by RJ Blain
“No offense, but the Rift sounds like a place I’d rather not go.”
“You’re wise,” Kalen replied.
“I trust you understand our position,” Derac said, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of men across the room who stared at them. “If anyone finds out that we did not provide escort for the Rift King and something were to happen to you while in Kelsh, it would cause quite the incident.”
“I’ll be direct. You have two Knights at that table over there. Why are you the one talking to me about this?” Kalen set down the tea cup and drummed his fingers against the table. Each tap hurt where he’d scraped the skin off within the well.
“How did you know Garint wasn’t the only Knight?”
Kalen let out a low snort and stared at Marist. The young man stared into his bowl of stew with rapt interest. “Who else could recognize my sigil for what it is? What do you call them here? Ah, commoners? I don’t think so. I suspect your King would be quite happy if the Rift didn’t exist. For some reason, I doubt he would permit one of his personal retainers to go running out in the woods so far from his throne. That leaves a young Knight. A young Knight, I might add, who is clever enough to know when to speak up and follow his instinct. I wonder if I could talk him into coming back to the Rift with me. I know a few who’d find him rather fascinating.”
He didn’t dare let the man know about the voices he’d heard in his head. There were enough people who questioned his sanity for completely different reasons.
“That does make sense. We are at an impasse, then. It is our law that people of import are brought to Elenrune for interview with the King. You don’t want this,” Derac said.
“You’re a smart fellow. Are you certain I can’t bribe you away from Kelsh? I have no reason or desire to meet your King. I’m certain he’ll express his foul temper in yet another missive that wastes my time. Perhaps it might improve his temperament if he didn’t have to write so often. You can pass that to him, if you’d like.”
“I have a proposal,” Derac said.
Kalen stilled his fingers and met the man’s eyes. “I’m listening.”
“Come with us as far as Elenrune. If we haven’t convinced you to meet with the King by then, I will escort you back to the border myself.”
“This doesn’t benefit me or the Rift,” Kalen replied.
“Marist, Garint, come here!” Derac waved his hand to the two men. Garint’s expression darkened. Marist looked up from his bowl and hurried over. By the time that Garint made his way to the table, the man had managed to force a smile. “I’m not a Knight. You’re the only ones who can bargain with him.”
Garint picked the chair the farthest from Kalen and dropped into it with a scowl. Marist sat next to Derac.
“Law says you must come,” Garint said.
“I’m not bound to your laws, Knight, and it would do you well to remember that,” Kalen said. “I might choose to obey them in respect of your King, but for no other reason.”
~Don’t push,~ the male Yadesh said. ~We need his help.~
Kalen struggled to keep his expression neutral. The Yadesh had let him hear that. While the creature didn’t quite beg, it was close enough he wanted to wince. He’d been taught that they were noble beasts full of dignity and pride.
Garint’s was nothing more than a beast of burden unable to stray from the path it’d been told to follow. The Knight’s expression darkened further. “It might be in our mutual benefit if we could—at length—discuss new trade routes and options. Your people bring goods to Land’s End on a frequent basis. Gems, herbs, bones, things of that nature. They’re always in demand here. The King would be pleased to expand the business between the Kingdoms. Your people would have access to greater wealth and more supplies. Ours would get the goods that can be acquired from nowhere else,” Garint replied.
“That is nothing that couldn’t be discussed by missive. It’s been suggested several times over the years, but your King hasn’t seen fit to take it seriously. Is that going to change by journeying to Elenrune and speaking with him directly? Unlikely.”
Garint’s scowl faded into a smile that sent chills racing up and down Kalen’s spine. “I’ve heard that you are rather notorious for not selecting a Queen, Your Majesty. Perhaps I might be able to interest you in Kelsh’s Princess? She’s quite the beauty, and I have it on good authority that the King may consider extending her hand to the right suitor.”
Kalen made a dismissive, waving gesture. When he rested his palm down on the table, he drummed his fingers and toyed with the wooden handle of his dinner knife. “He’s been trying that for years. Missive.”
“Perhaps you might be interested in discussing a breeding program of horses,” Marist said. “The Rift has horses that men around the world desire, and you don’t sell them. Would you consider allowing us to breed some of our broodmares with your stallions to begin a new line altogether?”
“I don’t see that happening. That is one thing your King asks for often, and the answer is always the same. My predecessor said no, and I too say no.”
Garint leaned over the table and met his eyes. When the man spoke, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps the abolishment of the Council of Six might interest you. Without the Council of Six, wouldn’t your people be more free to pursue that which they desire?”
Kalen lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip. No one knew quite how old the Council was. Not even the archive had the first records announcing its creation. That treatise was what kept him chained to his desk more often than not, and had forced them to have a rather elaborate system of who handled the missives and work when he wasn’t at his desk.
It was a treatise that kept the six largest Kingdoms from slaughtering each other for the sake of power and conquest. It was the treatise proclaiming the Rift as the neutral mediator destined to watch in silence and speak only when the Six couldn’t agree.
It’d been well over a hundred years since the Six had met, let alone needed the guidance of the Rift.
“And this is your King’s wish?”
“It is,” Garint replied.
Kalen wanted to laugh. His throat tickled with the need to, but he swallowed it back and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “And he would not send a missive for something of such importance.”
“You can understand our position, I trust,” Garint replied.
If it was written, the other Kingdoms would have just cause to war against Kelsh. Without the treatise, Kelsh could openly war against Danar without fear of rebuttal.
If Kelsh were to win, it was only a matter of time before they grew too drunk on their own power and force their ideals on the smaller Kingdoms.
He didn’t want to think too hard on what would happen if Danar won that war. There were worse things than men, and the Priests of Danar knew how to summon them. Those were missives from his Akakashani spies that he handled himself and didn’t even let the Guardians read.
“I understand your position,” Kalen said. “And if you hadn’t discovered me, would you have sent a messenger to bring such news to my city?”
“We would have. His Majesty has been in discussions with the rest of the Knights to learn who might be the best to brave your trails and speak with you within Blind Mare Run. It is fortuitous that the rumors are false that you never come out of your Rift.”
“Men don’t like to be caged, and I am not different. It is refreshing to see the realms of the Kings with whom I write with frequently. I trust you understand that,” Kalen said.
“I understand. You can trust that no one else will find out of your presence here,” Garint said. The man’s smile broadened.
The back of Kalen’s neck tingled with the same instinctual warning like when he was being hunted, as though the words were a carefully laid trap, and he was about to walk right into it.
“I will go with you as far as Elenrune. I will decide then if I will meet with your King,” Kalen said. Garint nodded his satisfaction.
Kalen stared at each of the men around him until they looked away. Under the cover of his too-large sleeve, he took up the knife.
No matter how many ways he spun the tale and considered every potential conclusion, it ended the same way. If the Kelshite King had his way, Kalen wouldn’t return to the Rift. Then, the Rift would Ride.
If he were lucky, Kalen would live long enough to see it happen.
~~*~~
Several long hours after leaving the niche where they’d found Kalen’s pack, Breton was tired, sweaty, and ready for a break. When they came across the shadowy entrance of another niche, he reined Perin in and listened.
He heard the swarm of serpents long before he saw them. The rasp of scales was loud enough to drown out even the restless wind. Their high-pitched hisses chilled him. Alone, a nibbler wasn’t a threat. They could be eaten, they were one of the few things in the Rift that wasn’t venomous, and they were tiny. Their dull, gray forms were shorter than his forearm and thinner than his smallest finger.
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 deman
ded. 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.