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

  “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.

  Maybe it was the heat of the afternoon sun, maybe it was the frustration of being some unseen, unknown thing’s toy, but Breton couldn’t control his urge to mutter, “Eat, then.”

  The stone groaned beneath the skreed when it twisted around to face Breton. All that he could feel from the presence within was satisfaction.

  “What are you doing?” Maiten hissed at him. “We need to get out of here.”

  “We aren’t leaving Artin,” Voren snapped.

  “He’s safer than we are,” Maiten replied.

  “It’s fine,” Breton’s voice said, but once again, it was the presence within who spoke.

  “Have you lost your mind, Breton? You know what that thing can do. That other one just about carved its way through your chest,” Voren said.

  “Watch,” the presence said in Breton’s voice.

  The few remaining, mounted Danarites turned their horses and fled up the trail. With a hooting call, the skreed leapt after them. Breton winced. It landed on the back of the slowest horse, and the impact of it snapped bone, driving the animal to the ground. The Danarite struggled to crawl away.

  Instead of biting down like Breton expected, the skreed opened its maw and let out a long, low, and harrowing cry. Black mist spilled out and coated the man.

  Breton wanted to look away, but couldn’t. A shudder coursed through him. ~Watch,~ the presence ordered.

  Screaming curses, the man scrambled to his feet and ran up the trail. The skreed let him go, letting out bursts of dark fog from its maw. It took one step forward, lifted its head to the sky once more, and let out another cry.

  The sound took Breton by surprise. It wasn’t the deep and angry cry from before, but the trilling song of a bird accompanied by the melody of the restless wind through the canyons. He held his breath and listened.

  With a single hop, the skreed reached the fleeing man. Lowering its head, it shoved the man with its nose.

  The song ended. Maiten made a strangled gasping noise. “What was that?”

  “I think its feeding,” Voren whispered.

  A shudder coursed through Breton, starting with the back of his neck and working its way down to his toes. The Danarite froze at the creature’s touch. The dripping teeth weren’t exposed, but the maw didn’t open to devour the man. The dark mist spread and it was stained with the red of blood.

  The scream didn’t last long before dying away into a gargle. Streams of red flowed from the man’s mouth, nose, and ears, and dissolved into vapor before striking the ground. The skreed straightened, opened its maw, and breathed deep.

  It sucked the blood-enriched mist into itself and swallowed. A dry, shriveled corpse thumped to the ground.

  It let out its strange, trilling song once again before facing the priest.

  “Kill them!”

  The skreed fell silent and bobbed its head. One of its forearms pawed at the air, just like a rearing horse. It hopped forward, paused, bounced in place, and took a great leap. A network of cracks formed in the stone at the Priest’s feet.

  “What are you waiting for? Finish them, you worthless thing.”

  The skreed’s maw opened, and black mist once again poured out.

  “What are you doing? Kill them! I, the child of Selestrune, demand it!” The priest pointed at them with a trembling arm. “I am your master!”

  “Hunger,” the skreed rasped, struggling to force the sound out of its blocky, stiff maw. Its tongue darted out and brushed the priest’s cheek.

  Breton sucked his breath in through his teeth. Not only did the creature speak, it spoke with his voice.

  The skreed let out another cloud of mist, and the red-robed man stared up at in slack-jawed disbelief. Breton gagged, but once again, he wasn’t allowed to look away. The only mercy was that they didn’t have to hear the man’s screams as he was dissolved and consumed by the very creature he’d summoned. Letting out another hooted call, it lunged up the trail and out of sight.

  “Artin!” Voren choked out.

  Breton kneed Perin forward to catch Voren’s arm with his left hand. His grip was strong and tight. “He’ll be fine.”

  Both of the other Guardians gawked at him. Maiten was the first to recover. “How do you know that?”

  “Things like that happen in the Rift,” he replied. The presence within repeated the phrase as though committing it to memory before vanishing as though it’d never been there at all.

  Chapter Four

  Kalen paced the confines of his room. The moonlight streaming through the window lit his path as he weaved around the table and chairs and dodged the bed taking up most of the space. The seductive call of the soft blanket and fluffed pillows lured him from his mission, but he resisted. Barely.

  His aching muscles desired it, but he couldn’t rest. Not until he knew more about the Kelshites.

  First impressions deceived, and he saw both sides of the same coin among those he accompanied. In Derac, there was a twisted sense of honor Kalen could respect. In Garint, he found nothing good.

  But it wasn’t Derac who held the power. That belonged to Garint and to Marist. Marist wasn’t cunning enough to use it.

  While Kalen had lost his dagger, the knife he’d swiped during the meal would suffice. It was solid in his hand, and its blade was sharp enough to cut a groove in the leg of the bed. Leaving the fork behind had been a mistake, but he suspected one of the Kelshites would’ve noticed if all of his utensils had disappeared during the meal. One was easy enough to hide when he’d made a point of spilling his tea and feigning exhaustion.

  Not that he needed to try very hard to look as tired as he felt.

  Kalen slipped the knife into his pocket and shuffled to the door. With his ear pressed against the polished wood, he could hear the faint snores of the guard on the other side. Slow, rhythmic, and steady; the same as it’d been an hour ago.

  Pacing the room one final time, he peered out the window at the side of the inn. All was dark, and all was quiet. He returned to the door.

  The snoring continued.

  Kalen closed his fingers around the metal knob and twisted. It opened with a creak. He froze, but the snoring continued. Sprawled outside of the door was Marist. The young man’s head rested on a bunched up cloak.

  He stepped over the sleeping Knight and closed the door. The snoring drowned out the creak of the wood and the squeak of the hinges. Thick candles perched on sconces illuminated the hall. He slid his feet over the smooth hardwood in an effort to make as little noise as possible.

  He paused at each door between his room
and the stairs to listen. No light streamed from beneath, nor did he hear the murmur of voices.

  Kalen wrinkled his nose and moved on. He eased down each stair and winced each time the wood groaned beneath his weight. The staircase descended two floors before opening to the common room, which was abandoned and dark. The front door was open and let in a cool breeze. While his scabbing wounds pained him, it didn’t compare to the stiffness cramping his muscles from the cold.

  Outside, the hard-packed road was empty, and the lamp that had lit the way for them was extinguished, leaving nothing but the moonlight to serve as his guide. The ground was damp and numbed his toes the moment his feet touched it. Clenching his teeth together, he shuffled around the building. Two boys whispered to one another while rolling dice beneath the steady light of a lantern hung in the entry of the stables.

  “Hear something?” one of the boys asked.

  Kalen froze with one foot lifted off of the ground. Neither boy moved from their place in the doorway.

  “Ain’t nothin’,” the other replied. “Don’t be tryin’ to switch up them dice.”

  With their argument breaking the quiet of the night, Kalen slipped around the building. If he had anything to do about it, a Kelshite would never stand guard duty within the Rift. Serpents—or worse—would take them all before they’d notice anything amiss.

  He couldn’t stop from frowning. Had their fear of him been a ruse? Were they truly so foolish as to believe he would honor his word just because he’d given it? While he intended to go with them as far as Elenrune—until he had a reason to change his mind—the Kelshites were too trusting. Too lenient.

  While wet and cold, the grass was soft beneath his feet as Kalen crossed the yard to the well. He hid in its shadow and took several deep breaths. A light flickered from between the trees of the forest and a murmur of voices reached him. The long shadows of trees darkened the clearing, and Kalen hid within them. He ignored the burn of exerted muscles and the tearing of scabs. He braced against one of the broadest trees and gripped the knife in his pocket.

  “We can’t do this,” an unfamiliar voice said. “If we’re caught, we’ll be hanged.”

  “That is the least of my concerns,” Garint replied. “We’ve a chance, and we have it now. They’ll do worse than hang us if we fail. You aren’t backing out after all of this, are you?”

  “It’s too soon,” the other replied.

  Kalen risked glancing around the trunk of the tree. The light bounced and weaved between the trees. It drew closer. Garint held a lantern in his hand and prowled through the forest. One of Derac’s companions trailed behind the Knight.

  Both of the men were armed, and Garint’s right hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The Knight’s stance was tense and calculating.

  “Failure is not an option, Jarit. They’ll be here tomorrow. We can’t let this opportunity pass us by.” Garint lowered his voice and continued in a low murmur that Kalen couldn’t understand. Then, “Are we agreed?”

  Garint set the lantern on the ground. Jarit hesitated, lowered his head, and finally nodded.

  The steel of Garint’s sword whispered the promise of death and delivered it in one, smooth strike. Jarit stumbled back and collapsed to the ground. Garint thrust the blade through the fallen man several times before wiping the edge off on the man’s clothes.

  Kalen jerked around the trunk of the tree and held his breath. The light remained steady. The rustle of feet through the leaves and the dragging of the body faded to nothing. With the muscles in his jaw twitching, he risked glancing around the trunk.

  Only the lantern remained. Twisting back around, he dashed across the clearing to the safety of the inn. He wiped his feet clean against the mat in the entry before returning to his room. The young Knight still slumbered, and all was as he’d left it.

  From his window, he watched Garint circle around the building sometime later. The man smiled and whistled a faint, discordant tune.

  ~~*~~

  Kalen stared at Garint’s sleeping face. A small smile touched the Knight’s lips. Kalen leaned down and breathed deep. The scent of the forest and of fish clung to the man. He’d never tried to mark a man before, and he wasn’t even sure if the trick the witches had taught him would work, but he couldn’t deal with Garint. Not yet.

  He brushed his lips against the man’s brow. Kalen’s lips tingled as he breathed the words of promise against Garint’s skin. There would be no escape when he decided it was time to hunt.

  If the trick worked, and if he could remember just how to use the mark to find Garint again, when he needed to. He wasn’t certain if the Guardians could see it, as the witches had implied was possible.

  ~Hunt,~ the presence within murmured. The lust for blood was still there, writhing just beneath his skin, but it was controlled and contained, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  Kalen eased away from the bed. A candle would’ve made his task simpler, but he didn’t dare wake the sleeping man with its light. The moonlight would have to suffice. First, he checked the man’s clothes discarded across the room. The pockets were empty. The sword, which hung from the back of the chair, was crafted of simple, hardened leather, and good steel meant to be functional rather than beautiful. The inside of its sheath was padded so that the blade made little noise as it was drawn.

  He turned to the man’s boots and his pack. While he couldn’t kill the man—yet—Kalen wasn’t above using his knife to loosen the oiled stitching holding the leather together. He checked the insides and the heels for anything hidden. Nothing. With that task done, Kalen systematically emptied the pack and set out all of the contents on the floor. At the very bottom, nestled between a pair of pants and a thin shirt, was a velvet pouch. Three small envelopes of waxed parchment fell to the floor. Each one was sealed with a sticky wax.

  They contained pale powders. Kalen touched the tip of a finger to his tongue and dipped his finger within the first pouch. No scent. He tasted it.

  Vellest didn’t have a scent or a taste, but its effects struck fast and hard. A shiver raced through him and his hand trembled. The amount on his finger wasn’t quite enough to kill someone, especially not him. Tossed within a well or used within a kitchen, the entire envelope was more than enough to wipe out a small town. He took a large pinch of the poison out of the envelope and swallowed it.

  Kalen sighed his relief when the pain faded to nothing. Sometimes, there were perks to his high resistance to poisons, although it took far too much of the powder to have any impact on him at all.

  He didn’t need to taste the other two to know what was within them. Feregeth had a sickly, sweet scent, and was the easiest of the Three Sisters to identify. Its powder was a little darker than the other two, and it was prone to clumping, even when kept dried. He wasn’t quite sure how Garint had managed it, but it remained as a true powder. The final packet contained a powder identical to the vellest, even to his experienced eye. Prasoris.

  Without bothering to sample the other two, he hurried across the room where a mug stood beside a ceramic pitcher of water. Picking it up, he returned to where he left the powders and dumped them all within. Using his finger, he mixed them up as thoroughly as possible. He filled the envelopes once more, sealed them, and returned them to the pouch.

  After he restored the pack to rights and put it back where he’d found it, Kalen poured a small amount of water into the cup and swirled it around until all of the powder dissolved. Shaking his head at the waste, he poured the clear water back into the pitcher. Using his sleeve, he wiped the inside of the cup dry and clean.

  Kalen scowled and almost wished the poisoned water would kill the man. By the time Garint woke, the Three Sisters wouldn’t be capable of killing a fly, let alone a man—or an entire town of men, women, and children. But, until he found out the truth, he couldn’t touch the cursed Knight.

  It wouldn’t just violate the Covenant keeping peace between the kingdoms, it’d trigger an instant war between the Rift and
Kelsh. A war Danar, Mithrias, and even the Clans would be all too happy to participate in. The opportunity would only encourage the rest of the kingdoms to find some excuse to fight each other, after hundreds of years of wary, uneasy peace.

  Kalen stared at Garint. What use did Garint have for the Three Sisters? How did he acquire them? Kalen had long since banned the sale of the poisons to Kelsh, though there were other kingdoms he offered it to in small supply. Even then, the amount was enough to kill one or two men, not wipe out entire towns or cities. One packet of any of the three dumped into a water supply would ensure a lot of deaths. Kalen wrinkled his nose and resisted the urge to snort his disgust.

  Someone had probably risked hunting for the plants in the fringes of the Deeps and gotten very lucky and very, very wealthy as a result. But who had been supplied?

  With even more questions than before he’d come to Garint’s room, Kalen cracked open the door and peered out into the hall. It was dark, empty, and silent save for the snores of men and women asleep in their beds. Kalen padded back to his room and was careful not to trip over Marist’s sleeping form. The Knight didn’t rouse.

  With vellest, he didn’t need to rest. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He sat down and drummed his fingers on his leg. Someone who would run through his own partner was more than capable of putting the Three Sisters to lethal use. For all he disliked the Kelshite King, he couldn’t imagine the man using one of the Knights for such unethical work.

  ~Betrayed,~ the inner voice said in Kalen’s thoughts. The word was accompanied with the image of Jarit’s stunned face as he was run through. Unlike the Yadesh, the presence within him was harsher, and every word it spoke was accompanied by images and emotions, as if the word itself was difficult for it to master, but sharing its very self was easier and more comfortable.

  It was enough to distract Kalen from the problem of Garist and the murdered Kelshite.