The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Are we having fun, Klöss?” The oarsmaster stood on the decking beside him, scowling down. Klöss felt the grin falling from his face like hail from the skies, as he heaved back hard on the oars again.

  “If this is too easy for you, I'm sure a couple of the lads would be happy to take a break,” the big man suggested, as he knelt and thrust his angry face at him.

  “No, sir,” Klöss gasped between strokes, fighting the urge to adjust his grip again.

  “What do you think, Tristan?” the oarsmaster shouted back over one shoulder to the big man at the rear of the reaver. “Klöss is finding this all too easy. Do you want to take a break?”

  “No, sir,” Tristan called back.

  “And why is that, lad?”

  “I want to win, Oarsmaster. We need him,” Tristan called.

  “That's right! You all need him to win this. And we are going to win this, Klöss. So stop pissing about and grinning like a girl who's found her mother's brandy, and damned well ROW!”

  “Yes, Oarsmaster,” Klöss shouted and pulled hard at the oars, feeling the blister burst as he did so.

  After ten minutes, his muscles burned and his hand stung from the seawater in the blister. After thirty minutes his shoulders and back were just a mass of pain. The aching no longer altered, whether he was straining back against the oar or moving forward to set for another stroke. Blood dripped slowly from his hand and he sought a quiet place inside himself.

  The wind was picking up and it caught the top of the waves in the choppy waters, blasting spray over the oarsmen as they rowed. They were approaching the turn and the oarsmaster called out instructions over the wind. As they passed the rocky outcrop that marked the far point of Harbour Island, the men on the left of the reaver stopped rowing and quickly shipped their oars. The reaver swung sluggishly into the turn and after a barely a minute, two men began rowing again at the oarsmaster's signal, before the boat lost too much speed.

  He strained as he tried to keep to the drummer's rhythm, but his grip was ruined. The ridge on the oar had worn away at his skin and no amount of adjusting his grip had helped. He tried putting more of the strain on his other hand but it made it too hard to keep to the rhythm. With half of the oarsmen waiting for the turn to end, his oar mattered more than ever and he knew he wasn't pulling his weight.

  He could almost feel the black looks coming from beside him and behind him, as the other oarsmen felt the extra load and noticed him slipping off the stroke. With the turn complete, he stole a glance at the other reaver as it finished its own turn. Their turn was far tighter, he noticed, as the other boat had two oarsmen on the inside of the turn rowing backwards. It was an awkward thing to attempt. The seats would not allow for a man to brace himself properly and so the oarsmen lacked the power they would normally have. For all that, though, the tactic seemed to work and the other reaver turned far inside of them, gaining maybe three boat lengths on them.

  Klöss cursed just a fraction of a second before he heard the oarsmaster stood slightly behind him mutter, “Why that crafty bastard!” and turn to the drummer.

  “Right you lot,” the oarsmaster called out. “We are not going to be beaten today. I've beaten that whoremonger the last four times and his fancy tricks are not going to change that. I want everything you have now.” The drum beat increased and men bent their backs to the task, as the wind lashed them with spray.

  “Come on, you Dernish scow. Move!” he roared at the uncaring planks beneath his feet, and darted forwards to stand in the prow, as if he could speed the reaver by force of will alone. He stormed and raged on the decks like a man possessed, laying about with both lash and curse. The trainees and true oarsmen bent their backs to the work and sweat ran freely, as the Shipmaster looked over the crew impassively.

  After the final turn, with the docks in sight, Klöss was past the pain. It felt like the oar had cut clear through to the bone on the inside of his knuckle, but he was more afraid of what the oarsmaster might do if they lost the race than he was of his finger falling off at this point. They had closed the distance, though the gods only knew how, and they weren't telling. The lead reaver was a scant handful of yards away, and the oarsmaster stood in the prow hurling abuse and curses at both his own men and the other reaver's crew with equal ferocity. As they came to the final ten yards, Klöss glanced across and saw Dallan watching him openly as he rowed. He risked the wrath of his own oarsmaster to wiggle his fingers at him in an insolent wave and then they passed the buoy and it was over.

  Klöss prised his hand from the oar with some effort, and examined the mass of raw and bleeding flesh under his knuckle.

  “Has he got a little blister, then?” The oarsmaster sneered down at him. “I don't know how you got it with that piss-poor performance. Your stroke was all over the place. I've seen fishermen's daughters row harder than you just did.”

  Klöss opened his mouth to protest, but the man thrust a hand in front of his face. “Don't,” he advised. “I don't want to hear your excuses. Just get your idle self out of my oarpit!”

  There wasn't much he could say to that, so he grabbed his sword and shield from the rack beside his bench and made his way out to the dock. There was a brief congratulation for the crew of the other reaver but Klöss wasn't paying attention. He watched, disinterestedly, as the dock crews secured the boats with massive hawsers, and then, dismissed, he walked dejectedly back to the small compound that housed the school.

  “Nice work on the turn there, Klöss,” Dallan called mockingly from behind him. “Is keeping to a drumbeat too complex for you? Or this all just too much for you?” Klöss ignored him and carried on walking.

  “I heard you got a little blister and that's why you couldn't row. Your precious rich-boy hands too soft for real work? Is that it?”

  Klöss ignored him and the chorus of sniggers and laughter that accompanied the digs. Dallan was growing in popularity and seemed determined to make his life miserable.

  “Leave him, Dallan,” Tristan's deep voice rumbled.

  “What's it to you?” Dallan turned to face the big man, a feral look on his face and his hand clenching and unclenching, seemingly of its own volition. “He doesn't belong here. You know that. He's barely good enough for a hauler!”

  “If that's true, then surely you want him here?” Tristan said calmly. “Some will be chosen for hauler crews. If he leaves, then does this not increase the chance it is you?”

  Dallan grinned as he met the big man's eyes. “I like the way you think!” He turned to Henrick, who stood with a smile on his fat, pig-eyed face. “Come on, let's go and make some work for our scullion here!” and he set off, whistling happily.

  Tristan caught up with Klöss with no real effort. The big man's strides were half again the length of his own on a good day and Klöss was in no hurry. “You are not as strong as some, Klöss, but I do not understand this?” he said in his thick Far Islanders accent.

  Klöss held out his hand to Tristan by way of answer, exposing the raw flesh on his hand.

  “That is nasty, but how did you come by it? Not from just rowing?” Tristan shook his head.

  “There was something on my oar, a ridge in the wood,” Klöss explained slowly.

  “How could this be?” Tristan asked. “The oars have been used for many years. They are all smooth.”

  “He waved at me,” Klöss said, half to himself, as his feet first slowed and then stopped.

  “What?” replied Tristan, perplexed, as he halted beside him. “Who? And why are we talking about this?”

  “Damn him to hell. The damned sawdust!” Klöss spat at his feet, as if something foul had filled his mouth.

  “You are making no sense, Klöss. What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded with frustration.

  “When I got onto the reaver, there was sawdust on my bench. Not much, but just a few shavings of wood,” Klöss explained.

  “And what? The boat is made of wood. Some worker had probably been repairing the bench or
something,” Tristan argued.

  “No! You aren't seeing it,” Klöss said in frustration.

  “Because you are not explaining it!” cried Tristan in equal frustration.

  “When we were racing, I saw Dallan wave at me,” Klöss explained. Tristan nodded and motioned with his big hands for him to carry on. “You felt how hard it was to move the reaver, how heavy the boat was? It took all of our efforts to get the thing going, didn't it? Why would you take the time to wave at someone on the other reaver? Especially someone you hate,” Klöss said, his face animated as he spoke.

  “It does seem odd,” Tristan admitted, confusion clouding his face.

  “It's more than odd, it's bloody stupid,” insisted Klöss. “We were close. Really close! Would you have risked the oarsmaster seeing you take a hand off to wave? No, of course you wouldn't. He wasn't even waving normally, he was wiggling his fingers at me, like a little girl would. No, now I think about it, he was making a point. His fingers were working fine. He knew! He damn well did it!”

  “What are you suggesting? That Dallan sneaked out, got to the reaver and carved up your oar?” Tristan asked doubtfully. “How would he know where you sat? Or which oar? Or even which reaver?”

  “I still think he did it.” Klöss shook his head. “Somehow he knew.”

  “And how do you know it was not just a rough patch on the oar?” Tristan asked. “It is a big thing you suggest. A serious thing.”

  “It was more than that. Anyway, what about the wood shavings? It's all too convenient,” Klöss insisted. Tristan shook his head doubtfully, clearly not convinced.

  “Look, come and look at the oar yourself.” Klöss said as inspiration struck him.

  “We are expected back at the school. We are late as it is,” Tristan objected.

  “Tomorrow then?” Klöss pleaded. “Early, before training?”

  “I suppose,” Tristan agreed and turned towards the school. Klöss walked slowly behind him, silently seething as he stared at his hand.

  The mess hall was quiet by the time Klöss made his way to it. His freshly bandaged hand felt strange and now the race was finished and he'd had time to calm down, the pain was intense. He made his way into the room and found it empty except for Tristan who was scraping away at the inside of the pot with a long wooden tool. He turned at the sound of Klöss's footsteps and glowered at him before turning back to the pot.

  “Why?” Klöss floundered. “I mean, I'm the last one here. I've not even eaten yet. Why are you stuck with this?”

  “Your hand,” Tristan muttered. “You are not to get it wet, they said. So I get the pot, as I was the last to eat before you.”

  “But that's not fair!” Klöss objected.

  Tristan shrugged. “Fair or not, it is what was decided.”

  “Well, let me help you with it at least.”

  “You can't,” Tristan said flatly. “Your bandage. You must not get it wet.”

  “I don't care about the bandage,” Klöss said, his temper rising. “I'm not going to stand here and let you scrape out the pot just because I hurt my hand.”

  “No,” Tristan replied flatly. “We will need your hand for group training. You must not get it wet.”

  “Oh,” said Klöss in a small voice. “I'm sorry. I didn't understand.”

  “Sometimes speaking your language is not so simple for me,” Tristan explained.

  “You don't speak Islik on the Far Isles?”

  “Yes, we do,” explained Tristan. “It is just older there, purer. Islik is much changed over the years. It is not so similar now.” He turned back to the pot and handed Klöss a wooden bowl with some cold potato soup and a heel of bread. “I save this for you.”

  Klöss nodded his thanks and began to spoon down the soup. It wasn't bad, despite being cold.

  ***

  He awoke in a panic as a hand closed over his mouth. Kicking and thrashing out wildly, he felt his foot connect hard and was rewarded with a muffled grunt of pain.

  “Is me, you stupid man,” grunted Tristan in the dark. “You wanted we should look at the oars, yes?”

  Klöss nodded in the darkness, before realising how stupid that was. “Yes. Sorry.” He threw his clothes on and they left as silently as they could, picking their way between the bunks.

  The streets of Hesk were dark and a light drizzle misted down from the still, black sky, as they warily crept out of the doors to the school. The courtyard was deserted and the heavy, tar-smeared gates were barred shut against the night. Klöss spun around in a slow circle and then turned to face Tristan in the dark.

  “I never really even looked at this place in the daytime,” he admitted in a whisper. “How are we going to get out?”

  Tristan sighed, and motioned for Klöss to follow him, as he trotted between two buildings towards the tall stone walls surrounding the courtyard. He stopped in the darker shadows of the wall where it passed behind one of the storehouses. “Climb here,” the big man whispered, gesturing to the old stone wall. Klöss turned to examine the wall and reached up for a hand-hold. The wall was made of huge limestone blocks, set close together and well-mortared. His hand scrabbled vainly for purchase until he heard Tristan's despairing sigh again.

  “Not like that. Here, watch.” He planted his feet firmly against the wall of the storehouse and braced his back against the courtyard wall, working his way up the wall with small steps and then shifting his back. Klöss grinned and followed.

  They climbed down the other side of the wall using a worn rope that Tristan pulled from over one shoulder, and then made their way quietly through the pre-dawn murk towards the docks. Hesk was a different city at this time of night. Usually, the place was alive with the sounds of the street hawkers and the bustle of city life. Now the streets were almost silent, the only noise the faint hiss of the rain on the slate rooftops and a dog somewhere, barking at the night.

  The docks were not far away and the two made their way through the alleyways easily. There was no need for concealment, as nobody would have been able to see them in the darkness. The torches and lanterns had long been snuffed or allowed to burn out, and the city was wreathed in an almost inky blackness, the starlight held back by a heavy blanket of clouds.

  The reavers were still tied up at the school's docks. Usually the docks stood empty, reaving boats were simply too valuable to leave unused. They were borrowed, when available, from the various Seamasters and Shipmasters who used the schools to train their own crews.

  Klöss crouched down in the shadows of a building, noticing that the skies were starting to lighten. They wouldn't have much time. The boats appeared to be unguarded, which was an odd but happy turn of events. Motioning Tristan to follow, he moved quickly and silently to the first reaver. It was hard to tell which was which in the dark.

  “You check this one, I'll go to the other,” he whispered to Tristan, gesturing at the closest reaver. “Check the oar on the left-hand side, six rows back.” Tristan nodded and bent to shift the heavy gangplank into place from where it lay on the dock.

  The planks were heavy and it was hard work to move them alone. Klöss eventually managed his and it locked into place with a heavy thud. He stepped across it easily and onto the gently swaying reaver, moving swiftly back past the rows of benches. As he stepped down into the oarpit, a soft noise suddenly froze him. Any noise sounds deafening in the night and Klöss was impressed he hadn't jumped and made noise himself. As it was he crouched by the bench, his heart pounding as he strained his ears. Being caught out of the school would be bad enough, but being caught on the reaver would raise questions he couldn't yet answer.

  Slowly Klöss raised his head so he could see over the side of the boat. Dawn was fast approaching. He could make out the docks easily, but there was no sign of movement, or of Tristan. He sank back into a crouch and turned to examine the oar. It was drawn in and lashed to the bench, the blade protruding two or three feet out the side of the boat. The handle extended through the oarpit and the support
s of the wooden deckway that ran the length of the ship.

  Klöss worked the ropes holding it in place and began to slide the oar slowly out. He worked quickly but as quietly as he could, extending the oar out and feeling for the sharp, ridged section. He winced at the soft scraping noise the oar made and searched frantically with his fingertips as he went. Finally, he conceded he must be on the wrong reaver. This oar was as smooth as a river stone. He swore under his breath and began to move the oar back into its stored position, before moving down the gangplank and shifting it back onto the docks.

  The docks were silent but faint noises were now coming from the city, as people began to rise and begin their day. He moved quickly over to the other reaver, searching for Tristan but the big man was nowhere in sight. Klöss went to the gangplank and stepped silently aboard.

  “Did you find it?” he called softly.

  “No, he didn't,” a voice said from behind him. Klöss spun like a startled cat. Verig stood on the end of the gangplank, and he did not look amused.

  “Can you tell me, young Klöss, why you have snuck out of the school and crept about this reaver in the middle of the night?” The man's eyes were black holes in the darkness but the greater darkness was in his voice. An anger lurked there, like a great sleeping wolf, and Klöss felt as if he had just jabbed it with a pointed stick.

  An hour later, Klöss sat waiting on his bunk in the school. The room was empty, the other trainees having already eaten and gone to train, and the silence only seemed to make the wait worse. He'd not had a chance to speak to Tristan, as Verig marched them back to the school and through the now unbarred gates. Verig had insisted on silence and cut off his explanations, saying only that the seamaster would speak to them himself.

  Klöss was more than a little worried. Some children and nephews would consider it a reprieve to be dealt with by their uncle, but he knew he faced serious repercussions. Frostbeard had not wanted to sponsor him when he'd first sought him out, almost a year ago. It had taken several months of long conversations and blatant pleading to even get him to consider the idea. Since taking the trials, and then finally admitting he had done so to his father, Klöss had avoided his uncle as much as possible.