The Raven Collection

by James Barclay

  ‘But you’re not alive now, are you? And none of the rules apply.’

  Sol stood where he had appeared. He turned another slow circle. For all its vastness, the place bore down on him, closed around him, sought to smother him. He dropped to his haunches to feel the ground beneath his feet but his hands transmitted nothing to him. Neither did they sink in.

  ‘There is substance here.’

  In his mind time passed terribly quickly. Only he could help the living and the dead and he had no idea where to start. He forced his mind back over what he knew. Ulandeneth was a place where he had been. Where he had fought and lived and from where he had escaped. It was the place, so Auum and Sha-Kaan had it, that held the doorways to all other places.

  It was a place where will and belief held sway over the rules of the living lands.

  ‘You have to believe,’ he said to himself, his voice swallowed up by the immensity of the space around him. ‘But in what?’

  The capacity to succeed and the victory of the righteous were just too huge, too imprecise. Not beliefs he could hold on his own. Not yet anyway.

  ‘So, let us start at the beginning.’

  Sol stood tall. He held his arms out from his body and in front of him as if he was about to orate. He jutted his chin and spoke loudly and clearly to whoever, whatever, would listen.

  ‘I am Sol. I am The Unknown Warrior. I am Raven.’

  The simplicity of his conviction flowed through him. He felt energy surging through the shadow. He felt warmth. His fingers began to tingle. He stared at them. Flesh burst through the shadow like he was picking his hands out of black oil. Sol saw the swirls on the tips of his fingers, the hard skin of his palms and every nick and scar that had never quite faded.

  The skin flowed down over his wrists, across his forearms and round his elbows. He watched it form his shoulders, pick out the lattice of old scars on his chest and his legs. He felt it creep around the back of his shaven head. He felt a breeze on him. A glorious, beautiful, cool breeze.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  Sol was aware of other changes in the atmosphere of Ulandeneth. His nose twitched and in that there was joy. His sense of smell had returned and with it he found an acrid, burned odour in his nostrils. His ears picked up distant sound yet though he narrowed his eyes there was nothing to see. Wait. Forms in the mist, if such it was. Unrecognisable but moving all around him.

  ‘I am Sol,’ he repeated and he smiled, feeling the familiar pull of muscles in his face. ‘And I never walk outside naked.’

  Clothing began to form on his body. Shirt, trousers, trail boots. The ring he wore that Diera had given him seven years ago was there on the middle finger of his right hand. A delicate piece, depicting a raven in flight.

  ‘Almost there.’

  Sol tried to remember his thoughts when last he was here. Then as a living being. Some of them eluded him. He remembered he had travelled home but now he could not think how. He supposed that was right and just. He remembered that he had been without a weapon when he arrived then too.

  ‘That I can do something about. I am The Unknown Warrior. Sword of The Raven.’

  Across his back he felt the comforting weight of his scabbard and in it his two-handed blade. Interesting. Not a weapon he would use now. His hip wasn’t . . . But then of course that had been when he was alive. He laughed. Around his waist came his belt and everything that hung from it. Daggers, flint and steel.

  ‘Now all I need is a place to go.’

  Sol took a pace forward and six Garonin stood before him. He backed up and looked behind him. No one there. He turned back. Light flowed around the armour of the Garonin. Their hands rested by their sides. None appeared to be carrying the white tear weapon but something that looked like a blade hung from each waist. Sol snapped his sword from his back and held it before him.

  ‘I believe,’ he said.

  In front of him the blade felt momentarily light and it all but fell from his grasp. He reformed his grip, taking careful note of how it felt, how the steel shone sharp and how even the nicks along its edge were part of its perfection. It rested balanced in his hands.

  ‘Good. Right. I may go down here and now, but some of you fuckers are coming with me.’

  Chapter 40

  The dead clustered at the end of the passageway. The Raven and Auum’s Tai were at the head of them. Ilkar still probed the wall. Behind them, the passageway fled off beyond their senses. Outside, the void clashed and raced. But surrounding them was an ivory light that came from beyond the end wall.

  Every one of them could feel it. They were drawn to it, pulled along by it. None would so much as consider moving away from it by even a toe. Yet none of them could reach it. None, they assumed, but one.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Hirad.

  ‘Gone,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Now if I’d replied that way to you, I’d be on the end of a long, long line of abuse.’

  ‘Sorry, Hirad. Gone through here. He must have done. Ulandeneth. ’

  ‘We have to get through,’ said Sirendor. ‘He’s going to need our help.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t,’ said Ilkar. ‘Perhaps this is part of the whole scheme.’

  ‘Not if Sha-Kaan is to be believed,’ said Auum.

  ‘Something must open this wall,’ said Ilkar.

  ‘Another astounding revelation,’ said Hirad. ‘Is it too stupid of me to ask what that might be?’

  The dead surrounding them were restless and anxious. Adrift at the end of their journey. Feeling vulnerable as they stood waiting for answers in a place open to attack. They made a hum of chatter and a swirl of emotions that sometimes made coherent thought difficult.

  ‘We must stop thinking like the living,’ said Auum. ‘This door will never have an iron latch.’

  ‘Sol had an advantage over us all,’ said Thraun. ‘He has knowledge of this place. Did that help him travel there?’

  ‘Well if it did, I wish he’d given us some pointers,’ said Hirad. ‘Unhelpful, just disappearing like that.’

  ‘I don’t think he had any choice in the matter, do you?’

  Ilkar’s ears would have pricked when he said that. Hirad smiled, another invisible gesture.

  ‘No, probably not. So. Any ideas?’

  ‘Everything so far has been an act of will,’ said Thraun. ‘Or a use of the soul’s energy. We should start there.’

  ‘You think we can will ourselves over there, do you?’

  ‘Got a better idea, Hirad?’ asked Thraun.

  ‘No, it’s just that it’s difficult to will myself to a place where I’ve never been and which lies somewhere . . . you know . . . else.’

  ‘I don’t want to rush you but I think you’d better start believing as quickly as you can.’

  Sirendor’s shadow was facing back down the passageway. Hirad rose above the mass of the dead and looked in the same direction.

  ‘This does not look promising.’

  Three Garonin were pounding up the corridor but none of them was intent on attacking the dead. All three had eyes only for what was behind them. Panic spread among the dead. There was a concerted move to the wall, which remained steadfastly blank and impenetrable.

  All the while the Garonin ran on. And well they might because the passageway was folding up behind them.

  ‘So many problems.’

  The melodious voices flowed over Sol, taking the ire from him. He lowered his blade. The Garonin were standing about five yards from him.

  ‘We underestimated you.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Sol. ‘Lucky for you we weren’t all acting together. We’d have kicked your sorry carcasses right out of Balaia.’

  ‘We think not.’ There was a susurration that Sol took for laughter. ‘But we warned you that resistance forcing us to expend our resources would ultimately go badly for you.’

  ‘I do remember that. And since then we’ve seen all sorts of wonderful things and bigger and nastier weapons. And y
et, when last I looked, Xetesk still stood and you were denied her Heart. And here I stand once again, ready to take you on. No one who stood before me then is alive to tell you about it.’

  ‘Ultimately.’ The whispered word was discordant and sent a shiver up Sol’s spine forcing him to hunch his shoulders. ‘So much has been expended. So many of our people gone because of your fruitless resistance.’

  ‘It is not fruitless.’

  ‘No? One wrecked city still stands. Another is ready to fall. Your land is no good to you. It was ever going to be thus. And yet still you thought to fight, though to accept defeat would have been the easier option.’

  ‘For you, perhaps. Your problem is that you have fundamentally misunderstood what drives us. It is the will to survive. The belief that we will survive, whatever the odds and however powerful the enemy. And we will. We will.’

  Sol saw them hesitate. One of them even fell back a pace.

  ‘You have spirit but you do not have the strength to turn us aside.’ The melodious quality was back. ‘You think to find a new home. We will follow you and we will destroy you there. You cannot escape us.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘It is forever the way. We need new worlds to harvest. We do not allow interference. We demand compliance.’

  ‘Well, as my friend Hirad Coldheart would say, you can shove your compliance right up—’

  ‘However. We respect a worthy foe and a worthy ruler of men. You are both of these.’

  ‘I don’t care for your respect,’ said Sol, and he spat on the ground at his feet.

  ‘No? When you have the lives of so many in the palm of your hand. Lives we can snuff out on a whim.’

  ‘I’m aware of my task.’

  ‘But not perhaps of the risks you take. Watch and . . . believe.’

  The Garonin all lowered their heads. Sol felt a rush of energy in the air about him. The space above him turned black. He stumbled, almost fell. Night had fallen. From horizon to horizon it was the most complete blackness. But there was movement within it. Images resolved slowly, coming into focus like the world through a bleary eye after a long night.

  Korina. The central marketplace. The Rookery. His old inn, now under new ownership but maintaining the tradition. Sol smiled at the memories. But the picture was not right. The market was empty and rubble-strewn. The inn’s sign hung from one hinge and was split down its middle, ready to drop.

  ‘What is this?’

  Sol could not keep the quiver from his limbs. Dreams he could understand. This was something utterly different. The image drew away, like he was rising into the sky. Korina was slowly revealed before him. The once-beautiful capital city, the place where he had fallen in love, reduced to ruins and populated by gangs of survivors searching for scraps.

  He saw whole areas barricaded off and the people within them carrying bows and spears against those without who begged for entry. He saw a man being kicked mercilessly by a gang of other men, some in ragged rich clothes, as still he tried to eat the bread he gripped with both hands.

  Higher he went, and the scene or one like it was played out over and over. Shapes came into the image on either side of his view, as if he were passing between two high structures. Quickly they were revealed for what they were. Garonin machines. Vydospheres. Floating in the skies above Korina. And not just two. As the image continued to expand, he counted nine in a circle around the city. Worse, on its borders stood foot soldiers in their hundreds. Just waiting to fall on the helpless and desperate thousands within.

  ‘We have their fate in our hands. They cannot get out. We can destroy them. We can wait for them to destroy themselves. Or we can set them free. It is the same for these people. Some friends, I think.’

  The image switched, and Sol was transported to the wilds of Balaia. He didn’t recognise where but he knew the faces that dominated the image he was shown and that lowered down on him. It took all his strength not to sink to his knees.

  Rebraal and Dila’heth.

  Their faces were grey with exhaustion and fear. Their eyes were wide and their expressions were of helplessness and despair. He saw their mouths move and knew they were speaking to one another but he could hear nothing.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  Sol tried to read their lips but the image was not quite distinct enough. Again the image pulled away. Not as high this time though it didn’t have to. A few campfires sent smoke spiralling into a grey sky. In an open space stood multiple cells of the TaiGethen and a fair-sized group of Al-Arynaar. Surrounding them, a very large number of Garonin foot soldiers. Two thousand at a quick guess. Too many even for the TaiGethen though the battle would be fierce and bloody until the bitter end.

  ‘They have come so far to reach this dead end. We were always watching them even if they did not know it. They are tired. They need rest. You will ultimately decide whether they should get it. We are not always unmerciful.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Sol.

  Not a head rose. There was no acknowledgement of his question. He thought about rushing them, seeing if he could take one of them down, but it seemed so futile and his emotions were churning anyway. He wasn’t sure if he could hold his sword steady.

  The Garonin showed him one more scene. It was of a huge fleet at anchor. Hundreds of elven vessels in the waters off Sunara’s Teeth. North Bay. Wesman territory. The decks of the vessels were crowded with people. Many of the ships appeared to be riding low. Many others bore the marks of battle. There was flotsam in the water. Above them hung six vydospheres. On the peaks of the mountains stood foot soldiers. On the plains behind, a war camp.

  ‘You thought we would not realise such a density of verrian could be taken by sea? These elves’ lives are already forfeit. Long have we searched for them and we have delighted in their demise. There are over thirty thousand elves on those vessels. They are dying slowly of course. It is not in our nature to be merciful to such vermin. Yet there may be room. There may be.’

  The Garonin’s heads came up. The last image disappeared and the ivory sky returned. Sol sucked his lip, fighting against a rising despair. Again his sword began to feel light in his hand. He concentrated on the victory in the corridor and the familiar weight returned. And there was something else too. It gave him hope but he couldn’t figure out why. Something was missing. Something had been left out.

  ‘So you see, Sol of Balaia, despite your best efforts there really is no hope left. Even should you reach your mythical new home, there will be no living to take there; and no dead either, we will see to that. All you will have done is open fertile land for us to exploit. You have lost the war.’

  ‘So why are you wasting your time with me?’ Sol stood tall again and stared at them, each and every one. He raised his blade and pointed it at them. ‘Eh? So destroy them all. Harvest your fuel and go back to where you came from to waste it on an enemy you cannot defeat. What are you waiting for?’

  There was more hesitation before the reply. Sol found strength in that too.

  ‘We are offering you and all these people salvation. It benefits you because no more of your people need die. It benefits us for the same reason. All you must agree to do is let us harvest unhindered now and at any point we choose.’

  ‘I trust you about as far as I would trust a madman with a rapier. How can you expect me to believe you will honour such an agreement, ludicrous though it is? Effectively to allow you free access to our lands in exchange for . . . what? A few of my people being allowed to survive in a blasted country? You have no need to make such deals if your power is so great. And we all know that should you want more of your fuel you will take it without regard for the lives of my people. Gods drowning, but power comes with no guarantee of intelligence, does it? And our dead, what of them? Their resting place is destroyed.’

  There was the slightest pause.

  ‘The dead are irrelevant. There is nothing meaningful beyond life.’

  Sol shook his head sadly. �
�You have no souls. You do not understand. ’

  ‘Time is precious.’ There was a note of stress in the mellow sound of the Garonin voice. ‘Your decision.’

  Sol smiled, the missing piece fitting into place.

  ‘You’re not sure you can cover your losses, are you?’ He took a pace towards the Garonin. ‘You don’t want us to fight because you know the damage we’ll do even as we are defeated. You want me to help you stop the fighting on Balaia to leave you free to plunder the Heart of Xetesk. And you didn’t show me Xetesk because you damn well couldn’t, could you? You are not in control. They’ve held you off, haven’t they?’

  Sol laughed. Again the Garonin displayed anxiety.

  ‘And what happens if we choose to fight, eh? I’ll tell you. You might be forced to retreat, mightn’t you? To save your forces for the battles on your doorstep. Denied victory on Balaia and denied the chance to follow me to a new realm. The mighty Garonin undone by primitives. But primitives who can harness mana in a way you can never do. Let’s see, shall we?’

  Sol raised his blade and advanced further.

  ‘Do not choose to fight us. You cannot defeat us.’

  ‘Well you know what? I think I’ll give it a try anyway. After all, I’m dead and I don’t have anything better to do.’

  ‘You will be responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of your people. Your loved ones, your peers. Your children. You are a man alone.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you see,’ said Sol. ‘A Raven is never alone.’

  The Garonin susurration irritated again. ‘You are at our mercy. We know what we see.’

  Sol backed away. ‘Better start getting your killing sticks ready. Things are going to get bloody.’

  ‘So be it.’

  Sol spread his arms wide, his two-handed sword in his right hand, and began to turn a circle. He felt young, vital, like before the docks at Arlen, where he had seen his hip smashed beyond complete repair. Armour covered his chest, shining in the ivory light. And while the Garonin stood and watched, he raised his voice, gambling with his death and the life of everyone still living on Balaia.