The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “We’ve still hours until we reach Cairnagwyn,” Six cried. The air around them was a rush, loud and cold.

  A snatch of merrow song echoed around them. “Please,” Athra moaned. “Let me swim.” But he didn’t fight or struggle. He just lay there.

  “We will catch you.” Sânuoi’s words were hurried. Breathless. Followed by splash. Another snatch of song. They were jumping out of the water. Speaking or signing as they could.

  The tunnel narrowed, their speed slowed. Jenny slapped against rock as she clambered her way around a corner.

  “Can they reach us?” That was Katharine, though she was hunkered down out of sight.

  “I don’t think so.” Tom turned to Dank. “Can they?”

  “Jenny will stop them.”

  As if prompted by those words, Jenny squealed below them and there was a great slap on the water below them. The world swayed around them as the tunnel widened and the tentacled fay sank lower.

  Closer to the water.

  Another slap, another squeal.

  And the boat rocked as a curved spear hooked onto the edge and a merrow hauled itself aboard in one fluid motion. Sânuoi. Tom stabbed at him but he ducked down behind Jenny’s tentacle and began to sing.

  Fight.

  Calmness of the soul until death.

  Tom took hold of Dank’s wrist, pointing his glowing palm at the ceiling. The tunnel flashed past overhead, so close it made Tom’s eyes water. Then for a moment it rose, high enough and long enough that he could clamber over the tentacle. He almost fell on Sânuoi, who was armed only with claws and that infernal song.

  “You are strong, Rymour,” the merrow hissed. His gills flared and the song changed. Now the melody was softer, louder, more subtle.

  It would feel good to drop the sword.

  Fight.

  It felt good to hold the sword over the water.

  Fight.

  It felt good to loosen his grip.

  Fight.

  It felt good to watch the sword tumble into the river below.

  Chapter 19

  Sânuoi stopped his song, grinned a little shark tooth grin and flexed his claws.

  A dozen thoughts scrabbled at Tom’s mind at once.

  He had dropped the sword. It was lost. Gone forever.

  No. He could still feel it. Distant. Submerged. Singing a siren’s song of its own.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Except it was pitch black. And if he didn’t break bones or his skull by jumping into the river, he’d be torn apart by merrow.

  There was a riot of voices, elfs and men and merrow. The world lurched as Jenny’s tentacles scrabbled against the tunnel wall, holding firm against the current.

  Without Caledyr, there was no breaking the monoliths. The misery of the rat pits. The tragedy of Siomi’s death. The fighting and the arguing and the loss. It would all be for nothing.

  Retrieve the sword.

  He could feel his body tensing, an urge to throw himself in the water that was less subtle than a merrow song. More basic. Like it was in his very muscles. Perhaps Six and Katharine were right. Perhaps he was still under Caledyr’s influence.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Katharine would tell him to stay. That his life wasn’t worth it. Six and Brega too.

  Caledyr and the fay would tell him to jump.

  And what would Tom tell himself?

  Sânuoi had hold of his shirt, hauling him up. “I told you that your lives would be forfeit if you were false.”

  False. Tom had made a promise to Siomi, to inherit her responsibility. He had sworn to free dragons and dwarfs. He had promised to carry Caledyr.

  What would Tom tell himself? To uphold those oaths. No matter what anyone else told him.

  So he reared back his head, butted Sânuoi in his flat nose, took one, two quick steps and launched himself into the dark. The rush of air on his face took his breath away, and he prayed he hadn’t just leapt to his death.

  Impact. Had he hit the rocks? No, it was water, inky black and freezing. His mind went blank save a terrified mantra. He would drown. He would drown.

  Retrieve the sword.

  It cut through his fear and he surged to the surface, hauled air into his chest. There was so little light. Barely enough to make out Jenny Greenteeth’s colossal shadow.

  Splashing. The merrow. He had to hurry.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Voices called his name, echoing from every direction. “I’m okay,” he called, and coughed as water splashed into his mouth, reawakening his fear, turning his breath into panicked gasps. He would drown. He would drown.

  He felt a tug at his ankle, sucked in a quick breath before something pulled him under.

  The world was black, his skin numb, the claw pricks like something from a dream. He felt fingers wrap around his throat, and the pressure on his windpipe turned his fear into mindless terror. He had to breathe. Now. Kick. Flail. Scratch. Breathe. Or he would drown. He would drown.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Help me, he thought.

  Push.

  He would drown.

  Push.

  Tom stopped flailing, found a face. Pushed with both hands.

  Feet.

  He pulled his legs up, put boots against thighs, hips. Pushed with every ounce of strength he had.

  Claws raked across his flesh as fingers slipped free.

  Tom broke the surface again, each breath harsh in his throat. He slapped at the surface, desperate to stay afloat. No. He needed to stay calm. Calmness of the soul until death. But before he could think it again, a merrow was on him, climbing up his back, pulling him back under.

  Fight.

  Tom scratched and jabbed. The merrow yelped as he poked its eye, water choked off Tom’s cry as it bit his neck. Tom dipped under the surface, kicked, grabbed a fin and pulled, felt it tear and unknit. The merrow let him go.

  Retrieve the sword.

  Yes. The quicker he found Caledyr, the quicker he could get out of the water.

  A deep breath, ignore the fear, dive. He pushed himself under and began to swim.

  Help me, he thought.

  Here.

  Where?

  Here.

  Left? He tried to twist, cracked his hand against rock, snatched it to his chest.

  Here.

  He could feel his chest tightening. He had to breathe. already. He would drown. He had to get to the surface.

  Fight.

  Caledyr was right. It was just fear. Fear was only in the mind. He could do this.

  Fight.

  Something cannoned into him, knocked his breath out of him. Don’t breathe in. Get to the surface.

  Limbs wrapped around his waist, his shoulders. A dead weight on his back, pulling him down.

  A voice spoke in his ear, but it was all bubbles. He didn’t need to know what it was saying. Its actions said enough. It would kill him. It would drown him.

  Fight.

  They reached the bottom. Tom’s lungs burned. He felt light-headed. Can’t swim. Can’t fight. Walk. Just walk.

  He would have run, if he could. Instead the river forced him to take slow, ponderous steps. Walk and hope. Calmness of the soul until death.

  He tripped, clambered and climbed. At last he broke the surface, scaled the wall of the tunnel as he sucked in air with a merrow on his back.

  “So much fight in you, surface man.” It was Sânuoi. Always Sânuoi. “I am impressed. But you broke terms. Your life is mine.”

  “I broke no terms.” Tom tried to listen for the sword, tried to think of a way out.

  “There is no elf in our cell, Rymour.”

  No elf? Draig?

  Now wasn’t the time. “Dank!” His shout was hoarse. But it was enough. Shadows deepened, twisted, shortened as the sprite leapt into the air. There. A stalagmite. He twisted and fell, dropping the merrow onto the rocky point. Sânuoi yelled, his grip weakened, and Tom leapt away and back into the water.

  How man
y strokes to the sword?

  How many strokes until Sânuoi caught him?

  Not enough. He already felt a hand on his ankle. No. Emyr’s bloody black bones, no.

  He scrabbled at the rocky ground. Found purchase. Sânuoi climbed up his back again as Tom hauled himself across the riverbed. Ignored the webbed hands in his hair, the claws on his scalp, the burning, terrifying need to breathe in his chest.

  His fingertips brushed metal.

  Here.

  He scrabbled, numb fingers slipping along the sharp edge. Knocked the sword. Flipped it. Finally found the pommel, the grip.

  Up.

  Legs.

  The weight disappeared from his back as he drew the blade across Sânuoi’s shin. Tom didn’t wait, leapt from the riverbed, kicked until he felt air on his face.

  “I’ve got it,” he choked. Coughed. Swallowed water. “Help me.” He was going under again. He would drown. All for nothing. “Eirwen’s grace, help me!”

  He had kept to his oaths, at least.

  Something crushed him against Sânuoi, pulled from the water, a great wall of wet, green flesh lifting him through the air. Jenny.

  She dropped them both back into the boat, and Tom coughed and spluttered as he tried to keep Sânuoi at swordpoint. But there was no more fight in the merrow; he clutched at his leg, dark blood oozing between his fingers.

  “You broke terms,” the merrow growled behind gritted teeth. “We will have our price. If not today, tomorrow, or the day following.”

  The boat rang as someone clambered around in it. Dank.

  “Say not another word,” he roared with Melwas’ voice.

  “You do not command me.”

  “We command all.”

  Sânuoi tried to sing, but it was weak and filled with pain. It didn’t stop Dank from wrapping his fingers around the merrow’s neck. The song strangled off and Sânuoi scrabbled at Dank’s face. But the boy didn’t seem to notice. Silencing Sânuoi was all that mattered.

  He was possessed.

  “Finish him, Tom,” said Melwas with Dank’s voice. As he used Dank’s hands to squeeze the life out of Sânuoi. The merrow’s slashes had become a feeble pawing.

  “You finish him,” Tom said. He felt sick. But not over Sânuoi. He had dropped the sword. How many times would he lose it? Why had Emyr trusted him?

  “No.” Dank released the merrow, flexed his empty hands. “You do it.”

  The merrow slapped at the wood, tried to pull himself away. A weak, hoarse song came from his gills. But it was no more than a suggestion, a nagging thought to let him escape.

  It had made him drop the sword.

  Kill the enemy.

  “Kill me,” Sânuoi rasped, “and no water will ever be safe for you. You can never again approach river, lake or sea.”

  He sang of water that watched and waited, waited to climb up chin and cheek and nose, a tide ever-rising. He sang of a life as a cell, light above, water below. He sang of being pulled under the surface, where the merrow would wait.

  He was too dangerous to leave alive.

  Caledyr parted the skin under Sânuoi’s gills, the smallest slice. The merrow’s eyes bulged.

  “Remember this,” Tom told him. Then he kicked the merrow overboard.

  The splash seemed too small. Too small for all the trouble he had caused.

  “You didn’t kill him.” Six’s voice was flat and empty. He looked like he’d been awake for weeks.

  Tom waited for more song or attacks. But the sounds of pursuit faded. The merrow had withdrawn. “There’s been enough death and violence,” he said.

  Six nodded. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “I hope not.” His mind felt bare and brittle, like it had been scrubbed raw. Just forming a sentence felt impossible. “Maybe a little mercy will change their minds.”

  “They said we broke terms?”

  “They did.” Tom cast a quick glance at Dank.

  If Six looked exhausted, Dank looked hollowed out. His eyes were two dark circles and his hands shook. Whatever force had possessed him a moment ago was gone. The glow in his palm was dimmer, as if it had retreated inside. Despite the uncertainty surrounding the fay, Tom felt sorry for the boy.

  But why had the fay been so keen to silence Sânuoi?

  Why did they want the monoliths broken?

  A wave of exhaustion sapped the strength from him and he sank to the bottom of the boat. He was shaking. But he was alive. Just. “You can set us down, Jenny.” He’d meant to shout it up to her, but managed only a murmur. Nonetheless, the world tipped and rocked as she lowered them back into the water.

  “Thank you.” Regardless of the fay’s purpose, Jenny had saved their lives.

  Her beak slipped from below the surface and two deep eyes blinked against the torchlight as Katharine held it high. She squeaked, low and soft.

  “She says the taste of merrowflesh is payment enough.” Dank murmured as if in a fever.

  The beak opened and closed like she was tasting the air. Or anticipating the taste of Tom’s flesh instead. “Still,” he said, “I am grateful.”

  Her scream was painfully loud, then she made a sound like choking. Jenny Greenteeth was laughing.

  Her face came closer, giving Tom a chance to see the patterned scales on her skin, shades of green you didn’t get in the mortal realms. Her beak opened, revealing a thick, dark tongue and multiple rows of tiny, tiny teeth. Had she changed her mind? He had heard too many stories of Jenny’s voracious appetite, devouring whole crews without pause.

  Instead she snapped her beak shut with a gust of breath that stank of sour fish. A tentacle rose out of the water and she touched his cheek with the tip. It was a delicate, gentle gesture, like that of an indulgent mother. One who sees the folly of her child but can’t help but love him anyway.

  Then she slipped beneath the surface and was gone.

  “What was that?” Six sounded almost hesitant to ask.

  Tom had no answer for him.

  All but one of the oars had drowned with the rowers and there wasn’t enough room in the other boat for all of them. All they could do was tie the two together. So while the others braced themselves against rock walls, they had buffeted and crashed in their wake, at the mercy of the current. It made for a long, fraught journey, always wondering if the boat would break apart on the next collision. Each time they’d smashed against something the others had gripped the wood tightly and watched for signs of splintering. But Tom had lain in the boat and watched Dank. What would happen if the boat fell to pieces? Would Jenny come back? Another fay, perhaps? Would they try to save everyone in this boat, Dank, Six, Storrstenn too? Or just Tom? Or just the sword? Would they let everyone drown, as long as someone remained to put the sword through the central monolith?

  The help of the fay always came at a cost. He had seen it time and again. And whenever the fay tried to hide it, that was when the cost was greatest.

  Why did the fay want to break the monoliths? How had Draig escaped?

  There was no need for another rescue. Finally the tunnel expanded, the walls rushing away from them, and they slipped into a cave bigger than any Tom could imagine.

  At first he thought they were above ground; there was no echo, no close or damp feel, no walls or ceilings. But the air above them was too dark, even for a moonless, starless night. And it was too still. Too quiet.

  Then they drifted past a pillar, thick and strong and weathered by water. Dank lifted a glowing palm, illuminating deep, whorling designs on the stone, and a number: one thousand nine hundred and fifteen.

  “The reservoir.” Katharine’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  “What is it?” Tom asked.

  “An artificial lake,” Six replied. Even he sounded awed. “Under the city. King Darnodyr had it built after the Dry Times.”

  “You mean the city is above us?” Tom looked up but saw nothing but black. He couldn’t imagine there were buildings and people up there.


  “That’s right.” Athra seemed to have recovered from the attack, mostly by pretending it hadn’t happened. He leered up at the darkness. “We are in their belly.”

  They passed another pillar. “Those are all that holds it up?”

  Six seemed to read his thoughts. “They’re very strong.”

  They were big, yes. But Tom tried to imagine Cairnagan, or even Cairnalyr, tottering on stone stilts. It wasn’t possible. It would come crashing down.

  “You can support a lot with a little.” Storrstenn’s gag must have come loose in the attack. “If you know where to put it.”

  The reservoir had swallowed the current, leaving the boats adrift.

  “How big is it?” Katharine asked.

  “Miles across,” said Six.

  And the city balanced above it. It wasn’t possible. “It’s a miracle,” Tom breathed.

  Storrstenn snorted. “It’s engineering,” he sneered. “Only the most ignorant farmhand would think otherwise.”

  Tom looked down at the dwarf. “Would you like me to leave you down here?” he asked. “If you’re lucky, the merrow might come back before you starved to death.”

  The dwarf glared back at him for a moment before turning away and grumbling under his breath.

  “Row.” Athra’s voice had gained some of its prior zeal.

  How could they know where to go? Each direction looked the same. But, after passing a few more pillars, Athra directed them right, then straight on. He knew what the numbers on the pillars meant.

  “It’s the only means of navigation down here,” the elf said. “Each one corresponds to a point in the city.”

  “Where are we going?” Tom asked.

  “The pumping station,” Athra said.

  “What’s that?”

  Storrstenn laughed a mean, mocking laugh.

  “It’s a device for moving water,” Six said. “It pulls the water from down here and brings it to the surface.”

  “Like a large well?”