She watched him go, clumping through the cottage in his heavy field-boots and leaving mud with every step. It was only as he looked back at her on the threshold that she saw the size of the travel-sack. She glanced around the cottage, at the things that were missing, and she could see it in his eyes. He didn’t expect to be coming back.
It was almost fully dark by the time they reached the walls of the village. Flaming torches burned on the walls and out amongst the sharpened stakes that surrounded them. Torna huddled deeper into her cloak as Kornik shivered through a brief conversation with the wall guards.
The village only had the one street and rain and feet had already worked to turn it to a thick sludge that oozed and sucked at her boots. There was no chance of getting into an empty farmer’s cottage this late in the day and Kornik wasted no time in heading for the inn. It was rude by Bresda’s standards but it was still warm and dry. A fiddler was sawing out a tune in the corner, close to the fire, and the laughter and conversation, coupled with the smell of hot food, was almost enough to make her forgive Kornik for dragging her out through the wet.
She took a small table in the corner and held it with her wet cloak before going to the bar to order food and drinks whilst Kornik haggled over the price of a room. It wouldn’t be cheap. He was soaked through and it was late. It was a seller’s market.
He stumped back over to the table just as the food arrived. A turnip soup with a thick crust of bread. Not the best meal by a long stretch but better than nothing. At least it was hot.
He still hadn’t relaxed. She could see him throwing furtive looks at the window between mouthfuls of soup. She leaned over the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He grunted around his spoon and avoided talking for a moment by sticking his nose into the mug of ale. “I saw one before the rest,” he said finally, speaking softly. “Just stood there in the shadows of the trees, staring at me.” He shook his head and avoided her eyes, speaking to the wall beside them more than to her. “I thought I was seeing things until it moved. It pulled a knife, slow-like, and licked the blade. I ran then, charging through the woods like a spooked sow. I could hear it behind me. Even over all the noise I was making I could hear it laughing, like it was soft in the head or something.” He met her eyes finally and the fear was plain for her to see, all fresh and sharp edges.
“I thought I was just running blind but it was herding me or something. I remember falling in the stream, and when I looked back there were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They just stood there, waiting for me to start running again, like it was all a game of chase.”
He looked down at the soup, poking at it with the carved wooden spoon, and opened his mouth to speak. The horn was low and mournful, it cut through the room leaving only a shocked silence in its wake as eyes shot to the door and windows. Silence fled as the chairs scraped and clattered to the floor. Kornik reached for Torna’s hand and pushed through the press of bodies as he pulled her from the inn.
The muddy street surged with villagers as they raced to their defence stations. Torna snatched her hand away from Kornik as the horn blasted again. “What are you doing? You should be going to the walls?”
“Those walls won’t stop that lot,” he told her. “We need to get out of here.”
She shook her head at him, fear warring with a strange sense of betrayal. “No! Barad, Kevet, and all the others are going to the walls. We only need to hold long enough for help to come. They’re depending on us!”
He gave her a long look. “Fine, we’ll go to the bloody walls. Then you’ll see.”
He half-dragged her between two buildings to a quieter section of the wall and up the rough ladder lashed in place.
“There!” He stabbed a finger out to the darkness lurking between the flare of torches. “Do you see them?”
She looked at him in shock for a second, and then followed his finger out into the murk. It was hard to see anything past the torchlight but something was moving. It was as if the darkness itself moved, shifting and restless, and then she saw the eyes.
Her fingers clutched at his arm as the image came together. Amber eyes stretched out like an ocean of fireflies. The smallest were just pinpricks in the dark but the closest shone clearly, glaring out of the faces of nightmares. She looked back at him and the single nod was all the answer he needed.
The first screams were already turning to echoes by the time they reached the rear gates. They were already abandoned. There weren’t enough men in the village to man the walls properly, let alone keep men to guard gates that were on the wrong side from the fight.
Kornik threw the bar down into the dirt and shoved the heavy gate open, and then they ran. They ran until their sides heaved and their eyes burned with tears and, behind them, in the darkness, a village screamed in fear and agony.
***
Klöss made a mark on the chart and looked up at the messenger as he hovered in the doorway. “What is it?”
“A message for Seamaster Kurikson,” the messenger said.
Klöss muttered something vile under his breath and glanced down at the chart again. “So why bring it here? Do I look like Frostbeard?”
The messenger fiddled with a torn corner of his leathers. “No, my lord.”
“Do I look like a lord?” Klöss grated up at the man. He was possibly enjoying this a little too much but the man was irritating him.
“No, Shipmaster.”
“Am I going to have to drag this out of you, man? I’m a little bit busy. Why are you here?”
The messenger squirmed as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I did try, sir. The Seamaster, he isn’t answering his door and, well, I didn’t like to just barge in. But the message, sir, well it’s supposed to be urgent.” He let it hang.
“Oh, for the love of… Give it here, man!” Klöss snatched the paper from his hand, breaking the seal and reading quickly. He frowned and read the message again before tossing it aside and reaching for the chart. Skelf was a tiny village, one of the most recently constructed, but in an area to the north and far behind their front lines. How had they even managed to reach it let alone attack it?
He grabbed up the message and pushed his way past the messenger, rushing through the halls. Whoever Frostbeard was with would just need to cope with the interruption. This was more important. If they had found a way past the front this could upset their whole effort. It could ruin them. A large enough force could cut to the heart of the lands they’d taken. Supply lines would be severed, dispatches waylaid. It could spell disaster for everything they’d achieved so far. If it was the Anlish, that was.
He’d expected to hear voices through the door but Frostbeard’s study may as well have been empty for all the sound that escaped it. His knocking was met only with silence.
“He is in there isn’t he?” he asked the guard stood at the door, receiving a confused nod in response.
He tried again, louder this time and tried the door. Aiden was sat at his desk with a preoccupied, pained expression on his face as he rubbed absently at his arm.
“What is it?” he snapped as Klöss came in.
“A message came for you. There’s been an attack behind our lines.” Klöss frowned at the old man. “You don’t look so great. Are you sick?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aiden snapped, reaching for the paper in Klöss’s hand. His eyes widened as he read and he headed to the wall and the large map that hung there.
Klöss followed him. “You see my point? If it’s the Anlish then they’ve somehow passed through three districts and who knows how many patrol lines to get to there.”
“And why bother?” Frostbeard grunted. His voice sounded tight, strained. “It’s a small village of no real strategic value. They didn’t even bother to burn it. We could take it back and repopulate it in days. Why attack here?” He turned back to Klöss, the thought occurring to him obvious on his face. “You said if it’s the Anlish. You think it’s this other group? The ones that at
tacked during your Reaping?”
“I think that would make more sense.” Klöss shrugged. “More sense than the Anlish making it through our entire territory and passing who knows how many patrol routes without being noticed, anyway.”
Frostbeard raised an eyebrow. “You think they’re a third player in all this?”
“I think it's time we stopped fooling ourselves,” Klöss replied, throwing his arms in the air. “The men have been talking about it for months. These things, whatever they are, they’re not human. Call them keiju, or trels, or just something weird they have in this place. We need to deal with it. Enough of the men saw the way Verig was killed to set tongues wagging. Even Tristan has spoken to me about it.”
Aiden waved a dismissive hand, bending oddly at the waist. “He’s from the Far Isles though, and they’ve always been a superstitious bunch.”
“He hit one of these things in the face with an axe. It didn’t even draw blood.” Klöss pressed. “Lords of Blood, Sea, and Stone, Uncle, what is it going to take? You’ve seen them yourself. Do you really think it was the Anlish who managed to smash down our gates and ride through the streets of Rimeheld?”
Aiden grunted and staggered back to the chair. “Damn it!” he gasped.
Klöss had no time to respond as Frostbeard clutched at his chest and pitched forward. He grabbed for the arm of the chair with one flailing hand even as he sank to the floor, his face the colour of fresh ashes, pulling the chair crashing to the ground beside him.
“Aiden!” Klöss dropped down to his knees beside the man, and then rushed to the door, ripping it open. “Get a healer in here,” he screamed at the shocked guard.
Frostbeard lay half-curled on one side, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. Klöss sank down beside him. “Hold on, old man. You can’t leave me with this mess now, can you?”
His Uncle managed a watery smile. “You’d be fine you know?” he gasped out between breaths. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Just hold on,” Klöss pled in a whisper but his Uncle wasn’t listening.
He sat in the chair as people rushed around him. The healers fussed and wasted time with a body they could do nothing to help. Messengers, and those too nosey to listen to their own good sense, came and went. He was vaguely aware that Tristan was somewhere in the mix, pushing people out with his gentle voice, and then with a harsher one when that didn’t work.
The room was awash with good intentions. They would do little. Frostbeard was already dead. Klöss stayed, even after they had carried the old man away, sitting at the desk staring at nothing, until a sound made him turn.
Larren stood in the doorway watching him. He tried a smile but gave up on it as he came in. “I thought we ought to talk.”
“Of course, Sealord.” Klöss, stood and righted the chair his uncle had toppled.
“Don’t fuss with that, lad. We can forget the silly titles for the moment as well.” He turned and shut the door firmly. “This probably isn’t the best time for this but we need to be pragmatic. Your uncle was the driving force behind this campaign. If we let it falter now there are whole sections of the Chamber just waiting to pull it apart.”
Klöss nodded but made no move to speak.
“What we need now is continuity,” Larren told him. “Someone has to run things here and I can’t spare the time away from Hesk to do that. I have my own duties that are already being neglected.”
The penny finally dropped. “You can’t mean me?” Klöss blurted.
“Who better?” the Sealord said as he smiled. “You’ve been involved since the beginning. You know the plans, the factions within your own men, which of the Keeper’s demands we can fulfil and which must wait.”
“Yes but—”
“But nothing.” Larren cut him off. “The timing is bad, I understand that, but I need you. These men need you. Do your duty, son. Make your uncle proud.”
Klöss sighed. He’d lost this before he’d even spoken. “What do you want from me?”
The older man smiled at that. “Not much more than you were already doing,” he said. “The thane would have to sanction an appointment like this anyway but, for now at least, I need you to act as Lord of Rimeheld.”
“Lord?” Klöss protested. “It never had a lord!”
“Don’t be absurd.” Larren snorted. “Aiden never liked the title but everyone knew what he was.”
Klöss fell silent. The man was obviously serious but could he really do the job? As he asked himself he realised he already knew the answer. He also knew that no matter how Larren dressed it up he’d never really had a choice.
“Good lad!” Larren clapped him on the shoulder as he nodded. “You’ll have a bit more oversight and input from me than Aiden did but I think we can both see why. For now, I believe you have a village that’s been attacked. And I have a ship to catch. Keep things moving along and don’t dwell on Aiden. He lived well. I’ll be in touch.” He clapped Klöss on the shoulder again and left. It wasn’t until his footsteps faded around the distant corner that Klöss thought to wonder how he could have known about the village.
***
Tristan stood, scraping his chair back, and gave a deep bow as Klöss walked in. He smiled at the dark scowl Klöss shot him, unruffled.
Klöss looked from Tristan to Gavin and back. “You’ve heard already then?”
“News like this moves with haste,” the large man said as he shrugged. “I am sorry about your uncle,” he added, his dark eyes serious for once. “He was a good man, I think.”
Klöss sank down in a chair at the table opposite Tristan. “He was, and thank you.”
“Is it not too soon for you to be commanding this vessel?”
Klöss gave him a long look before he spoke “He’s dead, Tristan. It’s been three days and right now it’s not going to get much better. I’ll not disgrace myself by falling apart or letting this campaign do the same.”
Tristan nodded, though he looked far from convinced. He jerked his head at Gavin who sat sprawled in a chair at the end of the table with his feet up, toying with a knife. “Your message said to for me to bring this one along?”
Klöss nodded. “There was an attack, a village called Skelf. It’s way behind our lines. I want you to take some men and find out what happened.”
Tristan grunted with a frown. “How far behind our lines?”
“Far enough that it makes me question if it was the Anlish,” Klöss admitted. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and ran his hand back over his head as he sighed. “I don’t know who it was but I can’t see how the Anlish could have made it past our lines and penetrated that deeply. The report we received says the village wasn’t burned, at least not that the farmers saw while they were running. If I were the Anlish I’d have burnt it to the ground.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Gavin spoke up.
“We all know what we saw at the reaping,” Klöss told him. “Whether these things are the trels and keiju from nursery rhymes, or whether they’re something else, it doesn’t matter. If they’re a threat to us we need to deal with it. Right now I need information, and fast.” He looked back to Tristan. “Take some men and scout the area. See just how good this one is on the way.” He gave Gavin a pointed look. “If he’s half as good as he makes out then we’ll have a talk when you get back.” He frowned, looking at the knife in the thief's hand. “What is that, iron?”
Gavin glanced at the blade and nodded. “Had it made a few days after the reaping.”
“Iron’s no good for a blade,” Klöss scoffed. “It’ll be no use against someone with steel.”
“It’s just something I remembered, things from stories.” Gavin shrugged to cover the flush on his cheeks. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
Klöss raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d have some steel on me as well.”
Gavin snorted and stood to reveal the four daggers strapped to his back. “I’m not short on steel.”
Klöss gave a
short barking laugh. “Very nice, but they won’t be much use against a good swordsman.”
“Swords are slow.” Gavin muttered.
Tristan sighed loudly. “If you are finished seeing whose one is bigger we have hunting to do, yes?”
Klöss and Gavin shared a look before glaring at Tristan but the big man was already headed for the door. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Klöss. “What will you do while we are gone?”
Klöss gave a twisted smile. “I expect this place will find a way to keep me busy.”
Tristan shook his head. “That is not good. You will mope. Papers do not clear a man’s head or stir his blood. You need more.”
Klöss raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Why not come and view this village yourself?”
“Are you mad?” Klöss burst into laughter at the thought. “The sealord would have a merry fit! I’m supposed to be leading this campaign now not running around the woods.”
“And you will be of how much use with your uncle inside your head?” Tristan asked.
Klöss rose, scraping the heavy chair over the stone floor. “And what if something happens?” he pressed. “What if we’re killed or captured? What then?”
“These are not new risks to us, Klöss,” Tristan reminded him. “Who would the task fall to if you fell?”
That was something he hadn’t really considered. Klöss thought about it for a moment. “Lek, I suppose. He’s more at home with reports than a sword these days but he knows what’s important.”
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 84