The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  The lighter missiles flew farther than the rocks and soared over the walls into the village itself. From the hilltop, there seemed to be little effect other than the occasional scream when a glowing ember worked its way through armour and clothing to skin.

  Klöss watched intently, whilst behind him he could hear the clatter of stones as the catapults were reloaded. As the weaponsmaster gave the order to fire again, Klöss heard the distant cries of dismay as tendrils of smoke rose from the village. The tiny glowing coals had lodged themselves in the thatch of half a dozen homes and, as the steady breeze fanned them, the fire kindled and began to feast eagerly on the tightly packed straw and wooden beams. In a matter of minutes, flames were soaring high and neighbouring roofs were beginning to smoke, as sparks and embers flew into the air.

  A rumble of hooves heralded the attack before it began. From around the edges of the woods to the north, a company of mounted men approached at full gallop with weapons drawn.

  “Well, bugger me, they can think!” Klöss muttered. “Weaponsmaster, maintain your barrage. Section leaders, prepare for horsemen!”

  The men moved easily into their positions. Shifting in a manoeuvre which had been practised so many times as to be second nature, the spearmen formed a long line and knelt low, with their weapons braced against the earth. Two other men knelt on either side of each spearman, bearing bulky and awkward arbelests loaded with heavy, iron bolts.

  The horsemen crested the last rise and charged, bending low over their horses as they swept down towards the waiting Islanders. As they got within fifty feet, their lances lowered like a breaking wave, and then the arbelests fired.

  The bolts they were using were not the standard quarrels. There was no wood in the shaft and the fletching was more for the sake of convention than anything else, as the effective range of the weapon was little more than fifty feet. The arbelests had been brought along with only one purpose in mind, and it was for this reason that the bolts slammed, not into the riders, but into the horses.

  The air was split with whinnying screams as the heavy bolts smashed legs and tore into the unprotected chests of the horses. Mounted men fell en masse and the charge dissolved into chaos, as the horses behind smashed into those falling or already rolling on the ground. The few that made it to the Islander's lines were met by the waiting spearmen, who stabbed savagely into the animals' necks and skipped aside as they crashed to the dirt. The stricken cavalry were ill-prepared as the Islanders charged and, within a few short minutes, they were slaughtered to a man.

  Another barrage of rocks smashed into the walls and the hastily-built defences began to sag as the wooden posts that formed the palisade split under the onslaught. Finally, as a great section of the wall crashed down to the ground, the gate swung open and the defenders poured from the village.

  The Islanders quickly reset their lines as the section leaders screamed orders, shifting to meet the defending force.

  “Spare none?” Tristan asked, quickly.

  “It's the standard order, Tristan,” Klöss replied, as he checked the straps on his shield and settled his helmet.

  “Weaponsmaster! Cease the barrage,” Klöss shouted. “Arbelests, reload and prepare for horsemen!” He watched as the defenders formed ranks and began the march towards them. He'd chosen their position carefully. What began as a gentle slope became a serious incline after a few feet, and the villagers would be feeling the weight of their armour before they made it halfway to the top.

  There were fewer than two hundred of them, but Klöss had learned never to underestimate people defending their own homes. Finally, as he decided that there would be no more of the horsemen he'd come to dread facing, he turned to Tristan with a tight grin. “Think you can still keep up?”

  “You still need me to play nursemaid and keep close to you?” Tristan grinned back.

  Klöss lifted his sword high and screamed “Charge!” and the massed Islanders sprinted down the hill.

  He ran with the others, sword in hand and a grin plastered to his face, as they barrelled into the enemy ranks. A sword crashed off his shield and he turned to its owner, a boy of no more than twelve summers. The boy's expression was one of terror, as Klöss rammed his blade into his chest. He slipped off the end of Klöss's sword with a hurt and confused expression, and sank to the earth.

  The fight was short and ugly. The Islanders swarmed over the enemy, overwhelming them in what felt like moments. Then it became a wanton slaughter, as they chased down those who sought to flee, cutting them down one by one. Sickened by it all, Klöss made his way up the hill and sat on an old stump as he watched the wreckage of the village burn. His men were moving through the remains, touching torches to any buildings left intact. The storehouses had long since been emptied.

  He looked up as Tristan flopped down beside him. “Not a good fight,” the big man said. “These men in the village. They were not warriors. More like farmers taught how to hold a sword for a day or two.”

  Klöss grunted in agreement and watched idly as his troops began work on constructing an encampment for the night. The sun was already close to setting and the smoke from the village painted a dark stain across the sky.

  “This is the last one we have to do for a time, though,” Klöss said. “They've nothing left standing in the lands we've taken. No reason to return, other than revenge. We've done all we can.”

  “You think it will work?” Tristan asked.

  “Would it work on you?” Klöss said with a tired smile. “No, I doubt it will stop them trying to return. They'll send troops soon enough and probably more than just the handful of horsemen we saw here, but it might stop some of the peasants coming back. We didn't come to conquer the people, after all. We just want the land.” He rose slowly to his feet. “Let's go and see if this lot have remembered how to make a camp, shall we?”

  ***

  The moonlight reflected from the stones, painting the trees in shades of grey and making the leaves dull and lifeless. The glade was silent. The stones clustered around the monolith like children begging for a story. Delighted laughter suddenly echoed off the trees and silence fled as bare feet stepped out of nothing and onto the grass.

  Three sets of eyes that glowed faintly amber in the moonlight were filled with amazement and then delight, as the fae moved slowly around the clearing, reaching out with long, elegant fingers to touch the grass and the stones. Other figures passed through into the glade and the fae stepped aside as the satyrs passed through, first in twos and threes, and then by the score. Before long, the glade was filled with the sounds of music and wild laughter. A single harsh clap called for silence and the hush fell almost instantly.

  She stood at the monolith, leaning against it in a graceful pose of idle relaxation. Her skin shone white in the moonlight but if a man were to look closer, he would have noticed the pale green swirls and sparks coming from her bare skin where the light touched her. She looked down at her simple clothing and a shimmer passed over her form, as if her image were a reflection in a pool of water disturbed by a fallen leaf. Her form twisted in the half-light and then she was clad in a gleaming breastplate, greaves, vambraces and a shining winged helm.

  The assembled fae and satyrs laughed and hooted at the glamour and then stood and listened attentively as she spoke to them in a lyrical tongue. She spoke quickly, explaining her wishes in simple terms they could understand and then she fell silent and pointed into the trees with the unmistakable air of command. Moving fluidly, the host coursed out of the glade without a sound, moving with a grace that belied their blistering speed. The three fae followed close behind with long easy strides that matched pace with the charging satyrs.

  In a few hours, they emerged from the woods and drew to a halt, gazing down upon the field of campfires that lay before them. Hundreds of tents stood pitched near the still smouldering village, and the light of the campfires cast a ruddy glow as smoke curled up into the moonlit sky.

  Teeth bared in feral grins, the
fae called out soft commands in their musical tongue and a hundred bone knives tasted the cool, night air for the first time in a hundred generations. The armour-clad fae, now shining in the moonlight, cried out a single word and the satyrs flowed out from the forest and fell upon the Islander's camp like a black wave crashing upon the shore.

  The first who fell died silent, startled deaths as they stood on watch with bored eyes looking into the darkness. Then a terrible scream cut through the quiet and the camp came alive, as men scrambled from their blankets to grab weapons and roll to their feet. By the time the first horn sounded, the satyrs were well into the camp. The fae stood at the edge of the forest, cruel smiles on their lips as they watched and waited.

  ***

  Verig kicked savagely at the sleeping men through the sides of the tent. “Get up, you motherless dogs! Enemy in the camp!” He put the horn to his lips again and sounded it high and clear. A dark figure hurtled towards him and he dropped the horn as he ripped his sword from its scabbard and sank into a low stance. The figure flew at him, wielding two long horn knives as it thrust in high at his throat. Rather than risk the second blade slashing downwards, Verig twisted away, allowing the knife to scrape along the face of his shield, as he stepped back and to the side of the line of attack.

  He held his blade low and ready, the weapon steady in his palm, although his heart began to race as the firelight revealed the attacker for what it was. The satyr grinned as it moved towards him, its hooves moving on the grass lightly. The knives twisted and spun in their own dance as it approached, and the creature let out a small laugh as it neatly sidestepped the blade Verig flicked out.

  The attack came with no warning. Verig had a lifetime of experience in the arts of war and had spent years training others to watch for the signs of attack. A slight crouching to brace for a lunge, a tightening of the grip, a dropping of one shoulder. This time however, there was no warning and his experience failed him utterly. The satyr was upon him before he could react. He staggered backwards in a desperate move to distance himself from the blades. The air hissed as the horn knife passed within a hair's breadth of his throat and then he fell, as his boot hit the tent's guy rope.

  The breath blasted from his lungs as he landed heavily, and he twisted and rolled to the side as the knives followed his fall. His sword had fallen from his grasp as he hit the ground, and he lashed out savagely with his shield, feeling it slam into the creature's face with a satisfying crunch. Verig felt, more than saw, the thing stagger backwards and he flailed about desperately for his sword. His hand closed on a wooden handle and he hurled the object hard as he rose to his feet.

  The heavy wooden mallet smashed into the satyr's forehead with a deep thunk and the creature dropped to the ground like a poleaxed cow. As he searched about for his sword and pulled it from the tangle of the collapsed tent, he saw dark forms moving through the camp like a deathly wind. Blades bounced off creatures' skin and although they screamed in pain, they barely slowed as they reached out with their bone knives, slashing at the Islanders' eyes and thrusting their blades into their throats.

  Shining armour caught his eye even as he heard the calls from behind him, ordering men to form ranks. The woman was tall and beautiful, although her amber eyes were cold. She regarded him evenly from beneath her winged helm as she crouched to retrieve a sword from a fallen man. She lifted the weapon and turned it curiously so it caught the moonlight.

  Though she never took her eyes from him, she seemed intrigued by the weapon, testing its balance and even sniffing the blade with a delicate motion. A slow smile spread across her face, revealing brilliant white teeth. She leapt towards him, covering ten feet in a single bound and landing lightly just beyond his weapon's reach. She waited calmly, as he sank into a fighting stance and then she struck.

  He moved easily away from the line of the attack and thrust hard as she overextended beside him. The grin that had been forming on his lips faltered as he encountered only empty air and the fae moved lightly around the thrust with a speed no man could hope to match. He shifted backwards and moved smoothly to meet her next attack, steel striking steel and singing the song he'd loved his entire adult life.

  She was fast, there was no denying that. She seemed unused to the weight of the weapon though and lacked any apparent training with a blade. Despite this, her natural grace and inhuman speed made her a deadly opponent, and he let all other thoughts fall away from him. Flowing easily from form to form, he matched her attacks with blocks or slid away from them on light feet.

  Her armour seemed impossibly light as she moved, and it was only when he scored a light touch that he realised the truth. It wasn't steel at all, or any form of metal despite the way it shone. Instead, it was something soft and yielding. If it wasn't for the evidence of his own eyes, he would have said she was wearing nothing at all, save the thinnest cloth.

  She sprung back from him easily escaping his reach, before speaking in perfect, though oddly-accented Islik. “It has been a long time, manling. I thank you for the bout.”

  “Bout?” he roared back at her. “This is no game, you damned hell-witch!”

  “What else is there?” She laughed then, a cold laugh filled with mocking as she eyed him with her contempt obvious in her amber eyes.

  He moved forward on swift feet and thrust hard, his body uncoiling like a snake and his knee sinking low as his other leg extended out behind him for balance. His blade stretched out and caught her hard on her thigh, an inch above the knee. Again the armour seemed to afford no protection but the blade did not penetrate. He rolled to the side, rather than attempt to pull back from the thrust, and then rose smoothly to his feet as the smile slipped off her face like water from a leaf. “You dare?” she hissed and hurled herself back into the fight.

  Verig danced through the forms with a speed he'd never matched before, shifting from stance to stance smoothly as he moved through strike, block, side-step and riposte. He blocked the fae's clumsy strikes with ease. Her rage was making her intentions as transparent to him as a student who'd never held a blade. Her speed was astonishing, however, and it took all of his concentration to keep her thrusts and slashes from him.

  She grew more and more irate as they moved back and forth, crying out what were clearly curses, but in a language he did not recognise, but which were clear from the tone of her voice. Finally she cast the sword aside in disgust and pulled two long, oddly shaped knives, from her back before sinking into an alien stance and weaving them in an intricate pattern. She moved in, like silk over glass, thrusting at his face with one blade even as she other slashed down at his thigh with the other. He raised his shield to block the one blow and slashed his sword down to counter the other. Too late, he realised the move had been a feint and she spun to the left, her body arching around his sword and arms twisting high over her head with the knives in a graceful sweep, only to plunge down and bury them both in his side behind his sword arm.

  Verig gasped as they tore through his boiled leather armour as if it were no more than sackcloth. He staggered and fell to one knee as she ripped the blades free and stepped back to watch him, a broad smile on her alien features under the helm as he sucked in a ragged breath. He fell into a fit of coughing as a bloody froth erupted from his lips. Gasping, he fell to the moonlit grass and, as the darkness grew at the edges of his vision, he saw her lean in close to watch the life leaving his eyes.

  The fae tore through the Islanders like a bloody wind and men fell in droves before the satyrs as they spun and danced their deadly dance. Some of the creatures fell too, their bones broken by the efforts of a score of men, but it was clear the night would belong to the attacking force. The battle raged for hours, slowing as the Islanders formed ranks and began to respond in a coordinated fashion.

  As the moon began to sink towards the horizon the fae turned, as if responding to some inaudible signal, and fled into the night. The Islanders reeled in their wake, as units staggered to a halt and confusion reigned in the dar
kness, until the cry to stand down was repeated through the force.

  As dawn broke, Klöss picked his way through the carnage, his shield slung on his back and his face drawn as he stepped through the field of bodies. Entire units lay dead at his feet, still in formation. He shook his head at the slaughter, only half-hearing his name being called from behind him.

  “Klöss, you are needed.” Tristan said, as he caught up with him. “The men need direction.”

  “They all know what needs doing,” Klöss replied, as he scanned the field of corpses surrounding them both.

  “This is not like you, Klöss, to leave the men like this.” The question was unspoken but clear enough and Klöss could see the worry in the oarsman's face as he glanced at him. He had just opened his mouth to reply, when he caught sight of the person he had been searching for. “Verig!” he shouted, as he darted past Tristan.

  The man lay on his side, curled against the pain that still showed on his cold face. Klöss slowed as he approached and walked slowly towards his old teacher. The grass around him was soaked with his blood. He sensed Tristan moving up beside him.

  “Should we take him back with us? Frostbeard would want to see him,” the man said, in a low voice.

  “What?” Klöss frowned. “No. No, we'll build a pyre here. I'll not take him from his battle.”

  Tristan waved a man over and gave the order to begin cutting wood. “What were those things, do you think?”

  “Some form of elite unit, I imagine,” Klöss replied. “Though they were like nothing I've ever seen.”

  “Why send them now? It makes no sense that they were not there to defend the village,” Tristan objected.

  “Perhaps they arrived late, I don't know.” Klöss shook his head. “I'll tell you one thing, though. Uncle Aiden will be furious about our losses and even more livid about Verig. These people will pay a tithe in blood.”