The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  It moved quickly, heading into the deeper shadows at the edge of the yard. The heat from the runes was dwindling already, the dull green glow fading to the black of iron as the grace was expended. The satyr licked its lips and sniffed, turning its head this way and that, as it sampled the night air. Snorts came from the stables as the horses caught its scent. It eased itself out into the moonlight in the corner of the yard, closing its eyes as the Lady graced him and the green sparks danced on its skin.

  ***

  Hannah lay on her bed, sleepless. Her mind was like a wounded animal, curled up and licking at a hurt it couldn’t cope with. She’d grown numb since they fled the village, barely noticing the passage of the days. Her only thoughts were of Khorin’s death. The image of him and the sound of his voice thrashed around inside her head like an eel in a trap.

  She lay in the bed and stared at the dark ceiling above her. Sleep would not come. Clearly, it had things to do elsewhere. Hannah pushed the blankets aside and padded to the window.

  Her rooms were opulent, more luxurious than anything she’d ever seen, with deep rich carpets and paintings on the walls. She even had a separate room just for dressing in. She pulled the thick curtains aside and looked out at the moon.

  “I’d never have thought you would be something to fear.” Her voice sounded strange to herself, taut and strained. She looked down at the grounds of the palace. The ponds gleamed with the reflected moonlight in the gardens. Her eyes drifted over towards the stables, and she frowned as a green light flared and shone through the tarpaulin on the satyr’s cage.

  Her room was a fair way from the stables, but she still caught sight of the shadow as it darted out from under the tarpaulin. She blinked, shaking her head as if to clear away the cobwebs. Had she really seen that? Her feet seemed to move on their own, taking her to the door whilst her mind was still processing what she’d seen.

  All but one of the lamps in each of the hallways had been snuffed and those that still burned had been turned down low. The thin nightgown she wore provided little protection against the cold. The stone walls beneath the tapestries and paintings seemed to have sucked all the heat from the air, and she found she was hugging herself as she scurried through the palace.

  It was a blessing that her rooms were not far from the servant's staircase, or she’d probably have been lost in moments. The steps took her to the ground floor and she padded through the halls. A noise brought her up short and she pressed herself flat against a doorway, without really knowing why, as a pair of servants crossed at the end of the corridor. Shaking her head, she moved on. She found her way to one of the side doors quickly, more by luck than anything else, and stepped out into the night. The skies were clear and the moon lit the grounds almost as well as the sun might have done.

  She ran, sticking to the grass where she could to avoid her feet slapping on the stones. The stable yard was still and the faint noise of horses shifting restlessly mingled with the distant sound of the leaves rustling in the light breeze. For some reason, the sounds made it seem quieter than if it had been truly silent.

  The cage bars were broken, their ends bent and twisted, and the iron stretched thin as if it had been melted and then hammered out. The stupidity of having come to the cage alone struck her with an almost physical sensation. What was she doing? She hadn’t raised the alarm or anything. She'd just rushed from the palace to confront the satyr alone.

  She backed away from the cage towards the edge of the yard. A door, the latch not fastened properly, caught in the breeze and slammed back against the wooden wall. She spun with a scream and pressed herself to the wall before edging around towards the open door as her eyes flew about the stable yard, darting in and out of the pools of shadow as she searched the darkness.

  The door led into a farrier's, the walls thick with tongs and tools. The moonlight parted the gloom enough for her to make out the large anvil set near the forge and a smaller one on a stump close to the door. She reached for one of the hammers. Harlen had killed a satyr with a single blow from his hammer and, if ever she needed a weapon, it was now. She managed to lift the hammer with both hands, grunting at the weight before setting it back. She might be able to lift it, but she’d never be able to swing it. There had to be smaller tools in here, but the darkness made it impossible to find anything.

  A faint sound drifted in from the yard. It was as soft as the crunch of dry leaves, but any noise sounds loud in the night. She whirled around and fixed her gaze on the entrance. A dull glint came from a stack of old horseshoes by the door and, in desperation, she grabbed one up, the cold metal comforting in her hand.

  The wind caught at her hair as she crept back out into the yard, blowing it across her face, and she clawed it away with her free hand. The satyr saw her almost as soon as she noticed it. It was pressed into the corner of the yard, bathed in the moonlight. Its eyes, which had been dull and dark for days, now shone as bright as any lantern’s flame.

  Hannah froze in the doorway as it took a single step away from the wall. It seemed unsure, hesitant. It was a good hundred feet from her, but then she’d seen how fast the creatures could move when they wanted to. The distance would be no protection from it. She glanced to either side of her. The presence of the doorway was no help to her either and the building would soon become a trap. Hannah stepped to her right, keeping her back against the wall, and sidled towards the way out of the yard.

  It sprang towards her, somehow managing to shift from a standing position into a sprint without passing through anything in between. Hannah let out a breathless scream as she ran, although she knew it was useless. She felt the satyr closing on her and fancied she could feel its breath on her neck. A whimper, made more from fear than noise, passed from her lips and she sucked the breath in, ready to scream for help, as the hand buried itself in her trailing hair.

  A sharp yank brought her up short and the satyr hauled her backwards, throwing her to the ground. She landed hard and the breath blasted out from her lungs, as the horseshoe in her hand was driven into her stomach.

  Rough hands flipped her onto her back. Her arm was pinned awkwardly beneath her as she looked up into the hateful thing’s face. Its features were twisted in fury as recognition flickered across its face.

  “You! The silent one,” it rasped. “You dare to trap me like some kind of prey?” It grabbed her throat, its movement fluid and as fast as drawing a breath. “Your snare has failed, foolish She, and now I claim you, as is my right.” Its meaning was clear as it leered at her looking her up and down in the thin nightgown.

  It pulled her up, its hand still firmly around her throat, and her feet scrambled beneath her as she struggled to stand before it choked her. All at once, the fear that had filled her was replaced with a blind rage. This thing, or some other like it, had killed Khorin. One of these beasts had driven her half-mad with nightmares and grief, and now this one saw her as some prize for the taking. She clawed at the hand at her throat with her fingers, her eyes flashing as the satyr laughed at her efforts.

  It sniffed at her, its laughter dying as its eyes widened in first surprise, and then in fear. In that instant, she knew the time had come. It was act now or lose any advantage she might have. She whipped her hand around from behind her, clenching it into a fist around the horseshoe and smashed it into the side of the satyr’s face. Blue fire flared, just as it had all those months ago in her kitchen, and the creature flew back from her, crashing to the ground with a visceral scream.

  She was on it in a second, not wasting time on shock or fear. Those things were beyond her now. Hate had consumed her, reforging her into a creature of purest rage, and she flew at it, her knees slamming into its ribs as she drove the horseshoe down into it again and again.

  Her screams filled the air as fire burned them both and the satyr raked at her with its thick nails.

  It kicked out at her and she hurtled through the air, crashing to the ground fifteen feet from it. She pulled herself to her feet as the world
span around her in crazy circles. She could just make out the blurry image of the satyr getting to its feet. Her vision cleared to reveal that its face was a bloody, charred ruin. It glared at her out of its one remaining eye, hatred reaching out from it and enveloping her. Her rage flared anew, running through her like a river of molten steel, as her mouth filled with the taste of her own blood.

  She charged, screaming, at the satyr, as it stood in a twisted stance, hunched against its own pain. Her blows came fast, and she struck it with fist and horseshoe in equal measure. Fire flared anew and she followed its body down to the ground as it collapsed under the onslaught. The flesh gave way below her, as bones broke and then shattered. This beast would pay. They would all pay. With a final howl, she raised the bloody horseshoe high above her and drove it down into the remains of the satyr's head, hardly feeling the gore that hit her as it spattered upwards. Then there was silence. The blue flames guttered and died, and she pushed herself away from the body.

  Her hands shook as she became aware of the blood, flesh and fragments of bone that covered her body. Her knees sagged and then buckled, unable to bear her own weight as she sank to the dirt. The horseshoe tumbled from her numb fingers and the wail that tore from her throat was far more primal than anything that the satyr had uttered. Darkness found her. A blackness that wrapped itself around her and bore her away to a safer place, a comforting embrace far away from the horrors of the light.

  ***

  Devin followed the soldier that had been sent to fetch him. Curiosity had quickly driven away the gritty eyes he'd had when he was woken and rushed from his bed, but still he stumped through the corridors in a foul mood. The soldier had been less than forthcoming. Given that he seemed to be little older than Devin, he probably didn’t know the reason for the summons himself. It would be unfair to blame him, really. Devin did it anyway.

  They passed through the corridors, following some convoluted route that seemed to have taken them both up and down stairs in equal measure, while Devin shot the man black looks and wondered if he’d managed to get them both lost. Finally, he was delivered to Rhenkin’s office.

  The young soldier knocked and then entered. “The Widdengate boy, Sir,” he announced. Devin found himself strangely irritated by that. He was no more a boy than this private. He walked in to find Obair and Rhenkin sat back in their chairs in a way that showed they’d just been in deep conversation. Rhenkin was calm and impassive, as always, but Obair looked distinctly nervous.

  “What is it?” Devin demanded, after a long moment of silence. There was a tension in the room that would have been hard to miss.

  “The satyr escaped last night,” Rhenkin began. “How, we don’t know. It managed to break some of the bars in the cage by the looks of things.”

  “It’s dead, Devin.” Obair interrupted, shooting the major a look that spoke of vast disapproval. “That’s not important, though,” he said quickly, holding up a hand to stop Devin before he could speak. “They found Hannah with it. She’s alive,” he added, as Devin sucked in a sharp breath. “Just in a bit of a state.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Of course,” Rhenkin said. “The druid here thought it might be best to warn you first, that's all. She managed to kill the thing with a horseshoe. Stove its skull in. The most amazing thing, really.”

  “The point is, lad,” Obair said, through clenched teeth, “that she’s not going to be in any condition to travel for some time.” He looked from Devin to Rhenkin, his eyes passing a message.

  There was more to it. Devin was certain of that. Things that they weren’t saying, things they thought him too young to cope with, perhaps.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t? Don’t what?” Obair replied, his old face creased into a confusion of wrinkles.

  “Don’t protect me. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. Like I need the truth laying out for me, all nice and neat, with the sharp edges filed off.”

  Obair opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words.

  Rhenkin snorted at the old man and looked at Devin appraisingly. “You’re right. You're not a child, no matter what your age is. You deserve the truth, plain and simple.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

  “Stable hands found her at first light and alerted the guards. She’s got some nasty cuts and, I suspect, one or two broken ribs. That’s not the worst of it, though. She’s not making sense. It's like her mind is as damaged as her ribs. Obair told me some of the things she’s been through. It sounds like she’s already been dragged through hell backwards. I’ve seen it happen a few times. Young men in battle, wondering when all the glory is supposed to start, up to their eyebrows in blood and filth, tripping over limbs in the mud and covered in their own piss. Sometimes they just snap.”

  He looked up from his hands and their eyes met as he tapped his temple. “The thing is, son, it’s not like a wound you can patch up knowing it will heal with time. She might be fine in a week but she might not, and you need to realise that now, before you go in to see her.”

  “Take me to her.” Devin's voice was firm and steady.

  Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “Now? You’re sure?”

  Devin nodded. “I can’t put this off. It’ll only be worse if I have time to think about it first.”

  Rhenkin looked at him for a long time before he spoke again. “You’re probably right.” He stood and held the door open, then glanced back at Obair. “Coming?”

  Hannah was tucked into clean sheets in her bed. The curtains were closed against the morning’s light and a maid sat in a chair in the corner, reading a book as her charge slept. She stood as they entered and, at a word from Rhenkin, slipped out into the hallway.

  Devin moved closer and look down at the battered figure in the bed, being careful not to wake her. Her eyes were closed and she lay so still that he worried for just a moment until he caught the faint rasp of her breath. One side of her face was already dark with bruises, and the flesh that wasn’t swathed in thick bandages was swollen and misshapen.

  Looking down at her was a surreal experience. He felt dispassionate, wooden. The entire scene felt like it was happening to someone else, as if he were merely an observer, a member of the audience at a travelling mummers' play. He wondered at it, prodding at his feelings like a tongue worrying at a sore tooth. Why wasn’t he more upset? He wasn’t sad. If anything, the only feeling he could muster was a faint anger. It glowed dull and sullen like banked coals, needing only fresh air to flare back into life.

  Her hand was limp and cold as he took it in his own. It lay in his hand like dead flesh. “Do you think she can hear me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, son,” Rhenkin said softly. “I expect she can, even if she doesn’t answer.”

  Devin looked at her face. She looked so old all of a sudden. No. Not just old. Tired too. The bruises and scratches made it worse, but she seemed to have aged a decade since the fae had come. He glanced back at the others, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s me, Ma, Devin. I need you to know you’re going to be okay. I’m fine too, so don’t worry about me. You just concentrate on getting well.”

  He broke off. It all felt too unnatural and forced. “What will happen to her?” he asked Rhenkin. “It’s not like we have a home to take her to.”

  “Don’t worry about that, lad. You’re both here as my guests. She can stay until she’s on her feet. We'll work it out from there.”

  Devin nodded at him gratefully.

  “You realise that this changes a few things?” Rhenkin said to Obair.

  “Well, I can hardly question the beast now, can I?” Obair replied, with a shrug. “I suppose we’d best talk to your duchess.”

  “She’s your duchess too, old man.”

  “I suppose she is, at that. I’d never thought of it that way.”

  Devin gave Hannah one last look and patted her hand, before following the others out of the room and through the corridors. Obair was a strange man, he m
used, so confident in his purpose on one level, but as ignorant as a child in other ways.

  Rhenkin spoke quietly to a guardsman stationed outside a dark oak door before knocking. The duchess was sitting at a desk in the book-lined study talking to a short man in brass-rimmed spectacles when they entered.

  “Rhenkin,” she purred. “So nice of you to seek me out.”

  “Your grace,” the major said, with a stiff bow. He looked around curiously. “A new base of operations?”

  “Base of operations. I like that,” she said. “You military types always have the best titles for things. Yes, I decided I needed to move out of the parlour. Absolutely everybody could find me there.”

  Rhenkin favoured her with a wry smile and she waved them all into chairs. Devin jumped visibly when she addressed him.

  “I am so terribly sorry to hear about your mother, Devin. I want you to know that you can both stay here in the palace until she is well enough to move on.”

  “Thank you, My Grace...I mean...Your Lady…” She let out a warm, throaty laugh as he sputtered to a halt. Her eyes were warm and filled with compassion, and Devin felt a sense of relief. It was good to have had assurances from Rhenkin, but it wasn’t really his house.

  “Now then,” she said, looking back to Obair and Rhenkin, “these recent events have obviously changed matters. Were you able to obtain any useful information from the creature?”

  “None of any consequence, your grace,” Obair replied. He seemed perfectly at home speaking to the woman. Despite living in isolation for all those years, being in the presence of a member of the aristocracy didn’t seem to faze him at all.