The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  Jarnstenn paused for a moment, rage boiling behind his gaze for a brief moment before he nodded. Tom strode to the salvage Draig had rescued from the wagon, casting his gaze over what they had left. An iron knife? No, it would have been better in his living hand than his grave. A book? It was valuable, but it felt wrong. There. He picked up a small roll of scorched paper. Perfect. He returned to the grave, where Katharine already had a scrap of bread ready. He thanked her with a smile, touched it to Kunnustenn’s chest and placed the paper in his hands as best he could.

  "Take this offering, Kunnustenn," he said. "Take it with you to the Isles of the Dead and let it buy your passing into that place, where the sun never sets and it is always summer." Sun never sets. Summer. Iron nails he was describing Faerie. He lifted the bread to his lips without thinking. All these times, he had been happily commending the dead to Faerie. He put the bread in his mouth, chewed, swallowed. "You have done wrong in this life, as have we all. I take your wrongs and bear them on my shoulders now, so that you may enter the West in innocence and goodness. Go in peace."

  Except there would be no peace for Kunnustenn. Just a strange afterlife with the fay. They would feed on his energies, consume him. And now they knew what he knew.

  Jarnstenn snatched the offering out of Kunnustenn’s hand. "We’re not burying good paper," he muttered. "Besides, he doesn’t need to buy his way into anywhere."

  His words stung, but Tom was too distracted by thoughts of Kunnustenn joining with the fay. He lowered the body into the grave in a daze, covered it with dirt without thinking. Emyr said that Mab wore Eirwen’s smile when she died. Would a fay wear Kunnustenn’s smile? Or speak with his soft voice? Or would the fay simply consume him and leave nothing left?

  They stood over the grave after they had filled it. "I always imagined I’d bury you in the Hallowed Gardens, or maybe the Knightly Grounds," Jarnstenn said. "Course, I imagined I’d bury you in another decade or so, didn’t I?" He sniffed, grinned at his own joke and wiped his eyes. "Or maybe you’d have buried me, eh? Still, that don’t matter no more. I’m here. You’re in there." He got down onto his knees, put his hands on the dug earth. "But I’m in there too, Kun. Always will be. So don’t you be thinking I’m leaving you. I’m not going nowhere." He hung his head. "Taranau’s spit, I miss you already."

  His shoulders began to shake, and Tom left the dwarf to weep in silence. The dead were buried. It was time to break camp and do what they could for the living.

  "Fine." Emyr didn’t even look up when Tom told him they’d buried Kunnustenn. Just sat there, still staring at Ambrose. Ambrose who hadn’t moved an inch. Even his expression was the same.

  Tom had expected even a little remorse or sadness. But Emyr didn’t seem to care. "Mennvinn tells me that Ambrose and Six can be moved if needs be. And I suspect we should leave this place."

  "Very well." He straightened, took a deep breath. At last. Tom offered him Caledyr. But he ignored the sword. "Are we breaking camp straightaway?"

  Why was Emyr asking him? "As you will it."

  "No," he was quick to reply. "I don’t will anything. Let someone else will it."

  "You are Emyr."

  "My friend is dying."

  Tom let his hand fall to his side. "What do I tell them?"

  "Can you tell them anything other than the truth?"

  It was hard not to take those words as a slight. "As you say."

  Emyr nodded. "You once said you felt the time that passed in Tir while you were in Faerie. I never understood that. I’ve always felt like I was younger than my years. But seeing him lie there? He’s smaller somehow. How did he get so old?" Emyr rubbed his hands over his face, then back through his hair. "I’m tired, Tom. In my bones. I’m so tired."

  Tom nodded. He knew that feeling. For many mornings he’d woken up with the aches and pains of a much older man. But no longer, he realised. Somewhere along the way, on this journey, his joints had stopped bothering him. He didn’t feel the weight of the years he had missed. When he’d brought Neirin and the others to Faerie, he’d mentioned that perhaps his body was older than Emyr’s. But now it seemed like time had caught up with the old king.

  So Tom just nodded. "If there is anything I can do, my king."

  "You can stop calling me your king." But he didn’t smile when he said it.

  No-one questioned Tom’s decision to leave. They simply nodded and set to work in the same hushed tone that had fallen over them when they buried Kunnustenn. Mennvinn and Jarnstenn started taking apart the tents. Katharine and Dank bundled together their rescued possessions as best they could. And Draig and Tom went looking for the horses.

  They had bolted to the north, but one hadn’t made it beyond their campsite, torn apart by a hound before it could escape. Tom had little hope of finding the others, but they had no choice. Katharine certainly couldn’t walk far, and they had too much to carry between them.

  Their path was not that steep but the deep snowfall turned it into a climb, and Draig had to pull Tom up more than once. But the ground levelled soon enough and it became clear that there was only one way to go: a straight, narrow valley with vertical sides.

  “The Doubtful Chasm,” Tom muttered. It had to be.

  “What is this name?” Draig asked.

  “It’s what Hawne called this place.” A split in the mountains, as if it had been chopped out of the world with an enormous axe. It reminded him of the story of the world told to every child, that Tir had been built on the corpses of four ancient giants. Perhaps this was the remnant of a blow that had felled one of them.

  “Then with us is luck,” Draig said. “Is it likely the horses found shelter in here."

  Perhaps. But the Chasm didn't look like a place to go for shelter. It felt unnatural and unpleasant. The rock was filled with ripples and ridges, swirling and whorling in strange patterns. And there was something else too. Tom stepped closer, slipped his hand from its glove and touched the rock.

  Duke Regent sat on Emyr’s throne and demanded of a Westerner, "We held up our end of the bargain. We do not expect your king to shirk his responsibilities."

  In Cairnagwyn, Neirin said to Idris, "Duke Ria is fierce, strong, and intelligent. She was never going to surrender."

  "She might if the Eastern Angles threaten to invade Erhenned."

  "I am your prisoner, not your puppet."

  And a storm rumbled over the Lannad Sea as Duke Ria watched Western elfs load their final ship, and said to the departing Proctor, "I hope this has been an appropriately humiliating defeat for your people."

  "We are leaving at our king’s request."

  "You are leaving because we are forcing you to."

  Unseen to either of them, Nuckelave hauled itself out of the water, fins flapping over its skinless, horse-like body, the head replaced by an equally skinless human torso. The fay’s single red eye glowed with malevolent glee as it poisoned the ship’s water.

  "Tom."

  He blinked. Draig’s hand was wrapped around his wrist, tugging his hand from the surface of the rock.

  "Gone you were."

  Tom nodded, taking back his wrist and sliding his hand into its glove. "It was like touching the monolith in Cairnagwyn. But not as strong." Snow settled into the strange patterns carved into the rock.

  "Here." Draig pointed, revealing a patch of rock that had worn away to reveal the secret beneath: black stone with silver veins. Monolith stone. Did it hide beneath the entire mountain? "Must you not touch the stone," Draig said.

  "But we have to walk this path."

  "Watch I over you, as when we travelled through the woods."

  When Tom’s mind had wandered into foresight so regularly, so easily, that he could barely stay a heartbeat in the current moment. He stared down the valley, trying to see an end and failing. The thought of making another such journey made his stomach clench.

  But he said, "Thank you," to Draig. Drew a deep, steadying breath and added, "We should fetch the others. We’ll have
to hope we find the horses on the way."

  Draig made no move to leave. ”Carry you the sword again." There was disapproval in his voice.

  Tom pretended not to hear it. "Emyr doesn’t want to carry it."

  “And you are forced to bear it instead?”

  No. He wasn’t forced to. He’d been hungry to lean on it again. Even now he rested his hand on the pommel, letting its strength push back his fatigue. "Emyr needs time to grieve. And Caledyr is our best weapon against the fay."

  "If have those words truth, should not another carry it?”

  Do not give up the sword.

  Quiet, Tom hushed the blade. But he could tell that Draig had seen his grip tighten on the pommel. “You are the only swordsman we have.”

  Draig only nodded. And why shouldn’t the Easterner carry the sword? It would probably be more effective in his hands.

  But that wasn’t the question. “You still don’t trust me, do you?” Tom asked.

  "Say it once,” Draig said. Almost pleading. “Only once." The Easterner stared down at him. He was thinner than he once was. Still broad and strong. But hard living had burned away the fat. "Say the queen of Faerie does not have your heart."

  She didn't. Surely she didn't, not after everything she had done. Tom loved his unborn daughter, without having met her. And perhaps he loved Katharine; that was still confused, bound up with the terror of losing both of them. But Mab? He didn’t love Mab. He didn’t.

  And yet he still felt the familiar tug in his chest when he thought of her. Of Maev. Was that love? Obsession? Lust? Or was it just a memory? Did he yearn for an idea of her?

  Draig shook his head. "Am I not sure you should be the one who carries that sword." And the elf turned and walked down the hill.

  They found Jarnstenn building sleds out of the wreckage of the wagon, in order to carry both provisions and wounded. Draig volunteered to pull Six’s sled, and everyone assumed that Emyr, who wouldn’t speak unless he had to, would pull Ambrose. And, despite her protests, Tom insisted that Katharine sit on a sled too, leaving Jarnstenn, Dank, and Mennvinn to haul supplies.

  "There’s not enough," Jarnstenn said. They had to abandon too much of the weaponry, too much clothing. The food seemed meagre. "I can’t see how we’ll make it back."

  Nor could Tom. But it was Dank who said, "We will find a way." And he said it with such certainty that Tom believed it, just for a moment.

  There wasn’t room in the Chasm to walk abreast, so they walked single file. Draig and Dank called back and forth to each other for a time, but soon they fell quiet and everyone trudged in gloomy silence, the weak sunlight unable to reach them over the high, close valley walls. The snow wasn’t deep, which made the going easier, although it also meant there was less between the sled and the ground below, and Six cried and groaned with each jolt. Mennvinn had given him what she could for the pain, but she’d admitted she didn’t have anywhere near what was needed to treat him. So he suffered. And his pain wore everyone down, their shoulders slumping and their backs hunching under sympathy and empathy and guilt. Perhaps that was why they didn’t hear the voices at first.

  It was Draig, at the head of their caravan, that stopped and raised a hand. His entire manner suggested danger, and Tom dropped the ropes and drew Caledyr in a heartbeat.

  "Please, Six, be you quiet,” Draig hissed.

  The Westerner’s breathing was still haggard. But everything else was still. What had Draig seen or heard?

  The Easterner pointed up. Tom looked, but there was nothing, just the same strip of cloudy sky that had loomed over them all day. He could see nothing lurking in the rock. Just the same strange patterns and carvings.

  But Draig wasn’t pointing out a sight. It was a sound. At the edge of Tom’s hearing.

  "Voices," Draig whispered.

  He was right. It was the voices Hawne had warned him of, though the increasing breeze whipped away the words before Tom could make them out.

  “They’re behind us,” Jarnstenn said, an iron axe in his hands.

  But Draig was shaking his head. "Ahead." He had drawn his own iron blade and stood, ready.

  "Sounds like they’re coming from above," said Katharine, a knife in her hand.

  They didn’t seem to come from any direction. It was like the voices were in the very air itself. What were they saying? Tom strained to hear.

  "She will die."

  It was no more than a whisper amongst the chaos of noise, but it was clear. She will die. Katharine? He raised Caledyr, stepped closer to her.

  Fight.

  I will, he promised the sword. I’ll defend her.

  Fight.

  "You cannot save her."

  "I can hear them," Tom whispered to the others, and they replied, "So can I," and "I do too." And Emyr added, "They’re talking about Ambrose."

  Katharine said, "They’re talking about Rose."

  Jarnstenn said, "They’re laughing about Kun."

  Mennvinn said, "They say we’re going to die here."

  Gravinn said, "They’re saying we’re lost."

  Six grunted, "They say I’m going to die."

  Draig said, "They say I’ll never go home."

  His words hung heavy in the air, everyone’s fear given voice.

  "The air rings with magic." Dank stepped up to the wall, held a gloved hand an inch from the rock. "These walls are riddled with the same stone as the monoliths."

  "Wouldn’t that protect us from magic?" Katharine asked.

  “No," Tom said. "The stone repels magic, but it can also channel it."

  Dank nodded. "Someone built this valley." He pointed at the carvings in the rock. "These channels guide the wind, make noise. The stone guides the magic, gives voice to the sound."

  "And it whispers our fears to us," Tom added. "That’s why we each hear something different." It was clever. It was cruel. It was the perfect way to dissuade the unwary from continuing. He turned to Emyr and asked, "Rimestenn’s handiwork?"

  Emyr nodded, a wistful smile playing about his lips. "It feels like him." Then a gust of wind blew away his smile and replaced it with worry. There was no knowing what it had whispered to the old king; to Tom it had said, "You will fail him."

  And Caledyr said, Fight.

  "We’re on the right path." Tom tried to inject hope and certainty into his voice. But it sounded weak in his own ears. He slid Caledyr back into its scabbard, and pulled the ropes of Katharine’s sled over his shoulders again. "We can take heart from that."

  "You will be the death of them all," whispered the wind.

  But whatever the others heard, they sheathed weapons, picked up their burdens and they walked. With even less enthusiasm than before. With bowed heads. With heavier steps. But they walked. And the wind continued to whisper.

  "You’ve seen her die. You cannot prevent it. And when she dies, Rose dies too. You’ll lose them both."

  But Tom knew it was nothing more than magic. Just a trick. Ignore it. Just keep walking. They’re only words.

  "Turn back. There’s no point in fighting any more. You’ve already lost Maev. Soon you will lose Katharine and Rose, too. What will you have then? Not these others. They aren’t your friends. They don’t trust you. They know you’re a liar and a coward. All you do is make them suffer and die. You’ve already killed Kunnustenn. Ambrose is dying. And how long does Six have left to live? It would be kinder to slit his throat than let him suffer this way. But you’re a coward. You’d rather let him suffer for days than do what must be done."

  Mennvinn said she could save Six. But could she? She wasn’t a cirgeon. Just an assistant. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps they were just prolonging Six’s pain.

  "And then how many will you have killed? Topknot, Siomi, countless Western elfs. Athra and Storrstenn were surely executed. And how many innocent men and women died when you freed the dragons?"

  So much blood on his hands.

  "And everyone who travels with you. None of them will survive this journ
ey. And what will happen to you? Centuries of torture in Faerie. If Emyr couldn’t outwit Melwas, what hope do you have?"

  It was only magic. Clever, cruel magic, designed to unearth his fears and his weaknesses. Nothing more.

  "It can be both magic and true."

  Tom bowed his head and tried to ignore the torrent of whispers.

  "I’m going back."

  Tom was working so hard to block out the whispering wind that it took him a moment to realise Jarnstenn had spoken. The dwarf had stopped, eyes closed, shoulders slumped, face tipped to the sky.

  "Keep going," Gravinn told him. "We can’t listen to the wind."

  "It’s not the wind," Jarnstenn replied, but Tom didn’t believe that. "I don’t belong here anymore. I only came for Kun. I don’t have a reason to be here."

  Gravinn said nothing. What reason did she have to be here?

  "We need your help, Jarnstenn," Katharine said.

  "What use do you have for a blacksmith, eh?"

  "You made these sleds."

  "A child could have made them."

  "I couldn’t have made them," Tom said.

  "What can you do?"

  It was said without malice, without anger. Just a sadness. It caught Tom off-guard. "Excuse me?"

  "You seem to be leading us, but you’re not very good at it. You got yourself a nice fancy sword, but you only carry it when he don’t want to." Jarnstenn jerked a thumb at Emyr behind him. "Kun is dead." He waved a finger between Six and Ambrose. "He’s dying, and he don’t look much better. You tell me you’re doing a good job, and I’ll tell you the one about the honest Elect."

  He was right. There was no denying it. Not when the evidence lay before their eyes. But Gravinn said, "If you knew half of the things Tom has done, you would be singing a different tune."

  "What did he do, exactly?" He turned on her. "Helped you run away from your elf-master? Know how many runaways there are in the streets of Cairnakor? Ain’t hard to run away."

  "He freed me."

  "Didn’t he say he’d free all the dwarfs in the Kingdom? When are they all coming home, eh?"