The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  'We can go," Jarnstenn blurted.

  "Fine."

  "What about me?" Gravinn asked.

  But Tom shook his head. "You're too known to the fay. Jarnstenn and Kunnustenn will fare better."

  She scowled at that but didn't question him. "Shall I find shelter?"

  "Yes." Tom smiled at the thought of a fire. A big, roaring fire. "What we need is a cave."

  It was Katharine who found their resting place in the end. Gravinn had started directing them back up the mountain, but it soon became clear that she was guessing. She would stop their progress, scan the hillside, change their path. But she had none of the confidence Tom had seen in Katharine, and when she had them turn back for the third time, Tom had asked if she needed help.

  "Of course not." She'd lifted her chin but her eyes were full of uncertainty. "I'm a Pathfinder."

  "You're a Pathfinder's apprentice." Katharine had given her a cruel smile and added, "Let me show you how it's done."

  "I have maps," Gravinn had spat back, but Katharine took the lead and found a cave within minutes, cramped but deep. Tom left Draig and Dank securing the wagon and tying the horses while he and Six carried Emyr inside. There was barely enough room to stand and the ground was uneven. But it would be easily defended and it kept them out of the horrid weather.

  "Good work, Katharine," Six said.

  Gravinn huffed, already working on a fire at the back of the cave. "It was I that led us this way."

  Tom waited for Katharine to snap back, but her earlier cruelty was gone. She didn't even acknowledge the dwarf. She just sank down into a little hollow and closed her eyes.

  They laid Emyr on the flattest surface they could find and Mennvinn spent a few minutes fussing over him, tucking blankets around him and putting cushions beneath his head. "Enough, Mennvinn." Emyr waved her away. "I'm as comfortable as I'll ever be."

  She nodded and walked away, whispering to Tom as she passed, "He tires of me."

  “Rest a while. You're doing good work," he whispered back. "I'm very grateful."

  She seemed to take strength from that, squaring her shoulders and heading back out to the wagon. Tom knelt beside Emyr as best he could.

  "Is there anything you need, my king?"

  The man's eyes were closed as he said, "A younger body."

  "I'm not sure I can help you with that."

  That opened the other man's eyes and he stared at Tom for a moment before saying, "You're not as old as you think, Tom."

  So everyone always said. But Tom knew how he felt. "I suspect the same is true of you."

  Emyr shrugged his eyebrows and closed his eyes again. "Perhaps."

  "Tom." Six was carrying in some bags and glowering at him. When Tom didn't reply, he jerked his head towards Katharine. Was she asleep already? "You might see to her comfort?" Six hissed.

  Tom had let her lie on hard rock with no cushion, no blanket. He felt a flush of embarrassment, and then one of anger. What made Six think he was in a place to question him? "My king is wounded," he said. Surely it was important to see to Emyr's comfort, to ensure he was healing properly?

  But Six dropped his bags and said only, "She is carrying your child," before heading back out to the wagon.

  "He's right." Emyr muttered.

  "My king?"

  "I have a healer to look after me. Katharine needs you to look after her."

  "I told Mennvinn to rest."

  "Why?"

  "She says you tire of her."

  Emyr took a deep breath, winced, let it out. "I tire of being an invalid. Not of her."

  "Tell her that." Only when Emyr's eyes blinked open did Tom realise how blunt he had been. "My king," he added.

  "I will." His smile was one of pleasant surprise. "Now go to Katharine."

  She was fast asleep already. Mouth agape, making tiny snoring sounds, but beautiful all the same. Tom watched her for just a moment. Gravinn's fire was growing nicely, casting a warm glow across the cave and across Katharine's face. He brushed a finger against her cheek, possessed by a sudden need to touch her. To feel the reality of her. She was here. She was carrying their daughter.

  She stirred, frowned, said in a small voice, "Are you well?"

  He smiled. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

  She just nodded in sleepy silence, let him rummage for fresh and dry clothes. He placed a gentle hand on her swollen belly, her skin goosebumping. Then he dressed her, wrapped her in a blanket, put more blankets beneath her and rolled up some under her head. "Thank you," she mumbled before falling asleep again.

  Draig was tying the last of the horses to a solitary stalagmite by the mouth of the cave. "Heat and light," the elf said with a grin, pointing to the fire. "We are all like moths."

  The elf was right. Who else might be attracted by that fire? Tom stepped outside, where heavy clouds darkened the sky and snow was beginning to fall again. The light was less by the entrance, but still visible.

  "You worry," Draig said.

  "I do," he replied. "Maybe a fire is a mistake. Someone else might see it."

  "There is no-one." Draig pointed at the world. Bare mountains, covered in ice and snow. Not another living thing to be seen. But that didn't mean there wasn't something watching them from out of sight.

  "I wish we could bring in the wagon."

  "It will not fit." Draig shrugged. "Worry you not, it will be here by morning."

  Tom felt the sword twitch. Did it sense something? He strained to peer through the encroaching darkness. But it was still and quiet. Here, at least. "Someone should have gone with Jarnstenn and Kunnustenn," he muttered.

  "Are you wet, and tired and cold." Draig placed a hand on his shoulder. Tom felt himself shrink a little under that touch. Despite his best efforts, he still wasn't ready to trust Draig. But the elf didn't react. He only said, "Change and sleep and sit by the fire. See you then things in a different light."

  Tom shivered. Yes. That would make him feel better. And all of a sudden he felt too tired not to let Draig act like a friend. He let himself be led away from his worries, to the light and the warmth inside the cave.

  He woke with a start. Danger. Something had woken him. He sat up in silence, drew Caledyr without a sound. The fire had burnt low. Everyone else was still sleeping. Only one figure sat by the mouth of the cave, wrapped against the cold. Draig. But he was still. Untroubled by any sound. Perhaps it had been a dream?

  No. There it was again. A sigh. Wistful or sad, he couldn't tell. Was it Draig? No. The sound felt too big for the elf. Tom got to his feet, stepped over sleeping bodies and picked his way across the uneven rock to Draig's side.

  "Did you hear that?" Tom asked.

  "Just the wind," the elf replied.

  But the air was still. The snow had stopped. There was just cloud, and night sky peeking through where it could.

  And a sigh.

  Tom felt a chill run over him that was nothing to do with the cold. "I'm going to check it out."

  "Nothing is there."

  "I'll make sure." He stepped out of the cave, feet crunching too loudly; the cold had made an icy crust of the soft snow. Maybe this was a mistake. Anyone would be able to hear him coming. Whatever was making that noise would know where to run from. Or in which direction to hunt.

  "Tom, there is no danger," Draig hissed after him. But Tom carried on climbing the mountainside. Why? Maybe it was the wind after all. And even if it wasn't, what threat did a sigh pose?

  But he kept climbing. There was nothing to hear save his footsteps. Nothing to see except mountains and stars and his fogging breath. Nothing to feel save the cold, biting at his skin, seeping through his clothes. He stopped, listened to the silence. Draig was right. There was nothing out here.

  North.

  Caledyr's thought made Tom start. Was there something to the north? Tom turned his head, uncertain which direction he faced. But then he felt it. Not a presence. But a difference in the air. Sharper. But the difference was so slight h
e probably wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the sword. It was like a breeze that went unnoticed until someone else pointed it out.

  There was magic in the north. A lot, to be felt at such a distance.

  "And what are you planning to do with that?"

  Tom whirled, slipped in the snow, almost lost his balance. The speaker was behind him, a gangly, shaggy figure. Taller even than Midhir yet with none of his grace, she was covered in dirty white fur that flared at wrist, ankle, hip and neck. Her head was too wide, ending in comically flapping ears. She leaned forward on her knuckles and he still had to look up at her.

  "Gwyllion." He hefted the sword, feeling its eagerness to strike now and strike fast. Tom knew he stood little chance to talking his way out of an attack. Not again. But if he struck first, he would be the aggressor. Better to not give the fay an excuse.

  But still the sword urged him to fight.

  "Well met, Thomas Rymour." Gwyllion had an ugly, savage voice. So unlike her fairer face, Eyllion, who had a singing voice that could bring you to tears of joy.

  "Well met."

  "You attacked our king."

  Straight to it then. "I did. He threatened my friends." He cast a quick glance to the left and right. Tried to edge himself into a better position.

  "Yet you live."

  “Melwas appears to will it so."

  But any hopes Tom might have had that Gwyllion would let him go were crushed by a low growl. “No,” she huffed, a great puff of steam escaping into the night. “You raised your hand against our king. We cannot allow you to live to see another morn.”

  Chapter 7

  Delay.

  The sword was right. Gwyllion had the higher ground and he had poor footing. "How did you find us?” Tom asked.

  "We looked. And there you were."

  "Have you been following us?"

  She bared yellow, uneven teeth. "We have better things to do."

  Gwyllion spent most of the winter months ranging across mountains, threatening the odd traveller and eating the odd sheep or goat. Hardly the most important of duties.

  But not everything had to be duty and purpose.

  "So Melwas didn't send you?"

  "No." She grinned. "But think how pleased he will be when we bring you to him." At this she stood to her full height, towering over him, and flexed her iron claws. imposed as punishment for some forgotten crime. Sharp to cause pain to Melwas' foes. Iron to cause pain to Gwyllion.

  "You know this sword can hurt you."

  "As if we do not already know pain." She held out a hand, flexed her claws.

  "And what if I dismembered you?" he asked. Stoorworm had been too big. But Gwyllion was slender. He could cut through her limbs without issue. "Would that unmake you? As Fenoderee was unmade?"

  Gwyllion grew still and huffed again. He was right. If he could stop her for long enough, he could slice her to pieces. And then she'd have to wait to be remade. But then she grinned and reached out with one long, gangly arm, placing it in the snow. "You will have to get to me first." She was showing off her reach. Well beyond his own. She could keep him at bay with ease.

  "So you mean to take me to Melwas?"

  "And your friends."

  Tom nodded. "Very well." The sword was quiet, considering. But he would never gain a better footing. Surprise would have to be his ally. Calmness of the soul until death. "I wish it hadn't come to this."

  He swung Caledyr in an overhead chop, seeking to sever fingers. But Gwyllion was quick. She snatched her hand back with a shriek, before leaping forward and slapping a hand at him. Tom raised the sword, skewered her palm before it knocked him down into the snow.

  Gwyllion didn't make a sound. She pulled her hand back, Caledyr slid free, and Tom watched the wound heal even as fingers closed around his ankles and lifted him into the air. Iron claws pinched the flesh at his ankle.

  She was right. Pain was nothing to her.

  He tried to chop off the hand holding him but she dropped him, he sliced through air, hit the snow with a cold crunch.

  Up.

  Caledyr prompted his feet to move before he could think, and he was on his feet in time to see Gwyllion sweep her claws at him.

  Down.

  He dove for the ground, her hand clipping him but no more.

  Inside.

  He stumbled up again, the snow collapsing under his weight, tried to rush inside her reach. But he'd only made it a few steps before she backhanded him, knocking him onto his back.

  Up.

  He rolled to his front, got his feet under him only for Gwyllion to send him sprawling.

  Up.

  He spat snow from his mouth as he stood again, whirling, sword held ready. He jabbed towards her, seeking to make her hesitate. It didn't work. She feinted with one hand, bowled him over with the other.

  Up.

  Give it a rest, he told the sword. His fingers were numb. He was on his hands and knees, breathing hard and fast, lungs burning with cold night air. But before he could stand, he felt a hand close around his leg and lift him up again. He dangled for a moment, the world swinging, and then his view was filled with her face.

  "Maybe we should just eat you." She laughed to herself. "Melwas will thank us all the same."

  "I don't think I'll taste very good."

  "No." Gwyllion huffed. "A hundred years old. We prefer a younger meal."

  She grinned at her own joke and Tom swung, cutting her across the face with the sword. She let out a cry and dropped him. This time he landed on something hard, his back bending around a rock buried under the snow. No time to worry about that. Gwyllion had a hand to her face. He surged forward, under her flailing arms, cutting at her legs and ankles. She staggered back, swung at him blindly. He ducked one blow, sliced at her ankle, ducked another swing, stabbed at her foot. Then her hand clipped his shoulder and knocked him over.

  Don't rest. Don't stop.

  But it was too easy to take a couple of breaths, close his eyes. Not against the pain; he was too cold to feel that. But against the effort. The effort of getting up again and again and again.

  "Damn you, Thomas Rymour." Get up. Don't let her collect herself. Don't let her gain the upper hand. He let out a single, harsh laugh. Upper hand. That's all she had. He pushed himself up. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. He'd drop the sword soon. He should have put on gloves. Gwyllion was stood still, hand still against her face. He must have cut deep.

  Forward.

  He let the sword guide his feet, lift his arms. She had a hand outstretched as if to ward him off. The blade lopped off a finger with ease and she screamed, snatched her hand back, retreated.

  "End this." His breath burned in his throat. "We don't need to fight."

  "You think we will let you get away with this?" She bared her face to clutch at her wounded hand, her lip and nose already stitching together as she spoke. "You attack our king and expect to live?"

  She was fanatical. Devoted. To a king who had cursed her with iron claws. With constant pain and agony. There was no reasoning with such a creature.

  Off-balance, Caledyr told him.

  Yes. She was. "Very well," he said. "Then let me leave you with this. After all, you've grown used to the taste of iron, surely?"

  He mimed throwing something at her and she shrieked and covered her face. Hidden from her sight, Tom relied on fear as much as the sword to push him forward. Push him through the snow, duck beneath her legs, and swing with all his might at the small of her knee.

  Gwyllion's leg buckled.

  Tom threw himself against her.

  She fell.

  Tom watched her tumble down the mountain. She fell end over end before a rocky outcrop launched her out from the mountain and into free fall. She fell in silence. The only sound was his own ragged breathing.

  "Luck was with you." Dank told him.

  "I know." Tom wanted to sit closer to the fire and yet he didn't. The returning warmth in his fingertips was glorious, but new aches and
pains were woken by the heat as well.

  And he had new appreciation for Emyr's impatience with Mennvinn's care. "Hold still," she told him. She was poking at his back. When he hissed, she shushed him.

  Draig had been quiet when Tom had returned, seeking to wake only Mennvinn, but Six had woken too. "So she didn't attack the cave?" the Westerner asked.

  "No." Tom had opened up the cut on his side as well, the one Draig had inflicted in Cairnagwyn. Mennvinn had muttered something about the stitching and was threading a needle. "She was outside."

  "But she had found us."

  "I think so."

  "But Draig, you didn't hear anything."

  The elf shook his head. "No." He was holding a lantern up to better help Mennvinn see her work. "Only to Tom was there sound."

  "I heard it," Tom said.

  "Odd that Draig didn't."

  It was odd. But, "We know the fay can't be seen or heard by everyone."

  "Draig has the Second Sight."

  Which was true. "Maybe they've taken it away."

  "Can they do that?"

  He'd never seen it happen. But there were a lot of things he hadn't seen in Faerie. He looked over at Dank, frowning in his sleep. "I don't know."

  Six sighed through his nose. "Perhaps you should have stayed here."

  "She might have come to the cave."

  "We could have fought her off together."

  "Caledyr is the only weapon we have that can stop the fay."

  Six made a dissatisfied noise. "We've brought plenty of iron."

  Mennvinn stabbed a needle into Tom’s side and he cried out. "Don't fuss," she told him as she began to draw the thread through his flesh.

  "How do you think Gwyllion found us?" Six asked.

  "I don’t know," Tom admitted. "Perhaps a fay saw them in the tavern?"

  Apparently Jarnstenn had felt he deserved an ale for his efforts. They'd procured the supplies and spent an hour or so in the village tavern. Now he and Kunnustenn snored gently together by the fire.

  "Perhaps." Six sounded unconvinced. "But why not attack the cave? Why stand on a hilltop and wait for you?"