The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Stefan! Get over here!” the corporal yelled from the walls. Blood ran freely from a gash on his forehead, and chips of stone and dust clung to the wound. He wiped the blood from his eye with the back of his hand, and dropped the crossbow as they approached.

  “I want you and Jeron to grab horses and go to the Abbot's Hill tower,” he said, quickly.

  “What and just leave?” Jeron said, aghast. “Can't just leave the men.”

  “Stupid prat!” Stefan said roughly, shoving at the small man who fell to one knee. “This place will be gone in an hour.”

  “He's right,” the corporal said, giving Stefan a black look. “This tower was built for raids. This is far more than that. You need to get to Abbot's Hill and warn them. Don't let them send the garrison. It'll be a bloodbath!”

  “Come on, you fool! Time for me to return the favour” Stefan pulled Jeron to his feet. “Take a few of the bastards with you, sir,” he said to the corporal, but the man was already turning back to the wall.

  “Come on!” Stefan shook Jeron roughly and ran, almost dragging the man, to the stables. The building was smouldering on one corner from bits of pitch that had fallen from the tower. Inside, the horses were screaming and kicking at their stalls. He wrenched open the door and smoke billowed out past the terrified horses. Thanking whatever gods might be listening that someone had either had the sense to saddle the beasts or had been too lazy to strip them down, he grabbed a bridle and led one of the horses out through the smoke.

  It was a trained warhorse, but any animal will go mad with panic in a smoke-filled building, and it took all his strength to keep the creature from bolting. He threw himself into the saddle and, glancing back to make sure Jeron had followed his lead, he gave the horse its head, letting it charge across the fort, and out past the building supplies which lay forgotten in the smoke.

  They stopped and looked back, as the road started to turn. The screams and sounds of steel on steel carried this far, but they couldn't see men through the smoke. As more pitch fell upon the fort and exploded in flame, they kicked the horses into a canter, and headed for the next tower, with its flame burning bright on the horizon.

  ***

  Dallan crouched down beside the tree and looked out at the hill. The woods ended at this point and the rest of the hillside was wide open. White rocks poked through the long grass that had fought through the stony ground in search of the sun.

  The tower was little more than a wooden watchtower with a platform on top. It had been hastily built and Dallan didn't need to move any closer to see it was not the sturdiest of constructs. A flat platform, surrounded by a low rail, topped it. From where he crouched Dallan could clearly see the beacon fire. It was just a massive pile of wood, covered with some form of tarpaulin. He briefly wondered if the tower itself would burn down if they ever lit the beacon.

  A small cabin stood beside the tower, smoke rising from its chimney. It also was new but showed more care in its construction. A woodpile was stacked up against the side of it, the eaves of the roof sheltering it from the rain. It was little more than a hut, really, and Dallan doubted it could hold more than two men in comfort.

  They'd arrived three hours ago, approaching slowly through the trees and working hard to remain silent. As it turned out, they needn't have bothered. The cabin had been silent since their arrival and the smoke from the chimney was the only sign of life.

  “What do you think?” Dallan said, over his shoulder, twisting a leaf between his fingers.

  “Hard to say,” Scoth replied. “Can't see there being more than three in that cottage, but I can't see the top of the tower from here. Can you?”

  “Not really.” Dallan replied. “Could be someone up there.”

  “Better to wait for nightfall,” Khel interjected. “We take it at night, then they can't see us coming over this ground.”

  “Unless the other beacons go up between now and then,” Dallan said, turning awkwardly, so he could face the others without standing.

  “It's a risk,” Khel admitted. “But then so is charging over this ground in broad daylight. Bet they've got orders to fire the beacon if they're attacked. That's how I'd do it.”

  Dallan nodded at the two men. Both had more experience than he did and he'd wondered why they were deferring to him. He glanced at Khel, who was squatting down in the dirt, toying with his dagger. Dressed entirely in black leather, the man was a fearsome sight. His long, black hair was caught in a thong at the base of his neck and, unlike most men from the Black Isles, he was clean-shaven. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, testament to their time spent travelling, and a long silvery scar ran down one side of his face, extending from just below his eye to the side of his lips. The scar and the puckered skin around it were hairless, Dallan noted. It was probably why he didn't grow a beard.

  “You want to take the tower?” Dallan said, seriously. “When it's time?” The scar-faced man looked past him, towards the structure in the distance, his eyes squinting as he went through the exercise in his mind. It was no small task. Climbing the narrow, winding stairs in the near darkness, at full speed, whilst trying to be quiet would be difficult. If he alerted the man at the top, the beacon would almost certainly be lit, and if he moved too slowly, he may well be seen before he even reached it. The darkness would help, of course, but the tower was only a stone's throw from the cottage itself.

  “I'll do it.” he said, after a long moment. Khel was a man of few words. Dallan could count the conversations they'd had on the trip from the coast with the fingers of one hand.

  “That leaves you and me with the cottage, then,” Dallan said to Scoth. Scoth was everything Khel was not. Where Khel looked like a man better suited to a dark alley, Scoth was bright and fair, with an open and friendly face. His weapons looked out of place strapped to his body and his smile was never far from his lips.

  “We wait until dark, then?” the blonde man asked.

  Dallan nodded, inwardly chafing at the delay. “If the fire is lit, we'll rush the tower and kick it off the edge, or put it out somehow. If we're lucky, we can stop it being seen by the next tower.”

  “It's not much of a hope,” Scoth said, with a glance at the tower platform. “But then, we wouldn't have much choice by then. If we do manage to take the tower, though, we should see if we can destroy it.”

  “How? Why?” Dallan asked, confused.

  “We don't know how often supplies come in,” Khel said, still playing with his dagger. “It doesn't do us much good to kill this crew, only to have the tower lit the day after we've left.”

  “I hadn't thought of that,” Dallan admitted. He felt a fool in front of these two, like a child playing at being soldier. “What do you think would be the best way to destroy it? It's not like we can just burn it down.”

  “It doesn't look too sturdy. Looks almost temporary, like it was thrown up in a hurry.” Khel replied, examining the distant tower. “I bet if you were to just chop through one of the supporting legs, it'd go over. Even if it didn't, two would definitely topple it.”

  “That's a lot of work to do with a sword.” Dallan objected.

  “I doubt the squirrels piled that wood there, boy,” Khel replied, with a sardonic smile, pointing at the side of the cabin.

  “Oh, yeah.” He looked away for a moment, forcing the flush from his cheeks. “We wait for nightfall then.”

  The men nodded and settled down to wait. The day was grey but dry, and the woods were full of the sounds of small animals. Dallan found it hard to relax, jumping with every little noise. He had noticed that his two companions seemed to have no such problems. Khel was working over his weapons, a curved sword and a nasty-looking dagger. Scoth was lying back in the leaves with his head on his pack, his regular breathing enough to show he was already dozing. It wasn't a bad idea. They'd been travelling hard for the last few days but, despite this, he found it hard to sleep at night. The need to keep a watch meant what little sleep he did get was inevitably disturbed.

/>   Dallan met Khel's eyes and gestured towards the ground, wordlessly, cocking an eyebrow. The silent man nodded once in understanding. Dallan lay down in the leaves, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the odd harmony of Scoth's breathing and the regular rasp of the stone against Khel's already razor-sharp blades strangely comforting.

  He woke to find Khel's hand pressed over his mouth. “It's time,” the man said, in a hoarse whisper through the twilight. Dallan sat up and tried to force his heart to slow down. The man was clearly good for the mission, but he was definitely not the sort you wanted waking you up like that.

  “Scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, with a grin. Khel looked at him, his face impassive.

  “He doesn't do humour,” Scoth advised quietly, from where he sat with his back against a tree.

  Dallan looked around, assessing the light. The dark ground was already a stark contrast to the light sky, and the shadows were long and growing longer by the minute. He looked through the trees towards the clearing and was pleased to note he couldn't see more than thirty feet ahead of him. Turning back to the others he nodded and said softly, “Let's go.”

  They made the short trip through the woods in silence and dropped to the ground at the edge of the trees. Lamplight was shining through the windows of the cottage, but the clearing itself was still. The night calls of birds and the occasional rustle of small animals in the bushes were the only sounds to be heard.

  “Any movement while I was sleeping?” Dallan whispered to Khel.

  “Three men, I think,” the man whispered. “Two have climbed the tower and come down again. One, I suspect, is still in the cottage.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  “Looked like some kind of uniform. They don't look to be farmers, if that's what you're asking,” Khel replied.

  They moved over the rocky ground, keeping low but not crawling. Moving smoothly they closed the distance in minutes. Dallan stopped, facing the windowless side of the cottage. The edge of the tower was just visible around the corner.

  He pressed his face to Khel's ear and whispered more quietly than was probably necessary. “We'll circle to the door, while you go to the tower. When you're halfway up, we'll go in.” The man gave a silent nod, and dropped to his hands and knees to work his way around the cottage.

  Now that they were close, Dallan could hear sounds coming from inside the building and make out different voices, though the language was strange to him. He didn't know if Khel or Scoth could speak any of it, he'd never thought to ask.

  He crawled under the window until he was level with the door, then drew himself up and pushed his back up against the wall. He watched Scoth lean in and press his ear to the wood to try and determine where people were in the cottage.

  Khel made his way quickly to the tower and drew his weapons without flourish or noise, moving silently up the stairs. He concentrated on staying on the very inside of the narrow stairway, to try and blend into the structure in the darkness. The stairs were new, as was the whole tower, but some still creaked softly under his light steps. As he reached the halfway point, he waved down to the watching Scoth and the blonde man kicked in hard at the door as Khel began to sprint up the steps.

  Khel dashed up the final steps and threw himself to one side, expecting an attack. He rolled easily to his feet as none came and moved quickly around the platform. A shadow moved on the other side of the mound of logs, giving him the only warning he had as a crossbow bolt flew past his arm. The twanging report of the weapon was impossibly loud in the darkness and he grinned to himself.

  “That was stupid,” he said, conversationally, as he darted round the beacon to attack. He saw the figure drop to the ground, crossbow in front of him, and he raised his weapon to strike. At the last second, he realised the man was not reloading the weapon but picking another up. He twisted to the side in desperation, but it was too late, there was just no way to miss at this range and the bolt slammed into his ribs as he crashed into the beacon's guardian.

  The guard was not expecting Khel's sudden weight, and Khel used this to his advantage as he grabbed the man and rolled. The pain was excruciating and the edges of his vision were growing dark. In desperation, he slammed the guard over him and into the railing. The wood splintered loudly in the darkness. He heaved with one arm and the guard toppled off the platform, into the night. Too late, he realised his own balance was gone and he screamed as he too dropped off the edge.

  ***

  Scoth kicked hard and the door flew inwards on its hinges, he followed it in, his weapons drawn and ready. A young man, little more than a boy really, in a simple white shirt, sat at a plain wooden table holding the lamp. His eyes were wide with surprise but Scoth didn't slow. He lunged and the dark-haired boy gasped, making no attempt to defend himself. Scoth drove both swords into his chest, twisting the weapons savagely to ensure the job was done. The boy groaned and lurched backwards as a bloody froth poured from his mouth.

  Dallan stood at the doorway. There was no room to move past Scoth, but he saw the thrust as he killed the guardsman. He relaxed for a fraction of a second as the blonde man twisted the weapons he had rammed into the boy's chest and then, from nowhere, Dallan saw the blade sweep through the air from one side.

  Scoth never saw the strike that took his head and his body collapsed to the side, driven by the force of the blow. Dallan screamed out involuntarily and took a step backwards as the third man filled the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw Dallan and he raised his blade again to strike.

  The figure was wearing blue and green over his armour but the chainmail didn't appear to slow him down as he struck out at Dallan. The lamplight filled the doorway and the backlit man was a creature of darkness as the sword swung down towards him. The silence of the hilltop was shattered by the sound of steel on steel, as Dallan met the strike with his own sword and tried to bring his own blade to bear.

  He realised within seconds that he was hopelessly outmatched, as the soldier flicked his blade away and thrust savagely at his belly. Dallan lurched backwards to avoid the thrust and buy himself time, but the guardsman simply followed the movement of his weapon, smoothly stepping in behind the thrust and turning it into a deft flick towards Dallan's eyes.

  Desperately, Dallan brought his sword up to block the blow and, like a snake, the man struck. Bringing a dagger up with his other hand, he thrust it under Dallan's arm, the blade biting deep into the oarsman's side. He gasped in pain and staggered back against the side of the tower, dropping his sword as he bent against the wood, and waited for the guard to raise his weapons and finish him.

  The man moved in for the kill, anger and contempt plain on his clean-shaven face. Dallan had no doubt he was about to die. He looked on in terror, as the soldier began the thrust that would kill him and felt a hot wetness spreading between his legs. He tried to close his eyes but couldn't seem to make his body respond. Then he watched in amazement, as Khel and another guard fell, screaming, a mass of tangled limbs, swords and armour, onto the guard with a resounding crash. The three men crumpled to the ground and lay still.

  Dallan scrambled backwards, crab-like, away from the tower. Searing pain shot through his side, but he couldn't bring himself to care right now.

  Shit!” he cried to himself. “Just... Shit!”

  His chest ached from breathing so hard and his throat burned, but his eyes were wild and terrible. With an effort, he managed to uncurl from the semi-foetal position he'd hunched into and drag himself to his feet. A low moan came from the mound of limbs and he lunged forwards, grabbing up a sword and stabbing wildly into the pile of bodies, thrusting over and over as the tears poured down his cheeks.

  “Just die! Just die! Just fucking die!” he screamed, until his voice failed him and he collapsed to the ground and sobbed hot tears of panic.

  It was some hours before he came back to himself. He couldn't bring himself to pull the bodies apart to look for weapons, so instead, he went into the cottage and searched until he f
ound a woodcutter's axe. Dallan was small, but years on the reavers had piled the muscle on where he needed it. The axe was well-maintained and the sharp head cut deeply into the wood. Within the space of half an hour, Dallan was sprinting out of the line of the tower as it fell crashing to the ground. “Light your damned beacon now!” he laughed and then stopped suddenly. He didn't like the way he sounded, high and hysterical. Casting guilty looks about the clearing, he half ran, half staggered to the trees, making his way back to the place where they had sheltered while waiting for nightfall. It was hard to find in the dark, and he found himself stumbling over fallen limbs and protruding roots.

  Eventually, he found the packs by falling over them. He slung his onto his back, leaving the others where they lay out of guilt or panic, and staggered through the trees. Finally, exhaustion claimed him and he collapsed by a shining, silver birch. He stared into the darkness, the silence of the forest a counterpoint to the thundering tumult inside his head.

  ***

  The sun rose over the clearing slowly, as if it feared to reveal the contents. As slants of sunlight came through the ruined window, the man woke and threw back the blanket he'd used to cover himself in the chair. For some reason, it hadn't seemed right to sleep in the bed.

  The light picked out the pile of things he'd put together the night before. He'd packed hurriedly, more a general throwing of things into a travel sack than packing, really, but then in truth, he didn't have much to take.

  “Not much point in waiting around, I suppose,” he said to himself.

  He ate quickly, a simple porridge made with the last of the goat's milk. He ought to have butchered the remains of the animals, but he couldn't bear to go into the barn. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice informed him he was being stupid and would regret his wastefulness, but he paid it no heed.