The thoughts gathered together, swirled into one, and the more there were, the faster they came. But they were all tangled. Gravinn’s thoughts were mixed in with Dank’s, and they didn’t separate.
What’s wrong? Why are they like that?
"They can’t remember who they are." The sprite’s terror shook Tom and he felt a thought scatter away into the storm, never to return. The fay reached out with a brilliant tendril, to touch the cloud of thoughts, but they danced away from the painful light. "Remember us," it told the thoughts. "Remember us?"
They remembered the sprite, and they didn’t. But the more thoughts that joined the swirling mass, the more confused it became, and in a moment the thoughts began to scatter and flee the confusion and the fear. The sprite reached out and tried to herd them back, but they fought its embrace, desperate to escape.
"Help me,” the sprite demanded.
How?
Remind them who they are.
How?
But the sprite was too busy catching stray thoughts. So Tom reached out. Gravinn? Gravinn, come to me. Leave Dank. Come to me.
But that was no use. None of the thoughts knew if they belonged to Gravinn anymore. So Tom drifted closer, reached out to the nearest thought, a simple mantra of free, free, free.
You’re Gravinn, he told it, and held it to one side. Reached to another that sang a few notes of a melody over and over. It sounded like Dank, so Tom told it who it was and held it to another side. He listened to each stray thought and tried to figure out which was which. Sometimes he wasn’t sure, so he let it go and it would drift to one side or the other. Because it knew who it was? Or was it guessing?
"Faster," the sprite boomed. The cloud of thoughts were dissipating, zipping this way and that, trying to escape the sprite’s prison. "We cannot hold them forever."
Tom snatched thoughts from the maelstrom as quickly as he could.
"If they escape, we won’t catch them again."
There wasn’t time to examine them all; all Tom could do was try to get the flavour of them and push them to the cloud that felt right. What if he was wrong?
"Hurry." The sprite was closing its grip, pressing the thoughts together, trying to contain them, and suddenly they were a dark cloud surround him, a storm within a storm, and he pushed and ordered them as best he could but the terror in them was infecting him too and he felt like he was beginning to lose himself in the chaos, he caught a thought, was that his, iron nails this one felt like his, he kept it, the sprite’s grip was tightening, the maelstrom was thick with thoughts, was this Gravinn or Dank, Gravinn, must be her, this one Dank, one slipped past him and sped off into the maelstrom and the sprite said, "No more time," before crushing them all together in its blinding embrace and pulling them from one storm to another.
His first thought was, am I me?
He turned to find Katharine, and she wasn’t there.
Then he felt the ache in his heart, to know that his daughter was trapped in Faerie, and he knew who he was. I must be me. This is my pain.
Tom lifted his head and a furious wind blew snow into his eyes. He had eyes to be stung. Skin to be frozen. He was free of the maelstrom. This was Tir.
He knew he should stand. That there was more to do. He had to see if Dank and Gravinn were here. If they were safe.
Please. Just a moment.
Was that his thought?
A cry. Rose? No, not Rose. But it was a cry of shock and fear. His limbs moved before his thoughts could catch up, pushing him to his feet and towards the sound. Cries and shouts and the sound of breaking glass. He reached for the sword, to see off this new threat, to fight another fight.
But Caledyr was gone.
Chapter 22
The scabbard at his waist was empty. Had he dropped the sword? Had he lost it in the maelstrom?
No. He knew where it was: Faerie. When Melwas had sent him back, the Faerie King had kept the sword. Of course he had. Why let Tom keep it? Why risk his success? And why allow him a weapon that could stop a fay in its tracks?
It was over. There was no hope without Caledyr. They couldn’t seal away Faerie without all the glarn. He let despair and fatigue drop him to his knees.
Fight.
It wasn’t Caledyr. Just the memory of the sword. That’s what it would say. And it was right. Katharine and Rose needed him. So did the others.
He bowed his head. Just a moment. He just needed a moment to rest.
One moment here was another moment Katharine and Rose had to spend in Faerie. A moment spent with creatures that wanted to hurt them.
Curse you.
I am you.
Curse me, then. And he pushed himself to his feet, which felt more difficult than lifting the world itself, and looked around.
The sprite was causing havoc, upending sleds, breaking jars, flying through the fire and sending sparks everywhere. One of the tents had caught alight.
It was taking its revenge. How had he failed to see this coming?
Iron blades were waved through the air, but the sprite was small and hard to hit. Chaos. And what could Tom do? Nothing. The despair rose up in him again for a moment. No. Fight.
So he strode towards the camp, and roared, "Enough!"
The sprite stopped for a moment, hovered out of reach.
"You’re angry. I understand that. But we are Dank’s friends. Hurting us will hurt him. I know you don’t want that."
The sprite was too small and its light too bright to make out its features. But something changed. And Tom got the feeling he had said just the wrong thing.
It darted towards him, he lunged for it, missed, it passed him, raced for Dank’s prone form and dove into his forehead.
The man screamed.
The sprite burrowed beneath his skin, climbing in against Dank’s will, forcing its way into his body. The tattoos in his skin writhed, lashing across his features, and Dank clawed at his own face, trying to stop the sprite or stop the pain.
"Help him!" Tom rushed to Dank’s side and tried to get a grip on the sprite’s legs, but Dank’s flailing hands caught him in the side of the head and he stumbled back. Draig snatched Dank’s wrist, tried to get a hold of the other one, Dank’s back arched and he screamed again, the sprite was almost inside, Tom reached for the sprite but Emyr was already there, pressing the flat of an iron knife against Dank’s forehead, and Dank roared and writhed and the blade drew blood and then Dank was still.
He hung limp from Draig’s grip. The elf let go and Dank fell to the ground. His eyes had rolled up into his head. His mouth hung open. He didn’t close either against the driving snow.
The tattoos stilled.
"Is he dead?" Draig asked.
Dank blinked. The eyes that stared out of his head were not his own.
"We warned you." Dank grinned. Melwas’ grin. "This one is ours."
Dank cracked his head against Draig’s nose, leapt to his feet, faced Emyr.
"The king of Tir," he sneered with Melwas’ mocking tone.
"Fight them, Dank," Emyr told him.
Dank laughed, and Emyr tried to lunge while Dank’s guard was down, but the boy was too quick, he slapped Emyr’s knife from his hand and drove an elbow into his face, a foot into his belly.
Tom charged, but he was tired, weak, slow. Dank blocked his swing with ease and a gut punch made Tom gag before a blow to the head sent him to the ground.
"Stop him!" Jarnstenn swung a hammer into the back of Dank’s knees, bringing the man to the ground with a roar while Mennvinn leapt onto his back.
But Dank rolled, crushing Mennvinn under his weight, kicked Jarnstenn in the jaw, and came to his feet, free of dwarfs. And he began to kick them.
"Filthy little smoke-lovers," he spat.
"Leave them alone." Tom’s words were hoarse, the snow biting into his eyes, he could barely hear himself over the wind. But Dank heard him. Turned and glared at him, wild grin revealing a madness within.
"Will you stop us, little Tom?" he
asked. Turned and spread his arms, as if for an embrace. "Challenge us now. Don’t let your friends fight your battles."
"Don’t let Dank fight yours." Getting to his feet was a struggle. As if he had grown heavier.
"This body is ours."
The casual, possessive air with which Melwas wore Dank was sickening. Like he was no more than an outfit. A novelty. "Nothing in Tir belongs to you."
"Tir is nothing more than a delivery room, little Tom." He spoke as if explaining something simple to a small child. "Your time here is nothing more than a birthing pain. Your mortal forms are larvae. Crawling maggots on the face of the world. Until you die, and blossom as just a small part of Faerie. That’s all you’re good for, little Tom. You and your ilk. You are food. We can hunt you as we will. Who will stop us? You?"
"I will try."
"You will fail."
"Perhaps."
"And what then, we wonder? What will your friends think, when we best you and you fulfil your oath to us? To bend the knee?" Dank grinned as expressions around him turned to disbelief, to horror, to revulsion. "Such a price you bargained for your woman’s life."
Tom ignored everyone else. Put out one fire at a time. "If you expect me to fail, why not release Dank?"
"Because he betrayed us," Melwas-as-Dank replied. "We want him to feel his body hurt those around him before we take him back to Faerie. Where we’ll hurt him." And Dank’s lips grinned, despite what those words meant for him.
"Let him go."
"Never."
Dank launched himself at Tom, who swung a fist, blocked a counter-blow, Dank got hold of his hair, headbutted Tom and stopped every thought cold. Tom was dimly aware of falling onto his back, of the storm whirling around them, a faint voice told him to fight, a ghost of a memory, and then Dank was on top of him, hands wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe, he clawed at Dank’s fingers, tried to prise them free, kicked, flailed, clawed at Dank’s face, Melwas was speaking, taunting him, air, breathe, breathe, air, shadows were creeping into the edge of his vision, blood roared in his ears, his head felt like it would burst, like Dank would twist it right off, air, breathe, save me anyone, please, they’d abandoned him, they would let the fay kill him, please, I didn’t mean it, air, air, air, blood dripped from Dank’s face onto his and the storm died down and the light faded from the world.
But a voice kept him from slipping away. A voice that spoke words he didn’t understand, that struck the dark stone in his self and set it vibrating.
The pressure on his throat was gone. He sucked in a snowy breath, coughed, got an arm over his mouth and tried again, and again, each breath filling his throat with needles, but he had air, he had breath. Dank was gone. On his feet. Tom pushed himself upright and saw the other man had his back to him. Facing the voice.
Facing Ambrose.
The sorcerer walked out of his tent, staff aloft, dark eyes burning and voice ringing clear. The storm didn’t dare touch him, swirling and dancing to stay away from him. And Dank growled as he approached, fingers clawed, ready to attack.
Tom tried to call to him, to warn him. But his voice was gone, his throat unable to make the sounds. But Emyr saw it. He rushed towards Dank, knife in his hand, and Dank grappled him to the ground. Draig was a step behind, wrapping an arm around Dank’s neck. But Melwas had the advantage; he threw Dank into the fight without a care for his mortal body, whilst Draig and Emyr tried to save their eyes from clawed fingers, their skin from gnashing teeth. So Dank broke free and leapt onto Ambrose, bringing him down to the ground.
The old sorcerer’s head cracked against a rock.
Tom stumbled towards the pair, saw Dank wrap his hands around Ambrose’s throat, choking him, cracking his head against that rock again and again.
“We have you now, little magic man," Melwas crowed.
But Ambrose showed no fear. Didn’t fight back. He just kept speaking his dark words and reaching for his staff. Would he unmake Dank? No time to guess. Tom snatched up the staff and pushed it into Ambrose’s outreached hand.
And Ambrose lifted the staff and touched the tip to Dank’s head.
Dank’s scream was the sound Melwas had made when Tom stabbed him with Caledyr: like the world itself was falling apart. Dank released Ambrose, but he was frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything as Ambrose’s muttered incantation held him fast. But his tattoos writhed, lashing and thrashing like they were flaying Dank alive. They slipped across his skin, flailing their way towards Dank’s face, towards Ambrose’s staff, where they gathered, boiling over the boy’s features, ready, waiting for something.
Ambrose drew his staff back, and drew with it the sprite, like a splinter. The tiny fay tried desperately to cling to Dank, but it couldn’t resist whatever magic Ambrose was using. And, as it came free, the tattoos came with it. They leapt from Dank’s skin like they were creatures in their own right. Like the thoughts in the maelstrom, they danced through the air, swirling around the sprite.
Not swirling. Wrapping. They were embalming the sprite. Curling around and around and crushing the sprite, until the last dot of ink was free, the sprite and the tattoos were no more than a spinning black ball, and the air vibrated with so much magic it made Tom’s teeth ache.
Then Ambrose stopped speaking.
Dank fell back, collapsing to the ground. Ambrose’s arm fell to his side like a dead weight, his staff rolled from his hand, and the tiny ball fell at Tom’s feet, a speck of black against the endless white snow.
Silence. The storm was still at bay, as if it was afraid to roll back into the hush. Everyone stared at whatever sat at Tom’s feet. Was the sprite inside? Was it alive?
He reached for it.
"Don’t touch it." Ambrose was still. He could be thought dead if his mouth wasn’t moving. "The jar."
It took them a moment to react, and it was Mennvinn that brought the jar forward.
"Put it inside. Do not touch it," he said again. "Place it into Orlannu, if you find it."
Mennvinn used the lid to scoop the little ball into the sprite’s former prison, fastened it tight, and set it on the ground. She stepped away quickly, as if it might hurt her.
Ambrose stared at nothing. His skin was grey, and his dark eyes seemed empty somehow. Mennvinn rushed to his side, but he said, "No." His fingers twitched. The tiniest gesture, towards Dank, who was sprawled in the snow, his lips moving soundlessly, his eyes wide and unseeing. "Care for him,” Ambrose said. “I am beyond your help."
Mennvinn stepped back, silent, reverential. As if Ambrose was ill. No. As if he was dying. Which he was, Tom realised. He was spent. He’d been holding onto his last reserves, just for this moment. Just to release Dank, and save Tom’s life. Emyr knelt beside his friend, and took his hand in his own.
"I didn’t expect it to hurt so much." Tears slipped from Ambrose’s sightless eyes. "I thought I was beyond such things."
"Mennvinn, bring him something for the pain," Emyr ordered.
"It would be a waste." But Ambrose’s brow tremored and his breath hitched. His hair was matted with blood. "You’ll have to finish this without me now, old friend."
"I won’t know what to do without you," Emyr replied. He made no attempt to hide his grief, his regret or his anger.
"That’s why he’s here." His fingers twitched again. Towards Tom. "Look after him."
Tom nodded, but wasn’t sure if Ambrose could see him. "I will," he managed, no more than a whisper, but somehow he knew that Ambrose had heard him.
"I’m so sorry," Emyr said.
"Why?"
"I put you through this. You did this for me."
"And what did you do for me?" Ambrose’s lips twitched into a smile. "I don’t remember any of my life. It feels like it has not been easy. But there is one last memory that makes it a little easier to bear."
Tom remembered the silent promise he had made himself: to make sure that Ambrose always had something good to remember. So he placed a hand on Emyr’s shoulder. Th
e old king looked up at Tom with a desperate hope that near broke Tom’s heart. “Tell him,” Tom managed in a hoarse whisper.
Emyr’s hope died and shrank under the loss and the responsibility. But he lifted his friend’s hand to his lips and said, without hesitation, “You have always been my dearest friend."
Ambrose sighed. "That was it." A trace of a smile played about his lips. "That was my last memory." He’d never seemed so peaceful. So human.
"I wish I could remember her face," he said.
His last breath rattled from his frame, and his face went slack.
Ambrose was dead.
Chapter 23
Emyr cried the sobs of a man who has learned to keep his grief restrained and proper. He covered Tom’s hand on his shoulder with his own, held it, squeezed it. It didn’t feel right to embrace Emyr or talk to him, to interfere with his grief. Even the storm kept its distance, the wind and the driving snow battering against invisible walls, just as the waters in the merrow city had been held back by an unseen magical force.
But the magic was gone. Ambrose was dead. So Tom stood and let Emyr squeeze his hand, and watched Mennvinn tend to Dank. She peered into his eyes, felt his neck, his wrist, poked and prodded. Straightened his limbs and made him comfortable. Draig gave her a questioning look, and Mennvinn gave him a shrug in return. She found Tom’s eyes, and Tom nodded to Gravinn.
Gravinn had slumped to the ground, curled into a ball. Deep dark circles surrounded her eyes, and she looked like she hadn’t eaten in months. She didn’t resist when Mennvinn tried to examine her. She was docile and obedient, if distracted; she would touch her face and move her fingers like they were new to her. But Mennvinn finished her examinations and gave Tom another shrug.
Emyr’s sobs grew quieter, then silent, and finally his shoulders stopped shaking. His grip on Tom’s hand weakened, and then he patted it and released it. Drew a deep breath and wiped his nose and face on his sleeve. But he didn’t move. Just knelt by Ambrose’s form. So Tom let him be, and stepped over to Mennvinn. He didn’t have to ask.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 104
