Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (9 page)

Artin laughed. “He wasn’t. But good thing he didn’t, else I think we’d be like that fool.”

Maiten glanced over at the Danarite’s corpse. “Is that a
person?
”

“Danarite. Conjured some creature. Took out a swarm of nibblers before it turned on Breton,” Artin said.

“Hellfires,” the red-haired man said.

“Now you’re sounding like Kalen. Hellfires this, hellfires that,” Breton groused.

“I’d just hope they hadn’t gotten this far yet.”

“What are you on about, Maiten? What do you mean you hoped they hadn’t gotten this far?” Voren asked.

“The Wanderers have taken to calling them skreed. Big, black, lots of teeth. They’ll kill anything without even bothering to eat it. Ran into a caravan that’d been attacked by one. Got to it the morning after and the survivor told me what’d happen.”

Voren let out a low grunt. “And someone survived?”

“Didn’t. Poor sod bled out while trying to warn me off, but the skreed was gone. Fortunately.” Maiten shrugged, glancing up the trail before staring at Breton’s chest. “The bodies all had those same black marks, though. What caused it?”

“It licked me,” Breton said. It was hard to force his attention on the three Guardians who stared at him. Without the constant pain of the bandage pressed against his shoulder and chest, he struggled to keep alert. The numbness had spread over his body and dulled the aches.

“We should take him back to Blind Mare Run,” Maiten said.

Breton sat up. “Kelsh!”

“However much I hate agreeing with Breton when he’s like that, he’s right. We’re going to Kelsh,” Voren said.

“What’s going on?”

“King’s gone. No one knows where he’s at, and no one knows what’s happened to him,” Voren replied. “Our group is headed to Kelsh, and the others are riding out to the other kingdoms now. They can’t be far. We’ve been here since dawn, when that thing—a skreed, you called it?—took off and disappeared down the cliffs.”

“He’s going to thrash us all for this, you know that, right? I’ll go with you, then, if only to keep the old man in the saddle,” Maiten said. “I’ve been to Kelsh a few times. Maybe I can talk some sense into him when we find him.”

“Think you can ride, Breton?” Voren asked.

“Do I look dead to you?” It took both Artin and Voren to get him to his feet.

The Guardians were polite enough to look away when Breton ordered Perin to lie down so he could get in the saddle.

~~*~~

“Maiten? How is it that you missed a small army riding down the trail?” Breton didn’t quite gawk, but he had to clench his teeth together to keep his mouth from dropping open. There were at least a hundred of them. They rode in tight, neat rows leaving just enough room for a single horse to pass between them and the cliffs.

“They weren’t here this morning, I promise you,” Maiten replied.

Artin let out a low sigh. “Are we really going to have to fight them all off?”

Breton almost laughed. There was only one good thing about the situation; the skreed hadn’t hit his sword arm. That didn’t help him hold the reins. His left hand was numb, stiff, and refused to grip anything at all. He lowered his right hand to the hilt of his sword and guided the gelding with his legs. “I heard someone in Land’s End once say that a Rifter’s horse was worth ten men, and that its Rider was worth ten more.”

“That’s generous,” Voren said. “Since you’re doing a pretty good imitation of His Majesty today, I’ll take five of yours. ”

Breton snorted and let them have their laugh.

While the trail was wide enough for all of them to ride side by side, they partnered up and stayed as far from the edge as possible. The spare horses backed down the train at a spoken command. Ferethian refused to move from Breton’s side, forcing Maiten to ride in front of him.

“Looks like your Danarite friend wasn’t alone. What do you think, Breton? Cut them down or rope them?” Maiten didn’t even try to hide the glee in his voice.

“We can’t do both?” Artin asked.

“Aren’t we all just a lively lot today,” Breton muttered, staring up at the men approaching them. Maiten was right; no Rifter would be so bold—or stupid—to ride like that in the middle reaches. One bad gust could—and sometimes did—send a horse and rider right off the edge to their deaths. “Do what you want.”

“Rope ‘em,” Artin and Voren said.

“Try not to get yourselves killed. Replacing you would be inconvenient.”

“That’s the Breton we know and love,” Artin said.

Voren snickered. “Now we know where Kalen gets it from.”

Maiten let out a sigh of his own. “I wanted to cut a few of them.”

“I suspect you’ll get your chance. Did you want my other five, so Perin has to do all of the work? What do you have against them anyway?” Breton asked.

“I’m paying them back in advance for the thrashing we’re getting later. Why lose the chance when they’re being so cooperative and fighting us on the trail? I suppose I could take a few swings at them for those Wanderers, too.”

It was Breton’s turn to sigh. “They haven’t done anything. It’s possible the man we found was a renegade.”

“They will. You don’t bring in nice horses like that to a place like this unless you mean to make trouble,” Maiten replied.

“He has you there, Breton,” Artin said.

“Do what you want.” Breton leaned back and relaxed. Perin put his ears back and pawed at the stone. Maiten drew his sword while Artin rummaged through one of the packs for a length of rope. They crafted a lasso to each end. Their horses stood so close that the Guardian’s legs were pressed tight between them.

“Shall we clean up the ones they miss?” Maiten asked.

Breton nodded, sat straight, and drew his sword. Perin’s ears pricked forward. “I’m hoping they don’t miss any.”

“At least we won’t be the ones who have to deal with the missives when that force disappears.”

“They won’t even acknowledge it.”

“Can we go, Breton?” Voren asked.

“Have at them,” he replied.

The brothers rode forward. Maiten waited until the brothers were almost to the column before following, leaving Breton to deal with the rest of the horses and bring up the rear. Rolling his shoulders and wincing at the pain the motion caused, he waited for his turn and wondered just how many that Artin and Voren would miss.

The brothers made it halfway through the line when Maiten brought his horse to a halt several horse lengths before the lead riders. “How are the trails ahead?” the red-haired man asked in the trade tongue.

The Danarites muttered among themselves until one of the men nudged his horse forward. “Fine. Below?”

 
“Clear. ” Maiten made a show of standing in the stirrups and staring over the ledge without getting anywhere near it. “Pleasant weather today. Where you folks headed?”

The Danarite blinked several times, looked at the ledge, back at Maiten, then at the ledge again. “Down. City. Where?”

Heat surged through the wound on Breton’s chest and shoulder. It burned away the chill that had settled over him and replaced it with a warmth that drove away the pain. Perin froze beneath him.

Something crawled beneath his skin, writhing and worming its way over his chest and shoulder. It traced the same pattern that the skreed had carved into him. A suffocating pressure gripped his throat and cut off his breath.

“Follow the trail to the end,” Maiten replied, pointing toward Breton.

“You no longer useful,” the Danarite said.

The man fell back and lifted his hand to reveal red fabric beneath the tan sleeve. The shade was the same as the dead man within the niche. Breton tried to cry out a warning, but the sound didn’t emerge from his throat.

The thing writhing beneath his skin stilled, and his body was no longer his to control. When he would’ve dropped the sword from numb fingers, he gripped it firm. His heels tapped Perin and the gelding was eager to obey. He felt the strain of his muscles, the motion of his horse beneath him, and the leather of the hilt beneath his fingers.

A pleasant cool seeped through his every bone and worked its way into his head. With it came the presence of something rummaging through his thoughts. Breton’s stare fixed on the Danarite.

~Watch,~
the presence within instructed, and he was forced to obey.

In front of the man’s hand, a pulsating sphere of shadow hung in the air. It was a small thing, much like a witchlight. The shadows of the horses, of the men, and even of the rocks around them extended and converged on the orb.

“Behold!” the Danarite shouted. Maiten lifted his sword to strike.

A flurry of images blinded Breton to the trail and the men before him. Emotions accompanied them, but it was too tangled of a mess for him to comprehend, shifting with the same deftness as a man spoke words. Each breath he drew was steady and controlled. Breton’s memories rose to the surface, ones of him learning to ride, learning to fight, and too many of protecting the Rift Kings of the past and the present.
 

Those memories the presence considered. Breton’s weight shifted in the saddle. With another touch of his heel, Perin shifted into a trot. The gelding quivered in anticipation.

“Stop him, Maiten!” Voren cantered toward him with the lasso swinging overhead. With a challenging cry, the Guardian roped a horse around the neck and yanked the loop tight. A moment later, the young man’s horse rammed into the Danarite’s smaller beast and sent it hurtling toward the ledge.

At the other end of the trail, Artin matched his brother’s tactic. If he’d been in control of his body, Breton would’ve winced. It was effective, it was brutal, and the screams of terrified men and horses ended with sickening crunches that echoed throughout the Rift.

“Fool!” the Danarite screamed in his native language. “You can’t stop it now.”

Madness, Breton decided, was a trait of the Danarite people.

All he could sense from the presence within his head was agreement.

With a crackle, the orb pulsed and expanded. It settled on the ground, and the stone hissed and bubbled. Maiten’s horse let out a scream and scrambled back. The black sphere continued to grow, flashes of light bolting across the surface. The Danarite laughed.

The trail beneath Perin’s hooves trembled and the stone gave a low groan that resonated deep within his chest. Breton drew in a sharp breath. The presence freed him of its grip in time for him to shout, “Collapse!”

Perin whinnied. The gelding rammed his shoulder and flank into the cliff. Pain lanced up Breton’s leg as it became pinned between the cliff and his horse’s body. Ferethian stood in front of them, legs braced and ears back, shuffling as far from the ledge as possible. Ahead, the other Rift horses charged the cliff and braced against it.

The Rift trembled, and the stone shook beneath him. With a final crack that echoed through the middle reaches, the trail broke away and fell. The horses and men that hadn’t been roped off plummeted with the chunks of rock thundering down the cliffs.

Not even the stone dared to collapse beneath the thing summoned by the Danarite. The red-robed man let out a shrill, crazed laugh. “She smiles upon us!”

A dark-scaled creature burst out of the sphere and let out a scream.
 

The presence within reasserted its control over him. Images and cold, bitter emotion flowed through him, but he couldn’t understand what was being shown to him.

The creature before them twisted its head, staring at him with its tiny black eyes. It opened its mouth and black mist spewed out of it. The stone bubbled and melted away. Another wave of emotion and images flooded Breton’s thoughts. It sought to suffocate him and burn away his thoughts, but the presence within stood firm.

The Danarite laughed again and spoke in Danarite. “Kill them all!”

Another roar sounded, and Breton shuddered. His eyes met the creature’s one final time and remembered what Maiten had said.

Death stood before them, and its name was skreed.

~~*~~

Breton tried not to move or breathe. The skreed stood in front of its summoner and tore furrows in the stone with its claws. Without any sign of fear, the Danarite stood beside the creature and gestured at the trail below.

“Do any of you speak the true tongue?” the man asked in Danarite. The skreed let out a keen and spit out a jet of black fluid at the edge of the trail. A section of the stone broke away from the ledge. The crash thundered through the canyons.

“Yes,” Breton replied in Danarite, but even though it was his voice, it wasn’t him who spoke. At the Danarite’s side, the skreed jerked its blocky head around to stare at him. The black scales glistened as though wet.

“Where is your King?”

~How?~
the presence within demanded. Memories of conversing in Danarite roused.

Breton tried to draw a breath so he could speak, and the thing within permitted him to do so. “The Rift King is not here.”

“He is here! The Rift King can’t break the Covenant. He is here! Speak, or I’ll have you all killed.”

A handful of the Danarite’s companions remained, and they struggled to keep their horses from bolting. The skreed let out a low tone that reminded Breton of a large bell. In one leap, it closed the distance between it and the horses. The trail shook with the impact of the creature’s landing, and Breton feared that more of the ledge would break away.

Its curved talons were built for one thing: destruction. With the first swipe, it carved long lines through the head of one of the screaming, struggling horses. It lurched forward and opened its maw. The man’s shrill scream was cut short. The skreed shook its head, spit out the upper half of the corpse, and tossed it over the edge.
 

Lifting its head to the sky, the skreed let out a low wail. Emotion and images hammered at Breton, and from them he could hear the faint echo of a word:

Hunger.

~Hunger,~
the presence within agreed. It wasn’t the sensation of an empty stomach or a throat parched for water, but something that transcended both in the same way that the great, confining walls of the Rift overwhelmed a mere pebble.