Then he whispered something in elfish, before bringing the rock down with desperate ferocity. The crack rang through the still night air. Neirin lifted the rock and drove it down, again and again, each blow becoming more savage. The mask withstood, then chipped, then cracked, and finally broke in two under Neirin’s final agonised blow. He sat back on his heels, slumped, hair in disarray, breathing ragged.
“The world is safer,” Brega said, quiet and gentle.
“Angau is pleased,” Neirin managed. He let the rock fall from his grip.
“Let us pray her like is not seen again.” Brega’s words were clipped.
But Neirin’s sounded full of relief. “Let us pray her like is not seen again,” he whispered, and pushed the dirt over the mask with his hands in rough, sloppy movements. It was a shallow burial. Tom couldn’t help but think Siomi deserved better.
But the past few weeks had revealed his judgement to be unsound. So Tom said nothing. He watched Neirin clamber to his feet, wiping his hands on his dirty, fading, fraying robes. Watched the moonlight catch the tears on his cheeks. Watched him pull out his own mask and tie it to his face.
Tom knelt and scooped some of the soil away, hoping neither Brega nor Neirin would stop him. But they said nothing, and he buried a coin above the mask.
“Take this offering,” he said. It was, of course, late for offerings. But sometimes the gesture was what mattered. “Take it with you to the Isles of the Dead and let it buy your passing into that place, where the sun never sets and it is always summer.” He touched a morsel of bread to the grave and then ate it. Unlike the last time he had performed this little ritual, the bread felt light and airy. “You have done wrong in this life, as have we all.” It felt wrong to accuse Siomi of such things. But then, it was more accurate than calling her shameful. Or poisonous. “I take your wrongs and bear them on my shoulders now, so that you may enter the West in innocence and goodness.” She would have smiled at his words, and thanked him with genuine gratitude, even if she didn’t believe in the ritual itself. “Go in peace,” he said, and he hoped for it with all his heart.
The silence was broken by Neirin taking a few deep breaths through his nose. With his eyes closed, he looked like he as drawing strength from the skull. Trying to think like his grandfather. Trying to listen to the voices of the dead. “Thank you, Tom,” he said, eyes still closed. “Those were kind words.”
Tom stood up. He could still feel the bread in his stomach. But it felt good to be bearing Siomi’s wrongs. It felt like he was doing something for her. And it felt better than bearing his own. “You’re welcome,” he said.
“It is done.” Neirin opened his eyes and they were wet. He blinked and said to Six, “Let us find these fanatics of yours.”
Tom spared a look back at Siomi’s only grave as Dank led them down the hill. He doubted her body had been accorded much respect. The Westerners had probably dropped her in the sea. He felt his jaw tighten.
The enemy?
The thought deflated his anger. No, he thought. No more. He looked at the sword, strapped to his saddle, and when he looked up he caught Katharine’s eye.
She looked away quickly.
How heavy would his wrongs feel in another man’s stomach?
The grass grew longer, brushing their ankles, before it became a dense forest, growing taller even than the elfs. The horses shied away from going inside. Tom could relate. With only the stars to light their way, it would be difficult to see.
“Why is this grass so tall?” Brega growled.
Six sniffed. “Magic.”
“That’s your explanation for everything,” she huffed. “Can’t we just go around?”
Dank shrugged. “We believe the elfs you seek might be in there.”
“Might be?”
“Yes.” Dank shrugged again. “The fay do not know their exact location.”
Impressive. Even those that knew of the fay struggled to hide from them. To do it unintentionally said much for the Goraven’s skills. He looked back at the grass and wondered what they’d find within.
He recalled a foresight of shadows bearing blades.
“I’ve foreseen this,” he told them. “I saw myself, with two or three others. No horses.”
“Fine,” Brega said. “I’ll wait with Lord Neirin.”
“We will carry on.” Neirin’s voice was deeper than usual. He was hunched too. Was that how his grandfather had looked and sounded?
“Visibility will be limited. I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I am not afraid.”
“I am,” she replied.
“Brega’s right,” Tom said. “And I didn't see you in my foresight.”
Choice. Was Brega right? Had he taken away a choice?
Neirin’s shoulders dropped and he sounded like himself when he said, “Very well.” And there was too much pleading when he asked, “But you will call for us?”
So Tom pretended it was a command. Give something to everyone. “Very good, my lord.”
Neirin’s back straightened. “Brega and I will wait.”
“The dwarfs as well.”
Neirin gave a small shrug. Gravinn seemed disappointed, already straining to see into the grass. Sannvinn was preoccupied, too busy lost in thought or snatching glances at Storrstenn, who was bound and gagged and thrown over Brega’s horse like a pig.
“So we four go on?” Dank asked. There was no other voice in his. Just the boy, serious and grave.
“Why us?” Six asked.
“It makes sense,” Tom replied. “You know these people and you speak the language. Katharine’s a Pathfinder; if she can’t find them, they can’t be found.”
“And us?”
And you I want to keep an eye on. “And the wisdom of the fay may be useful.”
Katharine said nothing. Six wanted to do the same. But he said, grudgingly, “You said they’d attack?”
“Yes.”
“We should arm ourselves.”
“We do.” His foresight was unclear. He wielded a sword. But was it Caledyr? He was no swordsman without it. But he was loath to touch it, loath to let it back into his thoughts.
He took it from the saddle, careful to touch only the scabbard. But he could still feel it within. Waiting. Ready.
“Wait on the hill,” he said to Brega. “We’ll call for you when we’ve found them.”
It was too dark to read Brega’s veiled expression. But she gave him a curt nod, her gaze lingering on the sword. Then she tugged the reins and led the others back up the hill. Neirin looked like he bore the weight of Tir on his shoulders. He’d probably thought he’d left that grave behind forever.
The night faded to be replaced by another, darker, so dark he could barely see his hands before his face. He was digging through the ground with bare hands. He felt dirty. Profane. He shouldn’t be doing this. But he had to.
His fingers touched something solid in the dirt and he dug around it, pulled it free, brushed the dirt away, ran a thumb over the sunrise embossed on its face.
The coin he’d buried over Topknot’s grave.
The foresight faded and Tom frowned. What was so important about that old coin? Nothing, save it had fallen from Emyr’s pocket one night in Faerie. Too old to be spent. Worth only the metal it was made from. And he would profane a grave for it?
It would be too easy to touch the sword, for comfort and reassurance. As bloodthirsty as it was, it saw the world in clear absolutes.
Six was watching, waiting.
Tom told himself he wasn’t seeking comfort or clear absolutes. He needed to fight, and he would need the sword’s help to survive. That’s why he drew the sword.
He’d expected an onslaught of thoughts. But there was nothing. Caledyr rested silent in his hand. Waiting.
You serve me, Tom thought. It felt too much like a question.
Yes.
You help me fight.
Yes.
My thoughts are my own.
The sw
ord fell quiet. Was that a refusal to answer or an obedient retreat? The blade caught the moonlight.
He’d take it as obedience.
“Tom.”
“I know, Six.”
He continued nonetheless. “That sword isn’t safe.”
“I know.” He pulled the scabbard from the saddle and strapped it to his waist. The sword slid home with a hiss. The weight was too reassuring for comfort.
“It changes you.”
“It did.” Tom put heavy emphasis on the last word and met Six’s eye with an open gaze. “Dank, lead the way.”
But Six wasn’t done. “That sword makes you dangerous, Tom.”
“Perhaps I need to be dangerous,” Tom snapped. And he felt the sword flare, and hot anger run up his arm and into his heart.
The anger felt strong, felt good. But Tom didn’t want it. No, he thought. No more. He took his hand from the hilt and the sword fell silent again.
He took a deep breath. He was trembling. “We’ll be attacked,” he said. “Caledyr can help protect us.” He gave Dank a nod and the boy disappeared into the grass. Tom followed.
But Six didn’t give up. “The last time you were dangerous, you attacked me,” he said. “You attacked Katharine.”
“I did,” Tom whispered. The grass was so thick he couldn’t see more than a foot ahead, and he could taste magic in the air, thick and fizzing. “I am sorry for that.” But there was no time for guilt. This attack could come at any moment. He tried to chop at the grass but, instead of slicing apart, it wrapped around his arm instead. Like his wife’s hair, thick and wild and unwilling to part for the comb.
“Someone else should carry the sword.”
He’d sworn an oath. “I can control it.”
“It seems more like it controls you.”
“Keep your voice down.”
Six dropped to a whisper, but didn’t relent. “There’s strong magic in that sword.” His words carried an accusation.
“What are you suggesting?”
“That you’re susceptible.” Six’s progress was all thrashing and sweeping, his voice getting louder again. “You’re affected by magic more than most.”
Was that some sort of insult? “Maybe that’s why I can use it so well.”
“Or why it can use you so well.”
“You make it sound like it has its own agenda.” But Caledyr had a voice. Why have a voice if not to speak your desires?
Kill the enemy.
Was that his thought or the sword’s?
“You’ve killed prisoners with that blade,” Six said. “You’ve terrorised the Kingdom with it. You attacked me and Katharine because of it. How can you expect me to believe you’re in control?”
“Because I said I am.”
Six snorted.
“I cannot lie.”
“You lie with the truth.” It was the first thing Katharine had said in hours. There was no accusation. No bitter recrimination. Just a sad, simple statement. As if she had stripped away any emotion where it came to him. As if they hadn’t fallen asleep in each other’s arms mere weeks ago.
Weeks? More like months.
“The sword serves me.”
“Until it doesn’t,” Six replied.
“And it would be better in your hands?”
“Perhaps.”
“Emyr trusted it to me.”
“Did he know what you would do with it?”
Tom stopped and turned, stabbing a finger at Six’s shadowed form. “Enough,” he hissed. He felt the rage in his right hand bubbling up, but he silenced the blade. “We’re not going to do this now.”
The elf stepped closer, looming over him in the dark. “I thought you weren’t in charge anymore?” He used his lordly voice. Tom felt that familiar rage, that fury towards all Westerners rising in him. Six was just like all the others, standing over him, looking down his nose. It would feel good to hit him.
He took a breath. Let the sword dip. Lowered his pointed finger and said, “I won’t let you be the reason we all die tonight.” Not angry. Not scornful. Just cool, and calm, and factual.
Six’s shadow didn’t move. He goaded Tom with silence. Did he want another fight? Did he want a chance to take revenge?
The grass rustled. Was that wind?
“Let’s keep moving,” Tom said. “We can discuss my failings when we’re not about to be ambushed.” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and pushed onwards. It was a struggle to stop the grass wrapping itself around the sword, so he had to carry it close, parallel to his body, the blade close to his face.
He could feel its readiness. Like a hunter, taking deep, slow breaths. He tried to match his own breathing. He felt a nudge from it, less than a thought, and he whispered, “The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death.”
The sword helped him forget the disagreement, the distrust, the doubt. The path before him felt easier. The world felt simpler.
No, he thought. It isn’t simple. It’s complicated.
Enemy.
The thought sharpened his attention to a point. There. Rustling that was too ordered for the wind.
“Calmness of the soul until death,” he whispered, and let the sword place his feet, guide his hands, until he was stood in a guard position.
Three shadows emerged from the grass, all elfs, all armed. Seeing them made Tom realise he had learnt to recognise a trained fighter; these elfs had none of that bearing. Like him, they carried swords with little idea of how to use them. But at least that put them all on an even footing.
Then one of them stabbed forward, his sword glittering starlight and ready to pierce Tom’s chest. A panicked parry slapped the blade aside, but it sobered Tom. Even footing or not, they could kill him. He could die, in this field, unremembered and unmourned.
Kill the enemy.
Not kill. Disarm.
But the sword was already guiding his hands and fear meant Tom let it. He made a thrust of his own, sent the elf backwards, swung at the shadow to his right. That one parried, Caledyr notching the blade. Tom tugged the sword free, turned back to his first opponent, whose sword was tangled in the grass. Tom felt Caledyr crow at the sight of an unguarded belly ripe for the killing blow.
No. No killing blows. Instead he threw a left-handed punch. Weak, poorly-aimed, but it connected with the elf’s face and he fell to the ground.
Parry.
Caledyr lifted his arm up and back, rang with an impact of a chop from behind. Tom held the block, turned into it, drove an elbow into the elf’s midriff, butted heads as they folded over. The pain was distant, like a hazy memory, but that elf collapsed too.
Tom spared a glance for the others. Six and Katharine had all but defeated one elf between them. But where was Dank? Hurt? Lost? Killed?
A wild cry turned Tom’s head, gave him time to lift Caledyr against the wild overhand blow. Too strong; he had to give ground. But the grass was too thick to part easily. He staggered, growled, threw a wild stab at his attacker as he fell.
Up.
The elf was surging forward.
Up.
She lifted her sword for another overhand blow.
Up.
Stop nagging me.
He rolled onto his knees, pivoted, blocked a blow heavy enough to send him back to the ground again. But now the elf had overreached. Tom threw a kick into her ribs. Weak. But enough to distract her.
Legs.
He kicked again, her right leg folded, she fell.
Up.
Tom rose to his feet and his limbs filled with fury. These elfs ambushed them in the dark. Why? To loot their corpses? Assuming everything was theirs for the taking? The world was best rid of them.
But that was the sword. It was the sword that wanted to deliver a thrust to the throat.
So instead Tom kicked the elf in the ribs, trying not to enjoy her groan too much, and took her sword away.
“Stay down,” he told her.
T
he last elf was back on his feet, cursing in elfish. Tom hefted both swords in response. The elfish one was shorter, not as well-balanced. It felt curiously dead compared to Caledyr.
The elf rushed him.
Block.
The elf swung from shoulder to hip. Tom crossed both his swords, catching the other blade between them.
Press.
He pushed back and the elf gave ground.
Disarm.
He twisted, tried to turn the sword out of the elf’s hands. But the grass thrashed behind him; he had to risk a glance. The other elf was gone.
“She’s running,” cried Six.
Pursue.
He released the other elf. Parried with the elf sword. Swung Caledyr with as much strength as he could muster. Cut almost halfway through the other elf’s weapon. Released Caledyr and drove his fist into his attacker’s face.
“This one is done,” he growled. Pulled Caledyr free of the tumbling blade and gave chase.
He couldn’t see her. But he could hear her. So he stopped, listened, ran again. He heard blood roar in his ears, felt a grin on his face. Felt Caledyr exult in the chase. In the hunt.
There. The grass rippled. He was getting close.
He hadn’t run so fast in years. But he felt good. Young. His joints didn’t ache. He didn’t feel tired. His lungs burnt for air, but in a way that reminded him he was alive. The air was cold and harsh against the back of his throat. And he pictured the elf, running scared, knowing he was close.
Where was her Western superiority now?
There. There she was. Just ahead. He pumped his legs beyond their limit. And then he was on her. Snatching at her. Pulling her long, loose hair. Dragging her to the ground. She struggled and flailed. He was dimly aware of being hit, kicks to the legs, fists on his chest. He clambered to his feet over her. Reversed Caledyr in his hands. Lifted it. Held the point over her neck.
Kill the enemy.
She stopped fighting.
Kill the enemy.
She looked up, her eyes catching the moonlight.
Kill the enemy.
Something slammed into his back, knocking the air out of him and sending him to the ground. The grass was a cushion, but the weight on his back sent him down hard. He felt a sharp pain in the heel of his hand, a stone slicing his skin.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 61