The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

The elf nodded. “Not all weapons have an edge," he said.

  And if Rimestenn’s hammer could break Melwas’ knee, what would happen if Tom pushed this little stone down Melwas’ cursed throat? Tom’s lips stretched over bloody teeth in a humourless grin. “Distract him,” he told the elf.

  "I’ve got three arrows left," Six replied. "But he won’t even notice them in that armour."

  Tom shook his head. "He’ll feel it."

  Six hefted the bow, notched an arrow. Tom shook his head again, spattering the sand with blood. "Not yet," he told the elf.

  "They don’t have long."

  He was right. Dank was on the ground, leaving only Emyr standing. And Melwas was still too fast. It was just a matter of time.

  "Wait," he told Six. "You’ll know when." And he pushed himself to his feet. Staggered towards the fight with no sword, no blade with which to defend himself. "I yield!" he cried. "I yield to King Melwas of Faerie!"

  The whirl of blades slowed and stopped. Everyone stared at him in disbelief. "No, Tom," Emyr said. Melwas merely grinned. He’d pulled Six’s arrow free and his eye was already healed. Immortal. Invulnerable. But, perhaps, not invincible.

  "We swore an oath to each other, King Melwas," Tom said. "You would keep Katharine and Rose safe in Faerie. In return, you and I would duel." He dropped to his knees. It was a battle not to follow his knees, lie down in the sand and close his eyes. “I cannot best you in battle. I yield. I surrender myself to you."

  Melwas cocked his head like a hound.

  "You have won." Tom gestured at the others. “We fought together, and you kept us all at bay. What else can I do?"

  "This is not how we thought we would win." Melwas sounded disappointed. "We thought we would have to drag you into Faerie."

  "It is as I was told many years ago," Tom replied. "Once you eat of Faerie food, you will never be free of it." Which was not what he had been told. But it was true all the same.

  Melwas nodded. "Swear your allegiance to us." He pointed his blade, like an accusation. "Bind yourself to us, your true king."

  Tom glanced to Emyr. The man who had knighted him. Who had named him his champion, his guide, his protector.

  Judged nobler in deed than in what we say. Tom hoped that was true.

  "I, Thomas Rymour, the last knight of Tir, hereby swear that King Melwas of Faerie shall command my loyalty until my dying breath."

  Melwas sighed, like a satisfied lover. The smile he turned on Emyr was almost dreamy. "It seems we take all of your knights, Emyr." He took a step forward, and Tom palmed the black stone into his hand. "Perhaps we should command him to take up his sword against you?" The stone tugged at his thoughts, tried to pull his mind into the maelstrom. Melwas took another step. "To kill you all, perhaps?" Tom held himself back from it, as the sprite had shown him, as Melwas took another step. "Even if his loyalty falters, we fancy he would do it. For his women."

  For his women. "As you say, my king." Come closer. Just a little closer.

  Melwas knelt, brought his face to Tom’s. It was a gift. "You belong to us now. Don’t you, little Tom?"

  The arrow sliced through Tom’s ear, across Melwas’ cheek, and as the Faerie King cried out in pain, Tom wrapped a hand in his hair and pushed the black stone into his open mouth.

  Melwas didn’t buck or thrash. He didn’t move at all. Instead it seemed like the world shook. The beach, the sea, the sky, the others, Tom lost them all, there was nothing but Melwas’ limp form and the effort of keeping a hold on it. Don’t let go, don’t let go. One moment the body seemed to be nothing but smoke, the next it was solid and real, then it was peeling away, skin from flesh from bone, then wrapping around his hand, then around his wrists and face like tendrils, like tentacles, clawing at his face. Don’t let go, don’t let go. There was a sound, a painful, constant note that stabbed at him, a scream of pain and rage and treachery. Tom’s fingers were on fire, his face was flayed, his body was burnt and he was being pulled piece from piece. Don’t let go, don’t let go.

  Melwas fell to pieces. His skin and flesh dissolved, his bones tumbled from Tom’s grip, and they dissolved into ash. But still the world shook, and Melwas’ voice echoed all around him, filled with fury and hate and delight. "You and yours will suffer like no mortal ever has."

  With nothing to hold onto, Tom was at the mercy of whatever force buffeted him to and fro, and he could do nothing as the black stone tumbled from his grip and the maelstrom tossed him to the winds of magic.

  Epilogue

  When his thoughts came back to him, his mouth was filled with the sour taste of old vomit. Dried blood cracked as he opened his eyes, but the world refused to come into focus. There was light. A thousand smells and sounds, all meaningless. But everything felt solid. Real. He was in Tir. He felt hard stone beneath him. Loose strands of hay. He tried to push himself upright, but he couldn’t. He was too weak. He closed his eyes again.

  Voices. Footsteps. A shadow fell across his face and he opened his eyes to see two figures standing over him.

  "As we promised, Your Grace. Thomas Rymour. In the somewhat battered flesh." Glastyn wore a blue and yellow tunic.

  "Eirwen’s grace." Duke Regent’s satisfaction was grim, his expression cold and hard. He was thinner and greyer since Tom had fled his court. "I had almost given up on seeing you again, Rymour."

  Tom knew he had to stand, to run, to escape before Regent could throw him in his dungeons. He tried to rise, but Glastyn put a boot on his chest and it took no force at all to push Tom back down to the ground.

  "Very good, Glastyn." Regent nodded. "The Heel owes you a debt."

  Tom’s mouth was filling with blood. He turned his head, spat. Some of his teeth were loose. "You said you were my friend.”

  Glastyn gave Regent an easy smile. "All part of the plan, Your Grace."

  But Regent didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he bent at the waist, looming over Tom. “Welcome back to the Heel, Oathbreaker. We have a cell ready and waiting for you." The duke stepped back so armed guards could pick Tom up and haul him away. "Prepare yourself for a long stay."

  The story concludes in the fourth installment of the Realm Rift Saga; sign up for updates at jamestkelly.com/readersgroup!

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  Acknowledgments

  Writing often involves sitting alone with a laptop, so it’s often thought of as a solitary pursuit. The truth is that writing these novels is a team effort, though many members of that team may not appreciate what a valuable contribution they provided.

  My wife waits patiently (for the most part) for me to complete a novel, and never complains that it has taken up so much of my time. She is unfailingly generous, encouraging and supportive. I hope she understands how much I appreciate her.

  I once heard that sleep deprivation can boost creativity. If that is the case, my daughter deserves much credit for keeping me awake at night. All joking aside, the dream of Phoebe inspired much of these books, and the reality far exceeds the dream.

  My parents should be lauded for indulging my habit for disappearing into books for hours, for encouraging me as I began to write my first stories, and for cheering me on as I took writing seriously and made a living from it.

  My siblings all support my work, and their love and friendship is a rock upon which I’ve built so much.

  It’s strange but true that a writer does not always know what they have written. I have some fantastic beta readers who tell me more about my books than I could imagine. Special thanks must go to Lindsay Taylor, who always goes above and beyond, and Ben Jackson, who always provides beautifully elaborate critiques.

  I’ve been lucky to work with some incredible artists on this journey. Annah Wootten, Felix Ortiz, Shawn King, and Howard Coates have all contributed incredible work to these books. It’s been
an absolute pleasure to work with them.

  Brian Sibley was kind and generous enough to provide a quote for a debut novel from an unknown writer.

  Finally, I’d like to thank you. Knowing that you’re reading and enjoying these novels is what keeps me writing. Thank you. You’re great.

  About the Author

  James has had a ponytail, been awarded the title of Pokemon Master, and secretly tweets as a historical literary figure.

  He grew up in the shadows of London, moved to Norwich for study and stayed for love. He still misses the Tube.

  Visit his website at jamestkelly.com or say hello to him on your favourite social network.

  jamestkelly.com