The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  Riddal took an arrow and examined the fletching. “It’s not as clean as I’d like but it’ll fly.”

  “I’m out of practice,” Erinn admitted.

  “You made these?” Riddal said.

  “The fletching’s mine on most of them,” she told him. “It gave me something to do in the evenings.” Erinn shrugged. “I’ve heard all of Samen’s stories before.”

  “How many?” he asked, eyes on the barrels.

  Erinn followed his gaze. “Arrows? I’ve not really kept a count. Not enough to waste anyway.”

  “What’s in here?” he asked, looking at a sealed barrel.

  She smiled, an expression that was cold and vengeful. “An idea, something I'd like to try out if the opportunity presents itself. For now I’d like you hand out these weapons to those you think will get the most use from them.”

  ***

  The first night passed uncomfortably. Though the fires were warm and everyone ate the waiting dragged on. As the moon rose men fingered their weapons, hefting the unfamiliar weight of the iron swords or setting arrows to strings.

  And the wait went on. The fires still burned high but none took comfort from their warmth now. Eyes swept the darkness between the trees, or searched the skies, watching for any movement or sign. The anticipation built, growing until an attack by the fae would actually have been preferable to the tension.

  Erinn walked, picking her way through the camp and the legs that threatened to trip her from those seeking sleep. Whenever she passed someone awake she stopped, handing over a small pouch from the sack she carried.

  “What’s this?” Marjoie asked. Erinn hadn’t even registered who she was when she’d pressed the pouch into her hands.

  “Something to protect you if they come,” Erinn told her.

  “If who come? The scourge?” Marjoie curled her lip. “If the Lord seeks to send me from his world for the sins of my past there’s nothing you can put in a pouch that will help me.”

  “Unless it isn’t a scourge,” Erinn said. “What if it is the fae and nothing to do with the Lord? For that matter, what if the fae are the scourge?”

  Marjoie pulled herself upright, face tight as he lips pressed thin together. “I told you, girl. The fae are nothing but superstition.”

  Erinn thought, brushing her hair out of her face with one hand. “But if they are the Lord’s scourge, well, wasn’t it you who told me that the Lord helps those who help themselves?”

  A faint smile of satisfaction hovered around her lips. “That’s right. The Lord holds no truck with those that sit around wallowing in their own misfortune.”

  Erinn smiled then. “Well then, isn’t this just helping ourselves?”

  Marjoie grunted, a noncommittal sound that made it clear that even though she might agree with Erinn she’d never admit to it. As she walked away Erinn saw her working the drawstrings back. “Huh,” the old woman muttered as she peered inside, poking at the contents with a gnarled finger. “Clever.”

  Erinn paced. She worked a path into the dirt as she made her way past the children and those who managed to snatch moments of sleep. Pacing worked so long as she kept moving. Twice, when she’d stopped, people had tried to draw her into frightened conversations. She didn’t want to talk. Talking led to dwelling and speculation. It just fed the fear she’d worked hard to ignore. And so she walked, back and forth through the cramped camp, picking her way through the legs of those laying on the ground until they took the hint and shuffled back out of her way.

  A single weary cheer rose to meet the first light of the sun. Weak and lonely it stopped as quickly as it had begun. Cheers meant a victory. This battle hadn’t begun yet.

  The second night was better but for all the wrong reasons. They’d made poor progress, with a late start, and too many took turns at snatching an hour or two of sleep on the carts. It didn't seem to help much and most of the refugees looked exhausted by the time night fell. She set them in watches, at Riddal’s insistence, and the camp slept in shifts hoping for the dawn.

  Erinn sat, curled into a corner of the camp up against a cart's wheel. The fires and the rough blanket were warm enough but sleep would not come. She stared into the coals of the closest fire worrying. If the fae came now most of these people would be too tired to be of any use.

  She flashed Samen a tired smile as he sank down beside her. “You should be sleeping,” she told him.

  “I could say the same of you, girl,” he replied with a scowl.

  “I’m hardly a girl at this point, Samen,” she scoffed. “I’ve known mothers younger than I am.”

  He shrugged, indifferent. “In my head you’re still that little red haired girl pestering me for stories.”

  “I haven’t been that girl for a long time.” She hadn’t meant it to sound miserable but as the words left her lips she realised it was probably true and her mood fell still further. “Do you think they’ll come tonight?”

  “The fae?” He scratched at an armpit, ignoring her pointed look. “What makes you think they’ll come at all?”

  “The old man at Widdengate, Obair. He said the Hunt comes on the third night after full moon.”

  “You should know better than to believe every tale an old man tells you,” Samen said. He managed to keep his face straight for two or three heartbeats, and then snorted at himself.

  Erinn felt her face relax as the smile faded. “Seriously, do you think they will?”

  “If they do, then they do. One thing I know, this is no way to live.” His look was serious, his customary dour expression suddenly stripped from him. “I’m not a young man, Erinn. I’ve not many years left to me but I’d rather be meat for the droos before I choose to live like this. These creatures, whether they’re fae or the scourge that mad old hag, Marjoie, keeps harping on about. Whatever you call them, they’ve beaten us without even a fight. We’re worse than mice, cowering in the night from the hoot of an owl. I’m done with it.”

  She pushed herself upright from where she’d been slouched against the wheel. “We were defeated, Samen. You were there at Carik’s Fort, the same as me. You know what they did.”

  “Yes I was. And yes, they ran the streets red with our blood.” His face grew fierce as he spoke, irritation growing before giving way to something with more heat. “They came and cut us down like they were reaping wheat. I’ll tell you this for free though, girl, I’m not dead yet. If I’m still breathing I mean to live and piss on anyone who does less!”

  He stopped then, chest heaving, and she knew from his expression that he’d had no idea he’d stood and been shouting at the last. A clap was joined by others and Samen flushed at the applause at first before he recovered himself and turned to give a florid bow.

  “You’ve got the right of it, old man,” Marjoie said as she picked her way through the sudden press of people. “Those as live like they’re already dead, they get their wish soon enough.”

  His face darkened but she spoke again before he could get a word in edgeways. “Life is for living, an’ I say enough hidin’ in the dark. Do you think you could saw out a tune on that fiddle I see you lugging about? A bit of music might remind these folks they’re not dead just yet.”

  A smile climbed out of the shock on his face. “I just might at that.”

  She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I may be a mad old hag but I still know how to live.” She winked at him, laughing again at the look on his face.

  The change as Samen’s first notes drifted through the camp was pronounced. While musicians were nothing out of the ordinary it was a sad home that didn’t own a pipe or flute. A fiddle though? Well, a fiddle was a rare and wondrous thing.

  He started out slow, coaxing out a soothing melody as faces turned towards him from around the camp. Soon though, he shifted to a livelier tune, moving around the fire and unconsciously falling into a hopping, bouncing gait that was a lot closer to a dance than he would probably have ever admitted.

  Soon the children were followin
g him around, giggling and clapping along to the beat as the night breezes tossed leaves through the camp. A wineskin appeared from somewhere and was joined by others that were passed around in the light of the fires. Though Erinn would have sworn there was no drink to be had in the camp she was glad of it. There was barely enough for a mouthful each but the impact it had was priceless. All around her, people who’d been ready to give up, to roll over and die as soon as the fae appeared, were getting up to dance with a new life shining in their eyes.

  She laughed as a farmhand took her hands and pulled her to her feet, brushing away her half-hearted protests. Soon she was spinning and whirling in a dance she’d known long before any boy had ever been permitted to lead her out onto the floor.

  The moon was high and full in the sky but for the first time in months she ignored it, allowing herself a moment of pleasure. The music swelled around her, lifting her, filling her senses as it took her away from the horrors of the past days and weeks. Pipes had joined with the music from Samen’s fiddle and the song soared, roaring in her ears as her heart raced to keep up with her spirit. The farmhand passed her off to another, and then yet another until the faces were a blur. The numbers in the camp seemed larger, or maybe it was just the enclosed space. Her mind drifted as her feet moved without her really thinking about it and, with a shock of pleasure, she realised the man who held her was Devin.

  He’d grown since the last time she saw him, becoming thicker of body and more muscular in the arms and shoulders, but there was no doubting it was him. The music made it too loud to talk and words would have been wasted now anyway. He moved her expertly around the floor, strong hands roaming unchecked over her back and hips. She laughed wickedly as he pulled her in close, chancing a kiss that she stole away from him at the last second, presenting her cheek.

  Her laugh turned into a gasp, and then a moan as he ignored the offered cheek and kissed at her throat instead. Dimly she heard a sound that might have been screams, but none of that mattered now. Her heart was pounding as Devin took her by the hand, leading her between two wagons and out away from the dance and into the darkness.

  The arrow took him in the throat and as he clutched at the shaft, blue fire erupted from the wound. The glamour shattered and her vision swam as her ears were filled with screams and the crash of weapons. The satyr dropped to the dirt, dark blood hissing as blue fire spurted from the wound.

  Erinn swallowed down the scream that threatened to come out. There was no time for that. The camp was in chaos. Men who’d never held a sword swung at satyrs who danced lightly away from their clumsy strokes. The air above them was thick with tiny purple-skinned creatures, darting about on gossamer wings and looking like the faeries of legend. She grabbed at the pouch around her neck, tearing it free and pouring half the contents out into one hand as she ran towards the closest satyr.

  The filings were fine, the dust from fifty or more swords sharpened on the grinding wheel and gathered up from the floor. Erinn put a hand on the farmer’s shoulder, hurling the dust past him and full into the satyr’s face. The creature blinked, gasping and breathing the dust in even as it reached to wipe it from its eyes. It stood frozen for a heartbeat, and then it screamed. It was a shockingly human sound as tiny blue sparks burst into life on the surface of its skin and eyes. The sparks grew, fanned into flames that seared the skin and burned it blind. Fire gouted from its mouth and nose and, within seconds, the monster was wreathed in flames.

  Erinn staggered back, amazed at the effect, and glanced about the camp. Riddal and his scouts were stood atop a wagon, sending shaft after shaft into the mess. Despite their efforts though, Erinn’s numbers were dropping. In moments they would be overwhelmed.

  “Pouches,” Erinn shouted, her voice almost lost in the noise. “Throw the dust!”

  Enough people heard and hands were soon tossing the iron filings into the air. When the cloud of filings touched the satyrs they were wreathed in a thousand tiny sparks. It seemed to have little effect unless they breathed it in or it blew into their eyes. It was enough though, enough to freeze them for a moment, and Harlen’s iron blades thrust deep.

  Where the dust hit the faeries however, the effect was profound. They crashed to the ground with wings burning in hot, blue flames. The dust was light enough to carry a short distance and clouds of it caught in the night wind, drifting through the camp. Erinn grabbed up a fallen sword, wielding it with two hands as she stabbed at a satyr stood rooted to the spot as it clawed at its eyes.

  “Come on!” she screamed at the men around her. She drove them through the camp, dealing death and flame to the fae that, moments ago, had been close to killing them all.

  It was over in a shockingly short time and she let the sword’s tip drop to the ground, her chest heaving as she looked around to see if it was really over. Bodies lay everywhere, villagers mixed in with the fae that still burned fitfully. She caught sight of Riddal, staring at her in shock, and then she sank to her knees, triumph shrouded by exhaustion.

  Chapter Eleven

  Selena sipped at the spoon and pulled face at the soup. Cold…again. It would have been easy enough to have it warmed but she’d had that done once already and twice would seem foolish. “It’s you that left it to go cold again, foolish woman,” she chided herself. She glanced at the bread roll sat on its small plate beside the soup and grimaced. Fresh bread had always been her favourite food. Warm from the oven and still hot enough to steam as you tore it open. Slathered in butter there was nothing better. Of course that was before she’d fallen pregnant. Now a single taste would have had her stomach churning and her racing for a pot to retch into.

  A gentle tap on the door preceded the servant with a letter resting on a silver tray. Heavens forbid it was simply carried, she thought.

  “A letter, your grace.” The servant somehow managed to offer her the tray whilst bowing and yet not look ridiculous. Where did they learn these things?

  “So it is, and isn’t it so pretty on its shiny tray too?” She kept her face straight. It was much more fun when they couldn’t tell you were poking fun at them. “Who is it from?”

  “I would never presume to read your grace’s correspondence, your grace,” he replied.

  She looked at the ceiling as she pondered aloud. “Did the letter fly here? Or perhaps it appeared in a puff of smoke?”

  “I believe it was delivered by a messenger from Druel, your grace,” he admitted. “Though I am given to understand it originated from the Browntree estates.”

  “Aunt Evelyn!” Selena snatched the letter from the tray. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  She waved him to silence as she cracked the seal and started to read. Dimly she was aware he’d bowed and made his way out, but by then the words had taken hold and her vision was already blurred.

  “Your grace?” an older voice, motherly.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you all right, your grace?”

  Selena looked past the letter and into the gloom. How had it grown so dark in here already? “I’m fine, Catherine. Why?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re sitting in the dark.” She stepped out to the hallway and returned with a taper, moving around the room and lighting the lamps.

  “You didn’t eat again, your grace,” the woman chided her.

  Selena glanced at the bowl. “It went cold. We’re alone, Catherine, you can drop the grace.”

  Catherine peered at the tray. “Even the bread? Went cold, I mean?”

  Selena pulled a face. “I can’t eat bread. It makes the morning sickness worse.”

  Catherine tutted. “Then why don’t you tell the kitchens not to send any up?”

  “I can’t afford to show any weakness, Catherine,” Selena said, ignoring the disbelieving expression. “I’m a woman, holding power in a world that men believe they have a right to rule. Half the men in this very villa think I ought to be doing needlepoint or cleaning something. The fact I’m pregnant only makes it worse. The ve
ry notion that a woman is capable of doing more than producing squalling brats has never occurred to most men. If I start sending food back because it makes me feel ill I might as well start swooning and waiting for someone to catch me.”

  The servant gave her a faintly amused expression. “Is it still really that bad?”

  “Oh, don’t!” Selena sighed. “I’ve had a good twelve people tell me that the sickness has usually passed for most women by now. Yes, it’s still that bad. Pass me the bread and I’ll demonstrate.” She cracked a smile at herself and cocked her head as a thought occurred to her. “It can’t be that different for you. Practically nobody here even knows your name. They speak in whispers about the ‘Mistress of the House.’ If you threw up every time you smelled baking bread they’d soon stop worrying about working fast enough and be snickering up their sleeves as you passed.”

  “You may be right,” Catherine conceded. “Why were the lamps unlit?”

  “I lost track of time. I was thinking.” Selena waved the message. “A death in the family, my Aunt Evelyn.”

  “The Lady Browntree?” The servant allowed a note of dismay into her voice. “Oh, that is terrible news.”

  “I haven’t seen her in too long, now it’s too late.” Selena shook herself and cleared her throat, pulling herself erect in the chair. “What did you want, Catherine? I’m sure you didn’t come in here just to light the lamps.”

  “No, your grace.” She shook her head. “Sanderson has an…individual with him that you had requested a meeting with. I thought it might be best to advise you myself.”

  “An individual?” Selena asked, perplexed.

  “You had requested he located a personage of somewhat less than savoury character?” Catherine reminded her with a pained expression.

  Selena laughed. “Oh, you mean the thief!”

  “Yes, your grace.” Catherine nodded.

  Selena let the grace pass. It was probably the woman’s coping mechanism. She’d invited a thief into what she probably thought of as her own home, after all. It must be a little like asking a shepherd to find a wolf to bring back to the paddock. “Why don’t you ask Sanderson to bring him… I’m assuming it’s a man?” Catherine nodded. “Very well, have him bring him in.”