The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  You will face bigger, the dragon had said.

  “We tie them.” Even speaking was an effort. “Return them to the others. Go back to work.”

  He turned and saw Herne skulking by the crack, staring at him. No, not staring. Sizing him. Weighing him. Like a wild dog deciding whether or not to bring down the aurochs.

  And whether it was worth it.

  Chapter 14

  By the time they reached the others Tom was ready to drop the sword and walk away. Caledyr felt too satisfied, too happy with what had happened. But Tom could still feel Katharine’s flesh under his closed fist. That had been wrong. He shouldn’t have hit her. And whenever he thought of it, he could feel the sword’s mantric argument.

  Fight the enemy.

  Caledyr seemed clear on who that was. The elfs in the watch house. That Pathfinder. Western civilians. Erhenni prizefighters. Even Six and Katharine. But Tom had a sneaking suspicion it was wrong. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was putting his faith in the wrong people.

  “Perfidy and foul deeds.” That was how Storrstenn greeted them as they rode to the ruined cottage in which they made camp. The roof had collapsed at one end, letting in the light of the rising moon. The rest of the building was all pillars and coloured glass windows, walls peppered with lichen, stone floor infested with weeds. “I warned you of this Westerner, Lord Neirin.”

  Fenoderee gently lifted the captives from a horse and to the floor. They were bound wrist-to-wrist, back-to-back. They huddled on the cold floor, heads bent.

  His friends. And he stood against them with dwarf and fay.

  “We can’t keep them like this,” Neirin said. “We need Six to act the lord, for safe passage.”

  “I wouldn’t free them, my lord.” Brega’s eyes carried heavy bags and her movements were slow. “They’re resourceful.”

  “His captivity necessitates modifications to my plans to cross the Kingdom,” Storrstenn said. “But he is not of vital importance. A few days and we shall have no need of him.”

  “That is a significant delay,” Neirin said.

  “It is regrettably unavoidable.”

  “No.” Neirin shook his head. “No delays.”

  Perhaps Storrstenn thought no-one saw him roll his eyes.

  “What about the fay?” Brega asked. “One of them could guard him without being seen.”

  Puck raised a hand and leapt into the air again and again, straining for height. “Us, Tom. We can do it.”

  Tom watched the others turn to him. Why did he have to decide? “No, Puck. Not you.”

  “Nor us,” gurgled Fenoderee.

  “You’re the only other choice.” Mester Stoorworm hadn’t been waiting with the horses, nor in the Between.

  “Ooh, us, Tom, us.”

  “Mester Stoorworm can do it,” Fenoderee said. “His feelings are just hurt.”

  The fay, ageless and immortal and this one acted like a child. “And what if Six says something mean? Will Stoorworm run away again?”

  Fenoderee shifted. “A valid point.” He sighed. “Is Six needed tonight?”

  When Tom asked Storrstenn, the dwarf shook his head. He didn’t make eye contact. Of course. He still didn’t have the Second Sight.

  Fenoderee nodded and shrugged, something cracking inside. “Then we are with you tonight,” he gasped. “For one last time.”

  “Tonight we sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He questions us.

  Enough, he told the sword. No more fighting.

  “We have an idea,” Fenoderee said. “For a target. But you must strike tonight.”

  Tom looked at Dank, Gravinn, Brega. The fay didn’t get tired. But mortals did. Gravinn had admitted to dozing while she waited but her eyes were still dull. Brega was hunched within her stolen cloak. And Dank was paler than Tom had ever seen him.

  But Gravinn wore an expression of greed. Brega gave him a single nod. And Dank gazed at Fenoderee as if he was a puzzle to solve. And they all looked at Tom to make the decision.

  He needed time. He needed space. Needed rest. But he was trapped. If he didn’t do this, no-one would. The opportunity would be lost. So he squared his shoulders, touched the sword.

  “Is it a good target?” he asked.

  Fenoderee nodded. “We believe you will think so.”

  Cairnidol was far to the south of the Kingdom, overlooking the Lannad Sea and the rocky maze that was Cei’s Teeth amongst the water. Sir Dolorio had been one of Emyr’s knights. Sent to conquer the southern lands, he had so grown to love them he had asked to be buried there. So, when he fell at Camlann, his body was delivered to the city he loved so much. Cairnidol became a site of pilgrimage for winemakers across Tir, for Sir Dolorio the Vintner was said to have passed all his secrets into the vineyards surrounding the city.

  It wasn’t a practical target. But Brega liked it all the same.

  “The rich will scurry about and try to buy what bottles remain.” Her eyes were sunken sparks, but they were smiling. “The poor will make do with something cheap. Either way, it will distract and disrupt.”

  Gravinn nodded. “The city also uses more thralls than any other.”

  “Really?” Tom frowned. It was harder to find a city further from the mountains the dwarfs called home. “Not the capital?”

  She shrugged. “Making wine requires a lot of hard work.”

  Tom nodded. Unusually, this was a target they were all in favour of. He turned to Fenoderee and said, “Very well.” The fay gave him a smile full of missing teeth. “So what’s the plan?”

  The sky was clear and the moon was bright, but Tom had no fears of being seen. Not only were the rows of vines tall enough to hide him, but the vineyard itself was vast. The nearest building was so far away that, had anyone been inside, they would have struggled to see him even if he’d been shouting and waving his arms.

  So Tom wandered up and down the rows, plucking a grape here and there. They weren’t particularly nice, too sweet and too thick, with large seeds. But he needed to do something. Fenoderee was quiet and Tom was grateful. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. But sitting and waiting wasn’t an option. It left him thinking about Six and Katharine. He felt betrayed. He felt abandoned. But he felt guilty. They were wrong to have abandoned the group. But he had been wrong to attack them. Hadn’t he? Caledyr tried to tell him otherwise.

  The sword will speak for you. If you let it.

  The elfs who owned this vineyard hadn’t orchestrated the invasions, or enslaved dragons, or put him in a rat pit. Yet he was here to destroy their livelihood. To destroy innocent lives.

  No-one is innocent. Mab’s words, when he had asked to leave Faerie. Everyone is guilty of something.

  Which was true. Who in Tir was innocent but newborn babes? Even Emyr, who the West seemed to worship as some perfect epitome, had done terrible things. Tom looked up at the house, dark right now, filled with sleeping elfs. What wrongs had they committed? What would their grave bread taste like? For a moment he could taste Topknot’s again.

  They had said nothing when Idris had invaded the duchies. They stood by, while others suffered. But was that enough?

  He ate another grape. He would be the last person to taste them. It was an odd feeling. Sad. But powerful.

  Was that smoke? He stopped and peered, then climbed one of the wooden frames for a better look. It could be smoke. Then he saw a flicker of light. A fire. No more time to think. He drew Caledyr, raised it above his head. He was so tired, that small gesture felt like a trial of Emoddir himself. But before he could attack the vines, Fenoderee appeared beside him.

  “We have to go.”

  “What’s wrong?” Someone coming, most likely. He cast about for approaching elfs.

  “We will explain on the way.”

  “Are Brega and Gravinn in trouble?”

  “No,” he croaked. “You have to see something.”

  “But we have work to do.”

&
nbsp; “This is more important.” And he shambled off into the dark with surprising speed. Tom didn’t dare call after him. So, despite himself, he followed.

  They ran down the rows of vines unaccosted, past a distillery, past a stone building that looked old enough to have been built by Dolorio himself. Fenoderee strode between the buildings, unafraid of discovery, whilst Tom clung to cover and shadow.

  “There’s no-one here.” The fay’s voice was a wet whisper. “They went into the city. To fight the fire.”

  Tom could see the glow of flames over the rooftops. He tried not to think of the homes they were destroying tonight.

  The vintner’s lands ended in a low stone wall, a gate, and a sudden growth of thin, pale trees. A wide road cut through them towards the city and the fire, but Fenoderee took another, smaller path to the left.

  “Where are we going?” Tom asked. He kept Caledyr drawn, just in case. But he was sensing something unusual from the blade. The further he ran, the keener it felt. Not for battle or bloodshed for once. Not to reach their destination. But for something. Like it was paying close attention.

  “Cairnidol’s tomb.” The fay wasn’t out of breath in the slightest.

  The path began to slope and they were running uphill. “Slow down.” Tom’s lungs were burning with cold air and his injuries were throbbing.

  “We cannot,” the fay said, but did so anyway. Instead he strode at almost a run. It left Tom half-walking, half-running, but it was better than nothing.

  “Why are we going to the tomb?”

  “Do not ask anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Fenoderee stopped. Amongst his drooping, ugly face, his eyes implored Tom. “We cannot think on it too much.”

  Tom opened his mouth to ask why, but those eyes stopped him. Despite his strength and his speed, the fay was a mess, a sorry shambling wretch. And he could be trusted. Tom sensed that Fenoderee had his best interests at heart in a way no other fay did.

  And perhaps that explained why Fenoderee had been so eager to come here, when he had always shown such distaste for the chaos they had been sowing.

  So he followed the fay in silence, up the old path through the woods. Tom noticed the path itself had once been bigger and paved. But time had cracked and shifted the stone slabs, encouraged undergrowth to chew at the edges, allowed weeds and lichen to take hold. But Tom could see it had been cleared in places, branches cut back, dead leaves swept to one side, and dry mud still bore footprints.

  The trees thinned, shortened, gave way to undergrowth before surrendering to grass. The path continued before it too was swallowed by the city.

  This part of Cairnidol was much like the old quarter of Cairnabren, without any of the modern day artistry, as well as clear signs of age and weathering. Cracked facades and faded colours were obscured by scrawl and crude designs. All dwarfed by a smooth-faced, four-sided pyramid, a golden capstone shining in the moonlight.

  It stopped Tom in his tracks. “Incredible,” he breathed.

  “It is.” Fenoderee placed a wet hand on his arm and tugged. “But we do not have the time to appreciate it.”

  They slipped through narrow streets that reminded Tom more of a human village than anywhere they’d been, filled with the smell of waste, home to stray cats and dogs, homeless elfs lingering in corners or sleeping in gutters. For all their assumed superiority, they had plenty of similarities with the rest of Tir.

  The fire seemed to elicit little response. “It is in the richer areas of the city,” Fenoderee explained.

  “And they don’t care?”” Tom whispered.

  “They care to watch.” No-one could hear him so the fay didn’t whisper, yet Tom couldn’t help but feel his voice would draw attention. It made his own whispers all the softer, and his movements all the more cautious.

  But they reached the base of the pyramid with no incidents save a drunk that gave Tom a curious look.

  “No guards,” Tom observed. Two stone elfs grew out of the pyramid, bigger than life-size. One male, one female, they were bare-chested and barren of any colour or decoration. Both wore a simple skirt around their waist and a single bell around their necks. They reached for each other with one arm to form an arch, fingers interlaced at its peak. In their free hands they held totems, a scroll for the male, a shepherd’s crook for the female. Both stared out towards the west with a blank expression that made Tom shiver.

  “No need,” Fenoderee said. For fear? No. For guards. “Tombs are seldom robbed, and the punishment is severe.”

  “I see.” Tom gazed up at the blank, dead faces of the statues. “So we’re going inside?”

  “Yes.”

  He wanted to ask why.

  “How will we see?” There wasn’t any light coming out of the doorway. Just darkness.

  “I will guide you.” The fay reached down and took hold of Tom’s hand. His skin was clammy in places, waterlogged like a drowned man, and rough like bark in others. The bones beneath crunched and ground against each other and Tom had to swallow his revulsion. “Come.” And he tugged Tom forward, beneath the statues’ arms and into the tomb.

  It was dark, cold, but dry. Tom had imagined a mouldy catacomb. But although the air smelt musty, like old clothes, Tom could sense only dry, clean stone all around. What were they doing here? What if they were needed? Puck would be fine, invisible and invulnerable to mortal harm. But Brega and Gravinn were very visible, and very vulnerable. What if they needed help? What if they were cornered, or wounded? He couldn’t help but feel like a soldier who’d abandoned his post.

  He heard Fenoderee stumble, and felt a painful tug on his arm. “There’s a step,” the fay gurgled and let him go. Tom reached out, back, all around. Nothing.

  “Fenoderee?”

  “Do you have a flint?”

  He patted himself down. “No.”

  “Pity.” The word came on the back of a very great sigh. “There are torches here.”

  Tom didn’t relish the idea of stumbling around blind for the rest of the night. “There aren’t flints there?”

  “My sense of touch isn’t as refined as Glastyn’s.” He didn’t sound bitter.

  “Let me.” Tom took a few careful steps and kicked something solid. He swore.

  “There is a wall.”

  “Thanks.” He failed to hide his sarcasm but the fay said nothing. The wall rose only to his knees, so he climbed up and felt his way to the fay. There was a stone shelf, torches lying in a bowl. Tom put his hand in something wet, oil, and then into another bowl. “Aha.” Little sharp chunks of stone. He wiped his hands on his trousers and began to strike flint over the torches. Why didn’t they put this at the entrance?

  A spark. Another. It wasn’t until the fourth that one caught a torch, flame sputtering into life. Fenoderee lifted it out of the bowl, then lit another for Tom.

  They were stood in a huge round chamber. The low wall he had kicked provided seating around an empty space. There were more stone shelves spaced evenly around the outer wall, holding bowls of water, metal tokens, and loose coins. Statues were stood in alcoves between the shelves, not as bare or severe as those outside. These were life-size, wide-eyed and smiling, painted in bright colours and draped in real clothes. Each was surrounded with tokens, scythes or swords, purses or papers. Tom had the feeling that this was a space for quiet contemplation, but he found the statues ghoulish and unnerving. Fenoderee looked like he felt the same, like he was pained to be here. The fay kept his eyes downcast.

  “Are you okay?” Tom asked.

  The fay shook his head. “We cannot delay.” He stepped up and out of the chamber, moving further into the tomb. He led Tom through some corridors, reminding Tom too much of the wreck on the beach, before coming to some stairs.

  “Which way?” Tom asked.

  “Up.”

  “How far?”

  “All the way.”

  Of course.

  The stairs were old, worn smooth and drooping in the middle, melted by thous
ands of footsteps over hundreds of years. Some of them had been replaced by newer stone, and if Tom wasn’t careful he would trip on these new steps. Each flight doubled back at the halfway point, and the climb turned into a mindless trudge too quickly. Tom took a victorious pause at each new floor, ostensibly peering around in curiosity, but in truth taking an excuse to rest.

  The floors themselves were all the same and not the same at all. In structure they were identical, bare corridors that mazed away into the darkness. It was the chambers they led to that held the differences. On the lower floors they were small, home to featureless sarcophagi, surrounded by modest tokens, tools and clothes and so on. The chambers grew bigger as they climbed, and little details began to grow from the sarcophagi. First gargoyles and engravings, then faces on shapeless bodies. Soon entire stone people in intricate detail were laid in rest on the lids whilst the sides were engraved with countless lines of text or scenes of battle, work, home life. And the possessions grew rich too, rugs rolled up in corners, beautiful ornate swords studded with gems, statues and busts, clothes worth more than a herd of aurochs, even stuffed and mounted animals. It all had the strange feeling that the family had boxed up the dead elf’s life and buried it with him.

  It also had the feeling of senseless waste. Tom had been raised to respect Tir, to return to Tir what was taken from it. But rather than return that scythe, the West held it hostage in this place. Instead of giving back the wealth Tir had provided, they kept it, and not even for the living. What use did a dead elf have for a scythe?

  Soon the floors no longer contained corridors, dedicated instead to a single dead elf. Their possessions were princely and many of them even bore crowns, real crowns placed on the heads of their stone effigies. And then the chambers began to grow smaller again as they reached the top. It was a relief, to know the climb was almost done. His thighs were burning and his breath was short. But, as the walls grew closer, he became aware of something else. The air was fresher. There was a breeze.

  They emerged into the final chamber and Tom saw why. One wall had an opening, a window no wider than his hand. It was too high for anyone to look through, even for an elf. But it brought in fresh air and, for that, Tom was thankful.