The Raidships: Riven Skies, #1

By A.D. Wynterhawk

The black ships came to make Whit Alder a slave. Instead,  they made him a legend.

 

After sky-borne raiders ravage his village and take him captive, Whit finds himself in an alien world.

It is the beginning of an odyssey that starts in the slave markets of Thelos and ends in a lost city hidden behind a millennium-old mystery. Along the way, Whit will ignite a rebellion and uncover an ancient lie destined to shake the foundations of an empire.

 

The Raidships is the first installment in the new series Riven Skies. Riven Skies chronicles a future where the isolated remnants of humanity struggle to begin again in a hostile universe. It is a universe filled with peril and adventure, where the greatest threat to survival is not the alien nature of new worlds, but the violent nature of men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.D. Wynterhawk
• Release date: Jul 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393184515

Book preview

Valkra Map

Part I

Alesia… the beginning

1 The Raid

THE RAIDSHIP WASP PLUMMETED earthward on silenced engines, rattling and moaning like an old man on his deathbed. In the semidarkness of her hold, two dozen Valkran raiders sat shoulder-to-shoulder on fold-down troop seats. They were big men with pale skin, braided beards, and ice-colored eyes. Where their skin was not covered by boiled leather or steel mail, faded blue tattoos showed dark against their northern pallor. Some of the raiders wore half-helms, brilliant with lacquered wings or horns. Others sported triple-layered leather caps, sewn with steel plates. Swords and axes hung from their hips and shoulders. All of their gear was marked by time and use, stained and battered by past violence. Uther’s shipmates were, in the majority, grim-eyed killers, men who’d murdered often and kept no count.

He waited, nerves taut as the Wasp continued her plunge toward Alesia’s surface, free falling, her frame creaking and grumbling as the wind buffeted her outer hull. Six miles below, their target, a farming village named Avendale, was rising to a new dawn.

It was Uther’s third expedition to this world, and his eleventh assault landing. He knew the Wasp’s engines would whine to life a thousand feet above the ground to brake her descent. If the pilot was good, he’d land them in one piece, dead-center in Avendale’s commons. There, the ship’s rear doors would swing wide and disgorge her raiders, and Solis willing, the Valkrans would fall on the villagers while they were still disorganized and dull from sleep.

He pushed back his helmet and wiped his forehead, drying the sweat that stung his eyes. Even with ten assault descents behind him, they still terrified him. As the air tore past the Wasp, clawing at her skin and twisting her frame, he imagined the ship disintegrating around him and tumbling earthward in a cloud of shattered metal.

There was reason to be fearful. The Wasp was ancient, and her problems many. For nine centuries, the Society of Adepts, a sub-order of the Ordos Ferrum, had kept her airworthy. But in Uther’s mind, the ship was a rattling deathtrap, one failure away from destruction. And if the sweat-stink and silence that filled the troop compartment were indicators, he wasn’t the only one that felt that way.

He pushed away his uneasiness and looked for a distraction, his eyes falling on the crimson lamp above the rear troop doors. It illuminated the ship’s interior with a florid and unblinking glow, reminiscent of an open wound. When the Wasp’s landing pads met earth and her doors opened, the light would transition from red to green, signaling the attack could begin.

It was unlikely there would be resistance from Avendale’s townsmen. In his previous raids, Alesia’s farmers and merchants had proven poor adversaries. And based on the Adepts’ reconnaissance briefing the night before, there was nothing special about their target today. Avendale was just another undefended backwater, ripe for the plucking, typical in every way.

The town’s heart was a cluster of cottages and shops tucked around a central green, and a single-spired chantry of whitewashed stone stood at the hamlet’s northern corner. There was no fastness in Avendale. No barracks. No fortifications. The Adepts had detected no defense force of any kind. If history was an indicator, the best the town could muster would be an ill-trained sheriff and a handful of volunteers. Avendale hung ripe as a summer peach waiting to be plucked.

Whit Alder pushed a dark lock away from his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. He’d avoided his father’s shears for months now, but knew he couldn’t evade them much longer. Unfortunately, his father was far better at smithing than barbering. Whenever Whit fell victim to his father’s ministrations, he emerged looking like a badly shorn ewe. He recalled his last forced grooming, and the teasing that followed. Whit shuddered at the memory, then forced himself back to the distraction of his fire-making.

He struck sparks with his flint, aiming their spray at tinder stacked in the forge’s center. One of the sparks found its mark and a fine curl of smoke rose from the pile of grass and shavings. Whit cupped his hands around the stack and blew, coaxing the spark to spread. Soon, blue tendrils swirled and a nascent yellow flame ate at the tinder. He continued to puff at the growing flame until the fire took hold.

He fed the flames a pine knot, and they rose in response, licking greedily at the new fuel. Once the fire was established, he left for the woodpile to fetch more kindling. He was filling his arms with lightwood when he heard the whine.

It was faint at first, unfamiliar and somewhere above him, growing louder as he listened. He raised his eyes skyward, shading them with his hand, squinting against the morning sun. The sound was unnatural, like nothing he’d heard before, and its eerie pitch caused the small hairs on the back of his neck to stand erect. He swept the sky from east to west, stopping when he caught sight of a black speck riding atop four blue-white dots. The speck was descending, falling toward the village center.

As he watched, the dot transformed into a vaguely insect-like, metal construct, supported by four globes of pulsing light. The apparition’s skin was colored like ash, flat and gray, streaked with black. From its trajectory, the flying machine aimed to land on the village commons.

It slowed as it fell, braking into a hover a hundred feet above the ground. Three doors slid open on the craft’s underside and silvery struts, ending in flat pads, distended from the ship’s belly. The engine’s whine changed pitch and the thing crept earthward, easing toward landfall.

Raiders! Whit breathed a terrified prayer to the Light, begging protection. The Valkrans were coming. Around him, his neighbors were emerging from their homes, eyes turned to the sky. Some came through their doors buttoning trousers or pulling on tunics, but most still wore their nightclothes. A few men, alarmed by the sound and anticipating danger, had tried to arm themselves.

Whit saw hatchets, axes, and hammers—farm tools that would be near-useless against armored raiders. The Valkrans would go through Avendale’s townsmen like a scythe through wheat. He snapped his eyes away from the commons and back toward his own house, then sprinted across the hundred feet of grass that separated the cottage from the forge. His parents stood on the rough stone stoop outside their front door, staring at the descending craft. Whit’s mother, Jenny, held baby Joff on one hip and shielded her fear-filled eyes with her free hand. His father stood with fists balled on his hips, staring upward. Whit stumbled to a stop, almost crashing into his father.

Eldon Alder tore his eyes from the raidship and looked at his son. Whit saw fear in his father’s face and felt an icy band constrict his heart. The senior Alder reached out with two scarred hands and clutched his son by the shoulders, dragging him around till they faced each other, eyes inches apart. Whit winced beneath the smith’s iron grip. The man’s grasp was fierce, powerful with fear and desperation.

Listen, boy. Listen hard! Eldon Alder, eyes wild and lips trembling, shook his eldest, demanding acknowledgment.

Whit fought his fear, forcing himself to lock eyes with his father and nodded to show he was listening.

His father eased his grip but didn’t withdraw his hands. We’ve got to run, run far and fast. Eldon Alder turned to steal a glance at the raider ship, then looked back to his son. Take your mother and Joff to Warrick, to your uncle Harod's. Take the shortcut through Barrow Wood. You know the one?

Yes. Whit hesitated, then blurted a question. Aren’t you coming with us?

I’ll be right behind. I promise. Don’t wait for me. No matter what. Swear it!

Whit wanted to argue but knew better. His father wouldn’t relent and they were out of time. I swear, he said.

Good lad. Now go. Go! Eldon Alder gave his son a push then wrapped his strong arms around his wife and infant son. He squeezed them tight against his chest, burying his face in his wife’s hair. Whit heard him whisper I love you before dashing back through their cottage door. Whit grabbed his mother’s forearm and pointed toward the distant tree line that marked the edge of the Barrow Wood.

Run. Take Joff to the woods. I’ll lag behind to guard our rear.

His mother looked at him as though to protest, but her eyes darted toward the raider’s ship and she held her peace. Jenny Alder nodded and set off at an awkward run, cradling Joff in her arms. Whit watched her go and looked back toward the commons.

The raidship was almost down, hovering a few feet above a circle of blasted turf. He watched until the ship’s landing legs made contact, flexing under her weight. A shudder passed through the craft, and a crack appeared in her rear hull as a pair of double doors began to swing outward. It was time to go.

He followed behind his mother, now twenty paces distant, keeping one eye on her and one eye on the raider’s ship. If the marauders gave chase, he’ try to lure them into pursuing him rather than his family. If he couldn’t do that, he’d stand and fight to buy time for Joff and his mother.

Inside the assault ship, Uther felt the troop seat slam against his backside as the thrusters screamed to life. His limbs turned to lead and an invisible, suffocating anvil crushed his chest. He clamped his eyes shut and willed himself to calmness. The pressure would ease when the Wasp set down; he needed to endure it for just a few moments more.

The engines whined, laboring to counteract the ship’s deadly momentum. As her motors flared and she began to slow, the wind’s shriek faded and the airship decelerated, easing into a hover. On the craft’s underside, the landing gear doors slid open to allow her spidery legs to deploy. Uther felt the floor vibrate under his boot soles as they locked into their open position and the Wasp began the last stage of her descent.

The ship floated earthward, her thrusters jabbing against the dirt, flinging gouts of burnt vegetation and small stones skyward. Uther heard the pebbles ping against her hull, then the motors went silent, followed by a tooth-cracking jolt as the landing pads slammed into the turf. There was a follow-on shudder as the ship’s mass settled onto the pivot pins of her metal legs; they were down. Uther slapped his palm against the release stud in his harness buckle and his safety restraints fell away.

The other raiders unsnapped and rose to form two lines facing the rear doors. Weapons were drawn and bucklers made ready as the Wasp’s exit doors swung outward. When the doors reached their full extension and locked into place, a metal ramp emerged from its housing in the ship's underbelly and angled down onto the blackened turf.

Uther's fear vanished, scrubbed away by the sunlight. Blood coursed through his veins, its thrum pounding in his ears, loud as war drums. The world was sharp-edged now, the light brittle against his eyes, and the air feathery against his skin. He inhaled, and the acrid smell of burned grass and scorched soil filled his nostrils. Each of his senses was razor-sharp and every nerve taut. It seemed that time itself had slowed, moving as though mired in honey.

The next moments would be the most dangerous of their assault. The raiders were packed into an enclosed space with a single point of exit. If the plow-drivers had managed to organize and arm themselves, they could be waiting outside, ready to attack. But Uther’s experience told him there would be no welcoming party. The Alesians were sheep, an inferior people who forged their steel into plows instead of blades, and bowed before a weak-kneed god. The yokels would break and run, then be cut down as they fled, dying without honor.

Uther looked up to the signal lamp above the doors in time to see it turn green. Beyond the men queued to his front he saw a rectangle of brilliant blue sky hanging over a tidy greensward backed by neat woods and stucco buildings. The raiders began to disembark, shuffling down the ramp in good order, each man silent, ready and disciplined. They filed from the assault craft in two even columns with no jostling or chatter, fanning out into a semicircle a dozen yards from the Wasp’s ramp.

The most experienced and battle-hardened exited first, followed by the unseasoned and unblooded who brought up the rear. Uther was among the final half-dozen warriors to move down the ramp and assume his position. Once in formation, he drew his blade and squinted against the brightness, waiting for orders. Behind him, in the formation's center, Navus Wrethbek strode back and forth, scanning the landing area. It fell to Wrethbek, as the elected raid leader, to assess resistance and give the order to retreat or attack. If retreat was called, there would be an orderly withdrawal back into the Wasp, and they’d move on to find a softer target. But if Wrethbek ordered an attack, each man was free to break formation and pick targets of opportunity. Uther bit his lower lip, trembling in impatience for the order as he scanned the commons and its surrounding buildings.

Avendale was a chaos of panicked citizenry. There were no soldiers, and the few weapons in evidence were hand tools wielded by disorganized farmers still in their nightclothes. Uther turned his head and looked toward Wrethbek. The raid leader, his face wrapped in a predator’s grin, raised his axe.

"Attack!" he roared.

The raiders exploded outward, war cries rising in their throats. Each man, now loosed, sought out targets and gave pursuit.

Uther didn’t charge blindly after his companions. Instead, he paused to study the field, looking for opportunities. As he scanned for potential targets, the outer edge of the raider formation broke apart and its fighters began to engage the locals. In seconds, pockets of fighting swirled around him and the field devolved into a chaos of screams and steel on steel. As he watched, a thin villager with sandy hair and a kitchen knife went down beneath a steel maul. Another townsman, a big man with a bushy red beard and hair to match, was charging toward the Wasp. He bellowed as he came, a hatchet held high in his right hand.

Red-beard was fierce and fast. He managed to open the throat of one raider before being beset by two others. The villager fought like a cornered lion, roaring obscenities as he swung his bloodied axe in wild sweeping arcs. But the pair of marauders facing him used their numbers to advantage, feinting and shifting, circling beyond reach as they maneuvered for an opening.

One raider ducked under a blow, thrust his blade into the villager’s middle, and red blossomed against the Alesian’s nightshirt. The wounded man swung his hand-axe at his attacker as the Valkran withdrew his sword. The whirring hatchet struck the marauder above the ear in a spray of crimson mist, and the raider collapsed to the grass.

As the townsman brought down one raider, the second struck from behind. The marauder’s blade leapt forward, then sank between the red-haired townsman’s shoulder blades. The impaled man spasmed and toppled face-first like a felled oak, vanishing as the fighting engulfed him.

Uther looked right and spied an isolated villager about fifty paces distant, an old man with thin, gray hair and eyes wide in bewilderment. The yokel was shoeless, clad in a rumpled nightshirt, a tinker’s hammer clamped in one hand. Uther grinned, then raised his blade and rushed forward, howling as he charged.

The oldster turned toward the sound of Uther’s rush, dropped his hammer and broke into a wobbling run. The tool landed on its head in the thick summer grass, its handle upright. But Uther sidestepped it with ease and gave chase. The old fossil tottered away at surprising speed, and Uther, encumbered by the weight of his armor and kit, barely matched him.

Twenty feet still separated them when the fleeing villager lost his footing and went down. The Alesian’s feet shot out and he landed with a thump on his back, the air in his lungs emptying in an explosive exhalation. Uther caught up, then fell on his quarry, planting his knees on the downed man’s spread arms and pinning him to the ground. Clasping his sword grip in both hands, Uther raised the hilt above his head, his blade point a hair’s breadth above the fallen man's throat. Then he pushed. The weapon’s razor-sharp tip passed through flesh and bone, and the villager spasmed once then went still.

Uther closed his eyes and gasped, feeling the old man’s soul move through him as it departed. When the wave passed, he opened his eyes and withdrew his blade, wiping it on the dead man’s nightshirt before searching his body.

He found nothing of value save for the codger’s marriage ring, a thin gold band wedged behind a swollen knuckle. Uther used his battle-knife to saw away the troublesome finger, once more using the oldster’s nightshirt as a cleaning rag. When he’d wiped the band clean, he stowed it in a leather bag attached to his belt. His first loot taken, he sprinted back into the fight, looking for his next opportunity.

A frantic Eldon Alder jammed his knife blade between two discolored hearthstones and pried upward, exposing a scooped-out void in the earth beneath. Reaching into the recess, he retrieved a fist-sized leather pouch. Its contents clinked as he lifted it free. Fumbling, he knotted the pouch‘s drawstring around his belt with shaking hands. He glanced toward the door, indecisive, then turned and hurried toward a rough-hewn cupboard.

The smith flung open the cupboard’s doors and swept the top row with his right hand, scattering folded clothing and blankets onto the floor. Reaching deep into the cleared shelf, his fingers encountered a heavy object wrapped in oilcloth. Trying to control the tremor in his hands, he tore away the wrapping to reveal a sword, glistening under a thin sheen of oil. Tucking it into his belt, he looked around the room.

What else? It was difficult to think past his fear. Food? Blankets? The raidship engines had shut down and Eldon could hear screams from the village common. He needed to leave and leave without delay. Thirty seconds. No longer! Snatching up a blanket he’d knocked from the cupboard, he flung it open on the kitchen floor. Moving quickly, he plucked up any food or valuables near to hand, tossing them onto the bed-covering as he encountered them: a silver tray, a loaf of black bread, a half-roll of yellow cheese. Whatever was unwanted and impeded his way spilled onto the floor, unnoticed.

Out of time! Shaking now, Eldon dropped to his knees and pulled the blanket’s corners together, creating a makeshift sack. He fumbled, trying to knot the bag closed, cursing as the fabric resisted. When it finally yielded, he cinched his bundle and flung it over his back, whirling toward the door, ready to take flight.

Uther scanned the commons once more, looking for armed villagers, but none remained. Around the Wasp’s blackened landing circle, the dead were strewn like piles of discarded rags. All the bodies were Alesian except for the two Valkran corpses among them.

Most of the Wasp’s complement was already about the business of plundering, although a few still hunted and harried survivors. Uther saw two blood-spattered raiders dragging a screaming woman in a gray housedress, laughing as they pulled her across the grass. He shook his head in contempt.

Stupidity! While that pair wasted time playing with their captive, their more disciplined brethren would be filling their sacks with plunder. Uther turned his attention from the laughing pair, toward the town’s chantry. The Alesian god-houses were reputed to be good hunting grounds because their clergy wore golden rings and necklaces, stamped with the symbols of their office. Inside the worship-places, the walls were hung with tapestries, and there was carved statuary, often inlaid with gold and silver. The problem was that everyone knew the chantries were where the money was, and the god-houses drew a crowd.

He could see half a dozen of his shipmates advancing toward the chantry tower. Uther decided not to join them, hoping he would fare better with less competition. There was treasure elsewhere in this village and he needed to sniff it out.

Uther looked past the nearby shops with their kicked-in doors, toward the hamlet’s edges. One building in particular drew his eye, a large stone building with double doors and a neat wooden sign hanging above them. The sign was distant, but readable if he squinted. It said, E. Alder, Blacksmith.

The smithy was a building of sturdy timber and stood on a stone foundation alongside a spacious cottage. The forge’s main doors were closed and intact, suggesting the establishment was yet unplundered. Uther set off at a trot, his easy gait devouring the yards between him and the forge.

In a few moments, he drew near its adjoining cottage, a white, two-story affair with green shutters. As he closed on the dwelling, he slowed and eased into a crouch, continuing forward with his eyes fixed on the home’s open door. Through it, he saw a flash of movement inside the house, telling him that someone was still at home.

He adjusted his approach angle and crept to the cottage’s front wall, moving to a spot left of the open door. Pressing himself flat, he edged toward the doorframe and peeked past it, his sword held at the ready.

In the cottage’s shadowed interior, a heavyset man knelt on the floor by a blanket, knotting it into a bundle. The Alesian was preoccupied with his task, his back toward the door. The villager, who Uther guessed to be the blacksmith, looked strong, and he was armed, a steel sword tucked under his belt. Uther wasn’t concerned about the smith’s blade. A blade was only as dangerous as the man who wielded it, and the smith was an Alesian, so no warrior. Besides, Uther had the advantage of surprise. He’d dispatch the blacksmith in short order, then have a look inside his blanket. He gathered himself, preparing.

Inside, the smith rose, shouldered his bundle, and turned toward the door.

Now! Uther stood, stepped through the cottage entrance, and charged his quarry, sword extended.

Eldon Alder turned and saw a gore-spattered raider with ghostly white hair dashing forward with his sword lowered. In two strides, the warrior was on him.

Reacting, the smith swung his bundle to block the blade. The blanket’s wool parted like water under the weapon’s edge, but its contents deflected the thrust. He fell back, dropping the bag to reach for the blade in his belt.

As he reached, the raider recovered, dropped back a step, then lunged again, thrusting at Eldon’s belly. It was a killing blow and would have gutted him, but luck intervened. As the raider planted his forward foot, his boot-sole rolled on a spilled candle, a casualty of the smith’s chaotic search. The Valkran’s foot shot forward, stealing his balance and sending him stumbling, falling toward the kitchen table. The marauder reached out, found the tabletop with his left hand, and planted it there to steady himself. Eldon swung his sword like an axe, trying to split the Valkran’s skull while the man was off balance.

The raider’s reflexes were fast. He read Alder’s intent and raised his sword, positioning it at right angles to the smith’s downward strike. Steel met steel, and the Valkran deftly twisted his wrist, deflecting the incoming blow. Sparks leapt as their blades crossed, and Eldon’s sword bounced to the right, ricocheting toward the tabletop. The deflected blade struck the raider’s bracing hand, splayed open against the tabletop. Two fingertips, shorn from the outer fingers, separated in a splash of blood then skittered across the table, trailing red in their wake.

Uther felt a searing bolt course from his left hand into his brain where it exploded in sun-bright agony. He stared down at his damaged fingers, watching in momentary confusion as blood sprayed from two amputations. Instantly, he curled his injured extremity into a fist, forcing the damaged fingers deep into the fleshy part of his palm, squeezing with all the strength he could muster. He clutched his bloodied fist close against his cuirass, above his heart, pressing hard to staunch the blood.

The smith had frozen in the instant after the blow, failing to press his advantage. But he was driving forward now, his blade tip aimed at Uther’s heart. Uther pivoted as the steel drew close, avoiding a fatal strike but unable to evade the thrust. He felt a burning along his ribs as the Alesian’s blade pierced his leather armor, slid past his ribs, then exited through the back of his breastplate.

A trained fighter would have pulled his blade free and thrust again. The smith did not. Untutored and inexperienced, the metal-crafter tried to twist his weapon, hoping to widen the wound. Uther’s armor, three layers of boiled leather, resisted. And while the townsman struggled, Uther swung his own blade in a flat horizontal plane from left to right.

The smith’s reflexes were fast. He saw the strike coming and released his weapon, backpedaling to avoid the blow, but he was a second too slow. Uther’s sword tip arced through the townsman’s gut, slicing through the cloth, fat, and muscle beneath. The smith clutched at his wound and stared, eyes wide in disbelief. Uther reversed his blade’s direction and followed up with a backhanded strike. It found its mark, raking a bloody furrow across the smith’s throat above his voice-box.

Mortally wounded, the Alesian sank to his knees. For a moment, the stocky man’s body balanced there, almost prayerful. Then his eyes dimmed and he toppled backward onto the cottage floor.

Uther looked down toward his side where the smith’s sword hilt protruded from his cuirass. He wrapped both hands around its grip, then extended his arms in a pulling motion. The blade slid free, and he let it clatter to the floor. There was blood on the sword, but not a great deal; whatever wound it had left behind wouldn’t be his undoing. His damaged fingers, still spurting blood, were the bigger problem.

He was beginning to feel light-headed already and the blood still flowed freely from his injured hand, staining his armor and his leggings. He held his injured hand close to his face, assessing his wounds. They were ugly. His small finger and ring finger were missing their tips, both amputated at the nail line with their centers showing white bone.

There were blankets and clothing scattered on the floor by a tall cupboard, and he moved to retrieve an undyed cotton shirt from the pile. He tore two wide strips from it with his teeth and his good hand, then managed to wrap the bleeding digits in a temporary bandage. When the knots were tight, he inspected his handiwork and saw the blood flow had slowed almost to a stop. The bandage would suffice for now. He’d get stitches and proper wrappings once he was back aboard the Wasp.

With his bleeding stemmed for the moment, Uther put away his sword and knelt to pick up the smith’s fallen blade. He wiped it clean with the blanket from the dead man’s spilled bundle and examined it, whistling under his breath in admiration. The weapon was exquisite, with a blackwood grip depicting twined serpents, and a pommel of polished silver. Uther hefted the weapon, testing its balance. It felt like an extension of his hand.

The sword was a fine piece and would bring a handsome price if he chose to sell it. He slid the blade into his empty scabbard where it was a little loose, but not awkwardly so. Encouraged, he set about looking for what other valuables the cottage might hold. He started with the smith’s body and was not disappointed. A fat leather pouch was knotted to the man’s belt and when Uther cut it free, it clinked, heavy with coin. He opened it, saw the glint of gold pieces amongst silver, and smiled. Next, he removed a plain gold ring from the smith’s finger and dropped it into the pouch along with the coins.

After he finished with the body, he moved on to the cupboards and shelves and began searching them. There was little worth plundering: a few silver utensils and a pair of finely made brass candlesticks. One item from the cupboards did have a practical use: a gunny sack half full of brown beans. Uther emptied the sack and used it to store the loot he’d collected so far.

When it was clear there was little of value left in the cottage, Uther made his way to the forge. After seeing the smith’s sword, he had high hopes for the man’s workplace. If there were pieces there of like quality, it should be a very profitable raid.

The smithy’s main doors were closed, but a smaller entrance stood open. Uther let himself in. The interior was dim and inky shadows pooled in its corners. No fire burned in the forge although it looked as though someone had attempted to build one recently. Uther paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

He saw the expected tools: a stone forge, a foot-powered bellows, and a heavy black anvil. But along with them, in the building’s deeper shadows, there squatted a heavy oak cabinet, reinforced with iron bands. It was tall as a man, half as wide, and a hasp lock secured its doors.

Uther picked a hammer from a rack beside the anvil and battered at the cabinet’s locked door, shattering its panels. Inside, polished steel caught the light. He knocked away what remained of the door until the chest’s contents were exposed. It was a cache of the smith’s best pieces, probably commissioned work waiting for payment.

He picked through the inventory and retrieved the most valuable items: a decorative dagger, spurs with silver rowels, and a supple mail shirt. Each piece declared its production by a skilled hand, the work of a master craftsman. The smith had been talented, no denying that. It bothered Uther somewhat that he’d killed the man instead of taking him captive. Bad luck, he thought. A smith this talented would have commanded a small fortune on the auction block, despite his age. But what was done was done.

Uther transferred the pieces from the broken cabinet to his sack then scoured the rest of the forge, adding a few more small items to his haul. By the time he left, his bag also held four engraved throwing knives, a silver-inlaid scabbard, and a palm-sized silver ingot. Were it not for his throbbing finger stubs, he would have left smiling.

From inside the shadowed tree line, Whit looked back toward his home. In the forest behind him, his mother breathed in ragged gasps, winded by their flight across the fields. Baby Joff, unsettled, had begun to cry. Whit looked at his mother, and she nodded. Jenny Alder began to rock her son back and forth in her arms, cooing and whispering until he settled and his cries trailed off into silence. Whit turned his attention back to their village.

He could see the raider ship’s dark shape, squatting atop its landing legs in the town commons. The Valkrans swarmed near their ship like termites around their queen. A sharp breeze blew from the direction of town and Whit could hear screams and the sound of intermittent combat. Bodies lay on the village green and the smell of smoke drifted on the wind. As he watched, one of the raiders separated from the others and set out at a slow jog toward their cottage. The man had snow colored hair, and even from this distance, Whit could see his armor and hair were stained with blood. A powerful fist, cold as a dead man’s, twisted at Whit’s gut. His father was still inside, unaware of the raider’s approach. All of his instincts screamed he should run to his father’s aid, but it was already too late, and he dared not draw attention to his mum and Joff.

Powerless, he watched in silent rage as the white-haired invader reached the cottage and vanished inside. Whit knew he should leave, but he was rooted, like the trees around him. There was the sound of steel on steel from within his home, then silence. He waited, willing his father to sprint from the cottage’s open door and across the fields to join them. But the door stared back, dark and taunting. The minutes crawled past and Whit still waited, knowing the time for waiting had long since passed. When he could no longer deny the obvious, he turned to face his mother.

Mum, he whispered, we have to go. And with that, he led what remained of his family eastward into the obscuring shadows of the Barrow Wood.

2 The Trail

WHIT WAS DEEP IN the Barrow now, his mother behind him, Joff in her arms. They walked eastward on a narrow game trail until it intersected with Sparrow's Run, a shallow stream that meandered southward to Dryden's Mill. They stopped to rest on the stream's mossy bank underneath a bright strip of blue sky framed by reaching oaks and upstart poplars. The creek