Ravensoul

Chapter 14

Auum waited until the Calaian Sun had reached deep waters before shedding his tears. The greedy and the disbelievers had burned in their paper castles surrounded by their brief empires just as he had said they would. Clamouring and crying on the docksides as the last ships sailed.

He should not have been desolate for them but he was. Desolate for what they had become. More human than elf in their last moments. Hanging on to material things when the elven nation was reverting to that which it had been for long periods of its history. Back to the life of which the most ancient writings spoke. As nomads. Akin to the Arakhe, the demons, in more respects than they would care to admit.

And just like the Arakhe, the elves were chased from dimension to dimension, their enemy relentless in pursuit of the prize which each elf carried and each temple and city harboured in great density. Mana.

Auum had watched the glorious spires and proud houses of Ysundeneth consumed by flame. Scorched by the heat of mana fire. He had seen the clouds rise above the vydospheres and had known the hungry machines sucked in the very life of Calaius with each belching breath. He grieved for the city. And he grieved for every elf who died trying to keep the Garonin back for long enough that the fortunate few should escape.

But he grieved for the rainforest infinitely more. Not its temples. Though they were beautiful and ancient, they could be rebuilt and rededicated. But for all of Tual’s denizens, innocent victims of a war of millennia that simply brushed them aside. The rainforest was gone. His home for over three thousand years. The place where he had thought he might choose to step across to his rest when his work was finally done.

It might recover. Eventually. There was little more tenacious than the root and branch over which Beeth presided, after all. But would Tual’s denizens return? Those not immolated would have been pushed south into the desert lands or north and east into the sea. So many species would be gone forever. Just like the elves. Forced to adapt and move on, otherwise to perish.

Auum stood in the stern of the vessel. Five days on, the tears had long dried up but the cloud was still visible above ruined Calaius. Behind him Captain Jevin kept a steady hand on the tiller as he had done for as long as Auum had known him. A sea captain without peer and a braver elf Auum had yet to meet bar those of the TaiGethen themselves.

‘It will get no better for the want of staring at it,’ said Jevin.

Auum turned to see Jevin’s broad back.

‘We killed our own to save ourselves. There can be no greater crime.’

Auum’s memories came flooding back. The flames hemming them in as Ysundeneth burned. The desperation to make it aboard ship. The pleading, the threats and the promises. And finally the spells deployed to force order and the TaiGethen attacking those demanding passage when they had originally chosen to stay.

‘Think on who you saved, not who had to die. It is the way of elves.’

‘I cannot forget so easily,’ said Auum. ‘Every drop of blood is on my conscience.’

‘Who said anything about forgetting? We’re a long time alive, some of us, and our memories come with us all the way. But for now focus on what you have, not what you have lost.’

‘You sound like me,’ said Auum, coming to his side.

Jevin smiled at him. ‘Well, you talk a good deal of sense. Most of the time. And I make it my mission to listen to elves who kill with your efficiency.’

‘And what do we have, Captain?’

‘Look about you, Lord Auum. The sea is full of elven sails pushed hard by the devil wind the Garonin have caused with their fire. Almost three hundred, and all will make landfall before night.’

‘But do you know how few of the elven population of Calaius that represents?’

Jevin’s smile faded a touch. ‘Less than ten per cent, I am sure.’ ‘Less than five, my friend, even though every vessel is overburdened. I should be happy, I know. It is more than we took from the fires of the Garonin before. But we must also pray for the souls of all those who perished. For all that we achieved, we only saved forty thousand of our people. Every other soul is trapped and restless until we can find a new home.’

Jevin nodded and turned back to the wheel for a moment. Auum looked out over the crowded deck at the desperate and desolate, the bemused and the stricken. The confidence of millennia swept away in a few days.

‘You have many problems ahead before that time comes,’ said Jevin, inclining his head at the civilians.

‘The Garonin at our backs, an army of the displaced to move and feed, and Yniss only knows what state Balaia will be in. We have to assume they are also under attack.’

‘You’ll be lucky to find a college standing,’ said Jevin.

‘Yet we must hope Julatsa’s Heart beats for long enough to see us safely to the Wesmen and away.’

‘And you. Still determined to go through with your plan, then?’

‘Two men still live who I regard as highly as any TaiGethen elf. I will not leave them behind. The bulk of the civilians will travel to the west with Rebraal to appeal to the Charanacks. They have no mana, surely their path to the spirits is clear, and if it is, it might provide our means of escape.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Then the elven race dies on Balaia.’

Jevin blew out his cheeks and nodded his head. ‘Anyone else would sound overdramatic. You just scare me.’

‘Remain scared, it is a wise state of mind.’

Mages were flying back to the fleet. Dark specks against the cloud-strewn sky, flying against the wind. Auum felt his heart rate increase. News was at hand. He watched the trio approach. Jevin ordered a red burgee raised atop the main mast to guide them in. Rebraal had chosen well. All appeared unhurried and in control of their castings after several hours away although they had probably been unable to land.

But as they drew near he could make out the distress on their faces ever more clearly. He prayed to Yniss that it was simply exhaustion but he knew otherwise. The trio circled the Calaian Sun and landed on the wheel deck.

Everyone on board was looking at them. Every elf on deck had risen and there was a concerted bunching towards the stern. Auum didn’t blame them. The first mate asked for calm and assured them that information would be given to all. It did little to quell the thirst for knowledge.

‘I hardly need to ask, do I?’

Dila’heth shook her head and wiped dust from her face.

‘They are there, my Lord Auum. Yniss preserve me, you can see the clouds from here if you look for long enough. It is no mirage.’

‘Is Gyernath secure?’ asked Jevin. ‘Can we still land there?’

‘Yes, but it will do us little good other than to disembark the ClawBound we need to scout north. The Garonin will have pressed into Xetesk before you can make it on foot, Lord Auum. You will need to find another route to Xetesk.’

‘And the colleges?’ Auum was sure more bad news was on the way.

‘Lystern is gone. Xetesk and Julatsa will be under direct attack in a little over ten days. Other vydospheres are headed to Korina and to Triverne Inlet, meaning even the site of the One college will not be spared. Balaia is dying. Consumed by the fires of the Garonin and soon to be dust and ash.’

Auum put his head in his hands. He heard a collective groan from the assembled crowd behind him on deck.

‘Are we already too late?’ he asked.

Dila’heth shrugged. ‘It is hard to be sure of anything. I do not want to give you false hope.’

‘Did you land? Is there any good news?’

Dila laughed and exchanged glances with her two fellow mages.

‘The Balaians are fighting, we saw evidence of that. But they are compromised just like us. Some of their dead are returned. Their messages carry no hope of victory and speak only of running, but they do not know where. They have no idea who to turn to.’

Auum nodded. ‘Then they shall turn to us.’

The survivors of the massacre barely stopped running until they reached the questionable sanctuary of Xetesk. The enemy had stopped moving once the defenders had fled. Scouts reported them actually turning away from their path, heading further north with their machine.

Inside Xetesk, confusion obscured all else. Refugees, living and previously dead, were flooding into the city from Erskan, Blackthorne, Pontois and Denebre. All told the same story. Unstoppable advance, total devastation. No quarter given, no hostages taken. Nothing left but ashes and dust, the stumps of trees and naked rock.

The authorities, shorn of Denser and Sol, had struggled to cope. As many as possible had been directed to parks and waste grounds and given what food and shelter could be found. Others received charity in private dwellings and yet more had been fleeced by unscrupulous landlords and inn owners. The city was creaking.

The arrival of the Lord of the Mount, dishevelled and riding with just a handful of those with whom he had set out, only deepened the disquiet. Tensions had been rising steadily between the living and the dead. Violence was breaking out. Divisions were deepening and the advance of the enemy added fear to the mix. Denser’s ears rang with problems, none of which he was immediately willing to face.

In the relative peace and quiet of the Mount, Denser poured a jug of water over his head and let the icy liquid soak down over his shirt and trousers. He handed the jug back to his apprentice, who refilled it from the butt in the corner of the bedchamber. He upended this second jug too, hearing the water splash over the stone floor and force life into his bones and muscles.

‘Thank you, Brynar. You can go. Find me some food; I’ll be down to the main chambers shortly.’

‘Yes, my Lord Denser,’ said Brynar, a keen young mage, bright and determined. ‘Baron Blackthorne, Sharyr and Lord Dystran all request urgent audience. As does Mayor Haved.’

‘And I will see them as soon as I can, assure them of that. First I must rid myself of this dust and stench.’

‘My Lord Denser?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is good to see you back safe.’

Denser nodded and suddenly he was clinging hard to his emotions. ‘I can scarce believe it myself. Off you go.’

The door closed behind Brynar and Denser sank down onto his haunches and let the sobs roll over him, his tears mingling with the water that dripped from his face and hair. His body shook. He clamped his hands to his thighs, rocking back and forth.

The pounding flame and the incessant white teardrops. Her hair alight, surrounding her face while she screamed. The fire engulfing her hands at which she stared until the heat blinded her and suffocated her. Fingers clawing at the ground while she died. The tearing agony as her soul was lost to the void.

Worse than before. Ark had saved her soul from the demons the first time. Nothing could save her now, and even in his death Denser would not be near her. Not ever again. Denser let images of her face, her first face, settle in front of his eyes. He reached out but they distorted like reflections on windblown water.

Denser sat while the water chilled his body, making him shiver and interrupting his despair. He raised his head and wiped his face with his hands. He drew in a huge pained breath and coughed violently. So brief, returned life.

‘Get up, Denser,’ he said to himself. ‘Wallow later. Do something. Do something.’

He pushed himself to his feet. And, while he dried himself and found a change of clothes, he thought. He cleared his mind of his visions as far as he could and thought back over all that had happened out there on the battlefield and all that the dead had said in the days before.

And when he was done, he found that there was only one question that really mattered. Had his mind been playing tricks and, if not, what in all the hells had happened to Sol?

Denser studied himself in the mirror. A little greyer than the last time he had looked. And plainly exhausted too, but rest would have to wait. He placed a fresh skullcap on his head and made his way down the spiral stair of his upper tower to where Brynar would have left his food for him.

He opened the door to find he would not be eating alone.

‘Bloody hell, what’s brought you up out of your hole? And who let you in without asking me?’

‘My Lord Denser, it is customary to extend the hand of friendship to those with your best interests at heart,’ said Dystran.

The old Lord of the Mount chose not to stand, and instead remained seated on one of the leather-upholstered chairs in Denser’s dining chamber.

‘I see you’ve already helped yourself to most of my lunch. Don’t they feed you down in the catacombs? Too many rats and grubs, is it?’

Denser stalked into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He rang the communication bell, poured himself a large goblet of wine and sat opposite Dystran, whose eyes were sparkling from his prematurely aged face. Mischief and conspiracy, no doubt. Dystran waved a hand impatiently.

‘Oh, Denser, do shut up. There is more and better food in this tower’s kitchens than in entire quarters of our once-great city.’

Denser looked past Dystran to the grand fireplace, above which a portrait of the man in his younger days looked down. It was one of a set depicting the last eight Lords of the Mount in what could loosely be termed relaxed attitudes. Dystran was smiling.

‘And one day your picture will hang above the fireplace and mine will be consigned to the corner by the old broken window over there.’

‘I think not,’ said Denser. ‘I have told the committee that deals with such things, whatever it’s called-’

‘Heritage and History.’

‘Yep, them. That the most relaxed painting of me they’ll get is when I’m dead.’

Dystran laughed hard. ‘Very good, Denser. Very good indeed. I’m glad your sense of humour remains intact.’

‘It has been some time since I made that remark,’ said Denser. ‘Now tell me what you want. I have much to do.’

‘Indeed. One of the few survivors, I understand. Even King Sol is missing and, we presume, lost.’ Dystran’s attempt at a sympathetic expression was poor, more resembling a smirk. ‘No doubt the last few days have been… difficult for you.’

Denser gaped.

‘Difficult? I have witnessed a massacre. I have seen my best field mage teams obliterated. I have seen my guards dismembered, literally, right before my eyes. I have seen The Raven dead torn to pieces… and I have seen my wife, my wonderful wife, burn. Gone in moments. And I was helpless and so I ran. I ran, Dystran. Like a scared child behind the legs of its mother, hoping the monster wasn’t real. But it is real. And it is coming this way. So yes, you could say things have been just a little tricky.’

He grabbed Dystran’s plate from him and shoved over to him the thin remains on the serving dish instead.

‘And I come back here to find my city in chaos. The dead are bunching together towards the east gates because too many of my people think they are a curse on the living or whatever. Refugees are sleeping on every street corner and in every doorway and I have no way to feed or house them all. And profiteering appears rife. Such are the mercies of our wonderful city folk, eh?’

‘The problems within the city can wait a while. There is more to your massacre than you think,’ said Dystran.

Denser spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘Meaning.’

‘Meaning you need to ask more questions of those here to help you and lean less upon the dead you choose to trust. The solution is plain to see but you have allowed old loves and loyalties to obscure it. You have witnessed a massacre, yes. But you have also witnessed the path to defeating this enemy.’

Denser scratched at his head under his skullcap. A pain was growing behind his eyes.

‘It’s an interesting version of events, I’ll grant you that. My own battlefield mathematics reckons we lost about two hundred, maybe more, once the wounded are brought back or not. Whereas the enemy lost one machine, a couple of animals and, what, twenty men? All of whom were replaced by ten times that number as quickly as you can snap your fingers. If this is the path to victory, then damn right it is obscured from me.

‘You know, I’ve had a really trying day on top of about ten really trying days. I don’t think I want to hear your befuddled reasoning if it’s all the same to you.’ Denser stood. ‘And if the words “you can’t trust the dead” are in anyway allied to your theory, I suggest you go and speak it to the deepest stone in the catacombs because I already don’t believe it. They warned me this enemy was too powerful. I should have listened.’

Dystran remained in his chair and eyed Denser coolly. His hands were trembling but not with the effects of his nightmares. Not this time.

‘Then you are more stupid and obstinate than even I had imagined. And you will consign us all to death. I should warn you that Lords of the Mount holding the reins of inevitable disaster are often thrown from their runaway wagons.’

Denser felt a cold breeze across his entire body. A smile played on his mouth and he pointed a finger at Dystran.

‘You’re threatening me,’ he said. ‘I really don’t believe it.’

‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘I really am your friend and ally. One of the few that remains, I suspect, within or without the Circle Seven. I will take my leave now; my appetite has diminished considerably since you came in. But I will say this. Ask yourself why it is that the enemy is not currently heading directly for Xetesk. There is a man here who knows why. I believe him at any rate. A most trustworthy man. And you might want to speak to your Communion Globe master too. He has a name for this enemy. Amongst other things.’

Dystran stood and walked to the door. He paused there for dramatic effect.

‘Your dead want you to run. They spread dissension among those who will listen in Xetesk, and some have taken heed and departed. The dead do not wish for you to see. The enemy creates a barren wilderness where nought but a floating soul could possibly find joy with its fellows. I see glory for Xetesk and I want to be standing before the man who will finally deliver it to us.’

‘Get out,’ said Denser, ringing the communication bell.

‘I am yours to call.’ Dystran smiled. ‘When you need me.’

Brynar entered before the door was fully closed.

‘You summoned me, Lord Denser.’

‘Bring me Sharyr. And Barons Blackthorne and Gresse. And someone who can tell me how far the surviving Raven dead are from the gates.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘And, Brynar?’

‘Yes, my Lord?’

‘Dystran is not to leave the catacomb chambers he scurries about in with Vuldaroq. Neither is anyone to have access to him without my express permission. His cook, his bed-maker and his arse-wiper can live with him until I say otherwise. Am I clear?’

Brynar nodded. He was chewing his bottom lip.

‘It is time, young apprentice, that people understood who is really in charge on the Mount of Xetesk.’

‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

Denser gave a wry smile in defiance of his heavy heart.

‘Go to the top of the class.’