The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  Hirad sprinted through the crowd and after the elf. ‘Get back here, you bastard. Face me! Face Ilkar!’

  He would never catch him but he ran on anyway, hoping for a slip, anything. A shadow moved against the buildings at the end of the village and leapt unerringly. The riderless horse galloped on a little way before losing momentum. On the ground behind it, Hirad saw Auum’s single thrust. He stopped running, smiled and walked back to The Raven.

  ‘What about the other one?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘Leaving one to tell the tale can’t hurt.’

  He stooped and cleaned his blade on an impostor’s clothing, sheathing it and walking towards the villagers. Hirad glanced around. So easy. So effortless.

  ‘Not much of a security force, I wouldn’t have thought,’ he said to Darrick.

  The General, one hand pressed against his opposite shoulder, tried to smile.

  ‘No. Can you help me with this?’

  He lifted his hand. The arrow had struck him just under the collarbone. Darrick had snapped off the shaft to leave a couple of inches remaining.

  ‘That was careless,’ said Hirad.

  ‘Denser let his shield down,’ said Darrick. ‘No blame intended.’

  ‘Indeed I did,’ said Denser, coming to his side. ‘The least I can do is sort you out. Hirad, why don’t you talk to our new friends or something?’

  Hirad shrugged and wandered off after The Unknown. Some of the villagers were walking into the combat area, staring dumbly at the bodies and blood.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got yourselves some new horses anyway,’ said Hirad. ‘Hope you don’t mind clearing up. Think of it as payment.’

  He saw the odd nod and smile but there was wariness amongst the villagers.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You didn’t need them. And they weren’t who they said they were. They deserved it. They were damaging the reputations of friends I have lost.’

  The Unknown was standing with Ferran. The farmer was frowning.

  ‘And what will you do now, take their place?’

  The Unknown shook his head, smiling. ‘We’ll move on in the morning, like we said.’

  ‘Are you The Raven?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘We have tales to tell,’ said Ferran.

  ‘Fair enough.’ The Unknown looked across at Hirad, who shrugged. ‘Yes, we are The Raven. Very different from the tales you’ve been told, I expect. We’re tired, we’re wanted by both sides in the war and all we want to do is leave Balaia and hang up our swords.’

  ‘Leave?’ Ferran’s eyebrows raised.

  ‘We’ve done all we can,’ said Hirad. ‘And there are too many out there who will thank us by having us locked up or executed. Draw your own conclusions.’

  Around them, the crowd stood mute. Not quite believing what they were seeing, what they had heard, or what they were hearing right now. Hirad couldn’t help but chuckle.

  ‘None too impressive-looking, are we?’ he said. There was a little laughter in the crowd. On an impulse, he continued. ‘But we couldn’t let them go. We couldn’t. So many of those they were mimicking are dead friends. And I will not stand by while their memories are sullied by this sort of filth, and while the deeds of those with us now are ignored.’ He gestured at the corpses. One, his double, still breathed. Hirad hoped he was being heard. He continued.

  ‘We lost Ras at Taranspike Castle, Sirendor Larn was poisoned by a Xeteskian assassin and Richmond died in Black Wings’ castle. All more than six years ago now but they are the names you have been told, are they not?’

  There was a murmur in the crowd. Heads were inclined. They hung on his every word.

  ‘Yet there were so many more. Jandyr, who died on the fields of Parve; poor Will Begman, terrified from his life by the touch of a demon. Aeb, the Protector who sacrificed his soul to The Raven. And Ilkar. Ilkar who even in the act of his death, saved the rest of us. That is what The Raven is. That is who we are and what those of us who remain represent.’ He indicated them one by one. ‘Erienne; Denser; Thraun; Darrick; The Unknown Warrior. And me, Hirad Coldheart, lucky enough to have stood with them all.’

  He stopped, aware that he was welling up and that his voice was in danger of breaking.

  ‘So,’ he said and clapped his hands together, smiling as he swallowed at the lump in his throat. ‘Do you have ale and wine here?’

  ‘That we do,’ came a voice from the crowd.

  ‘Good. Then anyone who wishes, join me in raising a tankard to The Raven, all of us. I’m buying.’

  The Unknown turned to Ferran as the crowd broke into excited conversation and set off as one to the tavern. ‘Is that a good enough tale for you to tell?’

  Ferran nodded. ‘His heart speaks, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Always,’ said The Unknown. ‘Hey, Coldheart, get over here.’

  Hirad strode towards him and found himself enveloped in The Unknown’s arms.

  ‘Well said, Hirad. Well said.’

  Chapter 6

  Tessaya ducked as another FlameOrb smashed into the rubble of a building behind him, its deep blue flame gorging on whatever wood it could find. The garish light it cast threw harsh shadows on the walls and ground around him. He ordered another attack on the gates.

  Conservatively, he reckoned he had lost a third of his men to Xeteskian sword and spell; most of them when the tower and parapet had collapsed the previous night. Riasu was dead, so were at least two other tribal lords. Tessaya himself was bandaged along one arm, cut and burned in four places he could feel and probably others he couldn’t.

  But the belief of the Wesmen was unwavering. Here they stood, in front of Xetesk’s college gates, night full around them and the defenders increasingly desperate as their strength ebbed away.

  Tessaya concentrated much of his efforts on the gates though he had tribesmen all round the walls under command of their tribal lords. The tactic was simple. Hit and run. Force them to use spell and arrow. Keep them from consolidating in one place. Fear nothing. Not even the winged demons, impervious to the kiss of metal. Even they could be dealt with if the will prevailed.

  Tessaya glanced right. One of the creatures was pinioned beneath the rubble its masters had created. It cursed and spat, struggled and shifted. But the four warriors guarding it simply piled on more stone. It would not escape and its humiliation undermined it. Without fear as a weapon, it was diminished.

  His warriors charged the gates with the battering ram they had built outside the walls of the city. An oak trunk with branches thick as a man’s leg. Beside the twenty who carried the ram ran twenty more carrying thick bark shields above their heads. And beside them, archers fanned out, four on either side. And all around the walls, more teams with trunks and ladders, roared on by their tribes.

  The noise of song and shout sent a thrill through Tessaya every time he heard it. It was the call of the Wesmen to victory and it filled him with joy. On the walls, the defenders responded. But as it had been with every attack through the night, they were holding back because they didn’t have the spells or arrows to do anything else.

  The ram clattered into the centre of the doors, his tribesmen flailing at the familiars who flew in amongst the arrows. Splinters flew, timbers groaned and the spells that strengthened the doors sparked. Arrows and rocks poured down. Three men fell. The ram reversed and simultaneously the familiars withdrew. FlameOrbs and IceWind drove into the bark shields. Warriors screamed and toppled among the fallen of earlier raids. There was no quarter here. The dead would lie uncollected.

  The ram went in again and this time Wesmen archers were close enough to fire. Shafts skipped off the walls, chipped shards from the crenellations. Some found their targets. Since the zenith of the night, the defenders had not had the capacity to shield their own men with magic. It was one more indication of their weakening. And every blow of the ram, every spell they were forced into using and every arrow fired from the walls weakened them further.

  Tessaya nodded, satisfi
ed. He flexed the muscles of his thigh and felt the pull where a Xeteskian arrow had punctured it. Never send your men where you were not prepared to go yourself. But by the time he was called upon to carry the ram again, he thought the gates would already be down. Soon it would be dawn. It was fitting that the new day should see the fall of Xetesk.

  He took another look at the college’s seven towers, soon to be toppled. Men were gathering high up on the tallest of them. Tessaya sniffed. The air tasted suddenly sour. Xetesk’s evil was about to be unleashed once more.

  Dystran stood with his dimensional team. Dawn was just below the horizon. He and they had spoken at some length and watched the Wesmen cycle their forces, never giving the defenders a break. Dystran’s mages were close to exhaustion, his archers were almost spent and his commander was at the end of his tether, desperate to get out and fight in the streets. Swordsmen were idle, Chandyr had said, while Wesmen went unchallenged. Dystran wanted them fresh. If this last gambit failed then every sword would be required to defend the tower complex. There was still scope for victory, but timely deployment was crucial. Dystran felt Chandyr was running on emotion, not logic.

  He had argued long with Sharyr about the risk. He knew the alignment was incomplete. But the Wesmen had to be knocked back. The moment couldn’t be delayed.

  ‘Make me proud,’ he said to the team as Sharyr readied them for the casting.

  ‘Either that or I’ll make you dead,’ said Sharyr sharply.

  Dystran respected his strength of belief. It made him a man with whom he could identify; and perhaps one to bring onto the Circle Seven where he could be kept more firmly in control.

  ‘Just get started,’ said Dystran. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  He heard the thud of the Wesmen ram on the gates once more and felt the sharp spike in the mana spectrum indicating stress on the binding spells. All around the college, spells flew out, carving lines of dark blue in the pre-dawn sky. Fires burned in a ring and everywhere he looked Dystran could see Wesmen.

  ‘Sharyr, if this spell only stops one thing, make it stop that damn chanting. It is as distracting as it is tuneless.’

  Sharyr almost smiled at that. He turned to those he could see of the fifteen that encircled the Tower and the casting began. Dystran sent a short prayer to whatever God might be listening. StormFront was a dangerous casting, barely developed and never live-tested. But it was the only one that would break the Wesmen in time. It required accurate construction, visualisation and placement. It needed the power of inter-dimensional space to drive it. And it needed huge mental strength to hold it while the storm coalesced. Everything went into the formation. After release, they could all stand and admire while it washed out to every point of the compass.

  Dystran smiled. The situation to test the casting was ideal; the desired formation circumference was just within the boundaries of the theoretically possible; and they were surrounded by enemies. StormFront was designed for exactly this scenario. Its successful casting would complete the suite of inter-dimensionally powered spells and defeat the Wesmen at the same stroke. It would be a most satisfying outcome.

  Sharyr was an efficient mage. No fuss. He managed his team closely. Dystran felt the pull of the mana and the order of a focused casting. He almost wished he had joined them. Almost.

  The first indication of the casting was an impressive slit in the sky. Blue-edged, it appeared directly above his head and moved out to the periphery of the college where it stabilised. To begin with it was a slice of silk only a few feet long, alluring and delicate. It hardened then, taking on the shape of the spell: an arc, glimmering deep blue and ragged at its height. Abruptly, the arc lengthened. It ran away left and right, faster than the eye could follow, tracing the circumference of the college.

  The circle completed. White flashed briefly in the blue mana light. The air hummed. Up on the walls, archers straightened and mages moved to standby, letting their casting constructs disperse. The Wesmen were withdrawing. Dystran didn’t blame them.

  The slit opened downwards slowly as the StormFront coalesced. To Dystran’s left and right, mages gripped the balcony rail, steadying quivering legs while the energy washed through them and they fought to first contain it and next, feed it into the casting. He heard Sharyr’s suddenly ragged breathing.

  ‘Hold on,’ he was urging his team. ‘Hold on. Breathe easy.’

  Inside the widening front, forks of bright blue light flashed. There was the roaring of a hurricane punctuated by the bass rumble of rolling thunder. On its lower edge, descending fast now and almost out of sight, the front boiled and bubbled in the Balaian air, hungrily grabbing at the elements to blend with the raw power of inter-dimensional space.

  ‘Holding steady,’ muttered Sharyr. ‘Focus. Focus.’

  The nature of the front changed slowly. It thickened. Its colour turned a deepening grey, muting the flashes within it. A wind whipped up around it. Even at this distance, it picked at Dystran’s cloak. Down on the walls, soldiers hunched behind the battlements. Outside the college, Wesmen ran to the edge of the cobbles by the first rubbled buildings where their fires burned. They thought the spell was a shield but they were gravely mistaken. They had not retreated far enough.

  Dystran sampled the construct. Felt its solidity and the effort of the mages keeping it secure while the forces poured in. It was the textbook shape. The casting would be a triumph. All he could do now was wait. The field strengthened further, discordant noise filling the air. The Wesmen had stopped singing.

  Next to him, Sharyr stood with every muscle tensed. His forehead was damp with sweat that trickled over his closed eyes and down his cheeks. Dystran became aware of the murmuring of the casting team. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke to each other across the construct and used command words that opened up new pathways in the shape, closed off others or bled away excess power.

  A frown passed across Sharyr’s face.

  ‘Instability. Base level. Lock it down.’

  To Dystran’s right, a mage gasped with the effort, his teeth grinding. He swayed. Across the surface of the front, chaotic blue light surged and flashed.

  ‘Spreading,’ said Sharyr. ‘Something’s wrong. The alignment isn’t firming, it’s failing. How can that be . . . Prepare to release.’

  ‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘Believe. Hold on for full term.’

  The top edge of the front rippled violently. Dystran was buffeted by a sudden howl of wind. From the opposite side of the tower, he heard a cry of pain.

  ‘One out, one out!’ called Sharyr. ‘Release on my mark.’

  Dystran pursed his lips. Before him, the StormFront bucked and twisted. Its grey colouring was shot with dark lines. Bolts of pure energy seethed across its surface or grabbed at the ground. The intensity of noise grew sharply, battering at the ears. It was the sound of a thousand dragons breathing fire.

  ‘Release!’

  A moment’s pause and the StormFront surged outwards, precisely as designed. An expanding wall of Balaian elemental destruction, focused and powered by the energy of inter-dimensional space. It would dissipate in no more than seventy to a hundred yards, minimising the risk to ordinary Xeteskians. But before it became little more than a puff of air, it would obliterate everything in its path.

  Scant feet from the walls, the StormFront guttered and halted. Dystran staggered under the weight of the backwash through the mana spectrum.

  ‘What—’ he began.

  It guttered again, rippled across its surface then the whole front delivered a blistering white light that scoured the night from the city in an instant. Through the patterns across his tortured eyes, Dystran saw the StormFront blink and suck back towards its starting point, the constant light casting harsh day over Xetesk. At dreadful speed, the circle wound back. The entire construct reversed until just a twinkle of blue mana light remained in the air just above and outside the college gates.

  Blackness flooded the void left by the light. Dystran blinked h
ard, trying to shift the shapes that flowed across his vision. In monochrome, he could just pick out the sparkle of light over the gates, the fires indicating the Wesmen and, too bright to be anything other than a problem, the glimmer from the previous night’s CobaltFury that had never dissipated.

  Hypnotised, he watched a strand of blue emanate from the glimmer above the city walls and trace across the sky towards the college. It was pencil-thin and quite steady but Dystran sensed such menace inside it that it made him shudder.

  There was no sound he could hear above his own breathing and the crackle of fires and hiss of lanterns and torches. Every waking eye would be transfixed by the line being drawn above the city. Every voice was mute.

  ‘Sharyr?’ hissed Dystran. ‘Answers. Quickly.’

  ‘I have none,’ said Sharyr, his voice weary.

  Dystran would have looked at him but he was reluctant to leave the spectacle. The points of light were almost joined now and the sense of foreboding growing.

  ‘It’s going to be a gateway,’ said Dystran. ‘But to where?’

  ‘You can’t be sure,’ said Sharyr. ‘It’s probably just something caused by the meeting of our elements and inter-dimensional space.’ Sharyr’s tone suggested he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  The line of light reached the walls of the college. Alien sound abruptly split the nervous quiet. From the windows of towers, open doors and shadowed recesses, familiars flew. Two dozen and more, all that remained in the college. Gone was the mischievous laughter and the chittering contempt to be replaced by hollow keening and long, high-pitched and querulous wails.

  Shivering, Dystran watched their flight pattern. It was tightly formed, one leading all the others in a helical pattern around the beam of light. They dispersed back into the sky after a few turns, rising in graceful arcs before plunging back towards the college, voices changed, sounding warning and alarm.