The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  He forced himself to leave the wall and step over to the window again. He was six feet from it when the glass shattered. An object smashed through it, crashing to the floor, and spraying liquid and glass everywhere. Screaming, he threw his arms up against the flying glass to protect himself. A moment later, he dropped them and saw it. The severed head of his goat lay on the floor, blood still running from the hacked and jagged remnants of its neck.

  Broken for the moment, he sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees. Silent tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks and were lost in his tangled grey beard as he rocked back and forth. Outside, he heard the high, wild laughter of the satyrs and he huddled and wept.

  Morning came eventually, or at least the sky began to lighten. He couldn't have said when the satyrs vanished, but he stood at the window looking over the clearing for hours until he saw the sun finally climb above the trees.

  “New moon,” he breathed and with an effort, forced himself to leave the cottage. Two steps took him to the iron staff and he held it across his body as a shield, rather than the instrument of a failing ritual. He could feel the Wyrde slipping faster from his grasp. It was like trying to cling onto the hand of someone hanging from a cliff. Moment by moment, day by day, he felt more of it slip away from him.

  The clearing was silent, save for the faint rustling of the leaves in the morning breeze. Blood and feathers were scattered everywhere and scorch marks covered the ground around the cottage. Silently, he thanked the one who'd been paranoid enough to riddle the ground with iron rods, and stud the walls and door.

  A foolish impulse forced him towards the barn. The door hung from one hinge, battered inwards and the smell of blood carried even in the morning breeze. The silence was telling, but he forced himself inside, regardless. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. Then he bolted from the building, crashing through the wildly swinging door, and falling to his hands and knees as his stomach heaved. The sight filled his mind and he heaved, spat, and retched again.

  Eventually, he pulled himself up onto his knees, spitting the foul taste onto the grass. He stared blankly at the hoof-turned earth in front of him, tears running unnoticed from his face, until the flutter of wings disturbed him. The dove settled down on the roof of the barn and began to preen its feathers. He looked at it disinterestedly, almost unseeing. His eyes followed the bird as it hopped across the rooftop, until he finally registered what he was seeing. A small leather tube was attached to its leg.

  A wild hope seized him and gave him the strength to go into the barn. He retrieved a handful of seed to coax the bird down from the roof. It flew to his hand easily and he quickly removed the leather canister. Hands trembling, he pulled the message free and unfolded it, his old eyes straining to read the faded script. Then it hit him. The script had faded because it hadn't been written in ink. It had been written in blood. The message was his own. The dove, unable to deliver its message, had simply returned as it had been trained to. His sigh was heartfelt, the final resignation of a broken man.

  Chapter Eleven

  Klöss stood at the stern of the great reaver, the massive ship rocking gently in the calm seas. Dawn was still two hours away and the dark waters reflected the lights of a thousand lamps. He watched the lights of the closest ships as they moved into position, and unconsciously shifted his weight to feel for his weapons. He wondered idly what Ylsriss was doing right now. Probably tucked into bed like anyone else with any sense. Then he remembered that she would be travelling too, heading back to Hesk, and to his father. He smiled at himself and went over the sections of the plan again in his head. So much hinged on the beacons being brought down.

  A light footfall behind him alerted him before the man spoke. “Almost time, Klöss,” Aiden said, as he joined the younger man at the rail. “Is everything ready?”

  “As ready as it can be, Seamaster,” he shrugged.

  “An awful lot depends on Dallan and his team,” Frostbeard said, echoing his own thoughts. “You're sure we've given them enough time to get there?”

  “More than enough, really,” Klöss replied. “They're travelling light, so they don't have a lot of supplies. He can't afford to sit around once the job is done.”

  “Why Dallan, anyway? You never told me,” The old man asked.

  “He came to me, shortly after we returned from the scout,” Klöss explained. “Asked for it. Much like I was with you, when I wanted the camps.”

  “I remember,” Aiden said, with a smile. “You were like a dog with a bone, wouldn't leave it alone.”

  Klöss chuckled. “Well, Dallan was much the same. Said he needed to prove himself, make something of himself. He has a good team with him, though.”

  “Fair enough,” the old man grunted. He slammed his hand down on the rail in frustration. “I hate this, you know?”

  “Waiting?” Klöss ventured.

  “No! Though the waiting beforehand is bad enough, you're right.” He stared out at the ships as he spoke. “I hate sitting on-board like some old woman while younger men fight and die.”

  “You're too important to risk, Uncle. The whole plan is yours. It'll fall apart without you.”

  “I know, I know,” the old man sighed. “You're quite important yourself, you know?”

  “I'm just an oarsman with a famous uncle who had a few lucky reavings, hadn't you heard?” Klöss glanced sideways at him.

  “I hadn't heard that one,” Aiden smiled. “Be careful. Your father would never forgive me if you did something stupid, like dying. The Sealord is quite interested in you as well.”

  “I'll do my best,” Klöss said, dryly. “Besides, if I died, you'd have to deal with Ylsriss too.”

  “There is that,” Aiden admitted. “You know, you ought to do something about that woman.”

  He shook his head. “Not now Uncle. Not before the battle.”

  “You're right, of course.” The seamaster looked over at the position of the closest ships. “You're clear about the plan?”

  “We've been over this, Uncle.” Klöss sighed.

  “And we'll go over it again. And again and again,” Frostbeard snapped, “until I am certain that you have it.”

  “The first wave goes with the landers.” Klöss recited from memory. “We attack the signal tower and establish a beachhead.”

  “And the other towers?” Aiden quizzed.

  “We only know of the one signal chain.” Klöss explained. “Dallan's team will move inland ahead of our strike, find a weak link and destroy it.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we fortify our position and land the rest of the troops.”

  “What about ships?” Frostbeard asked, a smile on his lips.

  “We've not encountered anything larger than a fishing boat. I don't know if they have any, but there are enough great reavers here to handle just about anything. They'll patrol up and down the coast, keeping within sight of each other.” Klöss looked over at the ships. “I know the plan, Uncle. Trust me.”

  The old man sighed. It felt unnatural to be playing such a small role in his own campaign. He glanced out over the water and realised he could delay no longer. “It looks like they're about ready,” he said. “You'd better get over to the lander.”

  Klöss grasped his uncle's forearm formally and gave it a firm squeeze. “Luck,” he said and headed for the steps leading down to the deck. The wind was picking up, he noted, and the waves growing taller. He glanced up at the skies. There was no sign of the moon and the stars were hidden by clouds. Tiny raindrops pricked at his face and he smiled grimly to himself. A good cold spring rain. Just the thing to keep a sentry inside in the warm. He climbed down the rope ladder strung from the deck and stepped lightly into the small boat that would ferry him to the odd-shaped Lander.

  He hardly noticed the short trip pass. The two oarsmen manoeuvred the craft alongside the lander and he clambered up the ladder onto the deck.

  “Shipmaster aboard!” called out the guard posted
by the ladder, but Klöss didn't hear him. His mind was deep in the plan and the events of the next several hours. He looked across the water at his uncle standing in the lamplight, then took the lantern from the guard, raising it high and moving it back and forth. He watched as the old man turned and a second later the horns began to sound. The noise started on Frostbeard's craft and spread out from ship to ship, until it seemed the very ocean should tremble at the sound. The beating of the drums soon followed and slowly, ponderously, the fleet began to move towards the unseen coast.

  ***

  Stefan blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them vigorously together, as he silently cursed himself for not bringing his gloves out with him. It was supposed to be spring, wasn't it? The light rain had been falling for hours, but he'd learned the hard way that there was no such thing as a light rain here. The wind caught it and hurled it at you, somehow finding all the tiny gaps in a man's armour and clothing and forcing the wet through, until you were as soaked as if you'd stood in a torrential downpour. He drew his blue and green cloak tighter about his shoulders, and turned to the guardsman at the other side of the tower platform.

  “Jeron?”

  “What?” the lean man answered, huddling down against the cold stones at the corner of the platform in an effort to stay out of the wind.

  “You ever think this is a bit stupid?”

  “How do you mean,” Jeron replied, cautiously.

  “Well, here we are, right? It's as cold as a witch's tit, and we're stood next to a bloody great bonfire, freezing our arses off!” Stefan laughed, waving at the mound of oil-soaked wood under the treated tarpaulin.

  “You're a card, Stefan,” laughed the lean man.

  “I'm bloody freezing is what I am!” Stefan stamped his boots. “You feel like getting us a cuppa?”

  “Corporal'd go nuts if he caught me!” Jeron hissed. “You know that.”

  “So be quick then?” Stefan suggested, with a wink. “I'll stay here and freeze while you go into the warm for a few minutes, eh?” Jeron gave a worried smile but nodded in response to Stefan's shooing motion, and made his way down the spiral stairs to the guardroom below.

  The sun was just starting to come up, though Stefan could barely see it through the clouds. He strolled around the platform to look out at the trees in the distance. When you spend your life staring at the sea, it's nice to look at something green once in a while. He could just make out the distant hilltop which was home to the next beacon, though he couldn't see the tower itself for the rain.

  He looked down over the side of the stone wall at the new fort, half constructed beside his tower. It would soon be home to three times its present number. He wondered, for a moment, what that meant in terms of promotion opportunities and then laughed at his own naivety. New troops meant new officers, and new corporals to go along with them. He was doomed to being a lowly guardsman for a good while longer.

  The site looked a mess to his eyes, with building supplies, timber and freshly quarried stones piled with no apparent order. The tower and its beacon were the only things that were really complete. A defensive wall had been staked out along the clifftop, with trenches half dug for the foundations. Two lonely ballistae and a catapult glistened in the morning's rain.

  His breath steamed in the dim light and he walked to the stairwell. “Jeron, stop fiddling with yourself and get your bony arse up here with that tea!” He stamped his feet again and muttered to himself. “Bastard's probably stood drinking his at the fire.” He glanced out to sea for a moment but the waves mirrored the slate grey sky, both as miserable as his mood.

  “Lords and Ladies, keep your voice down, will you?” Jeron swore, as he climbed out of the stairwell with two steaming mugs. “You'll have the corporal up here, for sure!”

  “Don't be daft. He's tucked up in a warm bunk,” Stefan scoffed. “It's only us idiots up at this hour.” He shook the rain from his cloak in an attempt to keep it from soaking through, and took the tin mug from Jeron's outstretched hand.

  “Oh damn, that's good!” He savoured the heat from the tea, feeling the warmth spread all the way down.

  “It's hot, is all it is,” Jeron argued, as he held the cup tight, warming his hands. “I'd take hot ditch-water right now.” He followed Stefan's gaze towards the newly built defensive wall, the ballistae perched behind it like malevolent insects. “That'll give 'em a bloody surprise next time they try an' raid, eh?”

  “Bit late though, isn't it?” Stefan said.

  “How d'ya mean?”

  “Well, this fort an' the beacon an' all.” The blonde man waved his hand vaguely at the half-finished construction. “It's all well an' good, but it don't help those people in Fallows Deep who nearly starved three winters back, does it?”

  “Stops it happening again though, don't it?” Jeron said, plainly disapproving. “You talking like that's going to get you in the shit, Stefan.”

  “Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't want to get put on a night shift in the rain on this bloody tower now, would I?” He stared out at the sea morosely. The rain was easing as the unseen sun lightened the eastern skies. The distant waves cast odd shadows against the rising light and he enjoyed the sight for a moment. “Sorry mate, I'm just a miserable sod this morning.”

  “You're just missing your woman, I expect.” Jeron waved his apology off.

  “Yeah, well, she smells better'n you.” He forced a smile. “Makes a better cup of tea too!” He spat and poured the remainder of the now cold tea over the edge of the stone wall.

  “Ungrateful sod,” Jeron muttered. “You know it'd have been my balls on the block if I'd been caught down there. You can bloody well go yourself next time!” He frowned at Stefan, who hadn't bothered to turn.

  “Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, preserve us,” the guardsman breathed.

  “Enough of that too!” hissed Jeron. “You'll have that damned New Dayer up here with us.”

  Stefan turned to him, his face pale and drawn. “We need to light the beacon,” he said in a quiet, urgent voice.

  “What?” Jeron said, confused.

  “Light the gods-be-damned beacon!” Stefan screamed, pointing desperately out to sea. Jeron turned and the blood drained from his own face. The ocean was stained dark in the distance before the rising sun. Dark from the shadows of hundreds upon hundreds of ships.

  Jeron's cup fell to the floor and clattered about, spraying tea across the icy stones, as the two men wrestled with the tarpaulin. Stefan ran for the large lantern and touched a pitch-coated torch against the wick, before he thrust it into the oil-soaked wood. It caught hesitantly for a moment, blue-tinted flames hungrily consuming the oil, and then the fire shot heavenwards. The two men staggered back from the sudden onslaught of heat, and then Jeron dashed to the corner of the platform and took up the bell. As the inky stain that was the Bjornmen fleet spread further across the sea, the fire crackled to tune of the desperate clang of the watch bell.

  Stefan went to landward side of the platform, barely even aware of the heat from the fire. He clutched at the stones, his eyes desperately scanning the horizon. Long minutes passed before finally a flame shot up as the beacon was lit in the distant tower. “Gods above and below, let it be enough,” he breathed, as men began boiling out of the barracks and up the stairwell in response to Jeron's frantic ringing.

  The fleet closed with shocking speed, as the fort came frantically to life. Crossbowmen lined the short sections of completed wall, and the ballistae and catapult were manned and made ready.

  Stefan half heard orders being barked, but stood frozen on the tower, watching in horror as the ships coursed towards the shore. The lead vessels had a strange design, their hulls splitting into three sections at the prow, almost as if the ships had runners like those of a sled. Oily smoke rose from prows of the ships, and men clad in leather and furs scurried around the long-armed catapults mounted at the foremost portion of each ship. He stood frozen to the parapet as the first ballistae hurled its massive spear towar
ds the oncoming fleet, lurching forwards on its ties and tearing a hole through the deck of a Bjornmen vessel. He could hear the drums clearly despite the distance, and they somehow sounded clearer than the screamed orders of his officers.

  The lead ships crunched into the surf, the split hulls acting as supports as the vessels drove themselves onto the beach, holding them secure and level. Stefan flinched, as the catapults on the ships lurched as one and hurled pots streaking fire through the sky. He vaguely heard the command to get down but stood, rooted to the spot, as the ball of flame came closer and closer.

  “Stefan! Move!” Jeron yelled, grabbing him by the arm, and hurling him down the steps, into the tower.

  The flaming beacon was eclipsed, as the pitch struck the tower and exploded, transforming the building into a pillar of fire far larger than the beacon had ever been. Men screamed and ran in a mindless panic as the flames consumed them, collapsing like broken toys.

  The uppermost portions of the prows on the split-hulled ships slammed down onto the beach, forming a ramp. Men boiled forth roaring as they sped to the narrow path leading to the stricken fort. Crossbow bolts hissed into the fur-clad mass, as the defenders fired their weapons and struggled to reload the awkward devices, working with a speed born of terror, as the howling raiders surged closer and closer.

  Stefan found himself being dragged along through the darkened tower by Jeron. Finally, they staggered, drunk with smoke and terror, out of the entrance. The fort was a scene of chaos. Men still lined the walls, firing bolts at the mass of Bjornmen as fast as they could, while others ran forward with drawn swords. Bodies lay everywhere, and the stench of burning flesh and pitch filled the air. The slope leading to the beach was littered with the dead and dying, as the guardsmen found themselves pushed back as fast as they could form a line.