The Riven God

by F. T. McKinstry

  The door opened with a squeal. The pale contours of a black-hooded face appeared on the edge of darkness, warily, as if puzzled by the presence of light. Wulfgar reached forth, grabbed the warlock by his cloak and dragged him through with the force of surprise. “Now,” he barked. Aelfric threw his weight against the door, then lifted and dropped the bar into place.

  Wulfgar slammed the hilt of his blade into the soldier’s face. The man cried out and fell against the wall. Aelfric had gone up the stairs to retrieve the torch. He returned, holding it high as he knelt over the oborom soldier to study him. He had blond hair balding on top, and a thin beard damp with blood.

  “No warlock, this,” Aelfric said softly. “My amulet isn’t cold.” He rifled around in the man’s tunic and found a charm around his neck. It contained the carving of a seal with a wreath of ash leaves around it. “Waleis.”

  “A forced recruit.”

  “Aye. Forced and not quite turned, to be wearing this. He must have hidden it.”

  Wulfgar glanced at the door. “Why would he come through the caves?”

  “I wish you hadn’t hit him so hard. Now we can’t question him.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if he wore thorns.”

  Grunting in agreement, Aelfric turned the man’s face to one side, then the other. “Well, he’s out cold. Let’s go.” Wulfgar sheathed his blade and turned for the door. As he placed his hands on the bar to lift it, he glanced one last time at the man on the floor—and paused.

  His eyes were open.

  “Oi,” Wulfgar said.

  In an instant, Aelfric turned and lowered his blade to the man’s throat. “State your business.”

  The soldier looked between them, his expression hesitant but hopeful as he gathered his black-cloaked captors weren’t oborom. Wulfgar leaned down and hauled him to his feet, then released him and stepped back, pushing the hood from his face. “Answer the question.”

  The man cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice shook. “I am Galbraeth, son of Galbors of Waleis. I seek the Lords of Tromblast in service to the queen.” His gaze moved over Wulfgar. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

  Wulfgar glanced at Aelfric. “I am Sentinel of the South. You have news?”

  Galbraeth knelt. “I offer you my blade and my allegiance, milord.” He looked up, his eyes filled with anguish. “And my news is grave.”

  *

  Wulfgar approached the edge of an overlook in a cavern beneath the rocky plain outside the South Tower. He motioned to his men to secure the passage down to the beach. Below, the Lower Draumar crashed and churned in a mighty rush as it hit the sea, gray and foaming in the dim light. The echoes of moving water filled the heights of the cave. Wulfgar scanned every crag, rock and pool for some sign of his sister, but saw only the yawning maw of the icy surf.

  Galbraeth came to his side with uneasy care. The son of a shipwright, he had lost his family to the oborom and watched them take his eldest son with a cold promise to spare him in return for his father’s loyalty. Wulfgar didn’t have the heart to tell Galbraeth that his son was probably either dead or on the block as a slave. There were still many places in the world where the fair-skinned, bright-haired people of the Gray Isles brought high prices. Places where the Keepers of the Eye did not see.

  Surely, the Keepers would have seen the Riven God emerging from the sea! Perhaps this explained why the Keepers had departed for Mimir three days ago. Ragnvald would have no power over them, not without drawing attention. Perhaps he had contrived to have them called away.

  Wulfgar glanced at his companion. The shipwright gazed down at the raging confluence as one who understood the loss of a loved one at the hands of darkness. As a testament to his loyalty, Galbraeth had managed to kill his oborom partner after Rhinne escaped them, and then made it to the smithy on his own without anyone knowing it.

  Galbraeth had made a clumsy attempt to keep Rhinne from jumping into the river. But Wulfgar knew his sister. She wouldn’t do the rational thing, should some big oborom guard try to threaten her into coming away from the edge, as Galbraeth had described. He closed his eyes briefly as he envisioned the Lower Draumar, deep and cold, pulling darkness to the troubled sea. She couldn’t survive that. Not wounded.

  Wulfgar turned east, where he hoped with all the light left in his heart that Aelfric’s messenger had made it to the queen. According to Galbraeth, Dore had been called to rally the oborom to march on Graylif. Not exactly the explanation Wulfgar would have liked for why the warlock had handed Rhinne in a sack to the first pair of soldiers who walked by.

  Somehow, it all went together: Rhinne’s being in the under-rim, the death of Asa, his near fall at the hands of the pale-haired priest, and then Galbraeth, dropping into his lap with news of his sister’s death. Above it all stood the unlikely arrival of the Riven God. With a forced flash of will, Wulfgar imagined his little sister standing in the waves beyond. That was less likely.

  Galbraeth still hoped that she might have made it. But Wulfgar knew that was only the force of imagination in the face of despair. Just holding off the devastation of grief for a short time.

  “Milord.” Wulfgar turned as one of his men approached. “All clear.”

  Wulfgar followed him, with Galbraeth trailing behind. “Anything on the beach?”

  “Not yet, milord.”

  Wulfgar recalled his mother’s words. If your sister gets out, we will be freed. He ground his teeth. Too much had gone bad since the queen had made that silly claim. All in a morning, that was all it took to shatter that fragile little if.

  He held his grief in check. If he knew one thing about Rhinne, he knew never to assume. She was as unpredictable as the sea. For a change, this gave him hope.

  The sharp, cold air whipped his cloak around him as he stepped out of the caves and onto the slippery rocks that tumbled down to the thin strip of sand at the water’s edge. His men fanned out east and west along the strand, searching. Aelfric stood by the water, his hair blazing like fire in the wind as he gazed up at the towering battlements of the South Tower behind them.

  Wulfgar searched. He scoured the rocks; he slipped and stumbled into the cavern where the river roared forth; he stomped through the tide until his legs were numb. He knelt on the sand with his sword in his arms and Galbraeth moping by his side. The shipwright gazed at the sea mists parting to the rising sun as if to pray. No god heard him.

  Instead, shouts and blades rang into the sky as black-cloaked soldiers poured like the night from the river’s gorge. Wulfgar stood up as Aelfric approached, out of breath.

  “Your orders?” the warrior panted.

  Once more, the Sentinel of the South scanned the empty rocks, pools and sand strewn with seaweed and broken shells. “Reclaim the cavern,” he said with the calmness of a brooding storm. “Keep it watched, keep it clear.”

  At his side, Galbraeth brushed a tear from his eye.

  Endwinter

  Shallow water tugged Rhinne to and fro, pushing, pulling, bitterly cold. As the Lower Draumar had carried her from the underground into the open air of a high cavern roaring with echoes, it had swelled up and slammed her into a mess of boulders. It took the last of her strength to hold onto the slippery rocks as the river withdrew and tried to rip her back into its unruly course. She closed her eyes, utterly spent before the dim, gray dawn hanging in the cavern mouth.

  Trust the water, her imaginary warrior had said. She coughed the brackish water from her throat as she relived the river dragging her down, pounding and throwing her forward at breathless speed beyond the reach of men. Dazed by the cold, she had somehow managed to gulp enough air to survive.

  She tried to move, catching her breath as pain shot through her body in a dozen places. With a choke, she dragged herself from the rocks and splashed into a tidal pool. Then she crawled onto a bed of broken shells and rolled into a fetal position, breathing heavily.

  Far above, a stone balcony led into the interior of the South Tower. It was empty, bu
t it wouldn’t be for long. She had no time to rest and gather herself. The oborom wouldn’t assume she had drowned; they would hunt her down to make sure. Resisting overwhelming inertia, Rhinne pushed her body up and staggered to her feet. She went to her knees twice before finally steadying herself against the cavern wall. Then she moved, one shaky step at a time, towards the beach.

  She had to get to the West Tower. For some reason, Wulfgar had moved her boat, the Ottersong, to the sea caves beneath the western face. He mentioned he might equip the craft for a short journey. If she could get to it, she could take the boat, sail to one of the other isles, and hide.

  On the beach, in the shelter of rocks and walls, she might make it to the sea caves without being seen. She trudged along, taking care not to step on sand or seaweed, anything that would leave a track. She slipped on the rocks, holding onto whatever her hands could find. She looked frequently over her shoulder towards the mouth of the river to make sure no one followed her. Once out of sight, she relaxed somewhat.

  The idea of escaping to another isle had flaws. When they found no body on the beach and the Ottersong freed from its moors, the other islands would be the first place they looked. She hugged the towering rocks and hobbled along. The sea caves would be guarded. She would have to sneak in, somehow. Wulfgar’s men would never let her go—and that assumed the oborom hadn’t taken over the place.

  She stopped and picked up a stout stick. It was long enough to use as a walking stick, and it helped her over the rough terrain. With her stick, her wet cloak clinging to her body and her state of weakness, Rhinne felt like an old woman lost on the strand.

  She moved around the base of the keep for what felt like hours before she finally heard the sound of water in a hollow space. The north wind buffeted the shore and tore the hood from her face. She quickly pulled it down and tucked her thick red hair beneath. Her eyes watered with cold. She couldn’t reach the cave from here unless she swam, and that was not an option. Her legs weakened as she gazed up at the steep, narrow path that led to the high entrance.

  Rhinne kept her head down and began to climb. She paused beneath anything that would shelter her from the windows and outlooks in the towers above. It was still dim out, and the tower blocked the growing light. Hopefully, any watchers above would be focused on the sea, and not on the desolate crags of the beach below.

  She approached an oaken bulkhead weathered by salt and wind. In the center hung a big, rusty ring. Rhinne tried it, but it didn’t budge and she knew it was barred from the other side. Always on the wrong side of a barred door! She swore and slammed her fist against the wood. Then she slid down against the door, her heart sinking, her fire gone out. As she sat there, she recalled something Wulfgar had recently said to her: The hotter and higher your fire burns, the sooner it will burn out. Make of your heart a forge, burning steadily, deeply and with power, your will feeding it like a bellows.

  A forge. Good advice, if she knew how to follow it. She closed her eyes. Get through this door, steal the Ottersong and sail away. To where?

  A bellows. The air was not constant; it came in rhythm, with a space between. Maybe she couldn’t figure this plan all out at once. One thing at a time. Get to the Ottersong, first.

  Her old woman guise might prove useful, now. She got up and hammered on the door with the butt end of her stick. After a moment, something rumbled on the other side. She backed away and hunkered down, hid her face, and clutched her gut as if ill. Not too far from the truth.

  The door opened with a screech that sounded like a crying gull. Heavy steps approached. “There now,” said a man, kneeling by her side. “What’s this?”

  “Help me,” she whimpered. From beneath her hood, she noted he wore the livery of the tower guard. She took a deep breath, gathered her strength, and then leapt up and bolted past him before he had a chance to react. She went into the entrance, heaving the door behind her. He came quickly and caught it, and she couldn’t hold it shut against him, let alone drop the bar at the same time. It cracked open as her strength failed her.

  She abandoned the door and descended long, narrow stairs into a huge cavern with the sea swirling on one side through a narrow crack in the western wall. The black water heaved and yawned, casting restless echoes. Rhinne clutched at the damp rock on one side to keep from slipping as the bar to the entrance slammed in place above her.

  When the guard commanded her to halt, armed men in the chamber jumped to intercept her. Rhinne leapt over the last three steps to the floor and fled, her gaze fixed on the dark opening of a tunnel.

  A cry tore from her throat as someone came up from behind and grappled at her cloak, yanking her back. As he spun her around, she lost her balance and fell. By the time she gathered her wits, soldiers had surrounded her. One of them held a sword at her throat. He had curly brown hair and a short beard. Captain Harald, one of Wulfgar’s best men. What was he doing down here?

  Harald lifted his blade in astonishment as he realized who she was. Quickly, he bade the others to return to their posts. They strode off, casting glances over their shoulders. The tall warrior leaned down and extended his hand. “Milady,” he said politely. Rhinne gulped and took his hand, squelching a cry as he pulled her up. “What are you about?”

  Rhinne pulled her cloak around her protectively. Pain caused sweat to break on her brow. “I have to leave,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  The captain’s gaze moved down, causing Rhinne to flush at the state of her person: wet, salty, bloody, hurt, and stripped of weapons. Harald gently brushed his fingers over the bruise on her cheek, and then moved to draw her cloak aside. Instinctively, she held it closed.

  “Princess,” he said softly. As she relented, he plucked at the torn fabric of her tunic. Something wild fled over his face. “What happened to you?”

  “I have to leave,” she repeated. “You can’t stop me.”

  He pursed his lips, as if deciding how best to deal with her. “Prince Wulfgar ordered me to protect the Ottersong and prevent anyone from taking her—including you, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t get those orders.” She turned and started walking towards the tunnel entrance.

  “Milady. Do not force me to stop you.”

  She spun around. “My life is in danger. I have to leave. Now.”

  He regarded her calmly. “We’ll not let anything happen to you. But if you set sail, nothing will protect you.”

  Rhinne tossed her head to the side, fighting tears. She was too tired, too worn to fight this age-old battle of protection and vulnerability: weaken her and then tell her how weak she was. “I’ll be fine,” she said, unconvincingly. She felt the same about the sea as she had about the Lower Draumar. How bad could it be? The earth, stone and men of this isle were certainly not going to help her.

  Harald approached her with a long exhale, then turned as a door slammed on the other side of the cave. A man came in, barked an order at another and then ran to Harald in an air of extreme distress.

  “Captain,” he said, and then he slowed, his expression stricken with surprise. “Princess!”

  “Your report?” Harald said crisply.

  The soldier hadn’t taken his gaze from Rhinne. “I just received word; the North Born is wanted for treason. The oborom are searching the keep.”

  Harald looked at Rhinne in question.

  “I killed a priest,” she admitted quickly. She clutched the edges of her cloak even closer as if to hide the violation. Harald’s expression revealed nothing; the other man turned pale as a sheet. “He started it,” Rhinne added, sifting through her tale to decide how much of it to tell. But Harald needed no explanation. He drew the soldier aside and lowered his voice below hearing. Rhinne considered making another run for it, but it was too late for that, now. If anything, she might be safer with these men than not.

  The soldier turned and strode off, breaking into a run.

  Harald returned to Rhinne and guided her into the shadow of the wall that enclosed the tunn
el entrance. He drew close, searching her eyes. “Orders have changed. Sail west, just out of view of the towers. Come around the isle, wait for nightfall then make port in Lifnmir. Someone will meet you there.”

  “I’ll be seen as I leave.”

  The captain shook his head. “We hold the towers, not the oborom.”

  “Even the West Tower?”

  “For now. That may not stand, so you must make haste. Prince Wulfgar gave orders that if the Ottersong is seen, she must not be noticed.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, chilled.

  “In this event, milady.” He took her shoulders and leveled his blue eyes on her. “Under no circumstances make for the open sea.”

  “Why?”

  “Endwinter is nigh,” he replied after a shifty pause. “Swear on your blade you’ll stay close to the isle. Just out of sight.”

  His intensity spooked her. While the Endwinter storm was always a concern at this time of year, she sensed his warning had another purpose. She nodded. “I swear.”

  “Go, then. We’ll find you in Lifnmir.”

  Rhinne nodded and moved into the tunnel, one hand on the wall to steady herself. A man’s oath, swearing on a blade. She doubted it would hold her, since she no longer had her sword and didn’t feel worthy of it anyway. But Harald’s manner hadn’t invited questions.

  She entered a cave with a high ceiling and a granite rim around the edge. A small boat rocked against its lines upon the water. The Ottersong. A gift from her mother, its hull was deep, strong and painted in the likeness of an otter. The bow formed a neck and head, the creature’s teeth held the rigging for the foresail, and the tiller flared out from the stern like a tail. The leeboards were carved on their surface into webbed, clawed paws.

  Rhinne climbed stiffly into the cockpit and got to work. As she checked her supplies she discovered, to her surprise, that Wulfgar had stocked over a week’s supply of food and water, maybe two if she stretched it, and enough blankets and clothes to keep warm. Wherever her brother had planned for her to go, it was not nearby. And he had rigged the docklines for a swift retreat.