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

by RJ Blain

  He still wasn’t certain if Arik had been cruel or merciful. What had the Rift King’s predecessor been thinking, forcing the role on someone so young? Fifteen years as the Rift King was enough to harden anyone.

  It wouldn’t be long until Kalen had filled the role for most of his life.

  Breton sighed.

  The horses circled around Maiten, obeying the man’s order to walk. While his companion remained within sight, he was far enough away to grant the illusion of privacy.

  Enough of an illusion where Breton could take stock of the mark on his chest and shoulder without the red head staring with undisguised curiosity. Unbuttoning his shirt, he strained to make out the skreed-inflicted wound. While the dark splotches hadn’t faded over the week, the scars where it had touched him gleamed with the same luster of silver and gold. He rolled his left shoulder. It still ached, but it was a dull pain he could almost ignore.

  One week, and the bloodied gouges had almost healed. In that week, they’d traversed the upper reaches and emerged from the Rift. The red, hard-packed earth beneath him was cracked and sand-strewn, clashing with the dull gray, lifeless wastes of eastern Danar.

  It should’ve taken them two weeks.

  Maiten returned as Breton finished buttoning his shirt back up. “How is it?”

  Breton sighed again. So much for his privacy. “I look like a living experiment of a deranged metal smith.”

  “I’ll make sure I won’t tell Ambric you said that. Do you want to stay here or try for Land’s End tonight?”

  “I don’t care either way. The inn would be more comfortable. And a little less desolate.”

  Maiten laughed and gestured toward the mountains that loomed on the southern horizon. “It does have a great view of the mountains. That’s something, at least.”

  “Can’t see the Rift from here,” Breton replied, digging the heel of his boot into the ground. At least in the Rift, some things were tenacious enough to survive. He hadn’t seen so much as a serpent since they’d started following the clashing sands of Kelsh and Danar.

  “Let’s move on then. The horses aren’t too tired and I could use a bed and a nice woman to warm it,” Maiten said.

  “Good luck with that one, friend,” Breton replied. Perin came at his whistle. Kalen’s horses ignored him, both of them staring eastward.

  “It doesn’t feel like he’s in trouble anymore at least,” Maiten said.

  “I know.”

  The dread that had threatened to suffocate him had faded several days ago, but the urge to head east remained, as undeniable as his need to breathe.

  “If we hurry, we might even make it by night fall. Then we can rest, resupply, and head east.”

  Breton forced a smile for Maiten’s sake. “Let’s ride.”

  Although the sun was hot on Breton’s back, its heat was kinder than it had been in the early morning. It was less oppressive than within the lower reaches, and Perin moved with a smooth, easy stride, both of his ears pricked forward.

  Ferethian and Honey ran circles around them until Maiten yelled at the unrepentant horses. Breton glanced at Maiten and snickered. They were still laughing when the crimson of sunset touched the western horizon.

  Maiten’s laughter cut off. Breton tensed, and Perin skidded to a stiff-legged halt. “What is it?”

  “I smell smoke.”

  Breton lifted his head and sniffed. He couldn’t smell anything other than the horses and the stench of their own sweat. The air was still and dry. “Nothing.”

  “That way, I think,” Maiten replied, pointing ahead of them.

  “That’s where Land’s End is,” Breton said, squinting at the horizon.

  Maiten shifted in the saddle. The man lifted his head and took several deep breaths. “I still smell it. I think we better hurry.”

  Perin sighed as though understanding Maiten’s words, and Breton couldn’t resist echoing his horse.

  “As if we needed anything else to go wrong,” he muttered.

  “Things like that happen in the Rift, old man.”

  “We aren’t in the Rift anymore, Maiten.”

  “Maybe these outsiders would be more sensible if they were from the Rift.”

  “I can’t argue with that. You noticed it, you lead the way.”

  Maiten kneed his horse into a canter. Breton followed close behind and hoped that his friend imagined smoke in a place where wood and dung was scarce.

  ~~*~~

  It wasn’t just burning wood or dung causing the smoke, but flesh. Breton lifted his sleeve to his nose and mouth, but it didn’t remove the acrid taste in his mouth or make it any easier to breathe. The horses snorted and slowed to a walk without any cue from them. The last light of sunset was the red of blood.

  “So much for Land’s End,” Maiten muttered. “They must’ve planned to get Kalen then head for Kelsh.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  True night fell over the desert, but it didn’t grow dark; the hazy light of the burning town lit the way for them and cast dancing shadows over them. Breton shivered. “Let’s check for survivors.”

  “Are you sure? Whoever did that might still be here.”

  “If they are, they know we’re here,” Breton replied.

  Maiten cursed. “I hate when you’re right.”

  “Your hatred for me must know no boundaries. I can go by myself, if you’re worried.”

  “Now you sound like Kalen. What has he been teaching you?”

  “Patience,” Breton muttered.

  Maiten’s laugh was strained. “He’s going to be angry if we keep interfering.”

  “We tossed how many Danarites off of the trail, again? I think we’re a little beyond reproach, especially considering the fact we stole his horses and left the others,” Breton replied. “We aren’t picking sides, anyway. We’re checking for survivors and helping them, nothing more. Kalen would approve of that.”

  “Always the voice of reason. If we get killed, I’m blaming you.”

  “I’ll remember that if we get killed.”

  “Just forget I said that,” Maiten said after a long pause.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Your idea, you lead,” Maiten said.

  Breton grumbled. “Thanks.”

  Breathing through his mouth didn’t stop him from breathing in the stench of charred flesh. Another shudder coursed through him. It was enough to make him seriously consider converting to Kalen’s stance as a pursuer of all things vegetable.

  Human flesh burned within the flames ahead.

  Dismounting, Breton walked toward the glow of what had once been the only trading town that connected Danar, the Rift, and Kelsh. The inn was on the edge of town, and all that remained was a smoldering pile of rubble. The skeletal frame of the stables still stood, but did nothing to hide the corpses of the horses lying dead in their stalls.

  A tangle of blackened bodies was discarded in the middle of the road leading deeper into the town.

  “Ugh.”

  “Well said,” Breton agreed. He swallowed back bile. “At least they haven’t gone to rot.”

  “I was trying not to think about that. People didn’t do this. They used those skreed again and set the whole place ablaze when they were finished.”

  “Any idea how long this has been burning?” Breton turned in a circle, but everything was still and quiet save for the groan of collapsing buildings and the crackle of fire.

  “No idea.”

  Breton eased his way around the corpses without going near any of the buildings. While most were like the inn, some still burned brightly. His lungs ached from the smoke choking him, but he pressed forward.

  “Careful!” Maiten called out from behind him. “I’ll put the horses on guard.”

  Breton waved a hand to acknowledge he had heard and kept moving.

  There was no respite from the corpses. Many were so charred and mangled that he couldn’t tell if they’d once been men or women, Kelshites or Danarites.
The closer to the center of Land’s End he got, the more he wanted to turn around and run away.

  Maiten grabbed hold of his elbow in a trembling grip. Breton twisted around and looked toward where his friend pointed. The broken, bloodied bodies of children were piled together in an alley between two crumbling buildings. Unlike the others in the town, they were untouched by the black marks of the skreed, and the fires consuming Land’s End hadn’t reached them.

  Breton wrapped his arm around Maiten’s shoulders and pulled the man away from the street. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do for them now,” he whispered. It was hard not to lash out and hit something. “Warmongers.”

  When Maiten spoke, it was in a tone as cold and as unforgiving as stone. “I’m wishing for another group of them to run off the trail, but they do not deserve such a quick death.”

  “There are too many people here. Land’s End isn’t so large. Where did so many come from? There are hundreds here,” Breton said, herding Maiten toward the center of the town.

  “All dead, too,” his friend whispered.

  The square proved no better than the streets. The stalls of the market had been piled together into a pyre. It cast dark plumes of smoke toward the sky.

  “Let’s get out of here before I’m sick,” Breton muttered.

  “Good idea.”

  Breton edged around the square to the east-bound road. Unlike the road leading toward the Rift, it was shorter and broader. He hoped it had fewer bodies.

  He’d seen enough of them for a lifetime.

  Skirting around a collapsed shop, Breton hurried for the fresher air outside of the town.

  Something snatched at his boot. Breton let out a startled yelp and twisted around. With a ring of steel, Maiten drew his sword. Breton stared down at the hand clutching his leg.

  The squeal of a horse sounded, accompanied by the thud of hooves. For a moment, Breton mistook the animal for Honey.

  It wasn’t until he noticed the awkwardly long legs and bristled mane that he realized they were different beasts for all they shared the same color.

  Honey didn’t have antlers.

  “What is that thing?” Maiten exclaimed.

  “It’s a Yadesh. It belongs to a Knight,” Breton replied, switching to Kelshite. “You’ve never seen one? You’ve been to Kelsh before.”

  “Not at a slaughter like this, I haven’t!”

  “Y-you must help,” a weak voice called from at Breton’s feet.

  The Yadesh stopped several paces away, head lowered with antlers pointed at them. It pawed at the ground with its cloven hooves.

  The man’s mangled legs were trapped beneath the bodies of several men and part of a horse. Pale bone stuck out from the Kelshite’s swollen flesh. Breton swallowed back bile.

  “Put away your sword, Maiten. We’re from the Rift. You’re that beast’s Knight, aren’t you? I’m not sure I can help you.” Breton forced himself to look at the man’s black-stained face. Why had the skreed left the man alive?

  He hadn’t thought it possible. Then again, he’d been left alive, when by all rights, he should’ve been killed.

  “Warn them,” the man gasped out and struggled to draw another breath. “Take Dorit and warn them.”

  “Warn who of what?” Breton knelt down. Something wet and warm seeped through the knees of his trousers.

  The man coughed blood and shuddered. With its head still hanging low, the Yadesh moaned.

  Appearing out of the smoke, Ferethian charged forward and let out a challenging squeal. Despite the difference in size, the Yadesh retreated back a pace, ears cocked back and antlers held at the ready.

  “Brought their own. Killed. Set monsters loose. Elenrune.” Each word was clipped and clear, and Breton held his breath to make certain he heard it. The Knight’s face twisted in pain and concentration. “Warn them.”

  “Hellfires. More skreed,” Maiten said. Ferethian let out another squeal.

  “Curse your ancestors, Ferethian! Stand down!” The stallion ceased moving, but let out a whinny. “Be quiet! He isn’t going to do anything.”

  The stallion fell silent and Breton turned back to the Knight. “Who did it?”

  “Blood Priests,” the man sighed out. The life fled from him on those words and his body relaxed and fell still.

  The Yadesh lifted its head to the smoke-shrouded sky and keened.

  Breton reached out and closed the man’s eyes. Ferethian let out a low, mournful sound and draped his head over the Yadesh’s golden shoulders.

  One by one, their horses emerged from the darkness to huddle around the Yadesh. It continued to keen. The harrowing call was unanswered by the Knight who would never awaken.

  “Terrible,” Maiten said, his voice thick with tears.

  Horses and Yadesh couldn’t cry.

  Breton listened to the Yadesh’s dirge and wept.

  ~~*~~

  Breton paced around the camp. Maiten, the horses, and the Yadesh still slept, oblivious to the shuffle of his boots through the sand dusting the hard-packed dirt.

  He paused to stare at the dead Knight’s bondmate, who was nestled in the center of the little herd. Ferethian stood watch over them several paces away, one leg slack and head drooped in slumber. The haze of smoke hung over them and stung in his eyes. He’d been the last to fall asleep and the first to rise.

  None of them had rested until the Yadesh had fallen asleep. They hadn’t gotten far from Land’s End; the horses refused to leave the Yadesh, and the Yadesh refused to leave its Knight.

  Breton scowled at his tunic. Not even the black material was able to hide the stains of blood and soot from carrying the man’s broken body out of the town.

  He circled his sleeping companions and paused at the disturbed sand marking the Knight’s final resting place. The Yadesh had been the one to start digging the hole. Then the horses had joined in. Breton and Maiten had been the ones to finish the work.

  It had seemed like pointless, tiring effort to him, but the Yadesh had refused to calm until the body had been completely covered with dirt and sand.

  Would they even be able to grant the man’s final wish, his Moritisori? Breton swallowed back a lump in his throat. It reminded him too much of their own horses, so attached to their Riders that they followed them even in death.

  The warm breath of a horse blew against the back of his neck. Breton lifted his hand and a soft, small muzzle lipped at his fingers.

  “What will you do if this happens to Kalen?” Breton whispered. Ferethian sighed and rested his head on Breton’s shoulder. “I should make you promise to keep me company. You’re the only one who knows the real him.”

  The real Kalen. The Kalen who didn’t dare expose the truth of his existence to anyone but him and the few horses whom he acknowledged as his.

  Ferethian sighed again.

  “At least you should see your Rider soon. We’re getting closer.” A week ago, Kalen’s presence had been distant, but it was stronger. Another week, maybe two, and he would be able to do his duty.

  The stallion’s head jerked up. Illuminated by the early morning light, a small and cloaked figure stepped forward on shaking legs. A dagger was thrust out, but the tip shook in an unsteady grip. “Don’t move or I’ll stab you!” It wasn’t a shout. It was a little girl’s voice, and it trembled with her fear. She spoke in Danarite, but he didn’t recognize the faint accent.

  “Wha?” Maiten mumbled. The rustle of blankets and a groan was followed by a tired grunt as his friend man lurched upright.

  “I’m not moving,” Breton replied, careful to keep his tone low and soothing. His throat itched with the need to laugh, but he choked it back.

  She was smaller than Kalen, and she clutched her dagger with both hands.

  “Horse. I need a horse,” she said, twisting around to stare behind her.

  Breton jumped forward and plucked the weapon from her grip, tossing it away. He spun her in a circle and sat down hard, pulling her onto his lap. “Maiten!”<
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  “Got it,” was the reply.

  “Let me go!” The child kicked and screamed, but her blows didn’t hurt. He wrapped both of his arms around her, pinning her arms. The screams turned into heavy sobs. “Let me go, let me go, let me go!”

  “What do these Danarites think they’re doing? This is one ugly little dagger.” Maiten turned to show him the blade. The hilt was covered in leather and linen wraps, but points of metal stuck out, and it was stained with blood.

  The girl bit his arm. Breton winced as her teeth grazed him, and he shifted his grip to rest his elbow under her chin . “Why do you need a horse, little one?”

  “I’m not little! Let me go.”

  Maiten choked back a laugh. Breton captured her hands in his. She was so small in his grip that it reminded him of Kalen when they’d first met.

  Kalen, however, hadn’t struggled quite so desperately. He’d also been older. She was larger than the three or four year olds he knew, but her voice and the way she spoke reminded him of a child of that age.

  “He’ll find me!” she wailed.

  “Who will find you?”

  The girl let out a pitiful moan and sniffled, but didn’t reply.

  Breton winced. Kalen, at least, hadn’t screamed or cried. Much. “My name is Breton. What is yours?”

  Another sniffle. “Verishi.”

  “Little girls shouldn’t point daggers at strangers, Verishi. Someone could get hurt.”

  “But it’s okay for little boys to use daggers?” Maiten laughed, speaking in the Rift tongue. Switching to thickly accented Danarite, the Guardian continued, “Breton won’t hurt you. He likes children. Who will find you?”

  Verishi stilled in Breton’s grip, scrunched her shoulders and ducked her head. “Lord Priest Yektrik.”

  Breton drew his breath through clenched teeth.

  A Lord Priest. Blood Priest.

  “Why are you running from him?” Breton asked.

  The girl’s calm broke, and she sobbed again. Turning her to face him, Breton patted her back and made soothing noises. Maiten helped him to his feet. She weighed even less than he thought she should.