The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

  “Devin's mother would be a tool, Hannah. The fae who held her could use her as a gateway to this world. The Wyrde would be no more effective a barrier than a wet sheet of paper!”

  Khorin's face creased in disgust and he stepped back from the table. “I'll not stay here and listen to another word of this.” He turned towards the door.

  “Khorin, you've not even had any lunch!” Hannah called, but he waved her protest away and stamped out of the cottage.

  “Give him time, Hannah,” Obair said, softly. “It's a lot to accept.”

  “If he ever does,” she said, hearing the break in her own voice. She looked down at her hands and her hair fell forward over her face, veiling her misery.

  “He won't have a choice, Hannah. The fae are coming. Pretending it isn't so won't help.”

  “What do you mean?” She tucked her hair back behind her ear as she looked up.

  He sighed. “I'm doing this all wrong,” he muttered to himself. He sipped at his tea and pulled a face. “Have you got anything stronger?” He tipped the mug meaningfully.

  “That's a good idea.” She gave him a wan smile. “I think I could use one too.” She retrieved a dark brown bottle from the pantry and poured them both a generous measure of brandy in fresh mugs. He took a large mouthful at once and then coughed and sputtered as the fiery liquid burned his throat.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” he said, twisting the mug on the table as he thought. “My earliest memories are of working in the glade with my master, as he taught me the ritual that kept the fae away from us. I don't even remember my family and I remember little of how I came to be with him.”

  “There was a power that kept the fairies away?”

  “Not fairies, Hannah, that's a word that leads to silly tales. They are the fae.” His voice was low and serious.

  “Fae then.” She cleared her throat. “If you and these druids were keeping the fae away somehow, then what happened?”

  “I don't know,” he admitted. “The Wyrde was always a strange thing to me. Maintaining it was a bit like holding your breath, but with your mind. I had to keep a grip on it at all times, even whilst sleeping.”

  “This Wyrde? This was the ritual you mentioned?”

  “No. The Wyrde was a force, a barrier that served to keep the fae from entering our world. The ritual helped to maintain it, but it wasn't the whole of it. Think of the Wyrde as being a bit like a dam. The ritual was a few sections of wood bracing the dam but it wasn't the whole of it.”

  “Then what's happened?”

  “It's been slipping slowly out of my grasp for years.” He breathed in deeply and sighed. “It's never been perfect anyway. Things like the satyr that attacked you have been slipping through in ones and twos for centuries. It just needs to be the right phase of the moon and the right place.” He looked up at her, checking her expression. “The only things that could never pass through were the fae themselves. The Wyrde never let them through.”

  “There should have been hundreds of people across the world performing the ritual, but in the end I think there was only me left. I could feel it slipping more and more. I felt, a pressure, something pushing at the fabric of it, tearing at it. It's gotten a lot worse over these past five years or so, though I have no idea why. Then, finally, they found me.”

  “Who?”

  “Satyrs, though now you've told me about Devin's mother, I wonder if there weren't fae as well, at times.” He drank again and swallowed without a blink. “The satyrs hounded me at night, killed my livestock and made it clear that the Wyrde was weaker than I'd ever imagined. I'd gone to look for help, to warn people, when that man attacked me. That's when I lost it.”

  “Lost what?”

  “When I lost my hold on the Wyrde. I felt it finally fail.”

  “Can't you just begin it again?” she asked.

  He laughed a sad little laugh. “I wouldn't know where to begin. I was like a boy trusted to put twigs on a campfire to keep it going. I have no idea what formed the sparks and I don't know how to fan the coals.” He sighed and looked her square in the eyes. “The Wyrde is gone, Hannah, and as soon as the fae realise this, they will come.”

  “More of those fae things that attacked me?”

  “Well, satyrs are more like foot soldiers than anything else. Fast and strong, but not terribly bright. The fae themselves are something quite different. They're supposed to look a lot like us. We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

  “There you go again with that. You said they were coming. When?” she demanded. “How many? Isn't there anything we can do?”

  “As to the first, that I can answer. The fae do not live in this realm. Their own home is another place, far removed from here. Even with the Wyrde gone, they can only cross over when our worlds touch, between the full moon and new moon. Even the fae using Devin's mother as a gate would have been bound by that.”

  “But it should be full moon tomorrow!” Hannah said in alarm, as she stood. Obair nodded sadly as he looked up at her. “We've got to warn people! How many will there be? What do they want with us?”

  “Hannah, nobody would believe us. Think! If we go darting around the village warning of an invasion of fairies, how are people going to react?”

  “They'll either laugh, or think I've cracked,” she said quietly, sinking back into the chair.

  “Exactly. As to your second question, I have no idea, that knowledge is lost. There could be a score, a thousand or an army. They may not even come here. They have the whole world to visit. The worst will not come on the first night, anyway.”

  She noted the catch in his voice. “What do you mean by that?”

  “On the first night, if anything, it will only be a scattering of curious satyrs or something similar. The worst will come on the third night. That's when the hunt will come.”

  “The hunt?”

  “The Wild Hunt.” He spoke in little more than a whisper. “This place, this village, it takes its name from something much older. The stones that I was tasked to watch, where I worked the Wyrde, were once known as the Withen Gate. My master told me it was there that the fae begin their Wild Hunt.”

  “What do they hunt?” Hannah said, in a sick voice, her eyes already screaming the answer to her question.

  “What do you think, Hannah?” he said, softly. “They hunt us.”

  “Lords and Ladies,” she swore. “Is there nothing we can do? Surely the soldiers…” She left the rest unsaid.

  “Steel will not harm them. It would be like fighting a raging bear with a twig.”

  “What then? There has to be something. Damn it all, Obair, you must know something!” She slammed her hand onto the table hard enough to make the mugs clatter.

  “It's all lost, Hannah, all the knowledge we had about them was destroyed centuries ago.” His face reddened behind his grey whiskers as his temper rose. “Damn it all to hell, don't you understand? They're coming and we know almost nothing about them. I told you, there is no secret store of knowledge. We'll be like children to them. Iron will hurt the satyrs, but for all I know, it has no effect on the fae at all!”

  Both Hannah and Obair jumped as the door flew open and Devin all but fell down the steps. “Soldiers!” he gasped, between ragged breaths.

  Hannah rose to her feet. “The Bjornmen?” she asked.

  “No, not Bjornmen. They wear Duke Freyton's colours. I think it's an army!” Devin replied looking curiously at Obair and his reddened face. He shrugged and hurried them outside. The flood of troops marching along the road towards Widdengate dwarfed those who had worked to fortify the village and build the signal tower on its distant hill. The land immediately outside the walls was covered in men working to erect tents. More men moved amongst the refugees' tents, taking them down to make way for a more organised pitch. Still they came, hundreds of men followed by cavalry and endless wagons.

  “Surely this must make a difference?” Hannah
asked the old man in a soft voice.

  “It might at that, Hannah, but not in the way you think.” He began to walk towards the village.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, as she realised he wasn't simply trying to get a closer look.

  “To try and talk to the man in command.” He stopped and turned. “If you are going to try and talk to people, then I would suggest you do it today.”

  ***

  Rhenkin sat astride his horse and surveyed the village sourly, as he reached forward absently to pat the big animal's neck. The northern side of Widdengate nestled close to the woods, while its fields stretched off to the distant forest to the south. A small river cut its way out of the woods and through the long grasses, before passing close to the village and snaking off to the south.

  He took in the village with its palisade in one long look, before glancing at the unprotected mill and scattered farms that lay outside the walls. He heard his second pull in slightly behind him and clear his throat.

  “What is it, Larson?” He didn't take his eyes from the village.

  “I've given the order to strike the refugee camp, sir, and informed the village council that you will be speaking to them shortly. They'll be sending a man to meet you,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Very good. What do you make of it all?” Rhenkin waved an arm vaguely at the village and surrounds.

  “It's certainly not ideal, sir.” Larson ventured.

  “No, it's certainly not that. Don't walk on eggshells, Larson, I'm not going to send you off digging latrines if you miss something,” Rhenkin said. “I need a second pair of eyes. Tell me what you see.”

  “Yes, sir,” Larson replied, sitting up higher in the saddle. He assessed the area for a moment before he spoke again. “The existing defences are inadequate. That palisade wouldn't hold for long. Any force that issued from it would be ground to pieces against their own wall. That's assuming the refugees weren't out there and in the way. I would suggest leaving it in place and then erecting a larger defensive perimeter farther out. We also need some proper watchtowers. This land is depressingly flat and the ones they have there are nowhere near tall enough.”

  “I'd say you're right about the palisade. It looks like it was thrown up by children, anyway.” Rhenkin snorted. “Build me something larger. I want three rows of ditches leading up to it. Something for their cavalry too, assuming they have any.” He looked sourly at the woods and scowled. “I hate building defences out of wood. What I wouldn't give for six months and a good supply of stone. Still, we work with what we're given and at least we have the wood right here. Talk to the section commanders and get the men to work. I want to see something big enough to give any invaders pause for thought by tomorrow morning.

  “Find a scout and send him to me as well, would you? The Bjornmen's last known location was only about three days away if they travel in any kind of force. I don't want them catching us with our britches down.”

  “Yes, sir.” Larson saluted in his saddle and set off towards the village.

  Rhenkin nudged his horse into a slow walk, letting it more or less pick its own path, as he continued to scan the area.

  The Bjornmen would have cut through here like a hot knife through butter. The wall wasn't worth a damn and he doubted he'd find anyone within the village that he could consider even half-trained. His mood grew blacker the closer he got to the walls.

  The transformation was dramatic. The refugee camp was cleared away and incorporated into the growing military one. Within a few short hours, a large ditch had been dug, encircling the village and outlying farms and men were hard at work creating two more. The sounds of logging carried from the woods and the beginnings of the larger palisade were already visible.

  Rhenkin had put off his meeting with the council longer than he really ought to have and it was beginning to get dark by the time he strode into the inn, but still he chafed at the necessity and lost time.

  It was very clearly a family place. Well lit from both lamps on the walls and candles at the tables, it was clean and smelled more of freshly baked bread and roasting lamb than ale and wine. It made a welcome change from some of the low dives he'd been forced to pass through on the journey here. A stout man he assumed must be the innkeeper looked up and met his eye as he walked in, and nodded politely as he finished filling a tankard for an old farmer leaning against the bar.

  “Reckon you'd be the one in charge of this lot, then,” the farmer said, as he looked Rhenkin up and down. Some men were impressed with authority and impressive uniforms. Farmers, Rhenkin had noticed, tended to take the world as they found it. Overall, he found it refreshing.

  “I am,” he replied, shortly. “I was told I could meet the village council here.”

  “Council!” snorted the farmer as he took the tankard from the innkeeper. “Bunch of self-important fools, is all they are.”

  “Samen, you don't want to be talking like that if you're going to keep drinking in my inn,” Owen muttered from behind the bar, just loud enough for the farmer to hear. He looked past the cantankerous old man at Rhenkin. “If you'll follow me, sir? We've a room in the back we use, so we can have some privacy.” He shot Samen a look as he said the last, which prompted another snort, and the old farmer raised his tankard in a mock salute.

  The back room was filled with villagers, all looking at Rhenkin with nervous and expectant expressions. The innkeeper took a seat at the end of the long table that dominated the room and motioned for him to sit. Rhenkin ignored the offer. Sitting too often led to drinks and long discussions, and he hadn't the time for either.

  “I'll keep this brief,” he began, before they could start with the introductions. “I have much left to do and am short on time. Duke Freyton has ordered that this village be properly fortified against the Bjornmen threat.”

  “Are we in danger from them, then?” an older woman with fading blonde curls asked, in a tremulous voice.

  “Of course we're in danger, Maryanne,” a fat man with sad eyes snapped. “Any fool can see that. My son's death should have taught you that!”

  “Shall we let the man speak?” rumbled a man Rhenkin marked as the blacksmith. The size of him alone would have indicated it, even without the burn-scarred hands.

  “I don't want to cause a panic,” he continued, “but I do want to be honest with you. I expect this village to be their next target if they continue to push as they have been doing. My men and I will be building a larger wall around it and other defences, as required, but anyone who wishes to leave needs to do so soon and understand that I cannot guarantee their safety.”

  The meeting collapsed into a series of protests and repeated questions after that, as he'd known it would. Villagers were the same the world over. He finally extricated himself from it and fought his way out of the inn. He walked quickly to the corner of the building and ducked into the darker shadows, breathing in the cool night air.

  “Captain?”

  He whirled in place, his hands darting for both sword and dagger, until he picked out the old man in the darkness. “What do you want, old man?” he said, straightening from his fighting crouch and pulling his hands away from his weapons.

  “You are Captain Rhenkin, then?”

  “I am. I'm also in a hurry, so make it quick.”

  “I understand you're to take charge of the defence of the village,” the old man went on, holding up a hand as Rhenkin made to interrupt. “There are some things you cannot defend against. Things you would scoff at, were I to go into detail, but which you cannot ignore.”

  “Look, I really don't have time for this.” Rhenkin made to push past the old man, but stopped as he raised a finger.

  “I ask nothing of you, Rhenkin. Just that you use your eyes and ears tomorrow night. I expect we will be speaking the following morning.” The old man stepped back into the shadows as he fell silent.

  “What do you mean by that? Do you know something?” he demanded. The man simply shook his head and carried on wal
king into the night.

  “Crazy old fool,” Rhenkin muttered. “As if I don't have enough to worry about.” He drew his cloak tighter about himself and headed back to the camp.

  ***

  “Devin!” Erinn's voice cut through the noise of the village and he turned with a smile, as she weaved easily through the press of villagers, labourers and soldiers towards him. Overnight Widdengate had gone from a hamlet struggling to cope with an influx of refugees, to a military camp. The village itself was dwarfed by the camp and where once Devin had walk for ten to fifteen minutes to get into the village itself, now the ditch and beginnings of the wall were a mere five minutes away.

  He moved to meet her, smiling. “Erinn,” he said. “It feels like ages since I've seen you.”

  “It's only been a couple of days, you know,” she smiled back. “Besides, I've been busy in the hospital and you've been… What have you been doing?”

  “Khorin has me nailed to a plough,” he said, with a grimace. “Well, he did have before Freyton's men arrived. There doesn't seem much point now.”

  “Don't be so dramatic,” she laughed. “I doubt you were pulling it yourself. I seem to remember seeing two rather large horses in your barn. As for the other, you mustn't give up hope, you know. The Bjornmen might not even come here.”

  “I didn't mean it like that,” he said, stepping aside as a labourer struggled past carrying a long length of wood. “It's just that with them digging ditches and building these spiked logs that they are dropping all over the place, there isn't much point in ploughing a field.”

  Her face fell. “Oh! You're right, I suppose. Is the farm going to be alright? I hadn't thought about things like that what with...” She waved vaguely around. Then it dawned on him. With the influx of troops her father and his apprentices must have more work than they could handle at the moment.