Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) Page 7

  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?”

  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 c
liff. 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.