The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “It was not a dream, Khorin!” Hannah's voice, harsh and brittle, filtered down the stairs. “You don't wake up from a dream huddled in the hallway with half your clothes torn off, as your husband comes in.”

  He couldn't make out Khorin's response, but his tone was clear enough, frustration and helplessness. Devin silently rebuked himself for listening in. He wrenched open the inside door of the woodbin to pull out a single log and then slammed it closed. The voices above stopped immediately. He stripped the rest of his furs off in silence, listening as the footsteps crossed the room and made their way down the stairs.

  He stood beside the woodstove awkwardly as he listened to Khorin approach. He'd spent too many years for him not to know the man's footfall in the little cottage.

  “You heard?” Khorin said, in a soft voice. It was not a question really, just words to fill the silence. Devin turned and shrugged awkwardly, meeting his eyes fleetingly before his gaze slipped away. There was too much hurt and confusion in those eyes.

  “She's going to take a nap,” Khorin said, but they both knew it was a lie. Hannah hadn't really left the bedroom in days. She came down long enough to do what was required, but soon drifted away, back to the room that she seemed to regard as her refuge.

  “Is she going to come to the festival?” Devin looked at the man who had become his father, and really saw him. Saw through the front that Khorin put on for the sake of those around him. He looked old and tired. Helpless.

  “I doubt it, lad. She's not much in the mood for dances and music.” Khorin sighed as he moved to put the kettle over the stove.

  “Will you?” Devin asked, with a lump in his throat. The whole cottage felt strained at the moment.

  Khorin was silent as he put the heavy kettle in place. “I'm not really much in the mood for it myself, Devin,” he said finally, in an odd voice.

  “I think you ought to, Khorin. You need a break, even if she won't come. Give her some space and get out yourself.” He spoke firmly, not really thinking about where the advice was coming from.

  Khorin gave him a quick appraising look. “I forget how big you're getting sometimes.” He gave a sad little laugh. “Life is passing me by while I'm busy fretting about things I can't fix.” He looked Devin in the eyes. “You're right. It's good advice and I will try. It'll probably be later than most, but I'll be there, lad.”

  “I'm going to head over early.” Devin advised. “Kainen wants me to give him a hand with the fires to get the place warm enough.”

  Khorin gave him a confused look. “The inn's never been cold that I've noticed?”

  “It's not at the inn, Khorin.” He shot older man a concerned look. “It's in the church hall, where Trallen runs the school. It's been the talk of the village for a week or more.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose I've had other things on my mind.” Khorin grunted, his gaze flickering to the stairs and then back to Devin. “Well, you go on then. I'll find my own way there a bit later on.”

  The church had taken months to build, but the hall beside it seemed to have sprung up almost overnight. It was an odd fusion of a building, built with excess stone from the church, and finished off with sturdy timbers and thatch. Devin and Kainen came to a stop beside the large building, each grabbing an armful of wood before hurrying in out of the cold.

  The hall was busy with children working to hang holly boughs and decorations fashioned from pine cones. Maryanne stood in the centre of the hall like a tiny general, as she directed children and men alike. Her breath steamed from her lips in the cold air.

  She turned as they crashed in through the doors. “Oh, finally!” she said, with obvious relief. “Get the main fire going first and then we'll see about the others.”

  The hall had an open fireplace, which was easier to light than a woodstove, if less effective at heating the place. They set to work, with Kainen splitting off kindling while Devin carried in the rest of the logs. Within ten minutes, a large fire was burning and the room was beginning to warm.

  Maryanne worked them all mercilessly, ignoring most of the calls for breaks or drinks, as she arranged the decorations, tables and food. Lanterns were strung from the beams in the ceiling and the cold, shadowy hall was transformed under her direction.

  The food began to arrive soon after, and it seemed every time Devin and Kainen returned with more wood to stack in the corner, another delicious smell filled the chamber. A clattering outside announced the arrival of Owen with casks of ale and wine, and the two lads were again pressed into service, rolling the large barrels into the hall as Owen gossiped in the doorway.

  A whole ox was set to roast over a large iron trough, filled with glowing coals from the fire, and a host of children took it in turn to be in charge of working the handle to the spit. In spite of the strange atmosphere at home, Devin started to relax and the excitement of the festival began to build in him. Winter was a miserable season and the folk in the village had little or nothing to do but endure it. It was more than just the cold, although that was bad enough. It was the endless slog of making sure there was enough dry, split wood for the fire. It was the sheer effort of dressing in enough furs to keep the cold at bay while you worked. It was the dark evenings that seemed to start almost before the day was half over, and countless other small things that combined to make life hard work. Everyone looked forward to the Midwinter dance. It was more than just a recognition that half of the winter had passed. It was a day to forget the strain of the season and allow yourself to relax.

  Devin flopped down into a chair and grinned at Kainen across the table. “I reckon your Ma is busy enough now not to notice if we take a few minutes.”

  “I don't think she ever gets busy enough not to notice, but I'm sitting down anyway,” Kainen laughed. He looked around at the transformed hall. “It does look good though, doesn't it?”

  Devin admired the hall. “It does. It feels a bit weird with it being in here instead of at your place, though.”

  “Don't let Da' hear you saying that.” Kainen glanced about quickly. “He's been grousing for a week about how much of a pain it's going to be to drag all the ale over and everything else. Says it won't be the same.”

  “It wasn't really all that much bother, though, was it?” Devin looked over at the barrels piled in the corner next to the table, which was already covered in cups. The innkeeper stood behind the table, handing drinks to villagers thirsty from a day's work under his wife's direction.

  “I don't think so, no. He's still sore about the morris, I think,” Kainen replied, in a soft voice.

  “Where is Trallen, anyway?” Devin asked, as his eyes searched over the hall.

  “Bothering his Lord still, I expect,” Kainen muttered darkly.

  “Still not his biggest fan, then?” Devin asked, his eyes still wandering over the growing crowd. The hall was filling quickly, as more and more villagers stamped their way in from the cold, brushing off the snow, and piling their cloaks and furs on chairs near the doorway.

  “It's alright for you. The shine soon wore off for your Ma. I get dragged along every Setday to listen to him ramble on.” His face twisted into a sour expression. “They've started singing now. Did you know that? Singing!”

  Devin knew better than to laugh, but Kainen was not making it easy. He stifled what they both knew was not a cough, and made a show of looking around the hall.

  “There are some things different though,” Kainen said. “The Midwinter's Wreath is missing, for one.”

  Devin turned to look where his friend pointed. He hadn't even noticed the easternmost wall was bare where the huge wreath fashioned of fir, holly and pine cones should have been hanging. “What are the girls going to bow to then?” he wondered aloud.

  “Don't know if they even will.” Kainen muttered. “Trallen's been all over Ma about this. Look, there he is now.” He pointed through the growing crowd at the black-robed priest, who was speaking earnestly to Maryanne with a concerned expression.

  Devin chuckled
. “At least someone else is getting an earful this time. I think it's about time we got a drink, don't you? This place is starting to fill up.”

  The table that served as a bar was busy and it took some time for them to both get a drink. They settled back down at their table just as the music started. Samen was perched on a stool at the end of the hall, working his fiddle, with two other villagers on flute and bodhran, and the music soared.

  Devin watched, grinning as the doors opened at the end of the hall and the girls filed in. The village girls were dressed identically in dresses which flared at the waist. Their close-fitting black and green tops should have been enough to draw the eye, but instead your eye was drawn to the dark woodland green skirts with the flash of berry red. Whirling around in the complex dance, they resembled nothing more than boughs of holly whisking about the room.

  The girls' dance carried on for three or four minutes when the music paused and they stopped as one to bow to the empty eastern wall, though more than one of them shot a confused look at Samen. Then the tune started up again and the girls took another turn around the room, before spinning off into the crowd and searching for partners to pull in.

  Devin sat grinning at the spectacle and almost missed Erinn in her midwinter's gown twirling towards him. She flashed him a mischievous smile and he stood uncertainly, before reaching out for the hand she offered. Suddenly, a large body shoved its way rudely between the two of them and Artor took her hand.

  “I think the lady needs a man tonight, not a little squirrel hunter.” He laughed and led Erinn onto the floor. She shot him an apologetic glance and then was gone.

  “Utter bastard!” Devin exploded, in a combination of shock and anger, as he sank back into the chair. He turned to look at Kainen, but the chair was empty. Then, he caught a glimpse of him being whirled around the floor by Karren. Kainen wore a slightly startled expression, but was clearly enjoying himself. Devin swore and finished his drink in two long swallows. He glanced over at Kainen again, muttered to himself and then finished his friend's cup too.

  Trallen was furious about something by the looks of things, red-faced and gesticulating wildly as he spoke with Kainen's mother. It was only then that Devin realised that the morris had indeed been cut out of the festivities. The girls should have danced around the four men in the centre of the room, who would be dancing their own steps and clashing the large iron staves. He was surprised to find that he did actually miss it. Tipping the last drips of Kainen's ale into his mouth, he made his way to the bar. The line was long and the music had stopped by the time he made it to the front and refilled the wooden cups.

  He weaved his way through the crowd, heading back to their table. He was looking more at the level of the ale than where he was going, in an effort not to spill it, so he didn't spot her until he was almost on top of her.

  “Sorry about that, Devin,” Erinn said with a smile. “He's hard to say no to sometimes, but I promise to come and find you before the night is out.” She was truly stunning. The dark forest green of her dress served to make her hair stand out even more. He gaped at her for a second, until her wry smile forced him to speak before she laughed.

  “I was surprised to see you with him after...well...you know?” Now what had made him say that? He silently kicked himself for spoiling the opportunity, as the smile slipped from her face.

  “Well, he's just a little jealous, I think. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, you know?” she replied as her face coloured at the memory.

  Devin certainly did not know, and doubted Artor would have stopped if he hadn't come along, but he had successfully killed the moment. He muttered a meaningless goodbye as Erinn nodded at him, and slipped away into the throng. He doubted he'd be dancing with her at all now.

  “Stupid bloody fool,” he whispered to himself, as he made his way through to the table. Kainen sat with Karren on his knee, her arms wrapped around his neck. Devin caught the pointed look Kainen shot him as he approached and he set his friend's ale on the edge of the table, before making his way back into the crowd. The night was not working out at all as he had expected. The fire and the sheer number of people in the hall had made it uncomfortably warm, and he was suddenly desperate for some fresh air. He fought through the crowd and stepped out into the night air with relief.

  There was a small group of men outside. Samen and the musicians drank ale and laughed loudly, as they sucked smoke through hand-whittled pipes. The night was clear and the stars shone brightly over the snow, lending a cold light that showed the village in shades of midnight blue and grey.

  He stood and enjoyed the cold as he drank his ale in silence, ignoring the door as people came and went. It was with some surprise that he noticed that Samen and his men had gone back inside, and he was alone. He drank down the last of the malty ale and was about to go back in, when the door opened and Artor stepped out. He stopped as he saw Devin and an arrogant smile spread over his face.

  “Sorry about taking her away from you like that,” the dark-haired man said, with a smile which showed very plainly that he wasn't sorry at all.

  Devin grunted and moved to step past him, but Artor stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You need to stay away from her though, boy.” The arrogant sneer was back on his face and Devin clenched his fist tightly. That look had always made him want to smash it off the miller's son's face.

  “Why is that, then?” he said, feigning ignorance.

  “Because she's mine and you'd do well to remember that.” Artor took a half step towards him, so he towered over him.

  “She's not a sheep, Artor,” Devin said, putting as much scorn into his voice as he could muster. “Though that might be more your type.” He barely had time to realise just how stupid that remark was, when Artor's fist drove into his stomach. Devin staggered back from the blow into the side of the porch and doubled over, wheezing as he tried to force his lungs to work. The next blow caught him high on the cheek and his head crashed back into the wooden beam supporting the side of the porch. He slumped to the ground, as his head spun and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “You're nothing but a child.” The distant voice was scathing, but Devin couldn't focus on it. By the time he had come to, he was alone. The snow underneath him was starting to melt and soak through his clothes and his face felt three times its usual size. He pulled himself to his feet and probed at his face, his fingertips coming away smeared with blood. He wasn't about to let anyone see him in this condition. He spat blood into the snow and prodded his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Scooping up a handful of fresh snow to press to his face, he lurched off into the dark towards the edge of the village and the path home.

  ***

  The morning was cold and a thick frost lay on the ground. The pale, winter sun shone onto the grass and leaves, throwing a thousand sparkles back. It was a beautiful sight in its own way, if there had been anyone to see it. The frost covered the stones too, highlighting designs and whirls in them which would probably have been invisible otherwise. Even then it would be obvious to any observer that the marks were ancient. That once they had been carved deep into the stone, and that hundreds of generations of wind, rain and ice had scoured them down to make them this faint.

  Inside the cottage the old man sat staring into the fire. The fireplace had been stacked high with wood at one point, but this had burned down to ruddy embers and a few stubborn chunks of charred wood, with the flame licking tiredly at the ends. He sat in a well-worn wooden rocker, possibly the only thing in the cottage that could have been classed as a luxury by even the most generous of observers.

  A long clay pipe poked from his mouth and the man sucked on it sporadically, not noticing that it had either gone out some time ago, or had never been lit in the first place.

  “Footprints,” he muttered quietly to himself.

  He'd felt the weakening, of course. How could he not have? The ritual was such a part of his life now, after a lifetime of walking the path, that he felt every ripple
and push. He'd felt it weaken with every passing year, even as he'd felt his own body age. There was a perverse symmetry in that, but it had increased over the past few years. He pulled himself to his feet and threw a thick woollen cloak over his rust-stained robes. Stamping out of the door, he decided to forego the frost-covered iron staff and he made his way out to the centre of the stone circle, following his own footprints in the frost.

  He stared at the ground with a sour expression and chewed the errant wisps of his white-streaked beard. Kneeling, despite the cold, he brought his face closer to the footprint and sniffed at it gently. It was as clear as if it had been made in potter's clay. A perfect footprint. A single cloven hoof print.

  He stood again and moved back to view the whole scene. The footprints began beside the hubstone, that was the rub. He'd had a hundred deer in here over the years, but their prints didn't look quite the same. His own goat had even got loose one time and the shock had nearly killed him when he had seen a thousand hoof prints leading back and forth across the glade.

  The prints started about a foot from the stone and made their way directly to the cottage, circling it two or three times. Here and there, he could see faint scorch marks on the now frost-covered ground, where iron spikes protruded from the dirt. Hard enough to see in the day, they'd be almost impossible to spot in the dark, even for one of that kind.

  He wasn't overly concerned. The Wyrde wasn't perfect and never had been. There had always been the odd one or two slip through between full and new moons. They'd never approached the cottage before, though. The staff beside the door was usually enough to deter them. In all his time at the glade, it'd only happened half a dozen times. He laughed a mirthless chuckle as the memory of the first time bubbled up from the hidden corners of his mind. He'd sat huddled in the cottage, feeling it move back and forth around the clearing before it dashed into the woods.