Five days? “Is that all?”
“We lost a lot in the fire.”
The news spread a chill in his heart, like he’d been swimming in ice water for hours and was starting to succumb to the cold. But he had to keep going. His family needed him. “We’ll have to make do.”
"And we still have the journey back to think of," Mennvinn said.
It was depressingly easy to think there would be no journey back. "We’ll have to worry about that once we have Orlannu," Tom said. He hated to say it. He wanted to have all the answers.
"We could turn back now," she said. She was trying and failing to make a spark with a piece of flint. "Gravinn and Six would be better served in Cairnakor."
"Scared?" Jarnstenn asked. He offered his own flint and they had her cigar lit in a moment.
"If you’re talking about the monster in that maze, yes, I'm scared,” she admitted, taking a deep drag on her little smoke. The pale blue smoke stank, but Tom found it somehow comforting. It seemed real. Mundane. A piece of a world long left behind. "But I’m also scared for them. If either of them worsen, there is little I can do here."
It was terrifying to think they could worsen. Gravinn sat where she had been placed, dull, tapping the stone in front of her in a constant, unending rhythm. Dank was up, but he sat apart from everyone else and said nothing. He just stared. “Then we’ll have to hope they don’t worsen,” Tom said. Mennvinn made her dissatisfied sound, and Tom shrugged. “I wish I had better answers for you, Mennvinn. I know I’m asking too much of you. You do an admirable job of keeping us in one piece. I appreciate it.”
“We’re not all in one piece,” Six growled as Jarnstenn pulled his sled past them, and Tom felt his cheeks warm as guilt clenched at his stomach.
“I’m sorry, Six.”
But the elf shook his head. “Katharine was right. You say those words, but I’m not sure you know what they mean.”
It was cruel, to speak of Katharine that way. And Six knew it. Tom could tell by the way the elf wouldn’t meet his eye. But Six didn’t apologise or take it back; he left those words to hang in the air, until the silence became thick and angry, and Tom found himself drawing deep, shaky breaths in an attempt to hold back his anger. “Help Jarnstenn with his map,” he managed. And Six said nothing, just did as he was told.
“Tom.” Emyr’s voice was heavy but soft, his eyes filled with regret laced with resentment that hadn’t quite faded. It made everyone else drift away, leaving the two men stood alone. “You lost Caledyr.” Tom’s anger was blunted by confusion; he could almost hear apology in the old king’s tone of voice. “Because I failed you.”
What to make of that? “How so?” he said, careful, waiting for a blow to fall.
"You think me a great man, Tom." Emyr’s words were low. Empty. Tired. "But I’m a farmer’s son. A second son, at that. So I surrounded myself with those I thought wise. They orchestrated my victories, I engineered my failures." Emyr sighed. “Now you treat me as your wise man. That makes your failings my own."
Was this the great King Emyr, the Emyr that Tom had seen recruit Mennvinn to their cause with a few well-chosen words, now speaking patronising nonsense? “And why do my failures belong to you, and your failures to yourself?” Tom growled.
“Because I am a king.” He said it like he would rather be anything else.
And he was. “That’s not what you keep telling me.”
“You’re right. I’m no-one’s king.” He turned his baleful eye onto Tom. “But you keep trying to follow me.”
“It’s why I brought you back. To lead us. To tell us how to defeat the fay.”
“I thought we had that someone.”
Tom had never heard Emyr so disappointed. It hurt. And the pain threw brandy onto the smouldering anger. “So did I.” But if Emyr had ever been the man the legends spoke of, he wasn’t anymore. “I was wrong.”
Emyr winced. “I’m trying to apologise.”
“Well, according to Six, apologies aren’t enough.” Tom knew how petty he sounded. But his patience was spent. He didn’t need everyone to find fault with his actions; he could do that alone. “Are you going to lead us?”
The old king thought about it. He looked into Tom’s eyes, weighing the man he found there, considering. Then he took a deep breath, and said, “No.” But he didn’t sound sure about it.
“Then do as I say.” Tom flicked his head towards the others.
“But Tom-”
Tom held up a hand. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just glared at Emyr until he walked away, the weight of Tir on his shoulders. Well, if he wanted to bear everyone’s mistakes, let him. Tom would bear his own. And he would do it alone, it seemed.
His anger ebbed a moment later. He was being foolish. Only a fool spurns an ally. And were the others so wrong? Losing Caledyr, promising to bend the knee to Melwas, were these the actions of a great leader? No. But no-one else was willing to offer any better solutions. No. He did what had to be done.
“Jarnstenn,” he barked, and the dwarf flinched. “How is that map coming?”
“Surprisingly well.” Jarnstenn almost sounded afraid to say so. He held up his paper. Katharine’s paper. Tom clenched his jaw against an unexpected wave of emotion. “Nearly done.”
“Really?” It was cruel to ask. But it felt like the dwarf had barely spent any time on it.
“Six is checking it too.” Jarnstenn hid his hurt well.
Six nodded. “It’s good work.” Tom stepped closer and the dwarf held out his map. Tom looked without taking it. Jarnstenn hadn’t attempted to draw the entire maze, tracing instead paths from their goal, some culminating in dead ends, some simply abandoned. But one path traced its twisted, angular way all the way to where they stood.
"Good work indeed.” Though Tom couldn’t muster the warmth needed for such words, the dwarf stood a little taller all the same.
"Got to be thorough.” Jarnstenn smiled. "Kunnustenn always says you have to read something backwards and upside down to understand it." And, after a pause in which no-one knew what to say, he added, "Said. He said that."
He was still greeted with silence, so Tom said again, "Good work." And felt like a cold fool when Six provided far more comfort by simply placing a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.
“Break camp,” Tom told everyone. “We’re leaving.”
Whether their expressions were angry or uncertain, everyone gave Tom a wide berth, unwilling to do or say anything until he said it needed doing. So he was even more impatient by the time they reached the maze and they all turned to him, expecting him to take the lead.
“It’s your map, Jarnstenn,” he said. So the dwarf stepped forward, pleased to be given the responsibility Tom had shirked. But the dwarf’s smile faded within moments; the maze was suffocatingly close. The path was narrow, the walls towered over them, and their sky was nothing but more black stone. But worse was the effect of the stone itself. It made the air feel cold, dead, brittle. Leeched of all life, like the morning after a night of heavy drinking.
But Tom also felt a constant, insistent tug at his thoughts. Even without touching the stone, he could feel the current beneath, a murmured conversation that was maddeningly just beyond hearing. The desire to reach out and resolve the murmur into clear speech was an itch that made it difficult to focus on anything else.
And there were no distractions. The claustrophobic maze added an oppressive air to the sullen silence, so the only sound was that of the sleds sliding across the smooth stone, and their own footsteps. Here, in the maze itself, the walls were close enough to create an echo, so it sounded like an army was marching behind them.
So they didn’t realise that they weren’t alone until it was too late.
Chapter 24
There was no warning. No sound. One moment they were following Jarnstenn, the next the creature had stepped out from around a corner. The walls echoed with gasps and cries of surprise, but Tom could only stare. The thing had once been a dwarf, but that h
ad been a long time ago. Now its flesh was grey and thin, stretched and torn by the yellowed bone beneath. Its jaw hung slack, held on only by tattered skin. It wore old, cracked iron armour, and skeletal hands dragged an enormous, heavy, ornate hammer. The empty eye sockets seemed to glare at them. The thin lips seemed to curl into a grimace. Even its rattling breath seemed filled with fury, like it resented each one. There was a palpable air of hate that radiated from it like heat from the fire.
"Rimestenn?" Emyr said.
And in reply, the creature screamed and lunged at Jarnstenn.
“Look out!" Tom pushed the dwarf aside, drew his iron blade and plunged it through the cracked armour and straight into the creature’s chest.
The thing stopped still. The head drooped. Tom let himself take a breath and sigh out his relief.
Then the head lifted again and the eye sockets stared right at him.
Tom hesitated, waiting for his sword to advise him. But the cold iron was silent and the creature hit him across the face, the bony hands surprisingly strong, sending him staggering into a wall, his cheek against the cold stone.
A great hall of the Marches was all panic and screams in the night as three Faerie hounds, unseen by everyone, mauled and butchered the horses, along with anyone who stood in their way.
Tom shook his head, dragging his thoughts back to the moment. The creature. Rimestenn. It was coming at him, his sword still impaled in its chest, it was swinging its hammer towards him. He jumped back and the hammer struck the ground with a great ring. Tom couldn’t help but notice how the stone cracked under the impact. Monolith stone. Impervious, unbreakable monolith stone. Cracked.
What was that hammer made of?
Draig appeared at his side, bearing another sword, but there was chaos and panic behind him. "Emyr, get everyone to safety," Tom ordered.
"Rimestenn, it’s me," the other man called. “It’s Emyr. Please remember me, my friend."
“Go!" Tom told him. If this was truly Rimestenn, there was nothing left of the dwarf in there. That much was plain. “Protect them!”
The creature swung its hammer again and Draig hopped back, chopped downwards, his blade ringing off the old armour. Tom tried to jump in and retrieve his sword but the hammer was already swinging back, forcing Tom to retreat and retreat once more. The swings never stopped, across, up, over, again and again. Tom fell back, felt the rush of air as the hammer swept through the spot where his head had been. Jumped back again to avoid a swing at his ankles. And, as the thing took a swing at Draig, Tom ran, leapt, and tackled the creature to the ground.
They landed in a heap, it stank of dried leather, the hammer was gone and bony fingers were scrabbling at Tom, it screamed in his ear and then Tom felt old teeth chewing at his neck, tearing through flesh that grew sticky and warm with blood, he cried out, pushed a hand into its mouth, pulled, and the jaw tore away from the creature’s face. Tom pried the scrap of bone and skin from his flesh, tossed it aside, took hold of his sword and dragged it free from Rimestenn’s chest.
There was no relief at having retrieved it. No rush of strength or thought to help save him. He staggered to his feet, disorientated by his dead sword.
But the creature was reaching for its hammer and Tom lifted his blade without thinking, brought it down and severed the skeletal hand.
"Tom!" Six, his voice distant. Tom chanced a look over his shoulder and saw the others were fleeing.
"Go," he said to Draig. "We can’t be separated."
The pair followed, but Tom could hear the creature behind them too. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw it, running, screaming from a jawless maw, dragging its hammer in one hand.
"Faster!" Tom cried to the others.
"Should we take another path," Draig said. "Draw it away."
"No." If they were separated, they’d never find each other. And what if the creature got away and attacked the others? He looked back again. It was closer. How was it so fast? Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
But Draig did stop, stepped around a corner and said, "Attack we from both sides."
He was right. Tom turned, raised his sword, and the creature screamed again as it swung its hammer in a mighty overhead swing that Tom barely dodged. Draig swung his blade, slicing through armour, pieces falling to the ground. Tom dodged another swing of the hammer and allowing himself a grim smile as he hacked away a chunk of armour.
The creature stabbed at his face with the stump of its arm, striking his forehead and sending him reeling back against the maze wall.
Villagers in Tanabawr ran screaming as Faerie woodkin tore up their homes, faces of bark twisted in rage to see their inert cousins turned into walls and floors and furniture.
Tom stumbled away from the wall, wiped blood out of his eyes. It felt like the stone had kept some of his thoughts, like tatters of clothing torn free by brambles.
A cry cut through the fog, and Tom looked up to see Draig fending off the creature alone.
Tom drew breath without thinking and bellowed without meaning. But it was too late. Draig was just too slow in dodging a swing, and the hammer sent the elf to the ground.
Rage and fear and uncertainty guided Tom through a flurry of attacks, slicing iron through the air in a fury. It was enough to push the creature back, retreating again and again, until it lifted the hammer for a clumsy parry.
What would Caledyr tell him to do? Step into the creature’s reach, turn, drive the pommel back and onto the creature’s head.
Without the sword’s guidance, Tom was off balance and his blow was weak. But it was enough to crush the creature’s eye socket, and it wailed and fell, a handless wrist held to its ruined face, glaring at Tom as it pushed feebly at the floor, trying to get away from him.
It was oddly humanising. In that moment, it wasn’t a creature. It was Rimestenn. Emyr’s friend, who had protected Orlannu for centuries. And something awful had happened to him. Didn’t he deserve a better fate than this?
Rimestenn pushed himself to his feet, glaring out of one good eye socket, and Tom found himself moved to speak. “We come with Emyr,” he said. “We came to save Tir.”
Rimestenn let out a blood-curdling scream and fled. Whatever he had become, it celarly had no time for sentimentality or reason.
Draig groaned. He was sat against the wall, sword discarded, staring at the ceiling, his right arm resting on his lap and very still. "Know I not the word in your tongue," Draig told him through clenched teeth. “My arm, it is not in its place."
"Dislocated," Tom guessed. "You were lucky." Draig gave him a baleful look, but he knew Tom was right. That hammer had cracked unbreakable stone. Dislocated was better than pulverised.
“Are you hurt too.” Draig’s concern was grudging, but he nodded to Tom’s neck, still warm and wet.
But this wasn’t the time for comparing injuries. "Mennvinn can take a look at both of us," Tom told him. "Let’s go."
Draig couldn’t carry his sword, so Tom wielded both blades as they walked through the maze, casting his gaze left and right for signs of Rimestenn, signs of the others. He didn’t want to call out; he didn’t want to face Rimestenn alone, not without help. Not with the flow of warm, wet blood from his neck. So they walked in silence, for just long enough to think they were lost when Draig said, "Light."
Tom allowed himself a tired smile; there was firelight reflected on the stone. They turned towards it without comment, and rounded a corner to find the others sat with their backs to a small fire and a tight grip on their weapons.
Emyr sighed relief. "It’s them."
"We thought you were dead." Six lowered his bow. His forehead gleamed with sweat and his voice was tight with pain.
“Not yet.” Tom turned to Mennvinn and said, "Draig might have dislocated his shoulder."
"Never mind his shoulder, what happened to you?" she asked, her eyes wide and staring.
"Oh." Tom waved a hand. "It bit me. Stabbed me with its stump.”
She waved him to the gro
und and unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it away and peered at his neck. "Adalstenn’s light," she cursed. She tugged something and held it up for him to see. "There are still teeth in there."
Tom grimaced. “A grim souvenir.”
She shuddered. "The wounds will need cleaning. No knowing what disease that thing is carrying."
"That thing is my friend," Emyr said.
Mennvinn had the courtesy to look embarrassed, but Draig was not so tactful. "Cannot that thing be your friend."
"How can it be him at all?" Six asked. “He should be dead a thousand years."
"It’s this place," Tom replied. "It’s kept him alive."
"How?"
"This stone directs magic. That’s what Ambrose said. Anything trapped inside cannot die because the elements can’t get out. They’re trapped. That’s how Ambrose kept himself alive. He made a cave of this stone. His elements had nowhere to go, and so he just kept living."
Mennvinn was wiping his neck with a wet cloth that stung. "You can’t cheat death,” she said, then muttered, ”You’re bleeding a lot.”
"Ambrose lived a thousand years because of this stone."
"But he didn’t look like Rimestenn,” Six said.
“There must be something wrong with this place,” Tom said. Mennvinn finished wiping his skin and started threading a needle. More stitches. “Rimestenn didn’t do it right."
"So we’re going to end up looking like that?" Jarnstenn asked. "Walking corpses, the lot of us?"
"No," Tom shook his head, stopped when Mennvinn told him to be still. "We get to the end of this maze. Find Orlannu and leave." Leave and go back to Faerie, for Katharine and Rose.
"Won’t be easy. That thing ripped my map." Jarnstenn held up the tattered remains. "And I don’t know where we are now."
Lost. In a maze the size of a city. With food and water for five days. And Rimestenn was still out there.
"What do we do?" Mennvinn asked. She sounded calm, matter-of-fact. Her hand didn’t shake as she drew thread through the flesh of his neck, but Tom could tell she was terrified.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 106
