The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

Kennick knocked. After a minute he leaned his head in towards the door and frowned at the silence, knocking again. Nothing. The door creaked slightly as he eased it open.

  Rhenkin sat in his chair, bent low over the desk with his forehead resting on the report.

  “Sir?” Kennick called softly, trying to decide the best course of action. He took a single step towards the major and stopped. Rhenkin’s breathing was slow and rhythmic and Kennick froze with a wince. Another hour wouldn’t hurt anything more than it was already. He’d barely moved, just the shifting of weight in preparation for the step, when Rhenkin spoke.

  “What is it, Kennick?” He hadn’t lifted his head from the report and his voice took on a hollow dimension, overlaid by the fluttering sound of the edges of the paper made by his breath.

  “Sorry to disturb, sir. Didn’t realise you were sleeping.”

  “I’m not. I wasn’t. What would make you think that?” Rhenkin sat up, there was ink on his forehead where he’d rested it on fresh writing. Kennick coughed into his fist and tried to focus on the man’s eyes. “My mistake, sir.”

  “Was there something, Kennick?” Rhenkin asked.

  “Scout report from Kavtrin, Sir,” Kennick replied, reaching to put the papers on the desk.

  Rhenkin ignored it and his eyes narrowed as his lips shaped unspoken words. “Too soon,” he said after a minute.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s too soon for them to have made it there and back already,” Rhenkin explained.

  Kennick nodded, impressed. “Yes, sir. They encountered refugees on the way there and sent a man back by horse with the report.”

  “Survivors?” Rhenkin, asked in mild surprise.

  “No, Sir,” Kennick said as he shook his head. “A caravan. It arrived in Kavtrin after the attack and met our men half way here.”

  “And?”

  “Sir?” Kennick frowned at the Major.

  “Damn it, Kennick.” Rhenkin slammed a hand down on the desk. “Do I have to drag this out of you? Give me some details!”

  “No, sir,” Kennick apologized. “The scouts report that the city is devastated, not a man found alive.”

  Rhenkin absorbed the news in silence. “Burned?”

  Kennick shook his head. “No, it doesn’t appear so, sir. The bodies are heavily mutilated, ‘torn to shreds’ was the term used, I believe. There is also some mention of the walls having been pulled down by some manner of plant.”

  “Oh, come now, Kennick,” Rhenkin burst out. “I asked for a report not the deranged ramblings of idiot peasants.”

  “I’m just forwarding the report, sir,” Kennick said mildly. “The report did say the man was an ex-corporal, not normally the type to make things up.”

  Rhenkin’s eyes flicked from Kennick’s face to the window and to the map on the wall. He gnawed at his bottom lip “Those scouts should be back in a day or so. We’ll get confirmation then.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kennick said with a nod. “Confirmation may not be necessary. We’ve just had word from Carik’s Fort. Survivors report the fort suffered a devastating attack. Only a handful made it out but they report the fae swept through there like a plague.”

  Rhenkin’s face turned the colour of ashes as he looked at the lieutenant with haunted eyes. “How many survivors?”

  Kennick grimaced. “They’re still coming in, sir, but it’s peasants and townsfolk. Not a man in colours among them. It seems the old man, Obair, and the lad that went with him, stumbled across them on their way here.”

  Rhenkin reached into a cupboard, pouring the whiskey with a steady hand despite the shock on his face. “Settle them somewhere comfortable. Send them up once they’re in.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all, sir,” Kennick said with a wince.

  “What the hell else can there be?” Rhenkin asked. “Has Feldane decided to invade too?”

  Kennick drew a deep breath. “Celstwin reports an attack from a Bjornmen fleet.”

  “They what?” Rhenkin stormed to his feet.

  Kennick carried on, unmoved. “Apparently the fleet was driven off but the city suffered heavy damage and a large portion was caught in the fire.”

  Rhenkin sank back down, reaching for the glass. “Fire!” he breathed, stretching the word out. “Lords and Ladies, I never imagined Celstwin would be threatened. Still, I suppose even Pieter will be hard pressed to ignore this.”

  Kennick said nothing, but reached out and presented a letter, embossed and sealed.

  Rhenkin raised an eyebrow and cracked the seal.

  Kennick carried on as he older man read. “The word from the messenger was that Pieter has fallen, sir,” Kennick said. “He reports that Duchess Freyton had called a Council of Lords and that she now holds the throne.”

  He read in silence, lips moving occasionally until the message fell from his fingertips. “About bloody time…” he whispered.

  “Sir?”

  Rhenkin looked up, seeming surprised to find the lieutenant still there. “It seems the messenger’s gossip wasn’t far from the truth. Our duchess now holds the throne as queen and, more importantly, as lord commander of the crown’s armies. From the sounds of things she’s gutted every garrison within easy reach of Celstwin and sent orders on to others. We’re to expect the entire force from Savarel, as well as the rest of Baron Rentrew’s men within days. Her forces will march north as fast as they are able.”

  Kennick looked over at the map. “That will certainly present a few options, sir. Did you want some time before I send Obair in?”

  Rhenkin looked up from the letter. “Hmm? Oh, no, send him in as soon as he’s able.”

  “Very good, sir,” Kennick said, but Rhenkin didn’t seem to be listening. He let himself out, leaving the man with his thoughts.

  ***

  Rhenkin fingered the letter. Selena, queen, barring the pomp of a coronation. He shook his head and snorted a laugh at the situation. She’d always held the power, even when Freyton was still alive but damn, this was on another level.

  The child! Rhenkin pinched at the flesh between his eyes as the thought struck. He hadn’t had time to decide how he felt about her passing off the child as someone else’s. “Liar,” he breathed to himself. He’d had plenty of time. He’d just avoided it, telling himself the war was too important. This time he really didn’t have time to think about this. Selena was a distraction at the best of times. He drained his glass, trying not to think about the feel of her skin, how that red hair had looked against the pale flesh of her shoulder.

  She’d picked him like a ripe plum. Oh, he’d never admit that to anyone who asked. He snorted at the thought. Who would ask? She had though. He shook his head, smiling at how she’d had to tell him to stop calling her by her title as she'd wrapped her legs around him.

  A tap at the door brought him back to reality and Kennick stepped in, ushering Obair inside. The man looked, if possible, older still. His journey had aged him but it was more than just that. Rhenkin looked at him as he waved him into a chair. There was a sorrow there that he hadn’t carried before. A trace of what might have been guilt perhaps.

  “Obair,” he said, coming around the desk to clasp the old man’s hand. “It’s good to see you.” Even his handshake was weak, he noticed. “Did you…?”

  “Find anything?” Obair finished for him. “Oh yes, as many questions as answers though. We found Lillith’s cottage, just as I remembered it. She’s dead,” he said, getting the words out before Rhenkin could ask the question.

  Rhenkin winced. The lost opportunities there were endless. “So you found nothing?”

  Obair laughed. It was a hollow sound, tired and empty. “No, not nothing. More than we could have thought possible. We found a way to possibly rebuild the Wyrde, to lock the fae out of Haven again.”

  “Then that’s good news, isn’t it?” Rhenkin frowned, the man was talking in riddles and circles. His tone didn’t match his news. He
had too much going on to play games like this.

  “I suppose it is, in a way.” Obair nodded. “Do you think I could have some of that?” He nodded at the whiskey Rhenkin had left it out on the desk.

  Rhenkin flushed. The whiskey wasn’t exactly a secret. Every officer he’d ever known past the rank of lieutenant had kept some in a similar place. At the same time it seemed an admission of weakness somehow and he’d always kept it out of sight. He reached for another glass, pouring for the druid.

  The first drink barely covered their arrival at the cottage. By the time Obair recounted the arrival of Ylsriss and Joran and their time in the Realm of Twilight it was Rhenkin reaching to fill his own glass.

  “So many months we went with no way to communicate with these Bjornmen and now I have six within my own walls.”

  “Six?” Obair blinked owlishly at him, the whiskey obviously taking effect.

  “Three Bjornmen surrendered just this week.” Rhenkin told him. “Just walked into a patrol and handed themselves over.”

  Obair shook his head. “You said six. Even with these three and Ylsriss and Joran, I count five?”

  Rhenkin nodded with a grunt. “The old woman, Miriam. She was following along behind the Bjornmen, travelling the same road. She can speak their language.”

  Obair frowned at that. “From what I’d understood there’d been no real contact with the Bjornmen, other than their raids I mean. No trading or anything like that?”

  “That’s true,” Rhenkin told him. “We know they come from the east but, so far as I know, no vessel has ever managed to pass the ice currents.”

  “Where did she manage to learn it then?” Obair wondered.

  Rhenkin’s only response was a shrug. “I’ve too many other things to worry about, to be honest. What the Bjornmen have said is interesting though. Hells it's downright terrifying if you believe it all.”

  Obair raised a bushy eyebrow and waved the glass in his hand for Rhenkin to go on.

  “This ‘Klöss’ claims to be lord of the city they’ve built in eastern Anlan. He says he sought us out because of the attacks his forces have suffered at the hands of the fae. Says there are satyr beyond count coming for us. Not only that,” he bulled on before Obair could interrupt, “he says the fae have been in their lands too, across the sea. In these ‘Barren Isles’ of theirs.”

  Obair sat back at that. “That makes sense I suppose. I’d never really thought about it but the world the fae inhabit might touch on our own in any number of different places. My master and I always focused on the Withengate because that’s where the Wild Hunt was supposed to come from. That doesn’t mean it’s the only place they could cross through. I’d be interested to speak to this man if that could be arranged.”

  Rhenkin nodded. “I can’t think of a reason why not. I can have Miriam translate for us, unless you’d rather use Joran?”

  Obair tapped the glass against his lips for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s use Miriam. Joran’s Anlish is good but he’s still rusty. I don’t want to risk any misunderstandings if we can avoid it.”

  Rhenkin went to the door and had a brief conversation with one of the men in the adjoining room. “Shouldn’t be too long,” he said, retaking his seat. “I’ll admit, Obair, I’m having a hard time with a lot of this. The Bjornmen I can cope with. I can even cope with the fae to a degree. But these things you’re telling me about glyphs and rituals, it sounds like something out of a storybook.”

  Obair sighed. “I know. There was a time when I’d have said there was a good reason for that. That the truth of the fae was buried in fables. These days, I’m not even sure what the truth is. If what Joran told me is true Haven isn’t even our own world. The fae plucked us from some other place, using us for their own purpose and then we escaped here after the rebellion.”

  Rhenkin shrugged. “Does it matter? How many forgotten religions have given their own versions of where we all come from? I’d rather deal with the life I have than worry about where it came from.”

  “Well, I’d say it matters,” Obair replied leaning forward. “If Joran’s right then we live in a world that must be very close to paradise for the fae. If we truly did come here from the Realm of Twilight then mankind first rebelled against them, and then fled to this world, locking them out with the Wyrde. To intents and purposes we have first stolen their heaven, and then locked them in a hell between worlds for thousands of years.”

  Rhenkin shrugged. “I make a point of not looking for the common ground with my enemy. Understanding their motives is all well and good and has its place. Sympathy for them, however? That doesn’t sit well with me, as a man or as a soldier.”

  Obair nodded and raised a finger to make a point when a knock at the door stopped him.

  “The translator, sir,” the soldier announced.

  Obair stood and looked at the woman curiously as she entered and Rhenkin dismissed the man who had escorted them. The woman was probably older than he was, white hair surrounding a face that had suffered more than its fair measure of pain and loss by the looks of it. She glanced up at Obair once, frowning as if she recognised him.

  The change was fast, so quick that Rhenkin might have missed it had he not been looking directly at her. Her eyes seemed to slip out of focus, and then flashed, obscuring her eyes for the time it takes to blink as a blaze of amber shot across them. She staggered back, as if stumbling, and reached blindly for the doorframe as she pulled herself upright.

  “Wyrdeweaver!” she gasped.

  ***

  “What did you call me?” The old man demanded through lips pinched tight with shock. He’d almost staggered when she spoke.

  Miriam shook her head, her vision still swimming as the effects of Aervern’s sight faded. “The Wyrde, you wove it didn’t you? You worked the ritual. I can see it on you. I can smell it.”

  Obair’s mouth worked, trying to form words. “I did, but—”

  “Just who are you, woman?” Rhenkin demanded, interrupting.

  Miriam pressed a hand to her forehead. This was suddenly all too much. “I need to talk to you about the Wyrde,” she said in a weak voice.

  The old man seemed to recover himself and looked at Rhenkin. “Why don’t you sit down? It seems we have a lot to talk about.”

  She eased into the chair gratefully. “Thank you, my hips aren’t what they once were.”

  “I know the feeling,” Obair said as he smiled. He glanced back at Rhenkin and Miriam followed his gaze but the major made no move to stop him and seemed content to let the old man take the lead for now.

  “You’re right, of course,” Obair told her. “I worked the ritual of the Wyrde for most of my life but what do you know of this?”

  “My name is Miriam, but I imagine the major told you this already.” She nodded at the man as he looked on. “I was sent to find the Wyrdeweavers. I’ve been searching for you since I left the Withengate, I followed the trail here.”

  “The Withengate? What trail?” Obair shook his head in confusion before the realisation took hold and he looked up at her sharply. “Just who is it that sent you?”

  Miriam took a deep breath. “Aervern of the fae,” she said.

  “What?” Rhenkin burst out. “And you just think to mention this now?”

  “Rhenkin, please,” Obair said, holding a hand up to the man, though his eyes never left Miriam’s face. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “I barely know how to start,” she murmured. “I’ve been with the fae most of my life. I was taken, stolen really, when the Wyrde still stood. Ileriel, the one that took me, used to taunt me by explaining just how it was that I was responsible for allowing the fae back into this world and the false religion she'd created through me.

  “For years I lived,” she stopped, shaking her head. “No, I don’t suppose it was really living, enduring comes closer but even that’s too generous. I’ve been slave, trophy, and breeding stock. I’ve been the key the fae used to pass through the
Wyrde. My mind has been crushed so many times there are days when I doubt my own senses but I remember the lies and myths they used me to spread. The church they created to serve their own ends.”

  She fell silent, staring into space for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m not doing a very good job of this am I?”

  Obair smiled with a shrug. “It’s not easy to put a life into a few sentences. We’ll piece it all together. Carry on.”

  “I saw the beginning,” she said. “I saw Aelthen cross into this world and lift his fae into the air for the Wild Hunt.”

  “I did too,” Obair told her. He nodded at Rhenkin, “We were all in the glade as the fae burst through. Aelthen, is that the name of the creature that leads them?”

  Miriam nodded and her voice dropped to a whisper as she began again, a dark confession as her gaze fell to the floor. “I’ve been dragged along with them as they gather heads like trophies and drag women and babies back to the Realm of Twilight. And now I’ve seen the beginnings of their purge.”

  “Purge?” Rhenkin interjected. “Make yourself clear, woman.”

  “Aelthen isn’t content with just the Hunt,” Miriam told him. “He wants to reclaim this world for the fae and he intends to wipe it clean of its human infestation.”

  “Ambitious,” grunted Rhenkin. “I’ve seen these creatures fight, they’re nasty bastards, but even with that they’d struggle with an entire world. They’ve greater numbers than I’d first thought but not that many, surely?”

  “You have no idea, Rhenkin,” Miriam said with a shake of the head. “Aervern made me watch as the armies of the fae attacked the Bjornman city. I saw them call plants from the ground to tear the walls down. I watched as the fae’reeth swarmed through the streets, tearing men to shreds. The Swarm alone could have taken the city. He…” she stopped, held by the look on his face. “What?”

  “Did you say they called plants?” Rhenkin turned, rifling through the papers on his desk for the report. He read without turning, grunting sourly, and then tossed it down onto the desk. “This is all very interesting, I suppose,” he began again, “but it’s not the reason you’re here. You’re here because you were sent by the fae. Tell me, Miriam, what does this Aervern want with us?”