“Sort of.”
Incredible. Tom was starting to understand why the Westerners felt so superior.
Without a point of reference, their progress seemed slow. The pillars didn’t seem to pass regularly. Or maybe they did; it was impossible to tell. But as they rowed, a thought began to grow in Tom’s mind. Small, like a barest breeze, too soft to tell if it was wind, breath, or imagination. Cold and hard, as if the air was frozen still.
The central monolith?
“What do we do after we climb?” he asked, more to distract himself than a need to know.
“We make our way to the safehouse,” Athra replied. “We have a few elfs there, holding it for us. It’s beyond suspicion.”
“Words spoken just before a secret is exposed,” Six added.
Athra gave him a foul look. “They are our very best,” he said.
“Even the best get caught.”
“Oen watches us.”
“Oen lies on a rock bleeding from his gut.” The passion in Six’s voice was surprising. Venom mixed with admiration? “It’s the sort of thing that occupies most of your time.”
“Poor brother,” Athra smiled, his pity exaggerated. “You labour under falsehoods. Oen cannot bleed. He cannot be troubled by mortal cares like you and I.”
“Oen was a man.” Six looked to Tom for support. “Not your invincible, invisible force. He doesn’t guide hands or pull you from your troubles.”
“Then how does he answer our prayers?”
“He doesn’t.”
“He sent us the sword.” Athra jerked a thumb at Tom.
“I brought it to you,” Six countered, as if he had carried it all this time.
“At Oen’s behest.”
“At his.” Now Six jerked his thumb at Tom in the exact same way. So similar, and yet so different.
“And at whose behest does he act?”
It was a good question. Tom glanced at Dank, who watched the elfs with a grin.
“Perhaps we should be quiet,” Tom said. “What if someone hears us?”
Athra waved his concern away. “No-one comes down here,” he said. “Save to fix the pumping equipment.”
“And if someone’s fixing the pumping equipment?”
Six smirked at Athra’s discomfort.
They rowed in silence after that, making the darkness even more oppressive. Katharine’s torch was burning low, the island of light around them growing smaller and fainter with each breath. Tom found himself staring at it, the way he had stared at the light that had bled down into the rat pit. What if it went out before they reached the pumping station? What if they hit something in the dark? Or the merrow came back? If they fell into the water, they’d never find the boat in the dark. They’d swim until they couldn’t swim anymore.
He touched the sword for comfort.
Ready. Waiting.
Small comfort.
The torch was starting to sputter and die when Athra said, “Here.” Tom let muscles relax he hadn’t realised were clenched.
They were at another pillar, thicker than the others, this one with many copper columns strapped to it. Tom touched one, cold and solid. The torchlight danced in reflection on its burnished surface.
“Pipes,” Six said. “For the water.”
The pillar was covered in them, dozens of the things disappearing beneath the surface. Pipes and a ladder, metal and thick and heavy and stained.
“We’re losing the light,” Athra said. “Be quick.”
They had to untie Storrstenn. Although there was little he could do in a cave under the city, Tom felt uneasy about it. He avoided the dwarf’s glare as he clambered past and onto the ladder. Tom let Katharine precede him before he began to climb himself. At first the rungs felt rough, pitted and worn, then they grew smooth.
“It’s a long climb,” Athra warned from below.
He wasn’t wrong. It was no surprise, given the ceiling was beyond sight. But soon Tom’s arms and legs were burning and there was still no sign of an end.
“Why is it so big down here?” he grumbled.
His voice carried further than he thought. “The water level rises and falls,” Six’s voice came up to him. He sounded out of breath. “In flood seasons it can get very high.”
“Surely not this high.”
“King Darnodyr was called the Ever-Ready for a reason.”
About the time that Tom was beginning to imagine losing his grip and tumbling what had to be over a mile back to the water below, there was a grating sound.
“At last.” Even Katharine sounded tired. They stopped, hanging from metal fixed to stone, and Tom waited for either his grip or elfish engineering to fail. Without warning a shaft of blinding light erupted from above and he forgot himself, shielded his eyes with a hand, before snatching at the ladder even tighter than before. Then, at last, they moved again, and soon he was hauled up into the dazzling bright.
It was a small, stone room. A few blinks and he realised the light was merely a torch in the hands of one of the remaining Goraven. Gravinn stumbled off the ladder a moment later and Tom caught her arm.
“Thank you.”
He felt too tired to talk. The climb, the battle with the merrow, the arguments and trials. Once upon a time he’d been a boy on a farm, just honest work and a simple life in his future. He put his hands on his knees and took a few breaths, then slumped back against the wall. What had happened? How did he end up here?
The room faded, the torchlight replaced by familiar twilight.
“I can’t do it,” Emyr said. There was so much blood.
“Just a little farther,” Tom said.
“I can’t.”
“Just a little farther.”
The torchlight returned and Brega was standing over him. Eyes hard and cold as ever.
“Just a little farther, Rymour.” She made it sound like a promise, like there was just one more hill to crest and then he could rest at the summit. He thought of that little hut Katharine had left him in. No-one to bother him save the odd visitor looking for a prophecy. Just him, a few vegetables in the ground, a goat. Clean air, a view of the mountains, and peace and quiet.
Emyr had said a dream of home can get you through a war.
He offered Brega a smile, but she didn’t smile back. Her eyes glittered with pain and her posture was strange. “You’re hurt,” he realised.
“I’m fine.” But her riding cloak parted and revealed shredded cloth, dark and glistening.
“Let me see.”
She waved him away and gave him a solemn look. But not an unkind one. “I’m fine,” she repeated. What skin Tom could see was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. She saw him waver and murmured, “The sooner this is done, the safer he will be.”
Tom trusted her. If he had ever been uncertain before, that moment made it clear. No matter the cost, Brega would do what needed to be done. She would sacrifice all, even herself. It should be someone like her carrying the sword.
Not someone selfish like him. “Brega’s hurt,” he called out, and had to step back as she snatched at him.
“Is this true?” Neirin hurried to her side.
“A minor wound, my lord.” She was trying hard to sound strong. “Rymour is worrying over nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“My lord, there is no time for this.”
Neirin straightened, lifted his chin, and glared down at her. “Would you deny your Shield?” His voice was as cold and imperious as Tom had ever heard it.
“No, my lord.” She grimaced, pulled aside her cloak. Scowled at Tom as Neirin sucked breath between gritted teeth.
“You kept this from me?”
“We have to keep moving. Your safety depends on it.”
But Neirin waved her words away. Instead he turned to Six, Katharine, Athra, anyone. “She needs medical attention. Now.”
Katharine squeezed past Six, and Brega closed her cloak. “I need to see it,” Katharine told her.
“No,” B
rega grunted. Now the façade was over she hunched, leant against the wall. Water dripped from pipes overhead.
“I know your customs.” Katharine reached for her, palm forward, like Brega was a dog to be tamed. “But I can’t see the wound if I can’t see the skin.”
“I can feel it,” Brega argued. “And it’s mortal. Nothing we can do.”
“Brega.” Neirin was doing his best to sound calm, in control. But fear quavered his words. “You will submit to examination or I will have you rendered senseless.”
Her eyes spat daggers. “My dignity.”
“Is mine,” Neirin snapped, “to do with as I will.”
Brega cursed in her native tongue, but a retort from Neirin stilled her. She stared at the floor, jerked her head at Tom without meeting anyone’s eye. “Just him,” she said, and waited for Katharine to back away before parting her cloak. Soaked and shredded cloth mixed with shining, bloodied flesh.
“The merrow?” Tom asked.
It was Katharine who spoke, asking questions, asking him to peer, to press, to probe. Brega hissed at every touch, and Tom felt his confidence bleeding away alongside her wound. She was right. This was mortal. But Katharine just said, “Keep pressure on it.” Then she withdrew with Six.
Brega refused to look at him. “This journey seems to be doing it’s best to cut us into pieces,” he murmured. He drew Caledyr, cut strips off her riding cloak to wad and press against the wound.
“I asked you not to say anything.”
“You did,” he replied. “I won’t apologise.”
“My safety doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
She met his eye then and, despite herself, smiled. “Because we’re such good friends?”
Perhaps not. But they were something. Comrades? Allies? “Because I can count on you.”
She looked down, took the cloth from his hands and gave him a grunt that was too brusque to be real. She was grateful. Tom just nodded and stepped away.
“So her insides fall out the moment she disrobes?” Six was whispering.
“That’s how it sounds,” Katharine replied.
“Then she is finished.” Athra didn’t deign to lower his voice. “Send her soul to Oen.”
“Is there any hope?” Tom whispered. There had to be. She didn’t deserve a death like this.
“Do you know this city?” Katharine asked Gravinn.
The dwarf nodded, solemn and grave. “I was brought here often.”
Brought here. Her little bell weighed heavy in Tom’s pocket.
“Are there dwarfish healers here?”
“Cirgeons?” Gravinn asked, and Katharine nodded.
“Thwart not Oen’s will,” Athra said. He was issuing orders to his followers, who disappeared down the corridor.
“Where are they going?” Six asked.
“To their duties,” Athra replied. “Cause a distraction. Get you into the palace.”
This was the moment. When Athra would turn on them. They would refuse to abandon Brega and Athra would turn on them. “Brega’s hurt,” Tom said, edging his hand towards Caledyr.
“I feel your pain, brother.” Athra cast his eyes upwards, lifted his palms. “I lost people to this journey too. But the will of the One King is indomitable. It will be done. In Oen we trust.”
“I won’t leave her,” Tom told him. She didn’t deserve to be left to die in the dark.
“I don’t need your pity, Rymour.” Brega had sunk to the floor, eyes clenched shut, lying on her good side. Neirin had pulled off his tattered outer robes to place under her head. “I die from combat. It is a good death.”
It didn’t look good. And Neirin’s face suggested she was lying.
“I don’t care,” Tom told her. “Death is death. I want you to live.”
She shook her head and let out what was probably meant to be a growl but ended up a whimper.
“You have to protect the Shield,” he reminded her.
“You’ll have to do it.”
“I can’t do it as well as you.”
She laughed, tears squeezing out of her closed eyes. “My mask,” she said. Neirin had it strapped to her face in a moment. Were her eyes less pinched now? She took a few breaths, as deep as she could manage. Which ancestor did she draw strength from? How tired and scared was she, to cry in front of them? Tom crouched beside her. He didn’t touch her; she wouldn’t appreciate that. But he did murmur, “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
He waited for the sharp remark, the barb to veil the true feeling. But she just whispered, “Thank you.”
Tom felt tears prick his own eyes.
“There’s no time,” Athra said. And Tom drew breath to argue except he felt the truth of the words. And a single thought from Caledyr.
Danger.
There was too much risk of discovery. They had to move. “He’s right,” Tom said, and stood.
“Tom,” Neirin remonstrated.
“Gravinn, can you find her a healer?” Tom asked. “One that can help her?”
The dwarf nodded.
“And Athra, you mentioned a safe house?”
“Where we can access Idris’ tunnel.”
“So we’ll take Brega there. Six and Gravinn will fetch the healer.”
“She is my charge.” Neirin left unspoken his question: why not me?
Tom answered it anyway. “She’ll worry if you go.”
“She’s going to die.” Athra said it kindly, as if they were blind.
“Maybe not,” Katharine said. “I’ve seen dwarfish cirgeons do incredible things.”
“You’re asking for a miracle.”
“I’ve seen plenty of miracles since I left Cairnagan,” Tom replied. “It’s about time we got one of our own.”
Chapter 20
Tom had thought he’d seen cities. He’d thought he’d almost grown used to them. But Cairnagwyn made the cities he’d visited look like muddy holes on a dirt track.
It was noisy. The sun was low, throwing beautiful oranges and reds across the sky, but no-one was making a move to hearth or home. Instead they continued to sell their wares, gather on corners, throng the streets. The city was a riot of noise and everyone seemed to chatter or haggle or gossip or argue at the top of their voices in an effort to be heard.
And there were so many of them. When they had emerged into the streets, Tom had thought they’d been discovered, that the crowd was waiting for them. But they were just part of the endless herd, countless elfs moving with the crowd. Tom had never been anywhere so full of people.
Athra had secured a covered wagon. “To avoid prying eyes.” It was lucky he had; Brega was in no state to walk, despite her protests. How had she climbed that ladder? They lifted her into the wagon and then sat around her as best they could. Athra drove the wagon with one of his followers; he hadn’t wanted to share the location of the safehouse. “What if you get captured?” he’d said. But Tom got the feeling Athra enjoyed knowing things others didn’t. Like it gave him power.
So Katharine peered out of the wagon as they rode, naming streets and landmarks, guessing where they were headed. Neirin sat bent over Brega, alternately talking to her and muttering prayers. Storrstenn was trussed and laid to one side. Sannvinn sat as far from him as she could. And Dank sat in a dark corner and closed his eyes. Sleeping, or so it seemed.
At first Tom had sat by Brega. There was nothing he could do, no aid or succour he could offer. He drew Caledyr and laid beside her, placed her hand on it.
“What are you doing?” she asked
“Doesn’t this help?”
“No.” And she took her hand back. Tom frowned and touched the blade with a fingertip. Felt calmer in an instant.
Ready. Waiting.
He left it by her side. Perhaps the sword’s effects took time to work. But that left him feeling useless. She bled, he watched. Sometimes she spoke to Neirin in elfish. But she was focused inwards now. So he joined Katharine and stared out at the city.
/> “Is it always like this?” he asked.
“Almost always.” She seemed fond of it, like it was an old friend. Tom couldn’t imagine any place worse.
He watched a handful of dwarfs trying to carry crates across the street. No-one made an effort to move aside. “There’s so many of them.” When one dwarf lost their grip, no-one offered to help. And then he saw humans, dressed like the elfs, ignoring the thralls too. Like they didn’t even exist. “Humans,” he said.
Katharine just nodded.
“But we’re at war.”
“It’s Cairnagwyn,” she said as if that was the only explanation needed.
“What are they doing here?”
“Living. Working.”
It was true. There were travellers, Pathfinders and merchants. But also humans that wore the fashions, the mannerisms, even spoke the tongue. They lived here. While their fellow men and women suffered fire and sword, they lived their lives.
With the enemy.
No, Tom told the sword. These people were not the enemy.
“It’s wealth,” Storrstenn sneered, even as he smirked at Tom’s confusion. “Cairnagwyn is the richest city in Tir. That attracts elf, dwarf and man alike.”
These men and women were shaking hands with the Westerners. Doing deals. Taking and giving money, sharing drink and jokes. All while their king invaded human lands. How could they do it? How could they stand to be around those that pillaged their homelands?
As if reading his thoughts, Katharine murmured, “They’re just trying to make their way in this world, Tom.” There was such sympathy in her expression. She watched them, understood them. She was one of them.
Vintners, butchers, landlords, builders. Human or elf, they were just doing what they had to in order to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. They weren’t the enemy. They were the people.
They were Tir. They needed saving just as much as everyone else.
For once the sword had nothing to say.
The sun had set by the time they arrived but the city was no darker or quieter for it. Every window, from crumbling ghetto to sweeping tower, played host to a candle, and great torches were lit on pillars above the streets. The city roared with light, and noise to match. Endless crowds continued to fill the grand boulevards, stream through smaller alleys, and push their way around horses, carts and wagons with no apparent concern for safety. Tom had assumed Athra would take them to a quiet place for their subversive work but, when the wagon stopped, they were surrounded by as many people as they ever had been.
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