by RJ Blain
“What are you?” he asked in a whisper, staring at the door in case Marist woke from the sound of his voice.
~The First,~ it replied. Pride suffused the words. The memory of sunlight and warmth flowed into him, and it was harnessed to contentment. Longing followed soon after, as the memory darkened and refocused on the Rift. But, it wasn’t the Rift from the trails or even from the mountain peaks where the land vanished away to nothing.
It was from the sky.
By the time Kalen remembered to breathe, the presence was gone.
~~*~~
What little remained of the dead horses littered the trail and their blood stained the stone brown. They’d gotten farther than Breton anticipated. The first hints of sunset colored the horizon a bloody red. Their riders hadn’t fared much better. Their remains were little more than empty, dried out husks.
“How pleasant,” Maiten said.
From around the bend ahead, Artin appeared astride his horse. The Guardian was coated in a layer of yellow sand and dust. “You missed the excitement.”
“Bless the ancestors,” Voren whispered before grinning at his brother. “Where’d it go? It didn’t get a bite out of you, did it?”
“I’m fine. It disappeared. Cursed thing devoured them, took a good look at me, then vanished like some mirage. What in the deeps is going on?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Maiten said as he swung from the back of his horse. “Did you find the niche? It’s right up ahead. We can talk more when we get there.”
Breton nodded his agreement. His chest and shoulder throbbed, but the presence within had vanished. With the disappearance of the skreed, he’d improved enough that he could use his left hand again, although it still hurt.
“Nightfall’s soon enough. I don’t like wasting time, but with Breton hurt and the niche nearby, I don’t think we have much choice,” Voren said.
Ferethian brushed his nose against Breton’s arm and let out a snort. The black stallion’s hoof clopped several times against the stone. Breton reached out and took hold of the horse’s bridle and drew the proud, elegant head close to him. There was too much truth to the other Guardian’s words, but he took comfort in the little stallion siding with him. Ferethian lipped at his sleeve.
True to Maiten’s claim, the niche wasn’t far ahead. It was little more than a dark crack in the stone, but it opened up into a massive, sand-strewn cavern complete with a spring that trickled down from the rocks overhead and gathered into a pool. In the center of the cave, a pit had been dug out for a fire, and the blackened remnants of an old fire were still within it.
“Almost like home,” Maiten said in a wry tone.
“If only all niches were like this,” Voren replied.
“Where are the serpents?” Breton asked, squinting for any signs of slither trails through the sand.
“We’ve had enough trouble, don’t you think? Don’t ask for more of it,” Artin snapped.
“Enough,” Maiten said. “We don’t need to start fighting with each other. Let’s get the horses stripped down.”
Artin dismounted and stomped into the cavern, leading his horse behind him. Voren followed, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder.
Maiten sighed. “Don’t worry about them. Fear does strange things to men. They’ll get over it.”
Breton nodded.
A gleam lit Maiten’s eyes, and it was reflected in the man’s sly grin. “Take heart, old man. If it’d been Arik, they’d be halfway back to Blind Mare Run instead of pressing on. Then you’d be on your own. Let’s get the horses settled, and I’ll check on that wound of yours. For some reason, I don’t think you’ll let them anywhere near you right now.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Breton replied. It ached, but it didn’t hurt, not really. He had endured much worse over the years.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Don’t you start too,” he growled. “I’m not going back.”
“With that foal of yours out there? Wouldn’t dream of suggesting it. I might be worried, but I’m not stupid. Serpents might change their skins overnight, but you’re like the stones. Wind might wear you down with time, but we’d be a meal for nibblers long before that happened. They’re fools to think otherwise.”
“You’ve a mean tongue, Maiten.” Breton glanced at the cliff and twisted around to look down the trail. The stone looked solid and he didn’t see any cracks, but he couldn’t ignore the memory of the ledge breaking away. “Let’s keep the horses out of the niche.”
“Good thinking.” Maiten fell silent a moment and joined him in inspecting the cliff. “Who knows if that slide damaged the caverns around these parts.”
Breton let out a relieved sigh when his friend didn’t press the subject of Artin, Voren, and the aspect of returning to Blind Mare Run.
They unsaddled the horses in silence. Breton was removing the packs from the chestnut’s back when the echo of hoofbeats warned them of approaching riders.
“What in the deeps happened back there? Good to see you back, Maiten!” a voice called out.
“Good to see you, Ason,” Maiten called out. “There was some trouble.”
“Everyone’s still alive, I hope?”
“Mostly. Can’t say the same for the Danarites, though. How many of you?”
“Twenty-six, plus the horses. Can we join you for the night?”
“Be welcomed,” Maiten replied. “Artin and Voren are inside.”
Within moments, the trail was full of black-clad Guardians, all talking and staring at Breton with undisguised curiosity. Maiten joined him under the pretense of loosening Honey’s cinch and whispered to him, “You look about as lively as a corpse.”
“I guessed as much.” Breton shook his head and took his time piling their packs near the entrance. When he was certain the packs wouldn’t get blown off the ledge during the night, he started brushing down each of the horses in turn. Once done, he led them into the cavern and watered them before letting them loose to join the growing herd of horses gathered near the niche’s opening.
By the time he’d finished, full night had fallen and the flickering light of a campfire illuminated the entrance to the niche. The stench of burning dung balls was partnered with the equally pungent odor of steeping fungus. Coils of smoke wafted upward and disappeared into dark holes in the ceiling.
The Guardians stood around the fire and their conversations hushed when Breton approached.
“We wish to vote,” Artin blurted out.
Breton stopped in mid stride and stared at them. Everyone stared back, silent and still. The muscles of his neck and back tensed and a headache formed behind his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Maiten will take your place. You will slow us down. You are among those with the most years as a Guardian. Should you die, it will be the rest of us who will be punished for allowing you to take such a risk. You’re too valuable,” Voren said.
“Then vote,” Breton said, struggling to keep his tone calm and even.
“You agree to the vote, then?” Surprise lightened Artin’s tone. For a moment, deep furrows marked the man’s brow before they faded away.
“It is your right,” he replied. At that, Breton fell silent and waited, not trusting himself to speak or move, lest he fail to maintain his neutral mask. He wanted to frown. He wanted to demand answers. A hundred thoughts flashed through his mind, and each one was more angry and violent than the last.
Breton wanted to throttle the lot of them, and it was hard to keep from balling his fingers into fists.
Maiten moved to stand beside him. Not even the shadows could hide the paling of the red-haired man’s face. Neither one of them had a choice. Until the vote was cast, they would stand together in silence, their individual worth weighed against each other.
“Raise your left hand if Maiten should replace Breton in the group heading to Kelsh. Raise your right if the plan should remain unchanged.”
Breton felt the
tightness across his brow and struggled to replace his neutral mask. Kalen would’ve spoken the oath, reciting each ritualistic word so that there was no doubt and no question that everyone knew the rules and the consequences of breaking the result of the vote.
One by one, left hands were lifted high. Breton glanced at each face, but no one looked him in the eyes. At his side, Maiten lifted his right hand. Off to the side, silently shunned from the rest, Ason lifted his right hand.
“The majority speaks. By the vote, you will return to Blind Mare Run at dawn.”
Without a word, Breton strode by the silent crowd and dropped his pack. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out.
He welcomed the pain it caused. It kept him from reaching for his sword and contained his rage deep within, where it belonged.
~~*~~
Sleep eluded Breton. He did not mind. The snores of the other Guardians rumbled through the cavern with an eerie similarity to the groan of shifting stone. It wasn’t their noise stirring the uneasy feeling in his chest, but something else—something that drew his gaze to the east and denied him any peace.
Muttering curses, he escaped the folds of his bedroll, and shook the sand out of it. No one had dared sleep too close to him, so he disturbed no one as he restored his packs to rights. He got to his feet, shrugged the leather strap over his right shoulder, and wove his way around the sleeping forms.
Maiten leaned against the entrance to the niche, one brow arched high when he approached.
“I’m going,” Breton growled out through his clenched teeth, unable to look his friend in the eyes.
“Don’t look like that, old man. I wasn’t fool enough to vote against you. If it’d been Arik…”
Breton lifted his left hand and his friend fell silent. “If it’d been Arik, I’d be halfway back to the city by now. I know. You’ve said as much before.”
“They’re fools. All of them. I’ll saddle the horses. Wake Artin, wake Voren, and we’ll ride, just like we’d planned,” Maiten said.
Breton almost laughed. “No. They’ll talk. It was their doing anyway.”
“Not if we take them with us.”
“I’ll go alone. If you go with me, you’ll be as much a code breaker as I am.”
The red-haired man choked back a laugh. “If that thing they pulled was a true oath, I’ll cut off my horse’s tail and eat it. I’ll worry about it later. Someone has to keep you alive. I’d rather break that so-called oath than answer to the Rift King when he asks why I let you go off on your own.”
“Curse them and their kin,” Breton muttered.
“Don’t be hard on them. They’re worried about you,” Maiten soothed. “The upper reaches are dangerous enough.”
“I know that. Anyway, you can’t leave them unguarded. The middle reaches are almost as dangerous. Especially when we don’t know if that skreed will come back.” Breton didn’t want to think too hard on why he was so certain the creature wouldn’t return, but he wasn’t about to share that feeling with Maiten.
They’d think him insane if he dared speak of what he’d felt, heard, and seen when the skreed had attacked.
“Ason didn’t vote against you. Wake him and let him watch. I’m going with you. I didn’t get a chance to check your wound. Is it hurting you?”
“A little, but I can ride. Your decision is your decision, and I’ve no right to take it from you. I’ll wake Ason, and hope you’re right that he’ll agree. How long for you to ready the horses?”
“Perin’s already saddled. I took the liberty of lightening the packs. If Ferethian doesn’t fight me, it won’t be long.”
“You disgust me,” Breton said with a shake of his head.
Whether by accident or design, Ason slept near the entrance of the niche. The Guardian bolted upright when Breton touched his shoulder. “Shh,” he hissed.
Ason’s eyes narrowed and jerked his head in a nod. After a long moment of terse silence he asked in a whisper, “What is going on?”
“We’re going. Take watch?”
The Guardian stifled a yawn and nodded. “On it.”
Breton got to his feet and left the man stretching and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Whether the others pretended not to notice or were genuinely asleep, he didn’t want to find out. He slipped out of the niche without anyone stopping him.
“Ferethian’s as eager to go as you are,” Maiten whispered. “I’ll create a witchlight as soon as we’re off and up the train a ways.”
Breton shook his head and jerked his hand at the full moon overhead. “Don’t waste it. We might need it later. Why tell them where we’re at when there’ll be plenty of light to see by?”
“Whatever you want,” Maiten replied.
“Safe travels,” Ason murmured from the entry of the niche. The man yawned again. “Give the King my regards. We won’t find him in Mithrias, I suspect.”
They all glanced toward the east and muttered as one, “East.”
Ason stepped out of the cavern and halted at Breton’s side. “Artin and Voren will be displeased. I’ll slow them and say you headed down and Kalen’s horses followed you. In turn, Maiten followed to make sure you made it back and to fetch new supplies.
Breton clasped the other Guardian’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“The night is wasting,” Maiten said. “If we’re to stay ahead, we need to hurry.”
“Ride light, ride hard, ride safe,” Ason said.
“Loads already lightened. Stay safe in Mithrias. Give the women my fondest regards.”
At that, Ason let out a low laugh. A smirk crossed the man’s lips. “I’ll do my best, though I fear there is but one of me and many of them.”
Breton mounted. Perin’s ears perked forward, and the gelding pulled at the bit. Ferethian pranced in place, lifting his hooves high and placing them down on the stone with gentle clicks.
“To Kelsh,” Maiten said. With a tap of his heels against his gelding’s side, the Guardian cantered up the trail. Breton watched the man go, and his mouth twisted into a grin.
“To Kelsh,” he echoed.
Perin lunged forward at the lightest touch of his heels, and they charged upward with the light of the moon guiding them.
Chapter Five
Kalen let the long sleeve of his shirt mask his shaking hand. It didn’t hide his weakness from the horse he rode, but the animal was too docile to do more than hang its head and flop its ears in misery. The beast wasn’t smart enough to get upset over his poor posture and the constant quiver of his hand on the reins.
The Kelshites didn’t seem to notice his slouching or that he let the horse follow after its herd mates.
Thunder rumbled, and the rain threatened to drown them both. Kalen hunched his shoulders and shivered as the water worked its way through his clothes, soaking him from head to toe.
Garint, by unspoken agreement, led the group. The Yadesh kept lifting his hooves high and kept his ears cocked back, but Kalen wasn’t certain if it was out of dislike for the rain and muck or his Knight. Marist’s Yadesh was a smaller beast and little separated the creature from a horse with the exception of her golden, cloven hooves. She plowed through the muck with a purposeful stride, uncaring of who got splashed in the process.
When the creature didn’t think Kalen was looking, she stared at him with a golden eye. He suspected that the Yadesh wanted to speak, but she didn’t. Kalen’s ears buzzed as though swarms of flies hovered around his head, and sometimes he even caught a word here and there of whispered conversations he wasn’t supposed to hear.
Not even the vellest eased the throb in his skull.
Derac pulled his little brown mare up alongside Kalen’s mount. “Have you been to Kelsh before?”
“Long ago,” he replied. Despite riding the taller horse, Kalen had to look up at the man.
“Rifters don’t come often. I’ve seen two. Don’t reckon I’ll ever forget that man.” An undertone of fear in the man’s words caught Kalen’s attention.
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br /> “Oh?”
“Dark-haired, dark-skinned. Looked fit enough to break a horse with his hands. His horse was easily taller than Silver there. Lot meaner, too. Haven’t seen anyone so big in my life.” Derac shook his head and rain whipped off of the man’s drenched locks. “I admit, I was convinced all Rifters would be tall after meeting him.”
“I can promise you that I am the shortest adult within the Rift by a notable margin,” Kalen replied, faking a laugh for the Kelshite’s benefit. The throbbing in his head worsened. “But, there are few men that tall.”
“I learned to ride horses because of that man,” Derac said. “Because of that man and because of that horse.”
“Perin,” he said.
“Perin?”
“The horse,” Kalen said, straightening in the saddle and fixing his posture.
Derac stared at him, but Kalen focused his attention on the horse he rode. He tapped the animal’s flanks with his bare feet and shifted his weight. Both ears pricked up and the horse obediently shifted his stride to a prancing trot.
“Perin,” Derac echoed. “That horse must be long dead by now.”
“Alive and well the last time I saw him,” Kalen said. Mud splashed against the bottoms of his feet and coated his legs.
“Horses don’t live that long. I saw that horse over twenty years ago.”
Kalen laughed. “Things like that happen in the Rift.”
“And the Rifter?”
At that, Kalen fell silent and glanced at each of the Kelshites in turn. Most rode with their heads ducked down and huddled in their cloaks. Garint sat straight and stared ahead, setting a hard pace.
Kalen fidgeted and glared at the Knight’s back. None of the other Kelshites had questioned the excuse that Jarit had gone on ahead to arrange for a healer. It’d be hours, if not days, before any of them realized the man had been murdered. He frowned and shook his head. “He’s fine. It’d take a lot more than the Rift to kill him.”