Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (38 page)

There was no emotion in the yellow eyes, and in eerie silence, the man charged forward and ran right into the mercenary’s ranks.

“Hellfires,” Maiten breathed out, “he’s insane.”

“Let’s get them somewhere safe,” Breton replied, scrambling to his feet. “We can do that much at least. We’ll deal with him after.”

“Right.”

Grabbing Varest under the arms, he dragged the man across the square to the shadow of one of the buildings that hadn’t been struck by lightning. With an eye on the sky and the burning rooftops, he dashed across to where he’d lost his sword and snatched it up. Taking up one of the other discarded blades, he ran back and tossed the weapon to the other Guardian. Drawing several long and deep breaths, he prepared for the fight and its inevitable conclusion.

Maiten caught the weapon by the hilt and didn’t hesitate. With a wordless war cry, the other Guardian charged into the fray, leaving him to follow.

It was three against thirty or more, and as Breton plunged his sword through the gut of his first foe, the mercenaries broke from the combat and fled.

The Rift King didn’t chase after, cocking his head to the side with a puzzled expression on his face. As though acknowledging the disappearance of the threat, clumps of flesh and scale fell from the unnatural and inhuman left arm, dissolving in the rain before the remnants could touch the ground. All that was left behind was an empty sleeve that fluttered in the wind. Breton tensed and tightened his grip on his sword. The body of the mercenary he’d killed slumped to the cobbles.

“Kalen!” Maiten called out.

Breton held his breath and hope surged through him. It died away when there was no response.

Ignoring their presence, the Rift King stepped toward where Ceres and Varest lay. Maiten called out again, but there was still no response. Before Breton could do more than gasp, the red-haired man leaped forward and wrapped one arm around the younger man’s chest to grab for his narrow wrist. With the other hand, Maiten took hold of Gorishitorik’s guard.

The Rift King stiffened but didn’t struggle. Maiten shouted something, but lightning struck and the thunder drowned out the words. The ancient blade fell to the ground, but neither man moved to retrieve it.

A great pressure filled Breton’s chest. His heart beat hard and fast in his throat. He stepped forward, stooping down to place his sword on the cobbles, taking up Gorishitorik. A shudder rippled through him, and Breton tried to forget the meaning of the sword’s name:

King Slayer.

This time, it would be his hand. This time, it wouldn’t be another who paid the price of the name of Rift King. None other would steal Kalen’s life or role.

It had been his mistake all along. If he had only been the one to kill Arik, if only he had been the one to become the Rift King, everything would’ve been different.

Breton lifted the tip of the sword and prepared to strike. With Maiten holding the Rift King, he could grant a swift and painless death. That was the only thing left for him to do.

His eyes burned and his vision blurred. He drew a breath and slid his foot forward.

“It’s gone,” Maiten said. Breton halted, his muscles freezing in shock. “I think he’s deaf from the lightning, and I’m not really sure what he’s seeing if he sees anything at all, but he’s fine, Breton. He’s fine. It’s him. He’s not that thing anymore.”

Maiten’s shoulders were shaking.

Breton lowered Gorishitorik, and the blade fell to the stones with a splash and a clatter. “What?”

“He’s fine.” This time, Breton heard the tears in Maiten’s voice.

“That’s not possible,” he whispered.

Maiten stretched out a hand to him and Breton reached out. The other Guardian pulled him forward. The Rift King trembled when Breton’s hand landed on his left shoulder. The familiar awareness of the Rift King settled over his shoulders like a warm, well-worn cloak. There was no sense of danger, and the feeling of life was so strong that it smothered as much as it comforted. He closed his eyes and basked in the sensation. When he opened them, he stared down at the man he thought he’d lost.

Blood matted the blond hair that was already darkening back to black at the roots. Lifting his hand, Breton shoved aside the long locks. Blood oozed from Kalen’s ear.

Breton let his hand drop and bowed his head to rest his forehead against the top of the Rift King’s head. They didn’t have to kill him. Not yet.

Chapter Eighteen

The auras of light and color faded and once again left Kalen in the silent dark. Someone wrapped their arms around him and the touch brought with it the sense of security. The tension flowed out of his muscles and left him limp in the hold of a Guardian. His recognition roused the familiar sense of being followed that he hadn’t felt since his sire had taken him away from Ceres and Varest. Instead of the two he expected, there were four; two right next to him, and two a little farther away. Gorishitorik wasn’t in his hands.

Four Guardians. Gorishitorik. A laugh tickled his throat and he swallowed it back. He hadn’t stolen his sword from mercenaries, but from his own Guardians. He let out his breath in a silent, disgusted huff.

A hand gripped his shoulder before moving up to touch his ear. Pain lanced through his skull, and it was so strong that he couldn’t breathe, let alone scream. He shook from shock but the arm holding him kept him from falling until he managed to stand on his own. Something pressed against the top of his head and the warmth of breath tickled his scalp. The cold struck the rest of his body hard, and he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering, but the chill did numb him to the pain.

A sharp snapping in his right ear sounded. He jerked and turned his head. There was a murmur of words, but they were so faint he couldn’t understand them.

~Are you well?~
Satrin’s voice boomed in his head, and the pain of it drew a yelp out of him.
~Ah! Sorry. Where are you? We’ve been searching everywhere. You can hear me, can’t you?~

Uncertain of how to reply—or if he even wanted to—Kalen bit back a groan. Someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward. His feet slipped on the cobbles. The toes of his right foot thudded into a fallen form and he stumbled. Before he could fall, he was lifted up and carried. He kicked his feet in protest and winced at the stab of needles that shot through his feet and up to his knees.

Something warm was draped over him and kept the worst of the rain off of him. He wrinkled his nose but stilled.

Later, he’d be stubborn. Later, when his body didn’t feel crushed by the weight of exhaustion, he’d protest the indignity of being carried. Later, when he could squish the satisfaction of being alive, he’d put on his expressionless mask and pretend to be angry about it.

Later, he’d pretend he wasn’t quite so happy to be back among the few who knew him and weren’t out for his blood. Kalen closed his eyes.

~~*~~

“Did he faint?” Breton asked, shaking his head, and trying not to grin at Maiten. The red-haired Guardian struggled with the wrapped-up Rift King and the maze of bodies strewn across the market square.

“More asleep than a faint. First time I’ve heard him snore, though it’s more of a rasp than anything else. He’s not just thin, Breton. He’s nothing but bone. What in the deeps happened to him?”

“That’s what I plan to find out,” Breton promised, growling the words out between clenched teeth.

“How are Ceres and Varest?”

Breton turned to the two Guardians and knelt beside them, pressing his fingers against their throats. Their heartbeats were strong and steady. “Alive, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

“Let’s get them out of here before those mercenaries decide to come back,” Maiten said.

“Any ideas on how to do that? I can’t carry both of them. Not for long, at least.”

“Leave that to me,” a voice rumbled from the shadows of the alleyway, speaking in the Rift tongue, although heavily accented. Breton jerked around and reached for his sword.

An older, taller version of Kalen stepped out onto the cobbled street and stared down at him. Breton arched a brow and stood without letting go of his sword’s hilt.

The years had done little to change Lord Delrose. Breton moved to stand between the Kelshite and Maiten.

“It seems you’ve been busy,” Captain Silvereye said, emerging from the alley to stand next to Lord Delrose. “I recall asking you to find hostages. I don’t think I asked you to wage a war on your own.”

“I only killed one. How about you, Maiten?”

“Two.”

“Is that so? Report,” the Captain ordered.

“We found a lot of bodies, Captain, as well as those children in the cages over there,” Breton said, gesturing to the other end of the market. The smoke from the burning rooftops shrouded the cages in a haze that not even the rain and wind could fully dissipate. “I don’t know if any of them survived. We came just as they were starting some sort of ritual.”

“I’m sure you did what you could.”

“I had heard that Silvereye hired Rifters, but I hadn’t believed it possible,” Lord Delrose said, stepping forward. “Explain yourself, Guardian.”

Breton let the Kelshite approach him and stared down into a pair of pale blue eyes almost as icy as the Rift King’s. “I don’t need to explain anything to you,” he said, and kept his expression as cool and calm as his voice.

“You stole my son!” Lord Delrose bellowed.

Breton wasn’t aware of moving until his fist connected with Lord Delrose’s jaw. The Kelshite’s head snapped to the side, and he crumpled into a heap. “You don't deserve to call him your son,” he said, despite knowing that the unconscious man couldn't hear him.

Maiten whistled. “That, my friend, was nicely done.”

~I can’t say he didn’t deserve it,~
the male voice of a Yadesh said in Breton’s mind,
~but was it necessary to hit him so hard?
~

A Yadesh stallion stepped out of the alleyway and stared down at him. Satrin met his gaze without looking away for a long moment. Taking in the carnage of the market square in a single glance, the Yadesh sighed.
 

“I am rather surprised at you, Breton,” Captain Silvereye said.

“I’d like to get my people out of this rain and to a healer,” he replied.

“Good idea. There’s an army of farmers poised to take the city, and I’ve no intention of being here when they hit. Ah, sir Yadesh, would you lend your aid? With Lord Delrose as baggage, I’m afraid we won’t be able to carry them all.”

~I would be honored to carry the Guardians,~
Satrin replied.

“Thank you,” Breton said in Kelshite. He was echoed by Maiten, who spoke in the Rift tongue, and the Captain, who spoke in Mithrian. While the Yadesh didn’t laugh, he felt the stallion’s amusement.

~Dorit is looking for a healer and will meet us once he has found one. If I had a say in the matter, I recommend dragging him by his ankles.~

“The lot of you have it out for Lord Delrose, don’t you?”

Breton shrugged.

“You carry Kalen,” Maiten said. “The Yadesh—”

~Satrin. You know my name, and you’ve no need to hide it from the good Captain anymore.~

Breton got the impression that Captain Silvereye had not been included in those who could hear the Yadesh’s words.

“Ah, Satrin and I will take care of Ceres and Varest, then.”

“I suppose that leaves me with Lord Delrose. Alas, I will not be dragging him by his ankles. That is far too slow, and we do need to hurry. We left horses several streets down. We’ve no more than an hour before this place is taken over, so let’s make the most of it,” Captain Silvereye said.

Breton nodded, took Kalen from Maiten, and picked his way over the rubble strewn through the alley in the direction that the mercenary captain pointed. He didn’t look back.

~~*~~

The temple stood near the city gates, and Breton couldn’t tell who—or what—had once been worshiped within. Many of the benches were broken and thick layers of dust covered the floor. A statue once stood behind an altar, but someone had smashed it beyond recognition. Water dripped down from several holes in the roof. Breton kicked open the door. It creaked, and the bottom hinge broke away.

“Charming,” he said. He laid Kalen down on one of the few benches that didn’t look ready to collapse and brushed his fingers against the Rift King’s throat just to convince himself that the younger man still lived. While weak, the heartbeat was steady, as was the rise and fall of his chest. “Can you get up high enough to see just how many of them there are, Maiten?”

Maiten barked out a laugh from the doorway. “Just who do you think you’re talking to? Of course I can. Let me get Ceres and Varest inside first.”

~We can manage them, Guardian. Go scout for us,~
Satrin said. The Yadesh shouldered into the temple. The second door fell from its hinges and hit the ground with a clap. Plaster rained down from the faded fresco stretching across the ceiling. Breton hurried across the room and took hold of Ceres and lowered him to the ground. Satrin knelt and eased Varest off of his back using his teeth.
 

“We can’t stay here,” Captain Silvereye called out from outside. The thunder crashed and more chunks from the crumbling ceiling rained down. “They’ve already started massing out there.”

“How many?” Breton asked.

“Too many.” Captain Silvereye carried Lord Delrose over a shoulder and dumped the unconscious Kelshite on one of the benches. It groaned beneath the man’s weight and half of it collapsed. A cloud of dust billowed up. “Damnations.”

Lord Delrose stirred with a low moan.

“Great job, Captain, you woke him up,” he said.

“Are you all right, Lord Delrose?” the mercenary captain asked.

“I’ll live,” the man said, rubbing at his jaw. Deep lines marked the Kelshite’s brow. “What’s going on?”

~We are looking for a way out of the city. It seems we’re trapped,~
Satrin said.

Breton eased his weight down onto an empty bench and draped his arms across the back. He sighed and stretched his legs out.

“What do you think?” Silvereye asked.

“About what?”