The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘It’s not about that,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Hirad. He wiped a sheen of rain from his face and flicked his hand to disperse it. ‘Trouble is, Unknown, you’re still a Protector in here.’ He tapped his chest above his heart. ‘And you can’t shake it off. And the ridiculous thing is, he’s done the same to your brothers as he’s done to the Kaan. Let you fester and hope you’ll go away.’ Hirad made no attempt to move closer.

  ‘How little you know, Hirad. I’m a father, that’s what I am. And I won’t see someone else’s child tossed aside.’ The Unknown turned away but swung back. ‘You’re my friend, Hirad. Probably the best I’ve ever had. You brought about my release from Protector thrall. But I won’t see you threaten a man through his child. That’s a bond you won’t understand until you experience it.’

  ‘Yet you pulled a sword on me,’ said Hirad, his anger gone now, replaced by a feeling of loss. ‘We’re The Raven and what you did doesn’t belong. It was wrong.’

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ said the big man. ‘It was your actions too, Hirad. Yours too.’

  ‘Think I’ll make a camp somewhere else,’ said Hirad, and he walked from The Raven’s fire.

  Chapter 16

  Jasto, twelfth Earl of Arlen, was a proud man who had paid the price of overstretching his resources and who, as a result, was now under the firm, fair but unshakeable grip of Baron Blackthorne.

  Even in Blackthorne’s weakened days following the destruction of his town towards the end of the Wesmen wars, Arlen had perceived himself too weak to challenge the younger man with any certainty of success. But that had not made him a weak man, as some of his resident merchant lords had intimated. It had made him wise and, latterly, very wealthy once again.

  He recalled his hard-pressed merchant and shipping families coming to him those six years ago and urging him to break free of the bonds Blackthorne had imposed. They were weary of being beneath the Baron’s fist and he, they had said, would never get a better opportunity to demand and achieve his autonomy.

  And he had seen their point. There had not been a mercenary to be hired anywhere in Balaia, and Blackthorne’s own men were either dead or tired of fighting. However, to Arlen, an attack would have been like betrayal of a man who had sacrificed so much to keep Balaia free of Wesmen domination. So instead of sending men armed with sword and spear, he had equipped them with pick, shovel, saw and hammer. Instead of riding to demand freedom of movement and impose conditions of their own, they had offered help and comfort.

  Arlen had recruited quarrymen and stone masons to replace or reshape what the Wesmen had destroyed, carpenters and joiners to work the wood; and he’d encouraged as many of his people as could be spared to be willing pairs of hands.

  The Earl smiled as he thought it all through again, his greying, bushy moustache accentuating the movement of his top lip, his leathery, ocean-toughened skin wrinkling on cheek and forehead. It had been help where help had been needed but Arlen had never been a purely altruistic man. Blackthorne had seen that. It was business.

  Craftsmen do not come cheap. Wood, stone, iron and steel all have their prices and in such a sellers’ market, those prices had been high. Food too, can always be managed to be expensive. And every one of Arlen’s merchants, shippers and fisher-fleet owners had seen the profits. Blackthorne had not raised an eyebrow. Indeed he had laughed, shaken the Earl’s hand and fetched a bottle of superb wine from the cellars the Wesmen had found but left intact. Even savages enjoyed fine wine.

  Arlen remembered sitting in a marquee, supplied by his town, and clinking glasses with the wily Baron. His words at the time would forever remain simple vindication of Arlen’s decision.

  Blackthorne had taken a long swallow, leaned back in his chair, shrugged and had said, ‘It’s what I would have done.’

  And he’d still reduced the travel levies across his lands that had squeezed Arlen’s merchants so hard. As a mark of gratitude, he’d said.

  Riding away from Blackthorne that day, Arlen had wondered how long the gratitude would last. Almost six years later, he was still expecting the letter of withdrawal. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Blackthorne’s honour was unquestionable.

  It had left Arlen in peaceful charge of a burgeoning town, attracting trade from Calaius and Korina to his docks. More and more farmers were attracted to his fertile lands on the town’s northern borders, knowing the price for their produce would not be driven down by traders passing on the burden of Blackthorne’s safe passage levy.

  But now something smelled bad in his town. It had blown in on the foul breeze of magic and had taken root to the south along the River Arl. First it had been Dordovans. A few mages and their escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. But ten days ago, they’d been joined - joined - by forty of the Black Wing filth and since then, the Dordovan military and mage numbers had swelled until over three hundred and fifty camped downstream.

  His innkeepers and whores hadn’t complained. Neither had his fresh food market stalls. There’d even been some profit for his fine cloth and silk men but the pilfering had been rather more unwelcome, however well it had been contained.

  But there was only so much you could forgive in the name of trade and that line had been breached this morning.

  Word had reached him of aggressive buying of supplies and attempted secondment of ocean-going vessels. It had been the Black Wings putting on the pressure and they weren’t prepared to take no for an answer.

  He didn’t mind the movement of supplies. That was easily balanced. But ships? There was a carefully maintained balance between supply and demand for vessels capable of travelling the tricky distance to Calaius. It was a balance his shipping owners were anxious to keep to maintain their lavish lifestyles.

  But at this juncture it wasn’t the owners he was concerned about. The trade in salted meats, wine, armour and weapons was lucrative but reliant on regular transport, and the return of coffee, cloth and jewellery among others was equally critical. Arlen could ill afford to lose transport space for these valuable commodities for an unspecified length of time.

  He had already sent guardsmen to break up a dispute over a ship already chartered by a consortium of traders. Apparently, Black Wings had offered double the rates for troop passage to Ornouth of all places. When the shipping agent had refused, choosing to remain loyal to his regular paying customers, he had been threatened and one of his clerks beaten for attempting to intervene.

  That had been yesterday.

  This dawn had seen Arlen forced to drag his very tall frame from his bed at an unseemly hour, with the sun barely cresting the horizon. A deputation waited in the drawing room of the castle. They were a merchant, a farmer and a shipper. He pulled on a white silk shirt, plain deep-blue wool-weave trousers and a black three-quarter-length coat. His silver rings decorated three long bony fingers on each hand and the heavy gold chain, passed on to each successive Earl, was placed reverently around his neck.

  He drained his tea, dragged on white stockings and simple black, double-buckled ankle boots and loped from his bedroom, his long, easy strides eating up corridor and stair as he marched to what could prove to be a difficult meeting. At the entrance to the room, a servant brushed the back of his coat to remove dust and the odd stray hair fallen from his fast balding head before opening the door.

  ‘Gentlemen, good morning,’ he said as he strode in. A murmured greeting met him from the three men, two seated and one standing near the fireplace. All were dressed well, though the farmer, a sour middle-aged man named Alpar, was garbed in working clothes having already no doubt been at work for two or three hours. Those seated began to rise until Arlen held up a hand.

  ‘Please, let’s not stand on ceremony here, I doubt we have the time.’ He sat in his gold upholstered armchair across from the deputation and waited for a servant to pour him a cup of tea and withdraw before gesturing for his old silks merchant friend, Hancross, to speak.

  ‘The situation on the d
ocks is getting worse, Jasto. These Black Wings are nothing more than thugs intent on getting their way and wrecking our businesses into the bargain. Stealing from the outlying farms is getting worse by the day and now they have stooped even lower. Erik?’ Hancross gestured at the son of Arlen’s most successful shipping agent, a man being groomed to take over the family business.

  Erik Paulson nodded, fighting to keep his emotions in check. His eyes shone with tears. ‘I think this is really why we felt we had to appeal to you directly, my Lord. While it was intimidation aimed at us, it was different. Now it’s our families, it’s unacceptable and we need action.’ He paused, breathing deeply. For a moment, his chin wobbled. He gathered himself and spoke. ‘Yesterday evening, my wife and daughter were returning from the market to our house. Three of those bastards knocked my wife to the floor. One held a dagger to my daughter’s throat while the other two pawed at my wife’s body, threatened her with rape and my daughter with murder.

  ‘I can’t believe I can hear myself saying these words,’ he swallowed hard. ‘Not here. Not about my family.’ He shook his head and a tear escaped to roll down his cheek. ‘You should see them. They are both in shock in my house, too terrified to venture outside the front door. And this is Arlen. What the hell is going on?’ He looked at Arlen then, his expression pleading. ‘This is a peaceful town, my Lord, but unless you act, we fear people taking the law into their own hands.’

  ‘In fact we promise it,’ said Alpar, his throaty voice grating on Arlen’s ears. ‘Paulson has suffered the worst but we are all losing here. Each morning, my flock is short by a little more, despite the guards I post. Hancross won’t tell you but there’s been a fire at one of his shops and we all know who started it.’

  Arlen nodded and raised both his hands to ask for quiet. He felt a growing anger in his gut. He had worked so hard to rebuild after the austerity of the Wesmen wars. He had brought peace and prosperity to Arlen, not just the town but across the Earldom. And he deserved respect. The Black Wings would have to be taught how to show that respect.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is my town and I abhor violence of any kind being committed within its borders or in the lands I also control. I therefore implore you not to raise arms as I will come down equally hard on either side in this dispute should violence ensue.

  ‘However, your coming here together tells me all I need to know about your sincerity and your trust in my stewardship, and for that I thank you. Now, I will, as soon as I am able this morning, visit the Lakehome Inn, where I understand their leader to be in residence. He will be ordered out, never to return. Any monies that he has paid for goods he has not received will be returned minus costs for damages, stolen goods and sundry expenses.’

  ‘Jasto—’

  ‘No, Hancross, don’t say it,’ said Arlen. For the third time, he raised a hand. ‘The reputation of this town is built on honesty, particularly in dealings for trade. Money exchanged in good faith will be returned. And petty thieves clutter jails to no purpose. However, Erik, if your wife wishes to identity her assailants, they will not leave Arlen before paying for their crimes.’

  Arlen looked hard at Paulson and could see the man’s fury burning in his hooded eyes. He wrung his hands and his tanned skin had an unhealthy grey tone. He didn’t sit on the chair, more perched like some predatory beast. It was clear his chosen justice would be vengeful and violent.

  ‘Erik?’

  ‘They touched her. They touched her,’ he said, another tear easing from the corner of his eye, his control so admirable, cracking a little more. ‘This is a violation. They should pay.’

  ‘Then pay they will,’ said Arlen. ‘Trust me.’

  Erik locked eyes with him then and it was clear that he did not. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I just want them to be able to walk in the streets of their own town without fear.’

  Arlen rose from his chair and walked over to Paulson, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. ‘I know, Erik. Leave it to me. They won’t escape my justice.’ He looked up at Hancross.

  ‘Take him home and keep an eye on them all. I want the word passed around the dock that it will be cleared and I want no one getting in my way. I want word sent to Lakehome to delay Selik however is necessary. I will be there within the hour. Anything else I should know?’

  The Unknown Warrior stared at his sword as if it were a snake waiting to strike at him. There it lay where he had thrown it during the downpour and where it shimmered in the dying glow of the fire, ignored now that dawn was close. It was a symbol. Of the death of The Raven, finally. Of the ending of the trust they had in each other, he and Hirad. It had been everything to him. Even through the years they hardly saw each other, let alone spoke or fought together. Something he always had was Hirad’s unconditional belief. And last night, he had betrayed it.

  And worse, Hirad had been right. When it had come to it, he had been driven to protect Denser. Protect. How hollow that word sounded now. All he had done was drive away the man that could keep them together long enough to save not just Denser but his whole family, and Balaia too.

  The Unknown’s reaction had been much more than just desire to see a family saved, though, and that fact worried him deep in his soul. He should have been thankful he had a soul to feel worried but he wasn’t. Too much within him was still wedded to the Protectors and despite the relatively short time he had spent as one of them, he lamented the loss of the brotherhood. Even after six years and more, he had to accept it was a loss he would always feel and that was something he had not yet been able to fully come to terms with.

  And they were coming again. They were close. He could feel them and had told Ilkar so the day before. He couldn’t describe to Ilkar the clash of emotion it sparked within him. The joy of being near them and the tragedy of their existence linked with the exclusion he felt now his soul was again his own. That was the most acute pain for him. He would always be able to feel them but he would never again feel the oneness that, despite its dreadful reality, the Soul Tank bestowed. He wondered if they could feel him too.

  He looked over at Ilkar and Denser, sleeping under the hasty and inadequate shelter of leaf, branch and leather they’d created. He’d been glad for Ilkar last night. His sense had stopped a catastrophe. The Unknown had wanted to go after Hirad but Ilkar had stopped him doing that too. The elf thought Hirad would turn up in the camp come dawn. The Unknown wasn’t so sure.

  The rain had stopped at last but the wind was cold and whipped through the trees, chilling him as he sat by the fire. How they needed Hirad, now more than ever. After he’d calmed down, Denser had agreed to Commune with a contact in Korina to pass a message to Diera. All that he’d heard was yet more bad news.

  The contact was preparing to leave the city as, apparently, were tens of thousands of people, fleeing inland. Two days before, after an unceasing torrent of rain, the tide had risen along the estuary and, fed by run-off from the hills and mountains and whipped up by gale force winds, had kept on rising.

  The docks were under water, as were all of the low-lying areas in the estuary basin. Further up into the centre of Korina, conditions were better but the waters were still rising. The Unknown’s house had been in the estuary basin. The contact had no idea of the level of casualties in the city but knew The Rookery still stood and still served its patrons. He had promised to deliver The Unknown’s message there.

  All The Unknown could do now was pray his wife and son were still alive and under Tomas’ welcoming roof.

  He wanted to saddle his horse and ride to Korina now but knew he couldn’t. If he wanted to save his family and friends, he had to get Denser to Lyanna. Hirad was central to that. The big warrior rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head, cursing himself for his actions.

  It wasn’t until the man walked into the camp that he realised the watch he had been taking had been nothing more than an excuse to sit in the cold and damp, and disappear inside his own mind.

  ‘Nursing a problem, Unknown?’


  ‘You could say,’ replied The Unknown after looking up to see Darrick walk in, leather cape around his shoulders, sword scab-barded at his waist, dark rings about his eyes. He must have ridden most of the night. ‘Sit down. I’ll put some water on for coffee.’ But that wasn’t why Darrick was there.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got time for that,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said The Unknown. He looked hard into the woods but could see nothing but the shadows of trees moving in the wind as the sun gradually pierced the clouds that threatened more rain. ‘Bring many with you?’

  ‘A couple of hundred.’

  ‘You were quiet,’ The Unknown smiled.

  Darrick nodded and almost chuckled. ‘Well, we didn’t ride right in, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Two hundred, eh?’ The Unknown glanced again at his sword lying in the mud of the wood. ‘That’s probably enough.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Darrick walked around in front of The Unknown and stood across the fire from him. ‘I thought you deserved overwhelming odds to help you make up your mind.’

  The Unknown looked up into the General’s eyes and saw the guilt painted there like the mark of plague on the front door of a stricken house.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘To stop The Raven getting killed needlessly.’

  ‘Really?’ The Unknown raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, really.’ Darrick scratched at his forehead with a leather-gloved hand. ‘Look, you’re in the middle of something bad and I don’t think you fully understand how Dordover sees the stakes.’

  The Unknown felt a flash of anger. ‘Let me assure you, we know exactly how Dordover sees everything. That’s why we’re with him, trying to get to his daughter before anyone else.’ He jerked a thumb at Denser.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘So Ilkar keeps saying. Only, it is that simple. Denser asked for our help. We’re The Raven, so we helped him. He’s one of us and he says he can save her and Balaia with her and that’s enough for us.’ There was silence. The Unknown could see Darrick understood but couldn’t do anything about it. His loyalty was to Lystern and, through them, Dordover. ‘So where are you planning to take us?’