Speak. You are worthy.’

  How words sounding so beautiful could issue from mouths so ugly was a mystery. Sol stared up at each one of them.

  ‘I will stand as an equal,’ he said, his own voice sounded harsh in comparison, like fingernails scraped on metal.

  He heard a ripple as of water over pebbles.

  ‘But you are not equal. We are Garonin.’

  ‘Then I will say nothing. You want my information, I presume. I demand your respect.’

  ‘If you did not have that, you would not be here.’

  Sol felt as if they were talking in concert. Their voices flowed over one another.

  ‘I will stand,’ he said.

  And he stood, the chair no longer able to bind him. It faded away and now the four of them were truly alone in a barren land.

  ‘You learn quickly. That is . . . advantageous.’

  ‘To who?’

  Sol was only half talking to them. He was trying to hide his amazement at what had just happened. The simple act of standing. Impossible moments ago. Achieved through what? Belief? Will-power?

  ‘To all of us.’

  Sol focused back on the Garonin. He gazed up at their faces. Ugly they might have been but there was no malice in them. There was nothing in the dark orbs of their eyes. Nothing in the set of their jaws that Sol could read.

  ‘Why have you brought me here? Where is here?’

  What probably passed for a smile appeared fleetingly on all three faces.

  ‘People are drawn to you,’ said one. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I—’ Sol paused. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

  ‘We want you to bring all the people to you. To make it an easier passing for them. We have no wish to inflict unnecessary suffering.’

  ‘You could have bloody fooled me. Last thing I remember seeing was one of my dearest friends dying in a wreath of flame.’

  ‘We will take what we need. The mode we employ is the only variable.’

  ‘And what is it you’re taking? Mana, we presume.’

  There was a shrug. A very human gesture.

  ‘If that is what you call it. The element your world possesses in such abundance is useful when combusted. We have need of considerable quantities.’

  Sol scratched his neck under his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days and the stubble was beginning to itch. Something didn’t ring true here. They had no need of any negotiation, surely. Still, an opening was an opening.

  ‘Let me tell you what I understand,’ said Sol. ‘I understand we’ve caused you a problem you didn’t anticipate. That’ll be the achievement you talk about. The destruction of your machine, perhaps. And while I accept you are far more powerful than we are, no one has infinite men and resources to fight. Eventually you reach breaking point. And I think we are delaying you, and you cannot afford that.

  ‘How am I doing so far?’ Sol smiled up at their hesitation. ‘Pretty well, eh?’

  The three Garonin turned their heads to one another, conversing without words.

  ‘You must see that you cannot beat us,’ said one eventually.

  It was Sol’s turn to shrug. ‘I see that we have not yet perfected a way to defeat you.’ A thought occurred. ‘And in any event opinion is split as to whether we should be attacking you at all. There are those recently returned to us who believe we should run.’

  ‘There is nowhere to run. Nowhere you have the means to go.’

  The reply was just a little too quickly spoken.

  ‘You fear us, don’t you?’ said Sol

  ‘Preposterous.’

  ‘You fear what we might become, where we might end up. You even fear that what we do now is enough to cause you serious damage. You say you need some element that is created from burning mana. Why?’

  ‘We all have those we fear. Be assured that you are not among them.’

  Yet they paused and spoke again, came to another agreement though it was clearly not unanimous.

  ‘Verrian. That is what we call the element you term . . . mana. Its combustion yields vydos, an element central to the construction of our weapons, armour and projectiles. Without it, our enemies would roll over us as simply as we roll over you. That is our situation. We fight a war that claims the lives of countless millions. We must be victorious. You will not stand in our way.’

  Sol raised his eyebrows. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

  ‘So you need something we possess. So there is a negotiation to be had here.’

  ‘No!’ It was the first hard sound any of their voices had made. Sol flinched. ‘We take from the weak; we do not negotiate.’

  ‘We lie down for no one,’ said Sol.

  ‘We appeal to your sensitivity as a ruler of men. To die in fear is needless. Die in sleep. Die painlessly. This we can guarantee. But die you must, to provide us with what we need.’

  ‘I cannot. I will not ask my people to close their eyes and be slaughtered,’ said Sol. ‘You must understand that. We fight to defend our lands. That is our right. Our duty.’

  The merest hints of light appeared in the eyes of the Garonin. A transitory tightening of their faces.

  ‘People come to you. Trust you,’ said one. ‘Your living . . . and your dead.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We see all that passes through this place.’

  ‘What?’

  But they would not elucidate.

  ‘You will tell your people to lay down their arms and die with dignity.’

  The tone was more strident now.

  ‘I will do no such thing. I don’t even understand why you want us dead. If it is the mana you want, take it. But leave us alive. We know where you are headed. The Hearts of our colleges are thick with mana. Why must we die for you to take them?’

  ‘Every soul possesses verrian. We will take what we must.’

  ‘Then you must fight for it,’ said Sol. ‘ We will not surrender and become extinct to satisfy your desire for simplicity.’

  ‘Then do it knowing an acquiescent soul holds more verrian than one in torment. That your chosen way of death can help others to live, to win their battles.’

  Sol stared at them open-mouthed.

  ‘You have one fucked-up morality, my enemy.’

  ‘We will take what we must.’

  ‘And you will pay for it in your blood every step of the way.’

  ‘Destruction in agony, death in peace. It is your choice.’

  Again the flashing in the eyes, the hardness of tone. But this time Sol was ready for it. He jabbed a finger into the chest of the centre Garonin, feeling great solidity beneath the robe.

  ‘You have made a huge mistake bringing me here. You reveal your fears and you attempt desperate, ridiculous bargains to cover for them. No deal. No surrender. I repeat: your blood on our lands every step of the way. Unless you guarantee the lives of every man and elf in my world. What is it to be?’

  ‘We do not need to make bargains with the weak.’

  ‘Then our business is concluded. And now I will return to my people. Those I love and will protect with every mote of my strength.’

  ‘No. You will not.’

  ‘You think you can stop me? Then you underestimate just how quickly I learn and what I understand about this place.’<
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  ‘You cannot hope to go against our wishes, human. You have neither the wit nor the means.’

  The three of them stared at him and he heard that sound again, water over pebbles. Laughter. Sol’s head cleared and he felt a satisfying coolness in his body. Releasing himself from the chair had been merely the first step. He held his hands in front of him, imagined his old two-handed blade, its weight, its every nick, its pommel and grip. And there it was in his grasp, as real as the breath in his lungs. Sol was moving before the Garonin had registered their surprise. The blade moved easily, as if wielded by his younger self.

  Sol punched the blade straight forward, piercing the middle enemy’s stomach. He dragged it clear and swung it up and left, catching the second Garonin’s right shoulder and hurling him from his feet. Sol squared up to the third, in whose hands a weapon now lay. But there was fear in his face and a tremble in his arms. Sol brought his blade back to a cocked position under his chin and buried it in his enemy’s chest.

  Sol stood over the man as his blood soaked into the ground, leaving no trace. They locked eyes.

  ‘Two things. One, I have learned enough to defeat you here. Second, it is rude to laugh.’ He let his blade go and it had disappeared before it hit the ground. He felt terribly tired. ‘And now I will go home.’

  Sol pictured Balaia. He pictured The Raven’s Rest and he pictured the empty place beside Diera’s body in their bed.

  And the next thing he knew was Diera screaming into his face where he lay.

  Sol grabbed her arms and dragged her close to him. She was incoherent, a quaking shuddering through her body. Her face was wild, terrified. He tried to calm her but his own terror was beginning to bite. Delayed, kept under control while he had been gone from Balaia but now given licence.

  ‘Diera. Stop. Stop. Please.’

  Sol was choking up. His throat was tight and the tears were welling in his eyes. Diera’s fists were balled and she was thumping them into his chest. He was still dressed in the bloodstained clothes he had been wearing on the battlefield. Even down to his boots.