Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (8 page)

But, in a swarm, they drove men to madness and even spurred the most steadfast of horses into bolting.

Breton dismounted and the other two Guardians followed his lead. Thrusting Perin’s reins into Artin’s hands, he stepped toward the narrow opening of the niche.

From within came the low, pained groan of a dying man. When Ferethian refused to step closer, the witchlight followed him and illuminated the niche.

The steady, white glow drove the serpents back. Their hisses deepened in tone. They slithered over one another in their haste to flee the light.

“That won’t hold them back long,” Artin warned.

The nibblers’ victim lay in the entrance of the niche, both arms stretched out toward the trail. Dark, bloodshot eyes stared up at him.
 

The figure groaned again, bloodied, bitten fingers clawing at the stone and sand. Breton shuddered. The man’s garb was all but gone, ripped away in the serpents’ frenzy. Strips of flesh hung from exposed bone. Blood stained the ground and what remained of the man’s skin.

“Curse you,” the man rasped in the Danarite tongue. “Curse you and your wretched king.”

“What is he saying?” Voren asked.

“Don’t know,” Artin replied.

“He’s a Danarite,” Breton said. He frowned and knelt down in front of the dying man. Then, in Danarite, he asked, “Why have you come here?”

“Why?” The Danarite coughed up blood. The nibblers hissed and writhed on the edge of the light, but didn’t approach.

Yet.

Breton watched the circle of light and the shadowy shapes of the serpents beyond the man dying before him.

“We’ll destroy you and take your king.” The Danarite coughed again and tried to spit blood at Breton’s boots. “When we do, our Lady Selestrune will hold dominion. You’ll perish.”

“Talkative for a corpse,” Artin growled. “What’s he saying now?”

“Some drivel about that Goddess of theirs and conquering. About the same as their typical missive. Seems they’re after Kalen,” Breton said.

“Who isn’t?” Artin asked. “Let the nibblers take him before they come for us too.”

“Wise,” Breton agreed. Ignoring the man’s efforts to spit on him a second time, he stood and backed out of the entrance.

“I’ll show you.” The Danarite choked out the words and struggled to rise. Breton didn’t turn around. “Our power.
Her
power. Behold, curse you. Behold!”

The horses whinnied in alarm. Breton jerked towards the animals. The Rift Horses remained still, but their ears were back. They stood tense and ready to bolt.

The Danarite horse they’d found down the trail, which he presumed belonged to the dying in the cave, struggled against Voren’s hold on the reins. It reared with a high-pitched scream.

Even Ferethian stood with his ears cocked back and his small frame quivering.

“You can’t run,” the Danarite said.

“Shut up and die already,” Breton replied.

The man’s last sound was a gurgled shriek. Breton jerked around. The body convulsed. Bone twisted and cracked. On the stones, the spilled blood boiled and smoked.

Within the depths of the cavern, the shadows reached out with malevolent intent.

The nibblers’ hisses fell silent.

“What’s going on in there?” Artin asked.

“I’m not going in there to find out.” Voren backed away from the niche. With most of the horses following behind him, they disappeared into the night.

Breton held his ground and watched. The witchlight darted back to Ferethian and hovered, leaving Breton in the shadow of the cliffs.

Something hit the ground at Breton’s feet. His heart pounded in his throat and its drum echoed in his ears. An acrid odor hit his nose. It was the stench of smoke, decay, and filth. Breton’s stomach heaved and he swallowed several times to clear his throat.

The horses whinnied another warning. Teeth grabbed hold of the back of his collar and pulled. Breton fell back several steps. A sharp pain raced up his leg. Ferethian draped his head over Breton’s shoulder and squealed in challenge. The witchlight hovered overhead long enough to illuminate the writhing forms of nibblers. Their gray scales were blackened and the stone around them boiled.

All of them were dead.

Stone crunched beneath a heavy weight and the trail trembled beneath Breton’s feet. Ferethian backed up the trail. Breton stumbled, but the stallion steadied him.

~Fool,~
a powerful presence trampled through Breton’s mind and drove away his ability to think.
 

A creature stepped out of the shadows. It stood on two stocky legs that were tipped in long, curved claws. A pair of slender, muscular arms dangled from its sides. The scales rippled and flexed as it reached out with its black talons. Breton sucked in a breath and held it. The creature didn’t have much of a neck. Instead its shoulders connected to a squared head set with beady eyes. Its maw opened to reveal jagged, black teeth.

The lashing motion of its tail was accompanied by the rasp of scale on scale.

Images flashed in front of Breton’s eyes and each one was accompanied by a hatred so deep that he had to fight against the urge to unsheathe his sword and strike out at someone. At anyone.

The Danarite stood in front of a roaring bonfire, while ancient words of a language long lost spilled from his lips. The red robes of the Priest glowed. From the flames stepped a creature of darkness that consumed the light. The image faded and was replaced by the memory of the man sleeping on his bedroom within the niche.

An eerie sound filled Breton’s head and ears. It was a hiss, but one so high-pitched that it lanced through his head and made his ears ring.

The nibblers came at the call, and one by one, they descended upon the helpless Danarite.

Breton shuddered, but the presence wasn’t finished with him yet.

He couldn’t tell if the proud creature was a deer or a horse. A pair of large, feathered wings stretched out, revealing a leathery membrane beneath. Sunlight reflected from the golden scales covering its lithe body. Tufts of silver, gold, and white fur stuck out between the scales. Its hocks were feathered, and the hairs glinted with the same luster of metal. Instead of a nose, it had a curved beak. Crimson sunbursts, each with a central stone of blue, patterned its hide.

Its eyes were the color of ice, and as vibrant as the winter sky.

They were the same color as Kalen’s eyes.

Ferethian’s challenging scream roused Breton. The stallion was no longer with him. The Rift King’s horse had been driven back, but whether by the putrid stench of the creature that towered over him or for some other reason, Breton wasn’t certain. He froze. The thing stood so tall over him that all he could make out was a block, square jaw and uneven rows of black-coated and gleaming teeth. Saliva dripped from the open maw and dissolved through the stone at its feet.

“Move, Breton!” Artin let out several curses.
 

~Eldest,~
the being demanded. Breton wanted to run, to dive out of its way, but his body refused to obey.

The image of the glowing and beautiful form once again drove away Breton’s every thought. The word was a command, a yearning, and a need.

It was a cry for freedom.

The creature lowered its head and breathed into Breton’s face. Spittle hit his cheek and it burned. Smoke rose from the wound and stung his eyes. Its tongue was thick, but the very tip was thin, narrow, and fluttered from side to side as it tasted the air, just like a serpent’s.

~Hunger,~
it said.

Breton staggered back a pace and gasped for air. The first thought he could muster was so unreasonable and foolish that he laughed.

“So eat.”
Breton doubted he’d be much more than an appetizer for the creature. Even if he drew his sword, he suspected it’d be destroyed just as Kalen’s had been.

Had Kalen somehow faced off against the creature? How had he escaped?

Breton shivered. There was nowhere to run. If he stepped back any farther, he’d fall from the ledge. It didn’t matter if he ran up or down the trail. The creature would catch him.

It moved closer and dipped its head down so that Breton stared into its tiny, beady black eyes.

~Eldest,~
it repeated.

“Breton!” Artin’s voice cracked from fear.

Breton’s awareness of the Rift King grew, until even the beast before him was unable to erase it for all of its power. It pulled him to the east. It called to him.

The presence rummaged through Breton’s mind. Memories roused, as strong and vibrant as the day of their experience. There was a pattern to it, and Breton held his breath.

The creature examined his every thought of the Rift King, past and present. It searched for something, and discarded the memories of Arik without hesitation.

Emotions battered at him as though he were no more than grains of sand caught in the wind. It settled on triumph and longing, affection and respect.

~Beloved,~
the creature’s voice no longer thundered through Breton’s skull.

It opened its maw and the narrow tip of its tongue burned through his tunic and dug into his shoulder and chest. The scream was torn from Breton’s throat. Its arms reached out and grasped Breton. Fire burned through his veins. His body fell limp and he dangled in the creature’s grip. It let out a high-pitched keen.

It let him go. Breton collapsed to the ground and struggled to break free of the paralysis that gripped him. He was faintly aware of the screaming horses. Artin and
 
Voren were shouting. The creature’s talons dug deep gouges into the stone. Its saliva boiled and hissed and left deep, smoking holes. It stepped over him. Its taloned foot kicked Breton in the side, tossing him away from the ledge toward the entrance of the niche. Breton groaned and rolled to a halt, lying on his back.

The Danarite’s horse screamed. Flesh ripped and the cry fell silent. The animal hit the ground hard so close to Breton that a few strands of the creature’s brown tail fell across his face.

The heat of the sunrise warmed him, but Breton couldn’t see its light. Ferethian let out another challenging scream. Breton let out the breath he was holding. Kalen’s precious stallion had survived.

That was enough.

~~*~~

“Do you think it’ll come back?” Artin asked in a whisper.

Breton shivered. The Rift didn’t get cold, but no matter how long he stood in the sun, it didn’t warm him. The worst of the chill centered on where the creature had dug its tongue into his chest and shoulder. Voren pressed a bandage against him.

“Good question,” Breton replied, unable to force his hoarse voice above a whisper. While he didn’t remember screaming—or much of anything after he’d been dropped by the thing the Danarite had summoned—his throat burned and ached. He struggled to rise. “It’s near noon. We need to get moving.”

Both Artin and Voren were already sweating, and it was going to get hotter a lot faster if they tarried much longer. While the horses could cope, they’d need water, and none of them were willing to enter the niche to find out if there was any within.

Not that Breton could walk that far even if he wanted to. The thought of trying was enough to nauseate him.

“At least let me bandage that properly. We’re already going to face the business end of His Majesty’s sword when he finds out we let you ride like that,” Voren said.

Laughing hurt, but Voren looked relieved, so Breton ignored the pain and forced himself to grin. It didn’t matter which Guardian got injured, the Rift King always reacted the same. They’d all endured Kalen’s wrath at one time or another, and getting whacked with the flat of a blade didn’t hurt that much. Arik hadn’t cared enough about any of them to grant them even that. The lucky or well-liked got tended by the healers.

The others had been left to die.

“How’s the water supply?” Breton asked, glancing toward the niche. The sun illuminated the Danarite’s corpse. There wasn’t much left of it. What the creature hadn’t crushed was blackened. He shuddered.
 

Perin let out a low whinny and stretched out his black head toward Breton.
 
Voren shooed the gelding away with a hand. The horse snorted and stomped at the ground with a hoof.

“Stand,” Breton ordered. Perin obeyed, but both ears turned back. The gelding snorted. When the black horse lifted a hoof, Breton cleared his throat. The hoof was lowered, but it was scraped against the stone in defiance.

“At least your horse listens,” Voren muttered. “We’ll be fine here for a while longer, with or without water from the niche.”

“Has it stopped bleeding yet?” Artin asked.

Breton braced himself. The pressure eased. He let out a sigh of relief when it didn’t feel as though the other Guardian had ripped off another layer of his skin when removing the bandage. “Looks like it. Blazing sun above, look at it, Artin.”

Breton didn’t like the way that Artin leaned over and let out a low, impressed whistle. “I’ll be cursed by the ancestors. It’s perfect.”

“What’s perfect?” Breton growled out through clenched teeth. The first—and last—time he had tried to look, he had fainted. The throbbing in his chest hadn’t ceased, and his breath caught in his throat with each stab of pain coursing through his whole body.

“It marked you, Breton. May the ancestors curse me if I lie, it marked you,” Artin said. “Why? How? That was a Danarite. That was a Danarite’s creature. It looks just like the King’s sigil.”

“Hail down below,” someone called out from up the trail.

Breton tried to twist around to see who approached, but Voren stepped in his way. The Guardian let out a pleased laugh. “Maiten! When’d you crawl out of the hole you’ve been hiding in?”

“I came as quick as I could. What in the thrice-cursed name of the ancestors is going on?”

“You felt it, then?” Artin asked.

“A month ago? Yeah, I felt it. Whatever it was I didn’t like it, so I turned Horasian around and half-killed us getting here.”

Breton thought better of waving at the red-headed Guardian when the man rode down to join them. “Maiten.”

“Your foal is going to beat you to the brink of death when he sees that.” Maiten crouched down in front of Breton and poked his shoulder with a fingertip. Breton jerked and let out a strangled gasp. “What were you thinking?”