But the woman he had spoken to shook her head. “No, Thomas Rymour. We will not touch those things.”
“Why not?” Were they too peaceful? A local tribe of pacifists?
“What comes from the earth should return to the earth,” she said. “But those were made to be kept.”
Tom smiled despite himself and nodded. That was the old way. The way he understood. “Of course,” he said.
She smiled back at him and something passed between them. For the first time since he had been sent back to Tir, he saw something he recognised from his youth.
Katharine and Dank returned from another hallway. “We found it,” she said. She looked tired. Tom wanted to put her to bed and let her sleep for a week. “Just down here.”
“Okay,” said Tom.
“We’re waiting for Draig,” Brega said. But Neirin began to edge around towards Katharine and Dank. “We will wait, my lord?”
“We will,” Neirin replied. “But we will be ready.”
Tom, Siomi and Brega shuffled back behind Neirin and the guards began to move down the stairs into the space they vacated. “Leave the prisoners,” Tom warned them. “Touch them and we kill your Proctor.”
“Leave them,” said Gerwyn. “Let the fleas go.”
The guards stood aside and the other prisoners filed past. Some looked like they wanted to attack the elfs. Tom couldn’t blame them. He felt the same, his fingers clenching just looking at them.
“How long were we in here?” he asked Gerwyn.
“Nine days.”
Nine days. Nine days of rotting in a pit. It felt like longer. “Would you have let us out?”
Gerwyn said nothing. “Answer him,” Neirin said.
“Maybe.”
But it was a lie. Tom couldn’t see his face but he heard it in the elf’s voice. He would have left them there to die. Perhaps they should kill him anyway. No. Death was too good. Maybe they should lock him in a pit and take the keys with them. But they might have spares. Could they jam the lock somehow?
Then Draig appeared on the stairs. “You escape,” he said. But his voice was dead and flat.
“There, you see? He’s alive.” Gerwyn was almost laughing. Funny how fear affected people. “Now let me go.”
“Send him to us first,” Neirin said.
“You want him back?”
“He’s one of us.”
Draig’s face was like stone, revealing nothing. He should have been pleased to escape, even if he was being kept upstairs. But why was he upstairs? Why wasn’t he in a pit like the rest of them? As he passed through the guards, Tom began to wonder if Six had been right.
“No.” One of the guards grabbed hold of Draig, pushing a knife at his back. Draig arched away but his face didn’t change. Brega, however, cried out and she and Siomi jumped forward, swords in hands.
“Wait, wait!” Tom yelled and they stopped.
“You want your traitor, we want our proctor,” the guard said. “Fair trade.”
“Don’t do it.” Six’s voice was quiet but firm. “Hand Gerwyn over and they’ll rush us. We’ll never make it.”
“We can’t leave Draig here,” Brega said.
“He left you down here,” Six replied. “He’s the reason we’re here. He sold us to Gerwyn.”
“You shut your filthy mouth.” Brega sounded close to tears. “It’s not true, is it, Draig?”
“It is not true.” But his voice was flat too. Tom would have said he was lying. But Draig couldn’t have betrayed them. Not after all his talk of the Angles, about loyalty and about friendship. Tom looked at Brega. For all her flaws, Draig loved her like a sister. He wouldn’t hand her over to the enemy.
“What did they give you, Draig?” Six smiled but it wasn’t pleasant. “A pat on the head? Land? A castle? A title?”
“I do not betray you.”
“You’re a fool. You think you’re better off with them? They’ll toss you aside the moment you become an inconvenience.” He pointed to the tattoo on his cheek. “Trust me.”
There was a cry and suddenly Siomi was in Western hands as well. They must have crept closer while no-one was looking. Two elfs held her, one holding her sword arm, the other grasping her by the neck with a knife to her throat.
“Let her go,” cried Neirin. He held Gerwyn tighter and Caledyr broke the skin, blood trickling down the bronze blade.
“No, no, don’t kill me,” squealed Gerwyn.
“Let him go,” shouted a guard.
“We’ll kill them both,” said another.
“Stop, stop.” Gerwyn’s pleas were falling on deaf ears. He wasn’t in charge anymore.
This was getting out of hand. Someone had to do something. But what?
Draig moved. In one swift moment he had the knife at his back and the elf holding it. He stared at the guards, frozen by surprise. Then Draig let go of his hostage and stepped away. It was a brave move. The air was thick with tension. If just one of the Westerners broke they could kill Draig in a heartbeat. But they seemed to shrink under his glare. He stepped back, and back again, and he was out of sword reach. He turned to Neirin and gently, slowly reached for Caledyr. He placed his hand over Neirin’s.
“You do not kill him.” He spoke like a Marchman speaking to a horse. “We know this is a true thing. There is no way out, if you do this thing.”
“If he doesn’t, I will,” spat Brega. “Nine days in a stinking pit because he couldn’t find us a room?”
“No, Brega.” Draig’s voice was soft, calming. It wasn’t argumentative, though his words were. “Anger does not serve us. We must talk.” He nodded to Katharine, Dank, Tom. “They must see we are better than this.”
That rankled. He seemed to speak about them as if they weren’t here. Like a dog under the table.
But the spell he seemed to be casting held. Brega’s anger didn’t leave her eyes. But she didn’t argue either.
Draig began to pull at Neirin’s hand. Caledyr drifted away from Gerwyn, though Neirin kept his other arm around his neck. “Yes,” Draig said. “That is better.”
Why was Neirin letting Draig do this? Where were the haughty speeches and the proclamations of his title? But instead Neirin looked lost, uncertain. He looked at Siomi.
Draig saw it. “They have no heart for Siomi,” he said. “They will give to her a shameful death. Let us put weapons down. Let us talk.”
Neirin’s face shifted. He was giving in. He couldn’t. He mustn’t.
“Give to me the sword.”
“No,” Tom said.
Draig shot him a look. “Be quiet, Tom. You will bring poor death to us.” He had one hand on the pommel and one hand under the blade. All Neirin had to do was let go.
Tom couldn’t lose the sword again. But what could he do? He had no weapon, nothing but the sodden clothes on his back. Draig was too big to stop and any sudden movements would probably kill them all.
“Give to me the sword to save her death,” Draig said.
Tom looked at Siomi, her face naked and exposed for all these strangers to see. He wanted to cover it for her. But she wore a solid, calm, cool expression; she lost no dignity in being a captive and Tom was glad that the Westerners could see that. They’d kept her in a hole for nine days and used her to force her master to their will. But she was still Siomi. She caught his eye and smiled at him. Despite himself he smiled back. She nodded, small around the knife, but significant. It seemed as if she was passing him something and she seemed to relax now it was gone.
Then she reached up, steadied the knife at her neck, and jerked her head.
She was a sudden weight in the guard’s arms and she fell to the ground. The smell of blood filled the air. Siomi stared beyond the walls and reached for something no-one else could see. Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. Her breath bubbled red.
Neirin was screaming. The guards were yelling, Gerwyn was wailing. It wasn’t what she should have heard as she died. She deserved peace, tranquillity, quiet and comf
orting words.
Draig stood between them and the Westerners, hands held out to both. Neirin had Caledyr up against Gerwyn’s neck again. He’d never looked so angry. Tears were in his eyes and he growled through gritted teeth.
Siomi twitched.
Tom felt bile in his throat and then a hand grabbed his shirt and pulled. He stumbled back. But they shouldn’t leave her. It felt wrong. No, it felt profane. To let the Westerners have her body. What would they do with it? Burn it, chop it up, throw it in the sea?
Siomi was already still. Her face was slack, looking older than it ever had. Her eyes were empty and dull.
“Tom, come on!” Katharine was pulling at him. Dank was already gone. Brega waved her stolen sword at anyone who got too close to Neirin. Draig stayed between East and West, trying to calm a situation that was beyond calming. The guards flooded the corridor in front of them, looking for any opportunity, just waiting for a chance to get their proctor back. They stepped over and on Siomi. She was already forgotten to them, nothing more than an object. Tom wished he had a sword. He wanted nothing more than to hurt them, to make them suffer and pay. He looked around for something. But the torches were fixed in the walls and Katharine tried to stop him taking one.
“Come on,” she said to him, pulling him back. The air was full of the smell of filth and the yells of the Westerners. They retreated, a galling, sickening retreat, when they should have been attacking, it wasn’t right, they should have been taking justice. They were letting the Westerners get away with this, with treating them like this, with killing Siomi.
Their retreat ended in an open door, the crash of waves and the fresh smell of brine rolling in. Dank stood there, waiting for them.
“Should we go?” he asked.
Tom looked at him and the boy quailed. Go? Run away? Like children in the face of bullies? Tom looked back at the Westerners, so proud of their white robes and their pure mission to unite Tir.
“Yes,” Katharine answered. There were splashes as they leapt into the water.
“Give me the scabbard,” Tom told Six. The elf nodded, handed it over and took a running jump out of the door.
“Give me Caledyr,” he told Neirin. The elf didn’t release Gerwyn but he did hand over the blade. Tom took it and slid it into the scabbard. The almost-thought grew stronger the moment he touched it. Fight, it told him. Fight, seek justice, find revenge. His hand twitched around the grip. But he would not win. Instead he grabbed a handful of Gerwyn’s hair and hissed, “We’ll come back for you.” Then he drove the pommel into the elf’s gut. It was petty and small but it felt good anyway. Gerwyn squealed and folded around the blow and Tom kicked him in the rear, sending him stumbling towards his guards. In a panic, they dropped or lowered their weapons to avoid injuring their proctor and Tom grabbed Neirin and pushed him towards the door. He glanced back to see Draig hesitate.
The foresight stabbed into his mind, a vision of Ambrose stood in his hole in the ground. He could hear Nimuë singing to herself and Ambrose watched her with his dark eyes as he whispered, “You are not done with that elf yet, Tom.”
It was gone in an instant and Tom glowered at Draig. “You come with us,” he said and, after a moment, Draig’s shoulders slumped in defeat before he jumped into the water too.
There were maybe a dozen steps to the doorway and Tom was exhausted by the third. But he pushed, ran, and leapt into the bright, clear sky.
Epilogue
He flew. Fresh, cold air. After the dark cells of Cairnalyr it was beautiful. He closed his eyes, partly out of fear - would they land on rocks? - but partly to savour the experience. The wind roared around him so he couldn’t hear anything and it seemed to whisk away the filth and the stench of imprisonment from him. Even Caledyr was quiet.
Then there was a slap of freezing water. For a moment he was back in the rat pit and he panicked, he was drowning, he was going to drown, he scrabbled for the sides of the cell to pull himself up but found nothing. Then he felt Caledyr. It was calm, quiet, waiting. He opened his eyes and saw clear water. A few kicks and he was on the surface with the others. He looked up. They’d fallen about ten feet. Not far. There were elfs in the doorway, shouting and pointing.
“What now?” Katharine asked.
“The merrow,” Tom said. “They’ll help us. They said they would.”
“Where are they?” Brega asked.
Tom thrashed, turning himself in the water. The waves were strong and for a moment he thought they’d be dashed on the rocks.
“They’re not here,” Six said.
“They’re here,” Tom replied. “I heard them.”
But Six was right. Tom couldn’t see any merrow in the water.
“We have to get out of here,” Brega said. “We can’t let them recapture us.”
“They might not have a chance to.” Six was right. They were tired; Tom’s legs were already burning with the effort of treading water. There was no hope of swimming; the waves would take them where they would.
“What do we do?” Neirin said.
He was looking at Tom. But Tom didn’t know. The merrow were supposed to be here. He looked at the others but they were all waiting for him. This was his plan. He should have the answers.
He didn’t have any. And the sword in his hands just told him to wait, be patient, be ready.
The waves began to pull them out to sea.
The story continues in THE UNQUIET SWORD…
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The Unquiet Sword
The Realm Rift Saga: 2
Copyright © 2016 by James Kelly
Cover Illustration copyright © 2016 by Annah Wootten-Pinéles
Cover design by Annah Wootten-Pinéles
Map illustrations copyright © 2016 by Howard Coates
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Skerry Books Ltd
www.skerrybooks.co.uk
For Dad, who always told me I could do this.
Chapter 1
Thomas Rymour panicked the first time he sank beneath the water. He kicked, he flailed, he clawed. But when he broke the surface again, he couldn’t draw a breath. Just tiny panicked gasps. His clothes were waterlogged from his time in the cells. His limbs were like iron, heavy and cold. And the waves were tireless; their victory seemed inevitable. He had escaped a watery coffin for a burial at sea.
But the sword in his hand was not the encumbrance he thought it would be. Instead it seemed to emanate strength, a lighthouse of singular thought: fight.
Fight and survive.
But they had been in the water for what felt like hours. At least the arrows had stopped flying; the elfs had too poor a shot or they had decided their targets were out of range. Perhaps they had left them to drown. Tom thought it more likely they were sending boats.
A wave pulled him under again. But there was no panic this time. He had failed everyone. He had failed his friends with this foolish escape plan. He had failed Emyr, who had entrusted this sword to him. He had failed Maev, who had told him to return to Faerie. Now he was going to drown. The worst way to die.
Fight. Fight and survive.
It was enough to make him push back at the water. He broke the surface again.
Brega was still arguing. She was trying to persuade them to swim to the rocks. Tom couldn’t see her. The waves were separating them. He thought of calling to Katharine but he couldn’t get his breath. The water pushed on his chest and made
it harder to breathe.
He shouldn’t have tried. He should have let someone else lead the escape. He wasn’t smart enough for this sort of thing. His limbs slowed. They were too heavy. It was over.
Fight and survive.
No, he thought. No more.
He went under.
Tom watched the others treading water as he drifted down into the deep. They were all so driven. Each of them believed in something, believed so hard it kept them going. What did Tom have? A foolish dream of an immortal fay, who could never love him the way he loved her. Better to let go.
He had thought like this once before. Before Maev had taken him into Faerie. He had been a bad husband. A terrible father. He had tried to change. But he failed every time. Better to leave them, he had thought. They will be better without me, he had told himself. Better to let them go.
And by leaving them, he had failed them too.
Something tugged his ankle and that small sensation washed those thoughts from his mind. Fight and survive. He kicked towards the surface but something had hold of him. He let out a cry in a cloud of bubbles. Hands. Hands dragging him down, by ankle, by leg, by clothes and arms until eyes stared into his own. Tom kicked and struggled. He needed air. He needed the surface. He needed to escape.
Fingers curled in his hair, hauling him down. No. No, fight. Fight and survive. A hand covered his face, little claws pricking his flesh, rough scales scouring his face. Tom shook, flailed. He pushed at the thing clawing at him, swung slow arcs with the sheathed sword that didn’t connect. And then the hand was gone and something else replaced it. Something with slapping, grasping tentacles that pulled at his cheeks. Something soft and wet that sucked at his lips, at his teeth.
It was in his mouth. It was in his mouth.
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