The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “We can’t afford to stop, Devin,” Obair snapped,“as well you know.”

  “It’ll take a damn sight longer to get there if the horses go lame, old man,” Devin shot back, his temper finally gone.

  Obair glared at him and drew in a breath to retort, before blowing it out in an explosive sigh. “You’re right again,” he said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Devin said, “we’ll walk the horses for a few miles instead. If you can stay awake, that is?”

  Obair gave him a wry smile as he clambered down from the horse. “I expect I’ll manage.” He glanced at the young man and raised an eyebrow. “Still?” he asked, tapping at his temple.

  “Still.” Devin nodded. The headache had changed over the weeks, dulled. The pain was still there but he’d found he could almost ignore it. There was a sensation hidden within it though, a whisper drowned out by the thunderclap, and he found he was pushing the headache to one side as he searched for the feeling that lurked just on the edges of his perception. It still came and went, only ever-present between new and full moons, following the cycle so important to the fae.

  He surveyed the land around them. The trees that climbed out of the valleys and into the hills were mostly pines. It seemed a lonely landscape, harsh and unwelcoming.

  “How long were you alone?” he asked, the question coming before he really had time to think about how personal it was.

  Obair looked faintly offended for a moment. “Probably the best part of thirty years, Devin.”

  Devin blinked. The notion of spending the better part of a lifetime alone was alien to him, something his mind shied away from. “How did you cope?”

  “Badly.” Obair chuckled but then fell silent, seeing Devin’s confused expression. “I lost myself in a routine. That helped a bit. The days sort of fell into a pattern. A bit like the ritual itself, you know? I’d start each day with the ritual anyway, then there were the animals and the crops to tend. It’s easy enough to distract yourself, provided you can keep busy.”

  Devin was silent. The man’s entire life had been a sacrifice of one form or another. It made it hard to talk to him.

  They walked for an hour, stopping briefly to water the horses at a stream that cut close to the road.

  “How far do you think we have left to go?” he asked that night as he watched the old man coax the fire into life.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Obair admitted. “I can’t judge distances using this map, so I’m mostly going by memory.”

  “You are sure you know where we’re going?” Devin asked. He couldn’t entirely hide the accusation in his voice and Obair’s face made it clear that he’d found it despite his efforts.

  “Yes, I am quite sure, thank you.”

  Devin looked away, feeling the heat in his cheeks. He knelt and set to work spitting the two pheasants he’d brought down earlier.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, not looking up from the birds as he worked.

  “Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t involve any more insults about my memory or sense of direction.”

  “That night in the glade, when the fae came through, I think saw my mother.” He spoke in hushed tones, as if the words were too raw to survive if spoken with any volume. “I saw the fae that took her too. She looked right at me. She spoke to me.”

  “What did she say?” Obair interrupted, his curiosity peaked.

  “Just a single sentence. She said ‘Fie, fly, flee, little manling’. It was similar to something she’d said to me years before. Before she took my mother.” He coughed and swallowed down a mouthful of water from the skin.

  “That’s not important right now, anyway,” he continued. “What I was going to ask you was how she’d grown so old? My mother, I mean. She was taken when I was a small child but she looked ancient. She looked older than you.”

  “Thanks,” Obair said, dryly. “You’re sure it was her? Not just someone that looked like her?”

  “No,” Devin met his gaze and held it. “No, it was her. I know it.”

  Obair nodded. “And how old would you have said she was when she was taken?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Devin shrugged. “Does any child that young know how old their mother is?”

  He looked into the fire for a moment before he spoke again and, when he did, his words sounded like a confession. “I was very young and now I think that there has been a lot that I've kept buried inside, locked away in my head, until just recently. It was that night, when I saw her and the fae, that I think brought it all out again. I keep remembering things I didn’t know I’d forgotten.”

  He shook his head and then looked around at the old man. “I suppose she must have been about thirty or so? Does that sound about right?”

  Obair ignored the question. “And you say she looked older when you saw her?”

  “She looked ancient, Obair. Older than anyone I’ve ever seen!” He set the pheasants to cook, close to the edge of the fire.

  “I don’t know, Devin. There's so much we don't know about the fae and their world,” the old man confessed. “Are you going to put the kettle on since you’re down there?”

  Devin gave him a dark look and then filled the kettle with water from a skin before setting it to boil. “There are fairy tales that talk about people going into the lands of the fairies. They live there for years and years, but when they come back out into this world, hardly any time has passed at all.”

  “Fairy tales, Devin,” Obair snorted. “Full of nonsense and foolishness.”

  Devin looked at him. “Are you actually telling me that there’s no chance of a fairy tale holding some truth, Obair? You, of all people?” The old man looked at him and met his eyes for a full five seconds before he started to laugh.

  They slept in watches, as they had done since the first night they were really alone. Devin had woken to find Obair huddled beside the fire, staring into the darkness. He’d been genuinely terrified, convinced that fae were going to charge screaming out of the night. He would only sleep through the night if it were between the new moon and full moon.

  Devin sat with his bow in his lap, an iron-tipped arrow nocked but held loosely in one hand. He glanced over at the old man. For all his worries, the druid had no problems sleeping once he knew Devin was on watch, and the soft sounds of his breathing brought a smile to Devin’s lips.

  He looked up at the stars. His mother was out there somewhere. Did it work like that? Was the world of the fae under these same stars? Was she somewhere else? Or was she lying down in the night somewhere in the same world as he? He had a moment's guilt as he thought of Hannah and the way he’d left her at the duchess's palace.

  He became aware of the noise slowly. It was so faint to begin with that he mistook it for his own breathing or a snatch of birdsong. It grew louder by degrees until at last he could place it. It was the distant sound of flutes. The rage came upon him so quickly, he was shocked by it. He could taste it, a bitter iron flavour, like blood upon his tongue.

  He glanced back at Obair and snatched up the quiver full of iron-heads and the short spears as he stood. The leaves made no noise as he passed out over the iron scraps that lay strewn over the ground, encircling the camp as a final layer of defence, should they need it. With a last look at the old man, who was still sleeping in the dim glow from the coals, he disappeared into the night.

  The darkness beyond the campfire was almost absolute and it took a while for Devin's eyes to adjust enough for him to be able to move with any speed. The music called him on and he felt chills as he remembered another night, when another person was called onward by the flutes.

  Devin slowed and took deep, nearly silent, breaths. His heart was hammering in his ears and that would make for lousy marksmanship when he needed it to be perfect. The music was closer now. He pulled himself tight against a fir tree as the first glow of the coloured lights filtered through the trees.

  He edged in to
wards the sound, travelling from tree to tree until he spied them. The five satyrs laughed as they danced, chattering away in a language that sounded more like music than words. Glowing balls of light floated in the air above them as they went, painting the woods in bright shades of red, violet and emerald.

  Anyone with any sense would just lie silent until they'd moved on, he told himself. Anyone with any sense wouldn’t be setting their arrows into the ground in front of them for greater speed. His anger was burning inside him so fiercely, he felt he might scream with pure rage. These things, these monsters from another world, had torn his family apart. They would pay. It didn’t matter to him that the satyrs passing in front of him might have had nothing to do with Widdengate or with what had happened to Hannah and Khorin. All that mattered was that they were within range.

  His first arrow flew true and he already had the second nocked, the string of the bow pulled back to touch his lips, as the night exploded with blue fire and screams. He let it fly and it took another satyr in the throat. He took his time aiming with the third, trusting to the hope that they couldn’t see him in the darkness. They had turned towards him, following the path of the arrows’ flight, and he glimpsed glowing eyes darting here and there as they searched for a sign of movement. Then they saw him and came charging through the trees. He fired, taking the closest beast in the thigh and dropping it to the ground. The blue fire flared, spreading through the satyr's body as if it were dry grass, as the creature screamed and writhed in the embrace of the flames.

  They were close now, tearing through the bushes and trees, knives held ready. Close enough for him to hear the panting of their breath, as they bared their teeth in feral grimaces of hate and charged at him. He fired his fourth arrow when the first satyr was barely ten feet from him, and the creature fell to its knees.

  The final satyr hurled itself into the air, reaching out with its knives as it flew towards him. Devin didn’t hesitate. He grasped the two iron-tipped spears from the ground by his feet and drove them before him, stepping into the thrust, and then the world exploded into blue fire.

  It might have been moments or hours later when he came to. He had nothing to judge the time by. It was still as dark as it had been though, so he reasoned that must mean something. He pulled himself to his feet and ran probing fingers over his body, feeling for pain or cuts. His skin felt sensitive where it was uncovered, but other than that he seemed unhurt. A grim smile crept onto his lips as he felt around for his bow and the remaining arrows. The spears were ruined, charred and useless.

  The walk back to camp took longer than he expected. The calm he’d maintained throughout the fight left his body, seeping away until he shook with shock at his own actions. Five satyrs. Should he be proud of himself or appalled at his own stupidity?

  He was still pondering that question as he made his way out of the undergrowth and back into camp. Obair was still snoring. Devin stepped back into the circle of scattered iron with genuine relief. Sleep would not come, though, and he lay staring into the night sky, as the stars slowly paled and were swallowed up by the approaching dawn.

  ***

  The hills grew steeper with each passing day, and both the horses and the two of them were showing signs of wear. Devin knew how to care for a horse, but there were limits to what he could do while they were still on the road.

  He felt an almost palpable sense of relief when Obair led them in a new direction, following the line of a dense wood.

  “It’s funny how you remember things,” the old druid mused, glancing back over one shoulder at a black rock with a line of white quartz running through it.

  “What?” Devin turned his eyes from the path to look at him.

  “Well, you worry you’ve been going the wrong way for days and then you spot something you didn’t even realise you remembered. That rock back there. I asked my master about it all those years ago. I remember the conversation as clear as day, but I haven’t thought about it in years.” He broke off with a chuckle, then noticed Devin’s expression. “What?”

  “You haven’t been sure we’ve been going the right way for days?” Devin asked in tight, controlled tones.

  “Well, you know how it is. You second-guess yourself,” Obair said, weakly. Devin muttered darkly to himself as he clenched his eyes shut and shook his head.

  “It worked out. That rock shows we were going the right way the whole time!” Obair protested.

  Devin nudged his horse past him, ignoring the old man as he called after him.

  The path wasn’t even a trail, just a direction that Obair had steered them in. They trudged along at the edge of the steep hillside. It was little more than an exposed scree really, with the occasional tuft of grass or stubby bush poking out from between the stones.

  The ground ahead of them sank down, as they skirted the trees, some of which came all the way up to meet the scree face. Eventually, they spotted something glinting in the sunlight. “Water!” Devin cried.

  Obair nudged his horse faster, clinging to the saddle as he bounced around, and they rushed to the lake. They climbed off the horses at the edge of the water and let the animals drink their fill. The lake was large, so far across that the far bank was a just distant haze. Swifts darted in the air above the water, as they hunted the insects that flew in the late afternoon light. The place had a remote quality to it. According to the map, it was less than a week's journey from the nearest village, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  Devin watched Obair for a moment. He was leaning against his horse, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was staring through the veils of a memory. His face was pinched, almost pained, and Devin wondered again at the life he must have led. Had he ever truly known happiness?

  “Do you recognise it?” he asked, in a hushed voice. The sense of peace was overwhelming and he was hesitant to shatter it.

  “Oh, yes.” Obair gave him a small smile. “It hasn’t changed all that much. We need to skirt around to the east. If I remember rightly, the cottage is about four or five miles away.”

  Devin refrained from making any of the numerous comments that sprang to mind about Obair’s sense of direction and memory. He had led them here after all, despite keeping his fears of going the wrong way secret.

  The trek around the lake was pleasant. The ground was level and even, and they opted to walk rather than ride, so that they could give the horses a break. They spoke little, however. Obair drifted out of the conversation and into a silent reverie twice, so Devin gave up.

  He couldn’t see the cottage when Obair stopped, but the druid's hissed intake of breath was signal enough. Devin followed Obair’s gaze and ran his eyes over the bushes and trees. “What is it?” he asked, giving up his search. “Do you see it?”

  Obair nodded and pointed in silence. It still took Devin a moment to make it out. The cottage was built against a massive oak tree, with the trunk forming part of the structure. Like Obair’s cottage, it had a tumbledown air to it, and the timbers were covered with ivy and moss. The shadows created by the oak broke up the image and the windows were hard to pick out unless he focused.

  It was quiet though, too quiet. Devin slipped his bow off his back and set an arrow to the string as they approached, earning a look from Obair but no objections.

  “Hello?” Obair called out, as they approached. His voice was too loud in the silence and birds flew up from the trees, disturbed by his shout.

  The body lay in the long grass, one outstretched hand jutting up from the ground like a twisted, broken stick. Gnawed, sun-bleached bones wrapped in the shredded remnants of clothes were all that really remained. Devin froze as he saw it, and Obair muttered something long and hushed in a pained whisper.

  The druid raced towards the body and knelt over it in silence. His moan, when it came, was low and terrible, the agonised wail of a man who had trapped his feelings deep down within himself. They tore free of their prison, rising within his body and growing in strength, until a
cry burst from his lips and banished the peace of the lake, its echoes forming a harmony of anguish as they carried through the trees.

  Obair clutched the bones to his chest. They were held together by scraps of grey fabric, tiny remnants of hair and leather-like tatters of flesh. Devin turned away, unable to watch any longer, and made his way towards the cottage.

  The door was closed tight and the structure seemed sound. He ran a hand over the ivy and moss that covered the walls, noting odd lumps in the surface. Picking at the moss, he revealed short stubs of iron that had been embedded in the wooden beams of the cottage and jutted out to ward away those that sought to enter.

  He gave the door an experimental push but it was stuck fast, warped by rain and neglect.

  “Give it a shove,” Obair said. The man stood a few steps behind him, his face an emotionless mask.

  Devin shoved it hard, but it only moved an inch or so before sticking again. He had to pound his shoulder into it to make it give. The interior of the cottage was dark, the windows too filthy to let much light in. Devin wiped at the glass with a cuff and the light that shone in revealed a much larger space than he was expecting. A small kitchen led into a large living area where a long desk, surrounded by bookshelves, was tucked away in a corner. A low doorway led into a dark room which Devin assumed must be sleeping quarters. He moved aside to let Obair pass him and stepped back outside into the daylight. There were small outbuildings set back behind the house in a little clearing that had been stolen from the woods, and he could make out a small barn, as well as a patch of ground which, at some point, had obviously been a vegetable plot.

  A well-worn path led off into the trees and, on a whim, he followed it. Obair needed some time alone and Devin needed to be away from the pain etched on his face.

  The path led to another clearing and, as he stopped at the end of it, beside an old wooden bench, he wondered what else he had been expecting. A ragged circle of stones surrounded three larger stone blocks with one laying atop the two uprights to form an arch of sorts, or a doorway.