The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Pheone,’ he said. She didn’t turn round. ‘Pheone.’

  ‘I . . .’ she gestured at the Heart. ‘Look at what we’ve done.’

  ‘It is the most stunning achievement for which you will all go down in history,’ said The Unknown as gently as he could. ‘But we have trouble in the gateyard. Have you got anything left to give? People are still dying.’

  She smiled at him and nodded vigorously. ‘The Heart is raised. Our focus is clear. Yes, I’d have said we had something left.’

  She didn’t have to say anything more. All around, her mages were returning to themselves and their elven helpers sought the focus of the battle and ran to the aid of the Al-Arynaar.

  In the passage between the Heart pit and the main gates, Auum and his Tai still fought. The Unknown just couldn’t leave them to it. He patted Hirad on the shoulder, left the barbarian sitting on his haunches, hands on his thighs, and trotted as quickly as he could towards the elves, damaged hip protesting all the way. But at every pace more of the Al-Arynaar mages were coming by him and the spells were already beginning to fly. Focused Orbs took individuals and ForceCones knots of enemy forces. Almost at once, the passageway was clear and Auum’s Tai set off to free Rebraal and the rest of the Al-Arynaar.

  ‘Got you,’ breathed The Unknown.

  Hirad was spent, he knew he was. Behind him, The Raven were in no condition to fight on. Whatever happened now was out of their hands. He leaned on a wall. Thraun’s muzzle nudged at his hand. He looked down.

  ‘Gods, I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said. Thraun looked up at him, humanity blazing from his lupine eyes. ‘You come back to us, you hear?’

  From the gates there was another roar of noise and Xeteskians fell over themselves as they were forced into the gateyard. A horse neighed loud and Izack leaped a fallen man and galloped in, followed by his cavalry, his sword dripping blood.

  The men that had fallen in before the cavalry and had survived, got up and ran. And they were just the first. All over the yard, Xeteskians detached themselves from battle and headed for the gates. Mages cast ShadowWings and took off, clearing the walls and climbing high from danger.

  The Unknown watched them run and nodded to himself. Auum roared a rallying cry and the Al-Arynaar and surviving TaiGethen surged once more. Bottled up by the gate, enemy cavalry and elves around him, the Xeteskian commander yelled for order, for a new attack, but all around him, his men were running. They outnumbered their enemies but with Julatsan and Al-Arynaar mages on the parapets and racing along the stones, casting into their midst, they were broken.

  Chandyr bellowed his rage. He turned his head and met The Unknown’s gaze. Reluctantly, he nodded, snapped the reins of his horse and rode out of the gates, his men following him. Not satisfied, Izack bellowed his cavalry to order and chased them out, Al-Arynaar elves with him.

  The Unknown felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked round to see Hirad leaning against him. Blood slicked his face and dripped from his nose and ears but he still couldn’t keep the smile from his face though his eyes were a little unfocused.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ asked The Unknown.

  ‘Watching us win, I think,’ Hirad said.

  He wobbled slightly on his feet and The Unknown caught him under the shoulders.

  ‘Come on, old son, let’s get you seen to.’

  The cheers were ringing round the college. Up on the walls, the elven and Julatsan mages were hugging each other and down on the bloodied ground, Al-Arynaar warriors and mages clasped each other’s hands, too tired to do anything else. The Unknown and Hirad were joined in their walk to the infirmary by Auum, who was supporting a bedraggled-looking Rebraal. Duele and Evunn walked beside them, both cut and bleeding. Gods, wasn’t everyone?

  ‘We did it,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘Did you ever doubt it?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘Of course,’ said Rebraal.

  Hirad smiled. ‘Got to learn not to, if you’re ever going to be in The Raven.’

  Thraun was sitting outside the infirmary and staring in. Hirad unwound himself from The Unknown and knelt by him, ruffling his fur.

  ‘Thanks, Thraun. Saved me again, eh?’

  The wolf stared at him, some comprehension in his eyes. His tongue licked at Hirad’s face.

  ‘This is some risk you’ve taken. You can come back, can’t you?’ He held the wolf’s cheeks in his hands and looked at him. ‘Listen to me, Thraun. Remember.’

  Thraun backed away, yowling in his throat. Then he growled, cocked his head and trotted away.

  Hirad stared after him a moment, then let himself be helped inside.

  Vuldaroq completed his Communion with Heryst and sat back in his chair, feeling the warmth of the sun on his obese body. He felt a surge of excitement though it had been such a mix of a morning. First, one of Izack’s cavalry mages had reported to Heryst that the relief force had been completely wiped out. Only a handful of allied men had been left in the field barring Izack’s and they were under Blackthorne’s questionable control.

  The wait for more news had been interminable and when it had come, just as he was going to turn down an early lunch, it had been better than he could possibly have hoped for. Izack, the elves and The Raven had been victorious. The Heart of Julatsa was raised and the Xeteskians were in retreat.

  It wasn’t the fact of victory that had so lightened his mood. Indeed, had Julatsa fallen, he wasn’t sure that would have been too bad a thing. But it stood and better, the prize remained inside. More than that, Heryst said that he had nothing left to commit. And Izack was not going to be the man to arrest The Raven, that was abundantly clear.

  That left Dordover to do, well, the right thing. Vuldaroq rang the bell by his chair and waited for his servant to appear.

  ‘The reserve,’ he said. ‘See it is sent to Julatsa with all speed. I will be writing a letter to the acting High Mage, Pheone. We have one of our own that needs to be returned to the bosom of the college.’

  Dystran could still not believe what was happening. He stared at the Wesmen army that was organising itself outside his college. Carefully out of spell range, they calmly pitched tents, lit fires and fashioned battering rams and ladders. He shook his head, rested his elbows on the wall, and rubbed his face in his hands.

  It wasn’t just the enormous numbers of men that were being assembled, it was the mode of their attack. They hadn’t, as in years gone by, thrown everything they had at their enemies, only to be beaten back by spell and arrow.

  Instead, they’d hurled abuse for a while and now this. They were having a party outside his south gates. It couldn’t have become much worse except that his Communion team had just reported the final defeat at Julatsa. His men were routed and fleeing south even now.

  ‘I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies,’ said Dystran.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my Lord?’ said Suarav.

  ‘At least Chandyr is bringing some people back.’

  ‘We can keep them from the walls, my Lord,’ asserted Suarav.

  ‘How many fighting men do we have in the city right now, Captain?’

  ‘Two, maybe three hundred.’

  ‘And how many mages of any real experience?’

  ‘Forty or so, my Lord.’

  Dystran could see light dawning over his face. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘They have three or four thousand out there. They fear magic but it won’t stop them. If they get over these walls or through those gates, and I don’t doubt that they will try very, very hard, they will sweep through this city like a dose of the shits, do you understand? I suggest you go and read up on their normal tactics. It might tell you something.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Lucky I’ve got another dimensional team in the catacombs, isn’t it? I wonder when the next conjunction is.’

  The mood of celebration had taken hold though it was tempered by the numbers of dead. Sixty Al-Arynaar warriors had perished, along with twenty mages.
Another twenty would not make the trip home to Calaius. Commander Vale had died too, in the gateyard. He’d dived on an elf as a spell had struck and taken the full force himself. The Al-Arynaar would respect him for it forever. Auum, Duele and Evunn had survived, a testament to their extraordinary awareness of each other as much as anything. They were three of just five TaiGethen. And just a single ClawBound pair remained. They mourned their fallen alone.

  But there remained a feeling of intense satisfaction around the table in the refectory. Hirad sat with his head and chest bandaged, a goblet of wine in his hand. Surrounding him were The Raven minus a sleeping Erienne, Rebraal who had more bandage than skin showing, Auum and his cell, and Pheone.

  ‘Ilkar will be watching,’ said Denser.

  ‘He’d bloody well better be,’ said Hirad. ‘I don’t do this sort of thing for just anyone.’

  ‘Feel better now it’s done?’ asked The Unknown. ‘Any of that anger left you?’

  Hirad chuckled. ‘Some of it,’ he said. ‘I’m glad it was the Xeteskians we walloped to get here, though. They owe us.’

  ‘They have paid,’ said Thraun abruptly.

  ‘I’m almost prepared to believe anything you say,’ said Hirad. ‘Do you remember any of how or what you did?’

  Thraun looked troubled and shook his head. ‘Not how,’ he said. ‘Seemed . . . right.’

  The Unknown raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I thought that side was closed to you. What made you do it?’

  ‘No choice,’ Thraun said and looked at Hirad. ‘Sometimes we must all do that which we fear to save those we must. And we must all come to terms with the pain we carry.’

  ‘What are you looking at me for?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘They have paid,’ repeated Thraun.

  Hirad held up his hands. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘So what’s next for the Al-Arynaar and TaiGethen?’ Darrick’s question turned all their heads.

  ‘Home,’ said Auum. ‘I hate this place.’

  There was not the hint of a smile on his lips but Hirad laughed anyway. ‘To the point as ever. You too, Rebraal?’

  ‘Yes. There is so much to do, so much to rebuild. Think of the warriors and mages we have lost. We must rebuild our orders or this will happen again.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘We doubted it could ever happen in the first place,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘Point taken,’ said Hirad. ‘Unknown, fancy a trip south?’

  ‘Try and stop me, barbarian. I’ve got a wife and son I have to see.’

  ‘Then we should all go,’ said Denser. ‘Erienne will want to visit Lyanna’s grave on Herendeneth. So do I.’

  ‘How is Erienne?’ asked The Unknown.

  Denser grimaced. ‘You know I have absolutely no idea. Has she won her battle with the One? I doubt it. Does she know what she did today? Yes, I think so. But what effect it will have on her when she wakes, who knows?’ He looked at them sadly. ‘Some parts of her mind are closed to me. To all of us. Like Thraun says, we have to come to terms with the pain we carry. It’s her turn now, I think.’

  ‘What was it all about, her and the Heart?’ asked Hirad.

  Pheone answered for Denser. ‘The Heart was . . . infected, if you like, while it lay in the pit. And though mana, in the form of the raising was the only thing that could stop that infection, it also encouraged the infection to flourish. Erienne held the infection at bay, channelled it into herself to kill it, while we raised the Heart. Julatsa is forever in her debt. And yours, all of you.’

  ‘No you aren’t. All we’ve done is what Ilkar wanted,’ said Hirad. ‘That’s enough.’ He paused. ‘Right then, unless there are any dissenters, The Raven will travel south. And say nothing, General, everyone here wants your head, after all.’

  ‘And yours now, no doubt. I will admit it is an enticing prospect, sleeping without the axe hovering.’

  Hirad pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Funny isn’t it. We’ve spent the last, what, six and a bit years saving this ridiculous country from everything that’s been thrown at it and all they want to do is kill us. Perhaps we shouldn’t ever come back.’

  ‘You would be welcome on Calaius,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘In a city,’ added Auum and there, at last, were the corners of his mouth turning up. ‘I’m not sure the rainforest is ready for you just yet.’

  ‘We’ll think about it,’ said Hirad. ‘Right now, I need some air.’

  He wandered out of the refectory, feeling exhausted. It should have been night time from the effort he’d exerted today but it could only be mid-afternoon. He walked across to the Heart casing and looked at its carvings. The column, some eighty feet high, stood proud against the night sky. He felt intensely sad that Ilkar hadn’t lived to see his college reborn but he was sure that, in some way, he would know. And Julatsa would remember him always.

  ‘This is for you, old friend,’ he said. ‘We did it for you. I hope you like it.’

  Hirad scratched at his bandages and headed off towards the gateyard, feeling the need to see if there was anything he could do. He didn’t know why but it just felt right. Izack’s cavalry and the remaining city guard patrolled the walls, and Al-Arynaar filled the gap where the gates had been, just in case of another attack. Somehow Hirad doubted it. Izack had chased the Xeteskians clear out of the city and the last patrols back that night had reported them reformed and heading south, back to Xetesk.

  Outside, the city would be coming to terms with the legacy it had bestowed upon itself and that would be worth hanging around to see. Somehow, though, he didn’t think the elves would want to stay for the reckoning.

  The dull thud in his head eased as if a balm had been spread across his brain. Feelings of warmth and the smells of humid air and cold white stone filled his senses. He could touch the air passing over a wing and feel the touch of a kin after so long apart from so many. And he could hear the distant roars of greeting. A sound he never thought would reach him again.

  Hirad smiled and let the sun play over his face.

  ‘Home at last, old friend,’ he said. ‘Home at last.’

  Acknowledgements

  No surprises here, I guess. Tireless Editor and close friend, Simon Spanton was once again always there for debate, discussion and advice. And the odd beer. Arch publicist, Nicola Sinclair snared some great press exposure against the odds, and Robert Kirby, my agent, always looked forwards. Thank you for everything you do on my behalf.

  And there’s more. Thanks once again to Dick Whichelow and Dave Mutton for their support and healthy criticism. To David Gemmell and Peter Hamilton for valuable advice on the business side of being an author. To Ariel for sterling work on my website (particularly the gazetteer). To Rob Bedford, Gabe Chouinard and Sammie from sffworld.com for spreading the word. And once more to all those who took the time to email me about The Raven.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Cast List

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Cha
pter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  For Simon Spanton, a great friend and great editor,

  and without whom there would have been no Raven.

  Cast List

  Chapter 1

  ‘Again!’ Tessaya swept his arm down. ‘Again!’

  The Wesmen charged the walls of Xetesk once more, tribal banners snapping in the breeze, voices mingling to a roar. The ladders drove into position, his warriors stormed up their rough rungs. Below them, archers tried to keep the defenders back from the wall. A difficult task over such a distance.

  In the deep night-shadows of Xetesk’s walls, tribesmen pivoted more ladders. Along a four-hundred-yard stretch of wall they arced up. The best of them just rough-cut and bound, the worst little more than shaved trunks of the tallest trees they could find. In earlier attacks, some had not been tall enough. He saw the ladders catching the light of the torches on the battlements before they thudded into place, warriors already swarming up them two abreast.

  This time he had his enemy. This time, the Wesmen would break through the defences. He could feel it. In the daylight, many had died. Spells and arrows had ripped into wood and flesh. Burning warriors had tumbled to the ground screaming. Ladders, charred or frozen, had cracked and collapsed in heartbeats.

  Yet the tribes had not faltered. Urged on by their lords who could see victory so close they had continued to press. And while hundreds scoured the land for the wood to build more ladders, hundreds more died at the walls doing exactly what had to be done. They exhausted the spell casters.

  Tessaya saw the outlines of men running along the battlements to prepare their defence. Below them, holding shields above their heads, came his warriors. It was the fourth attack of the day. The night was just passing its zenith, and the spells no longer deluged them.