The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  There. Light. Inside the boy’s neck. The sprite trying to escape. To sever the connection between boy and fay.

  “Six!” Tom bounced Dank’s head off the monolith, disorientating him. And, as the sprite forced its way through Dank’s skin, Six stepped forward and scooped it up into his jar.

  Dank went slack, panting as if he’d run the length of Tir.

  Tom felt breathless too. “Seal it up,” he said to Six. “Take it away.” He caught Idris’ eye. “Now we learn the truth.”

  But Dank wasn’t finished. “What have you done?” he panted. Saw Six carrying away his sprite and cried, “No.”

  “Dank,” Tom began, but the boy slapped and swung at him. “Bring her back, bring her back.”

  “We won’t hurt her.”

  “Bring her back!”

  Tom slapped him, hard, a crack that sent him sinking to the floor. He held his cheek, stunned into silence.

  “We won’t hurt her.”

  Dank looked up, eyes wide, mournful. But he said nothing. Just waited to see what Tom would do.

  Tom held out his hand.

  The boy was too light, too easy to lift to his feet. “Tell me what the fay are doing,” Tom said.

  “They’ll hurt us if we do.”

  “You said you weren’t connected to the fay when the sprite was away.”

  “But she’ll know when she comes back.”

  “Keep it from her.”

  “We can’t.” Dank shook his head. “You don’t know how hard that is.”

  Tom had some idea. “Then don’t go back to them,” he said. “Let them go.”

  “We can’t,” the boy repeated. His eyes grew wet and his voice small. “We don’t know what we are without them.”

  “A man.” Tom made his voice firm but kind. “A human man. A man who doesn’t deserve to be treated like a puppet.”

  But Dank shook his head. Tom couldn’t change centuries with a few words.

  So before he could change his mind he said, “I’ll take the blame.”

  Dank blinked. Peered at Tom. Looking for a deceit he knew he wouldn’t find.

  Tom said, “When the fay find out, I’ll offer myself in your place. Any punishment due to you falls on me instead.”

  “Tom.” Dank lifted a hand but stopped short. “You know what they’ll do.”

  Torture. Years of pain, mutilation, mind-games, isolation. Decades of punishment. There was no dying in Faerie. No limit to what the body could endure. “Yes.”

  “We can’t let you.”

  “It’s already done.” There was no taking it back. The fay would know. As soon as the sprite came back, rejoined with Dank. They would know what Tom had said. And Faerie would be closed to him forever.

  Don’t think. Don’t think on it.

  Dank just nodded. He understood. Like no-one else, he understood. “The monoliths are a barrier between Tir and Faerie,” he said. His voice started small, but he straightened, spoke louder. “While they stand, we can only use the Circles to leave Faerie, and only so often.”

  “The fay want to enter Tir at will.”

  Dank nodded.

  “Why?” Katharine asked.

  For the same old reason. The only reason they did anything. “Entertainment.”

  “You knew?”

  Tom shook his head. “But I think I understand it.” He kept his eye on Dank, waiting for contradiction. “If there is a limitation on the fay, they’ll see it removed simply for being there. And once it’s gone, they’ll make the most of it. They’ll all come into Tir, all at once.”

  “Is that so bad?” Neirin asked. “Most people cannot see them anyway.”

  “Exactly,” Tom replied. “Most people won’t be able to fight back. The fay can confuse, frighten, terrify and toy with any mortal they find.” And he raised his eyebrows at Dank, waiting for contradiction

  Dank just nodded his head.

  “But why the games?” Six asked. “Why go to Idris, to us, to Draig?”

  “We wanted Tom to do it,” Dank said. “To test him.”

  A test. Of his loyalty. All of this, to see how loyal he was. “I suppose I failed.”

  Dank said nothing, and in doing so said it all. Maev was lost to him.

  Well, perhaps it was for the best. The fay had used him. Made him part of their plot to terrorise Tir for their pleasure. Sent him on a pointless journey that had killed Siomi and put him in a rat pit.

  Fight the enemy.

  We will, he promised. But first things first.

  “Now we know,” he said. He stepped back, let Dank move away from the monolith.

  “So it was all the fay?” Katharine asked. Not smug like Tom thought she might be. Frightened. Why? She looked at Tom like she was desperate to be wrong. “They did all this to test you?”

  “And to be free,” he reminded her.

  “So the fay want the monoliths broken?” Idris asked Dank.

  “Yes.”

  “And what of my daughter?”

  His daughter?

  “She lives,” Dank replied. “In the north. Far from here.”

  Idris closed his eyes and whispered something. Then he said, “Will the fay return her to me? I have done as they asked.”

  Dank looked at his feet. “We don’t think so.”

  “They took Princess Esyllt?” Six asked.

  Idris looked at him like he’d intruded on a private conversation. Then his expression softened. “We didn’t recognise you.” Saddened. “We banished you.”

  Six dropped to one knee. Like something in him had broken.

  “She hated us for that.”

  “The fay took her?” Six’s voice had no hint of an accent, no edge or pretence, well-spoken but not lordly

  “They told me she fled.” Idris glared at Dank. “Now we are not certain.”

  “She fled,” Dank mumbled to his feet. “But at our suggestion.”

  Is this what the fay would do in Tir? Whisper and mislead, plot and scheme, and see how well the mortals danced for their amusement?

  You will dance to our tune. That’s what Dank had said to Hullworth. If we want your suffering, we shall have it.

  Idris took a deep breath. “We have learned much today.” He placed his palms together, closed his eyes. “You are tired and hungry. Let us retire to my chambers and see what we might do to untangle this mess.”

  “You grant us clemency?” Neirin looked startled.

  “Perhaps we are enemies. Perhaps we are not. Let us see.” Then Idris bowed and said, “Lord Neirin Tarian, Shield of the Eastern Angles, Warden of the Faith, Fourth of His Name, Emperor of His Other Realms and Territories, Bearer of the Blood of Angau. I ask if you would break bread with me.”

  Neirin looked like an elf whose entire world had been upended, the particulars scattered and reordered until he wasn’t sure where he stood. He took a longing gaze at the monolith. His end. His quest. Would he refuse? Would he demand Idris surrender? No. He reached into his satchel, drew forth his mask, strapped it to his face. Gazed at the monolith one last time before presenting his wrists. “King Idris, Ruler of the Western Kingdom, Protector of the Free Peoples of Tir, Patron of Patrons, Lord of the Near and the Distant Isles, Monarch of the Faithful, Bearer of the Blood of Oen.” Neirin bowed his head. “It would be an honour to break bread.”

  Peace. It had always needed to end in peace. In the heart of the Kingdom, with guards and armies aplenty, there would be no surrender. No Idris on his knees. No freeing the dwarfs. No forcing Idris to do anything. He had all the power here.

  We have power.

  The wrong kind of power, Tom told the sword.

  Except, as the two elfs clasped hands and smiled like tired, wounded brothers, Tom realised he couldn’t walk out of that chamber. He couldn’t smile and shake hands and bow. He wished he could. But he had sworn oaths. And it couldn’t all be for nothing. Not for nothing.

  “No, Tom.” Draig could see it too. Saw there was no way back. Only forwards.


  “I’m sorry.” He was. He truly was.

  “Do not this thing.”

  “I have to.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve foreseen it.” The figure in black. The battle to be fought.

  “But the fay,” Katharine said.

  “I know.”

  “Then why do this?” Draig hefted his blades. Shifted his balance. He knew the words were pointless. He was delaying. Waiting for his moment.

  So Tom hefted Caledyr too. Let the sword speak to his limbs. Tell his feet where to be. “Because I can’t let everything we’ve done and suffered be for their pleasure. And I made some promises.” He looked at Katharine. “I have to do something good.”

  She looked wounded, placed a hand on her stomach like she’d been gutted. “You did.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “We have to free the dragons, at least.”

  “Enough.” Draig pointed a sword at him. “Step from the monolith.”

  Dank snaked his way between sarcophagi, retreating to the wall. But Tom didn’t move. “No.”

  “Will you free the fay. Make Tir suffer.”

  “This isn’t about the fay.”

  “No. Do you serve them.”

  Before Tom could deny it, Idris said, “If the dragons are freed, we will lose our hold on Tir,”

  “Yes.”

  “There will be fighting. Many deaths.”

  “There will.”

  “You said the fay would hurt people. For pleasure.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can bear all of that on your conscience?”

  “Better to die a good man than live as a slaver.” And he looked to Idris, to apologise, to accuse, to ask for something, he wasn’t sure. But before he could think, the sword thought for him.

  Duck.

  Roll.

  Up.

  Fight.

  He was on the balls of his feet, Caledyr in his hands, only now aware a sword had cut through the air over his head. Draig was coming for him, swords up.

  The battle with the figure in black.

  He swung, Draig caught the blow. Didn’t even blink when Caledyr notched his blade. Just twisted his sword free and swung again.

  Duck.

  Parry.

  The elf was quick.

  Block.

  Slice.

  Tom could barely catch his breath.

  Sidestep.

  But he was too slow and caught a boot to the midriff, staggered back against a sarcophagus, an old elf’s face jabbed into his wounded back.

  And Draig reassumed his defence. Calm. Confident. Unmoved. Like a mountain under the onslaught of a gentle spring breeze.

  While Tom stood exhausted, bloodied and bruised, with no skill and only the sword to rely on.

  The thought wormed its way from the pommel, up his arm, whispering like a Faerie mockery that echoed what was already in his mind:

  You cannot best him.

  Chapter 23

  Draig’s attack was smooth. Fluid. There was no thinking, just action. But Tom had to feel Caledyr’s instruction, think about it, execute it.

  Parry.

  Block.

  Dodge.

  Retreat.

  Draig’s blades crashed against Caledyr, notched again and again. And behind each attack was another. As if he was thinking three moves ahead.

  Sidestep.

  Tom stepped away from a kick, slapped aside a thrust. Keeping the elf at bay. Perhaps he could do this. After all, Draig had taught him. Shown Tom his style, his tricks and his moves. And Caledyr had helped him defeat many foes. Draig was just one more.

  Jab.

  Already Draig had learnt not to engage Caledyr’s edge, flipped aside the sword with the flat of his blades.

  Swing.

  Tom cut up, to split the elf’s jaw, but he ghosted away.

  A step, a twist, a gliding sidestep to avoid Draig’s thrust.

  Chop.

  An overhead cut to disable that blade, hard, with all his weight behind it. It didn’t pass all the way through Draig’s weapon. But almost. Draig’s smug expression was troubled by the ghost of a frown and Tom let himself smile.

  Back.

  Too slow. He grunted as Draig elbowed his head. He managed to keep his feet, but Draig used the moment to slip away.

  Tom almost shut his eyes as he ignored an overhead chop, stepping inside the swing.

  Elbow.

  He drove up into Draig’s ribs, elicited a gratifying grunt.

  Down.

  He dropped to his knees, away from a sword pommel aimed at his head.

  Roll.

  Up.

  Slice.

  He copied Caledyr’s instructions as best he could, but the slice caught only fabric. Draig stepped away from the attack with a frustrated sound, as if Tom was an irritating insect.

  Tom’s breath came faster. The room felt warmer. He was sweating. But Draig showed no signs of exertion at all.

  “Your fighting, it is better. You teach him now, Brega?”

  Don’t look.

  But he glanced at her without meaning to.

  Parry.

  He raised the sword blind, a blow rang down his arms.

  Deflect.

  He slapped aside a thrust.

  Turn.

  Draig swung his blade through a florid figure-of-eight.

  Turn.

  Pain ripped through his flank. Draig’s distraction had worked. Tom wasn’t impaled, thanks to Caledyr. But he was bleeding, and not a little.

  You cannot best him.

  It wasn’t the sword’s thought anymore. It was his own. He couldn’t beat Draig. Not even with Caledyr’s help.

  Parry.

  Feint.

  Swing.

  He obeyed as best he could. But his mind was crowded with sensations. Wounds, fresh and old. The burn in his lungs. The ring of a hundred blows in his arms. And each one brought Draig closer to winning. They both knew it. It was only a matter of time until Draig killed him.

  Tom’s chest tightened. Draig had put him in a rat pit. Tried to take Caledyr. Now Draig tried to kill him.

  Yes. Anger. Thrust.

  An furious thrust forward, stronger, one that quirked Draig’s eyebrows.

  Step. Chop.

  He swung to split the elf’s chest.

  Twist. Swing.

  Tom let out a laugh as Caledyr sliced clean through one of Draig’s swords. Steel clattered to the stone floor and Tom couldn’t help but bring Caledyr back to guard with a flourish. Draig took a few quick steps back, staring at his severed blade.

  “That sword. It is impressive.”

  Despite his burning lungs, Tom forced himself to speak in calm, even tones. “It was Emyr’s.”

  “The blade of Angau.” It was less than a murmur. He looked from Tom to the blade. “The strength of the old king himself.” There was a thought blooming in the elf’s mind. Tom didn’t like to think what it was.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Tom said.

  “You left me to die.”

  “You left us to rot.”

  Draig considered his severed sword. “The trust I had for you, you could have shown for me.”

  “Trust me now,” Tom said. He lowered Caledyr, ignored the sword’s protests. “I do not serve the fay.”

  But Draig grimaced and said, “You lie with the truth.”

  Parry.

  Tom realised his mistake as Draig swung: now the elf had an intact blade to engage Caledyr, and a severed sword for quick jabs under his guard. Draig pushed him back, chased him around the room. Tom spared a glance for the monolith, cold, dark and empty. Could he make it? Not if he didn’t want his guts coiled around Western steel. He needed to defeat Draig first.

  You cannot best him.

  No. Find that anger. Here was the elf who deserved it. Use the rage and the helplessness and the fear. Bring him to his knees. Make him feel what you felt.

  The morning was gone in an instant, replaced
with darkness and gloom, a musty, old, neglected smell, and Ambrose’s hand on a dark, veined doorway.

  “He is not the enemy,” the old man was saying. “His mind has been taken from him. He cannot recognise friend from foe.”

  Tom blinked against the returning light, expected to feel a blade in his chest.

  Instead he fought, smooth, quick, certain. Fighting better than he ever had. His hands and feet and arms controlled by another.

  Then the pain and the discomfort and the fear came back and he stumbled.

  Let go.

  No.

  But he knew the sword was right. He lost the edge when he took control. He was sore and tired and afraid.

  Calmness of the soul until death. Calmness of the soul until death

  He tried to surrender to the sword. But there was just too much. Too much fear, too much urgency, too much at stake. He couldn’t forget it all. And he was tired. So tired. He allowed himself a glance at Katharine, saw her terror. He had put her through so much. Would she be better off if he just gave up now?

  The sword trawled his memories. The family in Coemyn. Barnaby in Aeryie. Hullworth. Dukes Ria and Regent. The dispossessed in the Harbour. The crowd he’d screamed at in Heulomar. The dragons in Tartos Valley. And Emyr. Lying on his bier, waiting for Tom to do what he could not. Save all those people. And all the other innocents in Tir.

  He had a responsibility to them. Unlooked for. Unasked for. But his, all the same.

  Calmness of the soul until death.

  He pushed aside sensation and thought and hurt. He cleared his mind to the sword.

  Regroup.

  But he didn’t have the space or the time.

  Twist and thrust. Stairs.

  He obeyed, lunged, forced Draig back, gained the briefest moment. Yes, there were stairs. A narrow staircase, almost hidden in the wall. Draig would struggle to bring his blades to bear in there. The sword was right. He could regroup. Gather his strength. Rest just a moment. Attack again.

  You cannot best him.

  But Tom pushed the thought aside, wove amongst the dead stone elfs towards the stairs. He was dimly aware of Idris protesting. But he couldn’t spare his attention for anything but Draig’s swords. Block. Duck. Swing. Feint. Retreat.

  He felt the first stair with his heel and nearly danced up them. The walls were almost too narrow for Draig; he paused, measured Tom for a moment, appreciating his plan. Then he twisted his shoulders and began to climb.