The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because you’ll only escape again.” Hullworth looked away up the street. “And the law is the law.”

  Iron would weaken Dank’s link to the fay. Maybe sever it. The fay wouldn’t know to rescue them and couldn’t get close if they did. They had no weapons. And Hullworth had two Hands for each of them. Even if they could break free, they wouldn’t get far.

  Patience. He needed to wait. An opportunity would present itself. The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death. Calmness of the soul until death.

  What if there was no opportunity?

  Thunder rumbled overhead, and Tom looked up to see they were heading towards a building that looked too much like the Setta. Nowhere near as tall and in better repair, the only decay being the slow, soft touch of time that wore down the corners and the details of Cairnalyr. But the fate was the same. Execution in front of a crowd.

  They were dragged inside but stopped before they entered the arena. Erhenni held them at the end of their pikes whilst dwarfs strapped armour to their chest and limbs. Iron. It was heavy and cold, a cold that seeped through the skin and into your very core. It made the world seem too real, edges too sharp and too hard. Tom looked over at Dank. The boy could barely stand. Dwarfs were holding him upright.

  “You’re hurting him,” Tom said. But no-one said a word. Instead an Erhenni pushed a helm onto Tom’s head, a heavy, dark, close thing, stinking of the sweat of hundreds, tight on his head, the world reduced to a mere slit. Tom felt suffocated almost immediately and tried to take it off, but someone slapped it, sending a deafening ring around his head.

  “You keep that on.” Hullworth’s voice was muffled. Tom had to twist his body this way and that until he found him, angle his head just so until he could see him. “Take anything off and you’ll get an arrow in whatever you’ve exposed.”

  He’d underestimated the boy. He knew his lore and he was smart. If he covered them in iron, there was no way a fay could come to their aid.

  “What happens now?” Brega sounded too calm. Tom twisted to find her. The armour was too small for her, her robes bunching around the different pieces. But she stood tall. She didn’t lower her chin to peer through her helm at her captors.

  “Now you face Erhenni justice,” Hullworth told them. “You fight. You live? That makes you innocent. You die?” He shrugged. Nothing more needed saying.

  So. Trial by combat. This was how it would end. Tom shook his head. Without Caledyr he didn’t stand a chance. Dank would collapse as soon as he was released. He didn’t know about Gravinn. There wasn’t much armour that would fit her, so she wore only a helm. Brega would survive unless they swamped her with foes. He tried to catch her eye but she was staring into the arena. Looking for escape? Formulating a strategy?

  “Will we have weapons?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Hullworth waved them forward. “They’re waiting for you.”

  The weapons or the crowd? The people inside roared as they stepped out. Staggered, more like. The armour was heavy, yes. But it was the iron. It was hard to concentrate. Like his thoughts couldn’t fit in his mind anymore.

  The ground beneath them was a thin layer of sand over stone, the arena around them smaller than the Setta but packed with people. Elfs and Erhenni sat side by side, cheering and jeering at them. Brega stalked towards a pile of glittering metal, hands outstretched either side, ready for an attack, eager to pick up a weapon. She was right. Even if he was going to die, he would die with a sword in his hands.

  He wished he had Caledyr.

  There was a clatter behind him. The thralls had been called away and Dank had collapsed, face down in the sand. Tom took a step towards him, thinking to pick him up, but Brega called to him.

  “Rymour!” She was pointing, and Tom followed her finger to four figures emerging out of the other doorway. “Quickly.” She hefted a sword in each hand.

  What was the use? He’d defeated Topknot through luck. Caledyr had fought every other fight for him. But he watched the figures approach, partly armoured, bearing pikes and nets, broad-chested and slick. What was it Siomi had said? She knew the destination. It was the journey that mattered.

  He’d make his journey to the Isles of the Dead with a sword in his hand.

  “Gravinn, watch Dank.” The helm prevented him from hearing a response, the armour prevented him from running to Brega’s side. He strode as fast as he could, took a sword, picked up a pike too. “Do you have a plan?”

  “I can’t hear you.” She was shouting over the roar and through the helm. “They’ll try to snare us with the nets. Run us through with the pikes. Neither will work at close quarters.”

  “Right.” But there were four of them. He could barely fight one. The armour prevented him from looking back. “What about Dank and Gravinn?”

  “We’ll worry about them if we survive the first attack.”

  If. Even Brega wasn’t sure. But she was stood beside an untrained, unskilled human. “I’m sorry about Draig.” He’d said it before he’d even realised he was thinking it. “I suppose you’d rather it was him standing here.”

  “You do what needs to be done.” She thumped a fist against his chest, the armour clanking.

  The figures were closer now. Three men, one woman. All walking with the casual air of those who had done this a hundred times before. “Neirin will be safe.” He still felt he needed to apologise.

  “He will,” Brega replied. “We’ll make sure of it.”

  We. She included him in her burden. He felt a sudden swell of acceptance and smiled despite himself. He was trapped in iron armour, about to face four battle-hardened Erhenni, grinning like an idiot. “For the Shield?” he offered.

  “For the end.”

  He took a deep breath, the rank smell of the helm raking his tongue. “Do we wait?” The Erhenni were waving at the crowd, lapping up the attention.

  “Wait on death?” She turned to him. He could just make out her eyes through the slit. “Never.”

  They charged. The distance was short, but in armour it felt like leagues. Tom was exhausted within a dozen steps, his panting a deafening roar in his ears. Brega began to outstrip him but slowed to match his pace. One of the Erhenni hadn’t noticed their charge, still enjoying the adulation. That left three. One at a distance. One in their path, and one hanging back. No doubt waiting to pounce once they’d engaged the first.

  “I’ll break his guard,” Brega cried. “You take him down.” And with that she charged ahead. The Erhenni swung his net, the hooks on the end raking her armour, tangling her arms. He lunged with his pike, she caught it against her sword, slammed into him and knocked him down. Tom staggered the remaining steps, dropped to one knee, plunged his sword into the man’s bare chest.

  Up.

  It felt so like Caledyr it startled him, sending him to his feet again. The second Erhenni was swinging her net. Tom had little time to raise his pike, had plenty to watch the net wrap around it, tear the weapon from his grip. That left his short sword against her pike. She stabbed forward and Tom tried to slap it away. But he was heavy, clumsy. He missed the pike and almost fell. It was only his twisting stagger that meant the pike slipped past his chest rather than through his ribs. He flailed with the sword but she was too far away.

  Get in close. That’s what Brega had said.

  So he threw himself at her, but she was quick. Only her head and one arm were armoured; the rest of her was covered in either leather or sweat. Tom knew that made her vulnerable, but only if he could catch her. She danced away from every wild swing and lunge. Soon he’d be too tired to stop her pushing him down and slitting his throat.

  Brega. He turned and saw her caught in her dead opponent’s net. The other two Erhenni were rushing to claim the kill.

  He ran. Each step felt like his last, each breath seemed empty and airless, each heartbeat expected a pike through his back. But he ran and he bellowed, raising his swo
rd as high as the armour would allow. It was madness. It was suicide. But one Erhenni faltered, and that was something. Now there was only one trained killer to contend with.

  This one came pike first, and rather than stab it forward he swung it through Tom’s legs, sending him to the ground hard. Tom dropped his sword. Rolled onto his back. He was sweating and breathless and exhausted. For a moment he couldn’t imagine how he could get up.

  The Erhenni was standing over him. Reaching for his helm. To lift it, to expose his neck.

  Roll.

  But the armour was too heavy for rolling. He reached up for the other man instead, grabbing his arm, pushing him back. The man’s fingers scrabbled under Tom’s chin, flailing for a hold. He tugged the helm up, blocking Tom’s sight. Blind, almost deaf, on his back. This was not how he wanted to leave the world.

  A cry and then a heavy weight crashed onto him, driving the breath from his lungs. A pike blow? Was this it? No, the weight was still there. Someone had fallen on him.

  “Brega,” he cried. He reached up and pulled his helm back down. All he could see were thick, dark clouds. They flashed lightning and he called again. “Brega!”

  She didn’t answer. Was she dead? No, the weight was the man. He pushed and kicked his way free, rolled onto his front. Felt a sudden urge to throw up. Emyr’s teeth, not in the helm. He pushed himself upright, twisted about. There. Brega, fending off the other two, spinning and twisting a pike in each hand. She was incredible to watch. But the Erhenni were quick, skilled. Brega could keep them at bay but no more.

  He was going to throw up again. He pushed the helm free, cold, sweet air washing his damp head. The light from the torches was almost blinding and he blinked.

  There was a roar. He looked about, saw fingers pointing at him. Saw archers lift their bows. The execution. The arrow in the exposed part.

  He looked down at the dead Erhenni, bronze skin cooling in the night air.

  Tom fumbled for the sword with slick hands, stood, and began to run again. There was another roar from the crowd, they waved and pointed and even threw things. Ignore it all. Any moment he might feel the punch of an arrow and then nothing at all. Brega was swinging left and right, attackers on either side. She was tiring. Her movements weren’t as quick. Not as precise. And the Erhenni knew it. They were toying with her.

  “Face me!” Tom roared with what little breath he had. And it worked. One of the Erhenni turned.

  Brega didn’t hesitate. She thrust her pike, but it was slow. Instead of skewering her foe, it merely sliced through his flank. The man swore, flailed his own pike. But Brega was already moving towards her other foe, throwing her attention on him. Did she think she had killed him? Or was she trusting Tom to protect her.

  An arrow bit into the sand by his feet. Hullworth’s threat hadn’t been an empty one. Good.

  The wounded Erhenni set his guard, pike pointed at Tom, ready to impale him. Calmness of the soul until death. Calmness of the soul until death. But without Caledyr, the mantra didn’t work. He was hot, exhausted, weak. So he stumbled forward, waving his sword. When the pike thrust forward, he failed to bat it aside and it slipped under his arm and up into his armpit. He felt a searing hot pain, but didn’t stop. He thrust his sword, the Erhenni twisted, the blade slicing a little skin but no more. And then they were locked together. The Erhenni’s pike was useless, trapped by Tom’s arm. Tom tried to bring the sword to bear but the other man caught his wrist, held it tight. He was strong. His footwork was good. He stepped, turned, twisted, trying to trip Tom. They danced in circles.

  Please. Please shoot already.

  He tried to spare a glance for Brega but didn’t dare give the Erhenni an advantage. Up close he could see past the grill of his helm, see his eyes. Not dark and grinning like Tom had expected. They were cold. Dead to this, to the pain and the spectacle. He was doing this because he had to. Not because he wanted to.

  This man didn’t deserve to die.

  An arrow ricocheted from Tom’s armour, the impact enough to make him stagger. They were shooting to kill now.

  “Yield.” The man’s voice was hard, empty. “If you yield, I will make it quick.” He meant it as a gift. A favour, from one man to another.

  “I can’t,” Tom said. “I have to stop this war. I have to stop King Idris.”

  The man’s eyes went wide and he reared back. “It’s true,” he whispered.

  Pain and shock wiped every thought from Tom’s mind. He found himself on his back, his lips wet. The Erhenni had headbutted him. He blinked, looked up. Saw an arrow in the man’s chest.

  “No.”

  But the Erhenni grinned. “You’re free.” Blood seeped from his lips as he spoke, then he coughed and dropped to one knee.

  Tom struggled to his knees, crawled to the other man, reached for the arrow.

  “Leave it.” He coughed again, spraying blood on the sand. His words bubbled on his lips. “I always knew I’d die here.”

  “No, don’t.” Tom could taste blood on his own lips.

  “It’s okay.” He waved a hand. “Take off my helmet.”

  Tom tugged it free. The man beneath would have been handsome if not for his ugly injuries, a broken nose, a scar on his forehead, missing teeth.

  “Make me a deal,” he said to Tom. “I die for you, and you get those elfs out of my duchy.”

  Tom just nodded.

  “Set my people free.” The last was a whisper, and then he slumped, falling into Tom’s arms. Was he dead? No, he breathed. He was heavy but Tom held him, a hand in his hair, stroking, soothing.

  “Don’t be scared,” Tom said. “There is no hunger or pain in the Isles of the Dead.” This was what he should have done for Topknot.

  “Finish it.” He sounded like he was drowning.

  Tom closed his eyes, shut out the roar and the light. All he could hear was this man’s choking breath, feel his body cooling and twitching. Damn him. Damn Idris for making him do this.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The Erhenni groped for Tom’s hair, clutched it. “Don’t be.” He retched. “If I die for you, I die for Tir.”

  “For Tir.” Tom repeated. The other man’s head lolled and he gazed at something only he could see, his bloody lips working but making no sound. His face twitched when Tom opened his throat and then he was still.

  Tom dropped the sword and laid the dead man on the sand. He had no bread. Would likely not be given any, either. So he said, “I cannot do the ritual right. But leave your wrongs behind you. I will take them, bread or no bread. Go into the West, to the Isles of the Dead, in innocence and goodness.” He closed the man’s eyes. “The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death.”

  He stared at the dead man until the Judge’s Hands dragged him from the arena.

  “You are innocent in the eyes of the law,” Hullworth growled. “No man can punish or accuse you now.”

  Judge’s Hands unstrapped their armour outside the arena. Tom’s clothes were soaked beneath it. Brega leant heavily against a wall.

  “So you’re letting us go?” Gravinn asked. She hugged herself and flinched from anyone who came near her.

  “As the law demands.”

  Dank was pale, paler than Tom had ever seen another being. His tattoos seemed dark, alien things on such white skin. Tom had insisted his armour had been removed first but the boy had been limp and unresponsive. He lay on the ground, silent, unmoving. But he breathed. Tom could see his chest moving.

  “Gerwyn took things from us,” Tom told Hullworth. “A Pathfinder’s maps. We would have them returned.”

  But Hullworth shook his head. “This trial was about you fleeing justice. Not about what a Proctor confiscated from you.”

  “He stole them.”

  Hullworth’s eyes flared. “Then that Pathfinder had best file a report with another Judge. Were it up to me you’d all be dragon food about now.”

  “We have maps,” Gravinn said. “Le
t’s leave now. While we can.”

  But Hullworth said, “No.” He waved a hand at the others. “You’re free to leave. But not him. Regent wants him back.”

  Tom felt a chill. The night air was freezing on his damp clothes. “You said that was nothing to do with Erhenned. There was no reason for you to get involved.”

  “Well.” Hullworth pointed a good finger to his scarred face. “Now we’re all one happy Kingdom, aren’t we?”

  Fight. Fight and survive. That’s what the sword would say. But he was too tired. Every turn he made there was another obstruction, another thing in his way. Why couldn’t it be easy?

  But that man had taken an arrow. For Tir.

  “I’m not going to Regent.” He’d meant to sound strong but instead he sounded like a weary old man.

  “You’ll obey the law.”

  “We know not the laws of men.” Dank’s voice was dark, angry. Mab. The boy didn’t move, but his voice was filled with her. “You have put on a good play this night, mortal man. But we tire of your antics. Let Tom go, or suffer Faerie’s displeasure.”

  A Hand laughed, but Hullworth’s face was still. “We have iron,” he said.

  “We are immortal. Mere pain is temporary.”

  “Iron has left you feeble.” Hullworth didn’t sound like he believed his own words. “We have little to fear.”

  Dank-as-Mab lifted his head with obvious effort. “Cut us down with iron, stone, enchanted swords, it matters not. You will tire. We will not. We will suffer no mortal to stand between us and a thing we want. And if we want your suffering, we shall have it. You shall hurt until you beg for the mercy of death. And we will grant it, just so you know one moment of sweet relief. One moment, before we take you for our own. And then you shall know an eternity of pain.” Dank gave Hullworth a sweet, frightening smile. A smile that spoke of a will to see all manner of horrors visited upon him, no matter the personal cost. “You will dance to our tune, little man. You all do, in the end.”