Storm Surge

by R. J. Blain

  “You’re about to learn why you shouldn’t cross me,” the Rift King announced, his tone as cold as Arik’s. “You versus us.”

  From out of the falling snow, more mercenaries than Breton wanted to count stepped forward. The Rift King tossed a white ball in his lone hand. “The rules are simple, Guardians. I am your quarry. They’ll try to stop you from catching me. Your only weapons are these.” With a serpent-swift strike, the Rift King threw the ball.

  Breton lifted his arm. Snow thumped against his elbow, bursting out in a white cloud to cover him. Torn between annoyance and relief, he asked, “A festival game?”

  “Let’s find out if you’re as skilled as they are, seeing as you lack their discipline.”

  Pivoting on a heel, the Rift King disappeared into the crowd and the snow.

  ~~*~~

  Kalen dived behind his impromptu army of bemused mercenaries to kneel between Varest and Captain Silvereye. “Oh this is going to be fun.”

  “How old are you again, Father?”

  “Quiet, foal. Did you see their expressions? They looked like I was going to eat them, even Maiten.” Kalen snorted, making a snowball. With a smirk, he whirled around and rubbed the snow in Varest’s face. “Take this upstart colt to his fellows,” he ordered.

  Several mercenaries pounced on the Guardian, herding him away. Kalen waved a farewell to his departing foal. “Someone has to teach them how to make snowballs.”

  “Wha—hey!”

  Turning his attention to the Shadow Captain beside him, Kalen asked, “Ready for a war?”

  Captain Silvereye snorted. “Your presence outside of the Rift will be the real cause of war, Kalen.”

  With a dismissive wave of his hand, Kalen watched and waited for the return of the three mercenaries delivering Varest to the other Guardians. “We have a tradition in the Rift, you know.”

  “Go on,” Silvereye stood, backing away from the front lines of those gathering snowballs in preparation for the inevitable chaos caused by adults flinging snow at one another. “This is going to get rough, so you may want to stay back a bit.”

  “I was counting on that.” Despite wanting to watch the initial volley, Kalen followed the Mithrian. “Think they’ll hold out?”

  “Yours or mine?”

  Kalen snorted. “Yours, of course. As if my Guardians would be defeated so easily.”

  “They’re going to be destroyed, I hope you know. They’re outnumbered twenty-to-one, easily, worse odds if word spreads—and it will.” Silvereye laughed. “This lot will love this. Your Guardians won’t, I promise you. Come on. Let’s clear out so the children can play.”

  “Don’t count them out so easily,” Kalen warned, following Captain Silvereye in an arc around the camp. Out of necessity, they crossed through the barrier shielding the camp from the wind. The storm howled and raged, caking Kalen in snow and ice in the short time it took them to circle around the mock battle between the Guardians and the mercenaries.

  “Why do you think they stand a chance? Twenty-to-one is terrible odds,” Silvereye replied once they were back within the shelter of the mages’ shield.

  “Fifteen years ago, I played my first game. Outsiders aren’t invited to the festivals, and I wasn’t considered a Rifter until I became their thrice-cursed king. I’d been the Rift King for less than two months.”

  “So your festivals are games? How is it played?”

  Kalen grinned a bit at the memory. The festival had been delayed to give him a chance to adapt to having only one arm, though he’d been led to understand that every Rift King had to adapt to some degree or another.

  The loss off his arm had startled even the most hardened of Rifters and was likely the reason he had survived his first few months as the Rift King. Few wanted to kill someone on unfair terms, even for his title and rank. That had changed, however, when he proved lethal despite his lack of an arm. Kalen sighed. “Everyone drew straws. Half of the city pretended to be Outsiders. I was given the dubious honor of leading the other half of Blind Mare Run. We held mock battles for a week.”

  “A week? Why so long?”

  “The festival didn’t end until I died or the Outsiders were all killed. We use ribbons, and someone is ‘killed’ when their ribbon is claimed.”

  “Blessed Lady of Light, that’s insane. Who won?”

  Kalen laughed. “Much to the disgust of most of the Rift, it was a draw. No one killed me, but we didn’t kill the Outsiders either. It was the first of many firsts for me, I think.”

  “Why did the game end early?”

  Unable to control his mirth, he came to a halt, shuddering in his effort to suppress his chuckles. “Do you have any idea how much stamina those thrice-blasted Rifters have? After three days of being chased around, I was wretchedly tired. In my infinite wisdom, I thought the safest place to hole up for some sleep was in an out of the way cavern. No one had told me the place tended to be a bit unstable at the best of the times. I ended up trapped there for a few days. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I slept through most of it. Those on the Outsiders’ side cried that I had an unfair advantage because no one could get to me. By the time someone figured out where I was and dug me out, Tavener wasn’t happy with anyone, especially me.”

  “Tavener?”

  “My first Rift Horse.”

  “I see. So, why are these festival games so important?”

  “Rifters love their festivals. There are four of them every year, and each one is different. Normally, I’m left alone to work or I’m handling things elsewhere in the Rift, but when a festival is due? There’s no escaping. The Guardians have taken to keeping someone with me so I can’t give them the slip. This is a game we’ve never played before.”

  “I don’t understand why it’s important, Blackhand.”

  Kalen grimaced a bit at his new name, wondering if Silvereye had any idea how accurate it was. How many people had he killed over the years to ensure his survival? Far too many.

  “Until now, as we have for a thousand years, the festivals have only included Rifters.” Kalen kicked at the snow, listening to the distant laughter born of adults pretending they were foals once more. “It may be a festival or a game to you, but when they’ve figured out what I’ve done, we’ll find out how many Mithrians it takes to wear out a Rifter—or the Rifters win.”

  The Mithrian sucked in a breath, his mismatched eyes widening. “They’ll fight in earnest?”

  “Only with snow,” Kalen assured the man with a grin.

  “Why?”

  “It’s simple, Captain Silvereye. By calling such a festival involving Outsiders—allies, specifically—I, and the Rift, have declared war. Enjoy the peace while you can. It won’t last. We have too much to lose to remain caged in our canyons, and if you’re willing to break the rules, well, so am I. The Rift Rides to war.”

  ~~*~~

  Dodging a rain of snowballs by ducking behind a tent, Breton turned to Moritta. Maiten joined them. The Mithrian dusted snow off her face. A handful of mercenaries, grinning at them all the while, shoved Derac and Delaven at them.

  “You’re insane,” Maiten informed the men as they ran to join those who were throwing snow.

  A snowball splatted against the back of Ceres’s head. Before the younger Guardian could retaliate, Breton grabbed hold of him and yanked him forward. “Wait.”

  “Captain Blackhand is quite mean,” Moritta reported in her serious voice. Breton agreed but kept quiet. Three shapes emerged from the snow, and Varest was shoved at them. When Varest tripped, Maiten caught him.

  “That serpent!” Varest spat.

  It was Ceres who sighed. “What did Father do now, brother?”

  “I was supposed to be on his side,” was the grumbled complaint.

  “I didn’t do anything either,” Maiten groused.

  Ceres snorted. “Yes, you did. You encouraged Breton to make Guardians. They didn’t do anything.”

  With widening eyes, Breton stiffened. “He’s doing what
Arik used to do when one of us failed.” Speaking his fear strengthened it.

  When one failed, all were punished.

  “Father isn’t like that,” Varest snarled. “He’s never been like that.”

  The younger Guardian’s vehemence didn’t sooth Breton’s concerns. “So, what is he doing?”

  “I think he’s trying to have fun,” Derac said, kneeling to gather up snow in his hands. “It’s a snowball fight. We used to do this when we were little.”

  Breton was relieved when he wasn’t the only one to stare at the Kelshite, trying to imagine Kalen willingly playing in the cold and wet. “How did you force him?”

  “Force him? He was usually the instigator.” With a shake of his head, Derac held up the ball of snow. “Pat the snow together until it becomes a ball. You’ll want it solid enough to throw without it breaking apart.”

  “Father taught me how to do it, probably planning to throw me in with you lot. Hellfires.” Varest grabbed a handful of snow. “You heard him. If we want to see him, we need to go through them.”

  With a vicious grin, Delaven scooped up snow. “This is going to be fun.”

  “Varest, did he tell you what he was up to?”

  “Father? My father, His Royal Majesty, tell me what he’s scheming? Don’t be absurd, Breton.”

  Maiten laughed. “He’ll never change.”

  Breton turned to Moritta. “What do you suggest we do?”

  Holding up her hands, the woman glanced in the direction of the waiting army of mercenaries. “They’ll probably give us a few minutes to sort ourselves out. They all know you’ve never seen snow before. It won’t last long, though—they’ll want to play.”

  “Play,” Breton echoed, unable to smother his sigh. “I can’t believe you consider this play.”

  “Stop crying, Breton. It’s better than him chasing us with Gorishitorik until he whacks us with the flat to his satisfaction,” Maiten replied, chuckling.

  “One day he’ll stop surprising me,” Breton swore, grabbing snow and patting it together. “One of these days I’m going to be completely prepared for what he does. Well, if it’s a war he wants, it’ll be a war he’ll get. No offense, Moritta, Delaven, but I have no intention of losing to a bunch of Mithrians.”

  Howling with laughter, Maiten cupped snow in his hands. “Well said, Breton. Well said.”

  “So what do we do now?” Ceres asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? We fight them with their snow. One of us will have to get by them and find Father,” Varest replied. “If he wants us to capture him, we’ll capture him.”

  “Can’t we just use Delaven to find him?” Derac asked, glancing at Maiten’s foal.

  Breton made a thoughtful noise. “Delaven?”

  The young Guardian shook his head. “All I can tell is that he’s nearby, that’s it.”

  With a concerned expression, Kalen’s cousin turned to face Breton. “It’s not hurting him, is it?”

  “Maiten?” he asked.

  “I doubt it. We’ll do proper introductions when we find him. First, we have a few Mithrians to put back in their place. Present company excluded, of course.”

  Moritta laughed. “A few? This will be fun.”

  ~~*~~

  With smug satisfaction, Kalen stretched out on Silvereye’s cot with a mug of steaming hot tea. A brazier filled with coals warmed the tent. While he hadn’t seen many of the tents in the camp, the captain’s didn’t look much different from the two-person accommodations most of the Mithrians shared, with one exception.

  Instead of two cots, there was only one, and the rest of the space was taken up by a rough-hewn table and a scattering of stools and stumps. Silvereye perched on one such stool, leaning over a stack of parchments, reading by lantern light.

  “You know, you’re a tricky person, Your Majesty,” the older man said, sitting up straighter with an ill-concealed groan. “You spent at least an hour scheming that little war game just so you could invade my tent and steal my tea, didn’t you?”

  Kalen chuckled, sipping at the pilfered tea with a grin. “First, I didn’t know you had tea in here so readily accessible. Second, it needed to be done. Discipline needs to be maintained, but considering the circumstances, I didn’t want to punish any of them.”

  “So you, on a whim, created a festival game, just so you could do what was expected in an unexpected way?”

  “Something like that. How long do you think it’ll take for them to figure it out?” Setting the mug down on one of the stools, Kalen went to work rubbing the stiffness out of his feet. The furs he’d been bundled in had kept him warm, but the poorly fitting boots hadn’t done him any favors.

  He was tired of feeling sore and even more tired of the bone-deep exhaustion that clung to him.

  “Until who figures what out? That we left them to play or that the Rift finally got tired of everyone’s horse shit and has decided to come clean the mess up?”

  In his effort to contain his laughter, Kalen snorted, coughed, and then cleared his throat. “That we slipped away from the game.”

  “Ah, your Rifters, without a doubt. The rest have been ordered to play in the snow, and won’t be keen to stop until they’ve tired themselves out. If there are Wolf Blades out there, if they’re smart, they’ll have holed up like we have. I’ve assigned a few unlucky sods to patrol, but I doubt anyone is stupid enough to launch an offensive in this weather.” Silvereye poured himself a mug of tea, took a sip, and set it aside to drum his fingers. “Were you aware you’ve earned a few friends and a lot of respect today?”

  “Is that so?” With a thoughtful hum, Kalen picked up his mug and took a sip to buy himself time to watch the Mithrian.

  “It is so. You understand when some things don’t deserve a harsh punishment. You understood the situation and dealt with it accordingly. I was under the impression that you weren’t aware of how badly the cold can impact someone. What made you choose to react as you did?”

  Laughing, Kalen set his tea aside. “Breton wouldn’t roll around with anyone in the mud like that under normal circumstances. He’s far too dignified. I didn’t need to be told there was something actually wrong with them. But, discipline matters, so I had to do something. Frankly, I was relieved enough neither had been hurt. They could have easily killed each other.” Snatching the folded blanket at the end of the cot, he draped it over his feet. “The truth is, I’m too tired to fling snow around, otherwise I’d be out there too. It’s the only thing that the cold is good for. I may as well let them play while they can.”

  “You Rifters do not seem like the type to play, Your Majesty.”

  “Kalen. Or, if you’d prefer, that little name you’ve saddled me with. Anyway, Rifters are the type to like to play. They just treat it like they do everything else: very seriously.”

  Silvereye hummed thoughtfully, nodded, and said, “I’ll remember that. As for your name, Blackhand suits you, I think.”

  Kalen wrinkled his nose and flipped a rude gesture at the Mithrian. “I’m not that dangerous.”

  “With all due respect, Kalen, you’re one of the most dangerous people alive. Only a fool would say otherwise. I know better.” Silvereye smiled, lowering his head as he turned part of his attention back to his papers.

  “I’m a man like any other. I bleed. I can die like anyone else, too.”

  “There’s something I’ve learned over the years, Blackhand. I’d remember this, were I you. Men like your Guardians never follow someone as they do you out of fear alone. That is what makes you an opponent worth fighting and an ally worth having.” The Mithrian chuckled. “Since you’ve already taken over my cot and stolen my tea, you may as well sleep. You’re not going to be of any use to anyone as tired as you are. Tomorrow is soon enough for our real work together to begin.”

  Kalen considered arguing for the sake of it, but he nodded, swallowed the rest of his tea, and obeyed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Breton’s arm burned from exertion. Snow d
idn’t weigh a lot, but he’d thrown so much of the wet, cold stuff that he was ready to find somewhere quiet and collapse in a heap. Mithrians, each of them panting as hard as he was, circled them with their frozen ammunition held at the ready.

  No one moved, and he took advantage of the moment to catch his breath.

  Maiten leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees as he gasped for air. “What do you think, Breton? They’re not giving up.”

  Snorting, Breton scooped up another handful of snow. “Neither are we.”

  “Have you failed to notice there are a lot more of them than there are us?” Varest grumbled.

  Ceres patted snow into a ball, narrowing his eyes as the mercenaries stirred, preparing for another assault. “Have any of you actually seen Father?”

  “No,” Breton grumbled. “He’s probably in the back lines where they can guard him.”

  Maiten laughed and straightened. “You’re optimistic. He’s probably found somewhere to curl up and take a nap.”

  Moritta cocked her head to the side. “He wouldn’t, would he?”

  Shaking his head and joining Maiten in chuckling, Breton lobbed a snowball at one of the mercenaries. A volley of wet, cold projectiles thumped into him as the Mithrians retaliated. “He would, if he feels he can get away with it.”

  “Don’t these mercenaries ever give up?” Ceres complained, ducking to avoid the flung snow.

  It was Captain Silvereye’s Second-in-Command who laughed hardest. “They’re as tired as we are. They have their orders, and we have ours. Duty and pride will keep them going for as long as they must. I’m afraid only the captains can stop them now.” When she grinned, the woman’s hardened features made way for feminine beauty. “This is fun. For all of us, it’s a holiday. But if you want to win, we need to break through their lines and find Captain Blackhand.”

  “I last saw Father with Captain Silvereye,” Varest said.

  Moritta hummed, grabbing snow and flinging it at one of her fellow Mithrians. “The captain’s tent would be most secure and hardest for you Rifters to find. We move it every time we change camp sites, and at least once every few days. If they made a run for it, they probably went there.”