The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Denser looked about him at The Raven. At Erienne, who carried his child and to whom he would suffer no harm. At Hirad, who had threatened his life twice but had saved it more often and would undoubtedly do so again, given the chance. At Ilkar, who knew the way forward and tolerated him because of it. The Unknown, who was released but still in thrall to his soul memories. And Will, Thraun and Jandyr, who believed because The Raven believed.

  But opposite him, Styliann. The Lord of the Mount of Xetesk. A man who could see him to death or glory with equal ease.

  Denser came to Hirad’s shoulder, his voice a whisper. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

  Hirad regarded him carefully, Denser watching the thoughts chasing themselves across his eyes. ‘You’re Raven,’ he answered, shrugging. ‘You risked yourself to release The Unknown. That is the act of one of us.’

  ‘Give me the chain.’ Hirad framed a refusal but Denser stayed him. ‘He can take them anyway. We can’t stop him.’

  ‘We can’t just give in.’ Hirad’s grip tightened on his sword.

  Denser’s voice was barely audible. ‘No one is giving in. Trust me.’

  Hirad switched his attention to Styliann, who studied The Raven with obvious fascination. Behind him, ninety Protectors stood ready to wipe them out. He clacked his tongue and lifted the chain carrying the Understone Pass Commander’s Badge and the Dordovan Ring of Authority from his neck. He heard Ilkar’s sharply indrawn breath, though the shield did not waver.

  ‘Give Denser the stone, Will,’ said Hirad. ‘We have nothing to gain by dying.’

  Will paused in his tending of Jandyr and passed the Death’s Eye Stone to Denser. The Xeteskian smiled but, before walking to Styliann, stopped by Ilkar, his back to his Lord.

  ‘Whatever you do, keep that shield up.’ He moved to stand in front of Styliann, hefting the catalysts.

  ‘And to think I have the fate of Balaia in my hands,’ he said.

  ‘Dangerous,’ said Styliann. He reached out. ‘Let’s not waste any more time. It is a particularly precious commodity.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Denser, a smile on his lips. ‘And I will now decide Balaia’s fate.’

  The mana shape was formed and the command spoken before Styliann had a chance to react. Denser, ShadowWings deployed, shot up and backwards, finishing behind the Temple, high in the lee of the cliffs. Every face turned to look at him, silhouetted against the star-speckled night sky. No one breathed and Hirad’s heart thumped in his chest, sweat freezing on his body. Denser shouted down from his vantage point, well out of Styliann’s spell range, ShadowWings beating lazy time.

  ‘I can’t let you return to the old ways, Styliann. You’re out of date. Dawnthief goes with The Raven. That is the contract and we will honour it or die in the attempt.’

  ‘You are a Xeteskian mage and you are my servant,’ said Styliann, his voice cold and terrible. ‘You will obey me.’

  ‘No,’ said Denser. ‘I am Raven.’

  Hirad’s smile was as wide as Understone Pass. He straightened from his ready stance.

  ‘Oh dear, Styliann,’ he said. ‘Beaten again. Why not admit it and step aside?’

  But Styliann wasn’t listening. His eyes ablaze, his mind shaped mana with the speed and efficiency only a Master could command. A trio of FlameOrbs struck Ilkar’s shield in successive heartbeats, blue and red light lashing over the invisible barrier. Ilkar gasped under the force of the attack, but though he trembled, the shield did not. Styliann looked on. None of The Raven had so much as flinched.

  ‘Ilkar has never lost a shield to magical attack,’ said Hirad. ‘And I can assure you that he doesn’t intend starting now. It’s over, Styliann.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ grated the Lord of the Mount. He turned to his Protectors. ‘Kill them. Kill them now.’ But the Protectors did not move. ‘Kill them!’ he screamed, face red in the moonlight, fury blazing in his eyes. Hirad prepared to die.

  ‘Relax, Hirad,’ said The Unknown, and the depth of his smile at last touched his eyes. ‘I suggest you save your breath, Styliann.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The words dragged from Styliann’s mouth.

  ‘It’s something you can never conceive, let alone understand. They will not attack us while I am here and we aren’t threatening your life. And in the same way, I will not let The Raven attack them. But I warn that should I die at your hand, your Protectors will turn on you.’

  There was a shifting behind Styliann. He looked around. The Protectors were all staring at him, their masks reflecting the star-light.

  ‘You can choose not to believe me, my Lord.’ The Unknown walked forwards, out of the spell shield. ‘But you’ve already lost the spell. Why lose your life too?’

  Styliann’s face darkened still further. He swung round in his saddle again, studying the Protectors’ postures, unable to conceive the potential scale of their defiance. Eventually, he turned back to The Unknown.

  ‘But you have been released. You are no longer one of them.’

  ‘So I thought too. But the bonds forged in the meld of souls are unbreakable. My soul may be my own but it will reach out to the Protectors for ever. I accept that, they understand it. Best you do too.’

  A third look behind him and the Lord of the Mount nodded. He had half turned his horse when The Unknown stopped him.

  ‘You can help us save Balaia and gain your revenge,’ he suggested. ‘If you were to attack Parve from the south or south-east in response to our signal, it might ease our route to the pyramid. At least then you might have a College to return to.’

  Styliann’s face was blank. ‘You might tell Denser that while I am Lord of the Mount, he is most unwelcome in Xetesk. As for The Raven, you will be paid on your return through Understone Pass. Be very certain never to cross me again.’

  ‘I will sign you through the Protectors,’ said The Unknown. ‘If you are near, they will hear me.’

  Styliann said nothing, kicking his horse to a canter and making his way through the ranks of Protectors. They remained still for some moments, meeting souls with The Unknown, before following their Given from the Temple clearing.

  For several minutes, The Raven held formation while Denser circled overhead, sight attuned to the mana spectrum, probing for a clue that Styliann was about to launch a new attack. When he landed and dismissed the ShadowWings, they relaxed.

  ‘Shield down,’ said Ilkar.

  Hirad placed a hand on Denser’s shoulder, nodding his gratitude as the Dark Mage looked at him.

  ‘At last, I think I can say I understand,’ said Denser.

  ‘Will Styliann help us?’ asked Hirad.

  The Unknown raised his eyebrows. ‘Difficult to say,’ he said. ‘If he stops to think hard enough, perhaps.’

  ‘Thraun, would you check the path and collect the horses?’ asked Hirad. Thraun inclined his head and jogged away out of sight.

  Belatedly, the focus of attention fell on Jandyr. The elf was still alive and Erienne had joined Will in ministering to him. But he hadn’t moved from where he had fallen. His leather armour had been slit by the falling axe of a statue and the wound beneath it was deep and severe. His clothing and the dirt around him were filmed with blood, although Erienne seemed to have stemmed the flow.

  ‘How bad?’ asked Will.

  ‘He’s been lucky,’ said Erienne. ‘The blade hasn’t sheared any ribs, so his heart and lungs are undamaged, but I’m very worried about the state of his shoulder and lower back.’

  ‘Can we move him?’ asked The Unknown.

  ‘Not until morning, anyway, to give me a chance to repair some of the damage. Put it this way, he won’t be using his bow for a while. There’s a great deal of tendon and muscle damage in that shoulder.’

  ‘We haven’t got that sort of time,’ said Ilkar. ‘You heard what Styliann said. The Wesmen will be at Julatsa in three days.’

  ‘Then they must hold them,’ said Erienne. ‘If we ride now, he will die. Ilkar, I’m only asking we wait
until dawn. Five hours.’

  ‘Dawn,’ said Ilkar. ‘It will give us a chance to verify what Styliann has said.’

  Hirad considered the situation. He scanned the tree line, then turned full circle, taking in the lake, mountains and Temple. The painted faces of the statues still crowded the doors. He shuddered.

  ‘So long as you can all stand to be watched by that lot, we might as well stay right here until sun-up. Will, the stove, please. Denser, I need you and Thraun to discuss the route to Parve. With the Wesmen on the march we’ll have to stay clear of the roads to Understone. Meanwhile, Ilkar, Unknown, I want to talk to you.’

  A brief flurry of activity disrupted the peace of the impromptu campsite. Denser and Will hurried out of the clearing after Thraun, Erienne began preparation of a healing spell and the three surviving original Raven members gathered on the steps of the Temple. Hirad spared the statues one more glance before speaking.

  ‘There’s things I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘No change there,’ said Ilkar.

  Hirad punched him on the shoulder. ‘You’re funny, Ilkar. But not very funny.’ He laughed. ‘Explain to me what a Cold Room is and why I’ve never heard of one before.’

  ‘Well, it’s not something the Colleges publicise, for obvious reasons.’ Ilkar shot a glance heavenwards. ‘How do I explain? Right, look, mana flows everywhere and through everything. It doesn’t stop for skin, bones, walls, wood, ocean, not even dimensions, as we discovered. No one knows its rhythm or the pattern to its flow, only how to disrupt it to form shapes for spells. But one thing that can be done is to divert the flow, and particular structures will do that.’ He jerked a thumb behind him. ‘Mana will take the path of least resistance. This temple has been very carefully constructed, and I mean in extraordinary architectural and material detail. When it was sealed, the mana simply flowed around it and not through it.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘It was a well-laid trap for the unwary thief,’ agreed The Unknown.

  ‘Or mage,’ muttered Ilkar. ‘We were close to being snuffed out in there.’

  ‘So those bodies we found in there were Protectors?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘Yes,’ said The Unknown. ‘I knew straight away but it didn’t seem possible at the time. They were Protectors, some of Styliann’s no doubt.’

  ‘But they had no masks,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘No doubt, when the threat is removed, the statues move back and the doors unseal. Protectors always take the masks of their fallen brothers. Styliann wanted to get the Death’s Eye Stone for himself and was cautious enough to stay outside while he sent his Protectors in. Getting it would have given him real power over us, after all.’

  ‘So he was waiting for us to succeed,’ said Hirad.

  ‘Hoping, certainly,’ said The Unknown. ‘I’m sure us taking the stone and then him taking the entire spell from us was his fallback plan the whole time.’

  Hirad shook his head. ‘When I saw them all waiting, I don’t mind telling you I expected to be dead and cooling soon after. What happened?’

  ‘He did.’ Ilkar indicated Denser, who was walking back into the clearing with Will, Thraun and the horses.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘Yes, I’d be glad to. We have just witnessed the biggest single step forward in Xeteskian thinking, probably ever. Denser turned down certain power and glory in his College for the greater good of Balaia. I can still scarcely believe it.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain the Protectors,’ said Hirad. He looked out into the camp. Will was setting up the stove near by, intent on ignoring them but no doubt hearing everything they said. Erienne was talking to Jandyr and stroking his hair. The elven bowman, although still lying on his front, was conscious. Denser and Thraun were in deep conversation, poring over a map, Thraun making animated sweeping gestures. Denser, pipe smoking gently, was smiling.

  Hirad felt warm inside. The Raven was complete again and working smoothly. He hadn’t felt this way since the day Ras died.

  ‘You’ll have to ask The Unknown about that,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘There’s not a lot to say that you’ll understand,’ said The Unknown. ‘I just knew Styliann’s power over them was less than that of the bond between them and me. They won’t ever attack one of their own unless their Given’s life is threatened. We didn’t threaten Styliann’s life.’

  ‘And would they have killed him if he’d killed you?’ asked Ilkar.

  ‘No. He is their Given and they can never hurt him. Who cares? Styliann believed me.’

  Hirad laughed again. ‘Nice work, Unknown. C’mon, let’s take a look at the lake, get Will some water.’

  The attack hammered in along the entire length of the Wesmen lines as they marched through flat areas of grassland, flanked by pockets of dense forest. It followed a storm of arrows, HardRain and DeathHail, forcing the Shamen to use valuable stamina raising hard and magical shields.

  A thousand riders surged into the exposed enemy, hoofs churning mud, earth and blood, blades flashing in the midday sun. The noise was like heavy rain on a slate roof, growing in intensity. Blackthorne’s men wheeled after their first charge, disengaging to re-form. The horns sounded again and Gresse’s force levered into the other flank, spreading disarray.

  Gresse felt like a young man again as he kicked his horse into the suddenly less smug, tanned faces of the Wesmen. He cut left and right as he drove forwards, splitting the face of one man and slicing through the shoulder of another. Blood filled the air, misting in front of his face and spattering his legs, saddle and chest. Noise, tumultuous, filled his ears.

  Around him, his men clattered into the enemy, the shouts of Wesmen trying to gather a defence mingling with the cries of the dying. He urged his mount onwards, pushing one man aside with a blow from his shield and fielding a spear jab on the guard of his sword. The Wesmen were falling back under the onslaught, their line order threatening to break, confidence taken apart by the rampaging horses and the flashing steel of their riders. Gresse began to scent victory.

  The horns sounded again and he wheeled his horse through a half-circle and ploughed out of the carnage, trampling the dead and dying under hoof. Looking left and right, he counted only a handful of riderless horses and he shouted his delight as he galloped away to re-form out of Wesmen bow range.

  Down came the spells and arrows again on the Wesmen ranks, but this time more of them stopped short, bouncing from shields or flaring darkly on magical contact.

  A third time, the horns sounded, signalling the push on the Shamen, so far defended by their warrior guards, and Blackthorne came charging back in, mages in attendance, shielding as many men as they could.

  By now, the Wesmen had regrouped and stood ready, drawn into tight defensive cells. Blackthorne’s spearmen levelled poles and clattered into the enemy, making less ground but fragmenting the outer defensive lines. The swordsmen followed them in, Gresse seeing Blackthorne’s blade rise and fall, spraying blood in all directions.

  There was a hum in the air, cutting through the din of battle, assaulting the ears and setting teeth on edge. Horses, skittish and with nostrils flaring, threatened to rear. From the fingers of every Shaman issued whip-like lines of black, flailing the air and burying themselves in horse and rider alike.

  Agony. Death in terror and pain unimaginable. Where the spell found an unshielded body or breached magical defence, man and beast died by the score. As Gresse watched, a line of dark caught a rider in the midriff and tore up his body, unpicking his leather, stomach and chest like a tailor’s knife through fine cloth. His intestines gushed through the rent in his body, ribs shattered, and his dying cry was silenced as the dark reached his neck.

  Elsewhere, holes were punched clear through bodies, flesh was burned or eaten aside and the tide of the battle turned with stunning speed. Blackthorne whirled his sword above his head and the horns sounded full retreat. Gresse barked orders to his men, and the Baronial cavalry kicke
d away from the scene of devastation, leaving the blood of the east to mix with that of the west, the jeers of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.

  Glory was turned to darkness.

  Chapter 31

  A dry and warm night was followed by a cloudless dawn, the rain of the preceding day a distant memory.

  Denser had held a brief communion with the lead mage at Understone and at least they knew that Styliann had not been exaggerating. To the south, and moving at worrying speed, the Wesmen were three days from Understone, and Blackthorne’s efforts were yielding little but the blood of his own men. But worse, some thirty thousand Wesmen and Shamen were a day from the western entrance to the pass.

  ‘And you said the Wytch Lords haven’t yet regained their full strength?’ said Hirad.

  Denser nodded. ‘When they are walking and fully focused, the Shamen’s power will be completely unstoppable.’

  ‘If it isn’t already,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘How far to the Torn Wastes?’ Hirad asked.

  ‘Two and a half days’ ride to the borders, perhaps another hour to the pyramid,’ replied Thraun.

  ‘That is cutting it very fine indeed,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘And it assumes we aren’t held up on the way,’ added Thraun.

  There was a contemplative quiet. Hirad pictured a headlong dash into the maw of sudden death - around any corner, Wesmen could be waiting in great numbers.

  ‘We could do with your cat now, couldn’t we?’ said Will ruefully.

  ‘I could do with him all the time.’ Denser’s smile was thin and cold.

  ‘How long can Darrick’s men hold Understone Pass?’ asked Hirad.

  The Unknown shrugged. ‘Who can say? We haven’t seen the Shamen magic. All that’s working in our favour is the narrowness of the entrance. There can’t be an attack on a wide front and that gives our mages the chance to shield effectively.’