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  THE WORLD RAVEN

  A.J. Smith

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About The World Raven

  ALL THAT WAS DEAD WILL RISE.

  ALL THAT NOW LIVES WILL FALL.

  THE FINAL, EPIC BATTLE FOR THE LANDS OF RO.

  The dead god is waking. His power-mad priestess has deployed a mass of men and beasts onto the plains of Ro Weir. Faced with this black swarm, the last remnants of a nation crumbles and falls. This is the final battle for the mortal lands of Ro.

  Far to the north, the ice men of Rowanoco muster their Exemplars against the witch’s assassins. In the blistering southern deserts, a squire with no master walks unscathed through a poisoned city. And, in the halls beyond the world, a thrice-born man dares to tread the path of Giants...

  For Kathleen

  FOURTH CHRONICLE OF THE LONG WAR

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About The World Raven

  Dedication

  Maps

  Part 1

  The Tale of the Shade Folk

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Randall of Darkwald in the City of Thrakka

  Chapter 2: Gwendolyn of Hunter’s Cross in the ruins of Cozz

  Chapter 3: Ingrid Teardrop in the City of Fredericksand

  Chapter 4: Halla Summer Wolf in the City of Tiergarten

  Chapter 5: Tyr Nanon in the Fell

  Chapter 6: Fallon the Grey in Ro Canarn

  Chapter 7: Utha the Ghost in Oron Kaa

  Chapter 8: Saara the Mistress of Pain in the City of Ro Weir

  Chapter 9: Randall of Darkwald in Oslan

  Chapter 10: Ingrid Teardrop in the Realm of Summer Wolf

  Chapter 11: Halla Summer Wolf in the City of Tiergarten

  Chapter 12: Queen Gwendolyn Tiris in Narland

  Chapter 13: Fynius Black Claw at Sisters’ Reach

  Epilogue

  Part 2: The Twisted Tree

  The Tale of the Gorlan

  Prologue

  Chapter 14: Lady Bronwyn in the City of Canarn

  Chapter 15: Alahan Teardrop in the City of Tiergarten

  Chapter 16: Tyr Nanon in the Halls Beyond the World

  Chapter 17: Randall of Darkwald in Oron Kaa

  Chapter 18: Fallon the Grey on the King’s Highway

  Chapter 19: Alexander Tiris in the Duchy of Weir

  Chapter 20: Ingrid Teardrop in the Realm of Summer Wolf

  Chapter 21: Saara the Mistress of Pain in the City of Ro Weir

  Chapter 22: Dalian Thief Taker in Oron Kaa

  Chapter 23: Gwendolyn of Hunter’s Cross in the Duchy of Weir

  Chapter 24: Tyr Nanon in the City of Ro Weir

  Chapter 25: Halla Summer Wolf in the City of Tiergarten

  Chapter 26: Utha the Shadow in the Halls Beyond the World

  Epilogue

  Bestiary

  Character Listing

  Acknowledgements

  About A.J. Smith

  About the Chronicles of The Long War

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Maps

  PART 1

  THE TALE OF THE SHADE FOLK

  WHEN THE LANDS of men were formed of nations without names or borders, death was not always the end. There were no priests or clerics, just those favoured by the Giants. Piety delivered survival beyond mortal death and the Shade Folk walked the lands in secret.

  With one foot in the beyond and the other on the earth, they were the first true servants of the gods of men, taking their power and wisdom from the Giants themselves.

  As ages passed and men named their realms and warred with their neighbours, the Shade Folk were both priests and generals, directing the Giants’ armies, but never fighting themselves, for the shades had no form that could wield a sword or carry a shield.

  They could not be killed or manipulated, and would not seek power or recognition. They lived and plotted in the shadows, appearing only to those of righteous intent. They gave their gods immense power and enabled their own defeat.

  Churches, cathedrals and other monuments of stone were built to the gods, and fewer and fewer people were reborn as shades. The One was the first to raise a mortal man of god, the first to realize that the shades had served their purpose. He called his servants clerics and they had form and power.

  The Shade Folk retreated in silence from the world they’d helped to build.

  PROLOGUE

  THE FOOTHILLS QUICKLY gave way to vertical walls of jagged stone. The pilgrimage had been attempted by thousands of young Ranen, but no guide ropes had ever been added. If they died, they died. If they turned back, they were not worthy of the World Raven’s blessing.

  The wind was the greatest hazard. The Roost was exposed on all sides, lashed with gales and capped with thick snow. Dexterity and stamina would get you so far, but luck was a climber’s greatest asset. Luck and wisdom provided the only recipe for success when you were dangling from rock, hundreds of feet above the ground. Having a sense of humour was also important: the ability to laugh at the stupidity of climbing a mountain unaided in the middle of a snowstorm.

  Nice view, though, thought Fynius Black Claw. Well, it was a nice view when the sheets of cloud and snow allowed it to be. That is to say it was a shitty view most of the time. White, tinges of blue, the occasional glimpse of something green, but mostly just white. Clouds, snow, mist, fog – all of it white and all of it bloody annoying.

  He’d made the climb before, twice before he was eighteen and three times since then. If he’d lived closer, it would have been a yearly journey. As it was, the captain of Twilight Company was rarely able to visit the World Raven in his own nest. His men were in South Warden, waiting for his return and their march to the ruins of Hail.

  The lands of men were changing. Fynius didn’t really care, but Brytag did... so Fynius did. The Ro were on a knife-edge, ready to be cut in two. The Karesians had fallen. The Ranen were battered and bruised, reeling from blood and conflict, but they were still fighting, still following Rowanoco. The twisted tree had not yet won.

  ‘Let’s see what we can do to help.’

  He pulled himself over the last overhang and was battered by a fresh gust of freezing air. He screwed up his face and snarled at the weather. The snow didn’t appear scared. The way ahead was flat. At least, it didn’t require climbing.

  Brytag’s Roost was a single peak, rising above a ring of jagged foothills. At the top, in a deep indent, partially sheltered from the weather, was a dense, snowy forest. It was hard to reach. It was very, very hard to reach.

  ‘I’m here!’ he shouted. ‘Do I have to walk to the middle? It’s really fucking cold.’

  He didn’t get an answer. Brytag was very talkative when he wanted to be, but since the shade had appeared, Fynius’s head had been curiously quiet. It was odd. The shade was miserable and had no sense of humour. He preferred it when he had to listen to random wants and desires.

  ‘Stop thinking so much,’ said Bromvy’s shade, appearing in the snowy air.

  ‘Go away, you’re no fun,’ replied Fynius.

  ‘Is that what you need? Fun?’

  ‘Right now I need a thicker coat... maybe a mug of mead.’

  ‘Later,’ said the shade. ‘Now you walk.’

  Fynius kicked his feet through the snow and stomped off towards the highland forest. His path dropped downwards, the swirling snow kept at bay by high walls of rock. It wasn’t any warmer, but at least the wind was minimal. Brom floated across the snow next to him, his ethereal legs ghosting forward as if he was walking on thin air.

  ‘Smug bastard,�
� grumbled Fynius.

  ‘Focus, exemplar,’ said Brom. ‘You have work to do.’

  ‘I liked the voice of Brytag; it was comforting to never be alone. Now I’ve got you. It’s not the same.’

  The shade ghosted in front of him, hovering at walking pace and blocking his view. Lord Bromvy had died young, maybe twenty-five or -six. He was tall and solid, though his eyes were sad. His hair was black and his hands rough. He looked like a Ro, but had the pale skin and light eyes common to those of Canarn.

  The wind had dropped and the forest loomed ahead of him. Fynius mused as he entered the trees, wondering what the shade could offer that Brytag could not. If indeed that was the intention. Maybe he offered something different, rather than better. Or maybe he offered nothing and thinking about it was pointless.

  ‘Anything to contribute?’ he asked Brom, now gliding between thick tree-trunks and thorn bushes.

  ‘Your mind is unfocused. It inhibits your intelligence.’

  Fynius nodded. ‘Good contribution.’

  Brytag’s Roost was the most sacred place for followers of the World Raven. Crows, magpies, rooks and blackbirds lined every branch. Tiny black dots cawed at him, huge glossy birds flared their wings. Every one pointed its yellow beak in his direction.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘I’m expected.’

  They carried on cawing and flapping, but didn’t peck him or leave their branches. He strolled casually into the central clearing, staring in awe at the ring of huge trees. In the middle, small shrubs with bright green leaves sprouted from the snow and lines of shimmering light cut the thin mountain air.

  Fynius approached the glistening leaves. He was a lone figure in the centre of a huge, white emptiness, looking at shifting patterns in the snow. The wind made swirls in the grainy surface underfoot, showing him the Long War. He saw the tapestry of move and counter-move, the ripples felt by exemplars and Shades as they walked their paths and fought their battles. There was power, but little focus, as if the Giants flailed from their halls in search of victory. The One, Rowanoco, Jaa: each was too removed from the world to be effective. They functioned in pockets of resistance, not seeing the whole.

  He also saw lost pasts and possible futures. It was hard to put everything into order, hard to see what was real and what was potential. When all possibilities are mashed together, nothing seems truly real. But the last image he saw made him sad. He saw the possible future of the lands of men; he saw the Tyranny of the Twisted Tree.

  ‘Brytag requires a council,’ said Brom. ‘The shades need to meet. The exemplars need to focus. We will send ravens to help where we can, but this battle will not end with small acts of kindness. The great Giants waited too long... their power enters the twilight of this world.’

  Fynius let his eyes fall to the snow. He saw the exemplar of the One straight away. Fallon of Leith was taller and stronger than he knew, and stood out as a vessel of huge untapped potential. He had good counsel, but the Purple Shade, following in his wake, was fading from view, unable to teach Fallon of his true power. Things were little better in Fjorlan. Alahan Teardrop, the exemplar of Rowanoco, was a conflicted young man, wrestling with his name and his inheritance. The shade of his uncle was barely present, little more than a ghost, clinging to the world of men with a fingernail. But things were at their darkest in Karesia. The exemplar of Jaa was little more than a vagabond with no armies or devotion. He had never received instruction from his god, and the shade of Dalian Thief Taker was lost in the beyond, lacking sufficient power to reach the exemplar.

  Fynius glared at Brom. ‘How are you still here? Shouldn’t you be fading like the others?’

  The Shade pulsed with a pale blue light, and a hint of humour edged across its face. ‘The World Raven is not currently engaged in hostilities. No armies tear down his altars or march on Ranen Gar.’

  ‘Why would they listen to us?’

  ‘Because without our help they will all die. You’ve seen the world that will emerge if Shub-Nillurath wins.’

  Fynius stretched out with his mind and looked for the shades. He pushed into the shadows of the world, trying to contact those that dwell beyond the sight of mortal men. He found nothing at first, just lost spirits of once pious men. Then, refocusing on the Giants’ anger, he found a handful of shades, scattered across the lands of men. From the Roost, he could look down and give each of them a nudge. One was far older than the others, and one was lost in the void, but all felt his polite invitation.

  ‘I am Fynius Black Claw, exemplar of Brytag. I offer a parlay and a chance to turn the tide. We have power; you are each in need of power. You will come when the raven caws.’

  CHAPTER 1

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE CITY OF THRAKKA

  THE EARTHQUAKE SOUNDED throughout the night. Deep and rumbling with a tell-tale shake of the ground. It started as a tremor and rose to make the room vibrate. With each tremor he wondered if the building would collapse. The walls creaked, but the stone didn’t crack. Dust fell from the rafters, but each tremor ended and he breathed easier. Until the next tremor.

  He was tired and his head felt heavy. He’d survived the enchantment of one of the Seven Sisters. His mind was free, but it would never be the same. Ruth had caressed his soul and left a mark, strengthening him. He knew that the Seven Sisters’ magic could no longer touch him.

  ‘We are not leaving until you are ready,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Please leave me to think. It’s the only thing I’ve got left.’

  She was standing on a box, looking out of a square window into the dusty shards of morning sunlight. The room they stayed in was at the base of a vizier tower. It was bare, dirty and hot, but it was secret. They’d not been found and Randall had been able to rest after his encounter with Saara the Mistress of Pain, with the Gorlan mother watching over him.

  ‘Patience,’ she replied. ‘We will find the Shadow just when he needs us to find him. Rushing your recovery will not change that.’

  Another tremor made the walls shake.

  ‘You never said Karesia had so many earthquakes,’ he said, tensing as the rumbling got louder.

  ‘This is exceptional,’ she replied. ‘The viziers will soon begin to panic.’

  He coughed, feeling a dry scratch at the back of his throat.

  ‘Their magic towers aren’t immune to earthquakes?’

  Dust now fell from the ceiling and the far wall cracked ever so slightly. It was just a slight break, but it made him scramble upwards. ‘Is this building going to collapse?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly... but the towers will collapse first. We should gather our belongings and relocate.’

  ‘Err... if this isn’t normal, do you want to tell me what’s happening?’

  ‘Their magic is failing,’ she replied. ‘Something is draining the power from Thrakka.’

  ‘Something? Like what?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Uncertain. They always believed the Jekkan magic was limitless. It appears they were wrong.’ She paused, gazing off into space. ‘I think Voon has taken Utha into a dangerous world.’

  He snorted, gathering up their sparse belongings and packing them into his rucksack. ‘How are Utha and Voon causing earthquakes?’

  ‘Uncertain,’ she repeated.

  She knew something. A lot more than he did, certainly, but as long as they were leaving, he didn’t really care. Utha would tell him about his new earthquake ability when they caught up. If they caught up.

  Chunks of masonry now fell to the floor and the room shook. He hoped the towers would remain standing while they made their exit from the city. He didn’t fancy dodging death at every intersection. The dust was bad enough; the viziers and warriors looking for them were worse. Rocks hitting them on the head just seemed unfair.

  They left quickly. Randall was sore, as if his body weighed more than before he had been enchanted. Little things hurt. Whenever he raised a leg to walk or breathed in. Small movements were effort. His old, canvas rucksack bit into his
bare shoulders, and his skin itched.

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t look up,’ said Ruth, making Randall look up.

  The vizier towers of Thrakka, wondrous structures of equal parts magic and vanity, were crumbling. The walkways connecting them were empty, and citizens rushed from any structure above ten storeys. Chunks of rock and marble crashed into the dusty streets as awesome spires and garish minuets were felled.

  ‘Do they know what’s happening?’ he asked, unable to look away from the towers. ‘I mean, how many people are going to die?’

  ‘I should think a great many,’ she replied. ‘And, no, they haven’t got a clue what is happening to their city.’

  At every street corner, at every intersection, hundreds of Karesians flooded from the buildings. Family units, clutching their belongings; men and women clustered together in carts and on horseback, trying to pick their way through the crowds and leave the city.

  He balked at a pair of legs, poking messily out from under a huge boulder. A few streets away, a pile of broken body parts was scattered among some rubble.

  Ruth walked brazenly in the middle of the streets, ignoring the press of running people all around her. He thought about leaving her and joining the screaming masses, fleeing Thrakka. Instead, he grimaced and forced himself to walk alongside his companion. He hated trusting her, but she’d saved his life – and his mind – once already.

  He muttered pathetically to himself, trailing along behind her like a distressed puppy. Nothing hit them. No stone, debris or body parts. He didn’t care whether it was luck or sorcery, as long as they weren’t smashed into a mushy death on the streets of Thrakka.

  He tried to stop looking up. The impact of falling bricks and mortar sounded all around him, each thud making him jump, but none struck them.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, as a man was smashed into oblivion by a plummeting marble doorframe.