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

by RJ Blain

  He felt Satrin’s agreement, though the Yadesh said nothing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fingers dug into the nape of Kalen’s neck and thrust him forward. The rough-hewn wood of the palisade tore through his tunic and scored his left side. He sucked his breath in through his teeth and kept silent. Keeping his head bowed, he stared through his hair at the rows of tents stretching out to either side of him as far as he could see. It wasn’t a skirmish group, like he had anticipated, like he had hoped.

  It was an army.

  Kalen tried to slow his stride, but the mercenary holding him shoved him forward. They passed the first row of tents, then the second, where it opened up into a corral. Like the smaller camp, instead of horses, the fenced area was full of cages. Children and young men were packed into them, bound to the bars, and had filthy rags shoved into their mouths. Wide-eyed faces stared at him while they struggled to escape.

  A red-robed figure stood in the center of the corral with arms crossed over his chest. Like Helithor, the robes were trimmed in golden embroidery that reflected in the sunlight. Kalen stumbled, and the grip on his throat tightened and cut off his breath.

  “More?” the Lord Priest asked in Danarite, a frown twisting his mouth.

  “This is the last of them,” the man holding Kalen replied, his words heavily accented.

  “How many escaped?”

  Kalen bit his lip to keep from smiling.

  “At least thirty. This is the one responsible, Lord Priest Tsordin.”

  “Bring him.”

  Kalen widened his eyes and hoped he looked afraid. It wasn’t far from the truth; his heart hammered in his chest and his every instinct warned him to run. Even the First retreated, its presence fading to a faint chill in the middle of his skull. The mercenary dragged him forward and halted within an arm’s length of the Danarite.

  The Lord Priest stooped down and grabbed Kalen’s chin and turned his head from side to side. He tensed and struggled against the urge to jerk away. “Most curious. A crippled child, and you believe he is the one who set our sacrifices free? I find this most unlikely, Tortik. What really happened? Did a cage get left unlocked? Do not lie to me, for She is listening and watching. Bind and gag the others and throw them in the cages.”

  The other mercenaries, dragging their young victims, hurried to obey. Those holding girls and young women shoved them through the maze of tents and disappeared.

  “I believe he is. He’s been silent the entire time.”

  The Lord Priest barked out a laugh. The Danarite’s finger stabbed at the scrape on Kalen’s side, and the man’s nail dug into his flesh. Kalen flinched and struggled, choking back the urge to cry out at the heat and pain spreading through his midsection. “A mute cripple is unlikely to be the one responsible.”

  With a faint smile, the Danarite lifted his hand to his mouth and licked Kalen’s blood from the tips of his fingers. “Ah! A fourth source. Hold him over there.”

  Kalen stumbled and was thrown against the corral fence. Tortik stood at his side with a scowl in place. Ducking his head, he stared at the man out of the corner of his eye. The garb was well worn and stained with rust along the shoulder and the hems.

  Mercenaries. Kalen forced himself to draw slow and even breaths. The Lord Priest’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Stalking between the cages, he stabbed at those within with a stiletto. Each strike was quick and precise, drawing just enough blood for the man to taste. A shudder ran down Kalen’s spine as he watched.

  Too many of those within were young—too young. Most were five or six, maybe seven years at the oldest. There were a few young men packed into the cages, and they towered over the children with their backs pressed against the metal tops.

  “Useless, the lot of them. Get the wagons and be done with them. Take that one and retrieve the other hosts. Take them to the shrine.”

  Tortik bowed. “As you desire.”

  “Oh, and Tortik?”

  “Yes?”

  “If any of them escape this time, you will take their place on the altar. Am I understood?”

  Tortik’s fingers dug into Kalen’s throat and cut off his breath. He writhed in the man’s grip. At Tsordin’s glare, the mercenary loosened his hold. “I understand.”

  “Good. Tell Carthcrak that I will join him tonight. I wish to lay claim to one of the sources.”

  Tortik bowed again. “Anything else you desire?”

  “Actually, yes.” The Lord Priest pointed at Kalen. “Force him to watch. I want him ripe for the prayers at sunset.” A long pause followed, and Kalen held his breath. “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there like a fool. Do it!”

  The mercenary drew a sharp breath but obeyed. Kalen jerked and tried to pull away, but Tortik pulled him into a tight embrace, one arm clamped over his chest and the other around his stomach with an iron grip on his wrist. Kalen was lifted off of his feet.

  “Dispose of them,” the Danarite ordered before striding out of the corral. “Do remember what I said, Tortik.”

  Stepping out from the shadows of the tents, brown-clad men stepped forward and drew their swords. Those within the cages writhed and struggled against their bonds. Kalen drew a sharp breath and kicked at Tortik’s legs. The mercenary grunted but the man’s grip didn’t loosen.

  When kicking didn’t free him, Kalen ducked his head down and bit through the man’s sleeve. Tortik didn’t react despite tasting the man’s blood on his tongue.

  “Close your eyes,” the mercenary hissed in thickly accented Kelshite. A chill ran through Kalen from his head down through his feet. He stopped struggling to stare at the men and women entering the corral and approaching the cages. Their swords were drawn and their expressions were blank.

  One of the women wept as she lifted her blade.

  Tortik covered his eyes. A single, hot tear dripped onto Kalen’s brow.

  The muffled screams of the children were silenced.

  ~~*~~

  Kalen had to stand on his toes just to keep his arm from falling out of its socket. Pain radiated from his shoulder. Not even flexing his hand was enough to ease the tingling in his palm and the tips of his fingers. It was cunning, Kalen had to acknowledge that much. With his elbow tied to the elbow of his unwilling partner, neither one of them could do much of anything, let alone escape. His weight served as a shackle for the Kelshite boy.

  “Stuck with a mute and cowards,” the young man grumbled just loud enough for Kalen to hear.

  It was hard not to laugh. ‘Mute’ was a label he didn’t mind; it was better than cripple or child, and it gave him an edge. If their captors didn’t know he could speak, he could use that to his advantage.

  Someone who couldn’t talk wasn’t a risk. Someone who looked like a child wasn’t a risk.

  He tried not to think about the fates of the men, women, and girls. In the hours after he was captured, he hadn’t seen any Kelshites other than boys and young men, and of them, few still lived.

  Kalen ducked his head and stared through a curtain of his hair at the clearing in the heart of the camp of tents. Four white altars stained with brown were arranged within a circle of stones. A sundial fashioned in the shape of a sunburst stood proud in the center. Gold, silver, and jewels glinted in the light of the setting sun.

  Men in pink robes knelt on the ground, their arms outstretched toward the horizon. They kissed the ground, and if they noticed the mud that covered them, Kalen couldn’t find a sign of it. Their prayers were little more than a murmur on the wind. A old man in indigo robes knelt by the sundial. Those in the pink robes cast glances at the gray-haired Danarite as if waiting for something.

  Kalen sighed. Even if he could escape from the Kelshite he was bound to, the ranks of mercenaries gathered were so thick that he couldn’t get a good count of them all. The mercenaries stood still and quiet, resembling statues rather than men.

  If he was going to escape, he’d have to wait for when the enemy wasn’t so alert or so numerous.
>
  “Rise,” a voice rumbled from behind Kalen. A red-robed Lord Priest, a man shorter than Tsordin, but with the same dark skin and slate-hard eyes, stepped over the circle of stones and bowed low to the setting sun. “The time is upon us. Selestrune has given to us Her blessings and the hosts and sacrifices.”

  The pink-robed Danarites didn’t move until the figure clad in indigo stood. “May Selestrune’s blessing guard us through the Silent One’s night.”

  “May Selestrune’s blessing guard us through the Silent One’s night,” the pink-robed Danarites echoed as they too stood.

  The Lord Priest clapped his hands together and bowed to the other Danarites. “Her blessings are upon you.”

  They kept their heads bowed and walked with their hands clasped reverently in front of them as they stepped out of the circle. The man in indigo robes hesitated as he passed Kalen. Long lines furrowed the man’s brows and a frown tugged at the corner of wrinkled lips.

  Tears that didn’t fall glistened in the man’s sunset-lit eyes.

  The other Danarites smiled.

  Kalen frowned. Who were the hosts, who were the sacrifices? The stains on the altar taunted him; there was enough blood on the white stone that he had no doubts some of them would come to a very bad end—and soon—if he couldn’t find a way to escape and help the other captives escape.

  He swallowed and flexed his hand. A thousand needles poked at his fingers and trailed up his arm. When the sensation faded, all he felt was the cold.

  “We should have been doing this a week ago,” the Lord Priest said in Mithrian, turning in a slow circle to glare at all of the mercenaries. Kalen kept his head ducked down and narrowed his eyes. “Four more pairs, and I want them by the sunset two days from now. Do not fail this time.”

  Silence answered the Danarite.

  “What are your names, children of Kelsh?” The Danarite spoke in Kelshite. The faint accent was pleasant, an enhancement to the words that caught—and held—his attention. The man’s dark eyes focused on him, but when Kalen didn’t lift his head, the Lord Priest looked away. “You first,” he said, gesturing to the boy at the other end of the line.

  Kalen caught a glimpse of blond hair from a child no taller than him. A murmur answered the Danarite.

  “Louder. I can’t hear you.”

  “Bornen.”

  “You’ve been given the honor of being a sacrifice of Selestrune, sent from Her domain to shine light in the darkness. Serve Her well and the paradise of Her sun shall be your reward, Bornen.”

  Once again, silence answered the man’s words. The Danarite stepped to the Kelshite bound to Bornen. “What is your name?”

  Kalen shifted his weight from foot to foot and leaned forward. The setting sun tinged the Kelshite’s blond hair red. The second boy’s lean, long-limbed youth had not yet made way for the bulk of a man, but there was nothing child-like in the lifted chin and clenched jaw.

  “She is displeased with your defiance, host. Speak, or the name will be torn from your lips as you scream for mercy that will not come until She is satisfied that you have paid your penance.”

  Kalen’s throat dried, and swallowing didn’t ease its ache. A tightness in his chest cut off his breath and the sensation spread to his gut. His muscles tensed, and he stared at the Danarite. Hatred hardened the Lord Priest’s eyes. The Kelshite looked away and sweat glistened across the teenager’s brow. “Garett.”

  “Traitors,” his partner hissed out.

  One by one, the Lord Priest took the names of the three pairs before reaching Kalen and the grumbling youth he was tied to. He kept silent and couldn’t force his muscles to relax or control how he quivered. It was feeling of waiting for the moment to strike, knowing that if he was too early or too late, he would be killed before killing.

  “These two I lay claim to, Carthcrak.” The words were spoken in Danarite, and Lord Priest Tsordin stepped from between the gathered mercenaries into the circle of stones. Tsordin. Heat spread through his body and he gave a tentative tug at the ropes. His partner didn’t move. His breath quickened. “The little one seems to be mute, and I name him Selestorenist.”

  The Lord Priest turned, but not before Kalen caught sight of the man’s surprised expression. “What a peculiar name, Tsordin. So you’ve finally chosen your sacrifice?”

  “I have faith he’ll be more suitable than the others.”

  “So be it, then. And the other? Have you claimed his name yet?”

  “I have, and he is named Foresk.”

  “And I suppose you wish to choose the stance for your pair?” Lord Priest Carthcrak turned to face him, nose wrinkled and eyes shadowed.

  “Who else for the west but the ones of my choosing? Don’t forget your place, Lord Priest.”

  Carthrak flinched. “My apologies, High Lord Priest.”

  Kalen clamped his teeth together to keep his mouth from falling open. How long had there been ranks of Priests higher than Lord Priests, and why hadn’t word of them ever slipped into the Rift? What was this so-called High Lord Priest doing in Kelsh?

  The man was a lot like him, he hoped the gathering shadows of dusk masked the grin he struggled to contain. Two things in this world that shouldn’t exist, and they stood together—but only he knew the truth of it. The need to pull free and find out just how powerful the High Lord Priest quickened his breath.

  The chill of the First’s presence drove away the fire burning within him. Kalen tensed and waited for the surge of hatred and malevolence. Instead the creature’s neutrality smothered his anger and his need for the man’s blood. It soothed when it should’ve antagonized.

  The memory of sunlight and warmth wrapped around him, and the sensation spread through his entire body.

  Kalen’s breath slowed, and his muscles loosed and relaxed. The First retreated again, but its quiet offering of peace and tranquility didn’t fade. Of the creature’s fear, there was no sign.

  “Shall we begin, then?” High Lord Priest Tsordin asked. The man gestured to the sundial. “Bring them forward and let the light of Her glory shine down upon us all.”

  Lord Priest Carthcrak’s jaw twitched. “Servants of Our Lady Selestrune, come forth!”

  Young men in yellow robes emerged from the ranks of the mercenaries. A hand grabbed the back of Kalen’s tunic, and he was shoved forward. Still tied to him, Foresk struggled against the hold of two of the yellow-robed Danarites. Kalen’s arm was jerked, and he felt something in his shoulder give. The ground lurched under his feet and his vision darkened to a hazy gray. The collar of his tunic cut off his breath. He stumbled back, and bursts of light danced in front of his eyes.

  Foresk pulled him one way, and the Danarite pulled him the other. Someone laughed. The pressure eased. Tears obscured his vision. He shook his head. Nausea welled up from his stomach, and he tasted bile.

  The crack of a whip on flesh ended Foresk’s protests with a shrill scream. Kalen’s shoulder was jerked again and only the hand gripping his clothes kept him standing. A third red-robed priest step forward. The end of the whip slapped against the mud. Panting, Kalen struggled to stand.

  “You only need to be alive for this, heathen. Or, perhaps, you like the feel of the lash? I can accommodate.” The Lord Priest drew his tongue over his lips. Kalen shuddered as the man’s lustful stare settled on him.

  “You may have one of the others after,” Tsordin replied in a dry tone. “Please control yourself, Dedelus. The sun sets soon. Bring the robes and the blades.”

  More of the yellow-robed figures emerged carrying robes like the ones they wore, led by a fourth Lord Priest. Kalen’s eyes widened. Four jeweled daggers were offered up, the bearers standing with their heads bowed. Words of prayer were spoken. The blades glowed with an orange light that matched the hue of the setting sun.

  High Lord Priest Tsordin took up the longest of the daggers, stepped forward, and seized Kalen’s elbow. He sucked in a breath and flinched, but he couldn’t manage to pull away. The metal was warm and s
liced through the rope. Beads of blood welled up from thin cut down the length of his arm. Something stirred in Kalen’s thoughts and for a brief moment, the buzz of whispers drowned out all other sound. Heat spread over his arm and up his shoulder. His fingers tingled. Two pinpoints of ice stabbed through the top of his hand. His breath was trapped in his lungs.

  Kalen’s arm was lifted and cold lips pressed against the wound. The edges of his vision darkened and the strength flowed out of him. He wasn’t aware of falling until his knees splashed down into the mud.

  “Dress him and take him to the western altar.” The man’s voice was muffled, as though someone had wrapped his head in a heavy hood. The buzzing faded and left an uneasy fluttering in his gut. A hand under his arm jerked him upright. He tried to pull away, but his body betrayed him and all he could do was stumble forward. Robes stinking of sweat smothered him until rough hands yanked his head up. They draped off of him and the fabric pooled at his feet.

  “Why bother claiming them when you use them as a source before the rituals? You just kill them off that way,” Carthcrak said. Kalen struggled to lift his head enough to look at the priests. He caught a glimpse of Tsordin smiling. The man’s dark eyes, lit by the last light of the sunset, were full of secrets.

  Carthcrak growled, huffed, and stomped across the circle to the eastern altar when the High Lord Priest said nothing in reply.

  It took four of the yellow-robed Danarites to lift Foresk up onto the altar and pin him down. The Kelshite thrashed and struggled. His curses rang out until he was gagged with a scrap of cloth. Kalen stared down at the young man, the haze of exhaustion numbing him until he was amazed he stood at all. Something warned him to struggle, to run, to take advantage of the chance to try to escape, but the First’s presence roused within him again.

  ~Wait,~ the creature said. It vanished once again, not leaving any evidence of its existence in its wake.