Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (12 page)

The Guardian stifled a yawn and nodded. “On it.”

Breton got to his feet and left the man stretching and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Whether the others pretended not to notice or were genuinely asleep, he didn’t want to find out. He slipped out of the niche without anyone stopping him.

“Ferethian’s as eager to go as you are,” Maiten whispered. “I’ll create a witchlight as soon as we’re off and up the train a ways.”

Breton shook his head and jerked his hand at the full moon overhead. “Don’t waste it. We might need it later. Why tell them where we’re at when there’ll be plenty of light to see by?”

“Whatever you want,” Maiten replied.

“Safe travels,” Ason murmured from the entry of the niche. The man yawned again. “Give the King my regards. We won’t find him in Mithrias, I suspect.”

They all glanced toward the east and muttered as one, “East.”

Ason stepped out of the cavern and halted at Breton’s side. “Artin and Voren will be displeased. I’ll slow them and say you headed down and Kalen’s horses followed you. In turn, Maiten followed to make sure you made it back and to fetch new supplies.

Breton clasped the other Guardian’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“The night is wasting,” Maiten said. “If we’re to stay ahead, we need to hurry.”

“Ride light, ride hard, ride safe,” Ason said.

“Loads already lightened. Stay safe in Mithrias. Give the women my fondest regards.”

At that, Ason let out a low laugh. A smirk crossed the man’s lips. “I’ll do my best, though I fear there is but one of me and many of them.”

Breton mounted. Perin’s ears perked forward, and the gelding pulled at the bit. Ferethian pranced in place, lifting his hooves high and placing them down on the stone with gentle clicks.

“To Kelsh,” Maiten said. With a tap of his heels against his gelding’s side, the Guardian cantered up the trail. Breton watched the man go, and his mouth twisted into a grin.

“To Kelsh,” he echoed.

Perin lunged forward at the lightest touch of his heels, and they charged upward with the light of the moon guiding them.

Chapter Five

Kalen let the long sleeve of his shirt mask his shaking hand. It didn’t hide his weakness from the horse he rode, but the animal was too docile to do more than hang its head and flop its ears in misery. The beast wasn’t smart enough to get upset over his poor posture and the constant quiver of his hand on the reins.
 

The Kelshites didn’t seem to notice his slouching or that he let the horse follow after its herd mates.

Thunder rumbled, and the rain threatened to drown them both. Kalen hunched his shoulders and shivered as the water worked its way through his clothes, soaking him from head to toe.
 

Garint, by unspoken agreement, led the group. The Yadesh kept lifting his hooves high and kept his ears cocked back, but Kalen wasn’t certain if it was out of dislike for the rain and muck or his Knight. Marist’s Yadesh was a smaller beast and little separated the creature from a horse with the exception of her golden, cloven hooves. She plowed through the muck with a purposeful stride, uncaring of who got splashed in the process.

When the creature didn’t think Kalen was looking, she stared at him with a golden eye. He suspected that the Yadesh wanted to speak, but she didn’t. Kalen’s ears buzzed as though swarms of flies hovered around his head, and sometimes he even caught a word here and there of whispered conversations he wasn’t supposed to hear.
 

Not even the vellest eased the throb in his skull.

Derac pulled his little brown mare up alongside Kalen’s mount. “Have you been to Kelsh before?”

“Long ago,” he replied. Despite riding the taller horse, Kalen had to look up at the man.

“Rifters don’t come often. I’ve seen two. Don’t reckon I’ll ever forget
that
man.” An undertone of fear in the man’s words caught Kalen’s attention.

“Oh?”

“Dark-haired, dark-skinned. Looked fit enough to break a horse with his hands. His horse was easily taller than Silver there. Lot meaner, too. Haven’t seen anyone so big in my life.” Derac shook his head and rain whipped off of the man’s drenched locks. “I admit, I was convinced all Rifters would be tall after meeting him.”

“I can promise you that I am the shortest adult within the Rift by a notable margin,” Kalen replied, faking a laugh for the Kelshite’s benefit. The throbbing in his head worsened. “But, there are few men that tall.”

“I learned to ride horses because of that man,” Derac said. “Because of that man and because of that horse.”

“Perin,” he said.

“Perin?”

“The horse,” Kalen said, straightening in the saddle and fixing his posture.

Derac stared at him, but Kalen focused his attention on the horse he rode. He tapped the animal’s flanks with his bare feet and shifted his weight. Both ears pricked up and the horse obediently shifted his stride to a prancing trot.

“Perin,” Derac echoed. “That horse must be long dead by now.”

“Alive and well the last time I saw him,” Kalen said. Mud splashed against the bottoms of his feet and coated his legs.

“Horses don’t live that long. I saw that horse over twenty years ago.”

Kalen laughed. “Things like that happen in the Rift.”

“And the Rifter?”

At that, Kalen fell silent and glanced at each of the Kelshites in turn. Most rode with their heads ducked down and huddled in their cloaks. Garint sat straight and stared ahead, setting a hard pace.

Kalen fidgeted and glared at the Knight’s back. None of the other Kelshites had questioned the excuse that Jarit had gone on ahead to arrange for a healer. It’d be hours, if not days, before any of them realized the man had been murdered. He frowned and shook his head. “He’s fine. It’d take a lot more than the Rift to kill him.”

“So you do know him then,” Derac murmured. The man had a thoughtful expression.

“Of course I know him. It is rare that someone who isn’t a Guardian leaves the Rift. The way is dangerous. I would hope I’d know the Guardians. They’re the elite among us Rifters,” Kalen replied.

“But you aren’t a Guardian.”

Kalen didn’t quite laugh, but made an acknowledging grunt. “Would’ve been.”

Or at least that was Arik’s excuse for dragging him out of bed before dawn each morning to spar.
 

Derac muttered in so low a tone Kalen almost didn’t hear it, “How egoistical.”

“It must be a pleasant thing to have a king who is born into the duty, as though the weight of his blood is enough to give him the heart and the skills to rule well.” Kalen didn’t mask his smile and hoped the man heard the venom in his words. Marist’s Yadesh turned her head to stare at him with one large, golden eye.
 

“Isn’t that how all kings are made?” Derac asked.

Settling for silence, Kalen shrugged and focused his attention on his horse’s ears.

“What are you talking about?” Marist asked. The road was just wide enough for the Knight’s Yadesh to fall in beside Kalen’s horse. The mare continued to watch him a bright eye.

“You’d be surprised what I understand. You’d be even more surprised at what I perceive,” Derac replied. “Let me ask you one last question.”

“What is it?”

“What is a Kelshite man doing on the Rift’s throne?”

Kalen twisted around on the saddle to stare at the man, forgetting he wasn’t on Ferethian, bootless, and that he wasn’t used to the broad girth of his horse. With a yelp, he tumbled over the side of the dappled gray and landed in the mud.

In his thoughts, Kalen heard the feminine laughter of the Yadesh. Her nose brushed against his neck before her teeth seized his collar and lifted him to his feet.

~~*~~

Mud coated Kalen like a second skin. The rain had stopped, as though punishing him for falling off of the horse. If the fall had injured him, the vellest masked the pain of it. He rode in silence and scowled whenever Derac glanced his way.

It must’ve been his eyes. People always doubted he was a Rifter whenever they saw his eyes. It wasn’t
his
fault they were the pale blue of the winter sky. If he’d been born with brown eyes, no one would’ve been the wiser.

But he had no way of denying the statement, not without the Yadesh knowing the truth of it. So, he remained silent and hoped his glare was perceived as a deep insult over the accusation of being born outside of the Rift.

Even if it was true.

“We’ll be in Harrold’s Crossing soon,” Marist said.
 

Garint slowed his Yadesh and they plodded along the road at a sedate walk. Kalen tensed, and his horse’s ears went back. The scent of smoke tickled his nose.

“Something wrong?” Derac asked.

“No,” Garint replied. The man’s Yadesh turned to block the road. “Everything is just as it should be.”

The First’s hatred roused and threatened to consume Kalen.
~Betrayed.~
The creature didn’t implant images in his thought, but revealed the pale auras of men hiding behind trees. The trees glowed with an aura as well, but it was dark and green and didn’t possess the fiery nimbus of the humans waiting to ambush them.

“What’s going on?” Derac demanded.

“Ambush,” Kalen muttered. His hand dropped to grab his sword before he remembered it wasn’t there. “Hellfires.”

“Take them,” Garint ordered in Danarite. The Knight drew his sword in one smooth motion. Instead of moving forward like Kalen expected, the man kicked his feet free of the stirrups and plunged the weapon into his mount’s side and across its foreleg. The Yadesh let out a pained squeal and fell. Garint jumped clear of the thrashing beast.

Kalen dove off of the horse’s back moments before the first twang of a bow broke the stunned silence. A horse screamed. Derac’s mount reared with a feathered shaft protruding from the side of its neck. The bright aura surrounding the animal flared red then faded to nothing.

The horse collapsed, convulsed, and fell still.

Another horse squealed before it was silenced. Without waiting to see if the ambushers would fire off another volley, Kalen ran for the cover of the trees. The forms of several men emerged from hiding. Instead of the tunic and trousers the Kelshites wore, the dark-skinned men wore robes that were torn off at the knee. Each one wore a different color that reminded him of the hues of the sunset. A stylized sunburst was emblazoned on their shoulder.

One reached for the hilt of a weapon protruding from his crimson robes. Kalen lunged forward and drove his shoulder into the man’s groin. The Danarite let out a strangled gasp. Curling his fingers around the dagger, Kalen jerked it free of the sheath and buried it into the man’s chest. With a jerk and a gurgled cry, the man fell.

“Take him, fools!” Garint bellowed from the road. The enraged scream of the Knight’s Yadesh answered the man’s command.

~Betrayed,~
the First whispered in Kalen’s thoughts. For the first time, no emotions or images accompanied the word.

Yanking the dagger free of the Danarite’s chest, Kalen twisted around to face the other men. He let out a startled yelp as two figures threw themselves at him. The robes of the slain man tangled around his feet and he fell. The weight of the first man hit him full in the chest and shoved him into the mud. Kalen twisted the dagger and tried to plunge it into his assailant. The dagger was ripped from Kalen’s grip and tossed aside. A hand seized his throat, cut off his breath, and held him in place. Dark skin clashed against the orange cloth the man wore. A thick black beard masked the figure’s mouth.

“Do what you want with the others,” Garint said in Danarite. The Knight stepped into view, blood dripping from his drawn sword. Garint’s boot caught Kalen in the ribs. In Kelshite the man said, “You’ve no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this, Rift King. You would’ve done well to stay in your wretched little canyons. But, you’ve made me a very, very wealthy man indeed.”

“Betrayer,” Kalen rasped. He was rewarded with another kick to the ribs.

“Silence him,” Garint growled.

One of the Danarites tore a length from the dead man’s robes and shoved it in Kalen’s mouth. Someone snatched his hair and jerked him upright. The gag was tied into place. Kalen kept his breaths slow and even and fought to control the rapid beating of his heart. Even if he struggled, breaking free was unlikely at best.

He longed for the cliffs and its twisting trails, the terrain he knew. That was the land he could fight on equal footing, even against men bigger and stronger than he.

Kalen wished he could speak, if only to mutter curses at the forest, which had conspired against him. The Danarites dragged him through the trees and took no chances despite his cooperation. One held his arm behind his back and pinned his wrist halfway up his spine. The vellest numbed him to most of the pain, but his muscles strained in protest. Another kept a firm grip on the back of his neck. It wasn’t quite strong enough to cut off his breath, but it was close.

The road was strewn with the bodies of dead horses. The Yadesh lay among them, their coats stained with mud and blood. Marist lay beside his beast, one hand stretched out to her muzzle. Blood streaked across her nose where the young man’s fingers had managed to brush against her. She was still alive, barely.

The Knight’s eyes were open, but could no longer see.

Across the road, Derac struggled in the grip of two more robed Danarites. The other Kelshites were dead, their bodies left to rot where they’d fallen.
 

“What about their horse demons?” the Danarite behind Kalen asked.

“Leave them. They’ll die soon enough,” Garint replied. Ignoring the bodies of his fallen comrades, the man knelt beside the dead horses and started searching through the saddlebags. “Can’t curse you if they die when you aren’t there. Take their swords. It’s good steel.”

Kalen’s brows furrowed. Horse demons? Curses?

Of the Kelshite group, only the Yadesh still lived. Did the Danarites really think of the animals as hellspawn from the Deeps? He’d seen some of the things living in the Deeps, and the Yadesh weren’t nearly as frightening.

A red-robed man stepped out from the trees and snapped his fingers. One of the younger Danarites, clad in pale yellow robes, hurried to obey. “So Soiris is dead. Who killed him?”