The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  "One to go," he said, loud and clear.

  He dropped his staff. Lowered his arms. And collapsed face-first into the snow.

  Chapter 16

  They couldn’t wake Ambrose. Kunnustenn was dead. Six’s leg was a mangled mess. But Katharine was unharmed, and so Tom hated himself for the gladness in his heart as he climbed to Six’s perch, where Mennvinn watched him like a rabbit watched a fox.

  "We need you," Tom panted. His limbs were burning and he was painfully, selfishly aware of the blood soaking his flank. “Many of us are wounded. Six’s leg is crushed."

  She blinked, just once. "What happened?" Her tone was flat, empty, dead.

  "The fay," Tom said, arms burning from hanging onto the cliff face. "Please, Mennvinn. We don’t know what to do."

  She blinked again. But of course she was terrified. She’d had to watch the rest of them fighting an invisible foe, watch them be injured and tossed about by something she couldn’t see and couldn’t fight.

  "They’re gone now," he told her. The Faerie hounds had vanished moments after Herne had been undone, and Tom was trying not to think of what might be sent in their stead. He reached over the edge of her perch and she shrank from his hand, like it might bite. "Please. We need you."

  Her gaze moved, so slowly, from his hand to his face. Tom watched the terror fade from her eyes and reason took its place. Not entirely. But enough that she could ask, "Crushed?"

  "Get me a belt. Now. Put your hand here and squeeze. Harder. Harder, damn you! Where's my kit? Fetch it. Boil some water. A lot of it. Quickly, now!"

  Mennvinn had taken just one look at Ambrose before turning to Six. The sight of him had stopped her in her tracks and she’d drawn a quick, sharp breath of surprise. Then she’d started barking orders.

  Tom pulled off his belt and wrapped it around Six’s thigh, pulling it impossibly tight. Six whimpered but said nothing. His skin was deathly pale and sweating, and when Tom spoke to him he didn’t seem to hear.

  "You can let go now. Go on, out of the way. My kit, thank you, open it up and find me milk of the poppy. No, not that. Let me do it. Where’s that water?"

  She elbowed Tom aside and he stepped back, watching Six pant and sweat in the snow. He wouldn’t survive this.

  "I’m sorry." Tom’s words tumbled out unbidden. "I should have been faster."

  Six met his gaze but said nothing. His breathing was quick, shallow. Topknot’s breath had been the same as the life went out of him.

  "Come away." Katharine’s voice was soft, low, sombre. "Come. Come away."

  He let her lead him to Emyr, who sat on a rock, staring at the spot where Ambrose had fallen. Ambrose himself was gone; Emyr must have moved him already. Emyr’s forehead bore a nasty gash, tiny rivers of blood sliding down his face. He had smeared it across his face where he had wiped it out of his eyes.

  My king, he opened his mouth to say. But Emyr had never looked so old and alone. His expression was held up by a thread, ready to collapse at the merest pluck. So Tom said, "Are you hurt?"

  Katharine answered when he did not. "He needs stitches." She sat Tom on the rock too. "So do you, by the looks of it."

  What could he say? Emyr’s last friend in the world was, what? Dying? Tom wasn’t sure. "Ambrose," he began, but wasn’t sure how to phrase his question. Was he dead? Did he live? It seemed too blunt and harsh for Emyr’s expression to bear.

  "He lives.” Emyr’s voice was deader even than his friend’s. “But barely. He breathes like an afterthought. And his blood moves so slowly I can barely feel it in his wrist."

  Katharine had threaded her needle and said, "This may hurt," before she began to stitch Emyr’s forehead together.

  "It does.” But he wasn’t talking about the needle. "He is one step from death’s door. And it is my fault."

  "Your fault?" Tom echoed. "It was the spell that did this to him, wasn’t it?"

  Emyr nodded. "And who placed these demands on him? I took every act and spell as if they were owed to me, and then I told him to bring me more. He has killed himself by degrees with his arts. Because of me."

  It didn’t sit right. Tom couldn’t claim to know Ambrose as well as Emyr did. To know him at all, really; there was so little of him left. But Tom had seen the glint of greed in the old man’s eyes when Tom had burnt that twig. As if he hungered to do the same.

  “And he wouldn’t even have known why he did it,” Emyr said. "He doesn’t remember our pact. Father’s grace, he didn’t even have a fond memory to fuel his courage. He had only his will.”

  He spoke as if his friend was already dead. But, "He still lives, my king."

  The rage in Emyr’s eyes stilled any more words Tom might have said. "Don’t talk to me as if he’s only ill," the old king growled. "He told me what he’s been teaching you. You know what he’s done."

  Katharine watched Tom as she asked. “What has he done?"

  "He’s burnt himself up." Emyr sighed. The fire disappeared from his eyes and his shoulders slumped. "He’s gone. His body just doesn’t realise it yet."

  Tom shook his head. "He would have known. He would have said something."

  Emyr gave only a short, sceptical grunt. "Finish your work, Katharine."

  He seemed so foreign, slouched, glaring at the world, with none of his usual strength or charisma. Even bleeding from a wound that would never heal and trapped amongst the creatures that had wounded him, Emyr had still managed to seem like a king. Now he was just an angry old man.

  Katharine’s stitches were done and Emyr stood. "What do we do now?" Tom asked.

  But Emyr strode to his tent and disappeared inside without a word. It left Tom feeling lost, bereft. Emyr couldn’t ignore them. They needed him.

  "Give him time." Katharine beckoned him closer and he obeyed, letting her peel pack his furs and shirts until his bloodied left flank was bare. She sucked air through her teeth. "This is deep."

  "It doesn’t hurt much."

  "Probably because you’re cold. You’ll feel this once you’re warmer."

  But pain was the least of Tom's worries. Emyr’s silence had given strength to a horde of fears and they had breached the gates. Kunnustenn was dead. Six was dying. Ambrose too. And there was no avoiding Katharine’s fate. He would lose her, and Rose too. Dank, Draig, Jarnstenn, Mennvinn and Gravinn, they had all put their faith in Thomas Rymour. But he would fail them too; their supplies were broken and burning, they wouldn’t make it back. Even the nearest village was too far. And he’d brought Emyr back to Tir only to watch it fall to the fay.

  "Just breathe,” Katharine told him.

  "What do we do?"

  "We breathe." Katharine’s steady voice matched the even rhythm of the needle through his flesh, tugging with only the slightest pricking. She was right. He was too cold to feel it properly. "We take it one step at a time. Injuries first."

  "And then?"

  "And then we decide what comes second."

  He watched her face, her concentration on her work. The slight pinch at the corner of her eyes. She was afraid too. But she was hiding it. Putting on a brave face for him. And it was working. Not because he believed her. But if she could be brave, so could he. He could try to be like her. If he let himself get overwhelmed, he couldn’t look after her. "Thank you for protecting Rose," he said.

  That brought a wry smile to her face. “All I did was hide in a tent.”

  “You kept our daughter safe."

  Her smile grew softer and she met his gaze. He couldn’t help but smile too. "You’re welcome," she said.

  And for just a moment, Tom allowed himself to believe that everything would be alright.

  And then Six howled.

  "Wait," Katharine said, putting a firm hand on his shoulder as he tried to rise. "Just a moment." Her needle flew through his skin.

  "I might have saved him, if I’d been a bit faster."

  "He’s not dead yet."

  "Do you think he can survive it?" Tom had seen the splinters of bo
ne piercing Six’s flesh, how the elf’s foot had laid at the wrong angle. "Mennvinn isn’t a cirgeon. She used most of her supplies on Emyr. Can she have much left?"

  "I don’t know," Katharine replied, cutting him off. She finished her stitching. "We’ll have to hope for the best."

  The optimism Tom had felt just a moment ago was gone, and he was left again with the bleak feeling that hope was something they couldn’t afford. He slipped his arm back into his clothes, redid buttons and tied his furs tight.

  “Six is very fond of you," he said. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he didn’t think Six would have the chance to say it himself.

  "I’m fond of him too," she replied as she wiped her needle in some snow and packed it away. "He’s a good elf."

  How often had Tom been at odds with Six? And how often had Six been right? "He is," Tom realised.

  Mennvinn was shaking her head when they arrived at Six’s side. "I can’t save it," she said.

  "So is he going to die?"

  The dwarf looked up at him. She was doing her best to appear calm and professional, but there was fear in her eyes. "We might save his life, but we’ll have to remove the leg."

  "No," Six managed. "No, you can save it. Please."

  Tom remembered a knight in Cairnagan who had lost a leg to a bear. While others had danced and mingled and gossiped in Regent's court, the knight had been left to sit and watch. He had been ostracised, deliberately by some, accidentally by many. After three weeks he left with no word or warning. Left for home, to live his days in an exile imposed by that missing leg.

  But it was better than dying.

  "There’s no way to save it?" Tom asked.

  Mennvinn stood, her hands bloodied, a smear of it on her face. "Even if we were in Cairnakor, in Dorstenn’s cirgery, we could not save it."

  Six swore in elfish.

  "Can’t you give him something?" Katharine asked.

  "I have only a little milk of the poppy," Mennvinn replied. "And he will need it shortly." She turned to Tom and said, "I did not bring the tools needed for this procedure. Please ask Master Jarnstenn if he provisioned us with any saws, preferably ones with fine teeth."

  Iron nails. She was going to saw off Six’s leg. Tom felt his stomach clench and he couldn’t help but look at Six’s pale, sweaty face. The elf shook his head. But there was no other choice. So Tom said, “I’ll speak to Jarnstenn.”

  The dwarf hadn’t moved since the attack. He was lain across Kunnustenn’s body, his back to the rest of the camp. He didn’t stir as Tom crunched through the snow towards him; the dwarf was so still it would be easy to think he was dead too.

  "Jarnstenn." Nothing. Tom stepped closer. "Jarnstenn, we need a saw. We have to remove Six’s leg." His stomach clenched again and he tried not to imagine it.

  "I don’t care." Jarnstenn’s voice was muffled.

  "He’ll die if we don’t."

  "He’s dead already. You’ve killed us all."

  "I’m sorry about Kunnustenn."

  Jarnstenn lifted his face and bellowed, "Don’t you say his name!" to the cliff face. The echoes seemed to go on forever, but Tom was more concerned with Jarnstenn’s ragged breathing. Was he hurt too?

  Of course he was hurt.

  What could Tom say? Could anyone have said anything to him if he was hunkered over Katharine’s body?

  What would Emyr do? "We’ll give our respects, every respect, in due course," he said, repeating the words and tones he heard from an imaginary Emyr in his mind. "Right now we need to attend to the living."

  "I don’t care about the living."

  "I understand that. But you have something we need to save Six’s life. Right now, in this moment, we have to prove we were the people Kunnustenn thought we were. We have to be better than we want to be."

  Jarnstenn wiped his face. "You’re using him against me."

  Don’t say anything. Let silence do its work. But every moment felt like an age. How much closer did Six come to death while they waited for Jarnstenn to do something?

  Panic and urgency drew a breath and opened Tom's mouth to cajole Jarnstenn, but the dwarf stood before he could speak. "Damn your eyes." He turned away from Kunnustenn and pushed his way through the snow towards the wagon. Towards Draig, who was rescuing what he could from their wreck of the wagon. The interior was cocooned in flames, but some of the spilled contents were beyond the reach of the fire. "Have you found my tools?” Jarnstenn said without ceremony or manners.

  Draig looked up. He was stood amongst bags and boxes and piles of individual items. He was visibly exhausted. His shoulders slumped, his arms hung by his sides and he drew rapid, shallow breaths. His right eye was swelling shut. "Lie there some tools." Tom followed his finger to an assortment of hammers and pliers and other instruments Tom didn’t recognise. And a saw. Small, its shining surface dancing with reflected firelight. Waiting to bite into Six’s bones.

  Jarnstenn pulled it free and held it up. "It’s meant for wood, not bodies." He thrust it toward Tom. "But it’s all I have."

  The handle was smooth, dark, beautiful wood. Tom tried not to touch the blade. Tried not to imagine it buried in Six’s flesh. "Thank you, Jarnstenn," he said, and tried to inject as much gratitude into his words as possible.

  Jarnstenn said nothing, didn’t even nod. He stepped away and sat next to a collection of books and bags. Kunnustenn’s. Say nothing. Let him be.

  "Can I save little more." Draig winced and touched his ribs. They must have been broken. But he didn’t complain, didn’t rest. No-one had asked him to salvage the burning wagon. He had simply accepted it as a thing that had to be done.

  "Thank you, Draig," Tom said, and tried to sound as grateful as he had a moment ago. Tried to forget how Draig had delighted in battling him in that Western tower. Tried to forget how the elf had betrayed them. It was time to put aside those things. "Would you like to rest a moment? I could take over."

  Draig shook his head. "Tend you to Six." But he smiled. He appreciated the offer. And he gave a Tom a nod that told him he knew what the offer represented.

  Mennvinn tutted at the saw. "Is there nothing more?" She barely waited for Tom to shake his head. "So be it. Hold him down. I’ve given him something for the pain, but it won’t be enough."

  "Please, don’t." Fear sharpened the slur out of Six’s voice and made it something brittle and foreign.

  "No choice. I’ll be quick. Bite this." Mennvinn pushed a wooden cylinder between Six’s teeth. Tom tried to pretend he didn’t see deep marks already bitten into the wood. "I need you all to hold him as best you can. No, that’s not enough," she said to Dank, who was pinning Six’s wrist to the ground with one hand. He clutched the other hand to his chest. A broken arm? "Kneel on this arm. Tom, you too. Katharine, sit on his other leg. You there, Draig, come here and hold his thigh for me." Mennvinn’s brisk efficiency was frightening, Tom needed a moment to gather himself, to ready himself, but she was already bracing herself against Six’s thigh.

  "Wait," Tom said, but she ignored him and said to Six, “Try not to move," and then she was slicing through flesh and Six was panting and whimpering, and Mennvinn started sawing through bone and Six was thrashing and screaming and Tom could only concentrate on holding down the elf’s arm, he was stronger than Tom had imagined, the howling and screaming was constant, the sound of the saw seemed to vibrate his own bones and his stomach clenched and roiled, iron nails, iron nails, don’t throw up, Tom, don’t throw up, and then the sawing was done and Mennvinn was slicing and slicing and then she was done and Six was still and he was crying, his entire body shaking.

  "Iron nails." Tom’s voice shook and he realised his face was wet with tears.

  "Hold him a little longer. I need to finish."

  Tom barely heard her. It was so quick. One moment Six had two legs. Then he didn’t. It had been so quick.

  Six was crying without shame, staring into the sky.

  "It’s over," Katharine was saying. "It’s over, Six,
it’s over."

  She was wrong. It wasn’t over. Not by a long stretch.

  "Will he live?"

  They’d moved Six into a tent and wrapped him in furs, leaving what was left of his leg under fewer layers as per Mennvinn’s instructions while she cleaned blood from her skin with handfuls of snow.

  She looked exhausted. "I hope so."

  Hope. They had cut through flesh and bone while Six screamed and writhed and shed shameless tears while his bloody stump was stitched up. And all they had given him was hope. It seemed such a slender thread on which to hang his life.

  "What do we do now?" Tom asked. The others were huddled around the wreckage of the wagon. Despite his warning, they’d lost a lot to the flames.

  "I’ve done all I can," Mennvinn replied. She wiped her hands down her fur before slipping them back into her mittens and rubbing them together. "I can do nothing for Master Draig’s ribs. Master Dank’s arm needs a splint, nothing more. I understand Lady Katharine has seen to the minor injuries."

  That wasn’t what he’d meant. "Can we move Six?" He was sure they couldn’t. That meant they would stay here.

  "Should we? No." She reached into her pocket and pulled out another of her little cigars. "But I don’t think we have much a choice."

  "No?"

  She had her cigar halfway to her lips and stopped, eyebrows raised. "Can we stay here after what has happened?"

  Perhaps not. He nodded and watched her walk to the fire, use the end of a glowing plank to light her cigar, and sit with the others. The sky was still dark. There was no telling how long until the moon birthed the sun again.

  He wanted to sit with the others. He wanted to sleep. But he knew he should speak to Emyr. He took a step, stopped, fetched Caledyr first, lying uselessly in the snow.

  Dropped me, it reprimanded him.

  But Tom felt like he had no feelings left. He’d been too scared, too hurt and tired, to feel the sword’s recriminations. So he ignored it and trudged across their little campsite to stand outside his king’s tent.

  "May I enter?” he asked, swaying on his feet. He should have slept. "My king?"