He saw whole areas barricaded off and the people within them carrying bows and spears against those without who begged for entry. He saw a man being kicked mercilessly by a gang of other men, some in ragged rich clothes, as still he tried to eat the bread he gripped with both hands.

Higher he went, and the scene or one like it was played out over and over. Shapes came into the image on either side of his view, as if he were passing between two high structures. Quickly they were revealed for what they were. Garonin machines. Vydospheres. Floating in the skies above Korina. And not just two. As the image continued to expand, he counted nine in a circle around the city. Worse, on its borders stood foot soldiers in their hundreds. Just waiting to fall on the helpless and desperate thousands within.

‘We have their fate in our hands. They cannot get out. We can destroy them. We can wait for them to destroy themselves. Or we can set them free. It is the same for these people. Some friends, I think.’

The image switched, and Sol was transported to the wilds of Balaia. He didn’t recognise where but he knew the faces that dominated the image he was shown and that lowered down on him. It took all his strength not to sink to his knees.

Rebraal and Dila’heth.

Their faces were grey with exhaustion and fear. Their eyes were wide and their expressions were of helplessness and despair. He saw their mouths move and knew they were speaking to one another but he could hear nothing.

‘What are they saying?’

Sol tried to read their lips but the image was not quite distinct enough. Again the image pulled away. Not as high this time though it didn’t have to. A few campfires sent smoke spiralling into a grey sky. In an open space stood multiple cells of the TaiGethen and a fair-sized group of Al-Arynaar. Surrounding them, a very large number of Garonin foot soldiers. Two thousand at a quick guess. Too many even for the TaiGethen though the battle would be fierce and bloody until the bitter end.

‘They have come so far to reach this dead end. We were always watching them even if they did not know it. They are tired. They need rest. You will ultimately decide whether they should get it. We are not always unmerciful.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ demanded Sol.

Not a head rose. There was no acknowledgement of his question. He thought about rushing them, seeing if he could take one of them down, but it seemed so futile and his emotions were churning anyway. He wasn’t sure if he could hold his sword steady.

The Garonin showed him one more scene. It was of a huge fleet at anchor. Hundreds of elven vessels in the waters off Sunara’s Teeth. North Bay. Wesman territory. The decks of the vessels were crowded with people. Many of the ships appeared to be riding low. Many others bore the marks of battle. There was flotsam in the water. Above them hung six vydospheres. On the peaks of the mountains stood foot soldiers. On the plains behind, a war camp.

‘You thought we would not realise such a density of verrian could be taken by sea? These elves’ lives are already forfeit. Long have we searched for them and we have delighted in their demise. There are over thirty thousand elves on those vessels. They are dying slowly of course. It is not in our nature to be merciful to such vermin. Yet there may be room. There may be.’

The Garonin’s heads came up. The last image disappeared and the ivory sky returned. Sol sucked his lip, fighting against a rising despair. Again his sword began to feel light in his hand. He concentrated on the victory in the corridor and the familiar weight returned. And there was something else too. It gave him hope but he couldn’t figure out why. Something was missing. Something had been left out.

‘So you see, Sol of Balaia, despite your best efforts there really is no hope left. Even should you reach your mythical new home, there will be no living to take there; and no dead either, we will see to that. All you will have done is open fertile land for us to exploit. You have lost the war.’

‘So why are you wasting your time with me?’ Sol stood tall again and stared at them, each and every one. He raised his blade and pointed it at them. ‘Eh? So destroy them all. Harvest your fuel and go back to where you came from to waste it on an enemy you cannot defeat. What are you waiting for?’

There was more hesitation before the reply. Sol found strength in that too.

‘We are offering you and all these people salvation. It benefits you because no more of your people need die. It benefits us for the same reason. All you must agree to do is let us harvest unhindered now and at any point we choose.’

‘I trust you about as far as I would trust a madman with a rapier. How can you expect me to believe you will honour such an agreement, ludicrous though it is? Effectively to allow you free access to our lands in exchange for . . . what? A few of my people being allowed to survive in a blasted country? You have no need to make such deals if your power is so great. And we all know that should you want more of your fuel you will take it without regard for the lives of my people. Gods drowning, but power comes with no guarantee of intelligence, does it? And our dead, what of them? Their resting place is destroyed.’

There was the slightest pause.

‘The dead are irrelevant. There is nothing meaningful beyond life.’

Sol shook his head sadly. ‘You have no souls. You do not understand. ’

‘Time is precious.’ There was a note of stress in the mellow sound of the Garonin voice. ‘Your decision.’

Sol smiled, the missing piece fitting into place.

‘You’re not sure you can cover your losses, are you?’ He took a pace towards the Garonin. ‘You don’t want us to fight because you know the damage we’ll do even as we are defeated. You want me to help you stop the fighting on Balaia to leave you free to plunder the Heart of Xetesk. And you didn’t show me Xetesk because you damn well couldn’t, could you? You are not in control. They’ve held you off, haven’t they?’

Sol laughed. Again the Garonin displayed anxiety.

‘And what happens if we choose to fight, eh? I’ll tell you. You might be forced to retreat, mightn’t you? To save your forces for the battles on your doorstep. Denied victory on Balaia and denied the chance to follow me to a new realm. The mighty Garonin undone by primitives. But primitives who can harness mana in a way you can never do. Let’s see, shall we?’

Sol raised his blade and advanced further.

‘Do not choose to fight us. You cannot defeat us.’

‘Well you know what? I think I’ll give it a try anyway. After all, I’m dead and I don’t have anything better to do.’

‘You will be responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of your people. Your loved ones, your peers. Your children. You are a man alone.’

‘Don’t believe everything you see,’ said Sol. ‘A Raven is never alone.’

The Garonin susurration irritated again. ‘You are at our mercy. We know what we see.’

Sol backed away. ‘Better start getting your killing sticks ready. Things are going to get bloody.’

‘So be it.’

Sol spread his arms wide, his two-handed sword in his right hand, and began to turn a circle. He felt young, vital, like before the docks at Arlen, where he had seen his hip smashed beyond complete repair. Armour covered his chest, shining in the ivory light. And while the Garonin stood and watched, he raised his voice, gambling with his death and the life of everyone still living on Balaia.

‘Raven! For all the times all we had was our belief, join me. For every moment we stared defeat in the face and returned victorious, join me. To avenge every one of us who has fallen, join me. You, The Raven dead. To believe is to prevail. To stand by those you love and pick up your swords one more time for Balaia and for The Raven.