The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Prepare the Cones,’ said Rebraal.

  There was no dissent behind him. The elves advanced at a trot, the mages now with clear sight of the barricade, both material and human. Rebraal waved his arms again.

  ‘Please! Get away. Get away!’

  Nothing. And in that moment, he wondered whether they actually welcomed the end that approached them. None pleaded, none cried for rescue. Not a tear was being spilled. They merely stood and waited.

  ‘We are ready,’ came a voice from behind his left shoulder.

  Rebraal fell back behind the mage line.

  ‘Cast,’ he ordered.

  The barricade had been erected at the head of the road that led south through the city. Tall buildings reared up either side. It was a perfect focus for ForceCones and their effect was as dramatic as it was terrible.

  The invisible rams of mana energy slammed into the unprotected humans, and their cursyrd shepherds. Man and cursyrd were plucked from the ground and flung backwards into the barricade. Blood splattered the walls left and right, bodies smeared against the buildings. The barricade exploded backwards. Elven casters kept up the pressure, driving the rubble and timber left and right. Rebraal heard the agony of men whose bodies were crushed flat, and the squealing of metal on stone. Shattered, the elements of the barricade bounced and spun down the street. Cursyrd shrieked in fury. He watched one man try to rise and begin to run but another Cone tossed him full-face into a building across the street, no more than a doll in a gale.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Rebraal. ‘May Shorth speed you to your rest.’ He had no time for anything else. Too much rubble littered the ground. ‘Focus on the cobbles. Clear the street or we’ll lose wheels going down there.’

  Left and right, Al-Arynaar were closing back in to guard their mages as they entered the street. Cursyrd ran and flew at rooftop height. Their masters had gathered their attention once more and they came again from above and behind. Rebraal ran back down the line.

  ‘Single file. Wagons single file.’

  They were rolling now. More wagons were coming from the gate. The sounds of fighting from within the walls echoed up to the sky where cursyrd massed from all points of the compass. Rebraal smiled grimly. They had made one small advance but the journey had only just begun. He prayed the ColdRooms would not be long in casting. He wasn’t sure how much any of them really had left.

  Chapter 26

  Auum saw it all with utter clarity. He and his Tai moved as one, acted as a single entity, a boiling of controlled action in a sea of confusion. They targeted the reavers. Easy prey for the cell. Strike-strain clawed and buzzed around them and were knocked away as an afterthought. The real threat to the human mages, the wagon drivers and horses lay in the tall strong soul stealers who stalked and dived in the throng of the courtyard.

  Duele and Evunn pirouetted together and downed a muscular deep blue creature. It barely had a chance to breathe before Auum pinned it down by its chest. Duele snatched an arm outwards, Evunn backhanded a dagger into the nerve ganglion revealed and the cursyrd died.

  Auum rose to his feet. To his left, an Al-Arynaar had become detached from his warrior group. Cloaked in strike-strain, he became confused and disoriented. Quickly, three reavers were on him, lashing in claws, biting and gouging. One clutched him under the chin as he weakened and drained his broken soul.

  It would be happening everywhere. Cursyrd flooded the courtyard, dropping from the sky; the strike-strain like malevolent hail, their reaver brethren sails on the breeze. Duele and Evunn came to his shoulders. They watched a change in the cursyrd tactics as the second-wave wagons started to roll. Combat against the Al-Arynaar on the ground and on wagon was both difficult and, should their weakness be exploited, deadly and now they were concentrating solely on the horses, trying to take out the escape’s prime motive force.

  Barking out orders and signing the alarm, the Tai cell raced into the centre of the courtyard. They were already too late to save one wagon. The driver was swarming in strike-strain, the flanking elves were under attack from twice their number of reavers, and the horses were being cut to pieces.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Auum. ‘Left and right. I’ll take centre. Tai, we move.’

  The trio split, heading for three separate wagons in the third wave. Al-Arynaar were keeping the cursyrd away on the ground but more fell from the sky. Auum dodged individual battles, increasing his speed dramatically. Dagger in hand, he took off, arrowing feet first into a reaver just landed on the back of a terrified horse. He caught the creature in the side of the head and the two of them hurtled to the ground, the cursyrd disorientated. Auum took a forward roll on landing, coming smoothly to his feet and spinning on his heel, balance perfect.

  The soul stealer was struggling to get its legs under it. Auum pounced, stamping a foot into the creature’s neck, wrenching one of its arms up and driving his dagger deep into its nerve centre. He turned and ran back to the wagon, leaping onto the kicker board and straight-punching another which tumbled to the dirt.

  Next to him, the driver was screaming in panic, covered in strike-strain. Auum grabbed the man’s face.

  ‘Calm,’ he said. ‘Drive. I will protect you.’

  Slowly, the man focused on him and managed to nod.

  ‘Drive,’ repeated Auum.

  The TaiGethen swivelled and made quick assessment. On the roof of the wagon, Al-Arynaar were holding off the reavers while on the ground warriors and mages kept their perimeter around it. On the roof of an adjacent wagon, Duele danced. Auum could have watched him all day. Feet planted on roof struts or blurring through the air to strike. Arms laid out for balance, block and punch.

  To the right, Evunn, like Auum, was standing by his driver. An Al-Arynaar stood on each horse’s back. All three wagons began to move. Across the ground, the bodies of cursyrd and Al-Arynaar were scattered; more of the latter than the former had fallen in the hand-to-hand combats but losses on both sides were climbing. Skirmishes raged across the open space. Warriors drove space for wagons to move into. Spells fired across the ground and into the air. Mages using FlamePalm ran in all directions, burning strike-strain, wounding reavers. Under the eaves of the stables and behind a solid rank of elven warriors, mages cast hard and fast. Cursyrd were being washed from the sky and flung far from the combat. The air stank of blood and burned flesh but still they came on.

  Auum nodded at the Al-Arynaar warrior beside him on the kicker board.

  ‘Clear the driver. I will watch.’

  A soul stealer landed heavily on the back of one horse which reared and threatened to bolt, kept in its traces only by the weight of the other which skittered. The driver, with strike-strain being pulled from his back and face, fought for control. Auum jumped lightly onto the animal’s rump, his left foot already coming round to clatter into the upper back of the cursyrd. He planted the foot and struck with both fists, tipping the creature onto the ground.

  Beyond the walls the ground shook and the sound of tumbling stone echoed across the city. Auum heard screams. Still on the horse, he crouched and turned to the driver. The Al-Arynaar stood by him, working to keep him clear of strike-strain.

  ‘Faster,’ he said. ‘We move.’

  The wagon picked up pace, the flanking Al-Arynaar being forced to break into a trot to keep up. A movement caught Auum’s eye, high and to the right. Reavers, eight or more, diving hard for the wagon. Not even he could keep them all away. He leaped back onto the kicker board.

  ‘Above,’ he said to the Al-Arynaar. ‘Trouble.’

  The reavers came in steeply, claws first, shrieking fury. Auum stepped up onto the roof with the two Al-Arynaar. It was temporarily clear of enemy. The gatehouse was approaching.

  ‘Faster,’ he ordered. ‘Gallop.’

  He heard the reins snap. The horses took off, happy to be let go, jerking the wagon behind them. Auum knew the mages beneath would lose the spell but others would still be casting. Above, the reavers adjusted their direction, knowing
they wouldn’t reach the horses before they reached brief cover. Three of them pulled away, flying over the gatehouse to meet them on their exit. The others ploughed on for wagon and driver. These would strike in time.

  A shiver ran across the college. Nothing could be seen, but the sense of power rushing into the air was undeniable. Cursyrd howled and screamed. Hoots of alarm bounced across the courtyard. A concerted roar from the masters above rent the air. Auum smiled. It was mirthless. He dropped his dagger and had two short swords in his hands in a heartbeat.

  Above, the reavers came on but they had slowed dramatically, deep inside what had suddenly become a dome of pain. They couldn’t brake in time. Three, wings swept back, tried to change their attitude to feet first. It made no difference to Auum.

  ‘Take them,’ he said.

  He sidestepped the first and drove both his swords deep into its back. Dark gore sprayed into the air but the thrusts were not fatal. The mana shells surrounding the cursyrd were stronger now, making them dangerous even within ColdRoom castings. Auum dragged the blades clear, ducked a claw from another reaver and whipped one blade across its throat, stabbing the other into its eye.

  ‘Our turn now,’ he spat at the creature as it died.

  Across the courtyard, cursyrd broke off their attacks and fled back into the air. Denied mana, Al-Arynaar mages took swords from belts and formed up by the wagons once more. Strike-strain died in their tens and dozens, snared by the same claws that so recently had been hooks to drag through the flesh of men. Reavers not quick enough to flit up to safety were hauled to the ground and hacked to pieces, their skins boiling through bright colours, their veins spewing their life onto the cobbles.

  The Julatsan wagon train drove out of the college and south through the city at an easy trot. Within the eleven surviving wagons, human and elven mages with their Al-Arynaar warrior guard searched for space among the baskets and barrels of provisions and water. The ColdRoom shell held steady, covering the train front to back and spilling over into adjacent buildings, keeping the cursyrd at bay for now. Auum moved back to sit by the driver, nodding his respect at the man who, though bloodied and shivering, held the reins steady, determination in every muscle.

  But the sky outside the shell was thick with cursyrd, tracking them as they fled to open ground. And what worried Auum was that with the mana density clearly growing stronger, it wouldn’t be long before the enemy could fight effectively inside the shell.

  The fate of man and elf hung by the slenderest of threads.

  It was dawn in Lystern but the light was dim and the few lanterns they could afford to use burned bright in the gloom. Faces were pressed to every window of the grand council chamber, though that was a misnomer now. The periphery of their ColdRoom castings was scant yards outside the filthy stained glass and across its surface, for the third day running, the flattened seeker demons crawled, searching for the telltale threads of mana they could use to direct their attacks.

  In two days, they had lost two casting teams to lightning raids from the winged reavers and had been forced to withdraw into an ever-tightening space. They had too few mages to cycle their strength should they lose any more teams and their warriors were exhausted, trebling their day and night guard on this most precious of resources.

  Heryst had no desire to look. Others would tell him if the seekers found what they were looking for. A slight discoloration in their pale underbellies would give them away. He had done all he could, moving the casting teams time and again. But their available area was small enough that it surely only put off the inevitable.

  It had all been so sudden. The demons had seemingly become so much stronger. They had known the mana density was increasing but nothing had indicated this ability to strike so quickly and effectively at the heart of his defence. The last message he had received from Blackthorne told him that the wily Baron was under similar pressure and that they were considering running north to Xetesk where apparently the last vestiges of Balaian resistance were gathering.

  He had no idea if that was true. So what if The Raven were back on the scene? So what if elves still fought in the open? He had heard nothing from any other college in over fifty days. For all he knew, his was the last that still stood free. Free. He almost laughed at the word. He had been right. They had grown complacent in their sanctuary. Lazy. They hadn’t seen the signs. The growing numbers of demons, the sudden appearance of these seekers early one morning three days ago. They hadn’t pieced it together.

  And here they sat as a result with only the tower still to call their own. They had lost, temporarily it was to be prayed, access to all their tunnels and all but one well. If they couldn’t regain some space quickly, the next problem he would be facing was starvation. It was a factor that had escaped none of his dwindling band of survivors.

  ‘My Lord?’

  Heryst took his head from his hands and looked up into Kayvel’s sick pallor. His old friend was dying by degrees. Gods drowning, they all were but something had infected this brave old man in the last days and he was fading so fast.

  ‘Sit, Kayvel. Gods man, you should be resting.’

  Heryst pulled out the chair next to him and Kayvel sank gratefully into it and rested his elbows on the table. In the centre of the table, guards completely obscured the casting trio who held death away from them all.

  ‘We need a plan,’ said Kayvel gently. ‘They need to hear your voice, your strength.’

  ‘Do they believe I really have any?’ said Heryst, feeling the spear of doubt that had become all too familiar.

  ‘Never let them hear you say that. You are their leader. They love and respect you. Don’t ever forget that.’

  Heryst nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s so hard sometimes. Just look at what I have brought them to.’

  He gestured around the council chamber, knowing what they saw was reflected in every room of the tower they called their own. Dirt, dust and rubbish covered the floors. The stale air was heavy with the smell of lantern oil and sickness. Every man, woman and child carried lice, was clothed in little more than rags and had the lank hair, dark expression and stoop that signified imminent defeat. He knew he looked the same. They had a mirror in one of the latrines but he didn’t think anyone looked in it any more.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kayvel. ‘It is dirty, it is squalid, it is diseased, and soon we will all succumb one way or another. But out there is the only alternative. Do you really have to ask which any of these people would prefer?’

  ‘But am I not just prolonging their deaths? Kayvel, you are a realist. You know what is happening to you. If what you have is infectious, well . . .’

  Kayvel nodded. ‘And we have had to face it since the first day. But nothing will kill them faster than a lack of faith and belief.’

  Heryst sighed. ‘What can I tell them? They aren’t blind and we are failing. What? That they should hang on and hope for salvation? That eventually the demons will get bored and drift away? What can I tell them?’

  He felt helpless. He’d have cried but his tear ducts were, like his mouth, dry. How could he give them hope when he had none?

  ‘You have to give them a purpose and that purpose cannot be simply to hold on until they are overwhelmed. Until four days ago, we thought we were secure enough and we were wrong. Look at the fear. Taste it. Do something about it.’

  Heryst looked into Kayvel’s face. He saw the fading light in his friend’s eyes and knew he had to give the dying man something to take with him.

  ‘You think we should try and leave, don’t you?’

  ‘Staying here can have but one conclusion, Heryst.’

  ‘Dammit.’ Heryst rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I can’t make them do this, you know. Gods burning, not all of them are fit enough to travel.’

  ‘Talk to them,’ said Kayvel, his tone gently chiding. ‘Your silence is damaging.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know,’ said Heryst through a breath. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll stay here
with any that can’t travel. None of us will be taken.’

  Heryst jolted at Kayvel’s words. ‘I wouldn’t leave you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, my Lord.’ Kayvel smiled. ‘I’m too ill to run. At least let me die with dignity because die is what I undoubtedly will do.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, this could all be hypothetical. We don’t know if anyone will want to leave.’

  ‘Well, let’s find out, shall we?’

  Everyone that could be spared from watching, guarding or casting was assembled in the growing light of the grand council chamber now that the seekers were beginning to melt away. While the light was welcome, what it meant was that the seekers had probably found what they were looking for. Heryst didn’t necessarily have much time before the next attack came in.

  He took a look around the gathering. He knew every name, he knew all their family histories. He knew their strengths and their weaknesses and he knew their desire to live. He was looking at about a hundred people. All of whom looked back at him, desperate for answers. That wasn’t exactly what he was going to be giving them.

  ‘I’m not going to patronise you and I’m not going to pretend things are any less desperate than you already know them to be.’ Heryst smiled gently. ‘And things are extremely desperate.’

  A dry chuckle ran around the chamber.

  ‘Kayvel and I have been talking and we are faced with a choice. Long ago, I stopped being the man who told you what to do and we have tried to do everything by consensus. This is why I am going to put this choice to you now. The demons are getting stronger and we are weakening though we are far from beaten. I look at all the faces assembled here and I see the will to survive burning bright. The question is, how will we best achieve our survival?

  ‘And so to the choice. It is stark. We can stay here. Defend more stoutly and pray for release because it is clear we will not beat them with the numbers and resources we have. Or we can leave. Head north for Xetesk where the rumour is that the last free Balaians are gathering to fight. But I must stress it is only a rumour. We have no confirmation from the dark college, they are silent.