The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Why won’t they understand?’ Endorr was frustrated.

  ‘Where’s your family, Endorr?’ countered Cordolan, his usual jovial face a distant memory.

  ‘You know I have no family.’

  ‘Then you can never understand why they don’t understand.’ Cordolan steepled his hands.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your family are not dying while you live unmarked inside these walls. The people you love the best are not in the game of chance for sacrifice. Your greatest terrors for your brothers, sisters and parents are not unfolding before your eyes.’

  ‘The point, Endorr, is this,’ said Barras. ‘We can no longer presume to uphold the College in the face of so much slaughter. I believed, as no doubt did you, that the College and Julatsan magic were more important than life. They are not. I also didn’t believe Senedai would carry out his threat or would stop after one show of bravado. I was wrong.

  ‘I saw the faces of those who died today and the anger of those who confronted us. Unless you are blind, you must see we cannot let this slaughter continue.’

  ‘That is a considerable change of opinion,’ said Seldane. ‘Not that long ago, we sat here with General Kard and agreed that nothing, not even life, was as important as maintaining the College.’

  ‘Yes, and pious, grossly insensitive and morally indefensible it was too,’ said Barras.

  ‘We cannot suffer the College to fall,’ said Torvis. ‘We cannot see Julatsan magic die. The imbalance in power will destabilise the whole of Balaia.’

  ‘We can bury the Heart,’ said Kerela. ‘Our life will always beat.’

  ‘Why bother? If we lose the Mana Bowl, The Tower and the Library, we are so much lessened. What does the Heart do but give us a spiritual centre for our magic? It is our books, our architecture and our places of deepest solemnity that make us Julatsan mages. Vital though it is, the Heart is just one of them.’ Seldane shook her head.

  ‘If we do nothing, there will be battle inside these walls and I will not have Julatsans spill one another’s blood in my College.’ Kerela’s eyes held an uncompromising power, just as her tears had told of the depth of her pain.

  ‘If we step outside these walls, we will be killed and any non-mage enslaved. I fail to see the purpose of walking into their hands and leaving the College to their mercy,’ said Vilif.

  ‘One thing we will not be doing is rolling over, let me assure you of that,’ said Kerela.

  ‘If we fight them, we will lose,’ said Seldane. ‘We can exist here until help arrives.’

  ‘It’s not going to!’ snapped Kerela, thumping her hand on the table. ‘Do you still not see what should have been obvious right from the start? While the Shroud remains, no one will come to our aid. We have erected an impenetrable barrier. We are safe. No one knows what is happening in here and I tell you something, if I was a Dordovan, I wouldn’t be rushing on to Wesmen swords with no guarantee of help from those I was supposed to be rescuing. Would you?’

  There was a knock on the door and Kard entered. He looked harassed, sweat beading his face which was red and vein-shot.

  ‘Your arrival is most opportune,’ said Kerela. ‘Please, take a drink, sit yourself down and tell us what is happening out there.’

  Kard nodded, grateful for a moment’s respite. He unhooked his cloak and draped it over the back of his chair, filled a crystal glass with water and sat down, exhaling loudly. He drained his glass and set it down gently, a more natural colour already returning to his face.

  ‘I’m too old for this,’ he said. An embryonic chuckle ran around the table.

  ‘That applies to most of us here,’ said Vilif. The General smiled briefly.

  ‘All right, we’ve put back the cork for now but I can’t keep it there indefinitely. These people are not our prisoners, they are not disarmed and they outnumber my soldiers two to one, though that is small concern because we will not fight them hand to hand. Not if a decision, the right decision, comes from this room before noon. We have to stop Senedai’s killing.’

  ‘What would you have us do, General?’ asked Seldane, her tone terse.

  ‘Remove the Shroud—’

  ‘And leave us open for slaughter just like that?’ Endorr was incensed.

  ‘No, young idiot,’ snarled Kard, his demeanour changed suddenly, his voice hard, military. ‘The College Guard of Julatsa will never leave us open for slaughter or these buildings at their mercy. Save your sharp tongue for your spells.’

  ‘Kard, be calm,’ said Barras, reaching out a hand towards the General. ‘We are all under great pressure.’

  Kard nodded and straightened his uniform tunic.

  ‘A number of events must happen in quick succession if we are to buy the time we need. And much of it falls on the mages in the first instance. If I might make my recommendations without interruption? ’

  Kerela smiled. ‘I think we can agree to that.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Kard shot a sharp glance in the direction of Endorr. ‘It is my belief that the Dordovans are hidden, probably half a day’s ride or more from the city, and also probably in contact with escaped Julatsans. If they aren’t, we’ll fail.

  ‘After the Shroud is dropped, mages need to complete two tasks the moment the Wesmen raise the alarm as they undoubtedly will. First, Communion to establish contact with anyone who will hear but particularly the Dordovans. We will need them and anyone else who is out there and armed to hit the rear of the Wesmen lines. We may be able to hold them alone for a couple of days, but we may not.

  ‘Second, I need that bastard moving tower destroyed. I don’t care how it’s done but it’ll provide access as well as vision once the Shroud goes.’ He paused, refilled his glass and drank.

  ‘My soldiers are ready drilled for their positions and I need your permission to set mage defence around the walls. Lastly, Barras, I need you to speak to Senedai. Tell him we’re going to come out in three days. See if you can delay any more of this senseless death. That’s all.’

  ‘You want to break out in three days?’ asked Torvis.

  ‘No, two. But I don’t want the Wesmen ready to receive us. Every moment we buy is precious.’

  ‘We should drop the Shroud at night, then, when there are fewer of them to see it go,’ said Endorr.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Kard. ‘I was thinking of the dark before the dawn. Remember, we don’t want to spark trouble in the middle of the night because the Dordovans will be sleeping too. We shouldn’t bring down the tower until the Wesmen realise the Shroud is gone. Again, should that buy us an hour in which to mobilise the Dordovans, it could be critical.’

  ‘But this doesn’t change the fact that we are surrendering the College,’ said Seldane. Kard turned his head and looked long at her.

  ‘My Lady, I have no intention of surrendering this College.’

  ‘So why are we dropping the Shroud for which, I remind you, Deale gave his life?’ demanded Endorr.

  ‘Because the time has come again to fight for our freedom. And to gamble that help will arrive. And if the times become desperate again, we can bury the Heart. Julatsa will beat life until we can reclaim it,’ said Kard.

  ‘But surely you don’t believe we can win?’ Endorr’s scepticism was written in a sneer all over his face.

  ‘Young man, I never start a battle I believe I can’t win. You’ve seen the energy out there. If we channel it right, and if the help outside the city hits the rear of the Wesmen lines, we can win.’

  ‘Thank you, Kard,’ said Kerela. ‘I suggest that you and Barras speak to Senedai. We will stay here and discuss the division of mages for your tasks.’

  As he and Kard walked, under guard, to the North Gate, Barras could feel the tension in the silent College. In the wood and steel tower, which currently stood overlooking the Long Rooms, half a dozen Wesmen leaned on the parapet, monitoring their movement with only passing interest.

  ‘You should have been a Negotiator, General,’ said Barras, a wry smile on hi
s face. ‘You’re almost as good a liar as I am.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’ Kard fixed his gaze straight ahead but Barras saw the twitching of his lip.

  ‘Outside these walls, there must be ten thousand heavily armed and focused Wesmen. Inside, we have seven hundred soldiers, a few hundred angry men and fewer than two hundred mages. What do you think I mean?’

  ‘Actually, with our estimates of their ability to reinforce, there could be as many as twenty thousand Wesmen out there.’

  ‘And do you really believe the Dordovans are waiting for a sign? Surely they’ll have been recalled once Julatsa fell.’

  ‘No, I’d say they were still there somewhere. There just aren’t enough of them.’

  ‘So how long can we hold them off?’ asked Barras.

  Kard shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Realistically, perhaps three days but it could be over in one if our spirit crumbles.’

  ‘But you don’t think we can win?’

  Kard laughed, clapped Barras on the back with one hand and pulled open the door to the North Gate tower with the other.

  ‘I may be old, but I am not senile. I strongly suggest you place your most valuable texts in the Heart prior to burial,’ he said and gestured at the stairs. ‘After you.’

  Lords Blackthorne and Gresse arrived at the southern port of Gyernath too late to lend their ramshackle forces of soldiers and farmers to the battle but not to the clear-up. And as Blackthorne directed his men to their tasks, he felt a sense of relief despite the destruction and death all around them.

  They had seen the fires while they were still over a day’s march away, an orange glow blooming over the mountains which marked the northern reaches of Gyernath’s boundaries. He and Gresse had feared the worst then, could see the sacking of the port and the routing of her army in their minds’ eyes and with it, the extinguishing of their still embryonic hopes for victory.

  But Gyernath had survived, the remnants of the Wesmen force scattering back towards Blackthorne. The attack had been expected, some of Blackthorne’s people had brought warning, and the days of preparation they had been granted had proved the difference.

  For eight days, Gyernath had repulsed the waves of Wesmen from both land and sea, eventually breaking the Wesmen spirit as parts of the old port burned and their mage strength dwindled. They had not had to suffer the Shamen’s white or black fires like Julatsa but their toll had been heavy nonetheless.

  Gyernath’s army had lost half of its military and reservist strength to death or injury. Barely a man walked without bearing some sort of wound. And the mages, ruthlessly targeted wherever the Wesmen pierced the line, now numbered less than one hundred.

  For Blackthorne, though the salvation of the port was magnificent, it meant he could not hope to take the strength he wanted to attempt the reclamation of his town.

  ‘On the other hand, Blackthorne will be emptier of Wesmen than we expected,’ said Gresse, standing at the Baron’s shoulder, a dull ache and occasional fuzzy vision all that remained of his heavy concussion.

  ‘That rather depends on how many of this Wesmen force came from Blackthorne and how many directly across the Bay,’ said Blackthorne.

  ‘Always the pessimist,’ said Gresse.

  ‘It’s easy to be pessimistic,’ replied Blackthorne. ‘Just look at the mess they’ve made of this beautiful port.’

  The two men straightened and looked down the hill towards the Southern Ocean. The whole port was laid out before them in the mid-afternoon light. Smoke from a dozen extinguished fires spiralled slowly into the sky. The main street, at the top of which they stood, now led through a scene of devastation. Much of the fighting had been concentrated on its sloped cobbles and all the buildings; inns, houses, bakers’, armourers’, shipwright offices and the premises of a dozen other trades lay in ruins.

  To the left and right, the path of the street-to-street, house-to-house fighting was drawn in blood and ash. Funeral pyres were alight everywhere they looked and it was not until the eye travelled down towards the dockside piles, cranes, jetties and warehouses, that the port regained some semblance of its recognised shape. Out in the harbour, the masts of three or four tall ships jutted from the low tide water but the Gyernath blockade had frustrated every attempt of the Wesmen, not natural sailors, to break through.

  But the eight days of fighting had left thousands homeless and as many orphaned or widowed. The army and city guard, those who could still walk, threw the remainder of their energies into salvaging what they could from the wreckage of the port and making as much of it as habitable as possible. All too often since Blackthorne and Gresse had arrived though, it was the sound of the unsafe timbers being dragged to the ground that drowned out the sound of new timbers being nailed over cracks in roofs and walls. Gyernath’s glory was gone.

  A man was striding up the slope of Drovers’ Way, the main street, towards them. He was tall, middle-aged and dressed in robes of state. The mayor’s emblem hung around his neck and he was clutching a roll of parchment.

  ‘I’d say welcome, Blackthorne, but there’s precious little of my town left for that,’ he said. Blackthorne shook the man’s hand.

  ‘But more than I can currently offer you at my own,’ replied the Baron. ‘Mayor Scalier, may I introduce my friend, Baron Gresse.’ The two men shook.

  ‘I have heard of your efforts,’ said Scalier. ‘It is rare to find a man of your honour wearing Baronial colours these days. Present company excepted, naturally.’

  ‘Rarer still to find a victorious Eastern Balaian. I congratulate you on your triumph.’

  Scalier’s smile faded a little and his long lined face took on a sadder aspect below the wisps of grey hair that blew about his head.

  ‘If it can be described as such. We cannot sustain another such attack; we will be driven into the sea. And as I look down on the ruins, I wonder whether that might not be a blessing.’

  ‘I understand your feelings, Scalier, as perhaps no one else can. But you know that my request for soldiers and mages is aimed at finishing the threat of such an attack.’ Blackthorne rubbed at his beard. ‘I presume that parchment is your decision.’

  ‘Yes. I am sorry it has taken this long to deliver our answer; your messenger was most insistent about its urgency, but you can see we have had one or two other matters to attend to.’ He handed over the parchment which Blackthorne unrolled quickly, his heart beating proud in his chest as he scanned the numbers it contained. His face cracked into a huge but short-lived smile.

  ‘You cannot afford this many men and mages. You have to maintain some defence.’ He passed the parchment to Gresse whose breath hissed in through his teeth. Scalier clapped his hands together.

  ‘What for? Just look around you. The Wesmen must be stopped and you can stop them if you take the rest of Gyernath’s army and its mages with you. We will position scouts and beacon fires on every route from the port. Should the Wesmen attack us again, we will have advance warning and evacuate to sea. You will command the forces of Gyernath and may the Gods bless you in your fight.’

  Blackthorne grabbed Scalier and hugged him, slapping his back until the older man coughed.

  ‘What you have done gives Balaia a chance,’ he said. ‘Once Blackthorne is retaken and the camps either side of the Bay of Gyernath are destroyed, we will march back north and fight at Understone. And this time, we will have victory as a true goal. Then,’ he turned to Gresse. ‘Then will come the reckoning.’

  ‘How soon can these men be ready?’ asked Gresse.

  ‘It will take a while to provision the ships and I should think the same time for you to formulate your plans with my Captains, not to mention allowing time for rest. There is a tide that will stream out in the early hours in two days’ time. You should be on it.’ Blackthorne nodded.

  ‘Come, let us find an inn that is standing and drink to Gyernath and the whole of Balaia.’ He led the way down Drovers’ Way, his head high, his mood ecstatic. There would be a vi
ctory at Blackthorne. His men, together with eight thousand from Gyernath, would sweep the Wesmen back across the Bay and into their homelands to lick their wounds. He hoped enough lived to curse their folly and to resolve never to challenge Baron Blackthorne again.

  Chapter 18

  Thraun felt it first, though Hirad didn’t know it until later. Denser was still in Communion, face drawn into a deep frown, lips moving soundlessly, Erienne stroking his hair.

  To the rest of The Raven, nothing was out of the ordinary, but the wolf picked up his head and made a soft noise in his throat which became a whine. He shook his powerful muzzle and stood up, sniffing the air, hackles rising, a slight quiver apparent in his forelegs.

  He backed away from the stove, ignoring Will’s calming hand and voice, looking left across the river and right into the brush that secluded them from unwelcome eyes. The whine continued from deep in the centre of his forehead then shut off abruptly. He locked eyes with Hirad and the barbarian would have laughed, swearing the wolf was actually frowning in worry, had not the pain seared into his skull.

  He cried out, clutching his head in both hands, making to rise but falling back, first to his haunches, then flat prone his legs thrashing, facial muscles horribly twisting his expression. Dimly, he heard Ilkar’s voice and felt other hands grabbing at him, trying to still his body as it heaved and tremored.

  It was like nothing he had ever experienced. As if his brain was being squashed against the inside of his head by spiked mallets while, at the same time, squeezed to the size of an apple by a monstrous hand. He saw flashes of red and gold light before his eyes though the rest of the world was dark, and in his ears the sound of a thousand pairs of wings beat on his eardrums. His nose, he thought in a queer moment of total clarity, was bleeding.

  The agony had a voice. Hirad heard it echo at first, unsure whether it was another trick of the pain. It came to him on a hurricane of whispers just out of reach, sliding past his numbed mind then grabbing a hold. He wanted to open his eyes but could not. His limbs too, were leaden and immobile.