“He's getting old,” Verig muttered to Tristan. “Tired out after a little row in the evening. That woman must have worn him out before his time.”
“A sad thing,” Tristan replied, ignoring the look Klöss was giving him.
“If you two are quite finished?” Klöss said, shortly. “I'll watch for an hour, then you, Verig.”
Tristan and Verig wrapped their cloaks about them and were soon dozing, with their heads on their packs. Klöss sat listening to the wind in the leaves and thinking how different it was to be back in this place. They'd landed far to the north this time, but it was the same land where he'd watched his training class being decimated by soldiers. It had been a long time ago and he wondered if the place had changed as much as he had. Before long, he found himself nodding off and forced himself to stand up in the blackness. He moved out of the copse, so as not to awaken the others and began to pace quietly.
It felt odd to be among so many trees and so much grass. The Barren Isles were a rocky place and so there was little grass to be found. All arable land was already used for farming and so any place grass would grow was either used for crops or pasture for sheep and goats. He'd had little cause to travel outside of Hesk much. There were any number of small towns but they tended to be mostly fishing villages or the occasional farming community. His only real experience of woodlands and greenery came from reavings.
He wondered idly what life would be like for those that came to settle here. Would Ylsriss want to come to this new land? Would he? His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Verig rousing himself and crunching through the bushes towards him.
“Your turn to get some sleep, Klöss,” his old trainer whispered.
“I expected to have to kick you,” Klöss replied, in a soft voice.
“I didn't sleep. Not really,” Verig muttered.
“Nerves?” Klöss's eyes widened. “You? I'd have thought that after all this time…”
“No. I still get nervous. You should too,” Verig advised. “It's your body's way of telling you that what you're doing is a damned stupid idea, so you better pay attention.”
Klöss chuckled quietly and squeezed the man's shoulder, before seeking his own pack to lay his head on.
Morning came too quickly, and Klöss woke to the sound of Tristan and Verig packing up and making ready to leave. He drank quickly from the skin, and grabbed a quick bite of dried fruits and ship's biscuit before grabbing his pack and making his way out of the copse.
The dawn had just passed, and the early spring air was crisp enough to clear his head and chase away the cobwebs. Still, it was a shock when he saw the tower in the distance. It was a small squat thing, positioned close to the edge of the cliffs where they jutted out into the sea. From where he stood, he could just make out the surrounding wall, clearly still under construction.
“How, in the name of all that's holy, did we miss that?” He pointed at the tower and looked across at the other two.
“It was dark,” Tristan shrugged. “They had no lights.”
Klöss bit back choice words and turned back to the tower. It was set back from the edge of the cliff just enough that it would be hard to see from the sea itself. The ground rose immediately before it, on an incline ending at the cliff's edge. It would be hidden from anyone aboard a ship.
“Verig, you remember the fire on the cliff during my first training raid?” he said slowly, receiving a confused nod in response. “I think they've gone a bit further than that here.”
“Signal tower.” Verig nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. It's in a good position.” He scanned the horizon inland for a few moments, before pointing sharply. “There! There's the next one. It's a chain.”
“A chain?” Tristan said, clearly confused.
“A signal chain,” Verig said, and then sighed at the blank look. “A beacon. The tower here will have men keeping watch over the sea. They see invaders coming and light their beacon.” He turned and pointed again. “The men in that one see the fire and light their own, and so it goes on. It could stretch for miles.”
“There must be a garrison not too far off, or a fort or something, though,” Klöss mused.
“Probably in a central location so they can respond to other beacons. I doubt they are that close.” Verig chewed at his lip as he stared at the tower. “That thing would be burning long before the landers ever got near the beach. I'd bet they have a spyglass or something, as well. They can probably see for miles.”
Klöss looked more closely at the tower, paying attention to the details. It was not that large, just a small stone building, really, with a platform on top, presumably for the signal fire. He couldn't see it from where he was standing. The entrance must be on another side, but the stone walls looked new and well made. The approach itself was either by means of a thin and winding road that snaked back and forth as it rose up the hill, or over steep but open ground.
“I'd not want to attack it, though,” Tristan said, echoing Klöss's unspoken thoughts.
“It doesn't matter anyway,” Verig said, pointing at the distant tower on the horizon. “That's the one we want. That or one beyond it. We've no chance of taking this place by ourselves and any ships would be spotted on the way to land if we left it until the fleet attacked.” His face was grim as he faced the others. “We need to leave this one alone. Let them light their fire as we land. If the chain is broken further on, the signal goes nowhere. I say, we follow the line of beacons and see if we can find one that's less well protected.”
Klöss nodded and shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position. “We may as well get started then.”
The clifftop tower had a road built for its approach but it travelled in the wrong direction so they were forced to hike across country. The terrain looked fairly flat, but the long grass was deceptive and the way was full of hidden ditches and mounds. After a few hours, Klöss could feel his legs burning and his head ached from lurching unexpectedly into holes. Tristan was offering an almost constant stream of complaints. Verig, Klöss noticed, was neither suffering nor complaining.
The small copse of trees they had slept within the previous night was one of the few sheltered places on the broad plain, although a dense wood stood some distance away to the south. Klöss gave the wood more than one passing glance as they travelled, remembering a different time here. A time when he was fleeing through the trees with Tristan and Dallan in tow. A time when the blood rushed in his ears as he battled not to give in to terror, and the temptation to just stop and hide.
The plain eventually gave way to woodland and, before night fell, they had made camp amongst the trees, not far from a small stream. Tristan surprised them all by producing fish hooks and line and, after a time, fresh fish to eat, which he cooked on sticks positioned over the well-concealed firepit. Verig scouted through the trees, returning with large forest mushrooms which he baked on stones beside the fire. Supplemented with some of the dried fruit from their packs, it proved to be a pleasant meal and not something Klöss had expected.
Verig eyed him and gave a small smile. “The trick is to take the small pleasures when you can find them, Klöss.” He sighed and picked at his teeth with a vicious-looking dagger.
“We will reach the next tower tomorrow, most likely,” Tristan said, as he pawed through his pack. He pulled out a folded square of parchment and a thin charcoal stick, and began tracing their progress. Klöss watched him curiously, before pointing to the coastline. “Did you do this from the boat?”
Tristan didn't bother to look up but nodded. “Whilst you were admiring the pretty cliffs and looking for a beach to play on.” He folded the map carefully and tucked it into his pack, before squinting up at the darkening sky. “I will do first watch. We move at first light, yes?”
Klöss looked to Verig but the small man was already tucked into his cloak and bedroll. He turned back to Tristan and nodded curtly, before rolling into his cloak himself.
The morning brought a drizzle that woke Klö
ss long before Verig could wake him for the final watch. The soft rain misted onto the leaves of the trees and collected there, before dripping down. Klöss started awake when a very fat and very cold raindrop splashed onto the small part of his neck that was exposed. Enough of it ran down his neck to make him shiver and twist to swat at his neck as he lurched up into a seated position. Across the small clearing, Verig laughed softly as he oiled his sword with a linen cloth.
Klöss moved over to him. Verig had hung his cloak and blanket between two branches to make an effective shelter against the rain. It was not yet light but not entirely dark either and Klöss reasoned it was shortly before dawn. “You ought to have woken me sooner.”
Verig shrugged in the half-light. “I didn't feel like sleeping. You might as well get the rest, if I'm not going to.”
“Something bothering you?” Klöss said, as he pulled out his own sword and held his hand out for Verig's oil-soaked rag.
“Something, but I couldn't say what.” Verig grunted, passing the rag across. “You up for good now?”
Klöss stretched his neck, rolling his head around in a circle to work the kinks out of his shoulders. “I expect so. Tristan is the only one likely to sleep in this.” He held his hand up, as if to catch the raindrops.
“Well, I'll be buggered if I'm going to sit in the wet while he snores.” Verig snorted and pulled himself to his feet. He marched over to Tristan, who was wrapped in his cloak and blankets close to the base of a thick fir tree, and planted his foot firmly in his side. “Wake up, princess.”
Tristan mumbled something indecipherable. The words were indistinct but the tone made it clear that it whatever he had said was not flattering. “Yours is not the face I want to see waking me up in the morning, Verig,” he finally managed, as he wiped his face and ground his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“I'm crushed.” Verig said, shaking out his blanket and rolling it up into his pack. “Next time, I'll get Klöss to kick you.”
Tristan sniggered as he loaded his pack. He unhooked the large arbelest from the back of it and Klöss gave him a quizzical look as they set off.
“I am sick of this dried stuff,” he said, holding up a chunk of dried fruit. “If I am lucky, we can eat some meat tonight.” He hefted the large weapon with one hand.
“Anything you shoot with that thing will be in too many pieces to eat!” Verig scoffed, as they set off through the trees.
Their pace was slow as they made their way through the woods, but by the second day, they had joined the road and moved steadily inland. They were forced to flee the path several times, as travellers passed. Whilst Verig knew a smattering of the language, possibly enough to get by, they were clearly not from this land.
The second signal beacon proved to be surrounded by a small garrison. They spent several tense hours skirting around the area, as Tristan marked their route on his map. The terrain became steep and rugged beyond the beacon, and the trees fell away as they made their way into the foothills. The next signal tower was just visible on the horizon, perched on a barren hilltop protruding from the woods.
Klöss trudged over the rocky ground in silence. His stomach was gnawing at him again and he was in a foul humour. The tower seemed no closer to him, although he could now see that, unlike the first two beacons, it was not made from stone.
“Klöss!” Tristan called again, his irritation thick and clear in his voice.
“Hmm? What?” He stopped and turned. Tristan had stopped some distance behind him and was crouched down, sketching, his map braced on the back of his pack.
“I do not think there is profit in this.”
“What are you talking about?” He stared at him.
“He means 'benefit', I think,” Verig said. “He's right, there's no need to get any closer. We only came to scout and we've done that. Frostbeard will need a way to stop this signal and we've mapped it out for him.”
“Shouldn't we check to see how many troops are there?” Klöss objected.
Verig shook his head quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Our job now is to get out of here as quickly and safely as possible. This map is more important than anything else.”
“I don't know, Verig. I don't like leaving the job half-done.”
“It's done,” The small man said, firmly. “We're leaving. Besides Ylsriss is going to kill you, anyway. You don't need more danger out here. You have enough at home.”
“Fine,” Klöss sighed and turned, walking down the rocky hillside towards home and the fleet that waited for them.
***
He sat in the cottage, on a simple wooden chair, and watched the sun through the window, as it went down over the clearing. It was the last night before the new moon, but he knew they would come again. They had come every night for the past week and a half, and so, with a growing sense of dread, he sat, and watched, and waited.
The sun sank beneath the treetops and all too soon the moon began to rise, casting a thin, pale light over the ground that seemed to leech the colour from everything it touched. The first few nights, he'd sat in the gloom, not wanting to attract undue attention. He'd since learned that this didn't make a difference and he refused to huddle in the darkness, so now every lamp was burning and the fire was built high. And he watched. And he waited.
They came as soon as the moonlight finally filled the glade, when the sliver of moon was high in the sky. They stepped out of nothingness, close to the monolith at the centre of the circle. He watched from the window, sucking in his breath through clenched teeth as he saw not one, but three of them, arrive. The first was tall and pale, the second darker, shorter and with a hateful glint in its eyes. The last was darker still with fur that looked black, even in the moonlight, and a long curled beard.
They danced in delight around the stones and one trilled a tune on his pipes that he could hear clearly inside the cottage. Then their heads turned as one, as if he'd made some noise and their eyes met through the glass. In a flash they had drawn long horn knives and hurled themselves at the cottage. The ground had been well prepared with tiny spikes and iron filings. He'd made a special point of doing it during the previous week. They screeched as they got close, blue fire exploding from under their hooves, and leapt backwards, screaming hate at him in their strange lyrical tongue.
He watched for a time, flinching whenever they flung themselves towards the cottage, but never once did they get any closer than three good, man-sized strides away. His fear faded after a while and he gazed openly through the window at them. They circled this way and that, the lightest-coloured one capering in a mad dance and occasionally singing, its voice a rich tenor. He lost sight of the short one after the first five minutes. The darkest one, though, stood stock-still, facing the window, and glaring at him with eyes full of hate as it stroked its beard in thought.
It stepped forward slowly, probing at the ground with its hoof as it moved. It hissed in pain as the blue fire flared, but did not move back. Instead, it crouched down and examined the ground, poking at it lightly with a gnarled finger to make it flare again. Looking up, it caught his eye in the window and smiled.
The man shivered and drew back from the window. “It's okay. It's fine. They can't step on that ground. They can't get in,” he muttered, reassuring himself. He forced himself to leave the window and made his way to the tiny kitchen, putting the black iron kettle onto the woodstove to boil. “A nice drink will help,” he whispered. “Why am I whispering?” he whispered again and burst into laughter. After a moment, he stopped abruptly as he heard himself. His laugh had been high and hysterical. “Control in all things,” he said in a low voice. “Who am I trying to fool?” he snorted and went to a small cupboard against the wall and rummaged around until he pulled out a dusty, dark brown bottle. It was two-thirds full and hadn't been touched in a decade. The corked top came free easily enough though, and the strong aroma of the spirit filled the little cabin instantly.
“Medicinal,” he whispered and took a gulp.
&nbs
p; For a while, he was able to shut it out. There was no way to actually tell the time in the cottage. He'd had a mechanical timepiece years ago, but it had never been consistent anyway. He'd kept it mostly for the tick. All he could hear now was the occasional flare of the iron, as the satyr got too close to the cottage. He'd give anything to hear that tick right now.
He had just tipped the bottle up for another long swallow when a massive crash filled the cottage. The wall shook and he dropped the bottle to the floor, where it bounced on the wooden floorboards, spinning and spilling the rich brandy out. He let loose a whimper of pure terror and scurried to the window. He peered through it, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. A large branch lay close to the window. If he pressed his face to the glass, he could just see the mark on it, where it had struck the wall. He scanned his limited view for the satyrs, but he couldn't find them in the darkness. He raced to the other window and peered out, but the clearing was still.
“Damn them,” he muttered and moved back to his chair. A spreading pool of brandy lay under it and the cottage was thick with the smell. He swore again and went to the kitchen to fetch a cloth. Then the scream came.
It was high-pitched and piteous, a scream of absolute agony, but clearly not human. He thought for just long enough to hope that it might be one of the satyrs themselves, and then he heard the frantic sounds of the other animals. The panicked screeching of the chickens joining with the sounds of the other animals in a sickening harmony of terror and pain.
Without really thinking about it, he rushed to the door of the cabin and wrenched it open. At the last second, he caught the frame and held himself, one foot hanging across the threshold, as three dark figures raced across the clearing towards him. The satyrs launched themselves into the air, throwing themselves at the doorway, their eyes glowing in the moonlight and their teeth bared.
He scrambled back into the cabin, losing his balance and landing hard on his rump, as he slammed the door with one desperate kick. Bright blue fire flared outside, and he could see the light shining through the gap in the door frame. He scurried backwards, crab fashion, until he felt the wooden wall pressing hard against his back. The screams of the satyrs filled his ears and then there was silence.
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 26