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

by RJ Blain

  Another hooting call came from the alley. Two more skreed emerged, shouldering through the corners of the building and throwing debris across the square. They dragged Ceres and Varest with them, their claws hooked through the thick material of their boots. The two unconscious Guardians were rolled next to him and Maiten.

  As one, the four slammed their tails against the ground changed the beat of their drumming. A group of the mercenaries ringed them, and the rest clustered together in preparation to swarm the creature that had once been Kalen.

  The Rift King turned. Breton’s chest tightened. Blue eyes had turned gold, and they glowed. White, pale skin was splashed with blood that the rain washed away in streaks. The taloned fingers of the left hand stretched out and clenched. A streak of black marked the locks of golden hair. The hairs from Tavener’s tail were still braided into Kalen’s hair, untouched by the transformation.

  Without expression, the Rift King lifted Gorishitorik up high.

  A column of lightning and golden fire fell down from the sky and consumed the market square.

  ~~*~~

  Kalen’s heart pounded out an erratic beat. Pain throbbed through his head and ears and bursts of white obscured his vision. When it faded, darkness engulfed him. He blinked and saw nothing.

  Rain pelted his face, but he couldn’t hear it striking the stones at his feet. Each breath tore at his throat, and a shudder tore through him at the memories the feelings roused. He shook his head, blinked, and ducked his head to wipe his eyes against his elbow. The darkness didn’t fade.

  Another shudder coursed through him and Gorishitorik slipped from his numbed, shaking hand. The hilt struck his foot, and the weapon bounced away, but he didn’t hear it clatter to the stones.

  What had happened? The last thing he remembered, he’d been standing in an alley, back pressed to the brick. The First’s presence was gone, when he’d been certain he’d felt the creature raging within him, demanding release.

  Something hard, narrow, and flat struck him across the chest. His heel slipped cross the edge of something sharp and he cried out, but no sound emerged. Even as he fell, he was pushed downward. His teeth rattled when he landed on the cobbles. The heel of a foot pressed down against his throat, forced his head back, cutting off his breath. Something cold, hard, and sharp prodded against the side of his neck in warning.

  The rain beat down on his face and stung his eyes, but no matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t force the darkness away. His mouth dried and he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

  The desire to lift his hand fight back and try to escape was there in the back of his mind, but he resisted it. It was easier to just lie still and let the blade bite into his throat with each breath he drew.

  It was easier to be captured or killed than remain trapped alone in the dark.

  Stone cracked next to his right ear. When the sound faded, he was once again plunged into silence. The pressure against his throat lifted. Something hot and wet struck his face and chest. Kalen tasted blood. Nothing held him down, but he couldn’t move. His arm and legs twitched, but he couldn’t find the strength to roll away.

  It was easier to finally accept his fate, even if he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there or why his eyes and ears betrayed him. At least he wouldn’t have to bear witness to the disappointment of the few who wanted him to survive.

  At least none of them were near to watch him fall.

  He let out his breath in a sigh and waited.

  Nothing happened. Then, the pain receded. While he was aware of the rawness of his throat, and the sting of fresh cuts and bruises, it was as though his body belonged to another.

  The tension in his chest didn’t ease, but instead was tempered with the flutter of nervousness. Adrenaline surged through him. The sensation was the same of standing on a ledge that threatened to crumble beneath his feet, or the moment where he knew he was being hunted, but didn’t know by whom.

  He drew a sharp breath. It reminded him of the shadow of a Guardian’s presence, lingering on the edge of his perception. If he moved, if he got to his feet, if he followed the gentle tug within, he’d find one there. Close.

  In danger.

  He opened his eyes. Yellow light curtained in the sky far above, broken by streaks of white light. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure shrouded in red moved through the darkness. The outstretched sword was surrounded in a blue haze. Kalen sucked in a breath and rolled. How easily he moved took him by surprise. Scrambling upright, he spun around. His feet slid on the rain-slicked stones. Bodies lay on the ground all around him, outlined in a gray so dark it was almost as black as the rest of his vision.

  The figure approaching him wasn’t a Guardian. The tug, the sense of danger, came from the other direction. From behind him. The pale blue outline of a sword lay at his feet. Kalen scraped his toes against the stone and hooked the hilt with the top of his foot, tossing it upward. His fingers closed over the leather wrap.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Gorishitorik.

  He could fight. He had to fight.

  His Guardians needed him. Here. Now.

  Lifting Gorishitorik and putting his trust in the sight that wasn’t true sight, Kalen stepped forward. The figure turn and ran. He let out his breath in a huff that he couldn’t hear, but he felt the heat of his breath on his cold lips. A flash of gold took chase. It was larger than a horse, stockier, but moved so quick that he couldn’t quite tell what it was. It fell upon the back of the fleeing form and tore it down.

  The red light was extinguished.

  The ground trembled beneath his feet, and Kalen felt something drumming a quick and steady beat. With a great leap, the creature vanished from his view. It didn’t return, and he twisted around. He had to find the Guardian. He had to ease the tightness in his chest. He had to put an end to the tugging, the calling, the need to remove the threat.

  Kalen panted and his breath emerged as clouds of red that faded to black. With his heartbeat matching the drumming he felt through his feet, he turned. Three more of the golden creatures far too large and stocky to be horses stood over four red forms sprawled on the ground. Auras wafted from them and masked their true shape from his sight.

  The beat stopped. The creatures jumped away from the four fallen figures. More red shrouded forms drew closer to those on the ground with miasmas of dark blue surrounding long weapons and swords. Tightening his grip on Gorishitorik, Kalen lunged into the fray.

  ~~*~~

  Breton fought against the skreed, but the creature pinned him down with its weight. Its talons didn’t cut into him, but it pressed down against his chest with its foot and drove the breath out of his lungs.

  “Breton, look!” Maiten gasped out. Breton twisted around in time to catch a glimpse of one of the skreed charging after a fleeing mercenary. The man fell with a shrill cry. Leaving the broken body, the black creature fled into the city.

  Not far away, the Rift King stood with Gorishitorik clutched in his right hand. The blade glowed with the same golden hue of the lightning that arced across the sky. Lighting cracked down, and the rooftop of one of the nearby buildings burst into flame. Breton clapped his hands over his ears. The thunder rumbled. He shook his head to clear the ringing out of his hearing.

  The Rift King didn’t even flinch.

  “Kill them,” someone demanded in Mithrian.

  None of the mercenaries argued against the order and they advanced with their weapons held at the ready. Breton writhed under the hold of the skreed. Slapping their tails against the ground so hard that Breton’s teeth rattled, the creatures continued to beat out the tempo of a war march.

  “Not good,” Maiten hissed out. Breton didn’t reply, but nodded his head in agreement. All he could do was struggle helplessly and hope that Ceres and Varest wouldn’t awaken before it was all over.

  The Rift King turned to them and strode forward, every step graceful and silent.

  Trilling out a song, the skreed
lifted its foot and let him go. They all retreated, leaping for the alleyways and scattering before the small figure could reach them. His eyes met the Rift King’s and paralysis held him in still.

  There was no emotion in the yellow eyes, and in eerie silence, the man charged forward and ran right into the mercenary’s ranks.

  “Hellfires,” Maiten breathed out, “he’s insane.”

  “Let’s get them somewhere safe,” Breton replied, scrambling to his feet. “We can do that much at least. We’ll deal with him after.”

  “Right.”

  Grabbing Varest under the arms, he dragged the man across the square to the shadow of one of the buildings that hadn’t been struck by lightning. With an eye on the sky and the burning rooftops, he dashed across to where he’d lost his sword and snatched it up. Taking up one of the other discarded blades, he ran back and tossed the weapon to the other Guardian. Drawing several long and deep breaths, he prepared for the fight and its inevitable conclusion.

  Maiten caught the weapon by the hilt and didn’t hesitate. With a wordless war cry, the other Guardian charged into the fray, leaving him to follow.

  It was three against thirty or more, and as Breton plunged his sword through the gut of his first foe, the mercenaries broke from the combat and fled.

  The Rift King didn’t chase after, cocking his head to the side with a puzzled expression on his face. As though acknowledging the disappearance of the threat, clumps of flesh and scale fell from the unnatural and inhuman left arm, dissolving in the rain before the remnants could touch the ground. All that was left behind was an empty sleeve that fluttered in the wind. Breton tensed and tightened his grip on his sword. The body of the mercenary he’d killed slumped to the cobbles.

  “Kalen!” Maiten called out.

  Breton held his breath and hope surged through him. It died away when there was no response.

  Ignoring their presence, the Rift King stepped toward where Ceres and Varest lay. Maiten called out again, but there was still no response. Before Breton could do more than gasp, the red-haired man leaped forward and wrapped one arm around the younger man’s chest to grab for his narrow wrist. With the other hand, Maiten took hold of Gorishitorik’s guard.

  The Rift King stiffened but didn’t struggle. Maiten shouted something, but lightning struck and the thunder drowned out the words. The ancient blade fell to the ground, but neither man moved to retrieve it.

  A great pressure filled Breton’s chest. His heart beat hard and fast in his throat. He stepped forward, stooping down to place his sword on the cobbles, taking up Gorishitorik. A shudder rippled through him, and Breton tried to forget the meaning of the sword’s name:

  King Slayer.

  This time, it would be his hand. This time, it wouldn’t be another who paid the price of the name of Rift King. None other would steal Kalen’s life or role.

  It had been his mistake all along. If he had only been the one to kill Arik, if only he had been the one to become the Rift King, everything would’ve been different.

  Breton lifted the tip of the sword and prepared to strike. With Maiten holding the Rift King, he could grant a swift and painless death. That was the only thing left for him to do.

  His eyes burned and his vision blurred. He drew a breath and slid his foot forward.

  “It’s gone,” Maiten said. Breton halted, his muscles freezing in shock. “I think he’s deaf from the lightning, and I’m not really sure what he’s seeing if he sees anything at all, but he’s fine, Breton. He’s fine. It’s him. He’s not that thing anymore.”

  Maiten’s shoulders were shaking.

  Breton lowered Gorishitorik, and the blade fell to the stones with a splash and a clatter. “What?”

  “He’s fine.” This time, Breton heard the tears in Maiten’s voice.

  “That’s not possible,” he whispered.

  Maiten stretched out a hand to him and Breton reached out. The other Guardian pulled him forward. The Rift King trembled when Breton’s hand landed on his left shoulder. The familiar awareness of the Rift King settled over his shoulders like a warm, well-worn cloak. There was no sense of danger, and the feeling of life was so strong that it smothered as much as it comforted. He closed his eyes and basked in the sensation. When he opened them, he stared down at the man he thought he’d lost.

  Blood matted the blond hair that was already darkening back to black at the roots. Lifting his hand, Breton shoved aside the long locks. Blood oozed from Kalen’s ear.

  Breton let his hand drop and bowed his head to rest his forehead against the top of the Rift King’s head. They didn’t have to kill him. Not yet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The auras of light and color faded and once again left Kalen in the silent dark. Someone wrapped their arms around him and the touch brought with it the sense of security. The tension flowed out of his muscles and left him limp in the hold of a Guardian. His recognition roused the familiar sense of being followed that he hadn’t felt since his sire had taken him away from Ceres and Varest. Instead of the two he expected, there were four; two right next to him, and two a little farther away. Gorishitorik wasn’t in his hands.

  Four Guardians. Gorishitorik. A laugh tickled his throat and he swallowed it back. He hadn’t stolen his sword from mercenaries, but from his own Guardians. He let out his breath in a silent, disgusted huff.

  A hand gripped his shoulder before moving up to touch his ear. Pain lanced through his skull, and it was so strong that he couldn’t breathe, let alone scream. He shook from shock but the arm holding him kept him from falling until he managed to stand on his own. Something pressed against the top of his head and the warmth of breath tickled his scalp. The cold struck the rest of his body hard, and he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering, but the chill did numb him to the pain.

  A sharp snapping in his right ear sounded. He jerked and turned his head. There was a murmur of words, but they were so faint he couldn’t understand them.

  ~Are you well?~ Satrin’s voice boomed in his head, and the pain of it drew a yelp out of him. ~Ah! Sorry. Where are you? We’ve been searching everywhere. You can hear me, can’t you?~

  Uncertain of how to reply—or if he even wanted to—Kalen bit back a groan. Someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward. His feet slipped on the cobbles. The toes of his right foot thudded into a fallen form and he stumbled. Before he could fall, he was lifted up and carried. He kicked his feet in protest and winced at the stab of needles that shot through his feet and up to his knees.

  Something warm was draped over him and kept the worst of the rain off of him. He wrinkled his nose but stilled.

  Later, he’d be stubborn. Later, when his body didn’t feel crushed by the weight of exhaustion, he’d protest the indignity of being carried. Later, when he could squish the satisfaction of being alive, he’d put on his expressionless mask and pretend to be angry about it.

  Later, he’d pretend he wasn’t quite so happy to be back among the few who knew him and weren’t out for his blood. Kalen closed his eyes.

  ~~*~~

  “Did he faint?” Breton asked, shaking his head, and trying not to grin at Maiten. The red-haired Guardian struggled with the wrapped-up Rift King and the maze of bodies strewn across the market square.

  “More asleep than a faint. First time I’ve heard him snore, though it’s more of a rasp than anything else. He’s not just thin, Breton. He’s nothing but bone. What in the deeps happened to him?”

  “That’s what I plan to find out,” Breton promised, growling the words out between clenched teeth.

  “How are Ceres and Varest?”

  Breton turned to the two Guardians and knelt beside them, pressing his fingers against their throats. Their heartbeats were strong and steady. “Alive, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “Let’s get them out of here before those mercenaries decide to come back,” Maiten said.

  “Any ideas on how to do that? I can’t carry both of them. No
t for long, at least.”

  “Leave that to me,” a voice rumbled from the shadows of the alleyway, speaking in the Rift tongue, although heavily accented. Breton jerked around and reached for his sword.

  An older, taller version of Kalen stepped out onto the cobbled street and stared down at him. Breton arched a brow and stood without letting go of his sword’s hilt.

  The years had done little to change Lord Delrose. Breton moved to stand between the Kelshite and Maiten.

  “It seems you’ve been busy,” Captain Silvereye said, emerging from the alley to stand next to Lord Delrose. “I recall asking you to find hostages. I don’t think I asked you to wage a war on your own.”

  “I only killed one. How about you, Maiten?”

  “Two.”

  “Is that so? Report,” the Captain ordered.

  “We found a lot of bodies, Captain, as well as those children in the cages over there,” Breton said, gesturing to the other end of the market. The smoke from the burning rooftops shrouded the cages in a haze that not even the rain and wind could fully dissipate. “I don’t know if any of them survived. We came just as they were starting some sort of ritual.”

  “I’m sure you did what you could.”

  “I had heard that Silvereye hired Rifters, but I hadn’t believed it possible,” Lord Delrose said, stepping forward. “Explain yourself, Guardian.”

  Breton let the Kelshite approach him and stared down into a pair of pale blue eyes almost as icy as the Rift King’s. “I don’t need to explain anything to you,” he said, and kept his expression as cool and calm as his voice.

  “You stole my son!” Lord Delrose bellowed.