The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “If you want to die so much, I’d be happy to help,” said Six.

  “Enough,” said Neirin.

  “Dying by your hand, Westerner, would be more shameful than dying by my own.”

  “Enough!” Neirin’s roar made everyone jump. He had stopped his horse and was glaring at Brega with a red-hot fury, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I will not say it again.”

  Brega glared back, defiant. Tom couldn’t imagine how she dared stand up to that anger. Neirin looked ready to cut off her head at the slightest provocation. “My apologies, my lord,” she managed. Stiff and formal and insincere. Tom watched Neirin.

  He took a shaky breath and sighed. Then he let go of his sword and tugged his horse away. But Brega was angrier than ever, muttering to herself as they rode. The air grew thick with malevolence and Tom found himself glaring at the back of Brega’s head. What did she have to be so upset about? She wore expensive clothes and had her lord’s favour. Tom rode in rags and every day doubted whether Maev wanted him or not. Yes, Glastyn and some nymphs had said she did. And he wanted her to. But were they lying? Was this all a big trick, a grand entertainment?

  “What are you staring at?” Brega had turned and was looking back at him.

  Tom said nothing. Not because he didn’t want to give offence. Because the question was an invitation to an argument and he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

  “What were you talking about the other night?” she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What were you whispering about with the prisoner?”

  Katharine and Neirin stopped riding, bringing the column to a halt.

  “What is this?” Neirin asked. “You spoke to the Westerner without my permission?”

  He should defuse this. Defuse and deflect. Avoid the truth. Instead he said, “I wasn’t aware I needed permission to talk to anyone.”

  Neirin’s eyes flared. “You need it to talk to my prisoner.”

  Six caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of the head. He was right. Leave it. Tom swallowed his anger, tried to ignore Neirin’s pompous self-righteousness. “My apologies, Lord Neirin. I shall remember that.”

  “What were you talking about?” Katharine asked. She looked suspicious. So did Siomi.

  “The invasion of Erhenned,” Six said. “Tom was worried about getting caught in the middle of it.”

  “I want to hear it from you, Tom.” Katharine had him. How could he answer?

  “Do you doubt me?” he asked, stalling for time. But the words made him angry. Why should she doubt him? What reason had he given her to do so? He was True Tom. He didn’t lie.

  “I just want to know.”

  Tom shook his head. “This can wait. We’re not safe here.”

  “He’s stalling,” said Brega. “He was conspiring with the West.”

  “Of course I wasn’t.”

  “What other reason is there for whispering with a prisoner in the dead of night?”

  “Six told you.”

  “You think we’ll believe him?”

  “This is madness.” Tom tugged the reins but Brega blocked his path. “We cannot stop here. It isn’t safe.”

  “Cei’s blood, I’ve had enough of hearing about how dangerous it is here. They’re trees. Just trees. They can’t hurt us.” She reached up and, before Tom could say anything, she grabbed a handful of leaves and ripped them from a branch. “See?”

  A scream tore through the air all around them.

  Chapter 7

  Tom covered his ears but it did no good. The furious screech was unaffected, seeming to vibrate out of every tree, echoing over and over. He cried out under the onslaught. The others looked at him in confusion, all except Six and Siomi, who looked about in fear. They heard it too or, at least, an echo of it. A scream through the Second Sight. Magic. Danger.

  It could only have been moments, but it felt like minutes until the noise faded.

  “What did I tell you?” Katharine shouted at Brega. She looked worried, glancing about.

  Then the branches above them began to move.

  “Run!” Katharine’s voice carried command now and no-one needed prompting again. The horses leapt forward, thundering through the Woods. And the trees whispered. He could hear the voices, like a thousand people in quiet, urgent conversation.

  And the almost-laugh. It made Tom think of a cruel, malevolent child with a throat of bark.

  “Faster!” he yelled and they went faster. He was terrified again, the ground a blur, his horse just one misstep away from disaster. He clung to the beast, feeling the power of it beneath him. He’d never ridden so fast and he’d have stopped if he could.

  But the laughter was behind them now.

  He dragged his face out of his horse’s mane and looked back. He couldn’t see anything. The trees still blocked a view any further than a few feet. But now he could hear them. Over the sound of thundering hooves, he could also hear the sound of running feet. And constant laughter.

  “Tom?” Katharine cried. “Are they coming?”

  “Yes,” he called back. “I can hear them.”

  “Who?” roared Neirin. “Why do we not stand and fight?”

  “You can’t fight what you can’t see,” said Katharine. “Move!”

  They wouldn’t make it. She’d said they had days until they were out. And their horses were tired. Already they were flagging. And whatever these things were, they were magical. They wouldn’t get tired. They wouldn’t need rest. It was over. A part of him wanted to pull the reins and get it over with.

  Branches began to slap at him. Scratch at him. As if the trees were trying to slow them or catch them.

  What would they do with him when they caught him?

  They passed a river, not deep but wide. The horses crashed through the water and little feet splashed through just moments later. The laughter began to sound from beside them as well.

  “They’re here,” he cried and he felt little hands tugging at him. They pulled at his belt, at his feet. “They’ll try to pull you down.”

  He felt a chubby hand in his hair, yanking his head back. The others cried out as they felt the hands too. Some pulled at him, others hit him. His horse whinnied with fear; these things were pulling at her too. He leant forward in the saddle and put his arms around her and whispered in her ear as best he could.

  A hand grabbed his left foot and pulled it free of the stirrup. “Iron nails!”

  With a gasp the laughter stopped, the hands retreated. Tom tried to get his foot back in the stirrup but he was out of practice and moving too fast. Then they were back, the surprise over. The hands were on his leg now and on his left arm too, trying to unhorse him. He clung tighter.

  Ludicrous thoughts came to him. Could they apologise? If Brega gave the leaves back would they stop? Hands pulled his belt, his leg, his arm and he began to rise up out of the saddle. Thoughts of Elaine came to him. His wife, before Faerie and all of this. He pictured her with their son, before he had been taken to Faerie, before all of this. He pictured that perfect moment where she had held their new baby, both as beautiful as each other, and he knowing that he would change, he would be a better husband, a better father. That change had lasted a week. But if he was going to die, here and now, he wanted to remember that moment. When he’d had a family. When he’d been a good man.

  The horse turned beneath him and the chubby little hands lost their grip. He dropped back into the saddle and he was so scared he didn’t even feel the pain. He just clung to the horse with every muscle he could find. The Woods were a chaos of noise, transformed by the pursuit. The branches waved and whispered, voices scurrying back and forth above them. The others cried and grunted and swore as the creatures, whatever they were, did their best to pull them down. The horses whinnied and snorted and panted, their hooves creating a constant thunder beneath them. And the laughter was all around them. Tom tried to catch a glimpse, wanting to see the face of the thing that was trying to kill him. But the branches kept whipping
at him and he had to close his eyes against them. But when he did manage to open them for a moment, he noticed it was lighter than it had been. The gloom was giving way to the green glow that had bathed them when they’d entered the Woods.

  “Sunlight!” he shouted. A chubby finger poked him in the eye and he cried out. But the others had noticed too and the horses picked up the pace. The laughter stopped for a moment before renewing its efforts, scrabbling at his face, his belt, his arms and legs. Tom felt himself being lifted out of the saddle. He opened his eyes just as he lost his grip. He flailed.

  He caught the saddle with one hand.

  Tom’s feet were in the air, the other end of a tug-o-war. And he was losing, his grip was weak, the saddle bounced and shook. Not like this. He pictured Maev sitting by a perfectly round pool, one long finger idly tracing patterns in the water, a smile on her beautiful red lips. Not like this.

  The saddle shook and he panicked. “Please, we’re sorry!”

  The things just giggled. They pulled at his fingers, little malevolent hands plucking his fingers away one by one. He looked into the eyes of the tree child and dark eyes grinned back, dark eyes with the promise of sunlight that never came.

  They pulled him loose just as his horse exploded out of the Woods, the world bright and brilliant. He tumbled, fell and bounced. Pain blossomed in his left shoulder. He tasted dirt and magic. He felt warmth on his skin. Grass underneath. He opened his eyes. He’d made it. He’d fallen, but he must have rolled out of the Woods. Tom took a breath and laughed.

  Then he slid back across the grass. “No,” he cried and dug his hands into the ground. He looked back and saw his foot was still in the Woods’ shadow. They had him, the little monsters pulling at his legs and dragging him back inside. He clawed at the ground and kicked at them. But they were magical, he was mortal. He could not harm them. They pulled and the ground came away in his hands, just useless fistfuls of soil and grass. It seemed so unfair, that Tir would betray him. He felt cold shade sliding up his body as they pulled him back into the Woods. He slid away without a word.

  He stood alone in the centre of a perfect circle, surrounded by trees thicker and taller and older than he’d ever seen. The children, whatever they were, could not be seen. But he knew they lurked in shadows all around him. His wrist ached.

  “What happens now?” he asked.

  Whispering in the branches. Creaking in the wood. The ground beneath him seemed to shift.

  “I count Queen Maev of Faerie as a friend,” he said. “This is not wise of you.”

  Almost-laughter, all around him.

  The magic in the air was so thick he found it difficult to breathe. He was light-headed, giddy, nauseated. He wanted to lie down. He really didn’t want to lie down.

  “What will you do to me?”

  His eyes stopped seeing the Woods and saw the future instead. That same old man, dark-eyed and sombre, said, “Magic is undoing, Tom. When something is pulled apart, the energy of what it was is released. That is what magic is. And that is why the easiest magic to perform is destructive. Magic begets magic.”

  He was gone, but Tom had his answer. They would undo him. Feed off him. He wondered what sort of meal he would make.

  The pain in his wrist was growing.

  “Is that what you do to travellers?” he asked. “Feed on them.”

  A flurry of whispers. Now he could pick out snatches.

  “Yes.”

  “We feed.”

  “You invade.”

  “We didn’t mean to invade,” Tom said. “We just wanted to travel. We meant no offence.”

  “No offence.”

  “Need to feed.”

  “Need to survive.”

  “But why not survive like other trees? On sun and water?”

  The whispers grew too loud and too many to understand. Some were angry. Some were exultant. Some were mocking. He tried to peer into the shadows beyond the circle. He thought he could see movement.

  “We did not ask.”

  “We were like others.”

  “But magic came.”

  “Pushed us.”

  “Changed us.”

  “Made us different.”

  “Where did it come from?” He tried to keep the fear from his voice. Keep them talking. Find a way out. How did he get here? Was there a way back? Could he persuade them to let him go?

  He smiled despite himself. He was talking to trees.

  “Somewhere else.”

  “Pushed on us.”

  “Like a flood.”

  “But when?” he asked. More movement. He thought of the tree child he’d seen.

  “Long ago.”

  “Asks questions.”

  “Need to feed.”

  “Wait,” he said. He held up his hands as if he could fend them off. But these weren’t the woodkin of the fay. These were just trees. “What if I told you we were going to break the monoliths?” The whispers died down. He had their attention. “No more magic. You could be normal again.”

  Hush. Had it worked? His wrist hurt again. He looked at it. No signs of injury. He rubbed it. Then the whispers started again.

  “Need magic.”

  “Need to feed.”

  “But we can free you,” he told them.

  But the whispers grew to a roar, drowning him out, and the twilight darkened. It was over.

  Then he heard his name, as if someone was calling from far away.

  “I’m not really here,” he realised.

  He looked at his wrist. It felt like someone was pull-ing at it.

  “This is a fantasy,” he said. “You’ve put this in my mind.”

  The world around him grew too intense, as if it was trying too hard to convince him. What he saw was too sharp, what he heard was too loud, what he felt was too fake.

  Then the whispers coalesced, as if the voices had finally decided on one thing.

  “Please,” they said together, a thousand voices speak-ing as one. “If you do it, you will kill us.”

  Sunlight, warm and pure. He blinked against the bright-ness and gasped. Pudgy hands were pulling at his legs while Six pulled at an arm.

  “Welcome back.” The elf had his feet braced on a root and was leaning back, putting his entire weight and strength on Tom’s wrist. No wonder it hurt. “Any time you want to help is fine.”

  Tom kicked, but at the ground this time and his feet found purchase. With his free hand he pulled at the root Six was braced against. They moved. There was a rustle in the branches above, a final flurry of whispers, and then they let him go. They tumbled out of the shadows and into the sunlight. Grass tickled his face. He put both hands on the ground. Solid. Real.

  “Thank you,” he said, out of breath.

  “No problem.” Six lay on his back, staring up at the sun. “I thought they had us both for a moment there. I started seeing things.”

  “Me too.”

  “What did you see?”

  Tom propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the Woods. Silent, ancient, dependent. Ready to kill him, consume him, and a moment later begging him to save them. For a moment he wanted to kill them, cut them all down. But they were just trying to survive. It wasn’t personal. Could he begrudge them the will to survive?

  If you do it, you will kill us. “I don’t know,” he said.

  Tom could have lain there for hours but Katharine had him up on his feet. “We shouldn’t linger here,” she said. The land around the Woods rose sharply and they climbed the hillside. The magic leeched out of the air as they climbed and, when they reached the top, it was gone. Tom could feel himself missing it already. His joints seemed to ache as they had before. He felt tired, cold, old. His body sat down before he realised what he was doing. Maybe he was like the Woods. Maybe he was dependent on magic too.

  A shadow knelt before him, blocking the sun. He looked up and saw Brega. She pulled at him, poking and prodding. When he flinched she tutted.

  “I’m checking you over,�
� she said. “That was a bad fall.”

  She poked his shoulder and he yelped. She took his arm and lifted it, pulled it, rotated it. He swore at her but she ignored him. “No break, no dislocation. You’ll be fine.” She dropped his arm and walked away. Draig was watching, smiling.

  “Her bedside manner needs some work,” Tom said.

  She heard him. “You can get kisses and cuddles from your mother.”

  Draig laughed. “She is medic for battle,” he said. “They say ‘fix harm and rearm’. For pleasant things there is no time.”

  “Clearly.” Tom took Draig’s hand and the elf hauled him to his feet with ease. “You fought together?”

  Draig nodded. “No other would I have at my back when there is fighting.”

  Brega seemed pleased but she covered it with a gruff, “No-one else can protect a back that big.”

  Tom stepped past Draig and looked to what he thought was the south. A sea of poppies swayed under a gentle breeze, couched in trees to the north and east. He knew this place from the stories.

  Six joined him. “Where are we?”

  “Cairnacei,” Tom said.

  “There’s a city nearby?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, it’s an old joke. Sir Cei is said to have taken his life here after he killed Emyr’s son. Cei’s blood soaked the flowers and turned them red.”

  “They’re just poppies.”

  “It’s an old story.” One they still told in the Heel with an anger and bitterness as if it were yesterday. Sir Cei was, to many of the Heel, the reason for the end of Emyr’s Golden Reign. “Thank you, again. You risked a lot.”

  Six shrugged and lifted his wrists, still bound. “Haven’t got a lot to risk at the moment,” he said.

  Tom understood. It was a fair trade. A life for a life. He pulled out his knife. Six shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that. You’ll anger his lordship.”

  Tom nodded. Neirin was in conversation with Katharine a few steps away. “My lord,” he said and approached.

  “Are you well, Master Rymour?”

  “I am, thanks to Six.”