The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  The sudden flare of light stabbed at her eyes and she squinted, trying to make sense of the scene.

  Far to her right, steel met steel and a man screamed as another cried out. “Shit, Redan! I didn’t mean it! Lord of the New Days, are you all right, man? Redan?”

  Miriam followed the voices, not even considering the danger. Men circled a shadowy figure, crouched low with their swords ready. As the torchlight grew stronger Miriam caught the female form and her heart sank.

  “Aervern! No!” She tried to shout, but her lungs had no strength and the shout was barely a whisper. The fae twisted, lashing out with impossible speed, and another man fell to the dirt, clutching at the gash that been torn in his thigh.

  “Bitch!” a voice, she thought might be Denn, roared, and the swords and axes hacked at the figure. They may as well have been trying to stab the sky for all the good it did them. Aervern stepped past the swords with ease, moving no more than was necessary to avoid the blades, and stepping with the casual grace of a dancer.

  Twice, swords found her, crashing away from her skin as if she were made of stone. Her eyes flared then, shining as bright as the torches held by her attackers. She crouched, baring her teeth and hissing like a feral cat as she launched herself at the men closest to her. Her bones knives flashed out twice, three times, and a man fell, unable even to cry out. The second staggered back, hand held high before his face as he gaped in horror at the missing fingers.

  She moved like a flame in fury, leaping from one to another, dealing death wherever she touched. In moments it was over and the fae stood still surrounded by the dead and dying as she met Miriam’s eyes calmly.

  “Why?” Miriam whispered, feeling each and every one of her years.

  Aervern was calm, relaxed as if nothing had happened. “You are bound to my purpose, manling. Mine alone. I will not stand by as others hold you captive or try to turn you from this path.”

  “You!” Denn’s voice gasped out from the ground at Aervern's feet, the words thick with pain. “You brought this she-beast, this demon from the black among us? Why?”

  Miriam tried to speak but had no words and managed nothing more than a small shake of her head as the tears pricked at her eyes.

  “What manner of witch-woman are you?” Denn gasped. “What did we do to you that called for this?”

  She had no time to answer as Aervern reached down with an almost tender touch and her knife parted his throat with a delicate motion.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gavin sighed as he sat back, leaning his back against a tree. “I could get used to this.”

  Tristan paused, his spoon stopping halfway from bowl to mouth. “To sleeping on the ground?”

  Gavin grunted in place of a laugh. “To easy food. This place is the best hunting I’ve ever seen.”

  Tristan gave the young man a long steady look. “Did you do much hunting, on the backstreets of Hesk?”

  “I…err…” Gavin closed his mouth.

  “Will you two stop it?” Klöss snapped, sitting up and glaring at them.

  “Stop what?” Tristan asked

  “This clever banter,” Klöss told him. “It’s like the two of you have to go out of your way to be funnier than each other all the time. This isn’t a night out in a tavern. We’re deserters. We’re going to meet our enemy and betray our own people.”

  “We’re going to find a way to fight these keiju, Klöss,” Tristan said, his voice calm in the face of Klöss’s irritation.

  Klöss fell back with an explosive sigh. “I know, just lay off with the jokes for a bit, okay?”

  Gavin looked back and forth between the two of them. “How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked finally.

  “From Rimeheld?” Klöss replied. “It’s hard to judge with all these damned trees. Sixty, seventy miles or more.”

  “Is that all? It feels farther.”

  Klöss shrugged. “It could be twice that, it could be less, I don’t know.”

  “My feet say it is further,” Tristan opined and gave a slow grin as Klöss smiled.

  Klöss kicked his way out of the blankets. “Are you two about ready to move?” His only answer was a muttered grumble from Gavin but Tristan stood easily, arching his back to stretch out the kinks.

  “These Anlish, I am hoping they do not make us sleep on the ground. Of this I have had enough.” The big man knuckled at the small of his back with a wince.

  The camp came down quickly, practice making it into a smooth procedure. Gavin kicked dirt over the remains of the fire and within moments they were on the move.

  It was barely minutes to the road but the terrain had all been downhill to where they’d made their camp and, with the trees blocking the view, they’d barely needed to hide the fire.

  “It should not be long now I am thinking,” Tristan said, speaking to Klöss’s back.

  “Long for what?” Klöss replied, not turning his head.

  “Until we meet these Anlish. We are far past our own lines now.”

  Klöss tilted his head, considering. “Could be any time now I suppose.”

  “So what’s your plan, for when we meet them, I mean?” Gavin asked.

  “Plan?”

  “Don’t do this to me, Klöss.” Gavin groaned. “You weren’t planning on just walking up to them and being taken prisoner were you?”

  “That’s assuming they take prisoners, isn’t it?” Klöss’s response had sounded funny in his own head. A dig meant to shock the thief to silence. Now that it was said though, it didn’t sound so funny. He’d worked under a standing order of not taking prisoners. How many of the Anlish had he butchered? Was it really so far-fetched that they might do the same?

  His mood darkened as he considered it and they continued on in silence. The road climbed up out of the trees and by mid-morning they emerged out onto a plain. Grass stretched out on both sides, extending towards rolling hills on their right whilst a blur in the distance on the left gave the promise of distant farms.

  “It is not right,” Tristan muttered after a while.

  “Hmm?”

  “I cannot see the sea,” he explained, waving at the rolling hills. There have not been many times in my life when I could not see the waves, even far in the distance. There have been fewer still when I could not smell it.”

  Klöss nodded. It was a strange thing and not one he was enjoying. Idly he wondered just how large this land was. How much farther west it stretched.

  They never stopped to eat. It was easier to keep moving and eat on the road. Their pace was light but the condition of the road made up the difference and Klöss had reasoned that, even if they weren’t pressing hard, they should be making fifteen miles a day or more.

  “Horsemen.” Gavin nodded at the horizon to the left of their path. They stopped, squinting until at last Klöss shrugged. “I can’t see anything.”

  “There, look, on the ridgeline there.” He pointed.

  “Maybe,” he conceded, shrugging at Tristan and receiving one in return. “We’re getting closer if nothing else.”

  The road stretched on, the rutted surface taking them through the plains and towards the farmland they’d spotted in the distance. It was close to dark when they spotted the figure. A woman by the look of her, though she hunched low and leaned heavily on a thick staff.

  “What do you want to do?” Gavin asked.

  “We carry on,” Klöss said after a moment. “We just ignore her.”

  She turned and stared back at them as they drew closer, stepping to the edge of the road to let them pass. Either she’d aged early or she’d had a long, hard life. Either way she must be stronger than she looked. The pack on her back barely seemed to slow her at all but the dark robe was wrapped around a body that looked to be little more than bones. Her white hair hung out from under her hood and surrounded a face heavily lined and a mouth pinched into a scowl.

  Tristan nodded at her as they passed but neither side offered a word. They carried on, feeling her
eyes on them as they walked.

  “Think she knew?” Gavin asked in an unnecessary whisper as the woman fell further behind them.

  “Does it matter if she did?” Klöss asked. “Who is she going to tell?”

  They camped by the side of the road again that night, keeping their fire small. The night was clear and the waning moon was little more than sliver in the sky. Klöss leaned against a rock as he looked back at the road they’d travelled. The fire was as small as theirs but, in the black, he could easily pick out the glow of the woman’s camp. Though he couldn’t put a reason to it the sight made him uneasy.

  The next day was bright and clear, the sun warm despite the chill air.

  “We’re going to have to stop and hunt again soon, we’re getting low on supplies,” Gavin said as he rummaged in his pack.

  “We don’t have time,” Klöss told him. “A day or two on dried meat and fruit won’t kill you.”

  “I might prefer it if it did,” Gavin muttered.

  Tristan grinned at him. “It is nobody’s favourite,” he told him, handing over a strip of dried meat.

  Gavin ripped off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly, grimacing.

  “Oh it’s not that bad.” Klöss laughed. “Stop being such a baby.”

  Gavin hissed and reached for Klöss’s arm, pointing wordlessly off to one side of them. The troops were easy to see, the horses they rode made it almost impossible for them to hide. They rode across the fields at an angle where they would cross the road slightly ahead of Klöss and the others.

  “This is about as far as we go then,” Klöss said, tensing despite himself. “If you two want to head back before they spot us…”

  “I think it is too late for that.” Tristan pointed. The horsemen had changed course, headed directly for them.

  Klöss eased his sword out, laying it slowly down on the road in an obvious motion as he nodded at the others to follow. The horsemen fanned out, keeping their distance as some of the riders produced bows.

  It hung there for a moment and Klöss looked from horse to horse until one rider eased forward.

  The words were muffled behind the helm and Klöss looked blankly back at him.

  “I don’t speak your tongue,” he said in what he hoped were calm tones.

  The rider tried again, barking something unintelligible and stabbing a finger down at the ground.

  “I think he wants us to get on our knees.” Gavin hissed.

  “Hells with that idea!” Klöss scoffed, glancing back at the thief.

  The blow caught him on the helm, not hard enough to do any real damage, but enough to stagger him. Klöss spun in place, glaring up at the rider who’d struck him.

  He sat back in his saddle, still holding the mace and stabbed at the ground again, roaring words out in his strange tongue.

  “I don’t speak your fucking language!” Klöss yelled back, his temper gone.

  The rider edged forward, raising his weapon again.

  ***

  Miriam chewed slowly. The oatcakes were stale and tasteless and, to be fair, she was sick of them. They stuck to her teeth and to the roof of her mouth, sucking all the moisture from her tongue until she was forced to swill water in from the wineskin and use that to her help chew. It was something that Caerl had done, taking a drink when his mouth was already full of food, and she’d always found it disgusting.

  She glanced up at the sun. It was too bright to risk bringing Aervern’s sight to check for the trail of the Wyrdeweavers. The fae had warned her about using the sight when the sun was out. She got to her feet, dusting the crumbs from her robe and packed quickly. The oatcakes she packed last, placing them on top of the blankets.

  She counted them quickly, though she already knew the number. “It’s make them last, or go hungry,” she muttered to herself, as she hoisted the pack and picked up the staff.

  It had been three days since she’d left Denn’s camp. The first time Aervern had appeared, she’d refused to speak to her at all. Ignoring her until the fae had set down the supplies and left.

  She’d come again the second night and stared until Miriam had relented. New moon was coming, she’d explained. The fae could not cross until the full moon returned. Until then, Miriam would need make her supplies last or fend for herself.

  “It’s a road, Miriam,” she told herself, looking out at the trail that she knew lay ahead of her. “Unless they went out onto the fields then their trail’s right there in front of you.”

  She set off. The walking worked slowly to ease the stiffness from sore muscles and she set a light pace until they were warmer. She could feel herself slowly growing stronger, fitter. Ileriel had kept her close, like a prized pet, when she hadn’t shunned her and set her to working with the other women. A life spent picking terris berries and birthing fae-born hadn’t made for legs that were accustomed to long journeys.

  The walking wasn’t so bad, it was the thinking that was the problem. The more time she spent in Haven, in her own world, the more her memories surfaced. She’d wondered for a time if it was the fae, or something about their realm, that affected the memories. Perhaps it was both. In any event, the longer she spent in Haven the clearer her mind became.

  She’d spent three hours the previous night crying over children she barely remembered having. The fae-born had been taken from her almost as soon as they were born, given to other human women to feed and care for. It was the way of things in the breeding camps and being Ileriel’s trophy had given her no protection.

  A shout cut through her thoughts. She stopped dead, cocking her head to listen until she heard a second yell. The road curved ahead of her, blocking her view as it passed around a hill. For long minutes she stood, unsure what to do, before she shrugged and made her way around the corner.

  The horses filled the road, spilling over onto the grass. Riders dressed in shining mail and plate armour faced into the centre of a rough circle they had formed. She approached slowly, being careful not to be too quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was spook these men. A rider wheeled his horse to face her.

  “What do you want here, old woman?” he demanded in a deep voice.

  She blinked at his tone. “Nothing, sir. I’m just following the road.”

  He stared at her, narrowing his eyes as if deciding if there was anything wrong with her response before directing her around them and onto the grass.

  She went deliberately, taking time to set her feet. Though, if she were honest, it was curiosity slowing her feet far more than the slope of the grass. The men that had passed her on the road stood surrounded by horsemen. She'd paid more attention to their faces when they passed her before and hadn't paid attention to the odd black leather armour and strangely fashioned helmets they wore. As she watched a rider barked out a question again. “What do you do here, Bjornman? You’re piss-poor spies. Are you deserters or have you come to surrender?”

  The man looked back at the rider blankly as Miriam picked her way closer.

  “Kneel in surrender, man,” the rider ordered, pointing down at the road. When no movement was forthcoming, a rider behind the Bjornman nudged his horse forward and slammed a mace down, driving the Bjornman to his knees.

  Horses shifted, blocking Miriam’s view and drowning out the next words, but the shout of the Bjornman she heard clearly. “I don’t speak your fucking language!”

  She was moving before she could stop herself. “Lords love me for a fool,” she muttered as she squeezed between two horses.

  “He says he can’t understand you, sir,” she spoke up.

  The rider’s head shot round, shocked to see her there but refusing to show it. “What would you know of it, old woman? Do you speak this gibberish language?”

  She nodded.

  “Come closer, woman. Tell this man he must kneel in surrender or die where he stands.”

  “He wants you to surrender,” she said to the men. The Islik felt odd on her tongue, the words rough and unrefined.

&nbs
p; If the man was shocked she spoke his language he didn’t show it. “What does he think we’re doing? I thought it was bloody obvious when we put our weapons down.”

  “You have to kneel, apparently.” She shrugged.

  “Damned if I…” the man said but stopped as his larger companion reached for his arm. “It is easier, Klöss.”

  “They surrender,” she told the rider simply as the Bjornmen knelt. She stepped back but stopped at a sharp look.

  “Where do you think you’re going, old woman?” the rider asked her.

  Miriam cursed herself under her breath. “I’ll just be on my way, sir. I want no trouble.”

  He shook his head. “I have questions that need answering, woman, as will Major Rhenkin. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “But, sir!” she protested, thinking furiously. “I’m expected at my niece’s. She’s with child and I’m to help her with the birth.”

  His face might as well have been etched from stone. “I’m sorry, old woman, this is more important. Your niece will just have to muddle through on her own. You will have to come with us.”

  She bit back half a dozen responses before she realised she was angry about a niece that didn’t exist.

  “What’s happening?” the Bjornman hissed at her.

  “They want me to go with them,” she muttered.

  “What are you telling him?” the rider demanded.

  “He asked what was going on,,” she told him. “I was merely telling him you wished me to accompany you.”

  He bristled at that. “Speak to them only when ordered to do so, do you understand me?”

  Miriam nodded. The man was clearly overly impressed with his own authority. He had probably been a bully as a child, she decided.

  The Bjornmen were bound with strong ropes and the four of them led to a line of extra horses.

  “Tell them to get on,” a horseman instructed her.