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

by RJ Blain

  The High Lord Priest stood beside him and seized Kalen’s wrist. Something wet and hot pressed against him, and the pain of it roused his awareness. Strength flowed into him and he tensed to move, but the First’s command still rang in his mind.

  He had to wait. Kalen’s anger flared to life once again, but it too faltered and bowed to the creature’s demand.

  “Guide us, Sunset Priest of the Moment of Night, and may She shelter us from His night,” Tsordin ordered and leaned down in a bow. Kalen was yanked forward and the man whispered in Kelshite in his ear, “I will pray that you forgive us when She pulls you into Her embrace, little one.”

  Kalen narrowed his eyes. The Danarite straightened, the man’s grip tightening on his wrist.

  The indigo-clad Danarite returned to the circle carrying a golden bowl. A crimson haze wafted from the liquid sloshing in its depths. It cast a bloody light that engulfed the circle. “Let us pray to Her,” the old man rasped as he placed the bowl down on the center of the sundial.

  The Danarites bowed their heads and began to chant. A column of light stretched toward the sky. It flared the bright gold of the noon sun. The prayers rose in volume. From the center of the pillar, a tendril of red rose up. Kalen flinched at the cold wind that whipped his hair into his eyes. He frowned and drew a long breath through his nose.

  It was the scent of heated stone, of wind-borne sand, and of the relentless sun.

  The chanting stopped and the light was consumed from within by the crimson of blood. Darkness engulfed Kalen.

  ~~*~~

  Kalen drifted, smothered in warmth and darkness. A tingle spread from his fingers up to his elbow, and the phantom pains of his left arm anchored him to consciousness. He opened his eyes to the crimson glow of sunset bathing the clearing.

  “I call forth the host of the northern wind, the one who shall forever more embody the will of Selestrune.” Tsordin’s words cut through the fog in Kalen’s head. The First’s presence chilled his bones and further roused him from his stupor.

  Mercenaries led one of the captives to the northern altar. The robed child kicked and screamed. Kalen was aware of someone holding upright. Staying limp was easier than trying to stand. He watched with an odd sense of detachment. Anger was growing within him, but it wasn’t his. The First’s chill intensified and numbed him.

  It was sheltering him. Kalen felt his brows furrow. Imprisoned in his own body, he was forced to watch, although the need to act nagged at him.

  He couldn’t do much, not while held, not against so many, and not without a weapon, and he knew it, as did the First.

  The child was forced down onto the altar and pinned there by three men.

  “I call forth the host of the southern seas, the one who shall forever more embody the strength of Selestrune.”

  The hazel-eyed boy was shoved forward, but unlike the younger child, he walked of his own will, his eyes burning with defiance and pride. He, too, was shoved down on the altar and pinned into place.

  “I call forth the host of the east, the defiler of the Silent One’s Night, the one who shall forever more embody the glory of Selestrune.” The youngest of the children was hauled up onto the eastern altar.

  “Bring forth the host of the sunset, so that her glory shines down upon him, so that he may become the one who shall forever embody the divinity of Selestrune!”

  Foresk was dragged to the western altar. The young man’s eyes were dull, and he didn’t resist the mercenaries who held him in place.

  Tsordin lifted his right hand to the darkening sky. “Priests of the Sunset Ascending, join with Her so that you might serve as the vessels of Her children.”

  Two of the pink-robed men stepped forward, and one moved to the northern altar while the second strode to the south. Tsordin watched, then nodded his approval. The High Lord Priest met Kalen’s eyes.

  ~Do not fear, child,~ the man’s voice whispered in Kalen’s mind. ~She has blessed you. She will not abandon your soul to the Silent One.~

  Kalen held his breath.

  “Behold, the sacrifice of the east, he who represents the full power and glory of Selestrune,” High Lord Priest Tsordin cried out, gesturing with his left hand. One of the older Kelshite boys staggered toward the eastern altar, his eyes unfocused and expression slack.

  High Lord Priest Tsordin approached Kalen and seized his elbow in a steel grip. “Behold the source of Her Light and Her Glory, the one who shall forever more have the power to conquer the Silent One’s darkness. Come forth, faithful, so we might all witness the birth of Her children together.” He was dragged to the western altar. The priests in the ring of stones took their places. When they were situated, Tsordin fell to his knees, pulling Kalen down to the ground. His knees hit the ground and the shock of impact rattled his teeth.

  The Danarites kissed the ground and prayed.

  When they rose, the red-robed priests, Tsordin included, drew jeweled daggers. Kalen tensed. The need to escape broke the hold of lethargy, and he searched for a way out. Two mercenaries flanked the altar. The High Lord Priest held onto his elbow. More mercenaries ringed the ritual grounds.

  They stood with their swords at the ready, as if hoping someone would try to make a run for it.

  One by one, the priests sliced the edge of their daggers across the opened palms of their right hands. Golden light radiated from the bleeding wounds. It illuminated the boys held down on the altars. The few who struggled stiffened before stilling.

  As one, the Danarites began to chant. Kalen listened, but he didn’t recognize the dialect they spoke in. Streamers of red light curled out from the priest’s hands. A crimson haze enveloped the hosts on the altars.

  Kalen jerked at the touch of wet, sticky fingers clasping his hand. The High Lord Priest pulled him into the light surrounding the altar.

  The heat of the desert washed over him, bringing with it soothing relief. He thought about pulling away, but his body didn’t obey him. The chill marking the First’s presence vanished. Kalen held his breath and stared at the jewel-encrusted dagger. Despite the darkness of early night, flames flickered within the depths of each stone.

  Whispering voices murmured to him, but there were so many of them he couldn’t understand a word of it. There was a musical quality to their voices, like they were trying to sing, but none of them knew the melody or the words. The murmurs grew until its intensity was that of a brewing storm. The voices battered at him until he couldn’t hear anything but them.

  On the altar, Foresk’s face contorted, the young Kelshite’s mouth opened in a scream. The red haze coalesced over his chest.

  High Lord Priest Tsordin cut his palm a second time with the jeweled blade. Fire burst from the cut, spread from the Danarite’s hand, and crawled up the red robes covering the man’s arm.

  Two pinpricks of cold stabbed at the back of Kalen’s hand. He flinched, staring at the spot where the serpent had bitten him in the Rift.

  The voices fell silent, replaced by the crackle of flame. A hot, dry wind blasted against his face.

  “Through Her divine powers, be purified!”

  High Lord Priest Tsordin lifted the dagger high. Before Kalen could do anything more than blink, the Danarite slashed the dagger across his wrist.

  Someone grabbed hold of him from behind to keep him from slumping to the ground. The strength flowed out of his wrist, leaving him cold and shivering.

  It should’ve hurt, but it didn’t. All he could feel was the cold.

  With the dagger slick with Kalen’s blood, High Lord Priest Tsordin lifted the blade once more before plunging it into Foresk’s chest. The Kelshite’s body jerked. Crimson sprayed out with the last faltering beats of the young man’s heart.

  Kalen stared, his mouth hanging open in shock and horror. He couldn’t even gasp. His lungs burned with the need for air. Pain spread from his chest to his throat. Numbness spread from his wrist, until only the pinpoints of cold on the back of his hand remained.

  The world fel
l quiet, as if it shared Kalen’s horror at the spilled blood. Then, a shrill scream pierced through the silence. Kalen sucked in a painful breath. The scream came from Foresk’s mouth, but it wasn’t a sound he’d ever heard a human make. Tsordin snatched his hand and thrust his bleeding wrist over the gaping, spraying wound in Foresk’s chest.

  “Silent One, be purged from Selestrune’s vessel, so that Her child may be born!”

  Something writhed beneath Kalen’s skin, heating him until sweat poured down his face. He burned from the inside out.

  It wasn’t the crimson of blood flowing out of his wrist, but a viscous black fluid. It wrapped around his arm and hand, coiling in the form of a serpent ready to strike. It slithered over his flesh before stretching down to burrow into Foresk’s chest.

  Kalen struggled to draw a breath. He tasted blood and bile on his tongue, and his stomach heaved. Swallowing it back, he managed to pull against the High Lord Priest’s grip, but the Danarite’s hold on him tightened. Another stream of black coated his hand and dripped down onto Foresk’s chest.

  Tsordin forced Kalen’s palm down on the opened wound. Kalen shuddered. The beat of a living heart pounded against his hand, and Foresk’s eyes flickered open. Instead of the vibrant blue Kalen remembered, one of the Kelshite’s eyes was sun gold. The other was black.

  It wasn’t possible. Kalen stared down at the young man’s face. The blade had pierced through Foresk’s heart. How did he still live?

  Kalen shuddered again. High Lord Priest Tsordin pulled him from the altar, and the gathered Danarites clapped their bleeding hands together. Ribbons of golden light stretched between the standing men, binding them together.

  The light enveloped him. Kalen felt his skin writhe and knit together, closing the wound from the jeweled dagger.

  “Hold him,” the High Lord Priest ordered.

  Hands seized him, but without their support, he would’ve fallen.

  The other altars still glowed, and pillars of flame danced where the other sacrifices had once stood. The northern altar extinguished first, and the pink-robed Danarite stood with a dagger in one hand and an empty robe in the other. Still infused with red and golden light, ashes fell to the ground. The pink-robed priest made a disgusted noise and shook the robe out.

  One by one, the rest of the altars darkened.

  Kalen’s heart pounded in his throat. In front of the eastern altar, Bornen still stood. No expression marked the young Kelshite’s face. Then, a dark mark spread from his forehead and covered his face.

  The last light of the sunset faded, and as the night fell over them, Bornen’s body cracked and crumbled, leaving behind nothing more than ash and empty robes.

  “Rise, Children of Selestrune,” High Lord Priest Tsordin demanded.

  As one, the four boys on the altars stood. They stepped over the remains of those who had stood with them, expressions as cold and uncaring as stone.

  Kalen shuddered, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Breton paced around the captain’s tent, too aware of the mismatched eyes that followed his every move. When he said nothing, Silvereye let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t ask you to come so you could pace a trench in my tent.”

  “It’s been a week, Silvereye. Am I supposed to be happy?”

  “I suppose not, but I’ve no word on the one you’re looking for.”

  “You got what you want,” Breton growled, pivoting and slamming both palms on the edge of the table that served as the captain’s workspace. “We agreed to a week. What do you propose, then?”

  “All I can do is offer you information on the Danarite’s activities. We weren’t expecting them to kill a bunch of children and dump the bodies in the river, Breton. None of them matched the description of the man you’re looking for.” Captain Silvereye sighed again. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re hiding something, as is the entire Delrose family, and all I’m hearing about is a short, dark-haired youth you both want. Do you care to explain yourself?”

  “I do not,” Breton replied.

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “And you are?”

  “Let me try this again. And, please, sit down. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Breton let out a low growl but dropped down on one of the stools scattered around the tent. “Why did you call me in here?”

  “I have one lead and one lead only. It’s risky, but it might lead you to who you want. The Wolf Blades are making their move, and it’s on Morinvale. One of my scouts reported that they have seen a few children in the camp who have been moved into the city. I fear that they’ve another group of children in the city.” The mercenary captain fell silent for a long moment.

  A muscle in Breton’s cheek twitched, but he kept silent.

  “You’ve told me you’re horsemen, but I think that even your group can handle this. Getting into the city is simple with tall horses like yours. Any man can get over the wall if they use their horses to get up high enough. Your two geldings are big enough to get you over. I’ve got some of the gear the Wolf Blades favor so you can disguise yourselves. The job is simple. Go in and check for surviving children. Chances are, if there are any left, they’re hostages of importance to Kelsh. At the same time, you can check if your man is among them.”

  Breton pressed his lips together and waited.

  Captain Silvereye leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I have to ask that you don’t kill them. The last thing I need is for my group to be exposed, you understand. We’re not ready to fight them quite yet.”

  “And if we find these children?”

  “Get them out if you can.”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said this entire conversation,” Breton said.

  Captain Silvereye’s mouth quirked up into a grin. “I can see why you’re an adviser to the Rift King. You have to be tough to withstand someone like that one. I’ve heard rumors about him.”

  Breton narrowed his eyes. “From one of the Shadow Captains?”

  Silvereye shrugged, but the man’s grin widened. “You have your secrets, I have mine.”

  “And the Delrose family?”

  “I think I can manage to keep them safe and secure while you and your men are gone. There’s one other thing: Don’t do anything stupid. You’re too valuable to risk, and I really don’t want your king coming out of his Rift seeking vengeance because something happened to you four.” The Mithrian shook his head and let out a laugh. “I never thought I’d be saying something like that. That said, I’m impressed with your ability to work. The Delrose family isn’t even aware that any of you are watching over them. My own men and women forget you’re among them half the time. And you said you weren’t good at being stealthy.”

  “We aren’t. We are, however, quite good at staying quiet in crowds. The Rift King doesn’t like being followed, Captain Silvereye. He tolerates it if we keep out of sight.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in letting me hire you four permanently?”

  Breton glared across the table at the Mithrian. “No.”

  “I had to try. How soon can you be ready?”

  “When do you need us ready?”

  “About an hour ago, truth be told. We already know they’ve no remorse, Breton. I will pray that your man isn’t among those taken. I’ll give you eight hours once you leave. If you aren’t out of the city by then, I’ll be coming for you. Personally.”

  Breton arched a brow. The Mithrian’s silver eye glinted as though made of metal. “Understood, Captain. We’ll be ready within the hour.”

  ~~*~~

  Kalen choked on the acrid brew shoved in his mouth, but he didn’t swallow. Clamping his lips together, he held his breath and watched the Danarites shuffle through the tent before leaving him alone. Relief numbed him as much as the sleeping draught. With a shudder, he coughed an
d retched as much of it out of his gut as he could.

  It didn’t stop the tingling from spreading from his mouth and throat. For the first time since his capture, he was conscious.

  Mostly.

  He tried to stand, but his quivering legs betrayed him. With a low, frustrated groan, he sank back on the cot and struggled to catch his breath. Of course they hadn’t bothered the check if he’d swallowed the drink. Escape wasn’t possible if he couldn’t stand. The truth battered at him.

  Even without the sleeping potion, he was weak.

  Useless.

  He hissed out a curse and draped his arm over his eyes, fighting the urge to sleep. His sleeve reeked of blood, sweat, and smoke. Greasy ash smeared against his skin. Rain pattered on the canvas overhead. He wanted to crawl outside to let the rain wash away the filth, but his muscles trembled at the thought of moving.

  Weak. Useless.

  ~Kelshite.~ It was the High Lord Priest’s voice, but it didn’t just whisper in his ears, it pierced through his thoughts with the cutting edge of a knife stabbing deep through his forehead and into the center of his skull. ~Remember this: Five reds, twenty pinks, six indigos, eighteen yellows, four hundred by two hundred horses, and one score black hand. You’ll be taken to the city in an hour. Escape, if you can, and warn your people.~

  With each faltering beat of his heart, bursts of ice and fire flashed through his head. For a brief moment, the Danarite’s presence lingered, and the sensation of drowning in a pool of sticky, congealing blood cut off his breath.

  ~I didn’t come here to wage war on children.~

  The intruding presence vanished, and Kalen gasped for air. His lungs burned, and his throat and mouth dried. Swallowing hurt. Footsteps splashing through mud passed by the tent. Lethargy embraced him.

  Kalen fought the urge to sleep by biting the inside of his mouth. When he still drifted partway between awareness and sleep, he closed his teeth over the tip of his tongue. He listened to the patter of the rain on the tent and tried to count each drop. An hour gave him nothing; no plan, no ideas, and not even the hope of rescue—either by his own hand or from elsewhere.