The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  "Hawne." Tree’s voice was low, soft, and all the more threatening for it. "See to the distribution of the food."

  "Didn’t you hear them, Tree?" Now she did smile, a brilliant smile that transformed her sharp, angry face. "They can show us the way home."

  "I won’t repeat myself."

  The smile faded, and the angry young woman returned. "And I won’t be given orders by a money counter."

  "We are no longer what we were," he chided her. "Prince and pauper are all one here. Now." He bent at the waist, arms still folded, bringing his face down to her level. It was an oddly intimidating gesture, designed to highlight his height over her. "Go."

  She stared right back at him for a moment. Then something in her resolve seemed to crack, and through the crack shone a flicker of realisation and sorrow and loss. Her shoulders slumped and she walked away with the trudge of someone who has lost everything and knew there was no getting it back. Tom brushed a finger against Katharine’s hand and she stirred but didn’t wake.

  “And you, Thomas Rymour, should be careful who you say such things to." Tree had straightened, looming over Tom as if his height was more intimidating than dragons and fay.

  Emyr placed himself between Tom and Tree, equally undaunted by the other man’s height. He placed a hand on Caledyr’s pommel and said, “You will speak courteously to my people.”

  But Tree just snorted. “Will I indeed?”

  Emyr said nothing, his answer lying in his planted feet and his ready sword arm. It gave Tom a thrill to see Emyr, King Emyr of Tir, stood before a foe and defending his people. It was what Tom had been waiting to see since they’d rescued the old king from Faerie.

  Tree took a breath, let it out through his nose. Like an animal. It was so deliberate a gesture that it was almost comical. “Tell your people not to excite mine. You don’t know how much better you have it here.”

  Better? Was he serious? The people here lived like beasts, without a roof over their heads, scratching for scraps. They were eking out an existence, not a life. “Your people?” Emyr nodded towards Esyllt. “Do you rule here?”

  “Royalty?” Tree’s lips quirked. “They don’t always have the clearest heads." He placed his hands on his hips, displaying himself and his strength. "We are all better off here. In time, you might come to agree with me. If," he added, "nothing happens to you."

  "I won’t let you keep us here," Emyr told him. “We deserve to be free. As do the people living here."

  Tree smiled. "You set yourself in opposition to me?” There was both amusement and danger in that rumbling question.

  But if Emyr recognised the threat, he didn’t acknowledge it. Just said, ”These people deserve to go home."

  Tree was fast. One moment he was nodding. The next, he threw a cracking blow to the side of Emyr’s head that sent the old king to the ground and Tom was shocked, frozen, aghast that someone would dare strike Emyr, then he surged to his feet, but there were others, a sudden mob of humans, elfs and dwarfs ready to fight for Tree and Emyr was shouting, “No, stay back, stop,” even as Tree lifted him by the belt, no, he was taking the sword, stop him, retrieve the sword, but Draig was holding Tom back, no, let me go, let me go.

  Tree dropped Emyr back to the ground and held Caledyr across his shoulders. "You are in my place now," Tree told them. "You do as I say. Or you will suffer.”

  Emyr was on his hands and knees, head bowed, holding up a hand to stay Tom and the others. But Tree couldn’t be permitted to strike Emyr, and he couldn’t be allowed to take the sword. Retrieve the sword. Retrieve it. Tom struggled against Draig’s grip, but the elf was too strong. And Tree just smiled, laughing at Tom’s weakness, at his own ability to knock down a king and steal a sword. “I’ll kill you,” Tom growled.

  But Tree just shrugged, as if such threats were commonplace. ”Make yourselves a fire," he said. "Eat what you are given. Do not give me cause to hurt you again, and you will be happy." Then he turned his back, without concern or fear of retribution, and walked away.

  The others lit a fire, presumably for comfort as the air was already warm. Tom didn’t help. He was filled with a restless rage, pacing between Katharine and Emyr and failing to offer comfort to either.

  Tree had struck Emyr and taken the sword. As if he was king. As if he deserved it.

  Retrieve the sword. His hands twitched at the thought of taking it from Tree right now.

  Emyr hadn’t moved, still on his hands and knees, but Mennvinn waved him towards the little fire. "I need him sitting,” she said, unrolling her tiny tools and trinkets.

  “I might vomit.” Emyr looked pale and unsteady.

  "Then face away from me."

  Tom helped Emyr crawl over to a rock and sit, and the old king let his head hang between his knees. He let out a low groan as Mennvinn parted his hair and examined his scalp. "A nasty gash," she proclaimed, pulling needle and thread from her set of tools. "No more than that."

  "Did you see his hand?" Kunnustenn said.

  “Is it hurt?” Tom demanded, snatching at Emyr’s hands.

  ”He means Tree’s hand,” Mennvinn replied. "He broke his knuckles."

  "Needs a one-way ticket to the madhouse, that one," Jarnstenn said.

  Mennvinn patted Emyr’s back. "Don’t sleep," she told him. "Not yet."

  Emyr didn’t move, just nodded. His hands were trembling. Tom felt sick to see him like this. To know he hadn’t done anything to stop it. He spoke his thought aloud: “We outnumber him.”

  "He’s right," Jarnstenn growled. "We could have had him."

  “No,” said Emyr.

  Tom couldn’t help himself. “No?”

  Emyr pointed a shaking finger up to the largest fire. “Look,” he told them. “We could not have won that way. You saw the crowd ready to back Tree. And we are few that can fight. Plenty of us have neither the training or the bodies for combat.”

  "So he gets away with it?" Tom growled. He knelt beside Emyr, searching his face for a secret, a plan. How could he give up so easily?

  But he hadn’t. “No,” he said, clear and angry and ready for a fight. He opened his eyes and met Tom’s glare with a fire of his own. "Six has Esyllt’s ear. Hawne knows we can show everyone here the way back."

  "So we wait until everyone else comes to us?" Gravinn nodded. "They won’t follow him when they know the way home."

  "They’ll follow him." But Emyr held Tom’s gaze as he spoke. Pointed again and said, "Look."

  Tom followed the old king’s finger, taking in fire after fire and the people who sat around them. "Do you see it, son?" Emyr asked him.

  Tom saw it. The big fire wasn’t in the centre of the clearing. It was at the far end. Those who sat around it, and around the fires nearest, were young and strong. They strutted, confident of their place in things. But as the fires grew farther away from the head, the people around them grew older, or weaker, or bore the bruises and the limps of a fight gone badly.

  “It’s a hierarchy," Tom muttered. “Based on strength. Tree rules this place because he fought his way to the top. And anyone who depends on Tree for their own position will support him. Otherwise they’ll end up here.” He looked at their tiny fire. “At the bottom of the pile.”

  “So someone has to best Tree?" Katharine asked.

  There was a surprising ferocity in Emyr’s voice as he corrected her. ”Someone has to beat him.”

  "Who?"

  The old king simply reached up and clapped Tom on the shoulder.

  Tom wanted to. His limbs twitched with the urge to beat Tree, to take back the sword. But, "Draig is the better fighter."

  "Is he?"

  "He bested me in Cairnagwyn."

  "Ah." Emyr nodded. "Which is why the dragons aren’t free."

  "That’s different."

  "No, it isn’t." Emyr lifted his head and took a steadying breath. Blood was drying in his greying hair. "Winning a fight only means achieving the goal you set out with." It sounded like he was quoting someone,
and he smiled a wistful smile.

  Tom shook his head. I can’t fight him, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Because he knew he could fight Tree. He just couldn’t win. "He has Caledyr."

  "He’ll find it less of an advantage than you might think." Emyr’s smile grew broader. "Trust me."

  "So what do we do about that?" Jarnstenn waved towards the wagon, which the people of Tirend were unloading, handing out blankets and food and weapons.

  Emyr watched for a moment. "We can’t stop them until Tom has beaten Tree," he mused.

  "He’s in no shape to beat anyone," Jarnstenn replied.

  “Could I train him," Draig suggested.

  “They’ll have eaten everything by the time he’s ready."

  Tom ignored the insult. A far more frightening thought had occurred to him. “And I don’t think it’s safe for us here.” He turned to Dank and added, “Am I right?”

  The boy just nodded. "We shouldn’t stay."

  "Why not?" Katharine asked, dread running through her words.

  "It’s linked to Faerie, isn’t it?" Tom asked. He peered at the boy, and saw he was right. "A part of Faerie that sits within Tir. Like Nimuë’s place."

  It was Ambrose who said, "Just so," with a bitterness that surprised Tom. Did the old sorcerer regret coming here? Or leaving his merrow gaoler? "While we are here, the fay know where we are."

  Dank was hiding his fear well. But Tom could see it in his eyes all the same. “They could come for us at any time,” the boy said.

  As if this journey hadn’t been difficult enough. "Then we need to leave now." Tom pushed himself to his feet, trying to fuel himself with the rage he’d felt moments ago. But it was sapped and weakened by fear. "Draig, you’re the best fighter; you’ll have to fight Tree.” But that wasn’t enough; the fay could snatch Katharine away in a heartbeat. “I’ll speak to the fay and convince them to leave us be."

  "How will you do that?" Katharine’s voice was heavy with reproach.

  "I’ll point out how interesting it will be to watch us try to escape." Entertainment. It was the weak point of any fay.

  "They’ll only come for us after we leave," Gravinn pointed out.

  She was right. They all knew she was. But what else could they do? "We’ll deal with that if it happens," was all he could say. It was an answer that made no-one happy. But there were no easy answers here. No simple paths.

  Katharine touched his arm, squeezed it. "I don’t want you to talk to them," she said. Barely more than a murmur, as if she didn’t want the others to hear.

  But they did. "Could I talk to them," Draig said. "They owe me a boon."

  Yes. They could use Draig’s boon to demand their safety from a Faerie attack. In fact, why not extort from them an oath to leave Tir forever?

  Because a Faerie boon was a sword with two edges. But no blade could seriously harm a fay save Caledyr, whereas a mortal cut was a mortal wounded. "A boon is a dangerous thing," Tom said. “We should only use it if we have no other choice."

  The others seemed unconvinced. But Tom knew he was right. They had so few weapons to use against the fay. There was no sense in wasting one when there was an alternative available.

  "You should fight Tree, Tom," Emyr said, voice low and encouraging.

  Why? Because he saw in Tom the same potential he’d seen in his son? ”I’m not Amyr," Tom replied. “I won’t see my friends hurt for putting their faith in the wrong person.”

  The words came out harder than he’d intended. But it was true. Amyr had made poor choices. And Emyr was making one too, if he thought Tom was the man for this task. It was for the legendary king to battle the evil. Not a simple man like Thomas Rymour. So Tom let his words hang in the air and began walking towards the wagon. Tried not to feel the eyes on his back. The disappointment he’d seen in them. Well, let Emyr be disappointed. He needed to realise that Thomas Rymour wasn’t a great warrior or a respected leader. He was just Tom. All that mattered to him was keeping Katharine alive.

  "They look to you." Dank had followed him, unnoticed until he spoke. The boy was thoughtful, but there was an air of anticipation about him, too.

  "I don’t know why," Tom replied.

  "Neither do we." Dank didn’t seem to realise that his words were offensive, and Tom couldn’t help but smile. "But you make difficult choices. And you fight for those choices."

  What was it Six had said? When was the last time you took the hard road? "Not everyone would agree with you."

  Dank shrugged. "It's easy to agree with me. I don't make any choices."

  But that wasn't true; Tom could see that Dank was building to a decision, finding the courage to speak its name. So Tom said nothing and let silence pull the words from Dank.

  “You’re going to talk to my sprite."

  There was an unspoken question beneath Dank's words, and Tom wasn't surprised by it. Although the boy seemed to have turned his back on the fay, it was harder to pry free talons that had been so long embedded in your heart; too often, they remained ready to squeeze when you least expected it.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t be talking to the sprite either.

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to see it.” Tom picked his words carefully. Despite travelling together for months, there was so much he didn’t know about Dank. How would he react to this refusal?

  But the boy nodded. “I’m not sure it is, either.” He caught Tom’s eye and added, “Will you tell her that I miss her?” And, as Tom was wondering if that wasn’t also a bad idea, he added, “You understand.”

  It felt like Dank saw him all too well in that moment, and Tom felt naked and raw under his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, to say anything that would send the boy away, but what?

  And before he could decide, Hawne was stood in their path. “The wagon is ours,” she told them. “You’ll be given a share.”

  Tom ignored the spark of anger that wrapped itself around his chest. "We just want a jar."

  "And I want to go home." Her expression was hard. But Tom thought he could see hope buried beneath the mask. "We don’t always get what we want."

  ”I wanted to see everyone here returned to their homes,” he told her. “But Tree has threatened us.”

  Hawne searched his face for signs of deception. He might have been taller than her, but she seemed to look down on him. Definitely nobility of some kind. "Tree isn’t easily bridled." Her tone said she spoke from experience.

  "So I gathered," Tom replied. "He doesn’t seem to respect Esyllt."

  "Or anyone else." Hawne cast a glance about her, as if concerned about eavesdroppers. “Esyllt is nothing more than a figurehead. Tree ruled this place with fist and fear before she arrived. He rules that way still." Her jaw grew tight and her eyes hard as she spoke. "He’s nothing but a minter from Tanabawr. He pours metal into moulds to make coins." She rubbed her fingers together with disdain. "But here, he is a king. He won’t leave, or allow anyone else to. He’d rather sit on a throne of our rotting limbs than see us prosper without him."

  There was righteous anger in her words, and it was clear Hawne thought she should be ruling this place. Not Tree. Not Esyllt. But perhaps her ambition could be ally enough to earn their freedom. "Would you stand with us against Tree?" Tom asked, voice low.

  Her lips quirked into a cruel smile and she nodded towards the others. "You think you’ll fare better a second time?"

  Tom couldn’t help but glance back at Emyr, visibly beaten if not grievously injured. “Not me,” he said. “I’m no warrior."

  Hawne tipped her head. "You have the bearing of one."

  "Perhaps it was you that hit your head."

  “I saw you astride your horse. You ride tall and ready. And you have the stride of a man ready to fight."

  Fight. It was an echo of Caledyr’s refrain, a memory of it in his mind. "I have had to fight," he admitted. "More than I’d like."

  Her expression warmed, as if he’d passed some kind of test. "Such is the refrain of eve
ry warrior." She gestured to the wagon. "Find your jar and some food for your friends."

  Tom nodded. "And will you stand with us?"

  "Do you need me to?"

  The twilight faded, and Tom saw an old woman behind bars and wreathed in shadows. It was almost too dark to see the tattoo on her wrinkled cheek, a line swirling in an ever-decreasing circle. "Only a fool spurns an ally," she told him.

  The foresight faded and Hawne was watching him with a slight frown, waiting her response.

  "Only a fool spurns an ally," Tom parroted, but in his mind he still saw the old woman. He recognised her from Cairnalyr. She’d been amongst those they’d freed from the rat pits.

  "Then you shall have one in me," Hawne said, and he was almost too distracted to smile and nod, and too slow to shy away when her hand darted out and snatched at his wrist. He barely had the wit to clasp her wrist too before she released him and waved him away. "Find your jar," she said, then raised her voice for the benefit of others and added, "Just don’t bother me again."

  People were clambering all over the wagon, talking about using it for firewood or making tents from the canvas. Tom and Dank had to push past those helping themselves to weapons, food, and Jarnstenn’s beer. But the jar was just where Tom had left it, tucked amongst crates that hadn’t been reached yet. Tom slipped some food to Dank and sent him back to the others, then slipped away amongst the few remaining trees and pulled the rags free of the jar.

  The sprite was cowering from the touch of the stone he'd put in there with it. It wouldn’t even look at him. "I just want to talk," Tom said. "Please." He turned the jar around and around, but the sprite turned again and again to keep its back to him. What did that mean? It was angry, upset, hurt? Did that mean the fay would come or not? "Just tell me if we’re in danger.”

  He jumped as a voice murmured in his ear, "More than you know."

  One hand grasped for a sword that wasn’t there, the other stretched out to keep the intruder at bay as he stepped away and turned, gaining space and finding his footing.

  Glastyn stood there with a grin on his face. The fay had come for them already.