The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “Remember your promise.” Six’s voice was low and he watched the others as if waiting for the axe to fall. He expected to be chosen. Brega might nominate him. Neirin too. But no-one stood apart from Six, not even the Easterners. And, Tom noticed, Draig didn’t look on anyone with suspicion. As if he already knew who had betrayed them.

  “My promise.” Tom had promised many things. Carry the sword. And that nod from Siomi, the silent responsibility she had given him: keep Neirin safe. Keep them all safe. Suddenly it seemed impossible to be so beholden, for one man to be bound by all the promises he had made.

  “In Aeryie,” Six said. “You said you would do your best by me. If I helped you.”

  Had he? Yes. Six had been bound on the floor, all grins and barbed jokes. What had happened to that elf?

  You must keep Six close. That was what Ambrose said, in a foresight of things to come.

  So Six didn’t die here.

  “I won’t let them take you,” he said to the elf. Besides, “Haven’t we been through too much?”

  Six’s tension broke, a grin shining through. “Who else can I trust to be dragon bait with me?”

  So. If they didn’t offer up Six, it was Draig. Tom felt sick at the thought and refused to look at the Easterner.

  Râçori spoke to the silent Setta. “It is done,” said Sânuoi. “A life for a life.” He sounded relieved.

  “No,” said Neirin. “We will not do this.”

  “It is the only way,” Dank said. He looked at Tom, waiting.

  “It’s the only way,” he agreed. Caledyr felt heavy in his hand. The weight of this decision was too much. He would almost rather sacrifice himself than do this. But he had made a promise: keep Neirin safe. So he lifted the sword and pointed it at Draig. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing?” Brega snarled. But Tom ignored her. He couldn’t listen to her, to anyone. Just one look or word could be enough to deter him. So he stared at Draig, willed himself to see and hear no-one else, and said, “On your knees, my friend.”

  Draig just gazed at him. “I am sorry too.” But he didn’t move. And Tom could see him readying himself. Coiling inside, like a snake, ready to strike.

  “On your knees,” he repeated. Even unarmed, Draig was too strong, too skilled for them to stop if he decided to resist.

  So he refused to relax even when the elf knelt down in the sand.

  “We’re not doing this.” Brega stabbed a finger at Six. “Leave him,” she said. “He’s the one who gave us to the Westerners.”

  “That’s what you want to be true,” said Tom.

  “I know it wasn’t Draig.”

  “Do you?”

  Brega said nothing.

  “This is not your decision to make, Tom,” Neirin said. His voice was low, warning. There was something of the old fire in it. “Lower the sword.”

  “Do you think Draig is innocent?” Tom asked.

  Neirin hesitated. “Draig has served my family long and faithfully.” It was the sort of non-answer Tom had been giving for years. The sort of answer that danced around the truth.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” Tom said to Draig.

  “Why do you ask of me?” he replied. “Can not you say it? If it is true?”

  If his gift worked that way. Tom had never been able to prove whether he could speak a lie if he believed it was true.

  “Answer him, Draig,” said Neirin. When Draig did not, he said, “Your Shield commands you.”

  Draig’s face twitched and then his blank expression collapsed, his lip curling in a sneer that seemed alien to his face. “My Shield is dead. You are his ghost.”

  Neirin looked like he’d been slapped. His mouth hung agape, his skin pinked and his eyes watered.

  And, while they gazed at Neirin, Draig made his move.

  A handful of sand blinded Tom and he staggered back, wiping at his eyes and coughing. Then he felt a blow to his chest, strong enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He staggered again, tried to catch his breath, only to slip and fall. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs wouldn’t work, as if his ribs were choking them like weeds. He sucked and clawed at the air, dimly aware of sounds of fighting and knowing that he was too vulnerable in this position. He wiped away burning sand and blinked, tears streaming down his face. By the time he could see again, Draig had turned on Brega. Her nose was bleeding and she was crouched, hands up and ready. The others had backed away. They were without weapons and Draig was more than their equal.

  A cheer had gone up from the merrow and now the air was filled with the roar of an audience, cries of encouragement, of curses, songs and chants. The sounds of merrow justice.

  No time for bitterness. He pushed himself to his elbows and knees. Somehow he still had hold of Caledyr. Draig hadn’t taken it.

  But, as if summoned by his thoughts, Draig kicked at him. Tom caught the blow in the flank, groaned, cried out as Draig stamped on his wrist. Without thinking he let go of Caledyr, and in a moment it was in the elf’s hands.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Draig had already turned to Brega. It made sense, she was the greater threat. Tom threw a kick at Draig’s leg, too weak and awkward to cause real hurt. But it distracted him. Brega took her opening, swung a fist, but Draig rolled under and away from the blow. Tom scrambled after him on hands and knees. As Draig tried to get to his feet, Tom jumped onto his back. Draig grunted but didn’t go down.

  “Help me!” He wasn’t heavy enough. Draig already had one foot under himself. Tom hauled back on Draig’s hair, tried to get his arm around the elf’s neck.

  Then Dank was there too, adding his slight frame to the weight on Draig’s back. It still wasn’t enough. Draig surged to his feet with a roar, like he was a giant and Tom and Dank were dormice, no more to the elf than an itch. Draig leant forward to counter their weight and reached back, trying to swat them off his back. He clawed at Tom’s face, his hair, then at Dank.

  Brega landed one, two, three blows to Draig’s head. He lunged with the sword but she was too quick. She stepped inside his reach and brought a knee into his face. Finally he dropped to the sand, crushing Tom and Dank under his weight. The world blurred. Focus, focus. Tom scrabbled at Draig’s face, caught his chin, pulled, exposed his neck. Tom blinked and his vision cleared in time to see Brega punch Draig in the throat. He dropped Caledyr and, in a moment, Brega had it to his throat. He was still.

  She said a word in elfish to him, quiet and calm. When Draig didn’t answer she shouted it. With her face covered, all Tom could see were her eyes, hurt and betrayed and angry. She looked like a little girl whose father had thrown away her favourite doll.

  Draig replied in elfish, a cluster of sing-song words Tom didn’t understand.

  Brega replied by spitting in his face. Tom felt a drop land on his chin, hot and wet. Though it wasn’t meant for him, he felt shamed anyway.

  Brega hauled Draig to his knees by his hair, then kicked him in the back and sent him face down into the sand. Tom took a deep breath and sat up. He felt lighter, the world seemed safer. The traitor was found. They would be safe now.

  But there was still that thought, like an itch in his mind. Retrieve the sword. He extended a hand, ignored Brega’s surprise. Tried to ignore, too, the relief he felt as she returned the blade to his possession.

  Sânuoi stepped forward. “He is your choice?”

  Neirin stood over Draig, fists bunched, jaw clenched. He kicked him, once, twice, three times in the gut. Draig groaned but did not move, and his lord glared at him, impotent and petty.

  “A traitor’s punishment is clear.” Neirin poured venom and satisfaction into his words. The act was too plain. “Swift execution is too good for him. His hands and feet must be removed and he must be abandoned. It is our way.”

  “Oen’s black bones,” Six swore. “That’s grotesque.”

  “It is our way,” Neirin repeated.

  Tom shook his head. He pictured Draig trying to survive in the middle of nowhere, cr
awling on knees and elbows, pawing at food with stumps. His stomach tightened. “He’s right,” he said. “It’s grotesque.”

  “It is the sentence I pass as Shield of the Angles,” Neirin said, his voice cold and tight. “Siomi is dead because of him,” he hissed.

  “She is.” Tom met Neirin’s gaze unblinking as he sheathed Caledyr. “But as I have the sword, you won’t be cutting anything off without me.”

  Neirin stepped up to Tom, towering over him. “Will you defy me, Thomas Rymour?”

  Neirin had been intimidating at one time. But now, after everything they’d been through, Tom just couldn’t be afraid of him anymore. “I am defying you.”

  “The merrow have spoken,” said Sânuoi. “His fate is ours to determine now.”

  “His life is mine!” Neirin roared, then whirled on Draig and hauled him up, shook him and hissed, “Why?” His voice broke a little as he said, “Tell me. You served my father for decades. Why did you betray me?”

  Draig smirked. “It burns you, not to know.”

  “Tell me.”

  Draig shook his head. “Never.”

  Neirin slapped him, then again, and again. The blows rained on him as Neirin let loose a roar of wordless rage. But Draig didn’t resist, didn’t fight back. And when Neirin was done, panting and exhausted, Draig lay back in the sand and said, “You are like spring breeze to a mountain.”

  And he smiled. Bloodied and bruised and breathless, he smiled in the face of death.

  “Take him,” Sânuoi said. As a dozen guards came forward and began to bind Draig’s hands and feet, the merrow said to Tom. “We will take you back to the surface.” His voice was muted, as if observing a funeral. “Your audience is done.”

  Six placed a hand on Katharine’s back and led her away. Neirin tried to stalk away but trudged instead, Brega’s tread heavy behind him. And Dank placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder and nodded. “It was well done.”

  “Wait, Tom,” Draig called, waving his bound hands. “Would I ask of you something.”

  “What is it?” It was hard to see Draig trussed up and prone. He had been a friend, a confidant. How many times had he offered Tom advice? Had it been in earnest? Or was it all designed to aid his own agenda?

  “Tell it to me,” Draig said. “Why is it you want to see the West fall?”

  Tom pictured burning white towers. He pictured the pain and surprise on those arrogant Western faces. He pictured Gerwyn, bound and floating in a rat pit. “Tir does not belong to them,” he growled.

  “All of Tir falls into war, if they fail.”

  Draig’s sombre, sanctimonious expression was too much. Tom found himself on his knees, face inches from the elf’s, fists bunched. “Your masters left me to rot in a hole in the ground,” he hissed.

  Did something move in the sword? A shift? A thought?

  Draig smiled. Too knowing. “You seek revenge.”

  Tom wanted to deny it. But it would be a lie.

  The elf looked past him and Tom followed his gaze to Dank. “And you?” Draig said. “You have no things to say?”

  Dank shook his head. “You left us to rot in a hole in the ground too.”

  “But you know why.”

  “Yes.” Dank’s face twisted between anger and a smile. “We know why.”

  Then the merrow lifted Draig by his wrists and ankles like a trussed pig and carried him away while the Setta cheered. And in a moment, Draig was gone.

  “You’ve killed him,” Brega said. Her voice was as dead and cold as her eyes.

  “Perhaps,” said Tom.

  “Come away,” said Dank, placing a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “We must take what we bought with his life while we can.”

  Chapter 4

  They were placed back into Sânuoi’s reluctant care, and he led them out of the Setta to a large, open area. Other merrow stepped into the water and began chasing fish to pull one of the dozens of chariots resting in the sand.

  “I shall not say I am saddened to see you go,” Sânuoi said to them. “You have caused me great upset.”

  “That was not our intention.” Neirin seemed to have recovered a little of himself. His eyes were still brittle shards, but he spoke with a shadow of his old grace and aplomb. But his words seemed to have little effect on Sânuoi.

  “Go to the island where you found us,” Tom told the merrow. After the drama of the Setta he felt too drained to hold onto his previous anger. “You speak our tongue. Speak to Ambrose. He will tell you about Nimuë. Perhaps being the one to find her will be of help to you.”

  Sânuoi acted as if Tom had not spoken. “You will be left on the western shores,” he said. “Do with your lives as you will.”

  “Where in the west?” Six asked.

  “I have a fleet sailing in the south,” Neirin said. “Perhaps we could try and meet them?”

  Sânuoi shook his head. “We won’t spend days and weeks chasing your ships, surface dweller. We will put you back on the surface.” He fixed Tom with a glare. “Do not return here. Do not break a further bargain. The Setta will not stand for it. And I have lost too much.”

  The merrow’s eyes were filled with anger and pain. Tom felt he should apologise. But Sânuoi had been willing to let them all die. So Tom said nothing.

  The merrow shooed them into a chariot, one with room enough for all of them. They had barely settled before they were on their way. Back to the surface. Tom allowed himself to relax. Dry land. It seemed like years since he had stood on it. He glanced at Katharine and saw her squeezing Six’s hand. Tom tried not to feel jealous. If he wanted to have that again, he would have to earn it.

  The merrow ignored them, speaking quietly in their own tongue, backs turned. Sânuoi was unarmed. The charioteer had only his little bone knife.

  “There are only two of them,” Tom murmured. “We could overpower them. Find Neirin’s ships.”

  “I think you’ve made enough decisions today, Tom.” Six’s voice was soft and gentle. But the judgement was there all the same.

  “I saved our lives.”

  “You did.” Six offered him a small smile. “But I don’t think anyone will thank you.”

  “Tom found your betrayer,” Dank said. “He kept you safe.”

  “Yes,” Six replied. “But he killed Draig.”

  “An elf who sold you to your enemies.” Dank smiled and Tom wished he hadn’t. It was too fay, too heartless. “We would think you were best rid of him.”

  “He was my friend,” Brega snarled.

  “And my subject,” Neirin added. “His fate belonged to me.” But, sat on the chariot floor, he lacked the presence to make those words as intimidating as they might once have been.

  “Draig sold your lives,” Dank spoke with a perfect impression of Mab’s voice again. It was eerie and Tom shivered. “And Tom has saved them. We would see him thanked.”

  “Perhaps we don’t feel grateful,” Brega replied.

  Tom shook his head. They had been sentenced to death and none of them had acted. Not Neirin or Brega or Six. So he had done something. And he had saved their lives. Twice. Why shouldn’t they be grateful?

  “Don’t shake your head at me,” Brega snapped. “You’ve had us captured and my friend executed.”

  “But we are alive,” Tom said.

  “Which has more to do with the grace of Angau than you.”

  “And yet,” said Dank, “Tom’s actions see us borne to the Western Kingdom, with Caledyr in our possession and a traitor disposed of.”

  “And yet,” she echoed with a sneer, “we have no food, no weapons, no clothes, and we left my friend to die at the hands of these things.”

  “We have our lives.”

  “Draig doesn’t,” said Six. Spoken as if Draig had been an innocent victim. A loss. A paragon of virtue. It was too much.

  “Draig betrayed us!” The water seemed to ripple at Tom’s outburst. Even the merrow turned to look. “Draig left us in those cells. He left us there for days. Do you think he cared
about us? Do you think it could have ended in anything other than death?”

  The chariot fell silent. They knew he was right. But they blamed him all the same. And, despite himself, Tom felt guilty. And he was angry at himself for feeling guilty, and angry at the others that they refused to feel the same way. “You look at me as if his death is my fault. As if I wanted him dead. But Draig was my friend.” Which made it hurt all the more. But Draig’s caution in Faerie came to mind: some people do not deserve our love. And when he touched Caledyr, laid across his lap, he felt certain. He had done the right thing. “I only did what had to be done.”

  No-one had anything to say to that.

  He was stood in a still, dark room, with the faintest of breezes coming from above, surrounded by old, rotten treasures.

  A foul, gurgling voice said, “Some things we dare not say.”

  “Why not?”

  It was Fenoderee. Glastyn’s dark, shambolic, moss-covered self, his misshapen back to Tom. “Why do you think the fay want to break the monoliths?”

  “Entertainment?”

  The fay was still. Too still. “It is that, and also more than that.”

  The foresight faded and Tom looked up. He’d been dozing. He looked over at Dank who was sleeping too. Or was he? Tom had thought the fay’s interest was limited to the sword. Why do you think the fay want to break the monoliths? Tom reached for the sword, reassuring himself it was still there. Just touching the pommel made him feel better; he felt more awake, and the fatigue in his limbs lessened.

  The water was brighter. They were nearing the surface. Soon he would stand on dry land and feel sunlight on his face. He could barely wait. He would be a happy man if he never saw water again.

  Sânuoi was watching him, fins flat and still. “Our paths are almost parted.”

  Tom nodded. “For what it’s worth, Sânuoi, I had no intention of causing you any trouble.” But his hand had been forced. And the merrow had made small effort to help them.