The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “But how?” he asked, sucking on his pipe.

  “That’s the problem,” muttered Devin. “We know nothing about them. We saw how effective iron was at the glade. It works, sure, but we need more than that. Most of the men were next to useless.”

  “How do you mean?” Erinn asked. No one had said much about the terrible confrontation at the glade and, in the three days that had passed since, the focus had been upon making individual homes safe from the hunt in case it descended upon Widdengate.

  “It was like the soldiers with us were half-asleep. They just stood there and smiled at the fae as they arrived. If we’d all struck at once, we might have been able to do more. As it was, only a handful of us actually fought. But that’s not all of it either. We need to know what the fae actually want.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Devin,” Obair said, with a sigh. “All of the druids' records and chronicles died with them. I know little more than you do, at this point.”

  Devin pinched his forehead again. “Damn this headache. I can’t think right with these waves of pain in my head. We need to know more about the fae, find out what they want. We need a way to talk to them.”

  “Talk to them!” Obair scoffed. “I can’t see them coming in for a nice chat, my lad.”

  “That’s it!” Erinn cried, as both of them turned to look at her.

  “What is?” Devin asked.

  She looked off into the distance as she thought. “I need to talk to Captain Rhenkin. My father too. I have an idea.”

  ***

  Lieutenant Larson peered into the pit as Harlen tested the bars lining the trap. “What do you think?” he called down.

  “They’re as strong as I can make them. The sides of the pit itself will provide some more strength but…” The smith frowned up at the lieutenant and shrugged.

  “I know,” Larson sighed. “There’s no way to test this thing, really.”

  The ladder shook as Harlen pulled himself out. He dusted himself down and took the mug of ale from Owen gratefully.

  “Hot and heavy work,” the portly innkeeper noted. “I never envied you your trade, Harlen.”

  The smith snorted. “Did you come up with a way to get the top on?” he asked Larson.

  “Not as fast as I’d like. The only thing I can think is to just drop it on or pull it across. The captain expects a report on this shortly and I still have no real solution,” Larson admitted, with a sour expression.

  “That’s going to be too slow, Sir. You know how quick they are,” a private muttered, brushing mud from his uniform. “If we can get this right, we’ll have one of the bastards like a bear in a…” He flushed as he realised who he was talking to and trailed off into silence as his sergeant gave him a furious look.

  “In a trap. A bear trap!” Larson whirled around, snapping his fingers. “Why didn’t you suggest that, Sergeant?” he demanded of the flustered soldier who was glowering at the private.

  “My experience of bear traps is limited, Sir,” he said, weakly.

  “Bah!” Larson waved a dismissive hand at him. “Do you know anything about that sort of thing?” he asked Harlen, who tugged on his beard as he thought.

  “It’d need to be a mightily powerful spring,” he said slowly, his mind moving faster than his mouth. “Let me think on it.”

  “Good enough. We have a couple of days left until the full moon anyway,” Larson said, looking down at the pit again. “Damned clever idea, though. You’ve got a bright one there in that girl.”

  “Don’t I know it!” Harlen muttered. “She’s been running rings around me for years.”

  Larson laughed. “One of the reasons I never had children. Daughters are the punishment for men being men. When I think back to what I was like at her age...” He stopped, glancing at the smith’s rapidly darkening face “Yes, well, never mind about that. I’d best go and report on our progress.”

  “You do that,” Harlen muttered into the tankard of ale.

  Larson chuckled to himself as he walked across what had once been the village green towards the command post. The village had almost ceased to exist. The military machine that was the army encampment had absorbed it utterly.

  He ran up the wooden steps into the captain’s office, noting the empty chair behind the desk that groaned with papers and reports. The office was empty. Sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered looking in there.

  Finally, he located Rhenkin. He was walking the palisade, his uniform immaculate but his face was lined and drawn. Larson believed his primary duty was to support his commanding officer, something too many in the service neglected, in his opinion. He’d served under some piss-poor officers, men more interested in preening themselves in the mirror than doing their job, and children of nobles who’d had their commissions arranged with a handshake or a full purse.

  “You’ve not been sleeping again, Sir,” Larson noted, as the captain turned at his approach.

  “Don’t mother me, Larson.” Rhenkin scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “Do you have the scout reports? I’d have expected them to push forward by now.”

  “The Bjornmen, Sir?”

  “Of course the Bjornmen!” Rhenkin barked.

  “Sorry, Sir, I’ve been working on the pit trap the blacksmith’s girl thought up,” Larson explained. “The scouts report they found a battle site. It seems the Bjornmen suffered massive losses, by the looks of things.”

  “From who?” Rhenkin wondered.

  “Not us, clearly, and the king has yet to send a single man,” Larson said, without thinking.

  Rhenkin’s eyes turned cold. “You forget yourself, soldier.”

  “My apologies, Sir. I spoke out of turn and thoughtlessly.”

  Rhenkin grunted, acknowledging the apology. “How recent is this report?”

  “Two days, Sir. The next one is late but could be in any time now.” Larson glanced over the wall, as if expecting to see the scouts approaching.

  “Two days is too long, Larson.” Rhenkin frowned at him. “They could be on our doorstep by now. Send them more often. I want a report twice daily, even if it’s just to tell me nothing is happening.”

  Larson nodded.

  “How long do we have until full moon?”

  “Three days, Captain.”

  “If they’ve just suffered a defeat, now would be the perfect time to strike,” Rhenkin muttered, half to himself. “Damn it, these fae are just too unpredictable. We can’t risk the men in open country overnight, not until we find a way to counter these damned fiends.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to inspect the pit, Sir?”

  “What?” Rhenkin looked up at the man, as if suddenly remembering he was still there.

  “The pit, Sir. The one you ordered us to construct?”

  “Oh yes, the pit. I’ll take a look at it when I get a chance.” Rhenkin looked down behind him towards the barracks. Off-duty soldiers lounged on the steps and lay in the grass.

  “The men are looking a little shabby, Larson,” he said, with a frown. “Why don’t you go and sweat them for a bit? I need some space to think.”

  “Very good, Sir.” Larson saluted and turned smartly on his heel.

  Rhenkin watched him go. Larson was a good man, an excellent soldier and a damned fine officer. It seemed sometimes that the more a man rose through the ranks, the less competent he became. There was too much back-biting and jockeying for position these days.

  “Listen to me,” he muttered to himself. “I sound like an old man.” He let out a snort at himself, “I know I feel like one!”

  He stared out over the wall towards the distant trees. The land had been ravaged, raped by the needs of war. What had once been fields covered with flourishing crops was now barren earth, scarred by rows of deep trenches filled with sharpened stakes.

  Hedgehogs - whole tree trunks bristling with stakes and razor-sharp blades set into the wood - lay strewn in the spaces between the trenches. Their purpose was not so much to cause injury, but
to break up formations, to slow and to impede the enemy's progress. The two hundred yards immediately before the walls of the fortress that Widdengate had become were a killing field. The wooden palisade was spiked with shards of iron - nails, splinters, whatever could be driven into the wood. And yet the entire system of defences was next to useless against these fae. Rhenkin slammed his hands against the walls in frustration.

  Widdengate had been spared the Wild Hunt. Where the fae had gone after they left the druid’s glade was anybody's guess, but they hadn’t gone near the village. That hadn’t stopped satyrs and fae from attacking almost nightly since, however. The new moon had come as a blessed respite.

  He turned and glanced towards the west. It was a futile motion and he knew what he would see. More trees and unspoilt fields. There was no relief column, no flag flying the king’s standard. For whatever reason, Widdengate and all of his duchess’s lands stood defended by his forces alone.

  The sun was just reaching its highest point. He made his way down the steps and hurried through the remains of the village. The pit had been positioned close to the smithy. The idea was that the iron from the forge would cover the scent of the iron from the trap, or something like that.

  A shout went up from the walls and the gates creaked open behind him. He stopped in his tracks and turned as the scout stumbled through. Even from this distance, he could see the blood staining the man's clothes. His horse was nowhere to be seen. Rhenkin set off for the gates at a run.

  The man had sunk to the ground and been surrounded by a cluster of men by the time he reached him.

  “Bastards shot my horse out from under me,” the scout gasped, taking a skin from one of the soldiers. He drank desperate gulps between heaving breaths.

  “They’re on the move. Can’t be more than a day and a half behind me.”

  Rhenkin closed his eyes against a wave of anger. It wouldn't do any good to scream at the scout.

  “How many? Is it a probe?”

  The man looked at him and realised who he was speaking to. He made an attempt to stand, but Rhenkin stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. “Never mind that, man, just tell me.”

  “No, Sir, it’s got to be a full attack. I couldn’t even guess at the numbers. They stretched as far as I could see.”

  Rhenkin swore and waved a corporal over. “Sound the bells, I want this place locked down. Bring all the patrols back in as soon as possible. And someone get me Larson!” The list ended in a shout.

  The village was transformed over the next few hours. They threw the rear gates wide open to let out those villagers that chose to flee. Ballistae were wheeled into position in front of the walls next to the catapults. There hadn’t been time to build sufficient platforms against the palisade to mount many of them, so the evil-looking contraptions crouched on the ground, waiting only for their prey. Teams of men scurried around the fields, covering stake-lined pits and moving more of the massive hedgehogs into position.

  Rhenkin stood high in one of the watchtowers and watched the line of refugees fleeing through the gates. He’d had the civilians warned as soon as he’d heard the news.

  “How many do you think?” he asked Larson.

  “Sir?”

  “How many have left?”

  “Hard to say, Sir. We didn’t have a count of them to begin with. Too many arriving and moving on.”

  Rhenkin nodded. “They’ll have a hard time of it on the road.”

  “I expect we’ll have a hard enough time of it here, Sir” Larson snorted. “Still, fewer mouths.”

  Rhenkin grunted his agreement. Fewer people meant more supplies to go round and the villagers would just have been underfoot anyway. It was ironic that he’d been sent to defend these lands and people, and the best way for him to do it was to send them off on their own.

  “Harrying force, Sir?”

  “Hmm?” He looked round to see Larson with a map spread out over the floor. “They’ll be passing into some heavy woods before they get close. It’s a good place to bleed them.”

  Rhenkin knelt down to get a closer look. “Send skirmishers. Three full companies on horseback if we can spare the mounts. Have them harry only, Larson.”

  “I’ll see to it, Sir.” Larson headed for the steps.

  “I mean it, Larson. I don’t want them to close at all. Bows only and pull back after each engagement. We can’t afford to lose good men just because some idiot sergeant thinks he can fight his way to a field commission.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Larson met his eyes and nodded again.

  “Oh, and Larson?”

  “Sir?”

  “See if you can convince that Devin lad to go with them. He might know some likely spots for ambush closer to the village.”

  “Really, Sir? I don’t mean to question you but…”

  Rhenkin waved away the almost apology. “He accounted well for himself at that stone circle when most of the men didn’t. I have a feeling he could make a good scout some day. Try him. Make sure he knows he’s being asked to go, not ordered to, though. It's his choice.”

  “Understood, Sir.”

  ***

  Devin avoided the patch of dried leaves, moving to the side and setting his feet down on the bare earth and the fallen tree branch instead. The mottled green scout’s cloak felt heavy, and he had to work hard to keep it from snagging and making noise. The scout ahead of him looked back, nodded in approval and then waved him forward until they all came together by a large tree.

  “Alright, we’re close enough now that we could see them any minute,” the leader said. His voice was low, not far above a whisper, and Devin had to lean in towards him to hear properly.

  “I want a skirmish line with a ten foot spacing. Do you know what that is, boy?” Jameson looked at him at the last and Devin nodded. He'd had it explained to him three times already.

  “How’s the lad holding up?” Jameson asked the scout next to Devin.

  “Good, Sir. He's quick and quiet. Better than a lot of others I’ve trained.” Devin’s pleasure at the compliment was dampened by the way they spoke as if he wasn’t there. He’d been “boy” and “lad” all day.

  “You stick between Riddal and me,” Jameson said, his eyes hard and serious. “If you see or hear anything, you point it out to one of us first.”

  Devin nodded. The man clearly thought of him as a child and he wasn’t about to prove him right.

  “I mean it, boy. You fire before we’re ready and the Bjornmen will be the last thing you need to worry about.”

  “I understand, Sir,” Devin hoped his irritation wasn’t obvious in his voice.

  “Slow and quiet now.” Jameson’s eyes swept the group. “I want to hear them before I see them. Don’t fuck it up.” His gaze landed on Devin as he swore, and then he turned without another word and was gone, into the trees.

  The men spread out in a long line, keeping abreast of one another but with room between them so they could pass trees and bushes. They’d been moving since before dawn, keeping to the road for the sake of speed for the first few hours, and then heading deep into the forest. They were further from Widdengate than Devin had ever been when hunting. The woods were new to him but still had a familiar feel about them.

  The line froze as a bird exploded out of the trees ahead of them, and Devin snatched an arrow from his quiver, setting it to the string but not yet pulling it back. He relaxed as he realised it was just a spooked wood pigeon and glanced to one side, catching Riddal’s nod.

  They moved slowly, taking the time to ensure they were silent rather than keeping to a faster pace. The skies were overcast which served to make the forest darker than usual, the thick canopy blocking out much of the light.

  The woods were alive with distant birdsong and so Devin almost missed the faint crack of a twig from up ahead of them. He froze and waved at Riddal to attract his attention, gesturing to his ear and then pointing in front of them.

  Riddal froze in place as he listened. He raised an eyebrow
at Devin, but the woods were silent aside from the birds. His gaze passed beyond Devin for a moment. Devin looked behind him in time to see Jameson motioning them onwards with an impatient scowl.

  The voices carried clearly through the trees, despite the hushed tones of those speaking. Devin crouched behind a bush and nocked an arrow. He shot a look at Riddal and received a smile in return. He’d been right about hearing something after all and the scout knew it.

  He sighted along the arrow through a small gap in the leaves of the bush. The voices grew steadily louder and were accompanied by the rustle of leaves and crack of twigs. Whoever it was making all the noise knew nothing of woodscraft.

  Jameson waved at him and held his hand out as if halting them, before nocking his own arrow. The voices became even louder. Their words were still indistinct, but they were clearly speaking a different language. Devin relaxed the string of his bow and waited. There was a blur of movement in the trees and then Jameson let fly. A crash of bushes and a groan of pain showed his aim had been good.

  There was a shout and then men boiled out of the trees. Devin picked one at random, his arrow flying wild as his hands shook. They were coming so quickly. He snatched up another shaft and released smoothly, catching the man in the throat and dropping him cleanly. He could do this, he told himself. It wasn’t that different to hunting. His trembling hands told another story, though. He quickly drew another arrow and released. His arrow joined Riddal’s and they both hit the man in the chest.

  The woods fell silent and Devin crouched low behind the bush, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding. He forced himself to get up and follow the others out of the bushes to reclaim the arrows. The man he'd shot lay on the ground, arms and legs straight and relaxed, almost as if he were sleeping. He looked very young, little older than Devin himself. His boyish face had blonde wispy fluff growing on his cheeks. Devin stared at him, unable to move for the moment.

  “Stay there, lad,” Riddal said softly. He knelt and worked the arrow out of the ruin of the man’s throat. “Your other one snapped. Unlucky.”

  “Alright, men,” Jameson called. “Let’s move back and see if we can find a good place. These scouts will be missed before too long.”