The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  The remnants of the original watchtower could still be seen, if you knew where to look. The bay itself had changed considerably, with long wooden wharves now extending over the water and reavers at dock rocking gently. The natural curve of the land had been enhanced by a sea wall which formed the outer edge of the harbour, giving the appearance of stone arms cradling the fleet. Klöss could just make out the white sails of the fishing fleet beyond the harbour, hard at work with the great reavers as escorts, their blood-red sails clear against the pale seas.

  He leaned against the battlements, the stone cold and rough under his hands, as he let his thoughts drift. Verig had been the first one to really believe in him. Though Frostbeard had sponsored him and allowed him to take the trials, Klöss knew he had mostly been humoring him. He'd never really expected him to succeed.

  It was Verig who'd pushed him in training, Verig who had taken him aside after the first training raid, and schooled him in the advanced stances and sword forms. Thinking back, he could think of a dozen times when the sour-faced man had saved his life and another fifty when he'd fought beside Klöss, guarding his flank. In many ways, Verig had been the rock that he had relied on.

  “Who do I lean on now, old man?” he muttered, shielding his face from the sudden gust of wind carrying spray from the waves that crashed against the harbour wall.

  “I thought you would be here.” Tristan's smile didn't look right on his face. It was strained and forced. “There are words for men who talk to themselves.”

  “You mean names.”

  “Names. Words. There is little difference.” Tristan joined him at the wall and they watched the distant whitecaps as the wind continued to rise.

  “How did he take the news?” Tristan asked finally, without taking his eyes from the water.

  Klöss sighed. “It's hard to say. He's never really been one for displays of emotion.”

  “I forget sometimes that he is your uncle. Was he always this way?”

  “Like what? Cold? I don't know how much of that is real and how much of it is his 'Frostbeard' act. He will miss Verig though, they go back a long way.”

  “All will. I never saw anyone fight like he could, except…”

  “Except the one that killed him.” Klöss finished the sentence for him.

  “I didn't actually see it,” Tristan admitted. “I was busy with those creatures.”

  There was a tone to his voice that made Klöss glance at him questioningly.

  “I have never seen the like, Klöss, but there is talk among the men. Tales are being spread.”

  “Tales?”

  “Old tales. My grandmother spoke of them to me when I was small. Of trells and keiju.”

  Klöss looked him up and down with a wry smile. “I find it hard to believe you were ever small, Tristan.”

  Tristan grunted. “You joke, Klöss, but perhaps the men are right. These things...I struck one in the face with my axe. It fell backwards but then it stood again. There was no wound. No blood.”

  Klöss nodded. It wasn't the first report he'd had like that about the force they'd fought barely a week before. “There was something strange about them, I'll give you that. But trells? Keiju? I think we're all a bit too old for bedtime tales.”

  Tristan's mouth closed with an audible click but Klöss paid it no mind. His thoughts were already on the push that Frostbeard had asked him to plan.

  “This strange force aside,” he said, “what do you make of their troops?”

  “I think we have not yet faced them in any strength,” Tristan replied, after a moment's thought. He caught Klöss's gesture and went on. “The men in the signal tower, they would have been basic guards. The villages we have attacked have been defended by poorly trained men, little more than guards themselves. If I had to wager, I would say that we have yet to face whatever true army this land has.”

  Klöss chewed his lip. “I think you might be right. The soldiers we fought in our first training raid were far beyond anything we have encountered so far. I think they have pulled back. Maybe they are marshalling their strength.”

  “A true confrontation will not be long in coming.” Tristan joined him at the wall and followed his gaze out to sea.

  “You’re right,” Klöss replied, as he leaned over the edge of the wall and looked down towards the surf. “Uncle Aiden tells me the sealord himself is on the way. I have a feeling things are changing on us, my friend.” He met Tristan’s eyes. “We came searching for new lands. Frostbeard never intended for us to conquer these people, just to drive them back. Something tells me this is going to go a lot further than that.”

  “We just go where they send us, Klöss. We always have.”

  ***

  The dark ship carved through the waves, the heavy prow forcing them to part as the ranks of oars drove the vessel through the leaden swells. The sails were furled, the red dyed canvas tied tight against the spars.

  Klöss stood at the wharf, watching it approach. No fewer than six great reavers followed close behind and a dark smudge on the horizon hinted at more. “A bit much for a simple escort, wouldn’t you say?” he muttered to his uncle.

  Frostbeard favoured him with a quick grin. “The sealord needs to keep up appearances as much as anyone, lad. That’s all authority really ever is in the end, what other people think of you. Besides, there's probably a fleet of haulers behind those ships. I expect they’ll break off and head back out to sea as soon as they see him safely docked.”

  “I don’t really think he’s in much danger at this point,” Klöss said dryly.

  “Appearances, Klöss, appearances.”

  They waited as the huge vessel drew closer and settled at the end of the long deep-water wharf, while lines were tossed to waiting docksmen and the hawsers were made fast.

  Klöss shifted and fidgeted as they waited. The sea breeze tossed his hair, irritating him. His leathers felt too constrictive, choking him. The honour guard stood too close to him, crowding him. The man was taking too long to get off the damned ship.

  At last, the ramp was lowered to the wharf and men thundered down in heavy boots. They wore jet black leathers covered in bright steel plate, a ridiculous form of armour to wear on a ship. The saltwater spray would ruin it in no time. Klöss knew these were ceremonial guards. They had probably never been on a reaving in their lives. That said, they had the look of men who knew their weapons. Men whose lives were devoted to constant training, who perfected their knowledge of the sword as they guarded the sealord. These were not men he would want as his enemies.

  He watched as they flanked the ramp, swords bared and held high in salute. The sealord stood at the top, gold inlaid steel plates adorning his leathers and a bearskin cloak hanging from his shoulders. He looked up at the growing city, clearly in no hurry as he surveyed the walls and harbour before joining them on the wharf.

  “Aiden,” he said warmly, a broad smile on his bearded face as he reached for Frostbeard’s hand.

  “Sealord,” he said with a nod, as they shook hands firmly.

  “It’s quite a place you've thrown up here.” The sealord waved expansively at the walls. “It’s hardly a fort anymore. What are you calling it?”

  Aiden winced and Klöss fought down a grin as his uncle spoke. “Rimeheld,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my idea,” he added quickly. “Just something that came from the men.”

  The man’s features twisted as he puzzled his way through it. “Ah, Rime, not rhyme.” He laughed suddenly. “And they call me vain!”

  “As I said, it wasn’t my idea. It just sort of happened. You can’t call a place this size ‘The Fort’ forever.” Aiden’s voice was gruff, as he tried and failed not to sound defensive.

  “Of course not.” The sealord’s voice was steady but his lips quivered. “Shipmaster Klöss.” He nodded a greeting and then looked up at the high stone walls again. “Shall we? I must admit, I’m curious to see what you’ve accomplished.”

  Aiden waved them on and the sealord�
�s honour guard closed ranks around them as they left the wharf and began the climb up into the city.

  Their walk through the streets was brief, punctuated with stops at the market and barracks. The city was an odd amalgam of the military and the cosmopolitan. Large portions were purely designed for use by the army, with barracks and training grounds, offices and stables. At the same time, businesses had sprung up, seemingly overnight, selling everything from foodstuffs to clothing and jewellery. It was a place in flux.

  The ships had been flowing in from the Barren Isles almost constantly and lately they had contained more settlers than anything else. Rimeheld was bulging at the seams and growing in an odd, haphazard manner. The city seemed to strain against the rigid military order, like a horse that had yet to be broken. The original walls had long since failed to contain it and buildings had sprung up outside their protection, with new streets and neighbourhoods huddled up against the walls until a new outer defence could be constructed.

  At the same time as the city was expanding, buildings were constantly being replaced as the temporary wooden structures were torn down to make way for their stone replacements. This gave the city the look and feel of a pot on the boil. The contents were roiling and ever-changing.

  Aiden led the way, as proud as any new parent as he pointed out defence points and markets with equal enthusiasm. The tour ended in his office. The sealord raised an eyebrow as he looked around the spartan room, whilst Klöss and Aiden cleared piles of reports and plans from the chairs.

  Frostbeard waved the others into seats and sank down behind the desk with a sigh. “Can I offer you any refreshments?”

  “Keft, if you have it,” the sealord said, with a glance out of the window. “It’s a bit early for ale or wine for me.”

  Aiden waved vaguely at Klöss, who moved to the door to speak with the attendants outside.

  “Your last report was a few weeks ago. Why don’t you bring me up to speed? You mentioned you were facing some light resistance?”

  “That’s the problem with this level of distance, I suppose,” Aiden grunted. “You’re always catching up on last month’s news.” He stared up at the ceiling as he thought and scratched at his close-cropped beard. “The situation has changed a bit. We’re holding all of the lands we’ve taken and there have been no real attempts to reclaim them. There was a strange, night-time counter-attack on some of our forces though, after the last village razing. Klöss here can give you more details.”

  Klöss swallowed and tried to force his thoughts into some semblance of order, as the sealord looked at him expectantly. “We were attacked by some form of elite unit after we’d set up camp for the night,” he began. The sealord’s intense stare unsettled him and he suddenly felt like a boy before his masters again. “They must have slipped past the outer sentries. They were upon us before half of us even knew they were there. They were highly trained, my lord. I’m afraid our losses were heavy.”

  “How heavy?” The man’s voice was curt.

  “Roughly a third of our force, my lord,” Klöss replied. His throat felt like it was trying to close, and he fought the urge to swallow and show his nerves.

  “That many?”

  Klöss nodded. “They weren't routed or even driven back, my lord. They broke off the attack and quit the field by choice. It hurts me to admit it but if they hadn’t, they’d probably have slaughtered us to a man.”

  The older man nodded and looked at the door at the knock. An attendant stepped in at Aiden’s call and set down a tray filled with cups and a steaming jug. The rich smell filled the room and Klöss inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma.

  “It takes a lot to admit defeat or failure, Shipmaster. A man more vain than you might have tried to dress it differently. I appreciate that you didn't.” He looked back across the desk, watching as Aiden poured the dark drink into the cups. “What are your plans then?”

  “In response, my lord?” Aiden asked.

  “Well, I think there needs to be something, don’t you? Of course, that’s just my suggestion. The theatre is still yours to command.”

  Klöss raised his eyebrows at that. The sentence sounded unfinished and the implied threat hung heavy at the end of it.

  Aiden sipped his keft and studied the sealord’s expression. Klöss found himself looking back and forth between the two of them. Frostbeard was a hard man to read, he always had been, and Klöss was finding the sealord to be cut from the same cloth.

  “In one sense, the attack is irrelevant. It came after we had already razed the village.” Frostbeard stood and moved to a chart on one wall, carrying his cup. “They have no towns or villages for several miles beyond this point. Any troop movements would be spotted by scouts and patrols easily before they came close to any of our territories.”

  “A rather passive approach, don’t you think?”

  Klöss watched the exchange in silence, admiring Frostbeard’s self-control as the sealord jabbed at him.

  “That rather depends on whether the objective is kept in sight or not, my lord.” He sipped at his keft again. “The intention was to seize lands, not to enter into an outright war. I have no interest in seeking revenge for attacks. That would simply lead to an escalation of the conflict and, to be frank, we do not have a clear understanding of how large this nation might be.”

  The sealord absorbed this in silence, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “And what of these other attacks? This isn't the first attack you've suffered, is it?”

  “How did you know about that?” Aiden burst out.

  “Really, Aiden, you don't think you're my sole source of information, do you?” the sealord chided.

  Frostbeard grunted, though his eyes showed his anger even if his lips kept it contained. “They were nothing. Attacks on some of the outlying villages. They didn't even bother to attack the structures. All we suffered was the loss of a few farmers.”

  “A touch more than 'a few', I believe.” The sealord stopped him before he could go on. “We will talk more on this later, Seamaster Kurikson,” he said, setting his cup of keft back on the table. “For now, I think I’d like you to have someone show me to my rooms. I have never found the journey through the Vorstelv to be a relaxing one.”

  Frostbeard waited as the man rose to his feet. “Of course, Sealord.” He ushered him out of the study. Steam still rose from the cup on the table, the expensive keft cooling as it sat untouched.

  Klöss rose and bowed, working hard to control his expression as the sealord made his exit. Frostbeard had mentioned nothing of any attacks. What else was he concealing?

  ***

  Rimeheld never really grew quiet. Despite the fact that it was smaller than Hesk, it was a dense, compact city and, as the day ended, it underwent a transformation. The shops closed, the markets grew still, and the inns and taverns became busier.

  The keep bustled as the servants prepared a welcoming banquet with everyone from cooks to stewards rushing to make things ready. The guards stood on the walls, slaves to convention and ritual, ever watchful in the darkness.

  The moon rose, full and heavy, as it climbed out of the seas. The silvery light played down upon the still waters, dancing on the gentle swells.

  Klöss stared down at the ocean as he leaned against the wall. The faint sound of the water lapping at the closest wharf carried to his ears in the breeze. They would be looking for him. The sealord’s banquet would probably be a thing of pomp and ceremony. Men who hadn’t held a sword in decades would be grasping wine cups and raising them high, as if it somehow mattered.

  The thought was enough to make him shudder and he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The night was still enough for him to hear the footsteps and he glanced back over his shoulder at the sound before looking pointedly back out to sea.

  “They will find you here, you know?” Tristan said, his face carefully blank.

  “Probably, but I can’t force myself to go in just yet.” Klöss picked at the merlon in front of him and wor
ried at a tiny ridge in the stone.

  “There are those that would kill for a seat at the sealord’s table.”

  “I know one they could have,” Klöss muttered.

  Tristan laughed and joined him at the wall. “Is it really that bad?”

  “I suppose not,” Klöss said, with a sigh. “It’s more the fact that I don’t feel I should be there. I’ve done nothing special. I’m there purely because I’m Frostbeard’s nephew.”

  “I don’t think many would see it that way,” Tristan said, his smile gone. “You produced the fleet. You’ve been involved in every level of planning.”

  Klöss waved a hand, brushing away the words. “Those are things anyone could have done. I don’t put myself as any more important than the next shipmaster.”

  Tristan gritted his teeth and grasped him by the shoulders. “You’re being a child, Klöss. The sealord is here to inspect our progress. He is going to want first-hand reports. You owe your men more than this. You owe your fallen more than this.”

  Klöss flushed, growing first pale and then red as the import of the words sank in. “It’s a foolish dance of flattery and pandering. I won’t reduce myself to that level.”

  “So don’t,” Tristan grated, his own temper rising. “But, by the Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, you owe Verig better than this.” He bulled on, ignoring the stricken look on Klöss’s face. “Get in there and get the sealord’s ear. Give him a full report of that attack and make sure we get the support we need.”

  Klöss stared at him open-mouthed, grasping for words that slipped away like minnows in the shallows. Tristan was usually so placid. It was a shock to hear him being so blunt.

  “Don’t waste time talking, Klöss.” Tristan steered him towards the doorway by the shoulders. “Go!”

  The corridors grew steadily busier as Klöss drew close to the banquet hall. He stopped for a moment, his hand pressed to the door frame, as the rumble of conversation leaked under the door and into the hallway. The guards were exchanging odd looks at his delay and Tristan’s words smarted again. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the door open and marched in.