The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Go on. I'm done with you.” Verig said. He spat at Klöss's feet and walked away without another word.

  Klöss bent to retrieve his practice blade as his legs trembled, sweat running down his face. He made his way to the water barrel at the side of the training room, and drank down three quick cups as fast as he could dip them out. Verig had yet to break more than a light sweat in their sessions, and had never yet gone near the water. Klöss had no idea how he managed it. The room was low-ceilinged, and lit with reflective lamps and torches. They served to make it hotter, yet somehow didn't seem to really shed enough light. Training was hard enough, without doing it in flickering torchlight that threw dancing shadows around the room. The shadows could make you think your opponent was moving when he wasn't. Klöss couldn't think of a worse place to learn to fight. Perhaps that was the point.

  He wiped down the wooden blade with a soft linen cloth, and placed it back in the rack of weapons lining the wall. As he headed out of the doorway, he felt Verig's eyes burning into his back. Twenty minutes later, he was stripped out of his leathers and making his way into the mess. The room was only half-full, with most having already finished their meals. Of the fifteen who had won their trials with him in Frostbeard's reavers, only four were still eating. The remainder sat at the long trestle tables, talking and laughing loudly. The sound served to make Klöss even more bitter as he made his way to the pot. The stew was mostly gone and what remained at the bottom had congealed into an unappetising paste. He took up the long-handled ladle and scraped at the pot, trying to gather up the most identifiable parts. The stew had been left over the fire once it was cooked and had stuck and burnt at the bottom. Klöss grunted sourly as he filled his wooden bowl and moved over to the tables.

  “No room,” muttered Henrick, as he shovelled stew into his bearded face.

  Klöss looked at the almost empty bench. The fat man had thick, hard muscle under the rolls of flab and the soul of a bully. There was no point arguing with him. Klöss found and sat at an empty table.

  He wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting. The training before the trials had all been good-natured, and the teams of men had worked well together. Back then of course, they had been working for a common goal. Whilst the final race around the island didn't guarantee acceptance, it didn't hurt and they had all known that. Klöss had been as useful as the next man and there had been no real competition between them. Now, things were different. Not everyone who made it through the schools would be chosen to work the reaving boats. Haulers, the huge warehouses of the seas that served to transport the goods reaped on the raids, needed crews too and the job was not a desirable one.

  “Kept late again, Klöss?” Dallan called. “What were you doing this time? Holding the wrong end of the sword?” His jibe was met with scattered laughter, but there was a nervous tinge to it too. Since Klöss had started training three weeks ago, Dallan had dispensed his special brand of misery to almost all of the new recruits at one point or another. He now seemed to have settled on Klöss as his next target. It was odd, as Dallan was not an especially large man. He was perhaps four years older than Klöss, but then so were most of the other trainees. His dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders and his deep-set green eyes glittered as he watched Klöss take his seat.

  Klöss knew better than to rise to it and sat on the plain bench as he began to force the stew down. He grimaced as he chewed but managed to swallow it down and take another spoonful. He knew from experience that the first bite was the worst. Your taste buds tended to run and hide after the first mouthful. This was the fifth time Klöss had been one of the last to the pot and this was not the worst it had tasted.

  He looked around the room, quickly counting heads, and swore quietly as he realised he was the last to eat. This meant the task of cleaning out the huge pot would be his. It was an effective form of punishment. Those not pleasing their trainers would be kept later and later, ensuring that they not only ate the worst of the food, but also faced the task of cleaning the pot out. As the pot was essentially a huge cauldron this was not a small job. It would take a couple of hours to clean it properly which meant he would miss more training. It was one of the first things they had been taught. They were provided food, but were responsible for cooking it themselves and clearing up. No training would be given to the last man to eat until the pot was clean. Klöss forced the last greasy mouthful down his throat and then made his way over to the pot to begin the miserable task.

  He grabbed the long-handled ladle and started scooping out the grisly remnants into a large leather bucket. The pot sides rang with a rasping note as he worked, so he didn't hear anyone approach until the bowl clattered into the pot, spraying stew and half-congealed gravy over his face.

  Klöss swore and jumped back from the pot, as the room filled with laughter again. He turned to see Dallan, flanked by Henrick and another smaller man that he'd never caught the name of.

  “Surprised a rich boy like you knows how to clean a pot, Klöss.” Dallan smirked as he looked him up and down. “Let's hope you make a better scullion than you do a swordsman, hey?”

  Klöss felt his jaw clench as he dug his nails painfully into his palms. “Don't you have anything better to do, Dallan?”

  “Why yes, scullion, I do.” The green eyes glittered. “I came here to train. Not just to clean the pots. We're not all destined for the hauler.” He threw a grin over one shoulder to his two companions before turning back, his face suddenly serious and full of mocking concern.

  “Listen, Klöss, let me give you some advice. You don't belong here. You're here because you have a famous uncle and that's it. You better leave before you get hurt. It's not a game and it's not all about cleaning pots, you know?” He laughed at his own joke, pushing past Klöss roughly as he headed for the doorway.

  Klöss muttered, picking bits of stew from his clothing as a half-dozen witty comebacks came to mind too late. He turned back to the pot and began scraping again.

  “Do not let him get to you.” The quiet voice came from behind him. Klöss looked over his shoulder to see the huge Tristan looming over him. Mostly silent and keeping to himself, Klöss was not sure what to make of the quiet man. He had a thick accent from the Far Islands and had clearly made his way to Bresda just to train in the schools. “Thanks,” he smiled “I…”

  “He speaks truth about one thing though.” The big man cut him off. “You do not belong here.”

  Klöss gaped but Tristan was already walking away. He shook his head and turned back to the pot.

  The schools worked to rebuild a man from the ground up. Trainees were isolated from their families and lived inside the schools themselves, with only one day every two months to visit. Even this visit must be earned and it was not unheard of for a student to go six months or more without seeing his family.

  The oarsman's role was far more than simply rowing a ship through the waves. An oarsman must be warrior, scout, lookout and guard. When the ships landed, it was the oarsmen who were first through the surf with shield and sword. It was the oarsmen who would fight the villagers who tried to defend their stores. And it was the oarsmen who would help load up the larger hauler ships with the plunder from the raids.

  Klöss knew that he would need to prove himself quickly, as it was only once the school's training was complete that it would be decided whether an oarsman was destined for a reaving boat or a hauler. Crewing a hauler was said to be no dishonour but it was not viewed in the same way as working on the reaving boats and, to Klöss's mind, it was little better than driving a cart. If he had to scrape the pot out every night for six months, he was determined to avoid the hauler.

  ***

  He woke as the sound of snoring filled the long room mingling with the soft noise of bodies shifting in their sleep. It was still dark and the skies, just visible through the small window, had yet to shift from the inky hue of true night. He shivered in his narrow wooden bunk and pulled the rough woollen blanket more tightly around himself
as he tried to identify what had woken him.

  The days had settled into a rhythm of weapons training and gruelling physical conditioning which seemed designed to both train the muscles and also cause the maximum discomfort. Yesterday had begun at the crack of dawn when they were awoken and broken into teams of four before being sent on a five mile run carrying long wooden canoes. The boats were large enough to hold five men and were not overly heavy for their size, but they were bulky and unwieldy. By the end of the first mile, all of the men with Klöss were sweating and breathing hard. By the end of the fifth mile, they could barely walk and the upturned canoe dug into their shoulders with every step. They'd come in dead last and the others had all blamed him. He had washed the pot again that night.

  He lay in the darkness for a time, but sleep would not come. As the first hint of light began to tint the skies through the tiny window he gave up and dressed silently in the gloom. Carrying his boots, he padded to the doorway and left his bunk-mates to their snores.

  He made his way to the mess and made a large pot of porridge, eating it quickly and quietly in the empty room. Despite the fact that he had not a single friend among the trainees, the mess felt strange. Klöss dumped his bowl and spoon into water to soak and made his way through the halls to the training room.

  The schools had been established for centuries as a place for the initial training of those joining the ships. Every Shipmaster could use them, although some chose to take a different approach and simply train their new recruits on the ships themselves. Frostbeard was one of the few Seamasters who insisted that everyone who served aboard his ships had worked through the school. There were several of them dotted about the islands, small camps keeping crews separate from each other and only working together occasionally to aid training.

  He went to the racks of weapons against the wall and took out a simple steel sword, marvelling at the difference in the weight between it and the wooden swords they had been training with. Glancing around guiltily he replaced the weapon before drawing out the same wooden weapon he had held yesterday.

  Moving slowly, Klöss went through a series of stretches to limber up his still waking muscles, before moving through a series of sword strikes and blocks. He did not grunt or posture. He worked slowly making the exercise appear more of a dance than anything else, but moving with glacial slowness. Finally, satisfied with the movements he slowly increased the speed, moving from stroke to stroke, from thrust to strike to block. The sword whistled through the air and sweat began to drip from his face.

  A noise behind him caused him to spin in shock and his sword flew from startled fingers to clatter noisily against the wall. Verig raised an eyebrow and then made his way past him without a word to retrieve his own weapon from the racks.

  “I didn't expect anyone to be up,” Klöss stammered. “I hope I didn't wake you?” Verig ignored him as if he hadn't spoken, and began to work through his own series of stretches and exercises.

  Klöss looked at the small man in shock. It is one thing to ignore somebody when in a group. To do so when you are alone together is something quite different, and it bit more deeply than any of the foolish stunts the other trainees had tried in the past few weeks.

  Verig continued to ignore him and worked his way through the same series of thrusts, strikes, and blocks as Klöss had. There was a smoothness to the movements that had been lacking with Klöss. Where Verig moved flawlessly from one stroke to another, Klöss had paused. It was more than that though. It was a thousand tiny details. It showed in his balance and the set of his feet, in the line of his shoulders and the snap he put at the end of each stroke. Klöss watched as Verig moved faster and faster until the blade became a whirling curtain of steel, before finishing without flourish or fanfare. Klöss found his heart pounding as Verig turned to face him.

  The small man pointed at the ground next to him. A short stabbing motion with one thick digit. “Again.”

  Two hours later, Klöss sat in the mess, eating another bowl of porridge. He was covered in a thick sweat and his limbs trembled visibly. A light filled his eyes, however, and a grin sprang to his lips between every mouthful. He had vaguely registered the morning gong strike a few minutes ago and trainees were beginning to file into the mess. Some few showed surprise to find the fire lit and porridge steaming but none offered a word of thanks, although Tristan seemed to give him a slight nod as he came in.

  “Right lads,” came a deep, rumbling voice from the doorway. Klöss looked up from his bowl to see Christoph standing with a vicious grin on his face. “Who's up for a little race this morning?” the Shipmaster asked, with deceptive light-heartedness. The hall erupted with a chorus of groans as the trainees grasped his meaning. They had been informed the night before that a reaver would be at the docks for them the next day. There had been no mention of a race though, and they'd all hoped it would simply be working the ship with full crew.

  “Eat up and get to the docks. You have one hour.” Christoph smiled thinly. “Oh and let's make it full kit boys.” He smirked at the groans, and then was gone.

  A race meant working in an undermanned ship. They'd done it on the first day of training. Manoeuvring the huge reaver was hard enough with a full crew, but the Masters split the trainees into two teams, with four seasoned oarsmen with them, just in case things got completely out of hand. In any event, even the smallest reaver held a rowing crew of thirty. Whilst they might be able to move the thing with a crew of ten, it was agonisingly slow and brutal labour. Klöss knew they were trying to get them to work together whilst training their bodies, but this was slim comfort.

  He stood and looked around, as the trainees shovelled porridge into themselves. Making his way to the kitchen area, he quickly scrubbed out his bowl. He turned just in time to see Dallan scooping out the last of the porridge. Klöss smiled at him and nodded meaningfully at the pot as he walked past the man whistling cheerfully as Dallan stared daggers into his back.

  An hour passes very quickly when you have things to do and Klöss soon found himself on the docks, in his stiff leathers, awkwardly trying to juggle sword and shield, whilst boarding the narrow reaver. The wind whipped at the quay and the harbour water was choppy, despite the high cliffs and the Harbour Island opposite. Klöss struggled onto the pitching boat and made his way to his seat. He secured his sword and shield in one of the racks built into the edge of each bench in the oarpit. Brushing away the wood shavings from his seat, he took his place quickly and looked to the oarsmaster.

  The boat rocked gently and strained against the hawsers as more of the trainees climbed aboard. The true oarsmen were easy to spot, their leathers older and scarred thrice over from weather and battles. It was more than just their leathers however, it was the simple way they carried themselves with a casual arrogance, a sureness of purpose. Klöss watched them openly, as awestruck as an eight-year-old watching a juggler with knives.

  The Shipmasters chatted idly on the quay, clearly in no particular hurry, as the crews manned the two reavers. The oarsmaster on each boat moved slowly from bow to stern, checking crew and vessel with equal diligence. Finally, the Shipmasters clasped hands formally and stepped aboard. Hawsers were loosed and the two boats moved off slowly towards the narrow channel on the right side of the harbour.

  The ship moved ponderously, unlike the sleek creature she had been designed to be. She seemed sluggish to Klöss and the oar felt strange in his hands. The two reavers moved slowly towards the channel and took up positions fifty feet apart, level with a large red buoy. He adjusted his grip on the oar. It was already rubbing at one of his fingers. He glanced across at the other reaver and saw Dallan watching him with a broad grin. The other man waved at him, smiling.

  “Okay, lads, we're going for a nice little row around the Harbour Island this morning,” the oarsmaster called out. “It's only a little hop, so there'll be no sails. Oh, and you'll be steering by oar too. Stand ready!”

  Klöss grasped his oar tightly as he looked across the
water at the other reaver. The other oarsmaster stood on the decking between the two oarpits on his reaver, a red flag held high. He looked over at Klöss's boat, catching the eye of the oarsmaster, then nodded and dropped the flag.

  “Stroke!” the oarsmaster roared. Klöss hauled back hard on his oar, bracing his feet on the wooden panel in front of him. The drummer started up a slow rhythm and Klöss fought to keep in time with it.

  The oarsmen were spread evenly throughout the boat, with three empty benches between each of them. The oarsmaster stood high in the prow with the Shipmaster, looking back over the boat, and the drummer sat below them on the decking. Normally, the Steersman would have stood in the stern and followed the dictates of the Shipmaster, but today the rudder was locked and the navigation would be up to the oarsmen themselves.

  Klöss heaved back and tried to adjust his grip on the oar again. Normally, the oars were as smooth as glass, having been crafted smooth and then polished by a thousand hours of hands straining at them. This one, however, seemed to have a nasty little ridge that caught just under the knuckle of his middle finger. It was a small thing, but even after a scant five minutes of rowing, he could feel a blister forming.

  They were moving agonisingly slowly through the harbour, ten men were simply not enough to drive it forward at the speed it was designed for, and it pitched and wallowed through the waves. Klöss glanced across at the other boat but they were both moving so slowly it was hard to see if either had lost or gained. He strained at the oars, fighting to contain a hysterical giggle as the image of the snail races he had played as a child came to his mind.