The Raven Collection

‘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 ca

‘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 ca

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 cha

‘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.