The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  And while dwarfs and humans might be nothing to remark upon, the presence of an Easterner brought stares and muttered musings. Even without his robes, coronet or mask, Neirin’s very bearing was enough to identify him as a lord. He commanded personal space in a place that seemed to have forgotten such things, and he seemed to stare over the heads of all, even those taller than him.

  Tom, on the other hand, stepped off the wagon into a sea of elbows and shoulders. It was push or be pushed; there seemed no room for manners.

  This part of the city was all terraced, identical buildings, little blocks with a foot of garden between door and street. But in the distance Tom could see the palatial district, ever bright with flags, pennants and lights of all colours. Over it all sat a complex of pyramids that made the one in Cairnidol look like a mud hut. Some sat apart, others were joined like tree roots grown and intermingled over the years. One peak towered over them all, the capstone shining an unnatural black.

  The central monolith. Though miles distant, Tom could feel the air still where he stood.

  “Inside.” Athra urged them into one of the square little homes and Tom wondered how long it would be before the watch came knocking. He and Katharine carried Brega, shuffling through the narrow door, down a narrow hall, and into the nearest room.

  “Here.” Katharine nodded to a rug on the dark wooden floor. The only furniture consisted of two old armchairs and two tables beside them. They laid Brega down, her eyes shut tight behind the skull mask. “Can I get you anything?” Tom asked her.

  She reached up, took his hand, squeezed it. “Look after him?” It was a plea. She opened her eyes and there was failure in them.

  The hallway was filled with people. Elfs spoke to Athra and he gave them calm, charming responses.

  Tom looked back down at Brega, felt an urge to drop her hand, let fear walk him out of the room so he didn’t have to deal with this.

  He squeezed her hand back. He had no comforting words, no comforting lies to offer her. But she closed her eyes nonetheless.

  They stepped away and Tom whispered to Katharine, “She’s dying, isn’t she?” Brega had fought off Erhenni prizefighters for him but he could do nothing for her.

  “The cirgeon will be here soon.”

  “Can he really help her?”

  Katharine gave him a smile, one he’d not seen in a while. Soft. Warm. Fond. “I’m sure of it.”

  Athra stood framed by the doorway, watching his followers leave. He turned to Tom and smiled, mellow, peaceful. “The hour is at hand.”

  Not yet it wasn’t. Not until Brega was healed. “How long until Six and Gravinn get here?”

  Athra shook his head. “We must place aside our mortal concerns.”

  Before Tom could say anything, Neirin’s voice echoed from the hallway. “All of my concerns are mortal.” Why wasn’t he with Brega? That was his place.

  Athra made a face but said nothing. Instead he disappeared into the back of the little house. Sannvinn appeared a moment later with two mugs of water and a rag. She held one mug to Brega’s lips. It was plain her noisy slurps took great effort.

  “I could wipe your brow if you would allow me to remove your mask,” Sannvinn said.

  “A sweaty forehead is hardly my biggest problem.”

  Tom couldn’t help but grin.

  “A cirgeon doesn’t carry a magic wand.” Someone had bundled Storrstenn into one of the armchairs. “Even if he can save her, she won’t be able to travel.”

  Tom glanced at Katharine. The set of her jaw said it all. “We can’t leave her,” he told her.

  Athra called through from another room, “We have other safehouses.”

  Caledyr stirred, uneasy. Tom didn’t need the sword to convince him. “She stays with us.”

  “What about Faerie?” Dank was squatted in a corner, still as stone, staring at Brega. “We could look after her.”

  How to say no without causing offence? But Brega said, “And listen to Puck’s bad jokes? Death might be more pleasant.”

  Dank’s grin was all bared teeth and it didn’t touch his eyes. “Ho ho ho.”

  They waited. Athra paced the hallway, peering out of windows. Neirin finally joined them, hunching in an armchair. Dank laired in his corner, Sannvinn gave Brega water. And Katharine knelt by Tom’s side while he held Brega’s hand. Sometimes the elf squeezed as she suffered a wave of pain. Other times her hand was limp in his, and he would whisper Emyr’s prayer. His eyelids would droop; he was so tired but he didn’t let himself fall asleep. He couldn’t bear the guilt.

  But a knock at the door snapped up his head. He’d dozed while Brega had bled. His heart jumped with fear. The watch. They’d been discovered. Could they flee? No. That would mean leaving Brega. Only one choice.

  Kill the enemy.

  No. Not kill. But they would have to fight.

  But Athra strode to the door without fear or caution, and a moment later Tom heard a voice. “Where is she?”

  Athra replied in elfish and then a dwarf bustled into the room as if there was nothing amiss.

  “Away, away with you.” He was tall for a dwarf, bald, clean-shaven, wearing an apron like a smith but in an old, faded white. He shooed Tom and Katharine, before calling for hot water as he opened a huge, heavy bag. “Who here is of a quick mind and nimble of thought?” He pulled out glass vials, rags, great scissors and a tiny knife, pulled on thin leather gloves. “Speak quickly.”

  It was all too bewildering and Tom proved himself slow-witted. Katharine said, “I can assist,” and stepped into the dwarf’s maelstrom, putting things where she was told, holding things she was given.

  “Bring me light,” he told her. The sun was almost set. “Everyone else, out.” The dwarf hefted his scissors and began to cut away Brega’s blood-soaked clothing. It peeled back, still wet, revealing deep slices drawn over her ribs, strips of flesh loose in ways it shouldn’t be, all slippery and shiny and bloody.

  “Emyr’s black bones.” Tom had never seen such a wound. Not since he was a boy and old Harold Ash had been gored by one of his aurochs.

  “I said out.” The dwarf was already picking and probing, ignoring Brega’s grunts and cries. “She doesn’t want an audience and nor do I.”

  So Tom found himself crowded into the hallway with everyone else. “Will she live?” he asked.

  “If you let a dwarf work, she might.”

  “Come, Tom.” Neirin put on a show of calm, but Tom saw the tension in his jaw. “Let the healer work.”

  The little house was dark save a lamp for the cirgeon and a lamp in the room at the back. Tom wanted to wait and watch from the doorway. But curiosity drove his feet until he was staring down into a great hole where the back room used to be.

  “Your work?” he asked Athra, who had followed him.

  “Oen’s,” the elf corrected.

  “Idris’ tunnel?”

  “Mere feet below.” The pit took up the entire room, but the sides were ragged and sloped until there was room at the bottom for just one person. Likely the hard work had eroded the digger’s enthusiasm. Still, it would have taken weeks to dig; what evil plot Athra had been nurturing before they’d arrived with the sword? “Our time is at hand.”

  “Not quite,” Tom reminded him. Brega came first.

  But Athra misunderstood. “Of course.” He took a deep, satisfied breath. “We must be patient, brother Rymour.”

  As if his words were a cue, there was a great rumble from outside. Thunder? Athra started, ran back through the house, threw open the door. The chatter and roar of the crowd stopped as the rumble continued. Too long for thunder. Tom followed the others to the doorway, followed the shocked gazes to a tower engulfed in smoke. It looked delicate and slender at this distance, but it must have been enormous, dwarfing every building around it. As Tom watched it began to twist, tip, and then it fell, toppling to the ground with a crack and a boom and an explosion of dust and screams.

  Athra turned and went back inside as if s
uch a thing were commonplace.

  “The King’s Peace,” Six muttered.

  “It seemed appropriate,” he called. He was already in the back room, lowering himself into the hole.

  “The Goraven did this?” Tom asked.

  The cloud of dust kept growing. Eirwen’s grace. If they could hear the panic and the terror from here? Tom tried not to imagine what it was like, choking dust and darkness. “How many will have died?”

  “Hundreds,” Six said. “Thousands.”

  Sometimes the cost is too high.

  Tom felt numb as he watched feet take him back into the house. Watched his hands haul on the rope Athra was using to lower himself. Watched himself throw the elf against a wall, ignore his meaningless rhetoric about Oen and his will. That they had to descend, so they could rise.

  Athra was a monster, Tom realised. From children’s stories. Death, destruction, hurt and suffering, he would inflict them all to achieve his aims. He’d clear any obstacle by any means.

  Tom knew he had not been so different.

  That was why he was angry. No, not angry. Not furious. Not outraged. He was simply no longer willing to tolerate the presence of such a foul being.

  “You’ve killed thousands.”

  “You can’t build on ruins,” the elf replied. “You have to clear the ground first.”

  Kill the enemy.

  “I should kill you for what you’ve done.” It would feel right. It would be just. But he said, “Someone please fetch Storrstenn and some rope.” He took a deep, calming breath before he said to Six, “I think we should leave them both here.”

  “Leave me?” Athra bunched his fists. “I am an instrument of Oen.”

  Tom bared an inch of Caledyr’s blade. “I wield an instrument of Oen.”

  “You don’t dare thwart me.” But Athra’s eyes were wet. He was without supporters. With only Six to call on. But his face twisted and he spat, “And you, brother? You’ll leave me behind? Again?”

  “Leave you.” Six was shocked, stunned. Unable to work his way through the thought.

  “Any chance to forget your family.” Athra took a step forward but stopped when Tom drew another inch of Caledyr. “Does even your true name shame you?”

  “Family.” Six shook his head and said something in elfish.

  “I belong down there.” Athra turned his attention to Tom, fury forgotten, his tone reasonable yet pleading. “I know the layout, the guard. I know our path to deliver Tir from Idris’ reign.”

  “And into what?” Tom asked. “Chaos?”

  “Oen returns in Tir’s darkest hour, when the fields are aflame and the peoples are sundered.” It almost sounded like another sermon. “I usher in a golden age by bringing about the world it needs.”

  “Pain and death and suffering.”

  “All births are painful.”

  “You just killed thousands of innocent elfs,” Six said. As if he was in awe. As if he couldn’t believe his little brother had managed such a feat.

  “There’s no such thing as innocence,” Athra replied.

  So Mab had said. So Storrstenn had said.

  “You believe it, don’t you? What you’re saying?” Six rubbed his eyes. “I wondered if it was an act. But you make yourself believe your own lies. Your excuses.”

  “I believe in the truth of Oen.”

  “So do we,” Tom said. “It has nothing to do with this.” Then he said, “Rope,” and took it from Dank, who watched with greedy eyes. But Tom watched Six. This was his brother. Leaving Athra meant leaving him for the watch.

  Six just nodded.

  Athra howled as Tom took hold of his wrists, tied the knots he’d seen Katharine tie. “Plunge the knife in now, brother,” he said. “Shall we summon mother too? Or would you rather leave her penniless and alone?”

  But Six’s expression was closed. “No,” he said. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty anymore.”

  “Let’s break father’s tomb,” Athra wailed. “Shall we make his bones dance for you?”

  “Someone will hear this,” Neirin said. He was right. The door was still open, someone in the street would report them. People had seen two Easterners and a man with a bronze sword enter this house, the same night a building was destroyed. The watch would already be on their way.

  Tom pushed Athra to the ground, lashed the end of the rope around Storrstenn’s ankles.

  “And I am to be sacrificed too,” the dwarf said.

  “You can’t be trusted,” Tom replied. He looked up and saw Gravinn and Sannvinn peering past taller bodies. Both of them were still and quiet. Like Six, burdened by what had to be done. “We have to move,” Tom told them. “Sannvinn, please tell the cirgeon we have to leave. Gravinn, please close the door.”

  “You won’t get far without me,” Storrstenn said.

  “Maybe not,” Tom replied. He couldn’t make the knots any tighter. “But if the means turns us into monsters, perhaps the end isn’t worth finding.”

  The cirgeon’s voice came from the other room. “Move her? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  There was no time for a debate. Tom could almost hear the footfalls of marching watchelfs. Or would Idris send soldiers? “It’s not safe here,” he called as he squeezed past the others. “We have to move her.”

  The rug was ruined, bloodied by rags and instruments, and there was a harsh smell, like strong spirits. Katharine’s hands were bloody and she held a finger against Brega’s flesh while the cirgeon pulled fine thread through delicate stitches. “In my opinion, which, forgive me for saying, is more important than your own in this area, this elf should not be lifted, carried, or otherwise disturbed for at least a week,” the cirgeon said.

  “If she stays, the watch will take her.” Tom stood at Brega’s feet. Brega herself stared at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, face slack. “They’ll move her anyway, into a cell.”

  The cirgeon didn’t take his eye from his work. “At least their cells have beds to lie on.”

  There was a scream outside. No time. “Finish your work and go with our thanks,” Tom told him. “Don’t linger.” He strode out of the room; he didn’t need to hear the objections. Pushed past the others. Didn’t gawp at Six planting a kiss on his brother’s head and whispering something. Half-slid, half-fell into the pit and hefted the enormous hammer lying at the bottom. Swung it over his head and down to crack against the stone beneath his feet. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Tom?” Katharine called from above. “Wait.”

  They were stood in the midst of Cairnagwyn. Surrounded by Westerners. Westerners he had terrorised for months, and who had been terrorised tonight. They would be looking for her. For Brega. For Neirin and Six. And he had sworn to keep them safe. “I daren’t,” he said. One last hammer blow and the stone beneath him cracked and crumbled, and he fell into the black.

  Chapter 21

  He didn’t fall far but he fell hard. His legs folded beneath him and blocks of rubble jabbed into his back. For once, he didn’t crack his head. He let himself groan as dust settled on his face.

  “Tom?” Katharine cried.

  “I’m okay.” In a sense. He rolled over broken stone and onto his feet. He could still feel the landing in his knees. “Send the others down.”

  “We can’t move Brega.”

  “I won’t leave her behind. Nor will Neirin.”

  Katharine didn’t argue with that, leaving Tom to peer about. The only light came from above, just enough to see that this was not the grand pathway he had imagined. The tunnel was cramped, narrow, enough room for one tall elf. No elaborate brickwork or expensive decoration. No more than a king’s burrow, the walls raw and rough, the air old and stale. Not very dignified at all.

  They lowered Sannvinn, Neirin and Dank by rope before they tried to lower Brega. “Be careful,” Neirin told them all. Any other time he might have sounded imperious. Now he just sounded nervous.

  She came down in a sling made of sheets, bundled like a babe. Her jou
rney was faltering and full of fearful moments. But she didn’t fall, and the four of them took her weight, took the sheets, and laid her as far from the faint beam of light as they could see.

  She was pale, silent, her eyes staring at nothing, her jaw slack. “Medicine,” Neirin said. “For the pain.”

  “Looks like it works.”

  Katharine came down last, carrying a torch with her. It illuminated only more tunnel, each direction as unremarkable as the other.

  “Which way?” Neirin asked.

  “The palace is north of here,” Six said, “but I’m not sure which way that is.”

  Katharine held up the lamp, sniffed the air, peered at the walls. They looked damp in places. “This way,” she said, and started walking. The others followed dutifully, leaving Tom and Neirin to heft the ends of Brega’s sheet into a hammock. The ground, at least, was smooth, though not worn. Very few had walked this way.

  “How can you tell?” Gravinn’s words were part question, part accusation.

  “Looking for trade secrets?” There was a carefree air to Katharine’s laugh. Well, perhaps there was a bright side to things. They were free of Athra and Storrstenn. Brega might live. And the end was in sight.

  An end in which he battled with a figure in black. And fought with Dank.

  The thought dulled his smile.

  “We should be quiet,” Dank said.

  Why did the fay want the monoliths broken?

  “Don’t worry,” Six said. “There’s no-one else down here.”

  “You are certain?” Neirin’s voice sounded strained. Brega was heavier than perhaps either of them had thought.

  “I am,” Six replied. “Only the king has access to this tunnel, and he’ll only use it in a dire emergency.”

  “Such as an attack on the city?”

  Six was silent whilst he took Neirin’s meaning. “Collapsing the King’s Peace will increase the guard. But I don’t think he’d flee.” But he didn’t sound too sure.