Read Online Ravensoul by James Barclay - Free Book Online Page B

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