The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  They had backtracked for no more than ten minutes when a shout went up. Distant screams of pain carried through the forest and Devin knew the other skirmish teams were hard at work. The fight had begun in earnest.

  The day began to blur, becoming an endless succession of small ambushes. They’d shoot no more than two arrows apiece, reclaim them where they could and then run back towards Widdengate as they looked for the next ambush point.

  Devin waited at the top of a steep bank. A small stream burbled as it ran through the woods below. The trees were thinner here and the ground was carpeted in ferns. They’d travelled farther away this time, giving themselves extra distance so they would have some time to rest.

  Riddal flopped down next to him and handed over a small piece of dried pork. Devin nodded his thanks and began to chew.

  “How are you holding up, lad?”

  “I’m fine,” Devin replied, lying through his teeth.

  “No, you’re not, but that’s alright. I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t scared,” Riddal told him.

  Devin chewed the pork and thought about that. The man reminded him of Garrit, the caravan guard. A man from a different life. Since they’d faced the fae and he’d caught a glimpse of his mother, memories had been coming back to him. They weren’t all pleasant. Some were awful, like a rotten fish buoyed up by its own putrescence. Garrit was one of the more pleasant ones.

  “You know, it’s funny,” Devin said quietly, looking over at Riddal. “I spent years playing in these woods as a child, hunting monsters and Bjornmen.”

  Riddal snorted. “Let’s just stick with the Bjornmen, eh? They’re enough trouble as it is.”

  Something was wrong. Devin was no strategist but even he could tell the response was not what they’d been expecting. They’d warned him that the Bjornmen would probably be confused at first, but their next likely response would be to rush at them.

  “The whole point of skirmishers,” Riddal had told him, “is to break up units. Armies are used to fighting in units. The men get too used to this and then they can’t think on their own. You do something to force them out of their units and they just fall to pieces.”

  Eventually, those in command would order a rush, he’d explained. They’d charge forward to overwhelm the skirmish line, to force them either to stand and fight or to flee. The rush hadn’t come though. Instead, the Bjornmen were moving much as they were, in small groups or individually.

  Devin looked over at Jameson, who was crouched behind a tree, gnawing at his knuckle as he thought. “Time we were moving,” the leader muttered to the rest of them. He stood, peered around the tree and then his head simply wasn’t there. It exploded into pieces as the heavy crossbow bolt blasted through flesh and bone. Devin dropped to the ground in terror and looked at Riddal in a panic. Another member of their team fell to the dirt, screaming as a crossbow bolt tore through his shoulder. Trees shook as more bolts smashed into branches and trunks.

  “What do we do?” Devin cried out, his voice shrill with fear.

  “We get the hell out of here!” Riddal growled, and crawled on his belly down the other side of the bank, away from the incoming bolts. Devin followed close behind and sensed Tench, the last team member, crawling behind him.

  They ran through the woods for what felt like hours, though Devin knew it could only have been five or ten minutes. Eventually, they slowed and then stopped.

  Devin bent double, gasping as his chest heaved. Riddal pulled him down out of sight behind a stout chestnut tree and the other scout collapsed beside them.

  “Alright,” Riddal said between breaths. “They are a lot closer and a lot quieter than we thought. Take two lessons from that, lad. Don't ever underestimate your enemy and never ever truly relax.”

  “Jameson?” Devin gasped.

  “Jameson’s gone. Stick close to me and you’ll be fine.” Riddal looked through his quiver, counting quickly. He twisted Devin’s, so he could see the arrows and then looked past him. “How are you for arrows, Tench?”

  “Seven,” the blonde man replied. “Think I might have lost some on the run.”

  “No, that sounds about right. We’re on eight apiece.” He scratched a stubbled cheek for a minute, as he looked up at the sky through the trees.

  “We’re not going to accomplish much more like this. I say we head back.”

  Tench nodded. “I’ll take the rear for a while.”

  “Right.” Riddal looked back and forth between them. “We’ll try and stick together, but we’re not going to be stupid here. If it comes to it, just get yourselves back to the village, together or alone.”

  Devin nodded. There wasn’t much he could say to that.

  They travelled in silence, running for as long as they could, then dropping back into a walk just long enough to catch their breath before running again. The trees and bushes became a blur, and Devin no longer had any real idea of where they were. He slowed to a walk again, his throat burning from gasping in the ragged breaths. Riddal and Tench were in similar states, both taking gulps from their waterskins.

  Devin fumbled with the thing and dropped it to the dirt, where it lay amongst the footprints. For a long moment, he wasn’t aware of what he was looking at. Finally, a series of disparate shapes came together to form a clear image.

  “Shit.”

  Tench gave him a look.

  “There are prints here.” Devin pointed.

  “Of course there are, boy. We’ve half a thousand men in these woods.” The scout waved him off.

  “No scout would leave this much of a trail. Not unless he was running.” He dropped to the ground and moved forwards on his hands and knees, studying the footprints. “No, look here. These are too close together. They were made by men walking.”

  Riddal came over and stood behind him, looking to where Devin pointed. His eyes tracked from the deep heel impressions to the broken fern stems and through to the fresh leaves knocked free from a the bush. “The lad’s right,” he told Tench. “Somehow they’ve got ahead of us. We’re behind their lines.”

  “How?” Tench demanded. “We’ve been running for the best part of an hour.”

  “Does it matter? Maybe it’s a different group. Maybe they came in from the north of us rather than the east. Who cares? The fact is we’re behind them.”

  “Shit.” Tench sighed. “So now what?”

  “Skirt around them, I suppose.” Riddal shrugged.

  “That won’t work.” Devin stood and looked back and forth between them. “What if they surround the village? We’ll be cut off before the battle even starts. We need to follow them, find a weak point and get through.”

  “Are you mad, boy?” Tench spat into the dirt. “You might as well lie down and die here. Save them the trouble.”

  “Listen,” Devin explained, “from what we’ve seen, their woodscraft is nothing special. They might have some trackers among them, but the ones who left these prints might as well be wearing bells round their necks.”

  Riddal gave Tench an enquiring look.

  “Oh, fine!” The man dropped his shoulders. “We’ll try it your way, lad, but if you get us killed…”

  “You’ll never speak to him again,” Riddal finished for him. “It wasn’t funny the first time, Tench.”

  Tench shrugged and shot Devin a lopsided smile.

  “Come on then, let’s get this started,” Riddal said and led them off into the pines.

  Chapter Six

  The Bjornman army worked its way through the forest and out into the fields. Any attempt at concealment would have been futile, it was simply too big a force to try and hide it. The skirmishers bled them slowly, but it was a small wound on a beast almost too large to notice it. The Bjornmen's response had been swift and brutal, lacking the confusion from the breaks in formation that the skirmishers had depended upon.

  The skirmishers themselves had been beaten back by pure brute force, though the toll they’d inflicted had been considerable. The Bjorn
men had pushed through to the edges of the forest that stood before the fields of Widdengate and there they had stopped.

  Rhenkin watched the distant shadow slowly darken the wheat field as the enemy emerged from the trees. After three days of no movement, it was almost a relief to see them push forward.

  He and his men had taken up position some distance in front of the village itself. He’d decided there was little point in trying to conduct a defence by limiting himself to the walls alone.

  “Larson!” he shouted.

  “I’m next to you, Sir.”

  Rhenkin looked at him without a trace of embarrassment. “Order the distance markers to be lit. Tell Whitelock to prepare his cavalry for an attack. I want him to bleed the enemy, but not to take any undue risks. We’re going to need those horses.”

  Larson nodded. “Yes, Sir. When shall I say he is to attack, Sir?”

  “I don’t see much point in letting them get settled in, do you?” Rhenkin said, his gaze shifting back to the Bjornmen.

  “No, Sir. We might as well do some good whilst they’re still milling about.”

  “Get to it, then. Tell him to go as soon as he’s ready.”

  Rhenkin waited calmly, as the men around him fidgeted. It was something that took years to move past. He’d only managed it once he had received his first command. Soldiers watched their commanders. As an officer, you didn’t have the luxury of letting your nerves show.

  Plumes of smoke rose in the distance, indicating the position of the newly lit signal fires. Fully fifteen foot high and packed with slow-burning wood, the bonfires would last far longer than they were needed.

  The sound of hooves drew his attention to the east, where the cavalry pounded towards the still-emerging Bjornmen. He’d listened carefully to the reports from those who had survived clashes with the invaders. The enemy seemed to have no horses of their own, but their methods of defending against them were very effective.

  The cavalry was lightly armoured, wearing leather and carrying only swords along with their odd-looking horse bows. The bows were similar to a standard longbow but they extended down past the horse archers' feet, with the arrow being set closer to the top of the bow rather than in the central position that was usually used. The tightly-packed horses ran towards the Bjornmen, but pulled up short two hundred yards or more from the enemy ranks.

  In one motion, they launched a volley into the massed raiders. The response was instant, as the invaders dropped to one knee and raised large wooden shields. Rhenkin was impressed, despite himself. It was hard to tell from this distance what casualties they might have suffered, but the discipline of the Bjornmen was notable.

  A unit emerged from the Bjornmen ranks, shields interlocked both in front and above them, as they shuffled towards the horsemen. Rhenkin watched on, bemused. The horse archers were still firing volleys into the Bjornmen. The distant thunks of arrows into the wooden shields were interspersed with occasional faint screams.

  “What are they thinking?” Larson said. “Those horsemen will be long gone before they even get close.”

  Rhenkin shot him a sideways look. The man was right. The tortoiseshell formation was an impressive display, but it would be useless against an enemy as mobile as the horse archers.

  “Unless they don’t need to be that close,” Rhenkin gasped, speaking slowly as the thought occurred to him. “Sound the withdrawal!” he snapped, but it was too late.

  The archers had already begun to fire at the approaching Bjornmen, their arrows as ineffectual at close range as they were in volleys.

  The tortoise was less than fifty yards away from them now and, as the horses wheeled, ready to withdraw, the Bjornmen struck, parting their heavy shields and revealing the crossbows they carried. The heavy bolts tore through the cavalry, ripping into riders and horses alike. As the chaos unfolded, the raiders dropped their bows and charged, crashing into the archers with swords and axes. Rhenkin swore loudly as he watched his men overwhelmed in moments, and the Bjornmen began to move forward.

  “Tell Capston to prepare the archers, Larson.” He didn’t bother checking to make sure the man had heard him. Using the horse archers had been a costly gamble and one he couldn’t afford to repeat.

  He glanced back at the village. The wooden palisade had been improved upon and was heavily braced, but it was still just wood. It wouldn’t hold against the invaders for long.

  He would have given much to have some stone in the region, but the area was almost all farmland and forest. What little stone there was had been taken from the fieldstone walls, but it wouldn't be close to enough. On the plus side, he had more timber than he could ever need.

  He watched as the archers moved into position. Almost everyone in the village who could draw a bow had been pressed into service. The first volley was sporadic, arrows flying wild or falling short. After five or six volleys, the flights were more uniform and most reached the enemy force.

  The archers worked in three ranks, each firing and then moving back to the next position while the next loosed their volley, creating an almost constant rain of arrows falling onto the enemy. It also kept the villagers busy and under control. If Rhenkin was lucky, they might even kill some of the raiders.

  He knew it wouldn’t be enough, though. The Bjornmen had slowed to a crawl, shields held high. They were moving slowly but they were still moving forward. He looked to the trees at the rear of their lines. More Bjornmen troops were still emerging from the woods. Their numbers seemed without end.

  “Tough bastards,” Larson muttered.

  “Let’s see how they fair when they reach the first range marker,” Rhenkin said, looking through the hail of arrows to the farthest bonfire.

  The archers reached the fire and ran back towards the village, stopping and moving back into formation only when they reached their next marker.

  “Signal the catapults,” Rhenkin said, his voice calm despite the stress building inside him. The Bjornmen were surging forward, taking advantage of the archers' retreat.

  The horn sounded again and, in response, the rows of catapults lurched, lofting their deadly missiles into the sky. Rhenkin watched Larson's expression as the logs struck the Bjornmen. The absence of rock and stones had almost been enough to make Rhenkin give up on the idea of catapults. That was until Larson suggested using logs. A foot-long chunk of wood might not do the same amount of damage as a head-sized rock, but it would definitely hurt. More importantly, it would not be thwarted by something as simple as a raised shield.

  He watched as the Bjornmen broke into a run, large ragged holes appearing in their numbers as the logs took their toll.

  “Looks like it worked,” Rhenkin admitted. Larson didn’t respond, his eyes still on the distant force. Forced on by the press of men behind them trying to escape the barrage, the first rows of Bjornmen had no chance to stop as the ground ahead of them suddenly fell away, revealing great pits lined with sharpened stakes. Hundreds died in an instant and the rush slowed as the Bjornmen worked their way past the traps.

  The sea of Bjornmen flowed onwards, washing over the rows of trenches, splitting around the hedgehogs and passing through the endless hail of arrows. Ballistae entered the fray, as the enemy came within range, hurling bolts as long as spears into the Bjornmen ranks, but still they came on.

  The archers continued to send volley after volley into the Bjornmen. The catapults were lofting huge cradles of logs into their ranks, but all too soon they had to be abandoned as the archers pulled back towards the village. The catapults, too heavy to be moved with any speed, were doused in oil and set alight in order to prevent the Bjornmen capturing and making use of them.

  It was over so soon, it hardly seemed real. For all Rhenkin’s efforts and planning, the first stage of defences had fallen quickly. At the same time, it felt like the day had lasted for a week or more. The blood and screaming, and the sounds of men clawing at the dirt, their last moments filled with pain and hate, seemed to go on for an eternity.


  As the retreating forces approached the last of the field defences, Rhenkin began the withdrawal into the fort. The archers went first, the conscripted villagers sprinting for what Rhenkin knew was the illusion of the safety of the walls. The slow retreat across the killing field had cost the Bjornmen dearly but now, as they advanced, they were able to bring their own weapons to bear. Denied further retreat, Rhenkin’s forces came within range, and the Bjornmen crossbows sang their murderous song, hurling the heavy bolts across the field.

  “Send the heavy cavalry,” Rhenkin ordered.

  “Sir, it’s time we moved the command to within the walls,” Larson said, hesitantly.

  “Yes, yes. I realise that, Larson. Now send the damned cavalry!”

  A horn sounded, and the ranks of pikemen and swordsmen opened to allow the cavalry through. There were only five hundred of them - five hundred about to charge into an army numbering in the tens of thousands - but they were a force unmatched in Rhenkin’s arsenal. In all of Anlan, there was nothing that could compete with the military might of the heavy cavalry.

  “Begin a full retreat as soon as they charge,” Rhenkin added.

  Larson glanced at him quickly, meeting Rhenkin’s eyes and wishing his own hadn’t made the journey. There was nothing of humanity in them. They held only ice and duty. Cold and inexorable.

  “They’re almost certain to be surrounded, Sir.” His words weren’t quite a question.

  “I’m aware of that, Larson.” Rhenkin looked away, his eyes passing over the field.

  The cavalry thundered across the field in three tight wedge formations. Chargers carried men in heavy plate armour and Rhenkin could feel the sound of their passage in his chest, the sound vibrating his very flesh, even from this distance.

  He looked on as they lowered their lances and punched through the enemy line, carving a channel deep into the army. The lances devastated the front ranks but soon became useless. Then the true butchery began. The cavalry hacked savagely at the men they charged past, forming a wake of the dead and dying behind them. They seemed unstoppable at first, a force of nature unleashed upon the invader, but then the channels closed behind them and they were surrounded.