Tom tried not to imagine Herne biting through his shoulder. Or tearing through it with his bare hands. "It’s a poor hunt," he managed. "I’m unarmed. And your hounds will run me down before I make three steps."
"You want me to let you run." Herne’s scorn flooded his echoing words.
"It’s a poor hunt." And an even weaker argument.
"Sometimes the hunt and the chase are not the same thing." Herne snapped his jaws. "We have hunted you for years; now we have you. Thomas Rymour. King Defier. Queen Defiler."
Queen Defiler. What one fay knows, all fay know. Unless they could keep it a secret. Apparently Maev hadn’t seen fit to do so. "And what does the Queen have to say about this?"
"Mab would have you in Faerie too. Along with what you stole." Herne jerked his head, and Tom followed the gesture to Emyr. Stood by the fire, with the dwarfs behind him. Kunnustenn and Jarnstenn looked through the fay, still blind to the Second Sight. But Gravinn was very still, and Emyr had an iron blade in his hand. Tom couldn’t see Six. But he saw Draig and Dank stood beyond the fire’s light, bearing iron. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the fay. But it might be enough to discourage any idle interest. So Tom had to keep their interest. Had to make it all about him.
"I stole Emyr," he said. More. What else would irritate them? "I kept Caledyr. I imprisoned a sprite, killed Mester Stoorworm, killed Thought and attacked Melwas. It was my hand that wrought those deeds."
"It was." There was a grin in Herne’s terrible voice. "Such quarry you have become."
Quarry. Tom recalled Herne and Melwas whispering about him in Faerie. Had the King and his dog engineered an opportunity to finally avenge themselves on him for lying with Maev?
Movement caught his eye. Tom tried to look without looking, saw something up the cliff face.
"I’ll come peacefully." It would be of no interest to Herne. But Tom was running out of things to say. He lifted his hands. "I surrender myself."
Herne coughed, gagged. "That is a poor hunt when the prey does not run." His jaw gaped again. "But there are ways of making them flee." He turned his head to Katharine’s tent. One of the hounds snuffed at it.
Before collapsing into the snow with a yelp, an arrow protruding from the back of its head.
The other three hounds screamed. The sound was a jagged blade through the mind and through the heart, sapping the will and severing thoughts. The bay of the Faerie hounds was enough to bring a man to his knees.
But Katharine was in that tent.
So Tom ran. He drove forward, towards Herne, blinded by terror, fighting through knee-deep snow. He almost fell twice. Someone shouted his name, and Caledyr tried to speak to him. He ignored it all. and tried to ignore the urge to empty his bladder at the sound of baying hounds, tried not to wail as one of them knocked him down, driving him onto his back in the snow, crushing him with its paws on his chest.
He stared into milky eyes and hot drool dripped onto his face. All the hound had to do was put its jaws around his head and bite.
Don’t leave us, she had said.
A thud and the hound jerked, howled, danced away and began to chase its tail. An arrow in its flank. An iron arrow.
It was Six, shooting iron arrows from a spot up the mountainside. Tom felt a burst of infinite gratitude towards the elf, though it was a tiny infinity next to the endless void of terror he felt. It would take any of the fay just seconds to take Katharine’s life. And what could he do?
Move. He was on his feet. Move. Push through the snow, push through the fear, get to Katharine. But Herne stood by the tent with a smile on his skeletal face, reached with one filthy hand to lift the flap and take away everything that mattered.
"No!" Do anything, say anything, stop him, stop him. "Face me!" Herne hesitated. "Face me!" Tom waved his arms, shouted over the wailing hounds, didn’t care that his voice cracked as he cried, "Are you a coward, are you scared to fight me, are you scared I’ll beat you the way I beat Stoorworm, where’s the great hunter, where’s the bane of men?" Herne stepped away from the tent and Tom didn’t dare let himself relax. "Are you too scared to touch me, are you scared what Mab will do, are you afraid of her, the great hunter afraid?” And Herne was bounding over the snow like it was firm ground, and Tom had no time, Herne knocked him to the ground, Caledyr flew from his hands, the fay pinned him down, clawed at his face, Tom struggled but the fay was strong, unbelievably strong, maw snapping at his throat and Tom braced himself against the fay’s neck, get him off me, keep him off me, this is it, this is how I die.
Herne rocked and Tom’s flailing hands caught against something in the fay’s flank, an arrow, an iron arrow, grab it, twist it, Herne grunted in his ear and the pressure lessened, just for a moment. Pull it, twist it, tear it free, Herne made a sound like he might vomit gravel and Tom pushed, the fay fell away and Tom was free, scrabbling away in the snow. Get to your feet, get to your feet, but his hands and feet were numb with fear or cold or both. But he managed to stand, turned, stood shivering with something and saw Herne hunkered in the snow.
"Do you think that is enough?" There was no blood, no ichor, nothing seeping from Herne’s wound, but it was still a ragged tear in his flank and he clutched it all the same. Tom looked down at the arrow in his hand. "Do you think that will stop us?"
No. Nothing would stop Herne. Even wounded, the fay was grinning. This was a hunt, now. And Tom had never heard of a hunt in which Herne hadn’t brought down his prey.
He shouldn’t have taken his eyes from Herne, but a bellow made him turn. Emyr, an iron blade aloft, running through the snow towards them. Towards Herne. "No," said Tom, but too quiet and too slow. Herne bunched, sprang into the air, batted Emyr’s sword aside and fell on him, growling and grunting like an animal. "No!" Tom was moving again, he was on the pair of them, stabbing at Herne’s back with the arrow. "No no no no.” Pain exploded in his side, he flew, landed face down in snow, don’t stop, keep moving, he rolled onto his back and saw he was staining the snow red, and there was a hound stalking towards him.
He felt warmth. The fire. Just within reach. The hound barked and Tom was on his feet, pulling a heavy piece of firewood free in a shower of sparks and ash and waving it over his head with an incoherent cry. It wouldn’t do anything. Fire couldn’t hurt the fay. But it was better than waiting for the hound to rip out his throat.
But it didn’t pounce. It was alone. It was cautious. So it circled. Waited for an opportunity. And Tom’s arms were already tired. He was trembling. His footing was uneven. The hound didn’t have to fight him. It could wait him out.
A voice, behind him. Jarnstenn. Asking him, "What is it, Tom? What’s happening?"
Emyr was on his feet, keeping Herne at bay. Dank and Draig had a hound between them, slashing at it with iron. Another hound was peppered with iron arrows. Where was the other one? Tom couldn’t see it. But Katharine’s tent was intact. She was safe.
"Faerie hounds," he told Jarnstenn. "Stay back. Stay close to iron.” He wished he hadn’t lost Caledyr.
"We have iron." Kunnustenn. "Take it."
"No," said Jarnstenn, but something crunched into the snow beside Tom. Iron, colder than anything. The hound saw it too, and Tom watched its muscles bunch, no time to think, he drew back the burning firewood and flung it as the fay charged, the log flipping end over end in a shower of sparks, the hound shied from the flames, gave Tom enough time to pluck the iron sword from the ground, throw himself out of the hound’s path, swing blind, the tip of the blade raking against flesh and then Tom was rolling in the snow.
He was on his feet in time to see the hound turn to Jarnstenn and Kunnustenn, the two dwarfs huddling against the cliff face, staring at nothing, blind to the hound. Jarnstenn had an iron pike in his hand, but he was pointing it the wrong way. And the hound was close, too close, its jaws snapping at the blind dwarfs.
"To your left, Jarnstenn!" Tom ran again, forced a path through the snow, waved his sword above his head, cried out, "Here, here!" to draw the ho
und’s attention. Jarnstenn stabbed with his pike, caught nothing but air, but it was enough to push the hound back, and then Tom was close enough to swing at its leg, slice deep into its shin, the blade caught on bone, the hound yelped, jumped back, tore the blade out of his hands.
"The pike," Tom demanded and Jarnstenn threw it to him. Tom’s numb hands fumbled the catch, he wasted precious moments picking up the weapon, and the hound was already on him, maw gaping at his head, he stabbed, buried the pike in its neck and it screamed, emptying his mind of thought.
Tom was climbing to his feet before he remembered what was happening. Jarnstenn. Kunnustenn. They were alive. So was he. The hound was whimpering, collapsed in the snow. Katharine. He had to get to Katharine. And Emyr. He was facing Herne alone. Tom had to help him. He reached for the iron blade still stuck in the hound’s shin.
A cry from above drew his dull gaze. The firelight didn’t extend that high, but he could hear a struggle, the growls of a hound. Six.
Tom pulled the sword free, stumbled to the cliff face, started climbing to where the elf was sat. “Six," he tried to shout, but he was breathless and tired and it was no more than a weak cry. His hands and feet slipped on the rock, his right hand was almost useless with the sword in it. "I’m coming, Six."
There was a yelp from above, and then a rush of air and shadow fell past Tom and crunched into the snow below. Tom looked down to see Six and the hound, two patches of darkness sprawled beneath him. Six was still. Too still. The hound was already getting up, whimpering and shaking itself.
"Six," Tom called. But the elf didn’t move. Jarnstenn and Kunnustenn were already running towards the elf. Towards the hound that was on its feet and snarling at them. “Stop!" Tom told them. But the hound was already readying itself to pounce. Tom had no choice but to let go of the cliff and push himself into the dark.
The drop was short, quick, and terrifying, and although Tom raised his sword, he wasn’t able to plunge it into the hound. Instead he glanced off the beast’s flank and crashed into the snow. But it was enough. It distracted the hound. It sprang around and growled at him, before planting a hot, heavy paw on his chest. A slash of iron was enough to make it yelp and dance away, but it was back before Tom could get on his feet, knocking him face down with its snout, snuffling at him, dribbling down his neck.
Tom tried to swing the sword, but he couldn’t connect. And then he felt hot, fetid breath on his head and the scrape of teeth over his scalp, and it was over, this was it.
"Stay!" The gravelly bellow echoed off cliff walls, as if the mountains themselves couldn’t contain their fury. But it wasn’t mountains. The stinking breath and serrated teeth were gone, and Tom lifted his head to see Herne pointing a finger at the beast standing over Tom. "That one is mine," the fay said.
Mine. My prey. My kill. It sent a chill through Tom’s already cold limbs. And then Emyr swung his iron sword, a chop that would have severed hart’s head from shoulders if Herne hadn’t twisted away.
A thump on Tom’s back sent pain up and down his spine and drove him deeper into the snow. The hound had stamped on him in frustration. Tom scrabbled at the ground, drawing himself up and onto his back, but the hound had already turned around to find prey it was allowed to kill. Like Six. Or the dwarfs.
A voice in Tom’s mind asked him how he thought this could end. How could they win this fight? Only Caledyr could stop a fay. And there were too many fay for just the one sword. But what else could he do but get to his feet and stagger towards the hound, swinging iron for all he was worth?
The hound kicked him, claw-tipped paws sending him flying back through the air. He landed hard, and then Herne was on top of him again, clawing at him, Tom barely had time to register the new attack before Emyr was there, slicing up through Herne’s chest, and the fay howled pain and frustration before attacking Emyr again.
Tom pushed himself to his feet. Too much going on. Too hard. He groped at his iron sword with numb fingers. Too impossible. He turned back to Six and the dwarfs. The dwarfs huddled behind Six, who had his bow drawn and an iron arrow pointed at the hound menacing them. Run. Tom stumbled towards them, raised an exhausted shout. But it was Six’s gaze he drew, not the hound’s, and the beast struck, swiped at Six’s arm, the arrow sliced up into the night sky and Six fell back. The hound’s maw gaped and it darted in for the kill, howled, Six had stabbed it with something, it snatched his leg in its jaws and flung him aside.
Six spun, cartwheeling through the air. He flew over Tom’s head, and Tom couldn’t help but watch him fly even as he ran. It was almost beautiful, in a way. Almost peaceful, to fly through new snowfall.
Jarnstenn’s cry cut through the spell, and in a heartbeat Tom was at the beast’s back and plunged the blade deep into its flank. Its scream scoured Tom’s mind, left him barely able to stand. It began to lunge at the sword in its flesh, chasing its tail in feeble hops and bounds, whimpering to no-one. Tom let himself drop to one knee.
Jarnstenn was babbling to Kunnustenn, pulling at him, pawing at him, telling him to get up, you’re just winded, this is nothing, please, please.
Tom wanted to go to him. Wanted to lie down. But he could hear Emyr crying out. So he pulled himself to his feet and turned his back on the dwarfs.
Emyr was still locked in a battle with Herne that was clearly approaching its end. Emyr was tired, his sword wavering in his grip, one arm clutched to his chest. Herne circled his prey, crawling spider-like and grinning up at the old king. As Tom staggered forward, Emyr thrust, impaled Herne, the iron blade slicing down into Herne’s shoulder and out through the fay’s chest. But Herne twisted, tore the blade free of Emyr’s grasp, and pounced on him.
"Emyr!" Tom cried. He couldn’t get there in time. Dank and Draig were keeping a hound at bay. Six hadn’t moved since he had been thrown. Herne’s laughter seemed to be joined by the dark, evil shadows thrown by the wagon, on its side and burning. Herne wrapped his hands around Emyr’s neck and all Tom could do was uselessly shout because he was too far away. The old king’s arms slapped at the fay on top of him, scrabbled for his sword, flailed. But Tom knew how strong Herne was. How fruitless the struggle.
But Herne stopped his assault a moment later, tipped his head to one side, let out a curious, questioning growl. Tom felt it a moment later. The air changed. As if it was made of iron. Cold, empty. A match for the cold pebble Tom could still feel inside himself.
Ambrose.
He shuffled out of his tent towards Emyr and Herne, leaning heavily on his staff, clutching it like it was keeping him from being swept out to sea. He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. He moved like he was the only man in the whole of Tir. But the air around him was dead, still, every ounce of magic fleeing from his touch.
Herne clambered over Emyr to face the old wizard, but he seemed uncertain. Fearful. "Sorcerer," he croaked.
Emyr took his chance, surged for the sword in Herne’s back, gripped it, twisted it. The fay roared and lashed out, catching Emyr in the temple with a fist and sending him to the ground.
Ambrose’s voice stayed Herne’s hand. ”Leave him!" And the old sorcerer began to whisper in a tongue Tom had never heard. In fact, he shouldn’t have been able to hear it at all. But Ambrose’s foreign words sounded like they were being spoken into Tom’s ear. No, it was more like the whisper was somehow inside his mind. Like Caledyr’s voice, but it could never be confused for Tom’s own thoughts. And it grew in its insistence, mounting pressure that made Tom want to flee.
And it was working on the fay. The wounded hounds were pawing at the ground in a vain effort to get away. And even Herne, whom Tom had never seen back down, was taking careful steps away from the approaching sorcerer. Letting out a pained whine. Muscles twitching. Caught between the twin impulses to flee and to attack.
The whisper became a voice, and Ambrose straightened, lifted his staff over his head, took certain, even strides. In that moment Tom could see Ambrose as he would have been in his youth. Confident, even cocky.
Outraged that someone would try to hurt his king, his friend. His voice was sure, powerful. And the stone on his staff pulled at the world. Tom found himself walking towards it despite himself.
Herne had stopped retreating, fixed like he was pinned in place with iron nails. "We will taste your flesh, sorcerer.” He gnashed his bare, hart’s teeth. "We will tear you piece from foul piece!"
But it was an empty, frightened threat. Everyone knew it. And Tom knew, too, that Herne wouldn’t bear this humiliation; the fay wouldn’t stop until they were all dead, even if Melwas himself ordered them left alive.
"I know what is to come, hunter." These words came from Ambrose’s lips. They carried the croak of his years, but they were no less powerful for that. He stopped just one step away, well within Herne’s reach. Possibly the most dangerous place to be in Tir or Faerie, and yet Tom felt no fear for him. It was clear where the power lay. "Your days of tasting mortal flesh are at an end."
"You are no more mortal than we are," Herne spat back. "You burnt it all away on your fool’s quest."
Ambrose smiled. "Not all of it." And he touched the stone in his staff to Herne’s forehead.
Herne’s scream was made of sound and magic and pain never imagined, a single, constant note that didn’t waver even as Ambrose’s spell flayed the fay before their eyes. Skin, muscle, fat, flesh, bone, it peeled away into dust and nothing. And yet, even as Herne was undone, he didn’t shy from Ambrose’s staff. He was defiant, even as his tumbled into a pile of bones, even as those bones turned to dust, and even as the murderous red glow in his eyes winked into darkness.
Silence. Inside and out. Ambrose lowered his staff and allowed himself a satisfied smile.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 94