The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  Tom didn’t feel like he had learnt anything. It felt like he was back in Cairnagwyn again. Facing a much bigger, more skillful opponent. Picking a fight he couldn’t win. Except he didn’t have Caledyr to help him.

  Fight.

  The thought was distant and unclear. Like a murmur that wasn’t directed at him.

  Tree lunged and Tom stepped away.

  Fight.

  Another lunge.

  Fight.

  Another. And Tom began to see that Tree’s lunges were clumsy, unbalanced. As if he wasn’t ready for his own attack.

  Kick.

  The blow caught Tom in the chest and sent him staggering. But Tree was off-balance too. Tom rushed forward, trying to press an advantage.

  Swing.

  Tom almost failed to duck the blow, and it left his charge blunted, weak. He collided with Tree but failed to bring him to the ground. Great arms wrapped around Tom, crushing him to the other man’s chest, trapping his arms, lifting him from his feet, which flailed and kicked but had no effect. Tree tightened his grip, crushing Tom, forcing the air from his lungs, he’d lost already.

  Headbutt.

  Tom obeyed without thought, rearing back his head. But Tree had clearly come to the same idea, and Tom had just enough time to duck before Tree’s face came hurtling at him, crashing into the top of his skull. Tom fell, dazed, staggering to keep his balance. It took him long moments to realise he was standing, free, and that Tree was staggering too, clutching his face, blood streaming from it. His nose. Tree had broken his nose.

  Charge.

  Tree was running before the thought was finished, a stumbling, unready rush towards Tom. Tom dropped to the ground and rolled into the other man’s feet, sending him sprawling. Tom didn’t need the sword to tell him what to do: press the advantage. He was on the other man’s back in a moment, landing blows to the kidneys, wrapping his fingers in Tree’s hair, slamming his bleeding face into the ground.

  "Yield," Tom demanded.

  But Tree wasn’t listening, jabbing at Tom with his elbows. So Tom threw a blow to the point Draig had mentioned, just behind the ear. It stunned Tree, but he kept moving, so Tom hit it again.

  Tree roared in pain, surged to his feet before Tom could react, sending him spilling to the ground. The other man whirled, and there was an almost silent hiss as he drew Caledyr and pointed it at Tom’s throat.

  The fight was over.

  Tree’s face was smeared with blood and mud, his hair matted across his features but failing to obscure his burning, furious gaze. His breath came heavy and snorting, like an animal. He seemed little more than a beast, and Tom almost expected the other man to fall upon him with teeth and claws. Why hadn’t he landed the final blow?

  Hold hold hold hold hold hold.

  It was the sword. Telling, not Tom, but Tree to stay his hand. Issuing a barrage of thoughts to override the man’s own.

  But it was a tactic that wouldn’t work for long.

  So Tom kicked. It wasn’t an artful blow, but it caught Tree’s wrist, knocked aside the blade just long enough for Tom to roll away and scramble to his feet. He was alive. But he had no weapon. And Caledyr couldn’t make Tree surrender.

  Chop.

  Tree swung the blade in a massive arc over his head, Tom stepped aside.

  Swing.

  Another huge arc, taking too long and giving Tom time to jump away.

  Stab.

  Tree was overreached but obeyed nonetheless, an ineffective jab that gave Tom plenty of room to step within his reach. A reach that couldn’t crush him while it held a blade. Giving Tom a chance to jab at Tree's bleeding nose, cartilage and bone crunching beneath his fists, Tree staggered, Tom landed a blow to the ribs, two blows, one to the neck. "Yield, damn you," Tom panted, but the other man refused to go down. Tom was running out of ideas.

  Steal.

  Ah. Of course. Tree held Caledyr with just one hand, the other blindly flailing to ward off Tom’s attacks. It wasn’t difficult to snatch Tree’s arm and drive his fist into the other man’s wrist once, twice, the other hand scrabbled for a hold in Tom’s hair, three times and Tom had the sword, once again he wielded the blade, and he pulled himself free from Tree’s grip, hair tearing from his scalp but it didn’t matter, he had the sword.

  "Yield, Tree.” He pointed the sword at the other man’s chest. "I don’t want to kill you."

  "Kill me?" Was it a question? A request? The eyes that stared out at him were wounded, hurt, angry but frightened. Tree’s face was already beginning to swell under the muck that covered it. "You think I will yield, take my place amongst these cattle? A calf to suck at another’s teat? I am an aurochs, Rymour. I am the wild beast that cannot be tamed."

  He was right. He wouldn’t be tamed. He would heal and raise another challenge. Esyllt and Hawne would never get these people home if Tree was with them.

  Cripple. Kill.

  No. Tom shook his head. Tree did not deserve to die. And no-one deserved to be permanently wounded.

  Tree stumbled at him, waving his fists wildly, driving Tom back, back again. The man was tenacious. It was impossible not to respect that. That kind of tenacity would be needed to fight the fay. “I am not your enemy,” Tom told him, retreating from the other man’s swings. “The fay threaten everything. You could help us stop them.”

  But Tree just spat blood and snarled. “I will eat your cursed bones.”

  Tom felt the heat of the fire at his back; Tree meant to drive him into it. Tom flicked his wrist, opened a cut in the other man’s flesh, blood dribbling down his chest. When it didn’t stop him, Tom opened up another cut, and another. When that didn’t work, he sliced the man’s thigh, dropping him to his knees.

  "Enough," Tom told him. Tree’s head was bowed, his breath ragged and hard, his body shaking. The fight was over. He just didn’t know it. "They won’t follow you anymore."

  Tree lifted his head, staring at the crowd with one eye. They gazed back at him in awe, devouring the sight of his broken body as if it was a fine meal. "Cattle," Tree muttered.

  Beware.

  But Tom didn’t need the sword to warn him. He fully expected Tree’s ugly stumble to his feet, had already stepped aside from his clumsy charge, and was well clear when Tree slipped and fell into the fire.

  Tree didn’t scream. He roared. In defiance of the flames, of pain, of existence itself. He tried to stand, slipped and fell amongst the wood, the bone, the debris that burned. His hair flicked with merry flame, his flesh and clothes danced in the heat. The fire collapsed under his weight and he tumbled free. Voices called for water and blankets. But Tom glanced at Mennvinn and saw in the tiny shake of her head what he knew in his heart: it was over. Tree might have healed from his wounds. He might have healed from those burns. But both?

  "I’m sorry," he said. And he was. He drove Caledyr into the man’s chest and held it there as the life fled from his limbs. Pulled it free and stepped away from the burning corpse. Tree had been a petty little tyrant. But he hadn’t deserved that. "You have done wrong in this life, Tree. As have we all. I take your wrongs and bear them on my shoulders. Enter the West in innocence and goodness. Go in peace." He had no offering to make to the body, no chunk of bread to eat. But he knew where Tree would go now. He would go to Faerie. "The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death."

  What would become of Tree? Perhaps he’d become part of Herne, or Melwas. Tom didn’t like the idea of either of those fay taking on Tree’s stubborn refusal to yield. Perhaps they would be lucky, and Tree would simply be consumed. But that was no end to any life. No end at all.

  The crowd began to mutter, watching him wide-eyed. ”He grieves." Voices called him bearder of kings. Prophet. Liberator. So. That was what Emyr had been doing. Building a legend so that, when that legend bent his knee to Esyllt, their admiration would pass to her.

  Always a task to do. Never his own life to live. His steps felt heavy as he crossed the space be
tween Tree’s body and the princess. He didn’t meet her eye. Just knelt on one knee, and lifted the sword. "Princess Esyllt, daughter of King Idris of the Western Kingdom." He had to make her a pledge, but he couldn’t promise her anything. His sword, his loyalty. What could he say?

  "If I may?" Tom lifted his head to see Emyr approach Esyllt and, at her nod, murmur something in her ear. She was visibly shaken, her eyes drifting to Tree’s body. Perhaps she had never seen something so horrific. But when Emyr was done, she nodded, straightened, and settled a mask of regal calm over her features.

  She took the sword, and Tom hated how his fingers twitched to snatch it back. "For your services to the people of Tirend, and to all the people of Tir, I hereby bestow upon you the honour of knight." She laid the blade on one shoulder. "Such an honour has not been bestowed in many a decade," she said. Forgetting the knights of the Heel? Or ignoring them? "But I find you worthy of such a burden: to fight for what is good in this world." She lifted the blade and placed it on the other shoulder. "To protect those who need protecting."

  "I am King Emyr of Tir." Somehow Emyr didn’t snatch the moment from Esyllt, but simply added his voice in support of hers. "Long separated from my realm, now returned to it by this man’s hand. What Princess Esyllt here grants, so shall I uphold."

  "I name you Sir Thomas of Tir," Esyllt said. "Rise, Sir Thomas."

  Was it the rush of energy following the fight that made his limbs tremble? Or was it this strange occurrence, that he was named a Knight of Tir? No. He rose and bowed to Esyllt, then to Emyr. This was for show. For the crowd, so they would see how he bowed to Esyllt and how he allowed her to grant him honours. Nevertheless, when he saw how proud Emyr looked, he couldn’t help but smile. The same potential as his son, the old king had said.

  Someone coughed, and Tom realised everyone was waiting for him to say something. He tried to conjure something suitably solemn. ”Your Highness, I am almost without words." He touched a hand to his chest. "I swear to you, I will bear this duty, and uphold what is right and good in this world.” And though he knew this was just a performance, that he was no true Knight of Tir, he felt a moment of weight and resolve that would accompany such a title.

  Esyllt smiled and turned the sword, presenting the pommel to him. "I know you will make us all proud, Sir Thomas."

  He took and the sword and, in a heady moment of ceremony, lifted it above his head. "Your Princess!" he cried.

  The crowd cheered.

  Chapter 14

  It seemed like days before Tom could sit down again. He shook hands and listened to stories and allowed nearly everyone to have their moment, to tell him how they’d been rooting for him, how much they admired him. Stories were spreading and growing, it seemed, until one boy asked him how he alone had stormed the fortress of Cairnagwyn all by himself.

  The boy was enjoying the tale so much, Tom didn’t have the heart to disillusion him. But he did tell him, "No-one is alone. I travel with very good friends."

  Tom suspected it fell on deaf ears. But, it seemed, someone was listening. “And where is it you travel to, Sir Thomas?” Once the crowds had grown tired of him, and rushed instead to ready themselves for the journey home, only Hawne was left. “You were travelling north when we found you. What are you looking for in the Northern Wastes?”

  “An artefact.” All Tom wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Instead he placed a hand on Caledyr, now strapped to his hip again. He would need to give it back to Emyr. Right now he leant on it for strength. “An ancient tool that will help us stop the fay.”

  Hawne’s expression darkened. “The things that brought us here.”

  Tom nodded. “They plan to invade Tir and turn it into their playground.”

  “Good.” Hawne offered him a grim smile. “I’d like the chance to run a few spears through them.”

  “It wouldn’t do you much good.” Tom patted Caledyr. “Only this sword can truly hurt them. And, hopefully, the hidden artefact we seek.”

  “Hidden? Where?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  Hawne looked unconvinced, and her gaze fell on the sword. Tom could guess her thoughts: if the fay were coming to Tir, why leave the only thing that could hurt them with someone who might die on a fool’s quest? He tensed, ready to fight for it. But Hawne said, “Plenty of us tried to find our way home.” She lifted her gaze away from the sword. “Few returned. But those that came back from the north told stories of a split in the mountains. Full of terrible voices. They called it the Doubtful Chasm."

  An appropriately dramatic name. "What was at the end of it?"

  She shook her head and looked aside. “No-one ever reached the end.” She looked looked like she was remembering something. Had she heard these voices herself? “If I was going to hide something, I’d put it at the end of a chasm that everyone was too scared to traverse.”

  She was right. “Is it far from here?”

  She gave him a grim smile, devoid of humour. “I’ll show you.”

  Hawne led Tom out of Tirend on horseback, up the mountainside, out of the eternal twilight and back into the freezing winds and the perpetual gloom of the mountains. Emyr’s bones, it was cold. A few days in temperate weather and Tom had forgotten how cold it was out here.

  “There." Hawne pointed. "That peak that looks like a knife. There’s a pass that leads into a clearing, and a narrow path up the hill. That’s where the Chasm starts."

  It didn’t look far, maybe a day’s ride. Not that he was a good judge of distance. But he could see where they needed to go.

  “Prepare yourself,” Hawne said, and tugged her fur around her in a manner that suggested it was nothing to do with the cold. “The Chasm can make even the sternest Windrider turn back.”

  “Did you try to travel it?” he asked.

  “I did.” She grimaced as if she had swallowed something bitter. “You seem to accept hardships without flinching, Sir Tom. I admire that. But the Chasm might be too much even for you.”

  Part of Tom doubted that voices could be more terrible than dragons and fay. But Hawne did not seem like a woman who was easily cowed. “I flinch more than you suspect,” he told her. But he had no choice but to go. “I do what needs to be done.”

  Hawne nodded and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and forcing a smile. "I shall tell my father about everything that happened here."

  Tom wasn’t sure what to say to that. "Please give my best to Duke Swiftrider."

  “I’m sure he’ll be grateful to see me safely returned.” Though she didn’t seem too certain herself. “And, if you wanted to go back to the Heel once you’ve found your artefact, I’m sure he would plead your case to Duke Regent."

  Duke Regent, who he’d sworn his service to and fled in order to help Neirin find Faerie. “Plead my case?"

  She nodded. "You’d escaped him months before I found myself here, but Regent was still furious." She gave him a wry smile. "If you stood on his doorstep today, you’d be in his dungeons tomorrow."

  Well. It was to be expected. Regent didn’t easily forget a slight. It was partly why the Heel and the Eastern Angles had been, ostensibly, at war for decades. "Perhaps I should avoid the Heel if I return to Tir."

  "And anywhere that seeks to curry his favour," she added. "Or wants leverage over him."

  "That could describe most of Tir."

  "It could. Which is why I shall talk to my father." She reached out and clasped his wrist, squeezed it when he clasped hers in return. “Thank you.”

  "Thank you."

  She shook her head, with wet eyes and an embarrassed smile. "I may see the Marches yet, because of you."

  “I can’t take all the credit."

  A wistful smile took over her face. "Modesty tamed no horse,” she told him.

  Tom wasn’t sure he agreed. But crunching snow announced a visitor and Hawne withdrew, wiping at her eyes and muttering about things to do. She flicked her reins and passed their visitor as she rode back. Huddled against the wi
nd, hunched under so many furs that he almost disappeared under his wide-brimmed hat, Ambrose looked like he would collapse in the saddle.

  “What are you doing here?” Tom asked him.

  "What I must,” the old man muttered. "Working my way down the list.”

  Tom wanted to sigh, to growl out his impatience with Ambrose’s cryptic mutterings. But the man looked so old and tired and pathetic he couldn’t do anything but say, "We should get you out of the cold."

  "I don’t feel the warm anymore, Tom." He lifted his head, just enough for Tom to see his dark, empty eyes. "I can’t remember what it feels like." He took a rattling breath.

  "You shouldn’t be out here." Tom pulled his horse around and reached for Ambrose’s reins. "Come. Perhaps Mennvinn has something for you."

  Ambrose tugged his reins from Tom’s reach. "You know she doesn’t," he snapped. A flicker of a smile, and he seemed to sit straighter in the saddle. "I have so little left," he explained. "So little fuel to burn on the fire of my life."

  Tom nodded, the cold pebble like a dead itch in the back of his mind. He tried to imagine if that was all he could feel and shuddered.

  "We are close, Tom."

  He nodded. "I think so too."

  "And yet you will ask the others if they want to turn back."

  "I’ve never made any demands of them."

  "Haven’t you?" Ambrose shook his head.

  "Six will want to go back with Esyllt. He’s loyal to her. And he deserves a chance to go home."

  "You think you should let him go?"

  "I do."

  "You mustn’t. No matter what either of you have said or done, you must keep Six close. Everything depends on it."

  Ah. Yes. This moment had been a long time coming. When had he first foreseen this conversation? Was it in the Whispering Woods? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Tom nodded. "I’ve kept Six close," he told Ambrose. "Because of what you told me. But isn’t it time he be allowed to follow his own path?"

  "He already follows a path of his own making," Ambrose replied. "All you need do is remind him of where it is."