But no greater cruelty than poor Erienne in the body of a five-year-old girl. Erienne’s daughter, his daughter, Lyanna had been five when she had died. And she was not here. And of The Raven, four were missing, most notably Thraun the shapechanger.
There were tears running down Ras’s cheeks. The warrior, who had died on the same day Denser met The Raven at Taranspike Castle, was rocking back and forth, his arms folded tightly around his ribs. His body was that of a middle-aged man who had died of a cancer of the kidneys. The body was yellow and covered in dull brown spots. Ras’s soul had made the body walk but that was about all.
‘This man did not die alone,’ said Ras eventually, his voice rasping out over a throat raw from coughing up the blood that still stained his once-white woollen shirt. ‘As his soul fled, mine entered his body. He is lost forever and all I have done is cause such pain to his family, all there to comfort him into death. I don’t understand why I’m here.’
Sirendor put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It will come to you. It seems both you and I have been dead a long time. How fate plays her hand, eh?’
‘We can ease the pain further,’ said Denser. ‘Fix you up so at least you can function.’
Denser felt Sirendor’s gaze again and there was hate in it. He met it full on. Large bloodshot eyes stared out of a thickset face with chin, neck and cheeks hidden by a large growth of beard. What could be seen of the skin was sheet white. Blood matted the beard on his neck and dried onto a filthy brown shirt that reeked of damp. The slashed throat still oozed when he turned his head. It needed properly repairing before too long or he wouldn’t be able to start his heart, much as Hirad couldn’t just yet.
‘I didn’t mean it to be the way it was,’ said Denser.
‘That’s comforting. One little cut of a poisoned blade. The wrong man moulders in the ground and the other rises to become Lord of the Mount.’
‘I’m sorry, Sirendor. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Your death saved Balaia from the Wytch Lords,’ said Sol. ‘You died a hero.’
‘No, I didn’t. A hero should know his death has meaning. I had no such knowledge. I died with a heart full of hate for him. And I have come back with it too.’
‘And what of your time dead?’ asked Hirad. ‘Why did we not find you?’
Sirendor shrugged. ‘There are corners of our resting places for us all, did you not know? I abided with many whose hearts were blackened at the moment of their passing. Together, we eased our suffering and knew the joy of death just as all of us surely have. But it seems the hate never really leaves our souls. Does it, Ras?’
Ras shook his head and his eyes locked on the boy across the table from him. Nine years old and dead of a waterborn illness that was still ravaging the poor tenements in the north-west of the city. He wore the loose-fitting nightshirt in which he had died; his hair was lank about his face and his lips were swollen as was the tongue in his head. He could not meet Ras’s eyes.
‘Nothing to say to me, Richmond?’ asked Ras. ‘You broke the first rule of fighting in line and I died. Nothing to say?’
Richmond shook his head.
‘We were friends, weren’t we?’ continued Ras. ‘All those years together even before The Raven. Nothing to say after what you did?’
The boy slammed his hands on the table and stood. His voice was shrill.
‘I lived with it. Every day after, I lived with it. And when the Black Wing struck me down I was glad because the pain of the blow was nothing compared to that I carried with me. And I sought you out then. But I could not find you. Do not hate me, Ras. Don’t make that the reason you were called back.’
The boy’s chin was wobbling. He sat back down. Beside him, neither Ilkar nor Erienne offered any support.
‘It gives me something to hang on to and that’ll have to do for now,’ said Ras.
‘You know, we’ve only just sat down but I think we should break till morning. Give us all a chance to settle our emotions and make repairs to our bodies, those that need them,’ said Ilkar.
People immediately began getting up to leave.
‘That’s just terrific,’ said Hirad.
Denser could feel the beginnings of a smile on his face despite the tone of Hirad’s voice. He caught Sol’s eye and the big man winked. Hirad didn’t notice.
‘The Raven. Sitting round a table hating each other. Aeb, Erienne, anyone you want to point the finger at? No? Well, thank the Gods falling for that at least. For me, I’m here to do something. Help those I loved in life escape the menace that ripped our rest to shreds. I haven’t come here to settle old scores. Anyone who does, leave now; you are not welcome. And though I love you, Sirendor, that means you too. Give it up. You tried to save Denser and you died. It still hurts. But it is not his fault. And whatever you think, you are a hero.
‘Ras, you could start a fight with yourself if my memory serves and we need your aggression. Don’t waste it.’
Hirad looked deep into each one of them.
‘It is not hate that brought any of us back. But hate will undo us and cast our souls into the void. None of us wishes to be here but here we are, and any of us who turns, turns against the memory of everything The Raven became. Now I know that when some of you died we were just mercenaries and it was all about money.
‘Well, money means nothing to a dead man, so what you do, you will do because you love those who stand with you. If anybody can’t deal with that, step forward now. And I don’t care if you look like a sick old man or a little boy or girl, I will drop you where you stand and send your soul screaming into the night. Whatever you take with you as you leave here now, take this:
‘Dead or alive, when we stand together, we are The Raven.’
The ClawBound song was still resonating in the depths of the cliffs and out into the rainforest when Lysael began to speak. Before her, the elves crowded in. Ysundeneth had emptied. Children sat in the laps or on the shoulders of their parents, who sat or stood cheek to cheek with their families and neighbours. Tens of thousands of torches and lanterns set up a glittering picture, a firmament of elven-kind. Humans came too and this time were welcome. It concerned them in equal measure.
Auum could feel the awe from the crowd as they looked at the assembly on the stage. The stage itself was a gently sloping platform that swept back four hundred yards and measured more than a quarter of a mile across. It was lit by Keyel’s Globes maintained by Al-Arynaar mages standing in the wings to either side. An arched timber roof painted with the colours of vibrant joy, a reminder of better times, projected the sound out over the bowl.
The stage floor was busy with the great and the rarely seen of Calaius. In addition to the seven high priests, a thousand Al-Arynaar stood as an honour guard. In front of them forty TaiGethen cells; and every Tai in every trio felt much as Auum did. Uneasy in the company of so many. Even a little nauseous.
‘Friends, hear our words.’
Lysael’s voice silenced the crowd completely. Expectancy, fear and pride swept over those present. A powerful mix, uplifting to the mass.
‘A Harkening is called only in times of the most dire threat to all in the elven nation. Most of you would hope never to hear the call, whether Ynissul, Tuali, Gyalan or indeed human. There was no time to call Harkening when the Elfsorrow swept us. Now there is, but barely.’
There was a ripple through the crowd, quickly hushed. Lysael held up an ancient volume. The elves’ most sacred text.
‘The Aryn Hiil speaks of much that is central to the life of every elf in our nation. Of what made us, our purpose, where we came from and why. Hear me, my brothers, my sisters, my children. Hear the Words of the Earth.’ She allowed herself the briefest smile. ‘And forgive my translation. These are words not often spoken.
‘ “And from the air they came, as if spun into creation on the instant. With a voice that spoke friendship and a hand that spoke death. Some were joyous. The petty ire of elves forgotten. All faces turned to a mighty foe that cared not for battle yet garnered it with every pace.
‘ “Civilisation be trampled underfoot. Sucked in by the bellows of machines that bled the land dry. Yet proud are elves. And doughty. But for pain inflicted on our enemy, thrice back and more it came upon us. Oh that all should have taken up arms.
‘ “And so the greedy and the powerful clutched to their trappings and they died with them. And the weak and the young in dreadful numbers too high to count, the tears blurred eyes and minds.
‘ “Yet still we linger though not where we began. That place is lost in time and memory. The weak faced death, the strong searched for answers. And across the void they travelled and slammed the door against the faces of the enemy. Yet drifting across the emptiness, came the promise of destruction.
‘ “Even so, vigilance pales. Eyes turn and ears are distracted. When again the footfall is heard seek not battle. Seek instead Home. Because they are come and all you thought yours is dust and ashes though you still hold it in your hands.
‘ “They are come. Garonin.” ’
Auum felt the pages of his life turning. The entry in the Aryn Hiil was typically short but for those with memories long enough it unlocked all the pain, fear and despair. In the utter silence that followed Lysael’s reading, Auum thought he could hear weeping mixed with the crackle of ten thousand torches and the nervous shuffling of infants.
Lysael waited a moment for her words to sink in. And when she spoke again, her voice was barely in check.
‘Speaking words unchains the beast,’ she said, her whisper carrying across the silence. ‘There is no easy way. There is no way that can ensure success or even raise the odds above poor. But we have to leave and leave now. Shorth is silent. Our loved ones cannot be heard. In the Temple of Shorth, High Priest Ryish, witnessed by our own Auum and Rebraal, saw the passage of a soul denied and heard the poor victim speak the word. The Garonin are coming. They are already landed in the southern territories and they move north unstoppable. They will be on our seaboard in three days at most. We have no choice but to seek Home the only way we know how.’
Lysael raised her hands to quell the growing hubbub.
‘Please, my friends, please. It is impossible to comprehend, I know, but we must or we will perish. There is little time but there will be questions. If you wish to speak, come forward to the stage. If you wish to prepare, go with our blessing. You will be summoned to the harbour and designated a vessel. Only bring what you can carry in your two arms. We sail north to Balaia in two days.
‘Brothers, sisters.’ The crowd quietened. ‘We will survive and we will find Home. Deneth. We need you. All of you. Help the weak, the overburdened. Help any who need it. The Aryn Hiil speaks of times when we must put aside petty squabbles. This surely is one of those times. Trust in Yniss. Pray to Him. Pray to your chosen deity under Him. Trust us, his servants.’
Even among those assembled on stage, few had dry eyes. Lysael waited, her hands over her mouth or alternately in supplication to Yniss, praying for mercy. Praying for more time than she knew they had. Auum came to her shoulder, his Tai with him. He said nothing. She acknowledged his presence. Together they waited while those with burning questions for all to hear came forward.
Auum saw their type. He had seen it before. The rich. Land-owners. Merchants. Bankers. He sniffed. Among them, ordinary elves seeking order where there would be none. Questions to which there would be no answers. Few were leaving the Caeyin. To do so was to admit the unbelievable. He could see anger, frustration and, more than anything, the desire to hear it wasn’t true.
‘Questions will be asked. Answers shall be given. Speak in turn.’
Lysael gestured for the first elf to speak. Slender, narrow-faced and dressed in the sort of finery Auum shunned which wouldn’t last an hour in the rainforest. Nor its wearer.
‘Girales of Ysundeneth.’ His voice, confident and already strident, rang out as clear as sky after rain. ‘This is our home. We are stronger, more numerous than at any time in our history. We have no need to run. Surely there is another way?’
Auum acknowledged a fair question but shook his head when Lysael invited him to speak.
‘I understand how hard this is to comprehend,’ said Lysael. ‘That anyone should announce on a moment that we must all leave our homes and our lives, our certainty, and head north into anything but certainty. But it remains the course we must take. There are enough writings. There are enough who were there and stood to fight the time before. And to fight is to die. To run is to live. Please, the next question.’
‘Halis of Ysundeneth.’ Fat like a human. Bulbous face. Loose clothing failing to hide a shameful body. And a voice that grumbled deep in the throat. He had probably never even entered the canopy. ‘What I cannot leave behind is everything I own. A significant part of Ysundeneth. Houses, warehousing, the dockside marketplace. None of these can I transport by ship to Balaia. How will I be compensated? How will all my workers be paid if I have no business?’
‘You will still be alive,’ said Lysael. ‘It is all anyone will have.’
‘No, no, no, no.’ Halis wagged a stubby finger. ‘I have worked all my life to attain my position in the city. You will not take that from me with one sweep of the hand.’