The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “They have to look after themselves rich boy!” she snapped. “That's why they live huddled in this mouldy cellar. Nobody else will look after them.” She produced a slim knife. “Can I trust you not to do anything else stupid?”

  Klöss ignored the dig and nodded mutely sitting still as she sliced through the ropes on his wrists and ankles. The knife, he noticed, was horrifically sharp and he shuddered as he thought of how it had been pressed to his throat. He wouldn’t have moved a muscle, had he known then.

  “Now then,” the girl said brightly as she stood up and stepped back. “How about a nice cup of tea?” Klöss was so incredulous that he nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be helped to his feet and shepherded out the door. They passed through several musty smelling corridors to a long low-ceilinged room that looked as if it functioned as a kitchen. Several more children sat at a makeshift table made from planks resting on old barrels, and a large pot hung bubbling on an iron arm over a tidy fireplace set in the far wall.

  “Tessa, you go and fill the kettle. Gavin you can fetch a chair for our guest,” the blonde girl said pointing into the small crowd of children. Klöss watched them jump to obey without pause or argument.

  “Now, I don't believe we were ever properly introduced?” she smiled. Klöss forced a weak grin back as he struggled to catch up. A few short hours ago she had held him at knife-point in the street and now she was inviting him to tea. It was not a situation he felt he was really able to cope with, although he did now understand why the children jumped to obey so quickly. This was not a girl; this was a force of nature. You were so quickly swept up by her that you hardly had time to stop and see what was really going on.

  “Um. Klöss” he managed still feeling off balance.

  “Klöss,” she said, looking up at the ceiling as she considered it. “An interesting name for an interesting fellow. I am Ylsriss.” She smiled again and motioned for him to sit in the plain wooden chair that Gavin was just setting by the fire, a surly expression on his young face.

  “How did you end up here? Who are all these children?” Klöss countered, trying to take some control of the conversation.

  “Well we weren't all born with a silver spoon in our mouth, Klöss,” she replied with a tart little edge to her voice. “As for who these children are, well I suppose you could say that they are the little ones who fall through the cracks. When you're at your pretty little shop, exploiting struggling mothers who are too tired to shop around, you might want to remember that.” She smiled to diffuse the tension somewhat, and then gave him a wicked look.

  “So when you're not chasing young women into dark alleys, what are you usually doing young Klöss?” she asked, mischief dancing in her blue eyes.

  “You can't be much older than me!” protested Klöss, avoiding the rather obvious innuendo.

  He flushed and drew in his breath sharply to retort when he caught her sly smile. “You're making sport with me,” he accused.

  Ylsriss laughed and swung the pot to one side to make room for the kettle over the fire. “That doesn't really answer the question though does it?” she said, giving him a sideways look as she busied herself with wooden mugs and jars.

  “I'm about to train as an oarsman,” Klöss responded, trying not to sound self-important.

  “Oh, that was your trial yesterday was it?” She peered into the pot and stirred the bubbling contents with a long wooden spoon before tasting experimentally. She lifted the kettle off the hook with a fire-scarred wad of cloth and poured the water out into the wooden mugs. “It's nettle I'm afraid,” she said as she set down the kettle and offered him a mug.

  “Aren't you a little young for the trials?” she asked. “I mean you're a big lad, but you've a young look about you.”

  “I had a sponsor,” he said looking into his cup through the steam.

  “Oh, I see. Family?”

  “My uncle,” he admitted in a tone which made it obvious he didn't want to speak about it further.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes blowing the tea softly. “Seriously Ylsriss, why are you the one looking after these children? I thought the tithe took care of orphans and the like?”

  “Oh Klöss, you truly are an innocent aren't you?” she sighed. “The tithe takes care of those who collect it, first and foremost. Do you really think that it's all dispersed to the children of fallen shipsmen and the poor? Have you actually looked and seen how many people there are in this city who are homeless and hungry?”

  He took a sip of the tea savouring the grassy yet smooth taste. “Is that why you...” he trailed off.

  “Steal?” she offered. “Yes, that's why I steal. To feed those who depend on me. Is that so wrong?” She laughed at his expression. “Have you ever stopped to think that if you become an oarsman you will be doing exactly the same thing?”

  “What?!” he sat up straight, putting the cup down on the table. “How do you figure that?”

  “Klöss do you actually think that the people we visit in those pretty little boats are just handing over their food and animals out of generosity?” she asked incredulously.

  “That's different!” Klöss protested. “That's taken as spoils of war. Anyway, what about the woman you stole from? How is she less needy than you.”

  “I would think that was obvious, my innocent little rich boy,” Ylsriss replied smoothly. “She had money and I didn't.”

  ***

  Klöss wandered through the darkening streets towards his home. Flickering lamps were just now being lit every hundred paces or so by a team of men carrying tapers and long poles. Inns and taverns beckoned patrons in with warm candlelight and the sounds of laughter and the smell of freshly cooked food.

  She'd called him “rich boy”, half an insult and half a joke from the tone of her voice. Klöss had never thought of himself or his family as rich before, but it was all relative. He'd always had a warm bed and food on the table. He'd never owned or worn clothes that were only two steps from rags or sackcloth. Compared to the children in Ylsriss's cellar he supposed he was rich. It was a sobering thought and not one he enjoyed.

  He looked around him with fresh eyes as he walked, noting the women standing on the corner and for the first time wondering what their lives were like. What had pushed them to spend their evenings standing under the smoking torches, huddled in their groups of two or three as they called out to passing men with a smile and a wink. He'd assumed they were happy enough. After all they were flirting and calling out weren't they?

  His head still throbbed slightly from the blow earlier, but the largest wound was to his pride. He didn't like it but he was forced to admit that not only had Ylsriss had him at her mercy amid the filth of the alleyway, but also that he hadn't heard the child approach before he'd clubbed him. Some raider he would end up to be with instincts like that.

  As if the thought had reminded him, though in reality he'd just been avoiding thinking about it, he realised he would have to face his father and tell him about the trials. He'd be furious of course. It seemed he'd been relying on Klöss more and more with each passing year, and Klöss wasn't sure his father was even capable of running the business without him. The oarsmaster had ordered him to report to the training school in one week though, and that gave him only four more days before his training began in earnest. He couldn't really afford to put it off much longer.

  The walk through the familiar streets took longer than normal as his feet dragged. It was almost fully dark by the time he crossed the tidy courtyard and stepped down the three steps.

  The door flew open as he approached and his father stood there, backlit by the lamps and fire in the kitchen.

  “Klöss, thank the gods you're alright!” he gasped and pulled him into a rough hug. His eyes were fierce but worry was etched deep in the lines of his weather-worn face. “What happened to you lad? I've had constables scouring for you all afternoon. Did you ever catch him?”

  “Him?” Klöss replied in confusion, trying to decide how
to explain the afternoon he'd had. “Oh the thief? It was a girl if you believe that, and yes I caught her. She, ah... She had a few friends and well, it was touch and go for a while.”

  “Are you okay?” Rhaven asked, looking him over for obvious cuts or bandages.

  “A big lump on the head is about all I think.”

  “You can't afford to go softening your brains lad. Who else am I going to get to run the shop once I'm in my dotage?” his father said with a smile. Klöss's face fell, if possible, even further.

  “We need to talk about that, Father,” he began softly. “I...” he trailed off.

  “You what?” Rhaven asked, his expression darkening.

  “I took the trials Father,” Klöss blurted, as if scared the words would catch in his throat.

  “What trials?” Rhaven asked, the confusion plain on his tired face. “Get in here boy!” He stepped back from the doorway and motioned Klöss into a chair before closing the door against the cool night's breeze. “Now, what are you prattling on about lad?”

  “I took the Oarsman trials.” Klöss spoke hesitantly, already flinching in anticipation of the reaction.

  “What are you talking about?” Rhaven said harshly. “We talked about you taking the trials. I thought we agreed that you would wait a few more years.”

  “That was what you decided Father, not me.” Klöss said in a small voice.

  “So you just openly defy me?” Rhaven spat, his temper rising and his eyes dark.

  “I did what I thought best Father. That's what you always taught me.”

  “You'd throw my own words back at me? In my house!” Rhaven was incredulous. “Wait a moment. I didn't support you taking the trials. How did you even enter with no sponsor?”

  Klöss flushed and looked guiltily at the tabletop. “I went to Uncle Frostbeard,” he admitted.

  “Aiden!” Rhaven slammed his palm down on the table. “I should have known it was him filling your head with this nonsense!”

  “It's not nonsense, Father!” Klöss found his hands clenched into tight fists as his teeth ground together. “It's who we are. We've had the trials and the reaving for hundreds of years!”

  “Aye Son, and what good has it brought us?” Rhaven demanded. “Fatherless children, husbandless wives. Damn it all boy, I was trying to show you that there is another way!”

  “What way?” Klöss replied, derision slipping into his voice. “The market place? What life is that for a...” He trailed off quickly.

  “For a what?” Rhaven demanded. “For a real man? That's what you were going to say wasn't it?”

  Klöss met his father's eyes, his face stricken. “Father I...”

  “Don't bother boy. You've made it clear how you feel. Just remember when you're soaked and trying to row with ten men down and the boat full of screaming wounded with their guts at their feet, how you thought it'd all be glory. A life for a real man,” his voice was full of scorn. “You think you know it all. How do you think I got this leg? You know nothing boy. Nothing! You think a few hairs on your chin makes you a man? It takes a damned sight more than that!” He turned and stormed out into the night, the door banging hollowly behind him. Klöss sat at the empty table, wondering at himself and listening to the sounds of the wind as he stared into the kitchen fire. He watched the flames grow lower and then slowly turn into sullen embers before he finally realised his father would not be back and he banked the fire, put out the lamps and walked through the dark house to seek his bed.

  Chapter Five

  Klöss darted back away from the slash, nearly falling on the sand-covered floor of the training room, as his legs threatened to give way. Sweat soaked his dark leathers and linen undershirt. His hand was slick on the hilt of his blade. He circled warily around Verig, looking for an opening. His training blade was wooden but, after a few minutes, it seemed as heavy as real steel and his arms burned with the strain of keeping Verig's blade from finding his skin.

  “Come on, boy! You're supposed to be something special, aren't you? Or are you just some little babe who should still be at his mother's tit?” Verig laughed as Klöss lunged, and idly flicked away the attack with no more effort than it would take to shoo away a fly.

  “Really? Is that the best you have?” the man sneered.

  Klöss knew he was being baited and shifted backwards to try to give himself time to think. Verig was fast, there was no doubting that. He'd been on the ships for years and trained dozens of men before him. He was small for an oarsman but seemed to have a sinewy strength. His blonde hair was tied at the nape with a leather thong and he went without a helmet, seemingly just to mock his trainees with their inability to get even close to his head.

  He was dressed as Klöss was, in dark boiled leathers. Unlike Klöss, of course, he had been wearing his for years and they were well broken in and flexible at the joints. Verig wore his like a second skin, Klöss like a turtle in somebody else's shell.

  Klöss shifted awkwardly in his leathers and flexed his grip inside his shield. Holding it before him, he lifted the sword and held it pointed over the edge of the shield, almost in a spearman's stance, ready to thrust. Verig stood silently, watching him, taking his measure as Klöss began to circle anew, trying to mimic the man's cat-like movements.

  They'd been in training for three weeks now, drilling daily with sword and shield, learning the basic strikes, stances and blocks for hours at a time until they came without thinking. They had started out in groups but now they'd progressed to fighting one-on-one with a Master.

  Klöss stamped his foot on the sand-covered floor, the wooden boards underneath giving a muted thud. An effort to force a reaction, any reaction. Verig stood still watching Klöss, his eyes impassive, only taking the occasional step to match his circling. His sword seemed to be held almost casually in his hand. Perhaps if Klöss could strike hard, close to the hilt, he could drive it from Verig's grasp, or at least loosen his grip and then…

  He stopped his thought quickly. Planning led to traps, it was one of the first things he'd learned. Make a plan in a fight and you become dependent on it. Then, when things changed, you'd be left floundering. Act on instinct, he'd been drilled.

  He struck, faster and more smoothly than he ever had before. The blade whistled down towards Verig's sword, angled perfectly to cause the maximum impact. Verig's blade, however, was simply not there, as the small man darted backwards and turned Klöss's blow into an uncontrolled lunge.

  Verig shifted forward again and closed the distance in one short step. His boots making little or no noise as he moved. Klöss swung wildly as he sought to regain his balance, but Verig didn't even bother to parry or catch it with his shield. Instead, he took a half step to the side and shifted his balance, watching Klöss's practice blade sail past him ineffectually. His shield swung with the blade and caught the back of Klöss's arm, adding to his momentum as he shoved him almost completely around, before planting his foot and shoving hard. Klöss went sprawling to the floor, his sword flying from his grasp, while Verig laughed with a harsh, mocking snigger.

  “Again!” the small man ordered, as Klöss clambered back to his feet and snatched up the practice blade.

  He shifted back into his stance. It had felt awkward and strange when he'd first been taught it, three weeks ago. His legs had felt like rubber after training. He was beginning to become accustomed to it now, or maybe he was just used to the pain. It was doubtful he would ever feel as comfortable in the stance as Verig obviously did.

  He began a patterned step, moving around Verig to the right, his sword held ready in a defensive posture. Let the small man come to him. He was sick of attacking, only to find empty air. He watched the Master's shoulders and upper torso for clues to his movements, trying not to focus on any particular area. Verig, for his part, seemed to be in no hurry and stood, relaxed in the same stance, shifting slightly now and then to stay facing Klöss but making no move to attack.

  He clenched his teeth and tried to force himself to be p
atient but the strain of keeping his sword at guard position and maintaining his stance was growing and his muscles were aching from the abuse of standing in the odd position.

  It was very slight, just a tightening of the eyes and a minute shifting of the shoulders as Verig shifted his weight, but it was enough. Klöss stepped to the side, away from the expected thrust. His shield was turned to deflect the thrust at an angle which would allow the sword to scrape along it, diverting rather than blocking the stroke. He waited to feel the impact on the face of the shield and then Klöss turned and thrust hard. The series of moves was intended to leave an attacker off balance and overextended, at which point it would be simple to thrust into the side of the body or the neck. He had performed the manoeuvre perfectly, but Verig simply wasn't where he should be. Klöss gasped as his sword met with no resistance and desperately tried to recover from his lunge, as he saw Verig uncoil like a striking snake in the corner of his vision.

  Verig attacked. Once, twice, three times the blade caught Klöss, hitting his arm, back and finally a resounding blow to the helm, making it ring like a bell and dropping him to his knees.

  “NEVER, over-extend lad. You put that much force into your blow and you can't recover from it. You as good as threw yourself onto my sword then!”

  Klöss dropped his wooden sword and pulled his helmet off with trembling fingers. Turning, he looked at the man with something very close to hatred.

  “It was a good attempt, but you need to anticipate a feint too. You threw yourself into it and didn't take the time to see what was really going on.” Verig continued.

  Klöss blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried to fight back his frustration as he rose to one knee.

  “Get up, you useless sack of piss!” the man spat at him at his temper frayed. “What are you going to do? Cry?”

  Klöss pulled himself to his feet and waited for the Master to dismiss him. It had been like this almost since the training started. Verig had seemed friendly enough during the initial training for the trials, but now that he and the others were training in earnest, he treated them with contempt. Klöss seemed to fare worse than most, as if Verig had some reason for singling him out. He seemed to dole out seven hands of abuse with every hand of actual training.