The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  He could feel it again. The Wyrde fluttered in his mind, like a minnow caught between two cupped palms in the shallows. His brow furrowed as he bore down and clenched around it, forcing it onwards.

  His eyes drifted to the centre of the clearing and the great stone circle that stood there. He sighed and lifted the pot from the stove, leaving it on the burn-scarred table and making his way outside. The porridge would finish itself off now, anyway.

  A rust-encrusted pole leant against the side of the cottage. It was fashioned from iron and utterly unadorned, though it was so pitted it would have been impossible to tell. The rust had bubbled and formed nodules along the length of the staff. It resembled a long orange candle which had been allowed to burn and collect rivulets of wax along its length.

  Taking up the staff, he began to shuffle around the clearing. A keen observer would have noted that his path took him along a clearly marked trail. Not so much one that had been cleared, but rather one that had been worn and marked out by the fall of endless footsteps.

  The stones were irregular, showing no signs of tool marks, and formed the roughest of circles. They were not especially large, the tallest being no higher than the man's thighs. Despite the moss growing freely on the earth between them, none had taken hold on the stones themselves. In fact, a small bare circle surrounded each of them, as if the plant life feared to come too close.

  The centre of the circle held a monolith, roughly seven feet in height, and deeply scored and stained on the sides with rust. Two more lay on their sides nearby, as if they had once formed some manner of structure which had long since toppled.

  His shuffling steps covered the path surprisingly quickly, moving him in and out of the stones. They formed a square here, a triangle there and then some nameless shape that was, nonetheless, clearly defined. He tapped the staff sporadically as he went, but the taps seemed to have nothing to do with balance. He moved in silence, his eyes unfocused and his mind somewhere else. His dance was mechanical and nothing he needed to pay attention to. In his mind, the Wyrde calmed, ceased its writhing and then flowed on, maintaining.

  As the resistance faded, he allowed himself to relax, and think of other things, though a portion of his mind was always focused on the Wyrde. There should be others, he thought, for the thousandth time. The task was possible with just one, but only just barely. Others had been with his master long ago. He could still vaguely remember them. There had been visitors arriving in a panic, men and women talking late into the night. He'd been just a boy then. It suddenly all seemed such a terribly long time ago.

  He sighed in resignation as he shuffled the last length of the path, performing the final steps of the ritual only to begin again. His was the spider's web against the hurricane, the hands holding back the tide. His was the task that would fail. He would be swept away eventually, that was a certainty. First though, he would hold, and perhaps just long enough for another to be sent as he had, and trained.

  ***

  Lady Selena Freyton read the dispatch again with care, before crumpling it into a ball and hurling it across the opulently appointed room.

  “When did this arrive?” she demanded as she turned to face the page.

  “Just this hour, my lady,” the young man stuttered, still kneeling with the silver tray held out in front of him.

  Selena took a deep breath and wished she had something else to throw. “Get up, boy! You look ridiculous down there on the floor.” The blonde boy scrambled to his feet, trying to straighten his blue and green livery without it appearing too obvious.

  “Fetch me Hanris,” her green were eyes lost in thought.

  “The chamberlain, my lady?” the page replied, frowning.

  “Unless you know another Hanris in my household's employ?” Her eyes snapped back into focus and she glared at the boy. “Of course, the chamberlain! Oh, and bring me Captain Rhenkin as well.” The boy bowed quickly and fled the room.

  She paced while she waited, from one end of the parlour to the other and then back again. Rain lashed against the expensive windows and the dark skies seemed to reflect her mood. She moved across the room again to retrieve the report, smoothing it out against her leg through the teal gown she wore. She read it again, as she went over to the hearth and warmed herself by the fire, holding her hands out in front of the gleaming brass fireguard.

  A knock at the dark-panelled door preceded its opening. The young page stepped in and to one side as he announced “Chamberlain Hanris, my lady.”

  Hanris was a small, bird-like man, with thinning black hair and brass-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a long nose. He walked in odd little steps towards her and gave a perfunctory bow.

  “You sent for me, Your Ladyship?”

  She waved the paper at his face as she stepped closer. “Have you seen this, Hanris?”

  He recoiled from the report slightly, before collecting himself. “I have not, as yet, had the pleasure, Your Ladyship.”

  She pressed her lips together tightly and closed her eyes, as she took a deep breath. “It's from Squire Thorpes, he...” She broke off and thrust the paper at the little man's chest. “Just read it.”

  Hanris smoothed it out, frowning with unconscious disapproval and examined the message, reading slowly and meticulously.

  “He reports that those thrice-damned raiders have attacked again,” Selena fumed, before he could read more than the first line.

  “That is most unfortunate, Your Ladyship,” Hanris said, cautiously.

  “I'd say it's a little more than unfortunate! That inbred idiot has allowed three villages to be razed to the ground.”

  “The Bjornmen are reputed to be most savage, Your Ladyship,” Hanris murmured.

  “He reports that tax collectors left empty-handed from Fallows Deep and Heston,” Selena said, watching for his reaction.

  A crimson flush spread up Hanris's neck, creeping above his tight collar and cravat. “What?” he spluttered. “I mean, that is simply not acceptable, my lady. The King's tithe is due in a matter of months.”

  “I am quite aware of that,” she said, in an icy tone which was lost on him.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted them and the page entered again. “Captain Rhenkin, my lady,” he announced in a firm voice, before withdrawing.

  Rhenkin was everything that Hanris was not. Tall, confident and resplendent in his grey and green uniform, he bowed slightly at the door before striding across the carpet. “my lady.” He spoke in a firm, serious tone, making it both a greeting and a query, before offering a nod to Hanris. “My Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Rhenkin,” she said, her voice softening. “How familiar are you with the Eastern Reaches?”

  “Passing fair, your grace,” he admitted, silently rebuking himself as the flicker of annoyance touched her green eyes.

  “What about defences, garrisons and the like?”

  “It has a number of small garrisons,” he advised. “Nothing of any consequence. There is nothing to really defend against.”

  “Except the Bjornmen raiders,” she finished for him, biting off the words.

  “Except the Bjornmen,” he agreed. “An inconvenience, at most.”

  “If I may, Your Ladyship?” Hanris said quickly, noting the colour rise in her long elegant neck. At her sharp nod, he turned to Rhenkin. “The... ahem...situation appears to have changed somewhat, Captain. The raids are interfering with tax collection and this has an obvious financial implication.”

  “What he means,” grated Selena, “is that my incompetent and deficient husband, your duke, has squandered funds right, left and centre, and now we have to scramble to find every copper penny. We can ill-afford to be losing money to raids.”

  If Rhenkin was fazed by her outburst, he didn't show it. “As you say, my lady. I gather you have some manner of remedy in mind?”

  “I was under the impression that the uniform indicates some form of military training?” She moved closer and plucked at the epaulettes on his shoulder.
“However, not enough to venture military advice, it would seem.” She glanced at Hanris. “Perhaps we should find a Lieutenant worthy of promotion, Hanris?”

  “I'm sure you are aware that the issue with the Bjornmen has always been the speed with which they strike,” Rhenkin said quickly. “By the time any alarm has been raised, they are already gone.”

  “Then, clearly, we will need to raise the alarm faster.” She turned abruptly and moved towards the far end of the room. The entire wall was painted with a map of the known world. She'd always hated the thing, ostentatious and gauche. How funny that now it would become useful.

  “Show me where the garrisons are.” She pointed vaguely towards the Eastern Reaches, at the very edge of the map.

  “From memory, we have several in the area.” He moved to the corner. “This is also not the best map but I believe we have three within reach.”

  “So the issue is purely the speed with which the alarm is raised?”

  “Precisely, my lady.” He nodded.

  “Tell me, Captain,” she turned to him, tapping her lips with the now folded report. “How would we raise the alarm if we were to be invaded from the south?”

  “From the south?” He frowned. “Baron Rentrew's lands stand between us and the border, my lady.”

  “How does he do it then?” she snapped.

  Rhenkin flushed and moved to a different area of the wall. “He has signal towers along his southern border, Your Ladyship. They light a fire when invasion or troops threaten and…”

  “Yes, I am quite aware of what a signal chain is, Captain,” she cut him off. “I believe he has also been visited by the Bjornmen on occasion, has he not? Why can't we implement the same system in the Eastern Reaches?”

  “The principle is sound, my lady,” Rhenkin replied smoothly. “The garrisons, however, are undermanned and too small to support the necessary troops.”

  “So expand them.” Her eyes flashed.

  “There...um...is the issue of cost, my lady,” Hanris interjected, apologetically. She whirled to face him. “Cost is precisely why it must be done,” she bit the words off. “Draft something, Hanris. I want signal towers running inland to these three forts.”

  “Garrisons, my lady,” Rhenkin corrected, in a soft apologetic voice.

  “No. Forts,” she said firmly. “They need to be expanded and the muster increased.”

  “Now, Hanris.” She pointed to the desk in the corner of the room.

  “Of course, my lady,” the chamberlain agreed, seating himself at the desk and readying pen and paper. “It will, of course, require the duke's signature.”

  Selena grunted and tapped her foot as she watched the little man scratch the pen across the page. Slippers and carpet were simply not designed for tapping one's feet. There was no point in acting impatient if nobody noticed. She sighed and cast sideways glances at the window and at Rhenkin's rather impressive physique in equal measure, until the little man finally offered up the sheet.

  Grasping the folded document firmly, she stalked through the halls of the ducal palace, silently wishing again that she was wearing proper shoes. She could stalk perfectly adequately and her teal gown was more than suited to the task, but padding silently was simply not the same as heralding her arrival with the clack of decent heels.

  She made a mental note to remedy this, as she turned the corner and approached the double doors to the formal dining room. Two men-at-arms stood to attention as she approached, drawing their halberds across themselves.

  “Is my husband in there?”

  “He is, indisposed, your grace,” the taller of the two advised, with a faintly pained expression.

  “He's drunk, you mean,” she retorted. “And do not address me by that title. My family had land and title three hundred years before this idiot's ancestors crawled out from their cattle shed.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the guard managed.

  “Were you planning on opening the door?” she asked sweetly.

  “At once, my lady,” he said, and stepped inside to announce her. She didn't wait and swept past him in a flurry of silks.

  The formal dining room was dominated by an enormous oak dining table and was richly appointed, with thick, red, velvet curtains on the windows and heavy tapestries on the walls. A cavernous hearth in the centre of the wall was filled with a roaring fire and, directly opposite it, sat Duke Freyton, Lord of Druel, The Wash and the Eastern Reaches.

  Freyton was a fat, bald man in his mid to late forties. His jowls hung heavy below his cheeks and down to his double chin, and his skin glistened with sweat in the light of the fire. His collar was undone, as were the uppermost fastenings of his shirt, and pink flesh strained at his remaining clothes in a bid for freedom.

  His head lolled slightly to one side and he was snoring loudly. A large meal lay mostly untouched before him and a silver goblet listed precariously to one side, held in one pudgy hand as it rested on his belly.

  “Freyton!” Her voice cracked like a whip as she slapped her hand down on the table beside him.

  “Wassat?” the fat man jumped. The wine in his goblet sloshed over the side and onto his shirt and garish yellow pantaloons. He sat up and tried to brush the wine from himself before it soaked in. “Damn it, woman, am I never to have any rest from you?”

  “If only you could!” She stepped away from the table to avoid any drips from the wine. “I need you to sign this.” She waved the paper at him from a safe distance.

  “What is it?”

  “Provisions for the expansion of the defences in the Eastern Reaches and measures against the Bjornmen.”

  “Foolishness,” he snorted. “I won't sign,” he said, as he lurched to his feet unsteadily and blinked at her owlishly.

  Selena stood her ground before the fat man and suddenly realised how ridiculous he looked. To think she had allowed this idiot to run their affairs for so long! “Listen to me, you revolting little toad.” It took an effort not to laugh at the foolish creature, as his face coloured. “You may be my husband but we both know that is only for the convenience of both of our families. You are a paper duke with no more pedigree than the hounds of your huntsmaster.”

  “Now just you see here!” Freyton protested as his temper rose visibly, his face now a brilliant scarlet against the grey and white of his moustache and sideburns.

  “No,” she said, in a dreadfully quiet voice. “You have run the affairs of our estates and lands since we were married two years ago. Oh, that someone could take that day from my memories! Since you laid your drunken hands to the reins of our estates, the ledger has been bled dry on one foolish excess after another. Now we will do things my way!”

  “By the Lord of New Days, we will not!” he shouted again, and staggered to the side slightly. “Get out of my chambers and return to your parlour. You ought to be sewing or something. Women do not possess the intellect required for statecraft and the managing of estates.”

  “Listen well, little man. You will sign this provision and anything else I bring to you from now on. You will do this and more. And then, perhaps, I will allow you to sit here and drink yourself into insensibility and eat yourself even more stupid.”

  “And why, foolish woman, would I do that?”

  “Because if you don't,” she replied, allowing a cruel little smile to show on her lips, “I will inform my father of your drunken excesses, your inability to get me with child, and your unwholesome inclinations towards some of the younger pages. Our marriage is of no use to my family if the line dies with me.”

  “What are you talking about, woman? I've never so much as…”

  “It doesn't matter what you've done, idiot!” she snapped, interrupting him. “It matters what my father and the King believe.” She stood and watched his reaction, fighting the smug smile which fought to show on her lips. He drew back. First shock, then anger and finally affronted resignation passed across his sweaty features.

  “Give me the paper,” he finally sighed.

/>   “Not there!” She batted his hands away. “You're all covered in wine and food. Honestly, Freyton, you look like a drunk in a tavern's gutter.” She moved to a small serving table at the edge of the room and set the paper down. “Send for pen and ink,” she instructed, without bothering to turn.

  “Why do we need extra defences there, anyway?” he asked, returning from the door. “There's nothing there to defend. Small villages, at most.” She moved adroitly away from the stench of stale wine on his breath and faced him.

  “Not now, no, but we need more revenue. I have plans for this land. We could have five score more farming villages here without even scratching the surface of the land's potential. The only reason it's never been done before is the threat of the raiders.” Her eyes were filled with ambition and almost as unfocused as his.

  “Why bother? One village of peasants or a thousand. They do little but complain,” he protested.

  “Because, you fool, peasants produce revenue.” She shook her head wearily. “We could have the taxes on the homes, the farms, the revenue from the sheep. Lords of Midwinter, Blood and Sky, do you truly not understand? You cannot honestly be this stupid, surely?”

  He flushed again. “Stop your pagan blathering, woman. I understand well enough, but this will cost a small fortune. How do you plan to raise the funds for it all?”

  “How else?” she smiled. “Taxes. If we need to bleed the peasants a little more now to make this estate work in the future, then that's what we'll have to do.” She turned away, as a servant arrived with pen and ink on a silver tray, which she took with a self-satisfied smile. Motioning Freyton towards the paper with one hand, she handed him the pen, her smile fading. “Now, sign.”

  ***

  Devin leaned back against the broad trunk of the elm tree and sighed in contentment. The woods were still, with just a faint breeze rustling the leaves and gently caressing his face. The sunlight danced and weaved through the ever-changing gaps in the canopy. It was the beginning of autumn, when summer has not yet truly given in and there are still more warm days than crisp, and Devin was hiding. It wasn't so much that he was avoiding the work itself, more that he was avoiding the boredom and drudgery of it. It helped assuage his guilt somewhat if he justified it in those terms. That said, the guilt was not strong enough to stir him from the woods and bring him back to the village in time to help with the harvesting. Crops were for girls and men too old to hunt, Devin had decided, the numerous young farmhands in the village and his own adopted father not being strong enough evidence to the contrary.