The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

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The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 64

by James T Kelly


  “Thank you,” Gravinn said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll be glad to see the back of these elfs.”

  “Me too.”

  “The river feeds into a reservoir under the city.” Six pointed on the scrawled map, crude and ugly. It showed a line weaving its way into a mess of blocks and roads. “We’ll come up here, a short walk from the palatial district.” He pointed at another block of buildings. As messy as the map was, it was clear this was a substantial piece of property. And within that district was, “The palace.” Athra pointed at a huge building. “The king has an escape route. A hidden tunnel.” His finger drew an unmarked line across the map. “That is how we will gain entry to Idris’ lair.”

  “Won’t there be guards?” Tom asked.

  “Not in the tunnel,” Six replied. “But they are plenty in and around the palatial district.”

  “We will use the king’s own tools against him.” Athra was still gazing at the map, eyes shining.

  “And the guards?” Neirin’s verbal prod brought the Westerner’s head up. “How will we circumvent them?”

  “Oen’s grace will cloak us in disguise,” he replied.

  “These had better be disguises made of cloth,” Brega said. “A prayer won’t do it.”

  Athra smirked, as if he knew something she didn’t, but said, “Yes. We have some watchelf uniforms.”

  “What about us?” Katharine asked. She couldn’t take her eyes off the map. “We can’t pass for Westerners.”

  “Prisoners.” Athra spoke as if it was self-evident. “We will chain you up and escort you.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.” Six sounded like they’d had this discussion already.

  “It will work.”

  “No, it won’t. Who is going to believe that we were caught without anyone hearing of it?”

  “You’re not as famous as you think you are, brother.”

  “But they are.” Six pointed at Neirin. “Easterners, travelling with a woman and a man, carrying a sword. The stories are all over the Kingdom. You parade us through the streets and we’re likely to be lynched.”

  “We won’t be on the streets for long,” Athra said, pointing at the map. But without a sense of scale, it was impossible to tell if he was right. “And we will be causing a distraction.”

  “What kind of distraction?” Storrstenn was sat nearby, bound and sulking.

  “Fire.” Athra grinned. “Cleansing fire.”

  Tom glanced at the girl. She was sat on a pile of scrap wood, staring at Athra, her expression unclear. How many orphans would this fire create?

  He saw dark hallways, filled with a roaring inferno, wails and shrieks of pain, and an unbearable heat that slicked his skin with sweat.

  The two elfs were still arguing when he blinked his way back to the present. Tom looked again at the girl, now staring at him. It was an open, blank stare. Not hostile. Not friendly. Calculating. She was examining him. For what, he couldn’t say.

  “Enough.” Neirin’s voice carried the old weight of command and, surprisingly, the Westerners fell silent. “We use Athra’s plan. But we move at night. To reduce the risk of being spotted.”

  “Night in the bright city isn’t as dark as we’d need,” Six said. But the discussion was over.

  “When do we leave?” Neirin asked.

  “One more boat to finish,” Athra said, pointing at a pile of wood.

  Brega pointed out the obvious. “To start, you mean.”

  “We are none of us Erhenni, sweet lady.” Athra’s expression was all smiles, but his tone was defensive. “We must do Oen’s work with the hands we have.”

  “How long?” Neirin asked.

  “Two days.”

  “Too long.” Neirin lifted his chin. “We’ll leave now. With what boats you have finished.”

  Athra shook his head as if Neirin was simple. “We won’t all fit.”

  “We will.” Neirin’s gesture encompassed their strange little band. “And there will be room for some of your people too.”

  “We all go to Cairnagwyn.”

  “Those left behind can follow.”

  “We all go.” His languid voice tightened, his eyes wide. As if to leave some people behind was to leave them to die.

  Neirin drew himself to his full height. “I am Shield of the Eastern Angles.” Despite his road-weary appearance, he still managed to look worthy of the title. “You may not bend the knee to me. But you will give me the respect due to any duke or king of Tir.”

  Athra’s response was sullen. “There is only one king.”

  “Quite so,” Neirin replied. “But here, now, I hold authority. I say we go.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We carry the sword,” Neirin said. As if they all bore the burden. Tom glanced at Katharine, still gazing at the map. Perhaps they did. “This is our journey. And you do not have to be a part of it.”

  Athra glared at Neirin, scraps of defiance in tatters. “Very well,” he said, trying to pretend Six wasn’t failing to hide a smile. “If it be the will of Oen.”

  Neirin was not gracious in victory. “When do we leave?” He raised his eyebrows, prompting the correct answer.

  And, as prompted, Athra gave a fake smile and said, “At once.”

  It was obvious no-one had thought of how they would get the boats down to the river. The only path was steep, wet, moss-covered rock. It would have been dangerous enough without a heavy boat to carry as well, and at one point Tom’s feet slithered off slick stone and he had to scrabble for a handhold. He wasn’t the only one who struggled, and one elf slipped and tumbled into the water, splashing for a moment before being swallowed by the dark tunnel. No-one seemed in the least concerned.

  “The current is too strong to swim against,” Athra told them. “The best we can do is hope to pick him up on the way.”

  Athra’s disinterest in his people gave Tom a chill but he could see the elf was right about the current at least; there was no fighting it. But there would be no finding anyone who fell into it, either; the darkness of the tunnel was too deep for such hope.

  Manhandling the boats onto the water was almost as difficult as the descent; they bucked and danced and tried to leap away into the current. Then the awkward step between slippery rock and jumping wood. It was so unlike the solid ferry they had ridden to the Harbour.

  Finally they were aboard. Tom found himself next to Dank. Two of the Goraven took the oars and Six and Athra sat behind them. Storrstenn was laid bound at Tom’s feet, freshly gagged. He must have upset someone. The dwarf glared up at Tom, as if it was his fault he was getting wet; the boat sat low in the water and the river splashed against it.

  “Too many passengers,” Athra muttered. But they cast off nonetheless. Their ride felt unsteady, bucking and jerking, and before Tom had a chance to settle they were swallowed by darkness.

  A moment of blindness and sheer terror took his breath away. They would hit something, capsize, fight to stay afloat until they tired and slipped under the water, which would rise higher and higher until it climbed up their nose and into their lungs. Tom could reach up, hold the grate but it wouldn’t matter, the rat pit would pull him back down, and he was trying to hold his breath but instead it came quick and shallow, his heart hammering, he had to get out but he didn’t know how.

  Then a torch sputtered into life. Athra held it up, casting dirty yellow light over the tunnel walls. And the Westerners had their oars in the water, not rowing but guiding. Letting the river provide the power and using the oars to turn or push against the rock wall.

  Tom took a deep breath and tried to pretend he hadn’t panicked so easily. But he could tell Six knew; the elf looked at him too kindly. Dank appeared unfazed. Instead he had his head cocked to the side, like a quizzical dog.

  “Everything alright?” Tom’s voice echoed, louder than he’d intended.

  The boy didn’t move. “We’re not sure.” He lowered a hand over the edge, trailing it
in the water. “Do we feel that?” he whispered.

  “Feel what?” Six asked.

  But the boy didn’t answer.

  “It’ll take a few hours to reach the city,” Athra said. The torch cast ugly shadows on his grinning face. An Eastern skull mask would have been more comfort. “You must be looking forward to it.”

  “To what?” Tom asked. To the dark shadow he’d have to face? Or to the fight he’d have with Dank?

  “To the end.” Athra’s grin was all teeth. “You’ve had a long journey.”

  He felt the weight in his limbs. Yes, he was tired. “I suppose so,” he replied. “The Heel is a long way away.”

  He blinked against biting sand, thrown by howling red wind that couldn’t be muffled by the scarfs around his head. His mouth was full of the sand too, dry and gritty, and his head pounded. Each step was heavier than the last, heavy with futility. Walking wouldn’t save him. But nothing else would.

  “Careful.”

  Tom blinked and the roar of the wind was replaced by the roar of the river. Six was reached over, fist full of his shirt. “You almost fell overboard,” the elf said.

  “Thanks.” Tom nodded. The elf gave him a nod in return and released him. Tom couldn’t help but glance at Dank. Why hadn’t he tried to stop him going over the edge? But the boy was gazing out into the darkness, as if he could see anything in the inky black.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Dank was silent for a moment. Then, “Nothing.”

  There was a knock beneath their feet.

  “Careful,” Athra warned his followers. But Tom had a feeling they hadn’t hit something. He watched Dank watch the water. Something had hit them.

  “Are your elfs armed?”

  “Why do you ask?” Athra squinted at him. Eyed the sword on his back. The sword that whispered a demand to be drawn.

  “Answer the question,” Dank murmured, only half-interested in the conversation. The black water glittered with highlights from the torches, like a monstrous night sky.

  “No.” The word sounded wrenched from Athra’s lips. “We have arms in the store house.”

  “Is something wrong?” Six asked.

  Tom remembered how good the elf’s eyes had been in the Whispering Woods. “What do you see?”

  Six leaned over the edge. The river was running faster now, the boat twitching and jerking beneath them. The oars weren’t in the water anymore; they were being used to push against the walls whenever the river tossed them too close.

  Athra held the torch out over the water, but Six pushed it back. “Get that away from me.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You can see in the dark now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How foolish of me. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t made a list.”

  Was that splashing up ahead? “Quiet,” Tom hissed.

  “Admit you need my help.”

  “Will you be quiet?” Tom said. The tunnel was twisting and turning now, and every sound seemed to come from everywhere. Was something splashing in the water ahead? Or was it the boat behind them? He couldn’t see, couldn’t find anything. But Dank was staring off into the dark, seeing something only he could see. And he’d taken his hand out of the water.

  “Sit back.” Six pushed at Athra.

  “Do not thwart an instrument of Oen.” He pushed back. “I will cast light on the darkness, brother.” And he stretched his arm, torch dangling over the water.

  The boat tipped and rocked as it became unbalanced.

  And in an explosion of spray and glittering scales, the torch was gone.

  “What was that?”

  “Some kind of fish?”

  “It nearly took me!”

  “Find a light.”

  “We’ll be smashed on the rocks.”

  Only Dank was silent. Tom watched the light under his skin of his palm. But the sprite didn’t emerge. The unearthly glow was enough to see the boy’s hungry grin.

  That was no fish.

  Caledyr slipped free with a hiss.

  “Merrow.” Tom hissed against the pain in his back and his side as he drew Caledyr.

  “Merrow?” Six cursed in elfish. “What are they doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The wood below them began to ring with thumps and slaps.

  “Don’t worry,” Dank said. He lifted his hand. What little light it offered meant they could see another huge cave ahead. “We will protect you.”

  What did he mean? Was there somewhere to disembark? They had to get to off the water. All the merrow had to do was tip the boat and they could dispatch them with ease. Or just wait for them to drown. But there was no sign of land. No chance of escape.

  The splashing was louder. Tom peered into the darkness, trying to pick out the merrow. He could make out spray. Bubbles.

  Not bubbles. The water ahead was boiling. Churning.

  “Row!” Tom cried. “Back!”

  The Goraven were already hauling on the oars, trying and failing to fight the current. Their little boats began to spin and buck. Tom held on with one hand, tried to keep Caledyr ready in the other.

  Fight, it told him.

  Fight what? He couldn’t stab churning water. It would smash the boats and either drag them under or beat them to death first. He took a firmer grip on Caledyr and tried to clear his mind. But memories of the rat pits tried to bubble up instead.

  The cave echoed with a horrific squeal and Tom saw a flicker of green flesh.

  He turned to Dank. “Jenny Greenteeth?”

  “The very same.” The boy’s grin was a blend of pleasure and predatory glee. “She’ll protect us.” But that grin didn’t make Tom feel safe.

  “She’s fighting the merrow?”

  “She hasn’t had a taste in a long time.” Dank snapped his teeth. Could he feel the fight himself?

  Tom turned to the rowers. “Go around.”

  The boat behind bumped into theirs, sending the passengers reeling. One of the rowers lost his balance, sprawling over the edge of the boat.

  Before anyone could help him, webbed fingers took hold of his hair and pulled.

  The elf disappeared with a cry and a splash.

  “Help him!” Athra wailed, scrabbling over the edge himself, thrashing at the water.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Six hissed, hauling him back as webbed hands snatched at him. A hooked spear reared out of the water, hooking onto the boat.

  “We have to do something,” Tom said to Dank.

  “We will handle it.” The boy was distracted, too intent on the churning fight to notice anything else.

  The world rocked wildly and there was a merrow aboard, hissing between its sharp little teeth, fins sleek and still, a knife in one hand. Without room for a swing, Tom thrust Caledyr forward, but he was off-balance and cut only air. Six feinted with a punch, drawing its attention and giving Tom a chance to chop down and almost sever the thing’s arm. The merrow howled and tipped back, disappearing back into the black.

  A huge tentacle reared out of the water and slapped down onto the boat, knocking Athra to the floor and pinning him. He kicked and slapped at it and Six snatched up the knife the merrow had dropped. But Dank reached across to stay his hand. “No.”

  He was right. The glow from his palm showed the tentacle to be green, great suckers latching onto the wood. Another merrow tried to board, only to be picked up by another tentacle and lifted into the air. As Tom watched, a giant beak emerged from the water, open and squealing with delight. Jenny dropped the merrow into her mouth, swallowing it whole.

  Six lowered the knife, golden skin pale. “I’m glad that’s on our side.”

  Jenny had hold of the other boat too, a merrow clambering over her tentacle to swing a knife at a Westerner before she swatted it into the darkness. Six had a point. The merrow had no chance. Nor would they, if she decided she was st
ill hungry. But, for now, they were safe. The water was calming. The merrow were dead or fleeing.

  “Thank you,” Tom said to Dank.

  But the boy was eyeing the water still. And, a moment later, Tom heard it.

  Singing.

  “Cover your ears,” Tom cried.

  But even as he did, one of the Goraven dived into the water.

  “Cover your ears!” Already he felt his will failing. The water was warm and inviting. He wanted to swim, to be free of the air and the surface. It would feel so good to swim.

  Fight.

  He placed a hand on Jenny’s tentacle, pulling himself to his feet. A step or two and he could jump in.

  Fight.

  But the sword was wrong. He didn’t want to fight. Fighting was pain and misery. Swimming was calm and peaceful.

  Fight.

  He gripped the sword as if he could squeeze the thought into his limbs.

  Six was still, eyes screwed tight, hands over his ears.

  Athra scrabbled and kicked at Jenny’s tentacle.

  With a splash, their other oarsman was in the water, disappearing without so much as a bubble.

  The women controlled the other boat. The men kicked and struggled, but Katharine, Brega and Gravinn knew their arts too well; Neirin and the remaining Westerner were pinned or tied and going nowhere.

  And the merrow knew it. Because a voice echoed to them, “You owe us lives, liar Rymour.”

  Sânuoi. “We don’t owe you anything,” Tom called back. At his feet, Storrstenn was trying to crawl to the water. Tom placed a foot on his back, pinning him. But now he was off-balance. It would be too easy to let himself fall overboard.

  “We had a deal,” Sânuoi hissed.

  “Do not listen.” Dank’s voice was cold, hard. Too like Melwas. He turned to Jenny and commanded, “Finish them.”

  “The merrow are due the old payment.”

  “We cannot stay,” Dank said. Just a murmur, Jenny couldn’t have heard. Yet she sank beneath the surface. “If we cannot remove them, remove us.”

  Wood creaked and groaned as Jenny took a firmer hold and lifted both boats out of the water. Not high. Just above the surface.

  Then they lurched as Jenny turned and, with a speed belied by her size, surged out of the cave and into the tunnel. The singing stopped. A few splashes told Tom the merrow were in pursuit. But Tom was more concerned with falling or hitting his head; the ceiling was a blur above them and a well-placed stalactite could be the end of someone. Tom bent low, staying close to the wet, tough tentacle.

 

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