The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

  The Bjornman shook his head as she translated. “We can’t ride. We don’t use horses where we come from.”

  What manner of people didn’t use horses? she wondered to herself. “They don’t ride.”

  “They’d best learn quickly then, hadn’t they?” came the uncaring response.

  It had been years since Miriam had even seen a horse, and riding double with a man who had no idea what he was doing did not help. She managed to whisper some words of instruction to keep the man on the horse but, even so, she was soon sore from the motion. They fared better than the other Bjornmen though. It was barely five minutes before the first one, a giant of a man, fell crashing to the ground amid a flurry of curses.

  He scrambled to his feet, face flushing at the laughter from the soldiers surrounding them.

  “Grip with your legs,” she called across to him. She didn’t understand the word he called back at her, the tone was clear enough though.

  They stopped in a gully that night, the soldiers setting camp with well-practised precision. She went where directed and perched on the blankets they gave her. She was so tired it took her ten minutes to realise they were her own. The food was bland but hot. After days surviving on oatcakes it was a feast and she devoured it, ignoring the amused looks of the soldiers closest to her.

  It was fully dark before she attempted it. She'd never thought to ask if Aervern's Grace could be seen when she used it. The soldiers closest to her were already snoring softly and those on watch stood far enough away from her that, even if Aervern’s sight were visible and showed on her somehow as she used it, they wouldn’t see anything.

  It took longer than expected. For one frantic moment she wondered if the power had been leeched from her by the sun and she was close to panic as she cast around within herself for the fae’s power. It came to her in a rush and her head spun as her sight brightened to reveal every part of the camp. The light from the fires stabbed at her eyes and she looked away quickly, searching the darkness for the light she had seen at the Withengate. After minutes she gave up, closing her eyes. She’d taken too long, the power already felt weaker within her. Silently she told herself she’d been stupid to waste it.

  The sound caught her by surprise. A shimmering sound so faint she thought she was imagining it until she truly focused on it. The echoes of the Wyrde. Though she couldn’t see it for some reason she could still hear it. She could still sense it. She might be forced to continue with the soldiers for the time being but at least they were still travelling in the same direction as the trail of the Wyrdeweavers.

  They rode for four days, riding harder each day as the prisoners grew more able to keep their seats. Though she wasn’t quite treated as a prisoner she may as well have been. She was fed and treated well but largely ignored. The soldiers wouldn’t speak to her and the snatches of conversation she managed to steal with the Bjornmen revealed little more than their names.

  She took to eating alone when they stopped for the night, staring up at the growing moon and wondering what would happen when it grew full enough for Aervern to return.

  The town came into sight on the morning of the fifth day, emerging from the line of the cliffs they followed as the road turned to the north. It seemed an odd place. It was not really large enough to be called a city but it was larger than a simple town ought to be and was heavily fortified. The buildings within the walls seemed grander than she remembered those of Kavtrin being. Even from this distance she could make out the decorative line of the roofs and what must be fountains and statues in the squares.

  “Captain?” she called to the rider who’d forced her to come with him.

  He glanced over at her and flushed, the first emotion other than irritation she’d seen from him. “Corporal,” he corrected her.

  “Sorry, corporal.” She didn’t quite manage to suppress the smile. “What town is that?”

  “Druel,” he said shortly and turned away from her.

  Druel, that made sense then. The town was a bit of a contradiction from what she remembered, though she’d never actually been there herself. As the seat of the ducal palace it was the capital of the duchy. Despite this fact it was smaller than Kavtrin by probably half. As they drew closer it became obvious that the fortifications were a recent addition and great wooden scaffolds showed that more work was ongoing.

  The corporal rode ahead of the double line of horsemen, dismounting to speak to men near the gates, and then waving them forward as another man mounted a horse and galloped into the town.

  The line of riders passed through the gates ahead of them as other men rushed forward to take the bridles of their horses and pull Miriam and the Bjornmen to one side, motioning for them to dismount. A ring of spearmen moved to surround them. The spears were held low but the eyes of the men didn’t waiver. Miriam glanced at the Bjornmen but they stood easily, relaxed and seeming unconcerned. Her eyes darted left and right and with a sigh she settled in to wait.

  The figure that emerged from the gates was flanked by guards. He was a tall man, his uniform impeccable with gold braiding on one shoulder, and he watched them as he approached. Other people might look at you but this man examined her. He studied everything from her eyes, to how she stood close to the wall. The intensity of his gaze left her feeling exposed and she reached to pull her robe more tightly around herself, avoiding his eyes until they moved on to the Bjornmen.

  He stopped to have a brief, muttered conversation with the corporal and the man who’d met them at the gates, before drawing closer.

  “I’m told you can speak their language?” His voice was like his eyes, direct and intense.

  “Is that a question, captain?” she paused before the title, making the word itself a question.

  He snorted, twisting his lips into a rough approximation of a smile. “Major, actually.” The smile fell away, leaving her wondering if it had been false or if the stern expression that followed was the pretence. “Now answer the question. Can you speak their language?”

  There was no point in denying it. “Yes,” she told him simply.

  He nodded to himself, looking off to one side for a moment. “I won’t bother asking you how you learnt it. I would like you to stay and translate for me. There are many things we need to ask these men.”

  That was unexpected. “You’re giving me a choice?” Miriam asked.

  He winced. “I was attempting to be polite. To be honest…” he looked at her expectantly.

  “Miriam,” she supplied.

  “To be honest, Miriam, this is too important to allow you to go free. For the short-term at least, I am afraid you must remain with us here at Druel.”

  ***

  Klöss shifted in the straw, making the chains on his wrists and legs clink. The chains were probably overkill anyway. There was no way they could have made it through the thick wooden door to escape. A single, barred window, set high on one wall let light slant down into the cell and he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the distant sound of the wind. “What time do you think it is?”

  Tristan grunted. “Early, I think. Not much past dawn. We would hear more noise from above otherwise.”

  Klöss nodded. It was a good point. He looked over at the man and the look on his face. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Gavin,” Tristan replied. “He has been gone a long time now.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything, you know?” Klöss told him. “This is all games. More than likely they finished with him hours ago and just put him in another cell. They want us to worry. It gives them leverage when they speak to us.”

  Tristan grunted, falling silent for a while before he spoke again. “Well, we seem to have found the Anlish, Klöss,” he said with a sidelong glance. “What was the rest of the plan?”

  Klöss shot him a black look. It was a good question though, despite the joke. “We wait, I suppose. We don’t have a lot of other options.”

  Tristan didn’t answer that, shrugging and shifting in the straw
as he leaned into the corner. Klöss watched him, envious. Though his hands were manacled they were at least chained in front of him rather than holding them up to the wall. The chain had enough give to allow him to lay down if he really wanted to but the position was awkward. The straw might be cleaner than he’d expected but he still didn’t want it pressed to his face. Whether by design or a happy accident sleep had, so far, been denied him.

  He stared at the door, letting his mind drift as Tristan’s low snores rumbled from the corner. Where was Ylsriss now? He’d left it too long. He should have done something as soon as he received the message from his father. The thought brought a pang of guilt with it. He’d thought she’d just taken the child and gone. The child… His son. He’d never even seen him. The thought piled the guilt higher and he shook his head. This was not the stuff to be thinking about right now.

  The clank from the door woke him. He must have slept despite everything. He shook himself and glanced at Tristan to be sure the noise had woken him too.

  Lantern light spilled into the cell, despite the light from the window, and a guard stepped in to crouch and fumble with his chains. In a smooth motion he removed the chain, leaving Klöss with just his hands manacled together. He stepped back and met Klöss’s eyes, saying something Klöss couldn’t understand but which he took to be an instruction for him not to do anything bloody stupid.

  They hauled him to his feet, not ungently, and pulled him out into the hallway. The trip through the stone corridors was short but Klöss took the time to take note of the things he hadn’t noticed on the way in. This was not a dungeon by any means. If he had to guess he’d have said they’d been placed in some manner of a military stockade. The walls looked fresher than he would have expected and part of this complex was new, if he was any judge.

  The halls and corridors became a blur, punctuated with three flights of stairs until they stopped at a polished oak door and knocked before being called in.

  The room was dominated by a large wooden desk, piled high with papers. Books lined one wall near the window but the majority of the walls were covered in maps and charts. Klöss absorbed the room in a moment and was struck by how much it reminded him of Frostbeard’s study back in Rimeheld. Two men sat at the desk and they stood as the guards brought Klöss in.

  The guards left him after a brief discussion and Klöss studied the men as they spoke together. It was an odd language, he thought, nasal but yet somehow flowery.

  One of the men was clearly someone of importance. He hadn’t had an opportunity to have a good look at him at the gates. The spearmen had kept them pressed to the wall as if they might overrun the town all on their own. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from missing a night’s sleep but the kind that grows over weeks and months. A fatigue that has been shrugged aside so many times that it becomes almost a comfort, a norm.

  He spoke, looking at Klöss, but then shifting his eyes to a corner behind him as he finished.

  “He says his name is Major Rhenkin. He’s in command here. He’d like to know your name.” The voice took him by surprise and he looked back to see Miriam sat in a plain wooden chair in the corner. The woman looked small and frail. It was more than just that though, she looked trapped, like a caged animal eager for escape.

  He took his lip between his teeth as he thought, then stopped himself. Nerves was not something he wanted to be displaying here. “Major is a name or a title?” he asked.

  “A title,” Miriam replied. “A rank in the army.”

  “So he would be someone of importance then?” Klöss pressed. “I need to speak to someone with some authority not just the commander of a local fort.”

  She nodded. “I would that say he is, yes.”

  “And the man with him?”

  “His assistant, I think,” Miriam told him. “A man named Kennick.”

  “Then tell him my name is Klöss. I am… I was, Shipmaster and Lord of Rimeheld.”

  Miriam relayed his words and listened to the response before asking him to sit.

  “Your companion, the young man Gavin, has told us some fantastic tales,” Rhenkin said, with Miriam translating.

  “He’s a young man,” Klöss shrugged. “They’re easily impressed.”

  Rhenkin smiled, a thin smile that was a nod towards politeness but little more. “You people have invaded this land, burned our villages, and driven off our people. You drove my forces back from the coast. Hell, you drove me out of the village of Widdengate myself. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t just have you killed?”

  “Because you’re not an idiot,” Klöss said, fighting down a smile at Miriam’s startled reaction. “I hadn’t realised it was you I’d faced. You’re a skilled commander, the defence of that village was masterful.” He shook his head. “I would never have thought of using logs in place of stone for the catapults. You’re a man who can think on his feet and you must know there is more at stake here than a few villages. I didn’t come here to talk about your lands. I came to talk about the keiju.”

  Miriam frowned at the last word. “Keiju, I don’t know that word.”

  Klöss grimaced. “I don’t know what you call them. The creatures with eyes like torchlight. The goat men.”

  She froze then, hissing a breath in between her teeth. “They call them the fae,” she told him, and relayed his sentence.

  Rhenkin paused, narrowing his eyes as he met Klöss’s gaze and his assistant whispered into his ear. “And what would you know about this?”

  Klöss shrugged. “We thought they were your troops to start with,” he admitted. “Some sort of special unit. They appeared from nowhere, tore through my men like a reaver in calm seas.”

  “A reaver?” Miriam queried.

  “A fast ship,” Klöss explained, frowning at the interruption. “But then I saw them attack your forces in the middle of a battle. I saw them come down from the sky. I’ve tried lying to myself, pretending it didn’t happen. That it didn’t matter…” he paused, waiting for Miriam to catch up. “In the end I couldn’t ignore it. They came too far through our lines, appearing miles behind our patrols. They emptied whole villages, leaving the bodies on stakes. I’ve seen things…” he fell silent and shook his head, waving at Miriam to pass it on.

  Rhenkin and Kennick spoke then. A rushed, whispered conversation, before Rhenkin shook his head, obviously disagreeing with something.

  “And you so you came. You three, alone. No messenger, no parlay. The Lord of Rimeheld walked, alone, into Anlish territory and simply handed himself over.” His expression made his meaning clear even if his voice hadn’t been thick with sarcasm. “Why would you do this?”

  “Because I have men I report to.” Klöss sighed. “And those men are idiots.”

  Rhenkin raised an eyebrow and motioned for Klöss to continue.

  Klöss shifted in the chair. “A village was attacked, behind our lines. I’ve told you this already but it wasn’t the last. There is no way these attacks could possibly have been from Anlish troops but yet the sealord wouldn’t accept this. He insisted, despite all the evidence, that this was an Anlish raid. The fact it was so far behind the lines just made him hungrier for revenge.”

  “And you disagree? You don’t believe this?” The question was so close to a statement he barely lifted his voice.

  “I told you, I’ve seen things…” Klöss said quietly.

  Rhenkin absorbed that for a moment before continuing. “What is this ‘sealord’ planning?”

  Klöss pursed his lips, considering. “I’m here to talk about the keiju. The fae, as you call them. I’m not here to give away my people.”

  “Your people have already butchered half their way across two duchies!” Kennick burst out.

  Klöss gave the man a cold look and turned his attention back to Rhenkin. “I will tell you this much and no more. The sealord has taken direct control of this conflict. He has no true interest in taking a small portion of land. He was furious about the attack at Skelf, the
first of the villages I mentioned. The last I saw he was sending the fleet south to burn.”

  “To burn what?” Kennick demanded.

  Klöss shrugged. “Who could say?”

  Kennick glowered at that but Klöss ignored him. His attention was fixed on Rhenkin, and the cold blue eyes that bore into him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Grass,” Joran said, barely bothering to glance at the strand Devin held.

  “I know it’s grass,” Devin laughed from where he sat beside him on the gentle bank that sloped down to the water’s edge. “That’s an easy one. A what of grass though?”

  That brought silence as the older man’s brown creased. “A sword?” he offered finally.

  “Close,” Devin said with a smile. “A blade of grass.”

  Joran grunted and looked over his shoulder back towards the cottage. “They’ve been at it all day again.”

  Devin shrugged, careful not to knock the pole and scare off any fish. “Obair loses track of time. Keep your voice down or we’ll never catch anything.”

  Joran looked from the surface of the lake to Devin's face. “You’re sure you can catch fish with a stick like this?”

  “Yes.” Devin laughed. “You’ve never fished?”

  “I only remember fishing with nets. Even that’s a bit hazy,” Joran said slowly. “Drowning worms seems an odd way to catch fish.”

  “The fish try to eat the worms.” Devin laughed again. “That’s how we catch them.”

  “Why would fish try and eat worms?” Joran asked. “How would a fish even know what a worm was? It’s not as if there would be worms in the lake is it?”

  “I…” Devin stopped, frowning. “You know, I never thought of it like that. I guess fish just aren’t that clever.” He looked at Joran as the man shuddered again. “Are you cold?”

  “I’m cold a lot here,” Joran admitted. “I can’t get used to this place. It’s cold, it’s hot. You never know what it’s going to be from one day to the next.”

  “You’ll get used to it, I suppose you just have to give it time,” Devin said. “The idea of a place where the sun is only in the sky for an hour a day is as strange to me as this world must be to you.”