The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  Caerl glanced down at his clothes. There was some mess, that was to be expected, but it wasn’t that bad. “What?” he shouted after the merchant. “You’re think you’re so bloody high and mighty do ya?”

  The merchant looked back at him, though he didn’t slow, and shook his head, grimacing.

  “Bloody rich bastards,” Caerl muttered. “Think they own the fucking world.”

  He spat again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and his hand turned over, the fingertips coming up to probe at his temple unbidden, tracing the scarred indent in the side of his face.

  He scowled as he caught what he was doing and snatched his hand away. “Bloody bitch,” he whispered.

  The sun was well on its way down already, gracing the rooftops of the buildings in the distance. Caerl noted it sourly. Vetram would be cross at the day’s work missed. He might piss and whine about it but he’d still be good for some coin tomorrow. For now he needed something in his belly to settle it. Stew or bread, something to soak up the sket his retching had missed.

  It had taken a long time before he’d grown desperate enough to try the stuff. Wine was water to him these days and ale had never really been enough. It was a month or two after the bitch and her brat had walked out that he’d tried it. He smirked, laughing as he remembered the way it had burnt his lips that first time. The sign of a virgin sket-drinker.

  Sket was brewed up or distilled, he really had no idea, in the back streets of Kavtrin. You’d never find it sold in taverns, not the ones that hung signs outside their doors, anyway. It was hard and pure, burning all the way down and immediately taking him to a place that it would normally take five or six large cups of strong wine to reach.

  His steps grew stronger as he went, the stagger becoming a slow walk as one hand reached for the stones of the buildings that he passed. The smell of grease and warm bread reached out to him and he knew he was nearly there. Elsa’s Kitchen, home to best food in Kavtrin, or at least the best food he was likely to get.

  He pushed his way through the door and down the steps. The room was dark with grease-stained windows and lamps were already lit on the walls.

  “Caerl?” The woman’s voice carried over the low rumble of conversation and the sounds of eating. “Lords and Ladies, man, you look like you’ve just been scraped off a nobleman’s boot!”

  He smiled, that rakish smile he’d always found so useful with women. “Elsa, you say the sweetest things. That’s why I love you.”

  She humphed and pointed him to a table in the corner. “You love me because I put food in your wine soaked belly and put up with your stink.” She sniffed at him as she drew closer. “What is that? Sket? That stuff’ll make you go blind, you daft bastard.”

  He shrugged, sinking into the chair and wishing she’d shut up and just bring him some food. “What do you have on?”

  “Some stew,” she told him. “It’s been there for a while though. I might be able to do you some eggs and bread if you fancy that instead?”

  “Eggs sounds nice. Don’t eat stew these days.”

  “No.” She gave a small nod and he watched her gaze shift to the side of his face and back to his eyes again.

  “Eggs’ll be good,” he said again.

  She stood watching him, not moving. “Come on, Caerl. I ain’t so stupid as all that!” she told him.

  He huffed, reaching for his purse. Hands scrabbled for a moment until he realised the truth and sighed.

  “Lost it again?” she asked, guessing the truth. “If you weren’t out of your mind on sket you’d noticed being robbed, Caerl, or at the very least you’d remember it.”

  He reached down to pull off his shoe, pouring the coppers out into his hand. “Don’t use purses, is all, Elsa. Too easy for the thieves, like you said.”

  “Is that it?” she muttered, not convinced.

  “Will this cover it?” he held out the coppers. It was barely more than the price of an apple but he already knew her answer.

  “It’ll do.” She sighed. “Put your shoe back on, you’re stinking up the place.”

  The food was quick, or maybe she just wanted him gone. Either way it was fast and getting it inside him worked to end the shaking in his hands he hadn’t noticed was there until it stopped.

  Elsa made him drink some sweet tea too, full of honey and too sweet for his taste, but he knew she wouldn’t stop nagging until he did. Nobody looked at him as he stood. This wasn’t a place where people spoke or made friends. Deep down he knew what it was. It was a refuge for scum and lowlifes. The people half a step from the gutter. Elsa fed them partly out of kindness, partly because she knew no one else would.

  The sun was almost gone by the time he made it back outside. It hid behind the rooftops, lurking until it leapt out between buildings, blinding him and bringing curses at the pain.

  He should go and see Vetram. He knew he should go and make some apology but he couldn’t face it. He still felt dry. The tea had left a sour taste in his mouth and, despite the fact Elsa had done her best to make it leak from his ears, he was thirsty. Tea was never going to do the job and the idea of Sket was almost enough to make him lose his eggs. He could have something light though, an ale maybe. That might help.

  The docks were quiet, or as quiet as they got. Most of those who worked the wharves would be soaking their innards now. Drinking while they tried to dry wet feet. It was a simple matter to steal a prybar. The dockers were famous for leaving them lying around. He stuffed it as far into his sleeve as he could, palming the end as it stuck out.

  The key to this was not to pick anyone too rich or important. If you went after someone whose purse was heavy with gold crowns then it was as good as asking for trouble. He wandered the streets, keeping away from the better areas of town and the watchmen that would be patrolling soon.

  It didn’t take long. The mark was young for a merchant. Maybe a merchant’s son or a pampered apprentice. Caerl staggered towards him, feigning a drunkenness that he was more than familiar with. He lurched into the man’s side, driving them both into an alleyway.

  “Drunken fool!” the young merchant raged, his face twisted in righteous indignation. “Watch where you’re—”

  Caerl didn’t let him finish, whipping the prybar out and tapping the man expertly on the side of the head. A tap was all it really took. Much more and the man wouldn’t wake up with his purse missing, he wouldn’t wake up at all. The merchant’s son fell like a sack of wheat and Caerl wasted no time dragging him deeper into the shadows. Moments later and he was hefting the purse, judging the contents by feel.

  The first ale felt like water. He peered into the tankard, tilting it to the light to see the colour. It wasn’t the type of place where you could ask if the ale was watered though, so he’d suffered it, and then the three that followed it.

  He moved on after the fifth. People tended watch you when you drank quickly and the ale wasn’t doing much for him. He tried whiskey at the next tavern. The purse he’d snatched was heavier than he’d thought and it had been a good while since he’d been able to stump up the coin for a good whiskey. It went down smooth but with barely a bite to it. Sket might be cooked up in the backstreets but it had more of a taste to it than the whiskey just had. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice pointed out that his sense of taste had probably been dulled by the spirits but he ignored it. The things that voice told him were never things he wanted to hear.

  It was four taverns later before he came up with the idea to climb the wall. Kavtrin was walled on all sides but the view over the harbour was considered the best. Caerl didn’t want to watch the water. Water meant docks and that would just remind him of Vetram so he'd staggered his way to the north side.

  He stumbled up the steps, catching his feet on something or other he didn’t see, and made his way up to the battlements. The guardsmen wouldn’t mind so long as he didn’t get in their way. The moon was rising, fat and heavy as it rose over the fields. The figures emerged from the darkness, almost seeming to
dance as the sparkling mist rose around them. He stared for a moment, wondering if it was just a trick of the light, or something worse. Sket did things to you. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t real but not like this.

  The moonlight shone on the tiny figures as they spun and danced around each other. Caerl watched, mouth open as they drew closer. The wings took a while for him to make out but the sense of wonder he felt when he did was better than a bellyful of Sket.

  “S’beautiful,” he murmured to himself, looking around for someone to share it with.

  The figures moved closer and he picked out more and more of them in the moonlight. Tiny purple-hued women, seemingly as naked as babes and as perfect as any man could wish. What he’d taken for a handful quickly became a legion as they spun and danced in the air before the walls.

  The others took him completely by surprise. He’d been so focused on the spectacle of the dancing figures that he hadn’t even noticed their approach and the field of sunset eyes almost shocked him sober.

  The change came all at once, rippling over the sea of shadowy figures like a breeze passing over a field of wheat. Where it passed, the figures lit up, bearing bright shining standards of blue and silver or sheathed in amour that was so polished it almost seemed to glow itself.

  They came, not in a rush but as a surge. A wave, the child of the worst of storms, and made up of creatures escaped from children’s fables. They charged towards the walls with a scream that matched his own as he stumbled down the steps.

  The cries that rose from the sentries on the walls as they called out in warning turned to screams as the diminutive winged creatures shrieked over the walls like leaves in a hurricane.

  Feet that suddenly felt half-asleep carried him down the street. He staggered, crashing into a wall and careening across the street towards the other until a wave of nausea stopped him.

  The crash from behind him spun him around and he stood, dumbstruck as the first section of wall collapsed, torn down by vines that were thicker than oaken branches, thrusting out of the ground and grasping at the stones.

  “Caerl!”

  He turned, seeking the source of the cry and spotted Elsa, waving at him through a street suddenly filled with screaming people.

  “Caerl, run! You daft, drunk bastard!” she screamed, pointing behind him.

  He turned slowly, alcohol making his every movement over-complicated and deliberate. The creature stood before him, as tall as him and more beautiful than any woman he’d known. Dimly he was aware of others rushing past him but he seemed frozen by her gaze and the eyes shining like a winter’s sunset.

  The smile was cold, as cruel as it was beautiful, and it didn’t waver as she reached behind herself and produced long bone knives. He barely felt the first cut but she made sure that he felt the second. If there was a beauty to be found in his pain she was intent on finding every aspect of it and, as she cut him, she took delight in his every scream.

  Kavtrin fell. Not in a way that its defenders would ever have imagined, but in every way that mattered. The fae and satyr poured through the streets, fae’reeth howling through the air above them as they delighted in the slaughter. Soldiers fought alone as terror tore their units apart. They fled, running through the streets until they died alone. Fear stripped away all loyalty, all oaths, and the only fellowship that remained was born of blood and pain.

  ***

  Klöss blinked hard, wishing he could rub his eyes as the guards rushed him through the halls. He’d been dead asleep when Gavin kicked him but the guards had moved so fast there was barely a point to the thief’s warning.

  Unlike the last meeting when he’d been walked through the halls, this time they moved so fast they nearly dragged him. He took the treatment in silence. Whatever the cause he’d find out soon enough. Even if he knew the language of these men they’d be as unlikely to tell him anything as they would be to know the reason for the urgency.

  Rhenkin looked like hell. His jacket was unbuttoned and he was unshaven. The sleeplessness was etched clear in the lines of his face but it was nothing to the fury that burned in his eyes.

  “You lied to me,” he spat. His anger didn’t need translating, though Miriam spoke the words anyway.

  Klöss thought back over their last conversation. He’d concealed things, of course. But he didn’t remember actively lying. “I have told no lies. What are you talking about?”

  “You told me your forces had gone south with your fleet,” Miriam translated for Rhenkin. “That this ‘sealord’ had sent them to burn.”

  Klöss nodded. “I did, and I told you that I wouldn’t talk about my men. I came to talk about the fae.”

  “I received word just this morning that Kavtrin has been overrun.” Rhenkin said, his voice cold and quiet.

  “Kavtrin?” Klöss shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.

  Rhenkin stood and stabbed his finger at a map on the wall. “Here!”

  Klöss tried to stand, then sighed up at the guard who had pushed him roughly back into the seat.

  Rhenkin snapped something at the man and he stepped back, eyes flashing as Klöss gave him a small smile as he stood. The map was covered in notations in an odd flowing script that seemed more loops and dots than real writing. He looked questioningly at Rhenkin until the man pointed again.

  “It seems too close to my thinking. Our fleet would have passed this place weeks ago.” He shrugged. “As far as I know we didn’t even know this place was here. Our lines don’t extend this far.”

  “You’re saying it wasn’t your men?” Rhenkin scoffed, his derision was so clear, Klöss barely needed to wait for Miriam.

  “This is a larger place? A bigger town than these villages over here?” He waved to the east, towards where Rimeheld stood.

  Rhenkin nodded.

  “Where are we now? On this map I mean?” Klöss asked, waving around him.

  Rhenkin paused, thinking for moment before indicating a position to the north and west of Kavtrin.

  “I don’t know how far we are here from this Kavtrin,” Klöss began. “I would have thought you’d be able to see some of the smoke from here if my fleet had razed it.”

  Rhenkin turned as Kennick whispered furiously into his ear and the two muttered a low conversation while Klöss looked on.

  “Why would you burn a city that large? I thought you people were more interested in plunder,” Rhenkin asked.

  “This is not a reaving,” Klöss began. “This is no raid for plunder, as you put it. You’re not a fool, Rhenkin. Don’t think me one. If we captured this place we would have thousands of your people behind our lines. Thousands of eyes and mouths that we could never really control. We have no need of your cities or the people that live within them. Our goal was always to seize lands for our own people to settle. If we’d attacked this ‘Kavtrin’ of yours we’d have burnt it to the ground.”

  “And all the people with it,” Rhenkin replied.

  “In battle, people die.” Klöss shrugged.

  Rhenkin ignored that. “So what are you suggesting? That some other force did this? Or are you telling me that my reports are wrong and Kavtrin is untouched.”

  Klöss met the scathing look with a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not my business to know. I will tell you this though, we both know there’s another force capable of attacking your city.”

  “The fae?” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen these creatures fight, I’ve lost good men to them and I won’t argue that they’re a threat, but an entire city?” He shook his head. “I can’t see it. They don’t have the numbers, surely?”

  Klöss glanced back at Miriam as she translated. There was catch in her voice as she spoke. It was easy to forget she was there, despite the fact she was translating. He frowned at her but her old face was blank, expressionless, as she looked back at him.

  “If you believe that, major, then you are a damned fool and I’ve wasted my life for nothing,” Klöss said. He turned h
is back on the man, walking back to the desk and throwing himself down into the chair. “These things attacked us after a battle, attacked our camp. They came out of the night, going through my men like they were nothing. I lost the greatest swordsman I have ever known to one of these fae and yes, they have the numbers.” He realised he was almost shouting and drew a deep shuddering breath, forcing himself to calm down as Miriam caught up.

  “I told you what happened at Skelf,” he said, in a calmer voice. “How these fae emptied an entire village, piling the bodies on stakes driven into the ground. Those they didn’t kill they took north with them. We followed the trail from Skelf. I took a group of trackers into the woods myself and we headed after them. It took some time but we found them. They were in a sort of valley in the forest. I’m telling you this, Rhenkin, because I don’t think you realise the numbers of the fae. The goat-men, these satyr, they filled that valley. There must have been ten thousand at least, possibly double that. Not fae, not the things that look like men. Just these goat-men. So yes, Major bloody Rhenkin, they have the numbers to take your city.”

  Rhenkin studied him as Miriam talked. The man wasn’t stupid despite what he’d said and Klöss knew it. “There’s more to this isn’t there? Something personal. A man doesn’t give up his life and walk into the hands of his enemy even if his commander is ten times a fool. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Klöss looked down at his hands and felt the edges of surprise that they’d curled into fists. The man irritated him for some reason. His cold control, his insistence in baiting him.

  “You know the answer already, I’m sure,” Klöss said, working to keep his voice level. “You didn’t spend all those hours talking to Gavin about his favourite ales. There are fae in the Barren Isles, in my home. They’re involved with the Church of New Days somehow. They have my wife…” he faltered, voice cracking as he dug his fingernails into his palms. “They have my son.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two