Riverrun
RIVERRUN
By Charles L. Grant
Writing as Felicia Andrews
A Rendezvous Press Production
Rendezvous Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2012 Kathryn Ptacek
Copy-edited by: Christine Steendam
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Photo by Jeff Schalles
Charles L. Grant taught English and history at the high school level before becoming a full-time writer in the ’70s. He served for many years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association and in Science Fiction Writers of America.
He was known for his “quiet horror” and for editing the award-winning Shadows anthologies. He received the British Fantasy Society’s Special Award in 1987 for life achievement; in 2000, he was the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from HWA. Other awards include two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards for writing and editing.
Charlie died from a lengthy illness on September 15, 2006, just three days after his birthday. He lived in Newton, NJ, and was married to writer/editor Kathryn Ptacek for nearly twenty-five years.
Book List
Horror
Novels
Black Oak: Genesis
Black Oak: The Hush of Dark Wings
Black Oak: Winter Knight
Black Oak: Hunting Ground
Black Oak: When the Cold Wind Blows
Fire Mask
For Fear of the Night
In A Dark Dream
Jackals
Millennium Quartet #1: Symphony
Millennium Quartet #2: In the Mood
Millennium Quartet #3: Chariot
Millennium Quartet #4: Riders in the Sky
Night Songs
Raven
Something Stirs
Stunts
The Bloodwind
The Curse
The Grave
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead
The Last Call of Mourning
The Nestling
The Pet
The Sound Of Midnight
The Tea Party
The Universe of Horror Trilogy
The Soft Whisper of the Dead
The Dark Cry of the Moon
The Long Night of the Grave
Collections
Dialing the Wind
Nightmare Seasons
The Black Carousel
The Orchard
Science Fiction
A Quiet Night of Fear
Ascension
Legion
Ravens of the Moon
The Shadow of Alpha
As “Geoffrey Marsh”
The Fangs of the Hooded Demon
The King of Satan’s Eyes
The Patch of the Odin Soldier
The Tail of the Arabian, Knight
As “Lionel Fenn”
The Quest for the White Duck Trilogy
Blood River Down
Web of Defeat
Agnes Day
668, the Neighbor of the Beast
By The Time I Get To Nashville
Mark of the Moderately Vicious Vampire
Once Upon a Time in the East
The Once and Future Thing
The Really Ugly Thing From Mar
The Reasonably Invisible Man
The Seven Spears of the W’dch’ck
Time, the Semi-Final Frontier
As “Simon Lake”
Daughter of Darkness
Death Cycle
Death Scream
He Told Me To
Shapes Berkley
Something’s Watching
The Clown
The Forever House
As “Felicia Andrews”
Moon Witch
Mountain Witch
Riverrun
River Witch
Seacliffe
Silver Huntress
The Velvet Hart
As “Deborah Lewis”
Eve of the Hound
Kirkwood Fires
The Wind at Winter’s End
Voices Out of Time
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RIVERRUN
BOOK ONE
The Road to Riverrun
1863
Chapter One
T
he farm lay in a shallow, quiet narrow valley that had been selectively cleared nearly a century before. It had been worked diligently, though not always profitably, by its three successive owners, but had never grown larger than its few score acres. The road that wound through the low surrounding hills passed in front of the main house, but those few horsemen and carriages trickling by saw little save a brief glimmer of fresh white behind a thick wall of hickory and willow. A cleanly hewn fence bounded the property stoutly, and a decorative false well marked the lane that swept under the trees to end at a wide, mown lawn. The fields themselves spread from behind the two-story wooden building on back to where the heavy forestland, now a tired green in the press of summer heat, resumed.
It was out of these woods that the uniformed rider came, late in the afternoon. He was slumped over his saddle, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. The horse, a great gray gelding, picked its way carefully along a path between rows of what had once been corn before it had been snatched, unwilling and early, from its stalks. A crow rose squawking from the burnt-brown field, and the startled horse shied and snorted, pawing at the ground with a nervous forehoof. The rider, clutching grimly at the reins, wearily reached out to stroke the powerful neck, urging the beast on. Then he sagged forward, his shoulder pressing against the horse’s mane to prevent him from falling.
Closer to the house, a girl working in a small patch of vegetables heard the commotion raised by bird and horse, and looked up. The western sun glared into her eyes and she lifted a hand to shade her face. Her midnight-black hair was streaked with dust and tied into a loose bun at her neck, her work dress was drab and loose, and the sleeves had been pushed above her elbows. She leaned on her hoe, a strong hand gripping it lightly in anxious curiosity, but she made no move to reach for the gun that lay on the ground beside her foot. She waited instead until her eyes had adjusted to the glare, then gasped and dropped the hoe as she broke into a run toward the horse.
She had recognized the rider, and his white-blond hair now caked with dust and blood.
“Geoff!” she called, and doubled her speed when there was no answer.
The gray veered at her approach, jerking its great head aside when she snatched for the reins. She scowled, stifled a curse, and kept her voice low and calming.
“Easy, Falcon easy, easy …” she said. The horse seemed to whimper its understanding as she stroked its velvet-soft muzzle and worked her way around its massive shoulder to grasp the man’s hand clutching at the pommel. At the touch he raised his head weakly, stared at her blindly for several long seconds before his pain-dulled eyes brightened in recognition.
His wan smile nearly wrenched a cry from her throat. “You’ll have to help me this time, Cass,” he said, and fainted.
Cassandra’s first impulse was to race back to the house for help, but as he swayed groggily, she changed her mind and put a shoulder to his side to keep him on his mount. Then, reins in hand, she walked the horse across the fields. She no longer cared how many of the plants the sharp hooves kicked up; as it was, there wasn’t much left to save even though it was only the early part of July. Soldiers of the Union army had been coming through on an almost regular basis for the past few weeks, taking what they needed and leaving her and her family only tiny scraps of paper as payment; signed by an unknown commander. The voucher script was, her father had been instructed, to be turned in to yet another commander who would pay them hard money. Mr. Bowsmith, however, had not yet verified this assertion. When it had all begun, he had said he would be only too glad to assist the Union cause. However, as the fields grew more bare and the farm’s larder dwindled, his grumblings grew louder and his already quick temper much shorter.
Cassandra stumbled and leaned hard against the horse for support. The rider still slumped, and she touched his blue trouser leg affectionately. Geoff Hawk was in fact the only officer her father had been civil to lately. The captain had ridden in nearly two weeks before with a three-man patrol in search of forage. When he had seen the state of the Bowsmith farm, however, he had backed off politely, and somewhat shyly.
“It’s obvious you’ve done more than enough, Mr. Bowsmith,” he had said. “I certainly can’t take the food from your mouths just when you’ve set it on your plates.”
His smile had been broad when he’d turned it to Cassandra, and she had flushed as she darted a quick glance at her father before returning with a smile of her own.
