The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  A young woman in mud-spattered clothes ran to them from the crowd. “Is there a town nearby? We've young 'uns that can't go much further.”

  “Widdengate,” Kainen replied. “It's some miles away but we can lead you there.”

  “Who are all you people?” Erinn managed, as an older man drew closer. “Where have you all come from?”

  “We're from all over the east,” the man answered, as the young woman stretched her hand out to two young children. “I'm from Frenton's Cross. That fellow there was in Tebbits Shore when they came,” he said. “Bjornmen, burnt it to the ground.”

  Bjornmen?” Kainen asked. “I thought they just raided the coast?”

  “If this is a raid, young man, then I'm a mother of four.” He spat into the mud beside the road. “There were thousands of them. I think this is far more than that.”

  It was nightfall by the time they came within sight of the walls. The torches were lit, and children and adults alike found new strength at the thought of warmth and shelter. A cry to “halt and be recognised” came up from the walls and Erinn stood up in the back of the cart.

  “Don't be an arse, Gavin Treadler! You can see these people need help. Now, stop playing soldier and open the damned gates!” She folded her arms across her chest and fixed the boy in the tower with a stern glare until he began climbing down to pull the gates open himself.

  The gates creaked as they opened, despite the fact they were less than a month old. Erinn jumped down from the cart, and dashed between them as they were still moving. People attracted to the shouting were already gathering to gawk and doors were opening in the small street as the word spread.

  Erinn dashed along the street until she spotted Maryanne. “Mother Taplock!” she gasped, her chest heaving.

  “Erinn!” the woman cried, looking her up and down. “Look at the state of you, girl. Whatever's happened?”

  “The tower's been attacked. Artor's dead!” As she said it, the enormity of it crashed down upon her and she felt the burning of tears welling up in her eyes. She dashed them away. There simply wasn't time to be that girl now.

  Maryanne was gaping like a landed fish, as she stared first at Erinn and then at the ever-growing crowd of strangers moving through the gates. “What? How? Who are all these people?” she asked, the questions tripping over each other in their haste to get out.

  “Villagers from the east, seeking refuge. The Bjornmen have attacked.”

  “Bjornmen!” The woman was fast becoming hysterical, her voice rising in pitch with every word.

  “Listen, we don't have time for this. Where's Trallen?” she demanded.

  “Don't you take that tone with me, young lady!” Maryanne snapped.

  Erinn gave the woman an appraising look. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just...I need help with all this.”

  “Well of course you do, dear!” the woman gushed. “Why didn't you just say so? Leave these people to me for a little while. You go and get something warm to eat and get yourself cleaned up. You look all done in!” With that, she waded into the chaos, snapping orders and giving directions.

  Erinn turned to find Kainen beside her. “Your mother,” Erinn said, “is possibly the most infuriating woman I have ever met!”

  “I know,” Kainen replied. “Try living with her.”

  The refugees were settled in the church hall and the wounded were taken into the cottages of those who could accommodate them. Erinn and Kainen were pulled into the inn and sat before steaming plates of food, whilst first Owen and then Harlen peppered them with questions.

  “How long ago would you say it happened?”

  “How many bodies were there?”

  “What was the old man doing there?”

  The door flew open, cutting off the stream of questions in mid-flow. “There she is!” Cedril shouted, as he stormed in. “There's the harlot that got my Artor killed.”

  Erinn drew back into the chair as Harlen rose to his feet. “Don't you talk that way about my daughter,” he growled, curling his hands into fists.

  “Now gentlemen, please,” Maryanne said, moving to stand between the two and placing her hand on Harlen's chest. “We're all upset and we all want to know what's happened. Let's just try to stay calm.”

  “Calm? My son lies dead, according to this young strumpet,” Cedril yelled, his fat face red with anger and grief.

  “I can't see how it could be her fault,” Maryanne said, in a reasonable tone, while shooting pleading looks at Harlen.

  “She's the one who encouraged him to take up this ridiculous soldier idea,” Cedril said. “If it weren't for her, filling his head with chaff and nonsense, he'd be home now. Safe as stone.”

  “He didn't need encouraging!” Erinn said, rising to her feet. “He hates the mill and everything to do with it. You're always nagging at him, putting more work on him there and all he wants is away from it. The beacon guard was his idea. I didn't even know he'd gone for it until he had it.” Her face was red with grief and anger, and tears began to fall down her cheeks.

  “Now then, lass, pay him no mind.” Harlen engulfed the girl in his huge arms and looked squarely over her head at the miller. “I know you've had a shock. I know what it is to lose someone. But I'll tell you now, Cedril, you stop badgering my girl or we will have a reckoning.” He spoke quietly and the threat hung cold in the silence that followed.

  Cedril froze, his mouth open and the thoughts were clear on his red face. He looked at the crying girl in Harlen's arms and then at the smith's stony face, then closed his mouth with an audible clack of teeth. Owen came out from behind the bar and pulled the miller away. “You need a drink, Cedril, after a shock like this. I'll get you a nice brandy. It's on the house, this time.” He stepped back behind the bar and poured a generous measure.

  “Now, then, what are we going to do about this?” Maryanne breathed out the words all at once.

  “I think that's pretty obvious, Maryanne,” Harlen said. “We need to get word out good and fast. Send out a rider to the new fort near Cripps Brook.”

  “That's still a goodly ride, Harlen,” she said, sitting back down at the well-polished table. “Even if you took two horses and changed every hour or so, it'd take a day or so to get there. From what these poor people have said, these Bjornmen could be here at any moment.”

  “I don't know any faster way, Maryanne. We're just going to have to do the best we can alone for a time.”

  “What about the beacon?” Kainen spoke up, his voice sounding too high for his liking.

  “Beacon's gone, boy,” Harlen said, confused. “You told us that yourself.”

  “The beacon is but the hill's still there.” Kainen explained. “It won't be as good, but surely all we need is a big fire. The cottage and the wood from the tower would do for that, wouldn't it?”

  “I imagine it probably would, at that,” the smith said, as a broad smile grew on his bearded face. “That's a rare one you've got there, Maryanne.”

  “I'll go.” Cedril spoke up, from the bar. “I want to see him anyway and a flame burns brighter at night.”

  “You can't think to go now?” Maryanne said. “You'll blunder right past the trail in this dark. Leave it to the morning!”

  Erinn extricated herself from Harlen's arms and made her way to the door. She suddenly needed air. The place was stifling, filled with too many opinions, and it was too loud for her to cope with right now. She stood on the front step, watching more carts arriving through the gates. The steady stream of them had slowed slightly, and they were only arriving in groups of ten or twelve now, but they were still coming in. She wondered idly where they were going to put them all, as she stepped down to the edge of the road and walked slowly towards the church hall. The night was cloudy, the faintest hint of the tiny crescent moon peeking through the clouds as they drove across the sky. Torches were burning outside almost every home and lanterns shone bright in windows. There would be little or no sleep in Widdengate tonight.

  Th
e hall was bustling. Lanterns were hanging on hooks by the double doors, the light a welcoming sight. Those lucky enough to have found chairs sat in them, but most were on the floor, wrapped in blankets. They huddled in small groups, sipping from steaming cups of tea and bowls of soup. Children, ever resilient, ran here and there, laughing as their parents enjoyed their first hot meal in days.

  Hannah worked her way through the crowd, handing out blankets. She spotted Erinn in the doorway and made her way over to her.

  “Come to lend a hand, dear?” she said, in the mildly condescending voice that parents always seem to use with children they haven't yet realised are grown.

  “I came to look,” Erinn said, her mouth forming the words without the assistance of her brain. Hannah gave her a strange look.

  “I mean, I came to look in on the old man we found at the hill,” she went on.

  “He's in one of the other rooms with some of the worst wounded,” Hannah said, after a moment. “I don't think he's come round yet. Could you help me here for a while first, then we'll go and see?”

  Erinn nodded dutifully and Hannah smiled in approval. “Right then, there's lots to do and none of it hard.” She stopped. “I tell you what. Why don't you run and fetch Kainen and Devin, and anyone else who's not busy, and bring them all here. It's time we pulled together on this, and there's plenty of those who haven't pulled their weight yet.”

  Erinn ran to fetch them and, before long, she was handing out blankets, as Devin and others boiled up soup and made tea. It was a pleasant kind of busy, just enough to keep her too busy to think, but not so much that she was run into the ground.

  Some time later, she found herself leaning against the doorway leading into one of the back rooms, which had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The room was full of men and women lying on piles of blankets that served as makeshift cots. Trallen moved slowly through the people, most of whom were asleep or unconscious, checking to see if there was anything they needed or that he could do.

  Erinn's eyes roamed through the room and fell on the old man from the hilltop. He looked older and more frail somehow, now that he was cleaned up and in a bed.

  “I wonder who he is.” Devin said over her shoulder.

  She turned to look at him. “We'll have to wait and see when he wakes up, I suppose. He certainly holds the answers to an awful lot of questions.”

  “If he wakes up.” Devin said. “Hannah told me that's a nasty wound he has. The blade might have cut into some of his vitals.”

  “All we can do is wait, I suppose. I'm going to go home Devin, will you walk me? I'm suddenly all done in.”

  Devin looked her at with surprise. “If you want me to. Of course.”

  “I know it's silly. I just don't want to be alone right now.”

  “Of course,” Devin repeated, for want of something else to say. He took her arm and led her gently out into the darkness.

  ***

  They worked deep into the night, farmers, hired hands, and villagers. They cut the wreckage of the beacon tower away, stacking it inside the cottage until it almost reached the roof. The larger timbers were lifted and leant against the side of the building until the final structure was almost as high as the tower had been.

  Cedril stood near the doorway of the cottage with a flaming torch in his hand. His face was wet with tears, but he was unconcerned by the small crowd of people watching him. “One thing I always said, son,” he said, into the doorway. “Don't start the job unless you mean to finish it.” He paused, then tossed the torch inside. “I know you'd want to finish it.”

  The stacked wood had been surrounded by thatch, which had been torn down from the roof, and it caught quickly. Flames licked away at the thick timbers, growing stronger and rising towards the remnants of the roof. Within a few short minutes, the whole cottage was ablaze and the fire soared high into the dark skies, as the villagers drew back from the heat.

  Cedril watched the western skies, waiting. The flames were slow to come, but orders are seldom flexible, and eventually the distant beacon flared, followed by another and another, carrying the delayed signal onwards, westwards. The fat miller cried then, silently with his face turned to the darkness as the flames devoured the remains of the tower, the ruined cottage, and the body of his only son.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She walked into the kitchen to the rich scent of musk. The man himself was unclear, more the suggestion of a man than anything she could have described to anyone else. At the same time, he was so much more male than anything she'd ever known. He smiled at her as she walked in, a hint of dazzling blue eyes and perfect teeth.

  “You're not supposed to be in here,” she said weakly, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to say.

  “I was waiting for you, Hannah,” the man said, again with that smile. It wasn't arrogant or rakish. It just screamed confidence and self-assurance. The type of smile that made her go weak at the knees.

  “F..for me?” she stammered, hating the way she sounded. Like a young girl who blushed at the sight of a man, not a woman past her thirties. He moved closer and every step was like a strut. Then, she was in his arms, his strong muscles bunching under his loose shirt as he held her tight. His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, kissing her lips, the line of her jaw, her throat.

  She threw her head back and let him do as he would, lost in sensation and the smell of him. He devoured her neck, moving lower to kiss the swell of her breasts, before coming up to kiss her lips again. Her eyes opened for a moment and the man was gone.

  Instead a horned creature held her close. Its eyes glowed the colour of a summer sunset, and it grinned as it moved in to kiss her again. She screamed and lurched back, staring at it in horror. Naked and more than ready for her, it had the torso of a man and the lower body of a goat.

  It reached for her again, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the floor. It slid a hairy hand up her thigh and under her skirts, tearing at her underclothes. It didn't seem to matter how much she struggled, he was able to hold her down with ease. Then he was between her legs and she felt him against her, his muscles bunched and…

  Hannah screamed and sat bolt upright in the bed. Her hair stuck to her face with sweat and her heart pounded like the hooves of a galloping horse. She looked around the dark room in confusion, but saw nothing. The only sounds were the wind against the side of the house and Khorin's soft snoring in the bed next to her. A dream. Another dream.

  She shook herself against a sudden chill and climbed out of the bed, padding across to the window. The night was dark and clouded, probably still some hours before dawn, though it was hard to tell. Throwing on a thick robe she made her way down the stairs, taking care not to disturb anyone. Another time, she might have laughed at the thought. It was almost impossible to wake Khorin. The shreds of the dream still clung to her, however, and she could not smile.

  The kitchen was dark and cold, but the coals in the woodstove still produced a dull red glow when she blew into them, enough to light a taper so she could light the lamps. She busied herself with clearing the worst of the ash from the stove and lay thin strips of kindling on the coals, before putting a couple of larger pieces of wood on top and closing the door. The kindling flared after a moment as the air was sucked in through the narrow vents, and she moved to the pump to clean out the kettle while the larger pieces caught.

  You're losing your mind, she thought, as she placed the kettle on the stove and opened the metal door again. The larger pieces of kindling had caught well and she added two thick logs on the top before closing the door again. Making tea in the middle of the night was a foolish enterprise. It simply took too long for the stove to heat up. She knew though, from the past few weeks, that there was little chance of her getting more sleep.

  The thought of going across to the hospital crossed her mind briefly, but she quickly dismissed that idea. If she was needed she'd have been called, and she'd only wake those that needed the sleep if she went in there now.

&nbs
p; She replayed the dream in her head and shuddered. She'd had the dreams almost every night for the past two weeks. They hadn't been this bad since right after it happened, before Midwinter. She'd thought she might have been coming through the worst of it, but then this.

  The kettle was steaming and she busied herself with the mechanics of making tea. Cup and leaves and strainer. She toyed with the idea of adding a good slug of brandy to it, but settled for a generous dollop of honey.

  “You've got to talk to someone,” she advised her reflection in the dark windows. The truth was she couldn't talk to anyone though, could she? Not without being thought a complete loon. The disastrous attempts to talk about it with Khorin had shown her that. Besides, reality was bad enough at the moment, what with refugees pouring in through the gates every five minutes. What were a few bad dreams in the face of that?

  She blew on her tea and wrapped her hands tight around the cup, seeking comfort from the heat that was just this side of being hot enough to burn her, and waited for daylight.

  Dawn came slowly, the sun burning its way through the clouds and shining down on the village. The once sleepy place had roused itself during the last few weeks. The residents had set up a camp outside of the walls to house the endless influx of people, and tents dotted the grass while workmen hurried to finish the larger wooden buildings that had been fashioned to house three or four families.

  Hannah stepped out of the little cottage and headed towards Widdengate. The walls looked imposing, even from here, but the influx of the refugees made a mockery of them. There were more people living outside of them than could be protected by them. She doubted that the village could actually hold all of these people now, should it ever be necessary.

  The village was already coming alive as the sun crept over the trees and the noises of village life began to fill the air. Smoke was rising from a half a hundred fires as people struggled to heat water. Chickens clucked and crowed amid the sounds of early morning, the low murmur of conversation, and clack of pots.