The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  Selena nodded in a distracted fashion, looking at the fae. “Why do I feel I’m being toyed with here? We’re busily making plans to rebuild the Wyrde, as I understand it, to banish you and your people from a place you admit is close to a paradise for you. What I don’t understand is why you would do this? We seem to be taking all the risks here. Even meeting with you was a risk. What exactly is it that you stand to gain?”

  Aervern hissed through her teeth, sinking down slightly as she shifted unconsciously towards a fighting stance. “You think I risk less than you? In doing this I betray my race, my entire people. You speak truly, I would snatch their promised land, their paradise, from within their clutching fingers. The response, when I am discovered, will be hot with fury. There will be no flight or hiding from Aelthen. I cannot huddle down inside my burrow and hope the shade-cat will pass. Our Lady pulls at me the same as it does he. Here, in her land, or in the Realm of Twilight he will find me. This is a slave we speak of, granted untold Grace and power and grown to king and tyrant. His vengeance will know no limits. I can be denied my death for a thousand years as he imagines torments to inflict upon me. My life will not end swiftly. Do not tell me I risk nothing, little queen. I am the one laying with the jaws tight about my throat.”

  Selena raised an eyebrow. The fae’s obvious anger was interesting and she remained carefully composed as she wondered how best to use it. “If this is true then why would you do this? What do you stand to gain?”

  “She gets a legend.” Joran stepped out from the press of men. “There was a time when we achieved wonders, when mankind and fae walked together between worlds. The Realm of Twilight has thousands of us still there, thousands of us who would never know this world as their home even if they were returned here.” He lowered his eyes as his voice fell, “There are some who never could.”

  Selena narrowed her eyes, noting others giving the young man the same questioning looks. She shook her head. It was hardly the most pressing thing at the moment. “I don’t like the idea of abandoning them…”

  “I don’t see any realistic alternative, your majesty,” Obair told her, though his eyes drifted to Joran as he spoke.

  Selena grunted, there wasn't much she could say to that. “Will you agree then?” she asked Aervern. “If what you say is true we will need the Bjornmen’s numbers to be a credible threat to the armies of the fae. Will you take Klöss to find the fleet?”

  Aervern met her gaze and regarded her in silence for a moment, obviously thinking. She touched her hand to her lips, chest, and forehead as she stepped back into a bow. “I will do this thing.”

  ***

  The trees flew past her, silvered trunks shone as they were caught in a flash of moonlight that filtered down through the trees. The hand reached for her again and she lashed out savagely as she twisted away from its grasp. Fingernails that were closer to claws than anything else caught at her hair, slowing her as the other hand reached out for her.

  The forest floor rushed up to meet her and her hands skidded painfully through leaves and twigs as she fell. Ylsriss screamed, a breathless sound robbed of any force as the wind was driven from her. Terror gave her the strength to roll over, kicking out at the face of the horned creature. The satyr avoided her flailing easily, grinning through its lust as it lowered itself down, crawling towards her.

  She lashed out again, stamping out with her heel.

  “Oh shit!” The groan of pain was followed by a muffled thud as a body rolled over in the bed and fell to the floor, dragging the blankets with it. She sat up in the bed, curling herself tight and hugging her knees against the cold of the night air.

  “Klöss?” her voice sounded small, even to herself.

  He groaned again. “Kicked me in the bloody balls,” he trailed off, his words more than halfway to being a whimper.

  She rubbed at her eyes, grinding the heels of her palms into them to drive away the sleep. A faint glow still came from the embers of the fire and she crouched down beside it, blowing gently to coax a flame onto the taper before lighting the lamp and moving on to the others.

  “Lord of the bloody seas,” Klöss whimpered, curled into a ball beside the bed with his hands between his legs. The laugh burst out of her before she could stop it and she clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in those that followed it. “Oh, Klöss, I’m sorry.”

  “Mmph,” he managed, curling tighter against the pain.

  Ylsriss, staggered to the edge of the bed, laughing harder. “I was dreaming, I…”

  He pulled himself up, falling onto the bed as he curled up again. “Some bloody dream.”

  “Oh, come on,” she chided. “It can’t be that bad.”

  He stopped long enough to give her a black look, and then snapped his eyes shut against the pain.

  “I was dreaming,” she told him again, her laughter fleeing in the face of the memories. “I was being chased, a satyr.”

  He sat up then, still bent against the pain, but listening. “A nightmare?” He grimaced at the stupidity of his own question but she ignored it.

  “I hate them.” There was a venom in her voice that surprised even her. “I hate them, Klöss. I hate what they’ve done to me, to us…to the whole fucking world.”

  He nodded, seeing she wasn’t finished.

  “The things they did to me,” she whispered. “To everyone in that place. We’re worse than cattle to them but what's worse than that is that they make us feel like that’s right. That that’s the way it should be, you know? They lay the Touch on thick, sometimes without even seeming to notice, and all we do is adore them, worship them. People like the girl I told you about, Tia. You remember?” She looked at him for a moment but was more focused on his eyes than if he agreed with her or not. “She reached out for the Touch. She wanted it. She saw the fae as gods, or something like it. If Aelthen’s war succeeds the whole world will be filled with people like her.”

  “It won’t,” he said.

  She was crying now. The tears hadn’t fallen but they hung there in her voice. “It will, Klöss. You don’t know, you didn’t see.”

  “We’ll stop them,” he told her, reaching for her.

  She pushed away from his touch. “And what about Effan? What about our baby?”

  He took a deep breath, hand still outstretched towards her. “I don’t know, Ylsriss. I don’t know what to say. What can we do?”

  She shook her head, hiding from the question.

  “You told me that the time passes differently. That a week or a year here would be far longer in this Realm of Twilight? How old would he be now? Even if we could find him, would he even know you? Would you know him”

  She turned on him then, eyes flashing. “This isn’t just about me! This is your son!”

  “I know that,” he shot back. “A son I never even got to see before he was taken.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “It isn’t mine either!”

  Silence fell then, thick and heavy between them, swallowing their words and smothering them.

  “If we do this thing…” he looked at her, leaning in and lifting her eyes with his gaze.

  “I know.” It was barely more than a whisper. She closed her eyes as she took a breath. “I want to go home. Back to Hesk, back to a place that’s ours. I want to be me again.”

  “We will,” he promised. He reached for her again and this time she didn’t resist.

  “And now you’re leaving me again. You’ve only been out of their cells for a couple of weeks, we’ve only just found each other, and you’re abandoning me.” She smiled up at him, softening the accusation.

  He smiled back. “Someone has to go and take charge. If the sealord really is dead…” he sighed. “We have to try and salvage something from this mess.”

  “I know,” she murmured, nestling closer, drawing comfort from him.

  “I’m more worried about you than me,” he told her. “Why do you even need to go? Surely this Joran can find these glips for you?”r />
  “Glyphs,” she corrected him. “And no, Joran might be able find them but he couldn’t read them well or understand anything much. If they’re any different to the ones we found at that cottage, well, this whole thing falls apart.”

  “I don’t like you going near those things, those trels.” He squeezed his arm tighter around for a moment.

  “I don’t want to.” She shrugged. “Someone has to… Don’t worry, rich boy, you’re not getting away that easily. Besides, you’ll be closer to them than I will. I don’t like the idea of you travelling with that fae woman one little bit.

  “You don’t trust her?”

  “I don’t trust any of them.” Her anger and hate bubbled to the surface again for just the barest moment before she pushed it back down.

  “At least take Tristan and Gavin with you,” he suggested.

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe we need to think about something else,” he suggested with a smile.

  “Maybe we do…” She tilted her head up to meet his kiss and the shreds of the dream fled, at least for a time.

  ***

  Ileriel stood in silence as her eyes closed and she reached out around her, searching with her senses. The grass was cool on her feet and the wind soft as it brushed her face but she felt it still. The Lady still pulled at her, even as her Gift filled her. It was a gentle touch now, little more than a reminder of the power that would drag her back to the Realm of Twilight but it was there, ever-present, nagging.

  A satyr snarled out, breaking her concentration, and Ileriel snapped her eyes open, glaring at the foolish creatures. The Great Revel was restless. Riahl, their supposed leader, barely hard even nominal control. He was the feral leader of a pack of rock wolves. He might be leader of the pack but that did nothing to make the members less wild.

  These satyr were nothing like those that had been imprisoned with her in the Outside. Those had a dignity about them, a sophistication that was lacking in these others. Their isolation and banishment from Tira Scyon and the wildfae had made them wilder and more savage. In many ways they were little more than animals. They were ignorant of much of the power the Lady gave them. Their control and use of the Lady’s Grace was limited at best, driven mostly by instinct.

  The Great Revel spread out before her, filling the valley they had stopped in. This was the first night they hadn’t run, following the setting of the sun in search of the next manling stronghold. Controlling them was not easy. Might as well try and control the wind. She could direct them, force them in the right direction, but beyond that her influence mattered for little.

  The faeborn were no help. Her gaze followed the thought over to where the trio sat under a willow. They spoke little but were always together, their sapphire eyes shining faintly as the Lady blessed them. Aelthen had sent them with her to help control the Revel. So far they had been of little use.

  She looked over towards the source of the snarl. Two satyr crouched low as they circled each other, surrounded by a crowd of spectators. The knives flashed as one hurled itself toward the other, blades slicing through the air in a flurry of motion. There was a beauty to the fight of these satyr but it never lasted for long. The grace and elegance of a fae was there but overlaid with something far more savage. For a time the two were able to combine into something quite wondrous but the savagery always won out. In the end the fight would devolve into little more than a brawl.

  Ileriel watched them for a moment, channelling the Lady’s Gift towards her eyes and enhancing her vision. The two were well matched in size and strength, it seemed, but the similarities ended there. One fought with all of the grace and beauty of a true fae, the other with a bestial brutality. His blade may as well have been a rock, or a club snatched from the dirt, for all the elegance he showed.

  She pursed her lips, appreciating the movement of the first as he stepped outside of the line of attack, shifting behind the satyr’s back and slashing with his blades before breaking off, creating space with which to control the next clash. The response was a roar as base as an enraged shade-cat as the second satyr flew at him, crashing into his body and bearing him to the ground where they rolled in the dirt.

  Her lip curled in disgust and she turned back to the curiosity. It lay in a bare patch of earth, scuffed clear of plant and grass. The arrowhead was roughly fashioned, nothing like the precise crafting of her own bone-headed arrows. The metal was dull and barely reflected the moonlight. How odd that something so simple could steal her Grace or set her to burning. How odd that here, in the Land of the Lady, this substance was so common. She reached out, not quite touching the thing.

  “They spoil for the battle.”

  The voice shocked her, both because of how close it was, and because she hadn’t heard the speaker approach. She shifted, a casual movement that dropped her own arrows neatly over the thing as she looked up at Riahl.

  “They are satyr. Your kind is never far from hunt or blade.” She didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice and his face wrinkled in the briefest of snarls at her response.

  “The huntmaster will soon be nearing his destination,” he told her, keeping his tone level despite the anger that must be raging inside him. “When the sun falls again we will move on.”

  She shrugged, the picture of indifference. “We will move when Aelthen wishes it.”

  He shook his head, the long hair on his head billowing out like some great shaggy mane. “This thing of moving together, waiting for others to be in position, it has a strangeness to it. It does not feel right to me. It would be simpler, I think, to just loose my revel upon the manlings and gut them as they flee.”

  She grimaced, her disgust showing at the idea. “This is not some mere hunt, Riahl. The manlings have an arrogance born of ignorance, they know not their place. They seek to stand against us, to defy us with blade and fire. Aelthen’s Purge will cull them. It will grant us this land, the land that was promised us. If you can keep your animals under control, that is.”

  He glared at her then, his anger bright enough to make her rise to a half-crouch as his hands strayed to the knives in his looping harness. “I and my kind are not mere beasts, Ileriel. The Lady blesses us as she does you. We are all fae.”

  “You are satyr,” she hissed at him. “I am fae. You will do as you are bid. Now go!” She flicked a dismissive hand before her, shooing him away.

  It hung there for the length of an angry breath until he gave a small bow and turned away, but it wasn’t until he’d taken twelve steps that she let go of the knife strapped to her back.

  The iron arrowhead lay waiting under her quiver. She crouched slowly, watching the satyr around her. Were any close enough to see? To wonder? She moved quickly, extending a hand again, reaching out with flesh and mind. The light flared under her fingertip, sparked by the barest contact and with a light bright enough to blind. Pain shot through her, numbing her arm and leaving her with an odd feeling of emptiness, of being drained and she clenched her teeth together to contain the scream that sought to escape. She glanced around her quickly, catching the odd looks from the satyr closest to where she crouched.

  A glare turned the eyes from her and she reached to retrieve the thing, covering it in a fold of fabric to keep it from her skin. It had drained the Grace from her. Not so much that she would suffer, but that in itself was interesting. She twisted to look behind her to where she knew the sun would rise, draining the Lady's Gift with its touch. She’d huddled in the dark of the woods to avoid it this far whilst the satyr milled about, ignoring of the power it stole from them. Perhaps that was a mistake. She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Rhenkin?”

  Kennick turned to the speaker. A red-faced man sat astride a horse that looked almost as miserable as he did. The man was well past his fighting years yet here he was, dressed in armour that was probably too tight and had most likely spent the last twenty years decorating a hallway in his mansion, if Kennick was any judge.
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  “No, my lord.” He gave a nod in place of a bow. “I am Lieutenant Kennick, the major’s second. If I can be of assistance?”

  The man tugged off his gauntlet and pulled a handkerchief from his belt, mopping at the sweat running freely from his face. “A bit of direction wouldn't go amiss,” he muttered. “I have five thousand lancers here, lad. It would be nice to know where he’d like us.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord…?”

  “Salisbourne, Earl of Westermark,” the man told him. “I’m here with the Celstwin garrison. Those of it that managed to keep up anyway. The rest will be along in a day or so, I imagine.”

  Kennick took a deep breath through his nose. Bloody fops were worse than useless most of the time. “I’m afraid the lord high marshal is…”

  “The marshal is what, Kennick?”

  The lieutenant turned. “Ah. sir, his Lordship, the Earl Salisbourne…”

  “Has five thousand horse and wants to know where the hell you want them,” Salisbourne snapped over Kennick’s head.

  Rhenkin gave the man a flat stare until he shifted his weight in the saddle. “Good to have you with us, my lord,” Rhenkin said with a nod. He looked to Kennick. “How are we doing?”

  The younger man looked skyward for a moment, mentally checking things off. “I would say we’re slightly behind, sir.” He shrugged. “All things considered it could be a lot worse.”

  Rhenkin grunted. “Numbers man, give me some numbers.”

  “The Savarel contingent arrived last night with General Ackerson, but we’ve had columns trickling in for the past week. With Lord Salisbourne’s lancers,” he nodded towards Salisbourne as he clambered down from his horse, “we have something in the region of sixty thousand on foot and twenty thousand horse. I’ll have a more definite figure for you later in the day. Ackerson has requested to meet you at the earliest opportunity as well, sir.”