The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘Go!’ he shouted to the servants still waiting at the end of the garden. ‘We’ll be along presently.’

  Not one of their men moved. Instead, a show of hands resulted in them returning to the barons and forming a ring around them at a deferential distance. Blackthorne nodded his respect and thanks, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘You know, you are absolutely right.’

  ‘It’s a common complaint.’

  ‘Can I pour you some more tea?’

  ‘I think wine more appropriate now.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Blackthorne produced a corkscrew from his pocket and set to work. He drew the cork expertly and sniffed the end, nodding approvingly. He handed the cork to Gresse while he poured each of them a mouthful to taste. The two barons sniffed, sipped, rolled and swallowed.

  ‘A red to satisfy the desire for a full body, a head of blackcurrant and an aftertaste of dark plum,’ said Gresse. ‘Outstanding. We should have ordered the steak.’

  A servant stepped in, took the bottle from Blackthorne and poured each of them a full glass with a remarkably steady hand. The sounds of the enemy approaching were growing louder.

  ‘A little late for steak. Even for something blue.’

  Gresse shifted his legs on their footstool. ‘Do you remember that time when we brokered that agreement with the Wesmen for a supply of each vintage?’

  ‘Interesting negotiations. I’m not sure they were ready for the concept of laying down a wine for a decade.’

  ‘Who was that idiot who insisted on broaching a bottle of the thirty-eight vintage?’

  Blackthorne chuckled. A detonation sounded away to the east. He paused while the echoes faded. ‘Riasu. Almost choked on it. Nothing so sharp and unpleasant as a young wine.’

  ‘As I recall, he was keen to have us both divided in two,’ said Gresse. ‘Remember what you said about trusting the vintage?’

  Blackthorne laughed out loud this time. He held up a finger and wagged it as he spoke. ‘ “Patience is the province of the civilised man. A fine wine is the fruit of that patience just as it is proof of the wisdom of its owner. However, if you are not completely satisfied when you come to open the first bottle in ten years’ time, I promise to provide you with a full refund. Just bring the shipment back to the castle and I’ll authorise payment on the instant.” I recall it as if it was yesterday.’

  ‘Lucky that envoy of Tessaya was listening in, I’d say.’

  ‘They were good days, Gresse.’

  ‘Damn it but they were, Blackthorne.’

  The two barons clinked their glasses and drank deeply.

  The footsteps drew ever closer. Gresse ignored the thudding steps, the drone of the machine and the calls of wolves. When you put your mind to it, it was quite easy.

  ‘We have company,’ said Blackthorne. ‘I’m proud to have called you my friend, Baron Gresse.’

  ‘And you likewise, Baron Blackthorne. Good hunting in the forests of your fathers.’

  ‘I’ll send you an invitation should I ever find them.’

  Gresse turned to see the eight huge figures looming over them and the men who had refused to leave their sides.

  ‘Join us, the red is a quite superb vintage. Oh. I see.’

  ‘One cannot simply turn it off,’ snapped Septern. ‘Not without taking down the whole eastern side of the city.’

  ‘Do you see anyone who cares if that happens?’ Densyr pointed out towards the Garonin machine and the malevolent shapes of soldiers bounding over his rooftops. ‘It is only enemies out there. Take down every wall if you like. I don’t care. But do it quickly. Meanwhile, our enemies are sucking the life out of the Heart of Xetesk. It is an unsustainable loss. They are killing us from a distance. ’

  ‘And your friends? The Raven?’

  Densyr bit his lip.

  ‘Casualties of war,’ he said, the words ash in his mouth.

  ‘Yet they represent the best alternative should we fail to hold the city.’

  ‘We will not fail,’ said Densyr. ‘We cannot.’

  Septern held his gaze for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Septern was pale, even for a dead man.

  ‘Whatever it is the Garonin are doing, it affects the souls of the dead or, rather, the mana surrounding them. The call to the void is strong and painful to resist. But don’t worry; I won’t let you down.’

  Densyr let his eye wander out over his city once more. Way to the east, not far from the gate and in the shadow of the machine, he could see a fight going on. Garonin weapons were firing. At who? he wondered. It had to be Auum and his TaiGethen. A shame the elf had taken the wrong path. He would have been a useful ally today.

  ‘How long will it take you?’ asked Densyr.

  ‘That is hard to quantify right now. I need to understand the nature of the mana flow and the volume being dragged through the grid. There will inevitably be some risk attached to the shutdown procedure.’

  Densyr’s eyes narrowed and he felt a chill anxiety in his gut.

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Well, simply put, if I snap off the flow, two things happen. First, as I said, every ward will trigger because there is no longer a circuit, and hence no way to channel the mana away safely. But second, there will be far more mana in the grid than it was intended to support because of the Garonin action. There could be feedback.’

  ‘Feedback?’

  Densyr’s anxiety had coalesced to dread.

  ‘Into the Heart. That’s why I have to know the level of the depletion. Because enough mana feeding back into the Heart all at once could, theoretically, destroy it.’

  ‘Theoretically?’

  ‘Well this has never been tested, as you can imagine . . .’

  ‘Stop blustering. What is your view? And let’s say for the sake of argument that the Garonin are dragging away half of the Heart’s power at any one time.’

  Septern shrugged. ‘Theory would become practical reality.’

  Ilkar had concentrated like he never had before and yet forming the shape of the spell had still been torturous. The pain in his chest was a constant drain on his concentration and the howling of the void echoed around his head. Yet here it was. An Ilkar’s Defence construct. Conical, formed of a lattice of yellow lines of mana, tightly bound. Slightly modulating but nothing serious, and rotating a little quickly. It would have to do.

  With eyes and mind tuned to the mana spectrum, Ilkar could see the ward in front of the door through which The Unknown wanted to go. FlameOrbs would fly from it when it was triggered, he could see that now. On a spread that would cover a hundred men in flesh-dissolving mana fire. Best not to think about it.

  ‘Are you ready, Ilks? The Garonin will be tapping us on the shoulder if we wait much longer,’ said Hirad.

  ‘I’m not sure why I bothered,’ said Ilkar. ‘I completely forgot that all you have to do is open your big fat mouth and the FlameOrbs will get sucked right in. Idiot. And yes, I’m ready.’

  Ilkar nailed his concentration back down to the spell. He made sure he was standing square in front of the door. He checked again that the spell diameter would cover the spread of the ward. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Tuck in behind Ilkar, Jonas,’ said The Unknown. ‘Sirendor, behind me.’

  Ilkar glanced over his shoulder. Hirad winked at him.

  ‘You could have chosen a wider body,’ said Hirad. ‘You’re a bit weedy for us all to cower behind.’

  ‘You know that in all the years I was dead, all I ever dreamed about was being an elven shield for your filthy carcass.’

  Hirad laughed. ‘I knew you always loved me best.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ilkar. ‘On the count of three. I’ll cast and move the spell to the door. Everything else, I leave to your imaginations. One, two, three . . .’

  Ilkar cast. The Defence hung in the air in front of him. Solid, shot through with yellow, rotating gently about
its axis. He pushed out his arms slowly. The conical shape lengthened, the flat circle expanded to take in the door and then the entirety of the wall of the building. He could see the pulsing of the ward as the Julatsan casting neared it.

  ‘Be ready,’ he said, voice distant with effort.

  ‘For what?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘To sweep me into an ash bucket if this goes wrong.’

  Ilkar crabbed his hands to better grip the spell and thrust it against door and wall. The ward triggered. Blinding blue light flashed across the surface of the Defence. Ilkar leaned his weight against his spell while the FlameOrbs, or whatever fancy name they had these days, formed and crashed into it again and again.

  He shuddered. Nausea gripped him. The spell shimmered. Ilkar grunted defiance and forced more strength into the head of his casting. The Defence steadied again. Blue light rippled across its surface, fizzed into the ground and slapped back against the building. Fire leaked around the edges of the spell and lashed at the air and the ground at Ilkar’s feet. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

  Ilkar could see the end coming. The effort of dragging in so much unfocused mana told eventually. There was not enough flow to keep the construct steady for long. The sides of the cone wobbled. The lattice unpicked from front to back. Another orb slammed into the cone and the spell collapsed.

  ‘Down!’ yelled Ilkar.

  He angled his hands up. The final orb deflected off the remnants of his spell and arced away into the dawn sky. He followed its lazy movement up until it reached its zenith and began to fall back down.

  ‘This is not good,’ he said.

  The Unknown had seen it too. ‘Up! Up! Get inside. Move it, Raven.’

  He picked up Jonas by the back of his collar and charged through the wrecked entrance of the building. Sirendor and Hirad were scrambling to their feet, the barbarian cursing at the pain from his burned foot. But still he stopped to grab Ilkar and help the tired mage up.

  The orb fell to the ground on the right-hand side of the street. Hirad and Ilkar dived inside the house, rolling away from the opening and heading for the stairs up which The Unknown was already running. The orb splattered across wall and street, triggering wards all around it.

  Flame lashed inside the building, reducing broken timbers to ash and engulfing the stairs in fire. Ilkar dived headlong onto the landing from the top step. A whoosh of heat behind him and a crackling of paint on the walls told him how close he had been to incineration.

  The ground heaved beneath them. Great rending sounds of stone on stone, rock smashing into rock and the splintering of wood sounded far too close. Ilkar came back to his feet and grabbed Hirad’s arm, helping him along. The others were ahead, stampeding up another stairway towards the roof. A massive column of stone broke through the floor and carved its way up through the bedrooms on Ilkar’s right.

  ‘EarthHammer!’ he shouted into the tumult but no one could possibly hear him.

  Plaster dust and debris filled the air. The house rocked. Detonations of more columns of stone breaking upwards could be heard surrounding them. Hirad made the stairs and took them three at a time, wounded foot almost forgotten in his desperation to escape. Ilkar was right on his heels, pushing him faster.

  Light poured in from above. A great swathe of the roof slipped and fell into the street, showering shattered tiles down on the fleeing Raven. Up ahead, Ilkar saw The Unknown battering down a door with his feet and running into clear sky. The front wall of the house cracked along a jagged horizontal, the upper portion teetering and falling outwards, dragging roof and beam with it.

  Ilkar gave Hirad a mighty shove and rolled out of the top door after him. Hands grabbed him, almost lifting him from his feet and running him towards the shuddering building’s edge. He cried out as he left the ground, cycled his legs and landed on the other side in a heap. He turned to watch Hirad make the jump. The barbarian’s poor foot gave way beneath him. He didn’t have the height to clear the balustrade. His hands grabbed at guttering and he disappeared from view.

  Behind him, the house crumbled to the ground, sending up clouds of dust that glowed in the blue flame of Xeteskian wards. As the sound of the collapse rolled away, Ilkar could hear Hirad swearing. The Unknown ran to the building’s edge and hauled the barbarian to safety

  Ilkar felt someone’s gaze on him. He looked round. A man was standing by him, four wolves at his feet. He recognised those hands as the ones that had helped him escape. Others were there too. A woman and a boy who would bring joy to The Unknown’s heart and, oddly, Brynar, Densyr’s apprentice.

  The man with the wolves was smiling. The sun on him projected his shadow onto the wall of a dormer window behind him. It was of a tall, powerful man with hair tied in a long ponytail at his back. Ilkar felt a comforting warmth.

  ‘Hello, Thraun,’ he said. ‘Glad you happened by when you did.’

  Chapter 27

  Auum led his Tai to the city walls. Leaping and climbing, rolling and dodging, they had easily kept ahead of the Garonin sent to chase them down. Yet the vydosphere had not changed its course. Indeed, it had not moved, and Auum worried what that might mean. Threads of comfort sprang from the knowledge that despite all their might, the Garonin were still prey to feelings of revenge. It was the reason they were chased and the reason the Ravensoul was sought.

  The enemy knew that harm could be done to them. Men could be lost, perhaps enough to affect their battles elsewhere. This deflected their attention only minutely, but minutely could be enough to buy the time they so desperately needed.

  Once on the walls, the TaiGethen ran free, putting real distance between them and their pursuers. Auum tore around the battlements and through abandoned watchtowers. He scaled the outer sides of the south gates and dropped onto the roof of the gatehouse. Only here did he pause. He climbed onto the crenellations.

  From here he could see across the city to the walls of the college. The towers within stood proud and he could make out a solitary figure on the uppermost balcony of the central edifice. Auum whispered a short prayer to Shorth. He let his eye wander to the east, to the deserted streets of Xetesk bathed in a watery sunlight.

  Auum could pick out figures running across rooftops. In amongst them, he could make out the bulk of Sol and the flashing shapes of wolves. And he could see the Garonin advancing too. In the skies above, the vydosphere sucked up its fuel. The clouds still darkened and the swirl still gained pace. He wondered briefly when Densyr would realise the appalling mistake he had made.

  ‘Auum.’

  It was Ghaal. He was perched on the crenellations looking out over the west of the city. Auum followed his gaze and his heart fell into his boots. When you saw one, suddenly, thousands were revealed. People. Ordinary Xeteskians with their faith in a college that would inevitably fail them.

  ‘Cattle awaiting slaughter,’ said Ghaal.

  ‘Enjoying the dawn of their last day in this or any other life,’ said Miirt.

  ‘And we will free them when we can,’ said Auum. ‘Now, my friends, it is time to break into the college.’

  ‘Can it be done?’ asked Ghaal, he and Miirt jumping back onto the roof.

  Auum put a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘With Yniss to guide us, we must believe it so. Tai, we pray.’

  Densyr had been staring straight at where he had left The Raven when it happened. He watched the single blue orb fly skywards and did not even consider why it had travelled in that direction, so consumed was he with watching it fall to the earth. No time to get Septern to deactivate the cell. Time only to pray the wards would not trigger.

  A prayer that went unanswered.

  Ten wards. He knew the number so very bloody well though it was impossible to count them going off individually, such was the force and speed of the multiple detonations. Flames lashed from both sides of the narrow street on shallow angles, incinerating everything taller than a house cat. God’s Eyes pounded the enclosed area and EarthHammers shoved their fingers of stone high into
the sky, ripping apart buildings and standing as insulting gestures in his mind. He was stricken with a sudden regret.

  Last night, he had been so cocksure that leaving them trapped was the best way to neutralise them until he decided to free them. So sure that they would not attempt an escape. Ilkar might have been shorn of his college’s Heart but he was no fool and would be able to detect active wards given the amount of time he had.

  ‘What did you do, my old friends?’ whispered Densyr. ‘Why did you try to outwit the master? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry it had to end like this.’

  Densyr took one last look at the dust cloud that covered the scene of their deaths and closed the balcony shutters on his crime. In his deep armchair by the fire, Septern was studying the ward lattice. The sheen of sweat on his face didn’t encourage Densyr’s confidence.

  He sank into the chair opposite and sipped at the tea his servants had left them. All the way down the line, he’d made the right decisions. He was certain of it. What the dead had told him really did make no sense. There was no other home. No escape route. Just like every time before, Balaia had to stand up and fight for herself. And win. Just like every other time.

  Maybe he had been a little heavy-handed with those he once counted as close friends and allies. But decisions had to be made and some people always had their noses put out of joint. Not everyone would ever be happy. And at least his people, the Xeteskian people, knew he was doing all this for them.

  Should it have worried him that Auum claimed to have seen all this before? Surely not. If indeed he was thousands of years old as he claimed, things move on. The elves had had no magic back then, no defence. Densyr had the might of Xetesk and the unexpected advantage of Septern. Balaia had to survive, and for that to happen, Xetesk had to remain strong. The right decisions still had to be made.

  Even if it meant his friends had to die.

  ‘Septern, can you hear me?’