The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Your message, Xeteskian,’ he said.

  The messenger pulled a leather envelope from his breast and handed it over.

  ‘I would take your reply at your earliest convenience, my Lord,’ he said.

  Tendjorn untied the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper it contained. It was a brief message, and the mage smiled and shook his head as he read it.

  ‘Gracious me, how predictable,’ he muttered, and handed it to the quartet of soldiers and mages grouped behind him. He slapped the empty envelope into the chest of the messenger. ‘Tell your commander that we will not withdraw until he agrees to take charge of the people whom his college has made homeless. Tell him that any move to force them across the river will be met with an appropriate response.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’ The messenger bowed, his face expressionless.

  Rusau grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wait a moment. You can’t deliver that. This is madness. Tendjorn, I beg you to reconsider.’

  ‘You must remove your hand, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘You may not impede a messenger under the parley flag.’

  ‘I know but . . .’ He removed his hand and immediately the messenger turned and walked from the tent. ‘Think what your message means. Men will die.’

  ‘Quiet your bleating, Rusau, and face reality,’ said Tendjorn. ‘This conflict is about far more than just Herendeneth. It concerns balance. Something Xetesk is determined to upset.’

  ‘All it takes is for you to withdraw your forces and let the refugees move to their homes to rebuild their lives. It will give us a basis for negotiation. Please, Tendjorn. Someone has to make a gesture for peace to have a chance.’

  Tendjorn walked the pace to Rusau and looked square into his face, holding his gaze.

  ‘There is but one way to stop this and that is for Lystern to stop dithering and join us. Isn’t it obvious to you? Xetesk always wanted war; we have merely upset their timing. Without you, they may well beat us. With you, they may well not.

  ‘Heryst is cautious. But what price that when Xetesk marches up to his gates, eh? You have done your best, Lysternan, you and your negotiators. Has Xetesk listened to you? Join us now. We don’t want to destroy Xetesk, we need them in balance. They want to dominate, don’t you understand?’

  ‘I understand that war will leave all of magic seriously weakened and will draw in the population who surely have suffered enough. More innocents will die in this conflict and hatred will grow. Do not assume non-mages are too weak to fight. Look at what the Wesmen did to Julatsa.’

  ‘Yes, Rusau,’ growled Tendjorn. ‘And look what that has done to the balance of magic. Even now we are protecting Julatsa from the inevitable Xeteskian invasion. Where are Lystern, their supposed friends, eh? Xetesk cannot be allowed to win.’

  ‘Heryst is on his way to discuss that very matter with Vuldaroq, have you not been informed? Wait for them to reach accord. Must you fight today?’ Rusau was exasperated in the face of such closed-minded determination to let blood.

  ‘Gods, man, are you blind?’ shouted Tendjorn. He strode away a pace and threw up his arms. ‘You’ve been in Xetesk; surely you’ve seen?’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Tendjorn. ‘They are arming and armouring every man of fighting age in the city. Every man. They are drilling women and children in battlefield supply. Their forges work day and night. They mean to win this war and they will not hear peace. And whether you believe it or not, the information they will get from Herendeneth will merely make them stronger. Now out of my way; I have a battle to organise.’

  Rusau ran from the tent and jumped back on his horse. He fought his way through the army coming to order. Shouts were ringing through the camp, horses were being saddled and mounted, weapons given a final taste of the whetstone. Mages planned offence and defence. He was ignored as he surged across the river. To his right the refugees were being moved away from the likely battlefield. He could hear their fear now. Ahead of him the messenger was galloping hard up the slope. As he went, he waved his parley flag and then angled it vertically down.

  ‘Damn it,’ said Rusau.

  A line of Xeteskians breasted the hill to stand silhouetted on the horizon.

  Avesh stood with his arms around Ellin while she wept. It had been so since he reached her at the Dord and they had buried their son together. She had refused any sustenance, drinking only water from the river. He could understand. Her son lay dead and she couldn’t even escape to grieve because the Dordovans had blocked their progress. Not just across the Dord but anywhere. They had provided food and spoken gentle words but there was no doubting the hundreds here were prisoners to be used against Xetesk. How, he didn’t know and was scared to guess.

  All he wanted to do was take her away. Somewhere where he knew she would be safe so that he could do what he had to do. Strike back. But right now he was helpless. Caught between two colleges, neither of whom cared whether he lived or died.

  He had watched the two riders gallop over the rise to the south and cross to the Dordovan camp. He had watched them ride back separately, the one with the flag in advance of the other. And then he had watched the line of soldiers and horsemen appear, ready to charge. He shivered and cursed under his breath, not even having the strength to be scared like so many of those around him. He now had so little to lose.

  He hugged Ellin tighter, kissing her on the top of her head.

  ‘Be strong, my love,’ he said. ‘And listen to me. We are going to have to run once more.’

  Chapter 27

  Chandyr had been organising his men from the moment Rusau and the messenger had disappeared over the crest. He’d split his cavalry into two wings, leaving his foot soldiers to take the central ground. Mages were dispersed along the line, providing offensive and defensive cover. Chandyr’s aim was simple. His men would not put one foot in the waters of the Dord, that was not their brief. But they would push every enemy across those waters.

  He called his forces to order. Flags waved their readiness from the left flank cavalry. He would lead the right.

  ‘Archers ready?’ he called.

  ‘Aye!’ came the shout.

  ‘Soldiers ready?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Engage only armed men, shoot at armed men only. I want as little refugee blood on my hands as possible. No one is to walk on Dordovan land. We are not mounting an invasion. Not yet. Lieutenants, sound the march.’

  Orders were barked along the line, which stretched for about a third of a mile. Chandyr trotted back to his cavalry. It would be a classic pincer if he could close it but he expected the Dordovans to be aware of the tactic. If not, he had movement orders waiting and his command team had been fully briefed, orders ready to be passed down to all levels of the army. Chandyr had studied Ry Darrick for a time and had learned a few truths about effective battle. He wondered if he could put any of them into practice.

  The army advanced at a walk up the incline, the cavalry keeping pace. It was steady and ordered, as it had to be. And interrupted by a scout tearing back over the hill on foot. He sped down towards Chandyr.

  ‘Messenger approaching, sir,’ he said, breathless. ‘Flag down, sir, flag down.’

  ‘Get your breath and fall in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He saluted and ran off round the side of the cavalry.

  Chandyr looked to his left. ‘Flagman, signal the full advance.’

  ‘Sir!’

  A thin red flag was held aloft and swept around in a long circle twice. The order was taken up along the line.

  ‘To a trot!’ ordered Chandyr.

  The line quickened its pace, trotting up the slope, cresting the hill and carrying on down at an unbroken pace. Chandyr could see the refugees being herded left but not fast enough. He could see the Dordovans forming up on the north bank, cavalry in loose formation behind their foot soldiers, scattered horsemen that had to be mages among the rank and file. And in the middle of the empty plain, one rider. Rusau.<
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  ‘Dear Gods, you fool,’ muttered Chandyr. ‘You bloody fool.’

  There was nothing that could be done for him now. Chandyr’s warning had been clear enough, though he felt a stab of regret.

  To the left, the refugee group had seen the approaching army. There was trouble in the mass and the Dordovans were having difficulty containing it. People had got away from the guards. Some carried on running to the left, others unbelievably were coming up the plain towards them but most were making for the river.

  ‘Keep it tight!’ roared Chandyr. ‘Keep it tight!’

  As they descended the slope, the Dordovans were fording the river, their line reforming on the near bank and moving slowly, keeping to the flat ground, unwilling to give the Xeteskians any slope advantage. The forces closed, Rusau still between them.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ whispered Chandyr, then shouted, ‘Get out of the way, Rusau!’

  His voice echoed out. Rusau pulled his horse round and drove headlong towards Chandyr. He was shouting but the Xeteskian couldn’t hear him until he closed to a few yards and slowed hard.

  ‘Stop this madness!’ he yelled.

  ‘Out of my way, Rusau. Get behind the lines. There’s nothing you can do now. Go back to Lystern.’

  ‘Damn you, Chandyr. Make it stop.’

  ‘Last chance, Rusau. Please go.’ He looked to his lieutenants and signalled with a clenched fist. They were a hundred yards from the Dordovans. Spells were prepared. ‘Flagman! Stand ready!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Chandyr.’

  ‘Leave.’

  Rusau wheeled his horse again and sped back towards the Dordovans.

  ‘Archers!’ called Chandyr. At the back of the lines his archers stopped and knelt. The Dordovans were doing likewise. ‘Deploy shields.’ Each order was relayed by his command chain. Hard- and SpellShields came on instantly, deployment confirmed across the line. ‘Fire at will!’

  Arrows flew away, volley after volley, soaring overhead to clatter against the Dordovan shields and answered by the enemy. Across the divide, Rusau was being pushed away by Dordovan soldiers. Chandyr had no time to look at him any more. Dordovan cavalry had broken left and right and were galloping along the back of their line, which bristled with pikemen.

  ‘Waiting,’ yelled Chandyr. ‘Waiting.’

  He watched the cavalry closely. They were spread quite thin and outnumbered by the Xeteskian horsemen, their tactic as yet unclear. Thirty yards. It was enough.

  ‘Engage!’ he shouted.

  The flagman flung his flag forwards, the foot soldiers roared and charged, his cavalry sprang to the gallop. Archers dropped their bows and joined the fray, spells filled the air. And in the midst of it all, Rusau, seeing his folly, began a desperate gallop to the right. He was never going to make it.

  A few Xeteskian FlameOrbs soared out into the late afternoon sky, targeting mages and archers and splashing down in their midst, fizzing and hissing over shields or detonating on the ground where there were none. HotRain fell from the sky in a brief torrent over the Dordovan foot soldiers. The enemy mages were ready; their shields held, as did the Xeteskians’ under the entirely predictable response.

  But Chandyr had held something back. As they had been drilled, the Xeteskian foot forces, still just ahead of the cavalry, suddenly slowed for four paces. Unexpectedly, the Dordovan line was exposed to Xeteskian spell attack and more FlameOrbs fell in a concentrated burst on their left. At least one SpellShield cracked under the sudden and focussed barrage. Magical fire tore into armour and cloth. It melted faces and ate through furs and flesh, the unquenchable flames leaving their victims helpless as they died.

  ‘Push the right. Watch the cavalry flank!’

  Chandyr rode headlong into the Dordovan cavalry, horsemen to his left driving at the disoriented and weakened line, to his right fanning out to guard against a flank attack.

  Rusau was caught in the chaos, wheeling his horse left and right as swords rose and fell all around him. Chandyr leaned left and swept his sword over his horse’s head to clash with an enemy’s. He let go the reins and dragged at the man’s shoulder with his left hand as he snatched his weapon back. Pulled off balance, the Dordovan didn’t see Chandyr’s blade whip back and across to take him on the top of his helmeted head. Stunned, he fell from his horse, as good as dead under the churning hooves.

  The Xeteskian commander glanced along his line. They had forced the Dordovans well back on the right flank and a breach wouldn’t be long coming. More spells flashed across the space above his head, keeping the opposition casting mages busy with shields. A detonation told of at least one more failing under pressure.

  ‘Rusau!’ he yelled, but his voice was lost in the roar of battle, the ring of swords, the screams of dying men, the calls of fifty lieutenants and the stamp of myriad hooves.

  A sword swung towards him. Reflexively, he blocked right. It was a good stroke. The Dordovan was knocked back in his saddle and took a second thrust through his gut.

  ‘Push on, push on!’ he urged, seeing the Dordovan line falter.

  Chandyr dragged his horse left, swinging down to connect with the shoulder of a pikeman whose weapon was trapped underfoot. In the mêlée all order had disappeared; men fought for their lives moment to moment. But Chandyr chose to fight for someone else’s. Rusau. Unbelievably, the Lysternan was still upright in his saddle, blood spattering his cloak and robes.

  ‘Pull back, damn you!’ Chandyr knew the mage couldn’t hear him; he was caught right in the middle of the fiercest fighting. His horse was cut and terrified, rearing and bucking, Rusau demonstrating remarkable skill to stay in the saddle.

  Chandyr hacked his way towards the helpless mage, his own mount, bred and trained for the fray, kicking out as it moved, head butting low, driving enemies aside and giving its rider clear vision and sword arc. The Xeteskian kept his legs back, kept his sword forward and never gave an enemy a flank target.

  ‘Rusau! To me!’

  Chandyr swept his sword into the face of a foot soldier. To his relief, the mage heard him.

  ‘Bring him round. To me!’

  But Rusau’s mount wasn’t responding. The mage hauled at the reins, searching for space. There was none.

  ‘Help him!’ Chandyr leant over the shoulder of his horse and smashed his sword down. Another foot gained. Around him, his men pushed. Hard. ‘Go! Go!’

  This was the time to trust. It was the only way. Orders to men beyond five yards were pointless. Local leaders picking up on the course of battle were vital. Men of better vision in the thick of metal and blood, of panic and death. Darrick had taught him that and he had trained his own. In this battle, it was making all the difference. All along the line, Xetesk held formation and Dordover fell back.

  He heeled his horse again, it kicked a man aside and plunged forward.

  ‘Rusau!’ He was almost within touching distance. ‘Behind me, jump on.’

  From nowhere, pikes thrust from both sides, freed by the movement of bodies. As it had been trained to do, Chandyr’s horse stepped smartly back and reared to use its forelegs as a shield. Rusau’s panicked creature reared too, but pitched its rider off. The mage fell calling out, grasping desperately, straight onto the point of a Xeteskian pike.

  ‘No!’ cried Chandyr, but it was done.

  The blade speared straight through the Lysternan’s back and out of his chest, breaking his ribcage as it came. Blood rushed from Rusau’s mouth and he died, the pikeman dropping the staff and snatching out his short sword, too scared for his own life to realise what he had done.

  Chandyr wheeled and galloped from the battle to check progress. The day would be won. The Dordovans would be forced back across the river. But Chandyr didn’t care much about that. Enough Dordovans had seen Rusau die. A neutral on a Xeteskian pike. He would tell the truth. The Dordovans would not. He could only guess at the consequences.

  It was night and the battle was done. The Dordovans had been crushed and driven
back across the river but not before herding many of the refugees to their deaths, caught helpless between the opposing forces.

  Three miles west, the surviving refugees had regrouped, huddling together for comfort around fires. Another blow had been struck against their fragile spirits and here they were again with no food, shelter or hope.

  The flight from the fighting had been terrifying. Once the Dordovan guard had deserted them to shore up their fractured line, Avesh had got Ellin away from the panic and those who ran to the Dord, or those who decided to throw themselves on the mercy of the Xeteskians. Many had followed him, and as the day wore on yet more joined the group.

  They sat in almost complete silence. A misty rain was falling from a clouded night sky and in his arms Ellin was unmoving. He rocked her gently, cursing those who had reduced her from bright light to traumatised shell. He had to strike back but had no idea how to contact those he wanted, but then three of them rode into the camp just as he was fighting back sleep.

  Alarm rippled through the exhausted refugees but the riders sought to quell it quickly, assuring them they were not from any college. Avesh sat up, fatigue fading, and as a hush fell, one of the riders spoke.

  ‘I and my men had sight of the events of today and I want to pass on my sympathy at your plight and my fury at those who treat you no better than animals. But the reason I am here is to offer you hope and a way to make a difference and to end the persecution of ordinary Balaians.

  ‘My name is Edman, and I am an emissary of the Black Wings.’

  He waited while renewed nervousness coursed through the cold, wet and hungry refugees.

  ‘Please,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘I know our reputation but I want to assure you we mean you no harm. We seek to restore what has been lost but we need people to make it happen. I can offer you food and shelter. It is a long walk from here but we will help you every step of the way. We will keep you from contact with our common enemy and we will help your sick and your wounded.