The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

Tom dreamt of Glastyn. The two of them were sat at a small table, each with a glass of wine in their hands.

  "This is your final moment," Glastyn was saying, and then Tom was in the dark and the cold. Glastyn was gone, and someone was crying. He was holding Katharine’s hand, but her hand was slack in his. "Be strong, just for a little while," he begged her. "Come back. Please."

  Then something had hold of Tom’s arm and was pulling him and he woke with a start and an incoherent cry, snatching back his arm and reaching for Caledyr.

  "Peace, sir." A dwarf, who was she? The memory came back slowly. Mennvinn. Dorstenn’s assistant. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

  "Then you should have woken me gently." He sounded surly even to his own ears. But what way was that to wake someone?

  "Your friend," she reminded him, and he felt guilty. He’d slept while Emyr’s life hung in the balance. "He needs blood."

  He nodded. "Very well." He took a deeper breath, tried to clear the fog of sleep from his thoughts. "What do you need me to do?"

  "Sit here." She lead him to a pile of iron slates. "Roll up the sleeve on the arm you favour least."

  He did as he was told and she tied a length of cloth tightly around his upper arm. Dorstenn was muttering to himself, his hands full of strange tools that poked in and out of Emyr’s gut. "This," Dorstenn muttered as he worked, "is quite the mess."

  The words blew on an ember of anger Tom had thought himself too tired to feel. "That mess is my king."

  "Indeed." There was a greedy look in Dorstenn’s eyes. "May I ask how he procured such an injury?"

  "In battle."

  "Battle? Curious." He grunted as he reached deep into Emyr’s gut, looking at the ceiling as he felt for something. "Your friend picked his opponents well."

  "What do you mean?" Tom asked as Mennvinn brought over a glass jar and some thin tubes.

  "I mean only that this wound looks worse than it truly is." He grunted, satisfied, and withdrew his bloody hand. "The blade that cut him was sharp, but it left every major organ unscathed. Whoever wrought this wound wanted to cause pain and immobility; not death."

  Melwas had hounded Emyr throughout his reign, made every effort to steal his queen, harried his kingdom from coast to coast, before finally fighting him to a stand-still and gutting him on the battlefield. The idea that Melwas hadn't wanted Emyr to die made little sense.

  But then why had the Melwas allowed Emyr into Faerie, if he hadn't wanted him to live?

  It was all too complicated.

  "Hold still," Mennvinn told him, and interrupted his thoughts by pushing a needle into his arm.

  Fight?

  No, he told the sword. But he’d jumped and Mennvinn had stepped back. "My apologies," she said. She waited a moment, watching him as if he were a wild horse or angry dog. She didn’t move until he nodded, and then she swiftly connected the needle to the glass jar with a thin tube and began to turn a handle that caused his life blood to ooze down the tube and into the jar.

  "How sick will I become?" he asked. He felt a coward for asking it while Emyr lay on the brink of death. But he had to know how strong he would, or wouldn’t, be.

  "We won’t take too much," Menvinn replied. She didn't stop turning the handle but watched the tube and the jar and the needle in his arm; she didn't make eye contact. "You might feel a little tired. Nothing worse."

  "But my elements." Now she looked up at him, a frown on her face. "The elements of the body. The humours," he explained. "Fire, water, earth, air and void."

  She gave him an indulgent smile, like he was a child. "What about them?"

  "They won't be balanced." It was what had made him sick when he left Faerie. An imbalance in the elements of the body.

  "Don't worry," she told him. "You won't get sick. I promise."

  He wanted to believe her. But she was laughing at his concerns. It made him question what she knew about healing. But he was too tired to argue. Perhaps he would get sick. But Emyr would live. And Tom knew he could rely on Six to make sure Katharine and her child were safe. So he closed his eyes and let Mennvinn drain his life blood, and listened to Dorstenn mutter to himself in dwarfish.

  Finally Menvinn said something in the same language, stopped turning the handle, and slipped the needle from his arm. Blood began to pool in the crook of his elbow and she gave him a piece of cloth and said, "Hold that there." She wheeled the trolley over to Emyr’s side, connected a different tube to the wounded king and worked a different handle, encouraging the blood into his arm instead.

  "What do we do?" Tom asked.

  "You can go," Menvinn said. "But not far. In case we need more blood."

  "Eat something," Dorstenn added. "Drink fluids. Nothing strong."

  And then they turned all their attention onto Emyr. Tom was dismissed. If he had been tired before, now he felt like his limbs were made of straw, ready to fold beneath him in a moment. Did he feel emptier? Hollow, like a husk? The thought itched at the back of his mind, so he stilled it by putting a finger to his wrist. His blood moved beneath his skin. He pushed himself to his feet, turned to Ambrose, still stood in his corner.

  "Go," he told Tom. "I need neither food nor rest."

  Tom believed him and that gave him a chill. What had the old sorcerer done to himself? But he shook his head. "Come," he told him. At his questioning look, he just shook his head. So much talking. He was tired of so much talking. "Come," he repeated.

  Ambrose stared at him for a long moment before beginning his shuffling step, winding through the cellar towards the stairs, which were narrow and shallow; climbing them left Tom’s legs aching more than they should.

  The shop upstairs was as cramped as the cellar, each room filled with people trying to find a space amongst the wares. Katharine was in earnest conversation with the owner, and Tom went to her first.

  "Are you well?" he asked.

  She smiled up at him; while the dwarf sat on a stool, she was sat on the floor with her back to the wall and her legs awkwardly spread and bent. Her Western shawl covered her belly, but her posture told Tom she was probably showing by now. How long had she carried this child in silence?

  Not silence, he realised. Six was nearby, in heated conversation with the dwarf called Jarnstenn. But, despite how excited the pair were about the device they were talking about, Six cast a glance towards Katharine every now and then.

  He knew. Six knew that Katharine was pregnant and hadn’t said a word. Tom wasn’t sure if he was proud of Six for keeping her secret, or angry with them both for keeping that secret from him.

  Fight?

  "Tired." Katharine’s response brought him back to the moment and away from Caledyr’s question. Priorities.

  "Here." He offered his hand, which she took with a frown before making a sound of protest as he lifted her to her feet. "You shouldn’t be sitting on the floor. Master dwarf, is there anywhere more comfortable she could rest?"

  He looked put out, and said something in dwarfish to her. She responded and he stood up and walked away. "He’s not happy," Katharine told him. "If we weren’t promising him so much money, he’d have called the constabulary by now."

  "Is it going to be a problem?"

  She took a deep breath and sighed it out. He didn’t like how she had to crouch beneath these low ceilings. "He might decide the money isn’t worth the trouble."

  Tom sighed too. He’d hoped they could rest here for a time. But why shouldn’t the dwarf be upset? Strangers had occupied his shop, taken his livelihood prisoner with promise of money, yet he had no coin in his hand.

  "What’s our plan?" Katharine asked him.

  "I don’t know," he admitted. He looked at the shawl veiling her belly. "I had an idea. Now everything’s changed."

  "We should get everyone together and figure out our next steps."

  "No," he murmured. They were already stood close, hunkered underneath the dwarfish ceiling, but he closed the gap and touched her elbow. "We need our own plan now."

&n
bsp; She smiled. It was a kind smile, but she was laughing at him. "Are you planning to whisk me away, Thomas Rymour?"

  Was that so funny? "Maybe."

  She put a hand over his. "How far will we get after what you did in Faerie?"

  He knew how the fay thought. They preferred the towns and cities, filled with the mortals on whom they loved to play their pranks. So he would find somewhere remote, somewhere isolated where he and Katharine could live in peace.

  And what sort of life would that be for their daughter? Always afraid of people. Never seeing anything but whatever hut or cave they cowered in.

  What kind of foe is defeated by running from it?

  "You said we would stop the fay," Katharine reminded him. "That’s the only way we can keep her safe." She still smiled. But she was scared. Terrified.

  He touched her cheek. "I’ll do anything," he promised her. "I’ll stand between you and any harm."

  Her gaze flicked, just for a moment, to the sword at his hip. He’d hurt her for that sword. It had wormed its way into his thoughts. He had told her that he’d stop carrying it, but it still sat on his hip.

  "I’ll give it to Emyr," he told her. But she bit her lip, torn between some private decision. Of course. She’d seen what it had done to Melwas. She’d want that kind of weapon nearby. "You take it," he told her, releasing her hand and reaching for the scabbard.

  "No." Her response was quick and sharp. "No," she said again, with less of an edge. "Just don’t let it think for you."

  The sword will think for you, Nimue had said. And the old man lies.

  But Tom knew he needed both Ambrose and the sword to find a way out of this. Because Katharine was right. They couldn’t run. They had to fight. So he turned to Six, who was watching the two of them intently. "Fetch the others," Tom told him. "We need to make a plan."

  Chapter 3

  The largest room was at the front of the shop, and the old smith went red in the face when he found Tom and Draig clearing the great table in the middle of the room. Katharine said something in dwarfish that sent him stamping up the stairs, leaving everyone hunkered in a circle around the cleared table.

  Dank was the first to speak. "They’ll come for us." He was blunt and afraid. Tom could see their doom in his eyes. "They won’t stop looking, they won’t get tired or bored. They’ll roast us over fires and flay our bodies and pull us apart and we won’t die because nothing dies in Faerie so they’ll put us back together and start all over again and again and again."

  He ran out of breath and no-one filled the silence.

  "He’s right," Tom said.

  More silence.

  "Well," said Six. "I certainly feel motivated."

  "It’s important that everyone understands," Tom told him. "We can’t hide. We can’t leave. Our only option is to fight."

  Fight.

  "Couldn’t we live out our days in a nice iron bunker?" Six asked.

  "Iron only hurts them," Dank replied. "They’ll suffer the pain if they want something enough." His eyes were wide, like a panicked rabbit’s. Time to dial back the doom and gloom.

  "We have Caledyr," Tom reminded them.

  "It won’t be enough," Dank replied.

  "No. It won’t," he agreed. "So tell us about the glarn."

  Dank blinked. "The glarn?" His tone was careful, controlled, giving nothing away.

  But Tom was too tired to play games. "You’ve been lying to us all, Dank. And the fay have promised you pain and torture in return. Do you really want to keep lying for them?"

  Dank lowered his gaze. "You know what they would have done to us if we hadn’t done as they asked."

  How long had the boy been bonded to the fay, how many times had they used him, pushed and pulled him like a plaything. Tom could imagine what that was like. For a moment, he felt Mab’s embrace on the hill. "You can be free of them," he told Dank, and maybe told himself too.

  Dank wanted to speak. But he was too afraid. And perhaps with good reason. He had shared a mind with the fay. He knew exactly what they would do to someone who revealed their secrets.

  So it was Ambrose who said, "Everything hinges on the glarn." He drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if it would be his last. "It is your only hope for success."

  "What are they?" Tom asked.

  "The elements given form," Ambrose replied. "Fire. Water. Earth. Air."

  "Where do we find them?" Six asked.

  "You have one." Ambrose’s gaze fell on Caledyr. "Water."

  "How is Caledyr being water?" Draig asked.

  The sound of excited whispering came from outside the room.

  "It came from water. To water it will return." Ambrose spoke as if he was reciting something. It didn’t convince many faces. But it was Six who asked, "What are the others?"

  "There is one in the mountains," Ambrose replied. "Orlannu. The trap."

  "Sounds ominous," Six said.

  The whispering grew to murmuring.

  "And the rest?" Tom asked.

  Ambrose’s gaze fell and he seemed to shrink a little within his robes. "I don’t know."

  The silence was ruined by the unseen discussion growing in volume.

  "You don’t know." Six’s words were an inch from hopelessness, and Tom hated how they echoed with something inside himself.

  "Can we stop the fay with two?" Tom asked. "Will Caledyr and Orlannu be enough?"

  "No," said Dank. He was slouched, his shoulders slumped, resigned to his fate. "You need all four glarn. That much we know."

  All four. And with all of Ambrose’s wisdom, they knew of two. "Do you know what the other two are, Dank?" Tom asked.

  "You think the fay would tell us?"

  It was a fair point.

  "Is this madness," Draig said. "Do you ask us to find two objects in the whole of Tir. Could they be anywhere!"

  "He’s right," Tom said. He looked at Katharine as he said. "I can’t believe this is our only hope of escaping the fay."

  "Yet you must believe it," Ambrose said. He caught Tom’s eye with his dark gaze and said, "You will."

  The words had a weight that settled in the room. They felt like a burden on Tom’s shoulders. "You’ve foreseen it," he said. It wasn’t a question. But Ambrose nodded once. So. There was no discussion. That, at least, was a relief. It would happen.

  Katharine’s hand would grow weaker in his.

  No. He wouldn’t allow it.

  "It isn’t enough," he told Ambrose. "You can’t ask me to hang everything on such a slim hope."

  "I do not ask."

  He was offering them so little. Tom had expected more. He had expected someone with perfect foresight to offer more certainty. More hope. "Will we succeed?" he asked.

  Ambrose was very still as he said, "I do not know."

  Which could mean only one thing. It wasn’t the first time Tom had looked at someone and known they would die. But this was different. He felt detached from it, too worried about Katharine and the child she carried to properly feel the certainty of Ambrose’s death. Instead, he could only think about how Ambrose’s fate meant that their own was just as uncertain, and he felt ashamed of that even as he feared for Katharine.

  Her hand grew weaker in his.

  "Can you at least tell us where to start?" Six asked.

  "I can. But I do not."

  "Then why did you come here?" Tom snapped."Why come all this way if you aren’t going to help us?"

  It was cruel. To answer the revelation of Ambrose’s death with harsh words. And Tom knew he wasn’t angry. He was scared. If Katharine died, the child would die too.

  But if Ambrose felt any sting from Tom’s words, he didn’t show it. He just blinked once and said, "It is Kunnustenn who tells you."

  Kunnustenn? It was only when a dwarf popped his head into the room that Tom even remembered the vagrant. He was followed by the other dwarf, Jarnstenn, who pushed Kunnustenn back and said, "No, no. He ain’t getting into your malarkey."

  "But Jarn, Caledyr. O
rlannu. Don’t you see, it’s all true?"

  "True as my breeches are made of gold, Kun." Jarnstenn placed himself in Kunnustenn's path, ushering him out of the room. "Don’t be getting seduced by tall tales."

  "It's true," Tom said, earning him a black look from Jarnstenn.

  "And I’m Sir Rimestenn of Tir, pleased to meet you," he said. But Kunnustenn said nothing. He wanted to believe. Tom could see it in his eyes.

  "My name is Thomas Rymour," he told them. "Does that mean anything to you?"

  "Not a thing," Jarnstenn said.

  But Kunnustenn nodded. "The stories go that Thomas Rymour was stolen into Faerie by a peskie for telling a lie. It took him a hundred years to find a way back, and since then he never again dare spoke a lie in case the peskies came for him again."

  "Not even my little niece would believe that," Jarnstenn said. "Not even children believe in peskies."

  "They're real," Tom said.

  "Bit handy that peskies can't be seen or heard, ain’t it?"

  "Believe me, Jarnstenn," Tom replied, and he put every ounce of sincerity into each word as he could manage. "They are very real. And if you can help us, please. Please help us."

  Jarnstenn glared at Tom. "There's no evidence. Nothing to see or hear or touch."

  "That's why you have to believe." Kunnustenn's words were tentative and he made no eye contact.

  "All I need to believe in is my work, my roof, and my belly." He slapped it with the palm of his hand. "Don't have to believe in Faerie tales or listen to a bedlamite." With that he stalked out of the room.

  But Kunnustenn stayed. He watched the other dwarf go, shook his head and wrung his hands. "You’ll have to forgive Jarnstenn," he told them, staring at the floor. "He isn’t a dwarf of faith. He believes only his senses." He shrugged. "I’ve studied histories all my life. They agree too much on certain things. Including the glarn. And the peskies."

  "Fay," Tom said. "They call themselves fay."

  "Fay." Kunnustenn nodded. "The term is known to me. From older texts." He lifted his gaze to Caledyr. "Those texts have another name for that sword."

  Another name? "What is it?"

  "Ymellith."

  The sword stirred, as if the thoughts Tom had felt had been nothing but mumbles in its sleep, and Tom couldn’t help but shiver.