The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  Rhenkin waved that off. “Supplies?”

  “Well in hand, sir,” Kennick said. “We have wagons already rolling to supply dumps and more ready to move with us. I can give you specifics if—”

  “No, that’s fine. Send runners. I want to begin the march as soon as possible.” He looked to Salisbourne. “I trust your men will be able to manage that?”

  Salisbourne nodded. “I dare say they’ll be ready. They’re in far better shape than I am and we all knew this march was coming. An army this size won’t take a step in the next few hours anyway, long enough to give the nags a break eh?” He patted his grey affectionately. “They do the hard work, after all.”

  “They do, though this won’t be an easy ride for any of us.” Rhenkin gave the man a meaningful look.

  Salisbourne chuckled. “I’m not as useless as I look, Rhenkin. I may not be twenty-five anymore, and it took me a good hour to squeeze into this armour, but I can still swing a sword if need be.” He glanced down at his figure and back with a wry smile. “I know my limits, marshal. I’ll leave the bone-cracking to younger men with less sense and more muscle, unless it comes down to it, of course. I can help you lead and organise though, not that I’d want your job, and not that I’ll be getting in your way. An army needs one leader not five.”

  Rhenkin nodded in thanks and smiled despite himself. The man, for all his bluster and ridiculous armour, had an easy smile and it was hard not to like him. “I’ll leave you to take what rest you can and ready your men then, my lord. Kennick will get you settled until the runners send word.”

  “I suspect there’ll enough titles to trip over, Rhenkin. Call me Salisbourne, or Thomas if you’ve a mind to.”

  Rhenkin gave tight smile and nodded a farewell, stepping past the pair and into the command tent where he knew reports would be waiting for him.

  The army moved ponderously. Flowing out of the regions surrounding Druel like a great slug and swallowing the fields and countryside to either side of the road. It took hours for them to begin moving, and longer still to form up into a decent marching order. The first day seemed to finish almost before it had begun and, though Rhenkin knew they would cover more ground in the days ahead, the fact that Druel was only just out of sight as they made camp grated.

  By the week's end the army was making better progress. Rhenkin dealt with the reports and subordinates as he rode, though he managed to pass a great deal off on Kennick. It hurt to admit it but the man might be more competent that Larson had been.

  “How long do you imagine it will take us?” Obair asked, nudging his horse up alongside the major.

  “Hmm?” Rhenkin looked up from the paper he’d been reading as he rode.

  “To Widdengate?”

  “Four or five weeks at least,” Rhenkin told him. “Though I don’t expect we’ll get that far.” The druid frowned and Rhenkin folded the report, tucking it into his belt. “We’ve talked through this twice already, Obair. What’s the problem?”

  Obair sighed and looked over one shoulder to Devin, riding behind them as he chatted with Ylsriss. “It’s all too tenuous, Rhenkin. I don’t know, you’re a military man, I suppose I expected firm plans that were set in stone.”

  Rhenkin laughed, a genuine laugh that was devoid of mocking. “Plans aren’t often worth the paper they waste. They’ve usually changed before the ink’s dry,” he told him. “We’re pushing eastwards. I have scouts out there already but most of this is in the hands of the fae.” He shrugged and spoke in a lower voice, “It’s not something I’d toss around, Obair, but I don’t honestly know what to expect. This isn’t an army of men we’re marching towards. They don’t think like us, don’t act like us. There are too many unknowns here for us to plan.” He met the old man’s eyes and, for the first time, his frustration showed. “Will they even form ranks like a human army? Will they group together? Or will they fight like a wild mob? For that matter will they even be in one group?”

  Obair opened his mouth to respond but Rhenkin stopped him with a shake of the head. “There’s no point in guessing. We’ve been through this and you’ve already told both me and the queen what you know of these fae. The best we can do is head east and wait for the scouts.”

  Obair winced. “That’s really all we can do?”

  “Unless you have a better idea.” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow.

  “Hold on.” Obair frowned back at him. “What do you mean you don’t expect to get that far?”

  “To Widdengate?” Rhenkin shook his head. “I doubt we’ll get anywhere close to it. If what the Bjornman told us was true then the fae are here in force. They'll meet us long before we ever get near Widdengate.”

  “Then how…?”

  “You’ll have to leave, strike out on your own, or with a small force at best.” Rhenkin frowned himself. “This can’t be news to you, Obair. Devin has spoken to both the queen and myself about this at length.”

  “He what?”

  “His memories of the fae.” Rhenkin shrugged. “Maybe memories is the wrong word, but I mean the knowledge he gained through the stones. The visions he had of the fae armies.”

  “I hadn’t realised he’d been speaking to you about them,” Obair admitted with a glance back at the boy.

  “As soon as we engage… Even before that, really. At first contact you’ll break for the stones at Widdengate with Ylsriss, Devin, and the others. I can send troops with you but I rather suspect you’ll be better off without them.”

  “How does that make sense?” the old man demanded.

  “Think, old man.” Rhenkin told him, shaking his head. “Once the fae engage it will be too late for you to go anywhere and escape their notice. For us to fight through all the way to those stones of yours could take months. That’s assuming we last that long.”

  He glanced around at those closest to him and lowered his voice. “Your group will have to move before we have any real contact, and it’ll have to be small enough to either escape notice or be overlooked. Sending you off with five hundred men is no use. You might as well be waving flags and blowing trumpets as you ride along. This whole plan is a distraction. This army, and whatever the Bjornmen send west, are there to keep the fae busy, keep them focused on us whilst you get to those stones and do what you have to do.”

  “That’s…”

  “Incredibly noble?” Rhenkin said with a snort. “Don’t flatter yourself, Obair. It’s what we’d be doing anyway. If the fae are coming in strength, as an army rather than a hunting raid, then we have no choice but to meet them.”

  “I was going to say, that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” Obair laughed. “But you’re right, we don’t have a choice. I don’t think keeping their attention will be as difficult as you might think though.”

  “Oh?” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “How’s that then?”

  “It’s a guess more than anything,” Obair admitted, patting his horse's neck absently. “Something I’ve picked out of the stories Ylsriss and Miriam have told me. There seems to be an incredible arrogance about the fae. Some of that is warranted, of course. Toe to toe I don’t imagine any human is a match for a fae. But still, there is an arrogance about them.” He gave a grim smile. “I expect the notion of a human army marching to meet them is something that they could never have imagined. Even Devin’s tales of the fae wars tell of mankind retreating, fleeing. The idea of us actually marching to meet them might just be enough to shock them.”

  “You may be right,” Rhenkin said. “Getting their attention may be easier than I’d thought then. Let’s hope the iron holds out then.”

  “There is that.” Obair sighed, looking around at the army. He looked to Rhenkin, and then glanced back at the black-robed figure of Miriam as she rode behind them. “If you’ll excuse me?” he said to Rhenkin but the man was already frowning at the papers in his hand.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I join you?” Obair said with a smile as he dropped back beside Miriam.

  She shook her head
with a small smile. “Some company would be nice.”

  He looked at her expecting more but she looked away, gazing blankly ahead of them as the horse plodded behind those in front. They rode in silence for a few minutes as Obair cast glances at her with a frown.

  “I was a bit surprised to see you’d come along,” he said, trying again. “I thought you’d have stayed in Druel. By all accounts you’ve had enough travel for three lifetimes lately.”

  She looked at him with an odd expression he couldn’t decipher. “I need to see this done.”

  He tilted his head at that. He’d not really thought about it before but what was she doing here? This was hardly a gentle ride in the country. “See what done?” he asked with a frown. “What are you even doing here, Miriam? You should be back in Druel.”

  She laughed then, a bitter sound that somehow didn’t fit. It had a tone to it, something that wavered between the wild and the not-quite-right. He shivered at the sound of it and almost missed what she said as she spoke again. “So much of this is my fault. I let them into this world. I started all of this.”

  “I don’t really think you can blame yourself, Miriam.” He spoke carefully, using the soothing tones he’d once used on his livestock.

  “But I can.” She looked at him again and he saw himself reflected in her eyes.

  “The Wyrde was already failing, Miriam,” he told her gently. The rituals Lillith and I performed may have been a part of it but there’s so much more we don’t know about the Wyrde itself. It was much more than just a simple ritual. It was bigger than anything we two were doing. My master once told me that the Wyrde was something that all mankind was a part of. It was helped along in a thousand little ways. Even traditions like hanging horseshoes and morris dancing probably played their part.” He scratched at his beard, thinking for a moment before he carried on.

  “I do wonder how much impact this religion, the Church of New Days, really had on things. The way they worked to stamp out the old traditions certainly didn’t help but I suspect that the Wyrde would have failed anyway.”

  “You can’t know that,” Miriam told him. Her eyes were hard and voice had a brittle edge to it.

  “I can, Miriam,” he insisted. “I felt the Wyrde failing for decades. It was a slow thing, like the beginning of a winter's thaw, but little by little I felt it. Every year it grew just a touch harder. It was barely noticeable sometimes.” He snorted a laugh but it was more noise than true humour. “For a while I thought it was just me getting older, getting tired.”

  He fell silent, lost in his own thoughts. The horse plodded on without his direction and when he finally looked up her eyes were still on him, questioning and somehow forgiving.

  ***

  The stones were silent and cold. Klöss reached out to the tumbled blocks that had once formed the gatehouse with hands that still shook. He drew in another breath, running his fingertips along the coarse stone as fought down the nausea and shook his head.

  This had been a home as much as it had been a fortress. Not just for him but for the thousands of men and women who'd lived here. The wind tossed at his cloak, rustling the leaves that grew from the roots and vines that looked to have thrust out of the earth and made wreckage of the walls.

  “This is how you make war then?” he called out to the figure standing high on the broken stones of the wall. “With plants striking from the earth and creatures from the skies?”

  Aervern turned her gaze to him slowly, her burning eyes bright in the shadows. “Are your kind any better, manling? Do you not hurl fire and rain arrows down on your foes? We are not that different, manling.”

  “Don't call me that,” Klöss muttered but there was no force in his words. He picked his way over the stones, moving into the city itself as Aervern watched him. The place was quiet, a silence somehow intensified by the soft sound of leaves blowing through the wrecked streets. The city was dead. He'd known that when it first came into sight. He'd searched it, of course, calling out whilst the fae stood and watched on with unreadable eyes.

  A glint called him to him for a second before it was gone. Something golden flashing from the rubble as the moon peered out from behind the clouds that scudded across the skies. It had only been visible for the barest moment before it vanished but it was the colour of it that called to him.

  Klöss frowned, crouching down and poring over the stones as he looked for the source. He grunted, shoving at a heavy stone until it toppled to the side, taking a small avalanche of pebbles and fragments with it. Questing fingers found cold metal and he pulled at the rocks, clearing a space until the moonlight stopped him. The armour was ornate, steel plates inlaid with gold in a complex scrollwork. “Larren,” he breathed. “You poor, stupid, bloody bastard.”

  He stood slowly, walking away and letting his feet take him. There was nothing he could do for the man and he deserved no better than the thousands of other bodies that lay in the streets or under the rubble. Rimeheld was dead and Larren had killed her with an arrogance deadlier than any knife.

  The thought came to him unbidden. The sealord was dead. With Frostbeard gone then he himself was probably the ranking Bjornman in all of Anlan. To all intents and purposes he was the sealord, at least until the fleet returned to the Barren Isles. The thought gave him pause. With their warleader dead what did this mean for his people?

  He looked over to the fae, silent on her rooftop. “What will you do?”

  She cocked her head on one side as she looked at him, the question clear but unspoken.

  “If this magic is successful,” Klöss explained, “what will you do when the barrier that locks this world away from you is remade?”

  “Yours is not the only world that has been ravaged, Klöss,” she told him. Her accent altered his name, putting the emphasis in the wrong place and he shivered at the sound of it. “You did not like to hear it when I told you that we were not so different but it is the truth I speak. We both have betrayed our people for what we believe to be the best path. You sought aid from this Selena. I, from the Wyrdeweavers. Our goal is the same, to rid our worlds of Aelthen and his followers.”

  Klöss struggled with that, frowning. “But if this magic, this Wyrde, works. What happens to you?”

  “I plan to be in my homeland when the Wyrde falls,” Aervern told him. “I hold a hope, a small hope, but a hope all the same, that a great thing can be achieved.” She sighed at his questioning glance and made her way down to him, stepping easily over the shifting rubble.

  “Listen then and I will speak of it,” she told him. “Legends tell of a time when we were not foes. Ancient tales so lost in time that none thought there was a truth in them, but they tell of a time when manling and fae were as one. Together we wove the gifts of our Lady about us, weaving glyphs and crafting wonders that bridged worlds. This is not the only world we touched. Ours is a fallen people, Klöss, the Wyrde locked Aelthen and his host in the Outside, a horror that hangs between worlds, but still other parts of my race are scattered across the stars. The Carnath fled, taking their own path through the Worldtrails as their quest for the Ivy Throne failed. They were not the first to leave my Realm. The people of Tir Riviel had already left, seeking another path to the ancient home of your own people.”

  “So that's your plan then?” Klöss said, contempt clear in his curled lip. “To lock Aelthen away behind the Wyrde and dominate yourself?”

  Aervern shook her head at him. “Your mind is not so simple, manling. Do not act the blind fool with me.” She ignored him as he glowered. “Through fate, or some scheme of the Lady herself, my kind and your own are bound. Together we might thrive if only given the chance. Tales tell of the wonders your people can work with glyphs but these glyphs are powerless without the gift of Our Lady that only a fae can bring.” She held a finger up, stopping him before he could speak. “My own people are slow to breed. A coupling brings about a fae'reeth or satyr far more often than a true fae. Manling blood mixed with my own could change all of this
. Manlings make us more than we can be alone. This is what Aelthen cannot understand. He has fixed his sight so strongly on hate that he cannot look beyond it. I seek to build a world, manling, I seek to reclaim a legend. Even with the thousands of my people who have flocked to Aelthen's banner there are enough that remain in my realm to begin again.”

  “With the humans left behind, trapped in your world,” he added not bothering to conceal his disgust.

  “These are people that do not even remember your land, manling,” Aervern told him. “Joran tells me that most were stolen from this world as babes or children too young to even remember being taken. It would be no kindness to return them.”

  “You stole my son, fae.” The words grated as they left his lips.

  “I took no child,” she replied, calm as a still pond. “Do not hold me for what Aelthen has done. This child of yours, Joran has spoken of this. He was a babe, yes?” She stared at him until he nodded. “Time passes at different rates between your world and mine, our offspring grow differently also. I would return your child to you if it were possible but time grows short. How would we find him among all the children in the Realm of Twilight?It may have been many years since you saw him, would you recognize him even if he could be found? Would your she?”

  Klöss stared at her wordlessly until he finally shook his head.

  She turned away before he could speak, walking in smooth strides through the ruined streets as he gaped at her. Klöss muttered to himself and followed. The fae was like nothing he would have thought, complex and layered. Frankly he'd preferred it when he could just think of them as monsters.

  He hurried after her as best he could, picking his way over the fallen walls and buildings. The rear of the city was mostly intact. The defenders of Rimeheld would have flooded out to meet the attacking fae and, by the time any enemy stepped foot in this part of the city, the battle would have been over.