Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 207 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

‘It isn’t the only one,’ said Blackthorne. He pointed away to the north where more cloud smudged the sky, dark and filled with lightning. ‘And see how the damage spreads in the wake of the thing. If it continues and if there are enough of these machines . . .’

‘. . . then the whole land will be consumed,’ breathed Gresse. ‘Who are these people?’

The machine was being pulled along by a pair of massive brown hairless beasts with tiny heads, barrel bodies and enormously powerful legs. Blackthorne switched his gaze onto the figures walking ahead of them.

They were three in number, walking at a languorous pace. Deliberate, a plodding speed more like shire horse than man. Yet they ate up the ground. Behind them, the machine rumbled. Heat swept out from it in waves, creating the shimmer in the air. A cloud formed above it, shot through with flames of green, blue, yellow and orange.

The outlines of the figures distorted in the force of the inferno at their backs. They had come quite close before Blackthorne realised how tall they were. Perhaps eight feet. Huge bodies wearing ornate helms. Bone spurs jutted from shoulder guards. Ribs of boned leather layered torsos and legs. Gauntlets of obsidian and white covered huge hands. He could see no weapons.

The three walked in a loose line. The full faces of their helms, carved to depict something Blackthorne was too far away to discern, looked unflinchingly forward. Not a glance to their machine or beyond it to the annihilation of everything in their wake.

‘Well, that clears it up,’ said Gresse when the machine quietened and the cloud dispersed. ‘Magic’s involved somewhere, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Those colours leave little room for doubt,’ agreed Blackthorne.

‘Then I won’t be welcoming them onto my lands.’

He swung his horse about and cantered back down the slope, shouting orders to his guard. Blackthorne chased after him, glancing to the north and south to see yet more shimmering in the air.

‘I thought you were too tired to fight any more,’ he shouted when he caught up with the older man.

‘But the idea was to leave all my worldly goods to my children. Can’t have them wiped out now, can I?’

‘What do you intend to do?’

‘Bring everyone I can and ask these gentlemen politely to stop and turn back. That or get carved up. The choice will be theirs.’

‘I don’t share your confidence,’ said Blackthorne.

‘And nor should you, as I have none to spare.’

‘We’ve been monitoring some very odd movements in the mana flow all over Balaia. Research on inter-dimensional magics has had to be suspended because the streams have been rendered unstable by something we are trying hard to fathom . . . sudden huge dropouts in the density of mana. Like someone’s blotting it up and leaving nothing behind. Am I boring you, Hirad?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Your ignorance is not my concern,’ said Denser.

‘Gods falling, Denser, I’ve been dead ten years. There are gaps in my knowledge.’

‘There were plenty of those when you were alive.’

‘It was part of my charm,’ said Hirad.

‘So what’s with the sighing and the tapping of your foot? Or the foot of the dead man whose body you have appropriated.’

‘I just don’t see what it has to do with our problem.’

Hirad felt hot. It was not a sensation he was familiar with any more. He felt like his body wasn’t big enough to contain him, like he was pushing at the skin from within, threatening to burst out. And his head was thumping madly, blurring the merchant’s already poor vision still further. Hirad didn’t know how to stop it. Maybe he needed a bigger body or something. Ilkar would know. If Ilkar ever made it here.

‘You’re telling me you fail to see a connection between the mana shield around the dead dimension being ripped to shreds, and disturbing changes to mana flow pretty much everywhere else?’

‘I’m telling you I don’t much care. I just want to go back but I can’t. It’s all any of us want.’ Hirad couldn’t fail to notice Denser’s cheeks colouring. ‘All right, all right. Tell me what it all means.’

‘It means our dimension is under attack too.’

‘Strange thing but I thought that’s what I came here and said.’

Hirad scratched his head. Everything felt wrong. It was like someone was trying to pull him out of his body. He glanced at his shadow. It was shredding like paper in a gale. He put his hands over his ears.

‘You all right, Hirad?’ asked Sol.

‘Dear Gods drowning but it hurts,’ said Hirad. ‘I think I’m going to explode out of this skin.’

‘That’ll be your ego trying to escape,’ said Denser.

Hirad laughed and the pain eased a little. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Sol. ‘What does the pain mean?’

‘I don’t know, Unknown.’ Hirad couldn’t keep the exhausted whine from his voice. ‘I’m not supposed to be here. I think I need to be with the others. It always felt easier when our souls were close.’

‘You should bring Erienne down here,’ said Sol.

Denser shook his head. ‘We should all go to the Mount. You need to open your bar and then join us. There is already unease on the streets. We need as much normality as possible. We need you on the street doing kingly things.’

Hirad screwed his eyes shut. There was a lengthy silence.

‘So,’ he said to Sol eventually, ‘you got a promotion too, did you?’

‘It’s not how it sounds,’ said Sol. ‘I’m just an occasional spokesperson for the ordinary Balaian. People come to me with problems; I try and sort them out.’

‘I think you’re being a little modest,’ said Diera. ‘He brokered peace with the Wesmen; he’s set up trade agreements with the elves on Calaius that brought us the food and wealth to rebuild; and he chairs the meetings between the colleges, lords and barons. Someone has to see fair play.’

Sol smiled at her and she stroked the top of his head, pride in her eyes for a change.

‘Shame I believe in dead people walking though, right?’

‘King,’ said Hirad. ‘Well that sounds about right, I reckon. And in how ever many years it is they haven’t built you a palace? Very poor. And what’s more, you’re still working behind a bar.’

‘All right, Hirad,’ said Sol.

‘I suppose it keeps you in touch with the common man. What do they call your courtiers? “Bar staff”, is it?’

‘Hirad. Enough.’

‘And no crown, either. For the best. Must be hell trying to keep it on that slippery bald head of yours.’

Denser cleared his throat. ‘The point is, Sol can calm people down by being outside and strolling around. Making it seem like nothing untoward is happening until we have a plan of some kind.’

Hirad snorted. ‘And you think dead merchants possessed by old Raven souls is out of the ordinary, do you?’

Denser smiled. ‘Maybe just a little.’

‘I just can’t believe you are swallowing any of this nonsense,’ said Diera.

‘I know what this must sound like to you—’

‘I’m sure you do, Hirad.’

‘I’ll prove to you I am who I say I am, Lady Unknown, I promise. I can’t ask you to trust me but do one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Be ready to leave.’

‘No one’s leaving,’ said Denser.

‘Just be ready,’ said Hirad. He glanced at Denser. ‘Just in case.’

Chapter 6

No one wanted to get so close but the men and their machine were not going to stop.

Gresse, Blackthorne and thirty riders drew up on the downward slope of the outermost of Gresse’s vineyards. The invaders had not paused. Behind the machine the devastation stretched as far as the eye could see and the totality of it was breathtaking. The expansion north and south continued, like a creeping disease. Nothing but scorched soil, blackened trees and broken walls was left behind. Of people and animals, there was no sign whatever. Consumed in the fires that burned so terribly hot.

‘And do you still feel your tactic is right as you stand here?’ asked Blackthorne.

The debate had gone on for the entire ride. Both men had to raise their voices. The clanking of the machine was echoing from distant valley sides and its alien rumble underfoot made the horses skittish. While they watched, another cloud formed. Another wash of heat. More obliteration of Balaia’s beautiful land.

‘Look at them, Blackthorne. A bunch of Wesmen waving swords is something I understand. This . . .’ he waved a hand at the approaching party ‘. . . casual harvesting is something else. It suggests supreme confidence, does it not?’

‘So why would they stop to talk to you?’

‘A couple of reasons. One, everyone is open to a bargain of some sort and I cannot believe we have nothing to offer them. Two, if they don’t, I will attack them. They are not setting foot on my land.’

Blackthorne raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’ve said a dozen times. But we are not equipped for a fight. Gods drowning, I’m here on a relaxing wine-drinking break. I have none of my regular soldiers with me, and my armour is trail dusty at best.’

‘What choice do I have?’

‘Well, let my mages take them out from a distance. We need never get involved. You know it makes sense.’

‘I’m surprised at you, Blackthorne. You were always a man who liked to negotiate.’

‘That was before the demons came.’

‘These are not demons,’ said Gresse.

‘How can you be sure? And if your feelings are to be believed, they’re even worse.’

Gresse’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t like you, Blackthorne. How would it be if they were approaching your vines, eh? Kill from a distance, is it? It’s like you’ve lost your nerve.’

Blackthorne felt a surge through his body and bit back his first words. He leaned close to Gresse, his eyes boring into the older man’s bright gaze.

‘Damn right I lost my nerve. I watched the demons take my lands, my town and the souls of my people. I heard them battering on the doors of my castle. I had to stay strong for the ever-dwindling number of survivors. I lost my dearest friends, my closest advisers and I lost my Luke. Taken from right under my nose.

‘Right up until the end they hammered and picked and gathered ground. Each day they gained strength while we weakened. We were alone, barricaded into the kitchens in the final days. Twenty thousand reduced to a paltry handful. Men so terrified by the relentless grind and the knowledge that a single touch meant perpetual torment that it was only memory that kept them going, kept them fighting.

‘All the while, the demons delighted in our suffering. They knew our souls were as good as theirs and they waited for the inevitable. They could taste the fear; they breathed it, exulted in it. Day after long, tortured day. Night after desperate night. No respite, no rest, no salvation. No hope.’

Blackthorne’s hands were clutched tight around the reins of his horse and trembling violently. He straightened in his saddle, trying to calm himself. But the visions flooded him. The masses outside his defensive spell ring, clawing to get in. The demon master, Ferouc, chilling and determined. The hordes of baying minions waiting their chance. His people standing with him even though they must have known he could not save them. Fighting and falling at his side. Luke, cold and dead in a place Blackthorne had told him was safe.

‘But you did it. You won.’ Gresse’s voice was quiet and gentle.

Blackthorne scoffed. ‘Won? It was not victory. Not for us. Survival of the very few because The Raven did what had to be done and laid down their lives for us all.’

‘It is what we all had to do,’ said Gresse. ‘Just try to stay alive and pray someone would do something to free us. We had to make sure there was still a Balaian people to rebuild. We had to make sure there was something left.’

‘I cannot shake the nightmares, Gresse. I have forgotten what a peaceful night’s sleep is. They left so little behind. And that is why we cannot afford to talk to those who would take what we still have. That is why you should be pounding them with Cleansing Flame and Winter’s Touch. Ripping their flesh with IceBlades.’

Gresse reached out a gloved hand and squeezed Blackthorne’s forearm through his riding coat.

‘I will be forever sorry I was not standing with you, old friend.’

‘You had your own battles to fight. Though I would have gained strength from your presence,’ said Blackthorne. He sighed. ‘You must do what you feel to be right. These are your lands.’

Gresse nodded. ‘But all the same, should I fail, at least you have a plan, eh?’

‘Yep. Cast everything I have and run for it. Some plan.’

‘See you back at the lodge for that fine dry white I was talking to you about.’

‘Don’t die,’ said Blackthorne. ‘After all, I don’t know where you keep your best cut crystal.’

Gresse took his twenty men and set off down the slope. So easy to be brave when you had the advantage of height and the buffer of distance. But this was like riding into the shadows of mountains. Gresse had not grasped quite how big the invaders were, how vast their machine or how immense their beasts.

His horses, a quarter the size of the other animals, would not close further than a hundred yards. Gresse couldn’t blame them. Down here, on the flat and even, the reason for the invaders’ confidence was clear enough. They dwarfed everything else. The vibrations through his feet shook the vertebrae in his back. Each footfall of a beast rattled the earth under his boots. Each drag of the machine was like the thrum of a thousand horses. Each blast of the machine’s infernal workings was a rake of fear dragged across his heart.

The stench was powerful, nauseating. It brought tears to the eyes and a turning of the gut. This close, the ambient heat of the machine brought sweat to his brow. But he walked as steadily as he could to within fifty yards and stopped outside the line of his first vines. His men gathered about him, some casting guiltily envious glances at the three left behind to keep hold of the horses.

Watching the men and their machine approach, Gresse was acutely aware that, should they decide not to stop, there was little he could realistically do to save his party from being trampled underfoot. They might be able to bring down the walkers but halt the machine? Hardly.

Gresse was too in awe of the scale of those approaching to be truly frightened. But the moment he realised the giants had taken notice of him, he began to shake. It wasn’t dramatic but it was there, in his heart and in the deeps of his courage. Anyone able to look into his soul would see his fear.

Only ten yards from where he stood the central figure waved a hand, a languid gesture in keeping with their unhurried, strolling gait. The mighty beasts snorted, shook and bowed their heads, bellowing their displeasure. The sound startled man and horse alike. Gresse heard a shout and the thundering of hooves.

‘Looks like we’ll be walking back to the lodge then,’ muttered a guardsman.

‘The exercise will do us no end of good,’ said Gresse. ‘Face forward. Don’t flinch.’

The machine halted and fell silent. The quiet was almost as shocking as the noise had been. Gresse could not hear a bird. But as the heat haze began to fade in the machine’s wake, he had his closest glimpse yet of what was being done to his country. The accompanying anger did nothing to quell his dread.

The three figures approached. As Blackthorne had guessed, they were a good eight feet tall. Every stride ate up the space, the thud of their footfalls like tolling bells.

Those boots, their leggings and breastplates were all like leather but not. Apparently flexible yet burnished the way only metal could be. The designs upon the armour, if such it was, were as alien as anything the Calaian elves might dredge from their long and isolated history. A homage to ancient Gods perhaps. There were supplicating hands, spears of fire and great open maws wrought in chaotic fashion across the centre of each wide chest. And surrounding the images were either letters of a language he could not begin to fathom or angular scrollwork.

‘They look like mathematical symbols,’ he said.

‘Beguiling, almost, my Lord,’ said his captain.

The designs were picked out in a silver-coloured material that seemed to shimmer, even move, as the figures took each stride. It was not until the three of them stopped just five paces away that Gresse saw that his eyes had not deceived him. The silver settled to a gentle pulsing, only hurrying around those disturbing full-face helms as they looked down upon him.

Gresse could discern nothing about the figures inside. The narrow eye slits betrayed nought but shadow. More of the leather-like armour hung from the base of the helmets to cover the neck completely. The face plates themselves were carved with more of the symbols and with mouths open to scream. Of hands clawing for mercy. Livid images of pain.

‘You are on the borders of my lands,’ said Baron Gresse. ‘I would know your intention before requesting you turn aside. You may not bring your machine any further.’

The figures did not respond at once. The three heads angled towards one another and moved as if they were conversing, yet without words. Gresse exchanged a glance with his captain, who shrugged his own uncertainty.

‘I will have a response,’ said Gresse at length.

The centremost figure turned back to him.

‘My . . . apologies. Your language is seldom heard and less well understood.’

Gresse was startled. The words flowed like music, though slightly discordant. Symbols on the figure’s clothing shone briefly. The figure cleared his throat and this time was beautifully in tune.

‘That is better. We cannot accede to your request. Our route takes us one way only. If you stand on your lands as you say then we shall be walking across them. The lines of energy dictate such. But have no concern. We will take nothing that we do not need. We are simple foragers but we must collect or many will perish.’

‘Collect what?’ asked Gresse, transported so far by the gorgeous tones of the figure’s voice that he found it hard to be angered by the rebuff.

‘Material for our fight. Energy for our weapons and strength for our armour. Our foe grows more powerful and our need grows with it. If we are not to be defeated, we must bring fuel for our fires. Clear the path. Our time is precious.’

Gresse held up both hands, the spell of the glorious male voice broken.

‘Whoa, whoa! I don’t think so, forager. These are my lands and I decide who crosses them. And you will turn aside and you will not operate that machine in my country. You are destroying our lands and that cannot be allowed.’

The forager glanced back over his shoulder. Gresse thought he might have seen the ghost of a shrug.

‘Damage is temporary. Your vegetation will regrow.’

Gresse gaped. ‘Temporary? You bastard.’ He jabbed a finger at the devastation. ‘People lived out there. They won’t regrow, will they?’

‘People must learn to avoid the compass of the vydosphere. Until then, there will, unfortunately, be casualties.’

Gresse looked briefly at his captain. The soldier stared back, shaking his head, mirroring the baron’s disbelief.

‘And you think I’m just going to let you amble across my lands and swallow your temporary damage and unfortunate casualties, is that right?’

The forager straightened; Gresse hadn’t realised he was leaning forward. The other two turned their heads and there was another silent exchange.

‘We consider that you have no choice. We are Garonin. Stand aside. Our conversation is at an end.’

‘Damn right,’ said Gresse. ‘Captain, let’s cut these bastards down to size.’

Gresse heard the noise of the machine roaring back into life. He heard his captain order the attack. He even drew the sword one of Blackthorne’s men had lent him. And the last things he remembered clearly were the sensations of swift airborne travel and of heavy impact.

‘Take them down, take them down!’ yelled Blackthorne at his mages.

The baron was already running towards Gresse, who had landed in a heap and rolled three times before coming to a stop. Action was all that prevented Blackthorne from refusing to believe what he had just seen. A brief conversation, plenty of finger pointing and, latterly, drawn swords. But never mind all that. Lines on the armour of the figures had blazed with light which had lashed out at Gresse and his men.

The invaders themselves didn’t so much as move a muscle. Yet Gresse was hurled fully fifty yards back and he was the lucky one. Others who had rushed in more quickly were lying dismembered amongst the first row of vines. A few had survived the initial onslaught and were being ignored by their attackers while they screamed their agony clinging onto the stumps of hands, fought with boiling entrails or stared wide-eyed at terrible gashes. And all in the blink of an eye.

The invaders moved on. One stopped to brush what must have been gore from his boot and then all reassumed their long, casual stride, the machine following in their wake.

‘Get messengers back to the lodge. Every mage to be ready. Every horseman saddled and awaiting a message to take out to the cities and towns.’

Blackthorne shouted his orders over his shoulder as he ran headlong down the slope, using vines to break his speed. Gresse was moving but it meant little. One leg was broken at the knee and jammed under his body at a sickening angle. There was crimson staining the dry earth. The enemy would roll right over him.

Every fear that Blackthorne had for Balaia surfaced once more. Every nightmare revisited him in those few moments while he slipped and slithered to his friend. And all that Gresse had said so recently hung in the air to taunt him.

The air flashed yellow. Blackthorne turned to see God’s Eyes arcing high towards the enemy. Six of them, moving fast.

‘Catch those, you bastards,’ he said.

Blackthorne saw the trio tracking the skull-sized orbs of mana fire. They made no attempt to run and he got the impression they were merely curious about what was coming at them. They didn’t break stride, they didn’t flinch. The orbs struck them square on. Armour flared. Yellow light swept across the valley floor. An alien screech echoed out.

And when the light faded, Blackthorne could see the invaders lying motionless, burning brightly. Behind them, the machine and the animals that pulled it had stopped. Blackthorne jumped to his feet and punched the air.

‘Die screaming, you fuckers!’ he shouted, and cheers rose from the watching riders and mages.

At his feet, Gresse coughed. Blackthorne knelt to tend to him and found the older baron smiling.

‘You still can’t shake it off, can you?’ Gresse said, voice sounding strong and sure.

‘What, old friend?’

‘That gutter language Hirad Coldheart taught you when he was living in the Balan Mountains all those years back.’

Blackthorne chuckled. ‘He had a unique way with words, it’s true. Effective if a little lacking in sophistication at times. Right. Think I’d better arrange a stretcher for you. That leg looks bad.’

‘You should try knowing how it feels,’ said Gresse.

‘Lie still.’

‘I hadn’t thought to leap nimbly to my feet.’

Blackthorne stood and waved a rider to him. ‘I need four men and I need a stretcher rigged up. There’ll be plenty of material back at the lodge. Be quick. And send a mage. Baron Gresse needs his pain removed.’

‘I do not need a mage, thank you very much.’

‘Yes, you do, Gresse. Trust me on this. Go.’

‘Yes, Baron.’

The rider turned and put his heels to his horse. The animal galloped away. Blackthorne sat on the dusty ground next to Gresse and looked down over the valley. The corpses of the invaders still burned. Behind them, the machine was quiet and the beasts were still, staring straight ahead. Some of his mages were making a slow and wary approach. One glanced in his direction and he nodded his permission for them to continue.

‘I wonder who they were,’ said Blackthorne.

‘Garonin. Or I think that’s what one of them said.’

‘Well it’s a name, but I was thinking a little more widely than that.’

Gresse drew in a pained breath.

‘There’ll be a mage here soon,’ said Blackthorne.

‘I’ll try to contain my excitement,’ said Gresse. ‘So what do you think? From another dimension?’

‘Probably. Good to see them folding under spell attack, though. It means we can fight them.’

‘And win.’

‘Easily.’

A smell of burned mana drifted across them. A moment later the valley was crowded with Garonin. Blackthorne shot to his feet, gaping. Fifty and more of them where a heartbeat before there had been none. Materialising as if dispelling a massed Beyen’s Cloak spell. And these had not come merely to walk in front of the machine. As the beasts’ roars split the air and they began to walk, Blackthorne could see what he assumed were weapons in the hands of most of the new invaders. They advanced.

‘Gresse, I don’t think we can wait for that stretcher.’