The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘You know what they’ll do. They’ll head out and try and fight.’

  ‘It’ll be carnage.’

  ‘Will it?’ Ilkar felt the pain in his body easing as they neared the inn. ‘We had no defence but we had no magic and weapons either. Perhaps Xetesk will turn them aside.’

  ‘You don’t believe that. None of us do. We have all felt their power and it translates into something simply too big to handle.’

  Ilkar nodded and sighed. ‘You’re right of course. But we have to hope, don’t we?’

  ‘What we have to do is get the returned dead and their loved ones away from here. This place is a target. West is the only sensible option. Beyond the Blackthornes and into the Heartlands of Wes.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to the right man to get that sorted out.’ Ilkar shuddered. ‘Damn but that felt strange. Do you—’

  Bull’s-eye lantern beams stabbed out from the left from one of the many side streets leading off The Thread. Temporarily disoriented, Hirad and Ilkar backed across the street to the right. Ilkar could just about see the shapes of men spilling into the street behind the lanterns. He shaded his eyes and immediately began casting to form the spell shape for a defensive wall. He heard Hirad drawing his sword.

  ‘Get behind me, Ilkar,’ he said. ‘This smells very bad.’

  The two of them had stopped retreating, leaving space to their left and behind, where their shadows on the buildings gave away their status.

  ‘Want to run?’ asked Ilkar.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  Hirad squared up. Ilkar could still see nothing but shadows of men behind the lanterns. The street was suddenly deserted of casual strollers.

  ‘Hirad Coldheart and Ilkar,’ came a voice, strong and powerful, commanding. ‘Members of The Raven deceased and you really should have stayed that way, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re welcome to come out and try sending me back,’ said Hirad.

  Ilkar shook his head. ‘That’s it, Hirad, work on defusing the situation. ’

  Hirad glanced over his shoulder. ‘Just back me up.’ But the merchant’s face didn’t inspire the same confidence that the old Hirad’s had.

  More people were pushing into the street and filtering around the lanterns. Ilkar counted twenty shapes. There didn’t look to be too many weapons on display but this was a college of magic. There didn’t have to be.

  ‘I intend on doing just that,’ said the voice, and the body from which it came moved in front of the lantern beams, which were hastily uncapped to shed a more general light. ‘But I wanted you to see me first. And know why I am here.’

  The face of the figure was still cast in shadow but he was tall, broad-shouldered and thick of limb. He wore chain armour and carried a two-handed blade. Ilkar cursed under his breath. He was bigger than Sol. Much younger too, maybe mid-twenties. It was hard to tell due to the half-helmet that covered his eyes and nose, leaving only his mouth and chin visible. There was an ugly slash across his throat that had been crudely sewn.

  ‘All right, I’m impressed,’ said Hirad. ‘But clearly you’re a returned soul too so you are aware we had no choice in the matter. What brought you back, though, I wonder?’

  ‘You did.’

  Ilkar frowned and saw Hirad pause, uncertain. The man moved a step closer.

  ‘But you aren’t Raven,’ said Hirad.

  The man scoffed. ‘Hardly. I’m hurt you haven’t made a better guess. Perhaps if that bitch who froze my face were with you she might work it out.’

  Hirad straightened then pointed his sword at the man. Ilkar knew there was a sneer on his face by the set of his head.

  ‘Selik? You returned because of me? I’m so touched.’

  ‘And here to put many wrongs to rights.’

  ‘Odd place for a Black Wing to show up,’ said Hirad. ‘You could lose your head in a place like this, you know.’

  ‘It is I who will be wielding the killing blade this time, Coldheart. First over you, and then your mage friend.’

  ‘Interesting choice of words for a man standing amongst the living population of Xetesk,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Not all here are mages or mage lovers,’ said Selik, and he moved forward again. ‘These here want an end to the curse that is the allying of the college and the dead. This is magic of the very worst kind. And who better to help them achieve that?’

  ‘We all want the same thing, surely,’ said Ilkar. ‘An end to the torment that puts our souls in unwilling bodies and a safe place in which to rest.’

  ‘Dreams,’ said Selik. ‘I am happy enough. Happy that my time dead and wronged can now be cleansed from my soul by the blood of The Raven on my blade. Hold them.’

  Men ran from either side of Selik. Ilkar, his spell prepared, cast and pushed his wall of mana to Hirad’s left and into the crowd, pressing them back to the right-hand side of the street. Hirad took a pace back and slashed hard at the space Selik’s lackeys were running into. Three of them pulled up short. Two, armed with broad blades, came on.

  The street filled with the sounds of shouting and anger. The city guard would be here before long but they would not stop what was about to happen. While Ilkar edged left, taking in more of Selik’s crowd but leaving the man himself free as Hirad would want, the two men attacked.

  They came in left and right. A good strategy but with one error. Hirad ducked the high blow and blocked the low hard, pushing the man back. Then he was up and striking out at the first, his upward cut slicing through arm and glancing off his opponent’s head, severing his ear. The man fell away, clutching at the side of his head. Hirad spun back, caught a blow from the second attacker on the hilt of his blade, straight-punched the man in the mouth and sliced back through his midriff, opening up a deep cut.

  Hirad turned to face Selik.

  ‘Body of a merchant, mind of a warrior,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

  Selik said nothing. He moved very quickly, his blade coming around at waist height with frightening power. The old Hirad, the barbarian, would have been able to deflect the blow and riposte. But the merchant’s body did not have the same strength. Hirad got his blade in the right place and avoided being cut in two but the force of the strike buckled his sword arm, jamming the edge of his blade against his body. He was sent sprawling to the dirt.

  Ilkar began to move the mana wall but Selik was ahead of him. Hirad managed to turn onto his back but his arm was useless and the sword fell from his hands. He stared up into the face of the Black Wing. There was a smirk on Selik’s face. He placed his blade on Hirad’s throat.

  ‘I hear the void calling you, Coldheart. Pleasant travels.’

  Selik tensed to drive the blade home. There was a heavy thud. Selik’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell sideways, landing on the ground next to Hirad, blood seeping from the back of his skull. There stood Sol, cudgel in hands and a look on his face that would brook no opposition. He checked both Ilkar and Hirad were all right and helped Hirad to his feet before turning to Selik’s people and the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Anyone else who wants to test my commitment to The Raven, feel free to go right ahead,’ growled Sol.

  Men and women were backing away from him as he spoke. City guards were elbowing their through the growing crowd. Sol collared the first of them and pointed down at Selik’s prone form.

  ‘He goes to the cells. And there he stays. He gets no treatment. If he survives till morning, he goes before the court. If he doesn’t, then this body will be host to a less odious soul.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard.

  Sol addressed the crowd. ‘These are my streets. You tell me you are my people. Act like it. There will be no summary justice dealt out by the living or the dead. If you have a grievance, you bring it to me or to my officers. That is the way it is and will stay. We are in a serious situation. The rumours of invasion will have reached all your ears. Transgressions will be dealt with swiftly. I need all of you to back
your city and your college. We must stand together if we are to prevail.’

  A pale-looking woman pushed to the front of the crowd and spoke into the silence that had followed Sol’s words. She was no older than forty but had a haggard look about her that told of too many tears and too little sleep. She wore poor clothes but tried to make them appear smart with ribbons and ties. She stared at Ilkar and, before she uttered a word, he knew with a guilty cold feeling exactly what was coming.

  ‘Then hear me speak, Sol of Balaia,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Tell me how should I feel and how should I react? There stands my son. The body of my son. Stolen by another soul. He treats the body as his own, yet it is not. He desecrates my son’s memory by using his body though I know him to be dead because he does not know me.

  ‘I want that body back and I want it now. To offer the respect my son deserves and to see him laid to rest in the right manner. This walking body insults me and it insults all my family and all of those taken by grief over the ones they have lost yet still see walking our streets. This cannot be right. It must be ended now.’

  Ilkar felt the tension rise around them. Two of the city guard had begun to move the senseless Selik away, leaving four to stand in a loose ring around Sol. The crowd was still growing, albeit slowly given the hour of the night, but those present were four-square behind the poor woman. For himself, Ilkar could only nod and let his head fall forward a little to avoid her stricken gaze. He saw Sol move towards her.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss and I will not claim to understand it,’ he said, his voice gentle. The crowd fell quickly silent. ‘How can a mother react when the son she knows is dead is seen to walk but it not be him? Your desire to want his body for respectful burial is natural and will not be denied any longer than it must be. But you must understand these are days the like of which we have never seen and we must all be patient, wary and have courage. People like you most of all.’

  Sol reached out to touch her but she drew away.

  ‘Your words mean nothing to me.’

  ‘Will you hear me?’ asked Ilkar.

  ‘You even speak with his voice,’ said the woman, tears falling down her cheeks. ‘He was no virtuous lad but he doesn’t deserve this, no one does.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. But right now his soul is lost and that is far, far worse. Those of us returned, most of us, seek only to find a new resting place where we, and those like your poor son, can be at peace. Grieve for his soul but not for his body. The body is merely the vessel that your son used for his time alive. And if you can, rest easier knowing that his body, young, fit and wiry, is used now in an effort to save not just his soul, but yours too, everyone’s.

  ‘I don’t know if that makes sense but I promise you I will take care of this body as if it were my own and will make every effort to leave it unsullied.’

  ‘But where will that be?’ asked the woman. ‘Some distant battlefield? Some lonely corner of Balaia where I will never find him, never have the sight of him to close my mind on his life? What good is that to me?’

  She turned back to Sol.

  ‘This has to end, Sol of Balaia. I am but one of many who hurt this way and there is no comfort for us. We don’t want the dead in the bodies of our loved ones. We want them gone. Leave us to fight our own battles. We do not need them. And we do not need you if you offer them sanctuary.’

  Sol sagged visibly. ‘My lady, all I want is to help you live through what is to come. You must try and understand where we find ourselves. Find it in your heart to trust me and the decisions that I make.’

  But the woman shook her head. ‘You are the mouthpiece of every ordinary Balaian, yet you are too close to the college, too close to the barons and too close to the elves. I have spoken but you have not listened. What more do we have to talk about?’

  She turned away and was lost in the shadows. Angry faces glared at Sol, Ilkar and Hirad but no one said anything more. Ilkar put a hand on Sol’s shoulder and Balaia’s king turned an unhappy face to him.

  ‘I’m failing them,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Ilkar. ‘They just have yet to see what we do.’

  ‘I feel like a fraud,’ said Sol.

  ‘I’m the fraud. Standing here in her son’s body. I feel for her, I really do. But what choice do we have?’

  ‘Either to stand here and yak about it, or get inside and yak about it over a goblet of wine.’

  Sol managed a smile. ‘Well put, Hirad. Well put indeed. Come on. I’ve got some good stuff uncorked. Needs drinking with those I love.’

  The evacuation fleet came in a night early. Throughout that night, quiet knocking on doors and silent escorting to the docks to take ship had worked well. Yet it was a slow process and with the morning came the inevitable anger and with it panic. Word spread quickly through those not destined to leave and tensions around the dock soared.

  Ysundeneth was all but surrounded by flame and the clattering of the Garonin’s vydospheres. Beyond the borders of the city, the rainforest was part inferno, part charred dustscape. Out in the harbour, the forest of sails was slowly thinning out. The deep-water berths were full and every small craft had been pressed into service to ferry elves out to their only means of escape.

  Forty thousand had come to hear the words uttered at the Caeyin, and all who desired it were offered passage and issued with papers. Yet twice that number now clogged the approaches to the docks or muddied the waters of the harbour in their own little boats, begging for passage. Ten thousand would be lucky. Thirty thousand would either take their chances in small craft or be abandoned to die.

  Rebraal had said three hundred ships were guaranteed, and that was a number that would have been beyond imagining only ten years before. Yet, as Auum had predicted, it was nowhere near enough. Not even for the population of Ysundeneth alone, far less those who had journeyed from the rainforest.

  Many thousands still waited to take ship and their path was being hampered by their less fortunate brothers and sisters. Standing in the harbour flag tower, Auum looked down on the growing and inevitable disaster. However much they had planned, it would still have come to this eventually. There had simply not been enough time to counter every threat. The Garonin, for all their ponderous advance, had left nowhere else to run.

  Down on the harbour apron Al-Arynaar warriors were under serious pressure trying to keep the crowds from storming the dockside. So far they had held the approaches while administrators searched for those holding transit papers. There had been scuffles and little else to this point but that would not continue.

  ‘How long before we deploy mages?’

  Auum turned to Rebraal. Ilkar’s brother looked in little better shape than his long-dead sibling would have had he been dragged from the grave to stand here.

  ‘How long since you’ve slept or eaten?’

  ‘Long enough. But once we’re away, I have plenty of time to rest, do I not?’ Rebraal sighed. ‘Do you feel guilty? Look at all those we are consigning to their deaths.’

  ‘We have to focus on who we can save, not who we cannot,’ said Auum, the nausea clogging his throat. ‘One day we can weep. But it is not today.’

  A surge of noise to their left signified the first concerted attempt to break through the Al-Arynaar. Forty warriors with mages behind held the line, just.

  ‘We need to pre-empt,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Auum. ‘But go carefully. Tint the walls. These people have enough pain to come. Best we do not add to it ourselves.’

  Rebraal signalled the warning flag to be hoisted. Auum watched the black-cross-on-yellow standard climb the flagpole.

  ‘It’s going to get ugly,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘I know. Time we made ourselves known down there.’

  Auum paused to watch the reaction. A short time after the flag was unfurled defensive castings were deployed on all four approaches to the harbour. Essentially walls of mana, the spells raised swirling yellow barriers in front of
the increasingly desperate crowds, leaving small gaps to admit those with papers.

  The howls intensified; simmering anger turned to spitting fury. Missiles were hurled at the walls, where they stuck before sliding harmlessly to the ground. Directly opposite the tower, the crowd had pulled back, leaving a couple of paces gap before the wall.

  Auum frowned.

  ‘Is—?’ began Rebraal.

  The crowd surged forward, crashing hard against the barrier. Auum saw the casting mages stagger under the weight. Their casting flickered then steadied. Auum was on the move.

  ‘Someone’s orchestrating that,’ he said. ‘Tai, we move.’

  Ghaal and Miirt ran ahead, down the two flights of steps and out onto the harbour side, heading directly for the trouble. The apron was crowded, noisy and deeply unhappy. Crying children led by their parents. Angry shouts for speed and order. Al-Arynaar shepherding elves to their boats or directly aboard the docked ships. Confusion was rife. It was ever going to be this way.

  Auum saw the elven wave roll back again. Rebraal was shouting for more mage support. The Al-Arynaar line stood back a pace and readied themselves. One or two refugees were still squeezing through the opening on production of papers. Many would never make it because their fellows had lost their courage.

  ‘But can you blame them?’ said Auum as they ran.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Miirt. ‘What must we do?’

  ‘Protect the chosen,’ said Auum. ‘That is Yniss’s task for us this day.’

  He felt both his Tai pause in their strides before nodding and eating up the last yards to stand in front of their Al-Arynaar comrades. Auum stood dead centre of the defence. Through the yellow tint he could see all he needed: a line of elves about ten rows back, clapping in time, generating noise, order and anger. The crowd ran against the wall again. The casting shivered violently. One mage cried out and crumpled. The other three still held.

  ‘What’s happening?’ hissed Auum. ‘Why is this casting so weak?’