by RJ Blain
“Open it up,” Breton replied. Ferethian bobbed his head and snorted in agreement. Breton reached over and thumped the stallion’s shoulder. “Good work.”
“You’re going to get us killed before we even get out of the Rift,” Voren said, digging through his packs and pulling out several lengths of rope. “Why are we listening to Ferethian?”
Breton laughed. Ferethian put his ears back and stared at the niche. “His nose is better than ours.”
“He isn’t a nibbler. They can smell a corpse for miles.”
“Then it is a good thing there aren’t any skins around here, isn’t it? No skins, no serpents. There aren’t even any tracks. Stop complaining and let’s get this opened up,” Breton said. They fashioned the load-bearing harness to Perin, and even Kalen’s mare helped pull the weight.
Breton checked the lines several times before he backed out of the way and nodded to the other Guardians. Clicking their tongues, Artin and Voren coaxed the horses up the trail.
He held his breath. At first, the stone refused to budge. With a high-pitched grind, it slid forward. The horses laid their ears back and Artin and Voren clapped their hands over their ears to block out the noise. Breton stayed still and watched the opening. Dust and small stones fell from the ceiling, but it didn’t cave in. “That’ll do.”
The lines went slack. They untied the horses, restoring the packs to rights before approaching the widened opening. Their horses wouldn’t fit, but the gap was large enough that even Breton could fit inside.
Ferethian pawed at the stones blocking his way. Huffing and snorting, the stallion puzzled out the entry to the niche. “Fine, fine, I’ll unsaddle you. You might fit then,” Breton grumbled, removing the saddlebags one by one. Ferethian stared at him. The stallion bared his teeth when Artin and Voren approached, but permitted Breton to loosen the cinch and pull off the saddle. Freed of his burden, the stallion squeezed through the hole and disappeared.
“Stubborn horse,” Voren said with a hint of laughter in his voice.
Breton followed the stallion into the niche. The witchlight illuminated the cavern within.
An odor hung in the air. Breton sneezed several times. It reminded him of ash and grease. The stone was blackened at his feet. In the center of the cavern, which was barely large enough for several horses and their riders, the floor looked as though it had melted and solidified. Waves of rock circled where bubbles had been frozen into the stone.
“What in the deeps happened in here?” Artin gagged and covered his nose with his sleeve. “What is that smell?”
Breton pressed his lips together and took a tentative step forward. He tapped the floor with the tip of his toe. It was solid. “I don’t know. Doesn’t smell like a body.”
“Smells worse than a body,” Voren said.
“There’s a pack over there!” Artin scrambled across the cavern and skidded to a halt next to an outcropping of stone. It was one of the few places in the room that hadn’t been touched by the destruction.
Breton avoided where the stone had boiled and joined the other Guardian. His heart took residence somewhere in his boots. The pack was dyed with bands of silver and gold on the black leather. It hadn’t been disturbed. Strands of black, white, and yellow beads fringed the flap.
The Rift King’s colors. The Rift King’s pack.
It was as he expected; there was no need for anything other than a small pack for a day’s walk to escape the suffocating confines of Blind Mare Run. “Empty it,” Breton ordered.
It was hard to keep his voice even. Kalen was alive. He knew that. But, he still didn’t know what had happened to the young man and why—or how—he’d gone so far so fast.
The answer was there in the pack and in the stone around them, but Breton didn’t want to acknowledge the truth. To do so would be to acknowledge that the Rift King was just as the songs of the ancients proclaimed.
He shook his head to drive away the thought. Until he had proof, he wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that a man—his foal—could be reduced to something other than human, turned into something capable of destroying stone and metal, and vanishing without any other trace.
Artin treated the bag as though it were made of fragile glass instead of leather. It was as Breton expected: A change of clothes, food that was long past edible, and a half-filled water skin. The largest pile was of weapons. Breton had to admire how the Rift King had managed to fit so many throwing knives, daggers, and leather strips for wraps.
“Breton, look at this,” Voren called from across the room. Breton turned to face Artin’s brother.
At first, Breton didn’t recognize what the Guardian held up. Strips of decayed leather hung from a round shaft of metal that was pocked and blackened. It wasn’t until the pommel stone glinted that he identified it as a sword, or what was left of one.
The sapphire, cut to be the same shape and size as Gorishitorik’s stone, had somehow survived whatever had destroyed the blade. It was a duplicate of the ancient sword, crafted because Kalen had refused to take something as precious as the First King’s sword out on the trails where it might get lost or broken. Once, serpents and horses had decorated the guard, but all that remained was a serpent’s tail. A shard of the one proud blade was held in Voren’s other hand.
“What happened here?” Breton breathed out the question, unable to slow the frantic beat of his heart.
“I don’t know if I want to know,” Artin replied.
Chapter Three
“Hellfires, hellfires, hellfires, hellfires!” The rough and uneven stones jabbed into Kalen’s spine and bit at the exposed skin of his neck. His arm was pinned to his side, one leg was dangling beneath him, and his right knee braced against the other side of the well was all that kept him from plummeting into the water below. The shaft was barely big enough for him. While it had saved him from falling more than a few lengths, it hadn’t spared him from getting stuck.
“I’m going to guess you’re still alive down there,” someone said from above in a wry tone. “I hadn’t meant to startle you.”
~Rude,~ a masculine voice muttered. Once again, Kalen got the distinct impression he was overhearing something he shouldn’t have.
At least the bloodthirsty presence was gone. He didn’t need—or want—someone else adding to his rather strong desire to hit something or someone.
Preferably the smug man above.
“I can tell.” Kalen ground out the words through clenched teeth to keep them from chattering together. The stones were frigid, wet, and slimy. His leg quivered from the effort of keeping him from falling deeper into the well. The uneven placement of the stones was all that stopped him from sliding right down to the bottom.
“Can you climb out?” Derac asked.
Kalen swallowed back the urge to snap at the Kelshite. “Maybe with a rope.”
“Does your Yadesh have one?” Marist’s voice was muffled. There was a pause.
“Yes.” The man’s mocking voice carried undertones of laughter.
Kalen stiffened. The Yadesh he knew of, all too well. It was one of the constants in the missives from the Kelshite King. If a Knight was mentioned, so was his—or her—Yadesh. They were the heart and the soul of the Kelshite law, and one of the last people he wanted to meet. It was beyond him why the Yadesh, equal to a human in all things except their appearance, served as mounts for the Knights.
He cursed his foul luck under his breath.
~My apologies,~ the masculine voice whispered in Kalen’s thoughts. This time, it was meant for him. It was stronger, more vibrant, and carried with it a feeling of disgust. That disgust wasn’t directed at him, but rather at one of the men above.
Kalen held his breath. The image of a man appeared in front of his eyes, overlapping his vision, blocking out most of the dim light filtering down from above. With the man’s face came the knowledge of a name: Garint. Garint leaned against the well and stared down, a smirk on his lips hidden beneath a thick and bushy mustache
and beard. In lantern’s illumination, he had the pale hair of many Kelshites.
The image disappeared. Kalen shifted, careful to keep his leg jammed against the stones so he wouldn’t fall. Inch by painful inch, he wiggled his arm free. The stone scraped him, and the warmth of his blood on his skin didn’t last long.
~I will make him hurry,~ the voice promised. The guilt from the creature was strong enough that Kalen flinched and his throat tightened in sympathy.
Uncertain of how to reply, Kalen settled with a short shake of his head. Ignoring Garint’s existence would be enough for him, assuming he got out of the well in one piece.
If the temptation to throw the man down the well to teach him a thing or two about manners didn’t get the better of him.
Kalen let out a low snort and considered his predicament. With the leg that dangled beneath him, he searched for a hold that he could grip with his toes. With boots on, it wouldn’t have been possible. The stones were slick and forced him to scrape at it with his toenails before he could find purchase. Bracing his weight on the tips of his toes, he shoved himself upright, and found a new place to brace. Searching the wall with his hand, he found a stone that was larger than the rest. With the edge of his sleeve, he wiped away the muck, and took hold of it.
The rope dropped from above hit him on the head, bounced off his stomach, and fell into the darkness.
“Can you reach it?” Derac asked.
Kalen secured his toes on a larger stone and braced himself in the well before letting go of the rock with his hand. The rope was crafted of rough hemp that bit at his skin. Taking hold of part of the length between his teeth, he pulled it up and draped it over his leg.
Tying a knot with one hand was difficult. Tying one with numbed and bleeding fingers bordered on the impossible. On the trails, he would’ve looped the rope around his hips and created a harness. Without the safety of the ground beneath his feet, he didn’t quite dare to try that. He settled on looping it around his arm several times and knotting the rope around his leg. If he fell, he’d dangle upside down, but he might not fall.
He hoped.
Kalen gave the rope a firm jerk. When it didn’t fall into the well, he drew several deep breaths to control the uneasy and wary feeling that built in his chest. “Ready!”
~I won’t let you fall,~ the voice said. ~I’m not like Garint.~
The sense of truth behind the words reminded him of the feminine voice he’d heard in the forest. It wasn’t just men holding the rope. The Yadesh represented everything he’d wanted to forget about Kelsh. A rope tied him to the beast, forcing him to trust in it. He shivered and hoped it wouldn’t drop him to his death.
Kalen shivered from more than the cold. He would’ve given all of the Rift for his horse to be securing him, for his horse to be the one waiting for him at the top and not the bond beast of some knight.
The rope pulled him up. Despite his knowledge that someone would either have to cut the rope or untie it from the Yadesh’s saddle, Kalen couldn’t quite manage to trust them to do all of the work. His back scraped up the stones, and he used his feet to push himself upward.
A hand grabbed the back of his collar, hauling him out of the well onto solid ground. Before Kalen could do more than flop onto his back, Derac untied the rope from around his leg and freed him from it.
“Are you well?”
Kalen had to remind himself several times that it wasn’t their fault he didn’t react well to people startling him from behind. Gutting them—even if the dagger hadn’t been lost in the fall—wasn’t the right response. “I’ll survive, I assure you.”
It was tempting to voice his desire to run Garint through and be done with it. Kalen didn’t even try to rise, but instead studied the man standing across the clearing with the Yadesh. In some ways, the creature resembled a horse, but a pair of curved and pronged antlers that rose from the elongated head.
The more that Kalen studied the Yadesh, the more it looked as though the beast had started out as a horse, but some foul magic had twisted it and added the characteristics of a deer. Deer rarely found their way into the Rift, and the ones that did usually fell to their deaths. But he’d seen enough of them to recognize the slender shape of the legs, the cloven hooves, and the thinner muzzle in the Yadesh.
The Knight was equally perverse, clad in tunic and hose dyed to a shade almost identical to his mount. But on him, the garb and the color were tainted, and Kalen’s fingers itched to rip it off of him. Red would have been a more suitable color. It hid the stains of blood, and drew the eye.
Derac held out a hand to help Kalen to his feet. Kalen considered rejecting the offer, but he reached up and let the other man haul him to his feet. Garint left the side of the Yadesh and approached with a small pouch in his hand.
“I’m sorry for startling you, boy. Do you like sweets?” Garint’s voice dripped with patronization.
“How old are you, sir?” Kalen asked, offering his brightest smile. At his side, Derac froze and horror glazed his pale eyes.
Garint replied, “I’m twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Have you considered removing that small animal you have attached to your face? It adds several decades to your years.” It was immature, it was childish, but Kalen couldn’t stop himself from doing it. “Is it the way of the Kelshites to speak down to your elders?”
The moment of silence was broken by a strangled laugh. Kalen glanced out of the corner of his eye at the group of Kelshites he’d traveled with through the forest.
“Don’t laugh, Jarit!” Marist hissed and jabbed one of his companions in the ribs. It was one of the silent men who hadn’t been able to look Kalen in the eye. Jarit coughed.
“I am a Knight,” Garint said, each word ground out between clenched teeth.
“I pity the king you serve and the Yadesh forced to carry you.” Keeping his expression neutral, Kalen met the man’s eyes and ignored the pain in his neck from staring up at someone so close to him. “I was under the mistaken impression that Knights were men of honor.”
Kalen turned to Derac and watched Garint out of the corner of his eye. Garint’s Yadesh stepped forward and draped his head over the Knight’s shoulder. Garint clenched his hands into fists.
“My apologies, Derac,” Kalen said. He even meant it. “We have much to discuss, I expect. If it isn’t too much, perhaps we could after a change of clothes and a cup of tea?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Derac murmured. “Allow me to offer you a late meal for the trouble.”
It was much easier to like Derac and his friends when presented with a more dangerous, if inept, serpent clad in a human’s skin. Kalen nodded. “I accept.”
“Then please follow me, Your Majesty.” Derac glanced at Garint.
“What do you mean by that, Derac?” the Knight asked.
~You pushed the Rift King down a well,~ Garint’s Yadesh said. Kalen was aware that he’d been allowed to hear the rebuke.
~How unbecoming,~ the feminine voice added.
Kalen somehow managed to keep from laughing at the stunned expression on the Knight’s face.
~~*~~
“You shouldn’t have made an enemy out of Garint,” Derac said in a hushed voice.
Tea, Kalen decided, was truly a gift from some God. Its warmth seeped through him. It was bitter, but just the right amount. It didn’t numb his tongue or deaden his ability to taste everything like the swill they tried to pass off as tea within the Rift did.
“I’ll make sure to be careful,” he replied in a normal voice and didn’t care if the others in the room listened. Kalen took another sip of the tea. It was hard to force himself to care. He was warm, dry, and mostly clean.
And he had his favorite drink, served hot, served fresh, and served just right. There was an entire pot of it, and Derac showed no signs of wanting any of it.
Kalen could almost forget about how every muscle in his body was trying to voice a complaint. He almost felt bad about the clothes; they
would be stained with his blood from his injuries and likely ruined by dawn.
The clothes they’d given him were too large, but that didn’t surprise him much. Even the stable hands were taller than him. It was remarkable enough that they didn’t fall off his slim frame outright. His old garb wasn’t even fit for rags, and Kalen had readily agreed to have them burned, if only to keep the stench from polluting the inn.
“There aren’t any inns in the Rift,” he commented. The large room shared by all the guests wasn’t quite empty, but the other folk had taken seats on the far side of the room, including the rest of Derac’s companions and Garint.
“There isn’t? What about travelers?”
Kalen laughed. “Travelers visiting the Rift? The last time I saw a merchant brave the trails was three or four summers ago. He made it in. Didn’t make it out. Didn’t listen.”
“What happened to him?”
“Scoured,” he replied. “Didn’t even leave enough for the nibblers. We tried to warn him. Didn’t find us as hospitable as he’d like.”
“At the risk of sounding ignorant, dare I ask what being scoured is?”
“A funny thing, ignorance. You’re only ignorant if you don’t ask when you have a question. You won’t appreciate the dangers of a scouring until you’ve lived through one. If you live through it, that is. In short, the Danarites can’t seem to keep the sand in their desert where it belongs, so it comes falling down on us. Get caught out in a good blow and you’re scoured. Sand and wind can tear the flesh right off your bones if you aren’t careful.” Kalen poured himself another cup of tea and tried not to think too long on how many good people he’d seen die over the years from the scourings.
The Kelshites wouldn’t believe him if he told them of the serpents of wind that descended from black skies to devour anything in their path. He hadn’t, when he’d been warned of the phenomena. The Danarites’ sand didn’t belong in the Rift, and the Rift saw fit to return it where it belonged, uncaring of those in its way when it happened.