The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  He was lost in the rhythm of the drum, working at a steady but gruelling pace, when the watchmen at one of the archer's platforms screamed out, “Sea Mountain!! Starboard!”

  The response was immediate as the oarsmaster yelled, “Stern-stroke!” ordering every oarsman to row backwards as best he could. Klöss stood up on his bench and turned around as fast as he could, bracing his feet on the bench now in front of him rather than the brace-board, and hauling back on the oar. The drumbeat slowed to allow for the unnatural stroke and the galley reaver shuddered as it slowed. Men dashed to the stern and began shouting to the other reavers, whilst a red flag was hoisted. The sailmen worked desperately to furl the frozen sails, moving as fast as they dared to without cracking the canvas.

  Klöss struggled with the unnatural stroke, pulling as hard as he could, but he didn't have the space to lean fully into it or anything to truly brace himself against. He felt them slow and then he saw it. A colossal white mountain, moving with the current and heading directly for the reaver.

  “Port side! Double-man!” the oarsmaster screamed. Klöss turned back to the normal position, shifting over as far as he could to allow room for the other oarsman to sit beside him. The drumbeat increased and they worked together, straining with all their might against the oar. Sweat, born of equal parts labour and terror, ran down Klöss's face and joined the frost in his beard. The mountain moved closer and closer, made even more terrifying by the total silence.

  “What is it?” he muttered, half to himself, as they worked to turn the reaver.

  “Ice!” His partner said shortly. “A damned mountain of ice.”

  The icy behemoth drifted silently past them. Less than two oar lengths lay between Klöss and the icy cliffs, and he found himself holding his breath. They backed off another fifty feet and then sat, silent as the iceberg slowly drifted into the mist.

  The days passed slowly but, at the same time, shifts would fly past when the call to stern-stroke came through. Klöss learned that crossing the Vorstelv was a gamble. It had to be tackled at breakneck speed, before the men succumbed to frostbite or the sails and lines perished in the cold. At the same time, utmost caution and alertness was required to watch for sea ice.

  It was with a combination of relief and exhaustion that Klöss collapsed over his oar as the call came out that they had cleared the Vorstelv, and made their way into warmer waters. From the corners of his eyes he could see other oarsmen doing the same thing, but at that point he wouldn't have cared if he were the only one. They travelled on for another hour. Then all oars were shipped, the sea anchors dropped and the men sent to their hammocks, with only a skeleton watch left on deck.

  After only two days beyond the Vorstelv, the trip transformed back into boring drudgery. Klöss learned two things during his three weeks at sea. Firstly, that gambling with someone who has a strong accent is never a good idea. It's almost impossible to tell when they are bluffing. Secondly, that the galley reavers whilst huge, seemed to shrink each day and it was never possible to find time alone. Klöss was not overly solitary by nature, but he was not popular in the training school. Dallan might have eased off a little, with his sick little games, but a week did not go by without some form of dig or petty attack. Klöss had taken to training early in the morning to gain some respite. The exercise was a good way to hone his skills and also to vent frustration. He was denied this on the ship, and there was always someone awake. A sleeping ship is a sunken ship.

  The land began as the faintest smudge on the horizon. For a good hour, Klöss was convinced that it was a cloud bank, though Tristan was insistent that it was land. Then the smudge slowly grew features: a cliff face, tiny trees and surf. All hands were at oar. The reavers had to close with the shore as quickly as possible, to allow the canoe-like longboats to be lowered and men put ashore. The haulers would stay at anchor in the deep water, protected by the reavers once they had unloaded all but a defensive crew.

  He glanced at his sword, shield and helm again, despite the fact he had checked they were there three times already. He could see the land clearly now. It was lush and green, and a yellow sand beach awaited them. It was markedly different to the Barren Isles. The only sand there was coarse and dark, and what few trees did grow tended to be tall pines. He could see broader, bushy trees here, unlike anything he'd ever seen at home. A large fire burned on a clifftop next to the bay they were about to enter, but for what purpose, Klöss could only guess.

  The oarsmaster called out orders and Klöss shipped his oar, pulling it into the reaver and lashing it tightly to the bench as he'd been taught. He grabbed up his sword and shield, and set the helm on his head before stepping up onto the deck and lining up with the others.

  The canoe-like longboat felt tiny after being on the massive reaver, and it pitched and bobbed alarmingly as they paddled madly through the surf. It was with no small sense of relief that Klöss felt the sand crunch against the bottom of the boat. He leapt out, grabbing the side and hauling it up onto the beach out of the reach of the tide, before drawing his sword and looking around for Verig. The fire on the cliff was belching great clouds of white smoke. Green wood, he surmised.

  He stood with the others as Verig explained that the village was less than an hour away by foot. They were to be split into three groups, the smallest of which would proceed to the village, whilst the larger groups would be sent with felling crews from the haulers to harvest trees or left to defend the boats. Klöss glanced behind him to see a number of longboats making for the shore from the haulers with the felling crews.

  The raiders were swiftly split into the three groups with all of the trainees in the group making for the village. Supplemented by experienced reaving crews, they numbered sixty men in all. Verig split them again, into groups of fifteen. The felling crews from the hauler were landing and the escort crews were already making their way over to them. With one last look at the galley reavers and haulers sitting at anchor, Klöss followed Verig and his team into the trees.

  Klöss had spent all of his life in Hesk and so had only a very limited experience of anything outside the city. The Barren Isles were rocky and what limited green space there was tended to be dominated by farms. There were very few trees on the islands at all, and he found being surrounded by so many to be awe-inspiring and a little unnerving. They stretched up to fill the skies, their leaves creating dancing shadows as the sunlight filtered through the canopy. He found it was also almost impossible to be stealthy, and they crunched and cracked as they snapped twigs and crushed fallen leaves underfoot.

  Verig's path took them through the woods and then up a steep incline, to skirt around the edge of the village. Through the gaps in the tree-line, Klöss could make out a small farming community of perhaps two hundred souls, with a small river meandering its way past a watermill. A number of houses dotted the area and Klöss could see three or four farms scattered about the village. Verig motioned the team close and sank down to his haunches in the ferns.

  “Listen up, then,” he began, in a low voice that carried no further than the trees. “You can see how small this place is, but that's no reason to get cocky. Stay close to each other and remember your training.” He brushed a clear space in the dirt and scratched at it with a stick. “We're all going to come in at once, from these four directions. I don't expect much resistance. These are farmers, not warriors. If they surrender, that's fine but if not, well...” He shrugged. “We're here for lumber and food this time. This does not include women. Understood?”

  “We're going to run into the village from here. I'll set the pace, so don't pass me. I don't want anyone too winded to fight.” He looked around at the trainees and experienced raiders. “Any questions?” When none were forthcoming he stood, and made a point of checking his weapons and armour.

  They strung out in a long line at the edge of the trees, just barely concealed by the bushes and thick leaves, but probably visible to anyone who really chose to look. Klöss drew his sword, and checked his
shield and helm for the hundredth time. Then Verig charged. He was silent as he ran and the sudden movement caught Klöss by surprise. He'd been expecting a shout or yell. For a second, he froze. Then he caught hold of himself and hurtled down the slope towards the village.

  Klöss kept pace, with Tristan at his side. The big man was carrying an ugly-looking axe with both hands, his shield slung on his back. The hill passed in a blur and Verig finally let out a scream as they approached. The cry was taken up by the others and they howled as they flew past the first building and into the village proper.

  The shout faltered and the men came to a halt in confusion. The village was empty. The Islanders spun slowly as they looked around but there was not a villager in sight. The three other groups of raiders charged in, and they met in confusion in the village square.

  “What the hell?” Dallan swore, as he looked about.

  “Quiet!” Verig barked, as he made his way to the other team leaders.

  “I don't like this,” Klöss muttered to Tristan.

  “No. You are right, something is wrong here.” The big man murmured, as he fingered his axe.

  “Can you hear what they're saying?” Klöss nodded to where Verig was speaking with the three other leaders.

  Tristan shook his head and continued to look about him with a worried frown.

  Verig turned and struck his sword on the rim of his shield, calling for silence. “It looks like this place is deserted. I don't like it, but we're already here, so we might as well have a look about.

  “Klöss and Tristan, go and look in the large barn and see what you can find. Dallan,” he said, turning to the smaller man, “Go to the mill and see what there is in terms of flour. I'm going with some of the others to check out these farms.”

  Klöss looked to Tristan, who met his gaze calmly and nodded towards the large barn on the outskirts of the village. It was a two-storey, sturdy-looking structure, with a loading platform and winch on the upper floor. They walked through the village and then circled the barn once, to be sure. Klöss went to the large wooden door and found it wouldn't budge. He looked inquiringly at Tristan, who shoved it hard. A clatter came from inside and Tristan raised an eyebrow at Klöss before pushing the door open. A pitchfork lay across the doorway, fallen from its position against the door. Tristan stepped over it without comment, and into the gloom of the barn.

  The barn was silent and seemed dark after the bright light of the morning. Shafts of sunlight filtered down through small gaps in the planking, picking out motes of dust that danced and spun in the air. Empty stalls showed where livestock was usually penned and traces hung from the walls, demonstrating that at least one horse was missing. The hayloft appeared well-stocked from where they were standing and a ladder stood propped against it to give access.

  The two made their way further into the barn and slowly around the edges by the walls. A faint rustling made Klöss think of rats. It made his skin crawl. Fighting another man and spilling his blood was one thing, but rats had always made him squeamish.

  “Klöss, those are barrels in the loft, yes?” Tristan said, in his sing-song accent. He turned and saw where the big man pointed. It did appear to be a stack of small barrels.

  “Toss one down and we'll have a look?” he suggested. Tristan shrugged and, laying his axe on the floor, began to climb the ladder. It bounced and shook as he made his way up. He had just placed a knee on the floor at the top, when a boy erupted from the piled hay. Screaming and armed with a pitchfork, he charged at Tristan, burying the fork in his shoulder and sending him toppling from the loft. Klöss watched in shock as the big man fell and landed on the floor with a resounding crash. The boy, his balance spent by his furious charge, fought to keep his footing. He teetered at the edge of the loft for a second and then fell, arms pin-wheeling

  Tristan cursed and rolled, scrambling to his feet. He took two quick steps and spun to face the boy, his huge axe raised and ready to strike. The child lay on his back, eyes wide with terror as the huge man advanced.

  “Damned fool boy!” he raged, and lowered his axe slightly. Klöss suddenly found he could breathe again. He heard a muted squeak from the loft and glanced up to see three young girls peering over the edge.

  “Pere, tash velen cur?” called down the oldest of the three, with fear clear in her voice. Klöss didn't understand the words but the tone was clear enough. She was blonde and couldn't be more than ten summers, by Klöss's guess. He sighed and turned to the child. “Get back up the damned ladder and be silent boy!” The lad looked at him in confusion. He looked at Tristan, who was fingering the hole poked almost through his armour where the fork hadn't quite penetrated, and muttered to himself. He crouched and grabbed at the child, dragging him to his feet in one swift motion. The child's eyes grew wide in terror. Gritting his teeth, Klöss propelled the boy to the ladder and pointed upwards, before pressing his finger to his lips. The boy nodded mutely and scurried up the ladder.

  “We'd better find Verig and tell him. There might be others hiding.” Klöss said. Then both their heads shot round towards the open door, as the call of a hunting horn sounded clear and sharp in the village.

  Tristan dashed to the front of the barn and peered around the corner, before waving Klöss closer. The village was a scene of chaos. Uniformed men in blue and bright steel were charging into the streets to meet the oarsmen, who seemed hopelessly outnumbered. Dallan stood closest to them, alone beside the smithy, his back to the wall as two men with long-swords advanced.

  Klöss didn't hesitate. He threw himself into the fight. He charged without battle-cry and ran up behind the closest of the two men. The man heard his approach and turned in time to have Klöss's sword slice into his neck, just underneath the reach of his tall, conical helmet. The sword bit deeply and blood geysered out as the man collapsed, gurgling, to the grass. Dallan took advantage of the other man's distraction and thrust deep into his back.

  Their eyes met briefly and Dallan gave a small, grudging nod, before they turned to survey the scene. The oarsmen were fighting a retreat out of the village, passing up opportunities to strike in favour of chances to move back towards the trees. Tristan, Dallan and he seemed to be behind the line of battle and Klöss realised that, unless they acted soon, they would be cut off and left behind.

  He led them along the side of the smithy and a small row of cottages, running low in an awkward hunched position to keep below the edge of the wall. The oarsmen were only fifty or sixty feet away now, but were outnumbered by almost two to one. As Klöss watched he saw Henrick go down, a bloody rent in his leather chest plate. He glanced behind him and could see more soldiers marching into the village and past their position with more men on horseback behind them. They were going to be slaughtered to a man unless he acted. He looked carefully at the scene in front of him again, taking note of how the men were bunched, and then turned to Dallan and Tristan.

  “We're going to have to make our own way out,” he said. “We're cut off.”

  “Well, we can't stay here!” Dallan objected. His face was pale and his eyes looked a little wild to Klöss. The man was on the verge of panic.

  “No one is staying anywhere,” he said, in what he hoped was a calming tone. “Let's head for the river.”

  He led the three of them out from the cover of the wall and they ran towards the small river. The ringing clash of steel on steel filled the air and Klöss grimaced at the sounds of screaming. The bank was low and he slid down on his side into the thick reeds. The water was shockingly cold, but he forced himself to crouch low in the shallows, bringing the water up to his shoulders as the murk at the bottom sucked at his boots.

  “Great, now we're trapped and wet,” Dallan said, as he slipped into the water next to him.

  “Shut up, Dallan,” Klöss muttered back at him as he peered out through the reeds. He turned slowly, so as not to disturb them and reveal their location, and looked across the river. It was not a great expanse of water. The slow current and muddy colou
r hinted at a shallow depth, or he hoped it did. Beyond the gently sloping bank lay open ground leading to the woods in the distance. It was not exactly the right direction, as it would take them more south-easterly than south, but it was still away from the enemy and towards the ships.

  He could no longer see any of his own men and the sounds of fighting were growing fainter.

  “We're going to have to swim across and then break for the trees, I think.” He pointed at the edge of the woods in the distance.

  “That's a lot of open ground, Klöss,” Tristan said, in a low voice.

  “I don't like it either, but I don't see we have much of a choice,” he admitted.

  “Sounds like a great plan, Klöss,” Dallan said scathingly. “First you get us wet, then you get us killed.”

  “Shut up, Dallan,” Klöss and Tristan said in unison, both looking out across the far bank.

  They made their way across the sluggish river, half-swimming and half-walking along the shallow bottom, allowing them to keep their weapons and shields, which Klöss had feared they might need to drop.

  The bank was another gentle slope and, within moments, they were climbing out through the reeds and running low towards the distant trees.

  The first signs they'd been spotted were the arrows hissing past them. Klöss risked a glimpse over his shoulder and saw half a dozen archers lining up on the far bank of the river, along with two men on horseback. With little to do but run, they doubled their efforts and ducked their heads down as they sprinted for the trees.

  Dallan screamed out, as an arrow glanced off his helm with a loud clang. He faltered for a moment and Klöss looked back at him as they ran. Within another fifty feet, the arrows were falling short and the trees were growing closer, but then he heard the hoof beats.