Storm Surge

by R. J. Blain

  “I’m not a woman.”

  With his sight, Kalen would’ve jabbed his Guardian for the evasive answer. “Parist wasn’t a woman,” he countered before making a frustrated noise. “Wasn’t he a witch?”

  “That’s true. He was a witch right up until he jumped off the trails from the Middle Reaches.” Maiten’s tone was subdued. Kalen hadn’t known Parist long; the man had died before Kalen had murdered his predecessor. Arik hadn’t treated the Guardians or witches well.

  No one had expected the man to suicide, however, not even the Rift King.

  “That’s one thing I’ve always wondered about him. Would he still be alive if I had killed Arik sooner?” Kalen pinched the bridge of his nose to ward away the headache forming behind his eyes. “Are you certain you saw… that? Crysallis’s face, I mean.”

  “I wish I hadn’t. It haunts my sleep.”

  When Maiten refused to speak further, Kalen frowned. If he weren’t blind, a single glance would have told him if Maiten was being serious. The Guardian’s tone revealed little, and he stayed so still and quiet that Kalen once again wondered if his Guardian had slipped way.

  Maiten was many things, but Kalen doubted the man would go that far for a laugh, and his Guardian’s humor was usually in better taste.

  To spare Maiten any further discomfort, Kalen said, “I’m not worried about Crysallis, no matter what you saw.” He heard Maiten draw a sharp breath. Holding up his hand for silence bought him enough time to consider his next words with care. “I don’t believe you’re a fool. You’re not one to lie—not over such a thing. I don’t doubt you. What I question is whether or not she meant for you to see what you did.”

  Maiten said nothing. Kalen straightened, reaching his hand out. One of his horses immediately lipped at his fingers. “Crysallis is tricky,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “It’s an interesting possibility—almost as interesting as why she’s here in Kelsh in the first place. Tell me, Maiten, what else haven’t you told me?”

  Once again Maiten drew a sharp breath, which Kalen recognized as his Guardian preparing to dance around the truth. He stopped the man from speaking by clearing his throat. “I’m mistaken. It doesn’t matter. Perhaps I’m better off not knowing some things. Keep your secrets. In exchange, however, I want to be more involved with what’s going on here. I’m blind. I’m not stupid, deaf, or fragile.”

  Maiten sighed. “You were for a while. Do I need to remind you that you slept for almost an entire week?”

  “You have a point,” Kalen conceded. He leaned against Ferethian. The stallion’s breath was warm on his neck.

  “We’re all frustrated.” Maiten slapped his shoulder.

  Turning to face where he thought his Guardian was seated, Kalen frowned as he considered the older man’s quiet tone—and all of the things that remained unsaid.

  Faced with more questions than he wanted, Kalen focused on his more immediate problems. How long would he be able to stay with his Guardians without his sight? Surviving without his left arm was challenging enough. No matter how hard his Guardians and the mercenaries tried, they couldn’t protect him forever. The reality of his situation weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had avoided his fate long enough, when by all accounts, he should have been food for nibblers years ago.

  Like Arik before him, he had no choice but to decide upon a successor. The time had come.

  “Maiten,” he began, unable to stop from fidgeting. He felt his Guardian’s stare on him. “I want you to keep Breton away from me for a while.”

  “But why? He was only trying to protect you. You don’t have to be so angry or go so far to spite him.”

  Snorting his disgust at the thought, Kalen shook his head. “Who said anything about spiting him? He is not to become the next Rift King. This is the simplest way to ensure it. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Maiten asked in a weak voice.

  “That’s all,” he confirmed. The hooting of an owl broke the silence. Stretching out his legs, Kalen sighed. “I refuse to be like Arik. I will not make Breton watch and wait, preparing to take the mantle of the Rift King. He’d hate my life, Maiten. He’d hate it so much he’d do anything to escape it. It’s more of a death sentence for him than it ever was for me. He’s happiest when he’s protecting someone. You know it, and so do I. Arik was wrong to want him as a successor. The Rift King protects no one. You know this as well as I do. The first time someone came for his life, there’d be a new Rift King. I won’t allow it, Maiten.”

  “In the end, Arik chose you.”

  “And I won’t choose Breton. Am I understood?”

  “Yes. Who then, if not Breton?”

  Kalen sighed, wondering how much he would hate himself for what he needed to say. “How do you feel about the idea?” It pained him to know that Maiten would make a good Rift King. How could Kalen subject the rank on someone he liked? All he could do was hope that Maiten rejected the idea.

  To his satisfaction, his Guardian spluttered.

  “I was thinking about my sire,” Kalen continued, unable to keep some of his relief out of his voice, reaching up to stroke each of his horses in turn. “I may not like the man, but he’s smart, plenty capable of ruthlessness, and he’s adaptable. He’s already got my dam, who is capable of being a good Queen. Not even Riran will be able to sway him. He’s more than capable with a sword. Kelsh also isn’t safe for him—or the rest of his brood.”

  The Guardian whistled. “Are those compliments I’m hearing? I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. It wouldn’t break my heart at all if he didn’t make it to Blind Mare Run intact. It’d serve him right.”

  “How do you intend to make him do it? I doubt he’d agree to spar with you—not when you’re still blind.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Kalen agreed. Another sigh escaped him. “It’s really easy, actually. I’ll ask him to do it. He will.”

  “Impossible. Absolutely impossible. He wouldn’t. You didn’t hear him and Breton going at it, but I did. There’s absolutely no way he’d sacrifice you. Breton wouldn’t either, I’ll have you know. That’s the only thing those two have in common.”

  “He’d do it if he had to.” Kalen scowled in his Guardian’s direction.

  “Why are you so sure?”

  Kalen chewed on his lip. Claiming it was a gut feeling wasn’t good enough; Maiten wouldn’t accept such an answer. However, the idea to declare his sire as the next Rift King had been birthed that way. “He loves Kelsh. That’s why. His lone hope of making any progress is with my help. If I’m dead, who will stand in his way? No one will. No one will be able to.”

  “It’s an interesting thought, but no one is going to like this idea at all. There’s no way he’s going to uphold the Covenant.”

  Kalen laughed. “What’s left of it, you mean?”

  “So you’re planning on telling your sire about this plan of yours?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I’m serious, Your Majesty. No one is going to like this idea. Breton’ll fight it to his last breath.”

  “No one has to like it. They just need to obey my orders. Let’s face the truth, Maiten. I’ve done well with one arm. There aren’t many Rift Kings who have ruled as long as I have. I’m second only to Tarn, and he ruled what, five hundred years ago or longer? I understand why Arik did as he did. He was tired, and he’d only reigned for all of eleven or twelve years. I’m tired too, Maiten.”

  ~No,~ the First grumbled. Kalen frowned. The creature’s cold presence stabbed through his head. He wished he knew how to talk to the First so he could complain about the discomfort it caused him.

  No was a word for someone who wasn’t tired of fearing knives in the dark.

  “You’re serious about this aren’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be serious, Maiten? I have nothing but respect for you and the other Guardians, but a Rift King who can’t defend himself isn’t worthy to remain one. We all know you’re supposed to protec
t others from me. You were never there to ensure I lived.”

  “People change,” his Guardian snapped. “You didn’t need us in Morinvale.”

  Kalen’s rage flared, fueled by the First’s fury. “That’s one thing I’d like to do before I die,” he snarled.

  “What?”

  “I’d like to kill every last one of those Blood Priests and stick their heads on spikes.”

  “How barbaric.”

  “I wouldn’t want to poison any poor nibblers with their filth.”

  “How kind of you. Won’t you save a few for us?”

  Kalen snorted. “The offer’s open. If you want to be the Rift King, you’ve my blessings without question. Then you can do whatever you want to the Blood Priests.”

  “Kalen,” Maiten growled.

  “I’m blind and crippled. I’m in no position to stop an assassin from the Rift, let alone a Mithrian black hand. That’s just the truth. I might be good, but I’m not that good. I don’t know of anyone who is. You understand, don’t you?”

  “How can you be so calm about this? You’re talking about your own death!”

  Kalen sighed. The thought of his death used to scare him, and that fear had driven him to do anything necessary to survive. The years had, like the wind on stone, worn him down. “I told you, Maiten. You’re one of my oldest friends, you know that. You’ve known it from the beginning of my reign. I’m tired. It used to frighten me. Sometimes, it still does. You know what they say about Rift Kings.”

  “People say a lot of things about the Rift Kings. That doesn’t mean any of it is true.”

  “The Rift Kings aren’t served out of love. They never were. They never will be. It’s always out of fear. There’s a reason for that—there’s a reason our voices aren’t heard among the songs of the ancestors. What’s left?”

  Maiten was quiet for a long time before he said, “You’re different.”

  Shaking his head while laughing, Kalen replied, “No, I’m not.”

  Once again, Maiten’s hand clapped his shoulder, surprising him. Before Kalen could pull away, he was jerked into a rough embrace.

  “You’re wrong, Your Majesty. In more ways than one. People change. You, me, your father, all of your foals, and even your sire. We all change. If you can’t protect yourself, we’ll protect you, and we’ll teach these Kelshite, Mithrian, and Danarite culls why the Rift should be feared.” Maiten’s voice was hoarse with emotion.

  His Guardian didn’t let him go until Kalen nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s head back to the camp before someone notices you’re gone.”

  ~~*~~

  Ferethian and Honey refused to be left behind. Without the use of his eyes, Kalen was powerless to control either horse. Somewhere in the darkness, Maiten laughed—at him, at his horses, and at the absurdity of a Rift King who couldn’t make his best animals behave.

  “This isn’t funny,” Kalen grumbled, which made the older man laugh even harder.

  Even the First was amused. Kalen was torn between relief the creature’s presence had strengthened and annoyance that it had sided with his Guardian.

  His awareness of the First unleashed a lot of questions; how and why it existed were only the beginning of them. Before, the First had been something he had accepted as another consequence of being the Rift King. His doubts resurfaced.

  Like the existence of his Guardians, there was something he didn’t know about the creature in his head, and his ignorance bothered him. What was the First?

  If the creature heard him, Kalen wasn’t acknowledged. It was expected, but it disappointed him all the same.

  A horse’s nose bumped against Kalen’s chest. He lifted his hand to gently push the animal away. The soft muzzle was too large for either Honey or Ferethian. With a frown, he stoked the animal’s muzzle, trying to imagine the horse through feel alone. His fingers brushed against the smoothed leather of the horse’s bridle.

  “Could you—”

  The ground lurched beneath him. He pitched forward and would have fallen without the intervention of the horse. He ended up sprawled across the animal’s neck, spitting out strands of mane. The growing rumble of thunder drowned out the whinnies of frightened horses.

  Kalen’s skin crawled. As if terrified of whatever was spooking the horses and making the ground shake, the First’s presence retreated. Kalen managed to straighten, clinging to the horse’s neck with his hand. “Maiten? What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” was the clipped reply. A hand seized Kalen behind the elbow, steadying him as the ground continued to buck underneath him.

  Kalen shuddered, pulling his arm free once certain he could remain standing without help. The trees creaked and groaned in protest. In the distance, wood splintered and cracked.

  “Get to the camp and find out what’s going on,” he ordered, letting go of the horse.

  “What about—”

  “Go, Maiten! I’ll slow you down. I’m not going anywhere.” Kalen patted the animal’s neck, and managed to stand tall despite the way the ground heaved. “Now.”

  Maiten spat curses at him, but the creak of leather revealed the man’s obedience.

  Kalen’s heartbeat raced, and his breath caught in his throat. Quakes and rock slides happened in the Rift, but the way the ground writhed and bucked beneath him didn’t feel—or sound—the same. In the Rift, shelter was either found along the cliffs away from the edges of the trail or as far out in the open as possible.

  The First urged him to follow his instinct and run. Kalen remained frozen in place. Even if he ran, where would he go? Without Maiten to guide him, fleeing would only cause problems. His mouth twisted in a rueful grin. If someone did want him dead, he had given them the perfect chance.

  “Hellfires,” he muttered, trying to think of a way to be useful. The thought of the camp being attacked was short lived; what sort of army would it take to make the ground lurch beneath his feet? But in the slim chance it was an attack, there was one thing he could do. Without their horses, Rifters were at a disadvantage.

  That was something he could rectify easily enough.

  “Ferethian,” he barked out over the rumble. A neigh answered him. “Herd to Breton!”

  The command wasn’t one he used often, although Breton had insisted he teach it to Ferethian. As with all things, his stallion had learned quickly.

  A derisive snort answered him.

  Kalen clenched his hand into a fist. “Curse you and your foals to the deeps, Ferethian. Now is not the time. Herd to Breton!”

  Ferethian made a sound so pathetic that it broke Kalen’s heart. Ignoring his stallion’s protests, he jerked his arm out and made a ‘move it!’ gesture he hoped the horse would recognize. Without knowing what was going on, arguing with the stallion was out of the question.

  “Honey,” he called out. Within moments, the mare’s nose touched his hand. “Kneel.”

  Unlike his stallion, she obeyed. With a low grown, he mounted. She rose at the touch of his heels against her sides.

  Ferethian made one final, pained sound before Kalen became aware of the stallion’s presence departing. For a moment, he was tempted to have Honey follow Ferethian. Without knowing where Maiten had taken him, he didn’t dare break his word to his Guardian. If he returned to camp, he’d only be in the way. He was too tired to dance around busy mercenaries reacting to the threat to the camp.

  Honey trembled beneath him, and ignoring the ache in his hand, he stroked her neck. While the mare was smart, equal to Ferethian in many ways, he hadn’t taken the time to train her as he should have. He hadn’t wanted to ruin her sweet temperament by forcing her to live with Ferethian’s relentless wariness. In his desire to protect the mare, he had left her—and himself—woefully ill-equipped to handle his blindness.

  Muttering curses at his stupidity, he gave the mare one of the few commands he had taught her. “Guard.”

  Honey stiffened beneath him, and he relaxed at the change in her stance. All he could do,
as always, was put his trust in his horse.

  She would take care of the rest without his interference.

  Chapter Two

  While Breton had expected someone to fetch him when the quake started, the appearance of the Crimson Eye’s captain startled him. The man slipped into the tent, a frown on his lips and deep lines creasing his brow. Breton tensed and waited for the Mithrian to announce the bad news.

  “Morinvale is gone,” Captain Silvereye said in an emotionless voice.

  Breton decided it was best to treat the mercenary in the same way he treated the Rift King during ill-tidings; with respect and a healthy dose of paranoia. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “It’s gone. There’s nothing left but a smoking crater. A smoking crater, I should mention, that is filled with black… things.”

  Breton’s eyebrows rose. “Things?”

  “One of my scouts reported that it appears to be a moving cesspool, Guardian.”

  Breton frowned. The first thing he could think of was the black ichor in the cellar beneath Morinvale two weeks prior. It had proved volatile enough, eating through a steel blade in a matter of moments, but to devour the entire town? He shuddered at the thought. “So this cesspool has taken up residence in the town?” While Morinvale wasn’t quite large enough to rank as city, well over a thousand people lived within its walls.

  “From my understanding, Guardian, there is no longer a town, just a crater.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I’m guessing the ground shake is due to whatever is happening where Morinvale used to be. My scout rode here as fast as he could. Unfortunately, he was only able to give me a partial report before the healers kicked me out so they could treat him.”

  Breton considered how long it took to ride the distance between their camp and Morinvale. “So he left the town about an hour ago?”

  Silvereye lifted his palms up in a helpless, unknowing gesture. “It’s as good of a guess as any. We’re leaving. Be ready to move out in thirty minutes. Pack only what you need and leave the rest.”