The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  Her scream echoed off the walls, probably carrying across half the city, and she clamped her lips shut tight to trap in the sound. Joran spun, one hand still on the glyphs as he finished the sequence.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered. He snatched up the bow and strung an arrow with shaking hands. He pulled back and released. The arrow flew wide and deflected off the wall of a building before falling to the ground and skittering along the stones.

  “Shoot it!” screamed Ylsriss, scrabbling at his belt for the knife. The satyr was now less than a hundred feet from them.

  Joran's second arrow bounced off the creature, causing it no visible damage. It slowed, seeming to enjoy their panic, and stalked towards them, long knives held low in its fists.

  “I should thank you. You've led us a merry hunt,” it said, with a delighted grin.

  Ylsriss backed away, holding the knife before her in one hand, and pulling Joran backwards by his shirt with the other. The arrow came from nowhere, hissing through the gloom and burying itself in the satyr’s eye. The creature let out a scream then, piteous and dreadful, as it clutched at the shaft. The sound put Ylsriss in mind of the tortured cries she used to hear from the abattoir close to her cellar in Hesk. The satyr staggered, then fell to the cobbles and was still.

  Joran stared at it in amazement and then spun, tracing the roofline until he spotted her. Aervern was pressed into the shadow of the chimney pot, barely visible. She raised her bow once in salute and then ran lithely along the roof, leapt easily to an adjacent building and was gone.

  “Come on!” Ylsriss urged him, as she shifted into a sprint. They ran towards the garden, passing unopened capture plates as they sacrificed the increase in power in order to put more distance between them and the unseen satyrs. They stopped three times to frantically trace glyphs, but had to abandon their final attempt and flee at the sound of hooves on stone.

  Screams rose intermittently, the echoes carrying to them through empty streets, as Aervern fired her bow from the rooftops. If anything, the noises seemed to be spurring the satyrs on, and Ylsriss felt panic rising in her as they entered the gardens.

  The light had faded almost completely and a tiny sliver of moon was making feeble attempts to illuminate the skies. The gardens extended for some distance and the faint sounds of animals that came from beyond the stones did not help her nerves.

  Joran paused to glance towards the bridge. “Come on,” she said, and reached for his hand. He seemed to have left all his self-assurance on the streets of the city, and he let her lead him along as though he was one of the children from her cellar in Hesk, all those years ago. No, she corrected herself, he was nothing like those children. They had been hard. Beaten down by a life that either makes you strong enough to bare your teeth back at it, or broken and damaged enough not to care what happens to you.

  Joran was neither. He was a child newly emerged from the cocoon that the Touch had forced him into. So much of his life had been lived through a fog, it was a miracle he could function at all. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and turned the corner, passing the last overgrown hedge that obscured the stones.

  They charged up the grassy bank and made their way to the stone disc that lay at the circle’s centre. The moonlight shone faintly onto the stone, a pale watery light, but just enough to work by.

  Joran stood behind her, watching in silence as she squatted and then moved, crablike, around the stone, reading the glyphs and muttering to herself as she whispered the names of the symbols.

  It looked different in the moonlight, but not just because it was harder for her to see it. The symbols seemed unfamiliar, as if something had changed.

  “I don’t understand this,” she whispered to Joran.

  “What?” His response was shrill.

  “No, not like that. I can read it, but it’s like there’s more here than there was before.”

  “You’re imagining it,” he told her. “Hurry!”

  She shook her head and traced the first of the runes. It flared into life, bright and strong, bathing her face in a golden light as she moved onwards.

  The disc had glyphs that worked inwards in a spiral, but also some grouped into circular patterns that she couldn’t understand. This was so much more complicated than anything she had ever looked at before. Runeplates and moonorbs had a simple activation sequence, releasing some of the energy they had stored within them, be it light or heat. The glyphs were almost the same on both of them.

  The stone disc had glyphs she’d never seen before, interspersed with sigils she recognised but in arrangements she’d never considered before.

  “Hurry up!” Joran hissed at her.

  “It’s not like lighting a fire, Joran!” she snapped back. “Give me a minute.”

  He didn’t respond but she felt him stiffen. The satyr approached slowly, in no hurry and obviously savouring the moment. The moonlight picked out the grey in the fur on its legs and its beard, reflecting off the horns that seemed longer than those of the other satyrs she’d seen.

  “A blood debt is owed,” it said in a calm voice. Its eyes, however, radiated a fury that far outshone their dull amber glow.

  “Blood debt?” Joran said, nudging Ylsriss with his foot as he spoke. She didn’t need to be told twice and bent over the disc again, searching for the next of the glyphs that had seemed so simple to read in the daylight.

  “Keeping your kind was always a mistake,” Thantos said. “More than once have I told Aelthen this. You are fit for the hunt and no more. ” Its knives were long and curved, the bone blades pale in the light. Joran plucked the knife from Ylsriss’s belt. It looked tiny and shook in his hand as he faced the satyr.

  “You spilled the blood of a fae’reeth. One who abided with me in the Outside for untold years before the return. To meet her end at the hands of a creature as low as you is something that cannot be borne. I will not accept that Sabeth will not go to the Realm of Our Lady, whilst the manling that stole her life still walks. No, I will not permit it!”

  It moved in, not in a rushed charge like Joran would have expected, but slowly, almost formally, offering a tight bow before falling into an odd stance.

  When the attack came, he didn’t even have time to move before the creature was upon him. The bone blades slashed twice, cutting into his side and slicing his forearm open before the satyr moved off to one side. Joran staggered, reaching for the closest stone to steady himself. He was going to die; it was simply a matter of how long the satyr would toy with his prey before he let it fall.

  He clasped a hand against the deeper cut in his side, bending into an awkward crouch against the pain as he faced the satyr again. The creature staggered forwards as the arrow smashed into the back of its head. Two more followed, so close together that they seemed to strike it almost at the same time. The missiles did not penetrate the satyr's skin, but splintered as the force of the impacts shattered the shafts.

  The creature spun round, snarling in fury as it sought the source of the attack, and another arrow hurtled out of the darkness, exploding against its chest. Light poured from the glyphs as Ylsriss traced sigils furiously, squinting against the light that erupted skyward.

  A figure emerged from the darkness, blades held ready as she nodded towards the two within the circle. “These manlings are bound to my purpose, satyr.”

  Thantos gasped in shock and fury, then narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “I do not recognise your face. How can this be?”

  “It is not important,” Aervern replied, her voice filled with icy rage. “I am fae, you are but satyr. You will obey.”

  “You are not of the returned!” Thantos gasped in recognition. “I owe you no allegiance. You and yours had not the honour to follow in the hunt. You are lesser in the eyes of Aelthen than even these manlings.” He raised his blades again and took a step towards her, dropping into a low stance.

  “You dare!” Aervern gasped. Her shock did nothing to slow her as she dropped into a stance herself, her kn
ife weaving intricate patterns in the air before her.

  The satyr bared his teeth in fury and launched himself into the fight, slashing at her with his blades. He moved almost faster than Joran could follow, yet Aervern stepped casually aside, her eyes blazing bright with amber as she moved out of the line of attack. Thantos shifted his own line in response and the blades made a soft hiss as they slid against each other.

  The fight was fast and Joran realised in moments that he could have been killed before he could even react, had the satyr wanted it. The two fae creatures moved back and forth before the stones, slashing at each other in an elegant but deadly dance. The blades did not clash against each other, that would have wasted an opportunity to redirect the force of the attack. Instead, each blow was met with the barest touch, as it was guided past the defender.

  The satyr growled and cursed in the lyrical fae tongue as he fought. Aervern fought in silence, an icy calm radiating from her as she stepped and shifted in the flow of the fight.

  She leant backwards as the twin knifes of the satyr thrust at her throat, arching almost until her pale hair brushed the grass. A twist of her torso and she shifted out from under his overextension, her eyes growing dimmer as she drew on her Grace to move faster than the satyr could ever hope to. The knife's thrust, imbued with the same power, parted the flesh like the water of a millpond and buried itself to the hilt in his side, just under the armpit. Blood fountained from Thantos’s mouth as he sank to the grass, the light already fading from his eyes. Aervern pulled her knife from the body and met Joran’s eyes for just one moment before she disappeared into the night.

  Joran slumped against one of the stones as the fae vanished. The rough stone behind him shuddered as Ylsriss traced glyph after glyph, activating the complex sequences, and then the entire circle burst into light.

  “You did it!” he cried, his pain forgotten as he pulled Ylsriss to her feet.

  Her cheeks were wet with tears as she smiled sadly at him. “I can’t,” she said, in a voice thick with anguish, as she shook her head.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I can’t go, Joran. I can’t leave Effan here.”

  He looked at her incredulously. “This could be our only chance to get home, Ylsriss. The whole city must be crawling with satyrs. We’d never make it out of here alive.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know, but I still can’t leave him. You go. Just walk out onto the disc. Leave me.”

  “But you don’t even know where he is, Ylsriss!”

  “It doesn’t matter, Joran. I can’t leave my baby behind. If I go, I know I'll never see him again. I can't do that.” She had never been more certain of anything in her life.

  He stared at her for a moment. His mind was suddenly cold and clear. He knew exactly what he had to do.

  He fixed his gaze on something behind her. She couldn’t help but turn her head to follow his gaze, and he smashed his fist into the side of her face with all the force he could manage. Ylsriss dropped to the grass, her eyes glassy and unseeing as the impact drove the tears from her cheeks.

  Joran snatched her up, clenching his teeth against the pain as he walked onto the disc with her in his arms. The lights of the glyphs blazed around him, and then all was brilliant light and a bitter cold that drove the breath from his lungs. He felt the stones of the world pass through him and then they fell into darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Selena climbed down from the carriage, accepting the footman’s hand as he guided her down to the gravel path. Her gown was stupendous, pale crystal blue with touches of white that made her look as if she were encased in ice. Combined with her hair, she was the perfect storm of frost and fire.

  She had arrived alone. Hanris would have been more than welcome, but she couldn’t be seen to be leaning on a man, even a servant.

  The villa was decorated for the occasion, with banners of red, gold and flaming orange giving it an autumnal flavour. She thought briefly of the farmers that had been forced from their newly leased farmlands by the Bjornmen. What would they think of the attempt by the Celstwin nobility to celebrate the harvest and the turning of the seasons?

  “Selena, you look simply stunning!” Jantson gushed, as she swept in.

  “You’re really very sweet, Jantson,” She looked down at herself with a pained frown. “You’re an awful liar, though. I’m starting to show. I look like an iceberg in this dress.”

  “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You look better than my wife did on our wedding night.”

  “Didn’t you tell me, just the other night, that your wife was chronically overweight when you married and that you put your back out trying to carry her over the threshold?”

  Jantson coughed. “I may have mentioned something to that effect.”

  She laughed, taking his arm as they made their way into the villa and through the halls towards the ballroom.

  The group had met on several occasions since that first dinner, each time at a grand affair, a dinner or a ball. She was beginning to suspect that Raysh was just using the need for them to get together as an excuse to throw more lavish and grandiose events.

  “Another ball,” she muttered, in mock complaint, to Jantson.

  “Oh, they’re not that bad,” Jantson said, as he looked for the others. “It gives me an excuse to dance with a beautiful woman, after all.”

  “Well, could you at least wait until we’ve found the others before you abandon me?” Selena joked.

  He chuckled. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor. The musicians were playing a muted piece in a minor key. It made for a slower dance, allowing for quiet conversation, making it perfect for their needs.

  “Rentrew has dispatched his forces, I hear,” Jantson said. He spoke softly, behind a broad smile.

  Selena laughed as if he’d told a particularly good joke. “Yes, some time ago now. They ought to be reaching Rhenkin any day, I believe. Have you heard anything about the king's army?”

  “No movement still,” Jantson said, his expression grim. “He’d have to send out a general muster order if he were going to respond in any significant fashion.”

  Selena let him guide her through a complex promenade, forcing a faint smile onto her face as she ranted. “What is he thinking? Our troops are never going to be enough to stop the Bjornmen. The best we can hope for is to slow them down and the losses will be terrible.”

  “Perhaps that’s the point,” Jantson quipped with a snort. He stopped as her face went white. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

  “Let’s find Salisbourne.” She strode off the dance floor, ignoring the surprised looks people were shooting her.

  “This is less than subtle, Selena,” Jantson muttered, as he followed her. “There are bound to be at least one or two of the king's spies here, in addition to the usual sycophants.”

  “Some things can’t be helped, Jantson.”

  Salisbourne was in the study with Raysh and Rentrew.

  “It occurs, Salisbourne,” Selena said, as she was shown in by one of Raysh's staff, “that there is little point in throwing these elaborate functions if we all end up sequestered in a smoky study.”

  The older man shrugged and drew on his pipe. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t wasting our time with this subterfuge anyway, Selena. There is little in Celstwin that our esteemed monarch doesn’t know about and less still that he can’t uncover.”

  “That doesn’t mean we should simply be blatant about these things,” Jantson said, as he edged around Selena to find an empty chair.

  “Relax,” Raysh muttered into his drink. “The king doesn’t seem interested in anything much at the moment. Except his pet projects, that is.”

  “Gentlemen, if I can drag this back on track for a moment?” Selena turned to Rentrew. “Jantson tells me your troops have been dispatched and are well on their way.”

  He nodded. This was not news to anyone present. “The question is, then,
why is the king not acting himself? The Bjornmen have taken a sizeable chunk of land and, whilst it is part of my duchy and encroaches on your own lands,” she nodded to Rentrew, “it is, perhaps more importantly, part of his kingdom.”

  “Did you have a point, Selena, or were you just going to meander through until you tripped over one by accident?” Raysh asked, as he drained his glass.

  “I do, as it happens,” she replied, giving him an arch look. “Even with Rentrew’s forces added to my own, there is little we can do to stop the Bjornmen taking more lands. We can slow them, certainly, but the costs in terms of both men and finances will be enormous. So what is it that Pieter stands to gain from this? The pact demands he act, yet he ignores this invasion.”

  “Selena, please?” Raysh groaned.

  “I’m getting there. Don't be so impatient,” she chided. “What’s making him so boorish?” she asked Salisbourne.

  “The treasury found an irregularity in his tithe,” Salisbourne said, from behind a smirk.

  “It’s not an irregularity.” Raysh snapped. “It's a levy based on laws that weren’t even in place at the time of the trade. They’re making up rules as they go along, just to gouge any merchants who might be making a small profit.”

  “Just how small is small?” Selena asked, her curiosity peaked.

  “Enough to run your duchy for a good few years,” Salisbourne snorted. “Raysh here managed to steal the march on a number of people and corner almost the entire Suraman wine export market some years ago. If you listen carefully, you can still hear the echoes of the howls of protest.”