The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  "Enter." Quiet. Flat. Disinterested. Tom pulled aside a flap and stepped inside.

  His gaze was drawn to Ambrose first, curled around his staff like a child, hugging it to him. His brow was slightly furrowed, like he was having a bad dream. But Tom couldn’t hear his breathing. He couldn’t see the old man’s chest move.

  That stillness extended to Emyr too. He sat on a pack, slouched, wrists resting on his knees, hands limp. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he didn’t move, didn’t even glance at Tom. Just stared at Ambrose. “What is it?” he said with a voice that betrayed how little he cared.

  The truth was that Tom wasn’t sure why he was there. "No change?"

  "None."

  Tom waited. For direction, for comfort, for something. But nothing came. So he said, "Mennvinn had to remove Six’s leg."

  "So I surmised."

  Another stretch of silence. Tom longed to sit. "We still have a few hours to dawn, I suspect."

  Emyr said nothing.

  "Do we strike the camp?"

  "As you like."

  "We act at your command."

  "Act on your own."

  "My king?"

  "No." Emyr lifted his gaze and Tom was faced with wet eyes filled with regret and anger and apathy. "I am no-one’s king. Not anymore."

  Tom felt like a monster, to barge in here and demand Emyr lead in the midst of his grief. But he had reminded Jarnstenn of his duty. Emyr needed to be reminded of his. "You are my king." And he began to lower himself to the ground.

  "Bend your knee and lose it."

  Tom stopped, unbalanced, forced to half-stand again or fall. Emyr’s words had been so calm, so reasonable, but the threat seemed so sincere. But he hadn’t meant it. Had he? Of course he hadn’t.

  "Get out."

  It felt right to leave him in peace. But Emyr had to see that, “We need you more than ever.” Tom rested Caledyr’s point on the ground and proffered the pommel to Emyr.

  But he gave the sword only a brief, baleful glance. “And what do I need, Tom?"

  Time. Peace. And hadn’t he earnt those things? "I am sorry," he said.

  "You came in here looking for someone to tell you what to do." Tom had to stop himself nodding at Emyr’s accusation. "You didn’t find him.” And he swatted at the sword, knocking it to the ground. “Go away.”

  "My king," he began, but Emyr reached over to the sole candle and snuffed the flame between his fingers. A rustle and then stillness. Had he laid down? Laid down to sleep while everyone sat bereft around their burning wagon?

  Leave him.

  Tom picked up the sword. I told you not to do that anymore.

  Rest.

  Caledyr was right. Tom stepped out of the tent. Stared down at the sheathed blade in his hands. Felt for a ridiculous moment that this was all the sword’s fault, really. If they hadn’t gone looking for it, none of this would have happened.

  Rest.

  Tom nodded. Took heavy steps towards the others. "Sleep, everyone."

  "I don’t think I can." Gravinn still held her iron pick-axe on her lap, hunched over it as if she was worried someone would try to take it from her.

  He wanted to say something comforting to her. They’re gone. You’re safe. It will be alright. But the words wouldn’t pass his lips. Instead he said, "I’ll take first watch." It felt cruel to nominate someone else. They were all terrified and exhausted, all because of him. All because he had dragged them on this quest to find something that they might never find. "Draig, I’ll wake you in an hour."

  "Let me," Katharine said, and when Tom shook his head she held up her hands to be pulled to her feet. It was impossible not to groan as his aching limbs pulled against her weight, and he regretted it immediately. But she didn’t give voice to the hurt in her eyes, just murmured, "They have to see me carry my fair share. I won’t be a burden on you all."

  He couldn’t help but smile. Carrying a child, visibly exhausted, she was determined to be independent and useful. He touched his fingertips to her cheek.

  "And put some gloves on, for Emyr’s sake."

  "Yes, Katharine."

  He fetched them from where he had cast them aside, and they all spent a few minutes righting tents and persuading Jarnstenn to sleep. Soon enough only Tom and Katharine were left.

  "Get some rest,” he told her.

  "I want to take a watch."

  Tom was too tired to argue. She would win in the end anyway. ”Agreed,” he said. "Later."

  She gave him a tired, wary smile. "Will it always be like this? Will they always come for us?"

  He gave her the only answer he could. "I don’t know. But I’ll die to protect you."

  "You can’t." Her smile was broader now. "I have your word. You won’t leave us. You said so."

  He had. And she felt comforted by that. It felt like the worst kind of lie, a horrible, fatal inevitability lurking just behind a truth.

  Should he tell her?

  But she was already climbing into the tent, and he was left with the burning wagon. He sat on an empty crate, unwrapped the jar, and held it up to his eyes. The light was weak and watery, and the sprite’s wings drooped.

  "You and I are going to have a conversation," he said.

  Chapter 17

  "That stone hurts you."

  The sprite nodded.

  "And it severs your connection to the fay, doesn’t it?"

  Another nod, but Tom wasn’t sure he believed the answer.

  “But that doesn’t protect us, does it? Herne knew exactly where to find us."

  The sprite shrugged. In the face of the violence and the death, it shrugged. But Tom was too tired to be angry.

  "I have some questions that need answering,” he said. “If you promise to answer them, I’ll take that stone out of there. It isn’t doing us any good anyway."

  The sprite nodded as enthusiastically as it could, and Tom loosened the lid just enough that he could tip the jar and slide out the stone.

  It landed in his palm and he closed the jar. Even through his glove, he could feel the stone’s otherworldly coldness. How it tugged at his thoughts. More disturbing was how it echoed with the dark pebble inside himself. He tucked the stone into a pocket and turned to the sprite. It already looked stronger.

  "Tell me the truth," he said. "Are the fay following us?"

  It nodded.

  "How?"

  The reply was too quiet and weak. Tom lifted the jar to his ear. “Gwyllion,” it said.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise. She was an immortal fay; a fall down a mountainside was nothing. But Tom felt a stab of fear all the same and looked out into the darkness around them. "For how long?"

  "Since you cut off her finger."

  "Why hasn’t she attacked us?"

  "She would not dare disobey our queen."

  Mab. Was she protecting them? "Why would Mab tell her not to attack?"

  "We are not privy to our queen’s thoughts."

  "I took away the stone. Ask her."

  "Let us see Dank." The request caught Tom off-guard and he blinked, took the jar from his ear to look at the sprite. It was kneeling, hands on the glass. Pleading. "We miss him."

  There was a true longing in the sprite’s tiny voice. But did it really miss Dank? Or did it simply want its puppet returned?

  "Tell me what the fay are up to," he whispered into the night. "Why would Mab order Gwyllion to leave us be, but let Herne and his hounds tear us to pieces?”

  Nothing. Was the sprite sulking? Should he threaten to put the stone back in? Or promise it could see Dank? No. Dank might have sworn himself to Emyr, but there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be tempted to rejoin his sprite. Tom couldn’t let the boy enslave himself again.

  Besides. He knew too much.

  "The king and queen are at war," the sprite said at last. “Herne has sided with our king, and the hounds are loyal to their master; they obey his order to attack you."

  "And Gwyllion?"

  �
��She cannot choose between her king and queen.”

  Which was why she had not attacked again; her indecision stayed her hand. For now. But who else was a threat? "Have other fay chosen a side?” he asked.

  "Many. Many have not."

  "Are we safe from the fay that have chosen Mab?"

  "They will not disobey her."

  "And who has chosen Melwas?"

  "Many. Please. Let me see Dank."

  "Tell me who have chosen Melwas."

  "There are many."

  "Tell me which fay are most dangerous to us."

  "Herne. Mester Stoorworm. Nuckelave and the Grindylow, and Black Annis. The hounds are loyal to their master.”

  It hurt to hear Stoorworm’s name in that list. But Tom had driven Caledyr into his maw. it wasn’t unreasonable to bear a grudge. “What about Glastyn?"

  “Mab believes Glastyn has chosen her," the sprite replied. “Though some suspect he is playing his own game.”

  His own game. Tom wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. But Glastyn wasn’t a threat right now, and Tom knew who and what to fear. “Thank you,” he said.

  "Can I see him?"

  Such a longing. It missed something, whether it was the boy or the connection itself. He surprised himself by asking, "How is Mab?"

  A tiny sigh. "She is enjoying the entertainment."

  Of course. That was why she protected him. Not out of fondness. She liked using Tom to aggravate her king. He was no more than a good way of creating drama.

  "She wonders why you are talking to us,” the sprite added. “She asks if you miss her, Thomas Rymour."

  He felt a stab of guilt, shame, remorse. "Of course," he mumbled.

  "Would you like her to come to you?" Was he imagining a seductive lilt to the sprite’s words?

  "It would be unwise," he managed.

  "But pleasurable."

  He looked over at the tent he shared with Katharine. At the tent in which Six lay, the tent in which Ambrose lay. The dark bundle of Kunnustenn’s body lying in the snow. "Some of my friends are hurt or dead because of the fay."

  "That is another matter," the sprite replied. "Entirely separate to what we are proposing."

  Tom knew exactly what Mab was proposing: something beyond loyalty and loss. Comfort, pleasure, nothing more than a passing moment.

  But that was temptation talking. He put a hand on Caledyr’s hilt and felt that sword’s familiar warning. Fight.

  "I don’t want to see her right now."

  And before the sprite could say anything else, he wrapped it up and set it down in the snow. Planted Caledyr between his feet and rested heavily on the hilt. Fight, it said, fight fight fight.

  And it was a battle to sit there and stay true and wait to see if any other threats emerged from the darkness.

  He was cold and tired and hurt and lonely. He’d been hoping Katharine would offer him some sort of comfort. But she only mumbled, "You’re cold," when he lay down in the tent.

  “Sorry." He burrowed under the blankets and tried not to let in too much cold air. But rather than sleep, he found he could only lie and stare at the dark, mind too full of thoughts even as his body ached to rest.

  Fingertips brushed his arm, felt their way down, and Katharine’s hand slipped into his. "Thank you," she whispered.

  A rush of gratitude stilled his racing mind. "For what?"

  "You protect us," she replied.

  Six. Ambrose. Kunnustenn. "I’m not sure I do it well."

  "Our daughter is safe."

  For now. But he was still able to smile and squeeze her hand. "She is."

  Katharine squeezed back. And the darkness of the tent faded into bright daylight.

  "Your women will suffer, little Tom," Melwas said. His black armour shone in the sun. “Twice as much as you will.”

  But before Tom could despair, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When he woke he was sweaty, sore, hungry. Still tired. But the world outside was light. He allowed himself to lie there a moment longer, to stare at the back of Katharine’s head and pretend everything beyond the tent was a bad dream. That there was only her, and him, and their baby. That they were all safe and happy and home.

  Home. Not his little hut in the Heel. Hawne had already made it clear that Regent wouldn’t allow him to return to the Heel. And that any of his allies would turn over Thomas Rymour to curry favour. So if not the Heel, or any of the Heel’s allies, where was home?

  It was a simple question, but it shattered Tom’s warm, comforting illusion. They weren’t home, or happy, or safe. They were lost, in peril, hunted. He freed himself from the blankets and clambered out of the tent without waking Katharine.

  Cold. His side hurt, throbbed. Only Dank was visible, sat by the glowing heap of the wagon and tending a pot over a small fire. Tom lifted a hand in greeting and staggered away from the camp to relieve himself. When he returned, Dank offered him a metal cup of water with his good hand. It was warm and smelt of something fragrant.

  “White willow bark tea," Dank explained. "Mennvinn gave it to me. It helps with the pain." He gestured as best he could with his other arm, splinted and bound and resting in makeshift sling.

  It tasted exactly how Tom had imagined it would: tree bark. But it helped push back the cold; Tom’s old sweat already felt like it was freezing on his skin. "Thank you," he said. "But should you be sharing it? Don’t you need it?"

  "I got used to pain a long time ago." The boy shrugged. "A broken arm doesn’t really compare to a fay pushing through your skin."

  Tom nodded. He’d noticed Dank was speaking about himself in the singular, but it didn’t feel right to say anything. So he just said, "I’m sorry about your arm."

  "I’m sorry for your wounds too."

  "It's not your fault."

  "It's not yours, either."

  "It’s my fault we’re all here."

  "It’s my fault the fay are hunting us.”

  Why did Dank think that? He hadn’t stabbed Melwas. He hadn’t stolen Emyr out of Faerie. Dank must have seen the confusion on his face because he added, "If I hadn’t taken you all into Faerie, none of this would have happened."

  "You did it because I asked you."

  "I could have said no."

  That was true. But, "You shouldn’t feel responsible. This is too big for one person to take the blame for all of it."

  Dank gave him a wry smile. "Then why did you apologise?"

  "Because," he began, stopped, realised what Dank was saying. Smiled despite himself.

  "I’m older than I look." Dank stood up and he seemed taller than before. "And wiser too." He looked at nothing, staring into the distance. "Perhaps it’s time for me to be more."

  But Tom could see now that he already was. The boy – no, the man, – was no Faerie puppet. He was scared of the fay, but any sane person would be. But the fay were no longer the masters of him, and neither was his fear. It was almost unsettling, to see Dank so different, and yet it was heartening.

  Movement drew Tom’s gaze and he saw Jarnstenn emerge from a tent. The dwarf said nothing. Didn’t look at Tom or Dank. Didn’t look like he’d slept at all. He just fetched a spade, picked a spot in the snow and began to dig.

  Tom didn’t want to dig. He didn’t want to do anything. But he had promised Jarnstenn that they would pay Kunnustenn every respect. So he found a spade of his own and joined Jarnstenn without a word.

  The ground was hard beneath the snow, each strike sending a jolt through his worn limbs. The digging tugged at the stitches in his side. The spade was short, forcing him to bend double to reach the ground, and soon his back was aching. It wasn’t long before he was sweating again, and he shed gloves and hat and layers until he was topless. Jarnstenn didn’t say a word, but Tom felt the dwarf’s own frostiness thaw. They went deeper and deeper, and despite his aches and pains and fatigue, Tom didn’t stop. It was only right that he dug until Jarnstenn told him to stop. Despite what Dank said, Kunnustenn had only joi
ned them at Tom’s request. Another death on Tom’s conscience.

  Finally Jarnstenn put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. Enough. Tom nodded and looked up, realised the grave they had dug was deeper than a dwarf was tall. Tom’s limbs were tired and weak, and he felt a stitch pop as he hauled himself out of the new grave. He heard a gasp, and looked up to see Draig, Dank, Mennvinn, and Katharine watching them. Katharine sat on a crate, staring at his chest with a hand to her mouth. He looked down and saw what she saw: scars, stitches, and a mottling of bruises all over his pale skin. She went to rise but he shook her head and she sank back down.

  There was silence as Jarnstenn unwrapped Kunnustenn’s body. The dwarf’s features were frozen, his eyes open and staring, his jaw slack, his skin pale and covered in ugly bruises. Jarnstenn stroked his cheek and muttered something Tom couldn’t understand. Then he turned to Tom and said, "Help me."

  Tom carried him by the shoulders, Jarnstenn by the feet. Kunnustenn’s stiffness felt unnatural, like they were carrying a rock, not a body. Before they lowered him into the ground, Jarnstenn took a handful of dirt and forced it between Kunnustenn’s lips.

  "We are of the dirt." It sounded like an explanation and a prayer. "We return to it." He looked up at Tom, waiting for him to say something.

  But it was Mennvinn who said, "Who returns to the dirt?"

  "Kunnustenn." Jarnstenn looked away. "Who was to me my one true love." He glared at everyone, daring them to argue with him.

  No-one did. "Kunnustenn," Mennvinn echoed. "Who was to me a friend I wish I had known better."

  "Kunnustenn," Katharine said. "Who was to me a friend, and a source of wisdom I envied."

  There was a pause. Then Dank said, "Kunnustenn, who was to me a travelling companion."

  "Kunnustenn," Draig said. "Who was to me a friend who offered comfort when felt I loneliness."

  "Kunnustenn," Tom said. Who was to me a victim of my fight with Faerie. "Who was to me an ally, a guide, and a friend."

  "Kunnustenn," Jarnstenn said. "Who has been taken from our world, and whom we envy the world for taking back for itself."

  The dwarf reached for Kunnustenn’s feet but Tom lifted a hand. "May I?"