The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “That’s different.”

  “Yes, because at least the dwarfs get to keep their bodies and minds.”

  “Quiet.” Neirin’s voice was groggy and grumpy. He climbed to his feet, black robes covered in white dust. “You will reveal us.”

  Katharine stared at Tom, waiting for a response. But what could he say? He didn’t think Dank was a slave, not really. Yes, the fay seemed to be able to speak through him. But that wasn’t all the time. And Dank seemed happy with his lot in life. He didn’t seem to regret binding himself to the fay.

  He wasn’t a slave. Not at all.

  “Katharine,” Neirin said. “Report.”

  Not him. Katharine.

  She didn’t want to stop this argument. But she ground out, “No signs of Storrstenn or the others.”

  “Any activity from our guest?”

  “No.”

  The captain was still lain on her side, facing away. Was she still sleeping? Listening? Waiting?

  “What are we going to do with her?” Katharine asked.

  Tom knew. If they had to kill any witnesses, they’d have to kill the captain too. Neirin’s silence confirmed his thoughts and Tom cast a look at Caledyr, lying in its scabbard amongst his blanket. He didn’t want to profane the sword again. It wasn’t meant for executions.

  The room faded and instead he saw a dingy room with a low ceiling and Dank said, “You need all four glarn. That much we know.”

  He stared into a golden eye and tried not to breathe the stench of fish as an ancient voice said, “You are either brave or foolhardy, little elf, to come so close.”

  Torchlight flickered off shining black walls. “We need to keep moving.”

  “No,” Tom said. “Not yet.”

  “It’s taken us days to get this far. Rimestenn is still out there.”

  The foresights faded and the room returned. Tom blinked. The glarn again. That golden eye. And Rimestenn? Surely he’d misheard.

  Neirin was saying, “We wait for Storrstenn.”

  “And then what?” Katharine asked.

  “North again,” he replied. He was eating a chunk of bread. Tom’s stomach growled and he stepped over to the paltry offering Storrstenn had left them. He reached for bread but remembered the ritual he had failed to perform for the dead the night before. He picked up a piece of cheese instead.

  “To which city?” Katharine had her arms folded, eating nothing.

  Neirin looked like his bread tasted terrible as he said, “I don’t know.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like this.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “He could be taking us anywhere.”

  “I have to agree, my lord.” Brega was doing her Siomi impression again. Neirin stiffened as if wounded. “We put too much faith in this dwarf.”

  “What would you counsel?” Neirin’s voice was precise. Formal. Controlled..

  “Make the dwarf reveal all.”

  “Wait,” Tom said. “I thought he’d told you his plan?”

  “Some of it,” Brega replied. Her eyes conveyed disapproval and Tom got the feeling she’d had this conversation with Neirin already. “He left out details. Too sensitive, he called them.”

  Having anything less than all the knowledge and all the authority didn’t sound like Neirin at all. “What sort of details?”

  “Details such as whether this Proctor is party to his plan,” she replied. She picked some bread for herself and a handful of dates. “Details such as how he will get us into Cairnagwyn.”

  “They seem important details to me.”

  “Yes.” She turned her back, lowered her scarf and ate a date, before raising her scarf again. “I know,” she said, mouth full.

  “I know something of the dwarfs,” Katharine said. “They have great minds. Perhaps secrecy is important to his plan.”

  “You said you didn’t like this either,” Tom said. The cheese was hard and nutty, not like the soft, milky fare of The Heel. He ate another block.

  “I want to know where we’re going,” she snapped. “That doesn’t mean I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t,” Brega said.

  “It is your job not to trust people,” Neirin replied.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  “There is something about him,” Tom said. He thought of Maurstenn, the third dwarf in the shipwreck, and felt an unease. “He tries too hard to seem charming. Or sincere.”

  “Can’t he be both?” said Katharine.

  “Not in my experience,” said Brega.

  “What do you think?” Tom turned to Dank, who watched with his own eyes again. Those eyes flicked between each of them for a moment, uncertain.

  Then they darkened and he smiled. “We see no reason why you should not trust him.”

  Tom frowned. He’d been hoping for Dank’s opinion, not the fay’s. “So we’re safe if we follow him?”

  Dank’s smile broadened. “We didn’t say that,” he replied, almost laughing. “But this isn’t an enterprise for someone who wants to be safe, is it?”

  Was he avoiding the question? Or was that a typical fay answer? “So we can trust him?”

  Dank’s smile faded. “We encourage you to.”

  It seemed wrong somehow. Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that Storrstenn was hiding something from them. Yet the fay saw and knew so much more than he did. If they said he was trustworthy, he had no reason not to believe them. “Very well.”

  Katharine snorted. “So we do what the fay tell us to.”

  “There are worse ways to live a life,” Dank said with the mocking cruelty of Melwas.

  Katharine shook her head and walked to a window, staring out at the people below. Tom wondered if he should talk to her, make her feel better, try to mend their friendship. But Six had told him to give her time. So he just stared at her, feeling helpless.

  “We will speak to Storrstenn on his return.” Neirin sounded uncertain. Faltering. But Brega nodded and turned to their meagre supplies, busying herself with their few weapons. Neirin went to his bag and removed Siomi’s mask, staring at it as if he could find answers in the empty sockets. And Dank stepped to Tom’s side.

  “Do not fear, little Tom,” he said, still with Melwas’ voice. “Events proceed well.”

  Tom nodded. “Is Dank a slave?”

  “That is not what we would call him.” And Melwas mocked him with Dank’s smile.

  They waited in the derelict building for three days. They refilled their canteens when a storm came on the second night, but none of them could safely venture into the city for food, so their rations ran low. At one point Brega asked if they should be feeding the Western captain, given her likely fate. But Neirin insisted. “My father once said that a prisoner should always be treated like a guest, save the lock you put on his door.” They spent days on hunks of bread, a handful of dates, a small block of cheese, but while stomachs grumbled no-one else did. Neirin was content to wait for Storrstenn, and so Brega stayed unusually quiet. Katharine found some paper and ink left by the absent architect and drew a map of their journey.

  And Tom spent his hours watching the Westerners. Dank would often sit with him and translate whatever he could hear, usually the shouts and the arguments but, in quieter hours, the conversations of the wives and mothers or the merchants. They spoke of their children at war, they spoke of the king in the north, they spoke of the golden age that would come upon them once Idris had united Tir. Tom might have been moved by their worries and concern for each other if he hadn’t heard one elf speak of the war as, not just necessary, but a gift for “the little races of Tir.” It seemed any decency or humanity was exhibited against a backdrop of insufferable arrogance and callous disregard for anyone who wasn’t a Westerner.

  On the third day, Sannvinn arrived alone.

  “Be ready,” she said. She wore new clothes, rich emerald trousers and a matching tunic, all embroidered with a symbol Tom didn’t recognise. Her hair was different too, cu
t and styled into something more elegant, and she wore a single earring. “Storrstenn is not far behind. He brings a new comrade, but also in his company is a Westerner enthralled by our misleadings. He will require subjugation.”

  “Why are you bringing a Westerner here?” Brega asked.

  “We need what he has.”

  “And that is?”

  “There’s no time.” She waved Tom forward. “Master Rymour, if you please. The point of your sword should suffice to hold his tongue.”

  Brega scowled and produced a scrap of cloth. “A gag will be safer.”

  Sannvinn looked askance at the scrap but said, “I trust in your judgement, mistress elf.”

  Tom and Brega waited either side of the doorway, listening to the approach of voices and footsteps. Caledyr felt distant in his hands, indifferent. This work was more suited to an assassin’s knife than a sword. A sword that had been held by Tir’s greatest king.

  The elf was first through the doorway, wearing a heavy, hooded fur, and Tom lifted the edge of the blade to his throat. “Quiet,” he said. The elf stopped and slowly raised his hands.

  “I have money,” he said with no trace of an accent. “Please. Take what you will and let me go.” He carried a plethora of tubes and bags on his shoulder and Tom realised what Storrstenn had brought them.

  “My apologies, master Pathfinder,” he said. And Brega stuffed the rag into his mouth and pushed him forward. She pulled back the hood to reveal deep brown hair tied in three braids then pinned at the top of the head, a Marchmen style. When he looked back at Tom, he revealed a narrow, pointed face that betrayed little fear. He had been held at the point of a sword before.

  But when he saw the bound captain, he took a sharp breath through his nostrils. Perhaps he realised the danger he was in. It took only moments for Brega to bind him and force him to his knees.

  “We will not depart until nightfall.” Storrstenn swept into the room. “We dwarfs can hide in plain sight, but the rest of you cannot be concealed.”

  Following them was another Westerner, tall, aristocratic, wearing red trousers, black boots and gloves, and an emerald shawl over his shoulders. His blond hair was unbound and shining, and his face was the epitome of aristocracy; sharp features, disapproving mouth, disdain in his eyes. Then his expression relaxed and Tom realised it was Six.

  “Well,” said Neirin. “I see you have been busy.”

  “Very.” Storrstenn was rooting through the Pathfinder’s bags, opening tubes and examining the paper inside.

  “You got rid of the tattoo,” Tom said to Six. The elf’s cheeks were pure, unblemished skin.

  “It’s hidden.” Six lifted his hand but stopped short of touching his cheek. “Powders and creams.”

  “Yes, yes, Sannvinn’s very best work.” Storrstenn sounded like he was tired of hearing it praised.

  Sannvinn blushed as Neirin appraised her. “I see.”

  It was incredible. “You wouldn’t know it had ever been there,” Tom said.

  He didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until Sannvinn said, “Thank you.” Like he had given her a very great gift.

  “Remarkable work indeed,” Neirin said, then directed his gaze to the dwarf that had entered behind Six. “And you are?”

  “Honoured, my lord,” she said. Dressed for travelling, her hair was short, falling only to her shoulders, and her clothes seemed richer than Tom had seen on a dwarf, even if they were designed for practicality over fashion. She proffered the inside of her wrist to Neirin. “Your servant, Gravinn.”

  Neirin smiled, inclined his head. “I am Neirin, Shield of the Eastern Angles.” He said to Storrstenn, “Gravinn is to join our party?”

  “Yes.” Storrstenn was surrounded by maps, peering intently at one and then another. “Gravinn is this Pathfinder’s thrall. She can take us north.”

  “I thought that was why we had sought your help?”

  The dwarf didn’t look up but he scowled. “I am gifted with great intelligence, my lord, but there is none that can beat a Pathfinder.”

  “I’m a Pathfinder,” Katharine said, arms folded, voice still but strong.

  “With no maps and no local knowledge, curse me for saying so,” Storrstenn replied. “Gravinn will have the knowledge we need to navigate the Kingdom.”

  “And what of the Pathfinder himself?” Neirin asked.

  “Inconsequential,” he replied. “We have his maps. We have no further need of him.”

  The Pathfinder tried to speak from behind the rag, his eyes wide.

  “You’re going to steal his maps?” Katharine asked.

  “I am.”

  “His life’s work. The entire sum of his career as a Pathfinder.”

  “We need them.”

  “If you steal his maps, you destroy him. He will be nothing. No-one will hire him again.”

  Storrstenn shrugged. “I have greater concerns than his chances of earning future coin.”

  “We can’t do this.”

  “I appreciate this has a special resonance with you, Katharine,” Neirin said. “But we must put aside our personal feelings, for the good of Tir.”

  Her gaze moved across the each member of the party before landing on Tom. “Please,” she said, almost too quiet to hear, and her eyes revealed a deep, inconsolable loss. Tom felt himself falter. If he couldn’t give her back her maps, he should do something.

  “We did a terrible thing leaving your maps in Cairnalyr. I would do almost anything to get them back for you,” he said. But as much as he wanted to stand by her, to be her friend and ally once more, he had to say, “But this won’t bring them back. We need those maps.”

  Her expression closed down. “I see.” She turned and stalked to the window, sitting at its edge and looking out.

  Should he go to her? Or give her space? But Six took the decision from his hands, sweeping to her across the dusty floor in his newfound clothes. He even walked differently in them.

  “Why is Six dressed like that?” Tom asked. “And you dwarfs?”

  “A disguise,” Storrstenn said.

  “For what?”

  But Storrstenn just waved a hand and it was Sannvinn who said, “An elf with a handful of dwarfs in tow is nothing remarkable. Six can masquerade as a local scholar travelling with a few thralls, allowing us to move about towns and cities without impediment.”

  “Good,” Neirin said. “That will make things easier.”

  “Indeed,” Storrstenn said, still peering closely at the maps, and told Sannvinn, “Go get us some supplies. Use one of the old seals from my bag.” To Gravinn he said, “Tell me about this road.”

  The two dwarfs huddled in conversation while Sannvinn left in silent obedience.

  “And what of the Westerners?” Neirin asked. “Have we further need of them?”

  “No,” Storrstenn replied.

  “Do you have a plan for them?”

  He waved his hand. “Just kill them.”

  He said it so flippantly it stilled the room. Both elfs stopped and stared at the dwarf as if he were some kind of dark miracle they had never before seen. The Pathfinder looked incredulous, the captain scared.

  “Murder them.” The words escaped Tom’s mouth before he knew he was going to say them.

  “Semantics, Master Rymour.” Storrstenn replied. “Murder, kill, sever their corporeal bonds. Dead is dead. Use whatever words lighten your spirits, I care not.”

  Caledyr weighed heavy in his hand. Pure, shining copper, simple and plain and beautiful for it. He’d already killed an unarmed elf. Could he do it again? “Can’t we let them go?”

  “And what then, Master Rymour?”

  “We leave.”

  “Undoing your work at the watchhouse so neatly you could tie a bow around it.”

  “He’s right,” Brega said. “They’ll raise the alarm. We’ll be hunted.”

  “They’re unarmed prisoners.”

  Brega made a disgusted sound and pulled her knife from her belt. “I’ll do
it.”

  “No.” There would be blood on his hands no matter who did the deed.

  Her eyes flashed. “Don’t give me orders.” She growled and said, “Have you lost your stomach?”

  No. But he remembered how the watchelf had pawed at the blade in her belly. How her life had leaked away, how he had robbed her of her days to come. Yes, she was the enemy. But had she deserved to die like that?

  “When Malvis hunts,” Neirin said, “you must survive.”

  A terrible saying, used to rationalise too many dark decisions. But he was right about one thing: this was about survival. Survival for the people of Tir. Survival for his friends. But survival too for his own self; if he started murdering unarmed prisoners, would he still be Thomas Rymour when he was through?

  Pain exploded in the back of his head and he went down, crashing into the dusty floor. He felt blood in his mouth and in his hair. There was noise, shouting, but he couldn’t get up. Was he going to be sick? Lights jumped in his vision. What had happened? What was going on?

  He lifted his head and fought the urge to vomit, spitting blood instead. Got one hand under him, pushed. Each movement felt sluggish and distant, like he was a puppeteer working with broken strings.

  The captain had Caledyr.

  She’d cut her bonds and pulled the gag out of her mouth. She held Caledyr at full reach, keeping the others as far back as possible. She was saying something in elfish.

  Retrieve the sword.

  The thought was like a hammer blow in his mind, making him dizzy. But it was undeniable. He had no choice.

  He picked up the bloodied brick she’d hit him with and threw it. She dodged, but her guard was down. Brega threw her knife, and the captain whirled, cutting through the air, knife clattering off the sword. But she’d turned her back on him.

  Tom threw himself at her and they collapsed to the ground. She elbowed him, pushed him aside, tried to bring the sword to bear. He gripped her hands in his own, dodged her thrashing head. He had her hands, but at the expense of his own. What did he do now?

  Reclaim the sword. Kill the enemy.

  He drove an elbow into the captain’s face. Once. Twice. He spat blood to blind her. When she averted her face, Tom punched her in the side of her head. Her grip weakened, he pulled the sword from her hands, and drove it into her neck.