The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Turning down the next alley, a slightly wider paved street, Hirad could see Denser flitting ahead. He banked sharply right and dived low, storming back towards the rest of The Raven, landing in front of Hirad, who pulled up sharply.

  ‘This is easier than I thought. The grain store is just to the end of this alley and across a wide square. It’s guarded and there’s light in every window of every building now the alarm has spread but any Wesman running is running for the College. If we’re quick, we can—’

  Above the ascending din of battle and the crump of spells hitting buildings and men, a howl pierced the night. It was long and full of anger and sorrow, tailing off into a keening wail and a bark that echoed out. For a split second, Julatsa was silent then battle was joined again.

  ‘Shield down,’ said Ilkar. ‘What in all the hells was that?’

  ‘Dear Gods,’ said Erienne who had clearly lost her mana shape. ‘It was Thraun.’

  ‘Will,’ said The Unknown. ‘Poor Will.’

  Another howl split the air.

  ‘What will he do? Thraun, I mean?’ asked Ilkar.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Erienne. ‘But I think we’d better get back as quickly as we can. If he’ll listen to anyone, he’ll listen to us.’

  ‘But we have to get these prisoners out first. Right,’ said Hirad, looking to where Denser stood, his wings proud at his back. ‘Erienne, go with Denser if he’ll hold you. Your spells are probably best directed from above us. Ilkar, FlameOrb then sword please; we can’t waste another shield. We’ll deal with Thraun and see to Will’s Vigil later.’ His mind, clouded briefly by the loss of another Raven warrior, cleared to deal with their immediate situation. ‘Raven with me.’

  A third howl echoed from the walls of the alleyway. Closer this time. The wolf was loose in the streets of Julatsa.

  Chapter 24

  Dystran cursed and threw the book down at his feet. He leant on the balustrade of the Tower balcony he had assumed from Styliann and prayed hell would visit swift retribution on the former Lord of the Mount.

  Knowing Styliann was probably still alive following his usurpation of power in the College, Dystran and his cohorts had known only too well the importance of the Protectors in maintaining that power. And yet, immediately below him, the entire Protector army stood silent, awesome and terrifying, on the carefully tended lawn. Waiting.

  At first, Dystran hadn’t believed Styliann and had fallen back into an uneasy sleep. But a frantic knocking at his bedchamber door soon afterwards had led to him scurrying to the study and out on to the balcony where he saw the Protectors issuing from their barracks into the cool breezy night. With unhurried purpose, they had marched into the torchlit night, flickering orange glinting off their masks, their polished leather and the buckles of their boots and clothing.

  They had assembled over the course of an hour but Dystran hadn’t watched. Tearing back into the study, he had grabbed the Articles of Stewardship from its place on the shelves by the desk and flicked feverishly through its pages. The Act of Giving was there, plain for him to read. But in his pride and overwhelming sense of achievement and importance at attaining his new position, he just hadn’t bothered to look.

  The Lore script concerning the Act was the most modern in the College, written by Styliann and designed to make renunciation a long and complex process. By the time he had studied the text in enough detail, had gathered the Circle Seven and fulfilled the meditation process, eight days would have passed. And so the Articles lay at his feet, an open page fluttering in the gentle night air.

  ‘We’ve got to stop them,’ he muttered.

  ‘What do you intend doing?’ asked his senior confidante, an ageing, grey-haired mage named Ranyl.

  ‘We can WardLock the gates for a start.’ Dystran waved a hand in their direction.

  ‘And they will merely batter the timbers to splinters,’ said Ranyl. ‘No holding spell is strong enough to keep them all quiet and they will respond to aggression by attacking the source of the order to strike or cast. And that’s you.’ The old mage’s voice was quiet but sure. ‘There are four hundred and seventeen Protectors down there, all with innate magical shielding. I know who I’d back in the fight.’

  ‘So what can we do?’ Dystran’s voice held a note of desperation.

  ‘Let them go and rescind the Act of Giving. Or send an assassin to kill Styliann. Those are the only two ways to bring the Protectors into your control.’

  Dystran snorted. ‘An assassin? Styliann’s soon going to have five hundred-odd Protectors around him. The whole Wesmen nation would have trouble getting to him.’

  Ranyl stooped and picked up the Articles of Stewardship and slapped them into Dystran’s chest.

  ‘In that case, my Lord, might I humbly suggest that you get reading?’

  Below them, the Protector army moved on an unspoken command, coming to readiness absolutely as one. Dystran started, his heart thudding in his chest. Exuding power with every stride and swing of the arm, they trotted to the south gate, now under the gaze of the rudely awakened College. Dystran shook his head, his face taut with anxiety, seeing more than one questioning face turned up towards him and Ranyl.

  At the gate, the lead Protector pushed the gateman firmly aside, wound the bar away and pulled open the heavy iron-clad wooden gates with assistance from three others. Without further pause, the Protectors trotted away into the dark streets of Xetesk, and Dystran could very easily imagine Styliann’s laughter.

  Lord Tessaya watched tight-lipped as Styliann and the dread force ran to the north while his warriors struggled to form under the harsh shouts of his Captains. He summoned his highest ranking General, a man named Adesellere.

  ‘I want four thousand men after them before dawn cracks the sky. Do not let them escape. I want word sent through to Riasu for five thousand of the reserve to be here in one day. He should also be advised to attend me immediately. Lastly, I want you to personally organise forward defence of Understone, the pass and the surrounds. Be mindful of the south.

  ‘I will be pushing on to Korina in two days’ time. See every commander has carrier birds. Do you understand all that?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Adesellere, an old and trusted aide, battle-scarred, bald and fierce. ‘Do you want me to remain with the defence?’

  Tessaya nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are one of the very few I can trust. Send Bedelao after the mage. I will get word to my scouts north and south. I get the uneasy feeling we’ll have to revise our plans. Not all of my brother Lords have acquitted themselves as they might.’

  ‘I won’t fail you, Tessaya.’

  ‘You never have before.’ Tessaya dismissed Adesellere. He looked out over the muster area into which the General now ran, barking out orders to his Lieutenants who drove the warriors into some semblance of order. This was not as he had planned and he cursed under his breath, bringing to his mind where it had begun to go wrong.

  With the destruction of the Wytch Lords certainly but there was more. The attack on Julatsa had not been swift enough and to the south, disaster had apparently overtaken Taomi. The Eastern Balaians should have had no hope but the fact was that the Wesmen had failed to capture or kill a single targeted figure.

  Unless his reading of the situation was completely cock-eyed, General Darrick, Baron Blackthorne and The Raven were all still alive and fighting. And now, unless they could catch him, Styliann would return to Xetesk as a standard for the mages. Tessaya’s hand was being forced and he didn’t like it.

  What he needed was for Senedai to occupy the College Cities, for Adesellere to halt any advance from the south and for his march to Korina at the head of ten thousand Wesmen to be swift and without error. He could still take Korina. The bloated capital city wallowed in its sense of achievement and wealth and had little time for organised defence. Yes, there would be resistance but, with the Colleges and southern armies busy, he was certain he could prevail.

  But it wouldn’t be the glori
ous march he had anticipated and dreamed, with the smoking ruins of the bastard Colleges behind him. And for that, he wanted someone to pay, and pay heavily.

  Darrick’s flotilla of small and medium-sized craft had crossed over three quarters of the Bay of Gyernath when a shouted alarm reached him from the southern edge of the squadron. He quickly scanned the beach they were approaching but it was deserted, yet consternation fed through the boats to his right and he could see men, or more probably elves, pointing southwards.

  He looked and could see nothing initially but then, as a nearby twin-masted craft cleared his line of sight, he saw them. Sails. Cruising around the Gyernath headland. First two, then four. All noise in his boat ceased as more and more eyes turned to stare at the fleet moving up the Bay towards them. As Darrick watched, he saw more sails rounding the headland, appearing like ghosts on the breeze. Silent predators, swift and deadly.

  ‘Gods under water,’ he muttered. He turned to his second-in-command. ‘I need the elves and mages to tell me who they are and I need to know fast. Go to it.’ The man strode away, shouting a name Darrick couldn’t catch. The General summoned his signalmen.

  ‘Flags for course change. North-north-east immediate. If those are Wesmen, we’ll need all the distance we can get.’

  Messages were relayed as the flotilla changed course, heading for a more difficult shore. Almost immediately, the larger fleet of predominantly three-masted vessels altered its direction in response. They were gaining and fast. Pennants flew from the tops of masts and from each stern. He could see tiny figures in the rigging and, he thought, faces lining the decks. Thousands of faces.

  They would barely make land before they were caught and still more ships came into sight. There had to be two dozen and more now. If they were Wesmen, the four-College cavalry was finished.

  To Darrick’s left, a mage shot into the sky, ShadowWings shaped for height and glide. The General tracked her as she flew away south towards the approaching fleet, waiting to see the arrows fly high, trying to bring her down. Silence reigned. All that could be heard was the creaking of timbers, the ruffle of canvas, the push of bows through the water and the splash of oars. The mage continued on. Darrick realised he was holding his breath.

  Three shapes rose on an intercept course from the lead ship; and they weren’t arrows, they were mages. A cheer went up all around the squadron and Darrick’s face cracked into a smile. The Wesmen had no mages. Whoever they were, they were friends.

  All eyes were on the quartet of mages circling at close quarters in the sky above. Whatever they were discussing seemed to take forever and Darrick found himself grinding his teeth, impatient for knowledge. Presently, though, the mage was back on deck, excitement firing her eyes and bringing a flush to her pretty but dirt-streaked face.

  She began breathlessly, her words tumbling from her mouth in a stream of delighted incomprehensibility. Darrick laughed and placed a hand on either shoulder.

  ‘Slow down,’ he said. She nodded and breathed deeply, flashing a smile of her own.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the relief I feel . . .’

  ‘We all feel it,’ said Darrick. ‘Now tell us who our new friends are.’

  ‘It is the army of Gyernath. And at their head are Barons Blackthorne and Gresse.’

  This time, Darrick’s laughter echoed through the fleet and across the calm waters of the Bay of Gyernath. He slapped the mast against which he stood.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he said. ‘This meeting will be a real pleasure.’ He ordered the flagmen signal a return to their original course and turned, the smile wide on his lips, and anticipated his meeting with the two magnificent Barons.

  Just before midday, with the two fleets moored as near shore as their draughts would allow and with the multiple dinghies and shallow transport barges of the Gyernath force ferrying men and horses to shore under the watchful eyes of ShadowWinged mages flitting in the sky, Darrick crunched across the sand towards Blackthorne and Gresse.

  The two Barons were standing side by side, watching the beaches fill with troops, determination in every move they made and in the set of their faces. As Darrick approached, they ceased their discussion and moved towards him, both with hands outstretched. Darrick shook them in turn.

  ‘This is happy coincidence,’ said the Lysternan General. ‘I had thought to travel to Gyernath to stir the army before marching to Understone. Now I find that two of our supposedly uncaring Barons have saved me seven days and that the army stands on this very beach.’

  ‘Uncaring, eh, Blackthorne? What do you make of that?’ Gresse rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

  ‘Upstart young Generals with air for brains are commonplace. Fortunately, we are not standing before one of them,’ said Blackthorne.

  ‘And nor are the pair of you uncaring, though the same cannot be said for certain of your brotherhood,’ replied Darrick, bowing slightly at the compliment paid him.

  A look passed between the two Barons and Gresse’s eyes narrowed. ‘There will be actions taken when this is all over. But that is for another day. Now, General, let us tell you what we have been doing and we can plan the liberation of Blackthorne.’

  ‘Liberation?’ Darrick’s heart skipped a beat and he looked at Blackthorne, who raised his eyebrows. ‘Did they not drive straight for Gyernath and Korina?’

  ‘No,’ said Blackthorne. ‘They clearly wanted my town as a southern staging post rather than Gyernath which, for you, is lucky since you hoped to raise an army from there. Much of their force headed north to Understone but it didn’t get there.’

  ‘No more summaries,’ said Gresse. ‘We should sit and analyse this properly. We want to be at the gates of Blackthorne before nightfall. ’

  Darrick felt energised, his whole body powered and healthy. This unexpected turn of fortune changed a great deal. Not only had Gyernath been able to repulse the Wesmen attack but it seemed that the north-south supply line was not in place and now would never be. For the first time since he rode through Understone Pass to help The Raven, Darrick firmly believed Balaia could be freed from the clutches of the Wesmen.

  But his belief was tempered by a growing concern. Though they had, by his latest reckoning, around twenty days, time was nonetheless short and, as the brown stain ate the sky over Parve, the noon shade grew, marking the progress towards Balaia’s doom at the hands of an army of dragons. Again, The Raven had the task of saving the continent in their hands and again, Darrick had to try to support them, keeping Wesmen from their path. Now he had made landfall in the East, he had to contact them. Because, if anything befell them, only he and Styliann could pass on the knowledge of the threat to the Colleges. And he didn’t trust Styliann as far as he could throw him.

  Sha-Kaan sat heavily in the Melde Hall feeling every one of his four hundred and more cycles. Elu-Kaan, the Great Kaan’s hope for a successor, lay on the verge of death in a melde-corridor, tended at last by his Dragonene, the old elven mage, Barras. He was doubtful whether the expert ministrations of the Julatsan or the healing flow of channelled interdimensional space would be enough but they had to try, despite Barras’ personally desperate siege situation.

  At least Sha-Kaan was able to advise Barras from his own painful experience concerning the nature of Elu’s multiple wounds. The Great Kaan’s scales were covered in tiny scratches, his eyes smarted from the touch of claws and inside his mouth the ice of their bite dulled his fires. He chewed on bales of Flamegrass, reflecting that he had escaped lightly, the human’s spells critically weakening the sea of Arakhe who had attacked them. Elu-Kaan hadn’t been so fortunate, stumbling across the full fury of the Arakhe and suffering horrible wounds deep into his throat. It was these that Sha-Kaan feared and that he had exhorted Barras to heal if he could.

  For himself, he needed rest. Ideally, that rest would have been in his own melde-corridor under the ministrations of Hirad Coldheart and The Raven but, much though it rankled, he accepted that was not possible. So he had to content hims
elf with first the energy of the Melde Hall and then, when he tired of its noise, the calm and quiet of Wingspread.

  He ached from constant toil. The wounds from his battle with the Naik above the southern plains were not healed and the muscles at the roots of his wings protested though the wide spans themselves were furled and stowed. He looked along the length of his body, noting with displeasure the fading hue of his golden scales. Once so bright they dazzled in the orb light, they were now a dim indicator of his age and health. They hadn’t begun to lift just yet and his wings maintained their full lubrication but it wouldn’t be long. And part of him even looked forward to the day when he no longer had the weight of the Kaan on his broad back. But there was so much that still had to be done and the fate of them all blew with the vagaries of the wind.

  Sha-Kaan swallowed the last of his bale of Flamegrass, the alarm sounding in his mind before he had resettled on the warm quiet mud. He breathed out long and deep, smoke drifting from the corners of his mouth as his irritation fed through to the glands inside his gums. He had known deep inside of him that there would be no real rest but he could have expected at least a few beats. Snatching another bale of Flamegrass, he switched out of Wingspread, the call to the Brood forming on his lips.

  The sight at the gateway shook Sha-Kaan to the core. Though the guard around the roiling brown mass was doubled, they seemed pitifully few against that which they had been detailed to oppose. And the Naik were coming in strength, and with allies. Out-fliers had pulsed warnings back through the net of Kaan minds, forcing the Brood-at-rest and the Brood-awake into concerted action, implementing the defensive plan drilled into them by Sha-Kaan.

  But Sha-Kaan himself had to force away doubts that it would work. The gateway had grown far more quickly than he had feared in his worst moments and now was linked fast to the sky above Beshara, grabbing at its edges as it fed its voracious appetite. A thin line of cloud now bordered the gateway and Sha-Kaan knew that would develop, bringing obscured vision as yet another problem to the defenders.