Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (34 page)

As one, the Danarites began to chant. Kalen listened, but he didn’t recognize the dialect they spoke in. Streamers of red light curled out from the priest’s hands. A crimson haze enveloped the hosts on the altars.

Kalen jerked at the touch of wet, sticky fingers clasping his hand. The High Lord Priest pulled him into the light surrounding the altar.

The heat of the desert washed over him, bringing with it soothing relief. He thought about pulling away, but his body didn’t obey him. The chill marking the First’s presence vanished. Kalen held his breath and stared at the jewel-encrusted dagger. Despite the darkness of early night, flames flickered within the depths of each stone.

Whispering voices murmured to him, but there were so many of them he couldn’t understand a word of it. There was a musical quality to their voices, like they were trying to sing, but none of them knew the melody or the words. The murmurs grew until its intensity was that of a brewing storm. The voices battered at him until he couldn’t hear anything but them.

On the altar, Foresk’s face contorted, the young Kelshite’s mouth opened in a scream. The red haze coalesced over his chest.

High Lord Priest Tsordin cut his palm a second time with the jeweled blade. Fire burst from the cut, spread from the Danarite’s hand, and crawled up the red robes covering the man’s arm.

Two pinpricks of cold stabbed at the back of Kalen’s hand. He flinched, staring at the spot where the serpent had bitten him in the Rift.

The voices fell silent, replaced by the crackle of flame. A hot, dry wind blasted against his face.

“Through Her divine powers, be purified!”

High Lord Priest Tsordin lifted the dagger high. Before Kalen could do anything more than blink, the Danarite slashed the dagger across his wrist.

Someone grabbed hold of him from behind to keep him from slumping to the ground. The strength flowed out of his wrist, leaving him cold and shivering.

It should’ve hurt, but it didn’t. All he could feel was the cold.

With the dagger slick with Kalen’s blood, High Lord Priest Tsordin lifted the blade once more before plunging it into Foresk’s chest. The Kelshite’s body jerked. Crimson sprayed out with the last faltering beats of the young man’s heart.

Kalen stared, his mouth hanging open in shock and horror. He couldn’t even gasp. His lungs burned with the need for air. Pain spread from his chest to his throat. Numbness spread from his wrist, until only the pinpoints of cold on the back of his hand remained.

The world fell quiet, as if it shared Kalen’s horror at the spilled blood. Then, a shrill scream pierced through the silence. Kalen sucked in a painful breath. The scream came from Foresk’s mouth, but it wasn’t a sound he’d ever heard a human make. Tsordin snatched his hand and thrust his bleeding wrist over the gaping, spraying wound in Foresk’s chest.

“Silent One, be purged from Selestrune’s vessel, so that Her child may be born!”

Something writhed beneath Kalen’s skin, heating him until sweat poured down his face. He burned from the inside out.

It wasn’t the crimson of blood flowing out of his wrist, but a viscous black fluid. It wrapped around his arm and hand, coiling in the form of a serpent ready to strike. It slithered over his flesh before stretching down to burrow into Foresk’s chest.

Kalen struggled to draw a breath. He tasted blood and bile on his tongue, and his stomach heaved. Swallowing it back, he managed to pull against the High Lord Priest’s grip, but the Danarite’s hold on him tightened. Another stream of black coated his hand and dripped down onto Foresk’s chest.

Tsordin forced Kalen’s palm down on the opened wound. Kalen shuddered. The beat of a living heart pounded against his hand, and Foresk’s eyes flickered open. Instead of the vibrant blue Kalen remembered, one of the Kelshite’s eyes was sun gold. The other was black.

It wasn’t possible. Kalen stared down at the young man’s face. The blade had pierced through Foresk’s heart. How did he still live?

Kalen shuddered again. High Lord Priest Tsordin pulled him from the altar, and the gathered Danarites clapped their bleeding hands together. Ribbons of golden light stretched between the standing men, binding them together.

The light enveloped him. Kalen felt his skin writhe and knit together, closing the wound from the jeweled dagger.

“Hold him,” the High Lord Priest ordered.

Hands seized him, but without their support, he would’ve fallen.

The other altars still glowed, and pillars of flame danced where the other sacrifices had once stood. The northern altar extinguished first, and the pink-robed Danarite stood with a dagger in one hand and an empty robe in the other. Still infused with red and golden light, ashes fell to the ground. The pink-robed priest made a disgusted noise and shook the robe out.

One by one, the rest of the altars darkened.

Kalen’s heart pounded in his throat. In front of the eastern altar, Bornen still stood. No expression marked the young Kelshite’s face. Then, a dark mark spread from his forehead and covered his face.
 

The last light of the sunset faded, and as the night fell over them, Bornen’s body cracked and crumbled, leaving behind nothing more than ash and empty robes.

“Rise, Children of Selestrune,” High Lord Priest Tsordin demanded.

As one, the four boys on the altars stood. They stepped over the remains of those who had stood with them, expressions as cold and uncaring as stone.

Kalen shuddered, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
 

Chapter Sixteen

Breton paced around the captain’s tent, too aware of the mismatched eyes that followed his every move. When he said nothing, Silvereye let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t ask you to come so you could pace a trench in my tent.”

“It’s been a week, Silvereye. Am I supposed to be happy?”

“I suppose not, but I’ve no word on the one you’re looking for.”

“You got what you want,” Breton growled, pivoting and slamming both palms on the edge of the table that served as the captain’s workspace. “We agreed to a week. What do you propose, then?”

“All I can do is offer you information on the Danarite’s activities. We weren’t expecting them to kill a bunch of children and dump the bodies in the river, Breton. None of them matched the description of the man you’re looking for.” Captain Silvereye sighed again. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re hiding something, as is the entire Delrose family, and all I’m hearing about is a short, dark-haired youth you
both
want. Do you care to explain yourself?”

“I do not,” Breton replied.

“You’re not being helpful.”

“And you are?”

“Let me try this again. And, please, sit down. You’re giving me a headache.”

Breton let out a low growl but dropped down on one of the stools scattered around the tent. “Why did you call me in here?”

“I have one lead and one lead only. It’s risky, but it might lead you to who you want. The Wolf Blades are making their move, and it’s on Morinvale. One of my scouts reported that they have seen a few children in the camp who have been moved into the city. I fear that they’ve another group of children in the city.” The mercenary captain fell silent for a long moment.

A muscle in Breton’s cheek twitched, but he kept silent.

“You’ve told me you’re horsemen, but I think that even your group can handle this. Getting into the city is simple with tall horses like yours. Any man can get over the wall if they use their horses to get up high enough. Your two geldings are big enough to get you over. I’ve got some of the gear the Wolf Blades favor so you can disguise yourselves. The job is simple. Go in and check for surviving children. Chances are, if there are any left, they’re hostages of importance to Kelsh. At the same time, you can check if your man is among them.”

Breton pressed his lips together and waited.

Captain Silvereye leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I have to ask that you don’t kill them. The last thing I need is for my group to be exposed, you understand. We’re not ready to fight them quite yet.”

“And if we find these children?”

“Get them out if you can.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said this entire conversation,” Breton said.

Captain Silvereye’s mouth quirked up into a grin. “I can see why you’re an adviser to the Rift King. You have to be tough to withstand someone like that one. I’ve heard rumors about him.”

Breton narrowed his eyes. “From one of the Shadow Captains?”

Silvereye shrugged, but the man’s grin widened. “You have your secrets, I have mine.”

“And the Delrose family?”

“I think I can manage to keep them safe and secure while you and your men are gone. There’s one other thing: Don’t do anything stupid. You’re too valuable to risk, and I really don’t want your king coming out of his Rift seeking vengeance because something happened to you four.” The Mithrian shook his head and let out a laugh. “I never thought I’d be saying something like that. That said, I’m impressed with your ability to work. The Delrose family isn’t even aware that any of you are watching over them. My own men and women forget you’re among them half the time. And you said you weren’t good at being stealthy.”

“We aren’t. We are, however, quite good at staying quiet in crowds. The Rift King doesn’t like being followed, Captain Silvereye. He tolerates it if we keep out of sight.”

“Out of sight, out of mind?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in letting me hire you four permanently?”

Breton glared across the table at the Mithrian. “No.”

“I had to try. How soon can you be ready?”

“When do you need us ready?”

“About an hour ago, truth be told. We already know they’ve no remorse, Breton. I will pray that your man isn’t among those taken. I’ll give you eight hours once you leave. If you aren’t out of the city by then, I’ll be coming for you. Personally.”

Breton arched a brow. The Mithrian’s silver eye glinted as though made of metal. “Understood, Captain. We’ll be ready within the hour.”

~~*~~

Kalen choked on the acrid brew shoved in his mouth, but he didn’t swallow. Clamping his lips together, he held his breath and watched the Danarites shuffle through the tent before leaving him alone. Relief numbed him as much as the sleeping draught. With a shudder, he coughed and retched as much of it out of his gut as he could.

It didn’t stop the tingling from spreading from his mouth and throat. For the first time since his capture, he was conscious.

Mostly.

He tried to stand, but his quivering legs betrayed him. With a low, frustrated groan, he sank back on the cot and struggled to catch his breath. Of course they hadn’t bothered the check if he’d swallowed the drink. Escape wasn’t possible if he couldn’t stand. The truth battered at him.

Even without the sleeping potion, he was weak.

Useless.

He hissed out a curse and draped his arm over his eyes, fighting the urge to sleep. His sleeve reeked of blood, sweat, and smoke. Greasy ash smeared against his skin. Rain pattered on the canvas overhead. He wanted to crawl outside to let the rain wash away the filth, but his muscles trembled at the thought of moving.

Weak. Useless.

~Kelshite.~
It was the High Lord Priest’s voice, but it didn’t just whisper in his ears, it pierced through his thoughts with the cutting edge of a knife stabbing deep through his forehead and into the center of his skull.
~Remember this: Five reds, twenty pinks, six indigos, eighteen yellows, four hundred by two hundred horses, and one score black hand. You’ll be taken to the city in an hour. Escape, if you can, and warn your people.~

With each faltering beat of his heart, bursts of ice and fire flashed through his head. For a brief moment, the Danarite’s presence lingered, and the sensation of drowning in a pool of sticky, congealing blood cut off his breath.

~I didn’t come here to wage war on children.~

The intruding presence vanished, and Kalen gasped for air. His lungs burned, and his throat and mouth dried. Swallowing hurt. Footsteps splashing through mud passed by the tent. Lethargy embraced him.

Kalen fought the urge to sleep by biting the inside of his mouth. When he still drifted partway between awareness and sleep, he closed his teeth over the tip of his tongue. He listened to the patter of the rain on the tent and tried to count each drop. An hour gave him nothing; no plan, no ideas, and not even the hope of rescue—either by his own hand or from elsewhere.

Lord Priest Tsordin’s words meant nothing if he couldn’t find someone to pass the word to.

He couldn’t even muster the strength to get angry at the Danarites or even at himself for his failure.

Someone entered the tent and footsteps approached the cot. It wasn’t hard to keep his body limp. His muscles didn’t want to move, and his eyelids felt weighed down.

“We must be quick,” a voice whispered in Mithrian. “It’ll begin soon, and it’ll be our hides if we’re late with him.”

How could he have been so blind to it all? Had the signs been there, in his missives? How had he missed the alliance between the Danarites and the Mithrians?

Had Danar bribed the Captains of the junta to aid their cause, or had an industrious company seeking wealth gone against Mithrias’s neutral status? It didn’t even matter, not anymore. What mattered was how so many mercenaries, all prepared for war, had gotten so far into Kelsh without stirring the ire of the Kelshite army.

It left another option: Garint had spoken the truth, and Kelsh’s King turned against his people.

Someone wrapped him in something warm and heavy before he was lifted. The rain struck his forehead before the dusty scent of cloth was draped over his face.

The scent of a wet and lathered horse taunted him as he was thrown over the animal’s withers. As soon as he was secured, the rider kicked the horse into a gallop. The rain seeped through the fabric until its weight pinned him in place as much as the mercenary’s hold on him did.

The horse’s hooves splashed through mud and water, then the beat of the animal’s stride changed to the clatter of horseshoes on stone. He lost track of time before the horse halted. Hands grabbed at him and pulled him down from the horse.