Storm Surge (4 page)

“I’ll take care of it. What are you going to do?” Varest asked.

“I’m going to take care of the Delrose herd.”

“I need to speak with the Rift King,” Crysallis said.

“If you find out where he went, do let me know,” Breton snarled at the witch. “Does he look like he is here?”

The witch straightened. “What do you mean?” She didn’t quite shriek, but her voice rose in pitch. The hood of her cloak fell back. The woman’s face paled to a sickly pallor.

“Just that. He’s not here. We’re leaving.” Breton glared at the younger Guardian, who hesitated. “Go, Varest!”

Varest scrambled onto his gelding’s back and galloped off as soon as he was astride.

“You intend to leave him,” the witch hissed at him.

Breton drew several deep breaths until he could address the woman without screaming at her. “He’s blind because of you, witch. May some wretched God or Goddess serve as my witness, if he dies because of you, I’ll destroy you.”

Crysallis stood tall, her dark eyes flinty. “And if I bring him back to you?”

Breton let go of his sword so he wouldn’t pull it on the witch and break the Code by skewering her. “I will leave that for him to decide.”

“You’re worried,” she said, relaxing a bit, a secretive smile curling her lips. “I will find you in three or so days. Listen carefully, Guardian. The swarm will come here and head west. If you go east and south, you’ll be able to avoid it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Breton nodded. “And you’re certain of this?”

“The swarm will head west. North is a death sentence for everyone here.” The witch shook her head before throwing the hood back over her dark hair. “Do not die, Guardian. The last thing we need is a mad Rift King.”

“He’s already mad,” Breton muttered.

“I did not see his golden horse,” the witch said thoughtfully.

“She didn’t return with the other horses.”

“Then all is well. She will keep him safe. I will bring him back to you, you have my word, and a witch’s word is always true.”

Two people searching was better than one, and Breton couldn’t bring himself to care if the witch got devoured by whatever had destroyed Morinvale. “Three days, Crysallis. If you do not bring him back, I’m coming after you.”

The witch’s laugh sent shivers crawling up his spine. “I shall return him to you. Worry for yourself and those in your charge. He would not be pleased if you let any harm come to his foals.”

“Go,” he ordered, hating himself for trusting the witch with Kalen. He wanted to be the one chasing after the wayward Rift King, but he didn’t dare.

The witch was right; the Rift King valued his foals above all. Breton understood that well enough.

“Ride safe,” the witch said before turning. Her cloak swirled behind her. For a moment, he thought he saw dark wisps of smoke trailing in her wake. When he shook his head to clear his vision, Crysallis was gone.

He whistled for Perin. When his gelding skidded to a halt next to him, he mounted and went in search of Captain Silvereye.

~~*~~

Breton cantered Perin along the winding line of mercenaries headed away from camp. Captain Silvereye wore a red cloak, making him stand out among the duller colors the mercenaries favored. The Mithrian frowned at his approach. The expression was so similar to Kalen’s that Breton hesitated before saying, “Captain Silvereye.”

“I’m hearing some unpleasant rumors, Breton.”

The use of his name instead of his rank worried Breton. By pretending the mercenary captain was similar to the Rift King, he was able to compose himself. “Our witch has informed me that if we wish to avoid the swarm, we need to head south and east. The swarm will be moving west from Morinvale.”

“Are you trying to tell me how to command my company, Guardian?”

Breton sat straighter, meeting the Mithrian’s gaze. Crysallis was many things, but she didn’t kill, not without necessary cause. The intensity of the witch’s insistence had convinced him of the truth of her words. “No, sir. I’m reporting critical information that you might be able to use to save those under your command. If you insist on heading west or north, the swarm will cross our path. It may be wise to heed her wisdom, sir.”

“Your witch. The same witch who helped us escape from Morinvale?” Captain Silvereye asked in disbelief. “You’re certain of this?”

Breton hoped he wouldn’t regret what he was about to say. “Certain enough to trust her with His Majesty. She… would not cross my path lightly.”

The Mithrian’s grin was wry. “I suppose not. Cut south below Morinvale, and then head east? What’s over there?”

“From my understanding, sir, it’s more of a matter of what
isn’t
over there. I have other news as well.”

“Wait.” Captain Silvereye stood in the stirrups, leaned forward, and bellowed, “Moritta!”

The woman who rode up at Silvereye’s call was young, no older than twenty-five or thirty if that, with dusty brown hair and hazel eyes. “Sir?”

“Turn the line south, take us ten miles past Morinvale. After that, take us east. Double march,” he ordered.

The woman’s eyes widened. “We’re backtracking, sir?”

“Get the line moving,” he demanded, settling back in the saddle. The woman saluted, whirled her horse around, and galloped away.

“Dare I ask what other ill tidings you have for me, Guardian?”

“One of the Yadesh went to confirm your scout’s tidings. Over half of the Wolf Blades are dead to this swarm, Captain. I don’t want to be here to find out what it’ll do to us. If it heads west, we could get pinned against the Rift,” he said, careful to keep his voice low enough none of the nearby mercenaries could hear him.

“I see. I will not mourn for their loss. Still, you were right to suggest our direction, if that’s the case. I’ll evaluate if farther south may be prudent when we’re away from here.” The Mithrian drummed his fingers on his saddle’s horn. “Your witch calls this thing a swarm?”

“That is what she said, sir.”

“So she knows something,” Silvereye stated.

Breton grimaced. “In three days, I plan on finding out exactly what she knows, sir.”

“In three days? Why then?”

“That’s when she said she’ll meet us, sir.”

Captain Silvereye frowned. “With the Rift King, I presume? He’s a busy man for a blind cripple. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or not.”

“He likes surprising people,” Breton replied cautiously. It was hard to keep his tone and expression neutral.

“That’s what sons do.” Silvereye laughed. “You can’t cage a man like him, Guardian. I should’ve known better. You should’ve as well. We were bested by a blind cripple.” The captain shook his head in amazement. “And you deal with him every day.”

Breton covered his mouth to hide his smile. “That’s who he is.”

“He doesn’t look very old, you know.” Captain Silvereye chuckled some more.

The column of mercenaries arced to the south, and Breton fought the urge to look back. If the swarm was close, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see it coming.

The Rift King and his long rule was a more present worry. “He’s old for a Rift King.” Breton could acknowledge that much—it was true. Few lasted so long, so few there was only one he could think of.

“He’s been around, what, fifteen years now? He barely looks that old. I’ll have you know the Shadow Council had a collective seizure over his first missive.” Silvereye tilted his head back and laughed. It was a rich, deep sound. The nearby mercenaries gawked at their captain.

Breton chuckled softly. Both he and Maiten had tried to talk the very young Rift King out of sending it, but his foal hadn’t listened. “He likes surprising people. It’s a pleasure of his.”

“I’ll never forget when you sent the first missive informing us that there was a new Rift King. He took his time with his first missive, but when it did arrive…” The Mithrian shook his head. “It was one of the most eloquent letters I’ve read in my life, Breton. I knew we had a traitor in our midst. I even had a few guesses of who it was. Here we are, not sure what to do about it, when this little upstart of a Rift King writes, telling us how he figured out we had a traitor, detailed how he learned who it was, and had the audacity to inform us of how he would deal with it if we couldn’t handle the situation ourselves. I want him, Breton. You have no idea how badly I want him. That mind of his amazes me. Just how old was he when he took the Rift’s throne? He figured it all out from
letters—
our letters!”

Breton drew Perin close to the Mithrian’s horse, lowering his head so he could whisper, “Only if you tell me what a Mithrian Shadow Captain is doing in Kelsh with the Rift King’s sire and dam as hostages.”

“I was hired to protect one family and one girl, Guardian. My contract excludes one Satoren Delrose as he was listed dead almost twenty years ago. Unfortunately, my list did not note what his age was at the time of his… death. When did young Delrose make his run to the Rift?”

“Twelve,” Breton supplied.

“You can’t be serious!” The Mithrian’s eyes widened.

“I would not lie about something that important. Do you believe there is any relation to what happened in Morinvale and your contract?”

“I truly hope not. Look, Guardian. Your Rift King is one of the smartest men I’ve met. He sees things clearly. He can be stubborn and opinionated, but he’s not stupid. If I want to end this once and for all, I need him. I did not come all of this way without reason. Danar is on the move. Mithrias will not be able to remain neutral. By the time this is over, the Shadow Council will pick sides. Unless something changes—and fast—the Six will be called together. Kelsh wants war as much as Danar does, and neither side cares who or what is destroyed in the process. It’s only thanks to the Rift that peace has held out for so long.”

Breton sighed and nodded. “I feared as much. The Danarites have already made assassination attempts on the Rift King.”

“It’s more fortunate that they didn’t realize who they had when they had him. If they had, they never would have left him in Morinvale. They’re going to find out he’s violated the Covenant. It’s only a matter of time.”

“With all due respect, Captain Silvereye, it is my intention to take His Majesty back to the Rift as soon as possible. He can’t stay in Kelsh. If the Rift King does as he wants, Kelsh’s king will be fed to nibblers or tossed in a river to rot. They hate each other. I am hesitant to admit it is with good reason, at least on Kalen’s part.”

“Lord Delrose informed me of the circumstances.”

“Then you know why I need to take him out of Kelsh.”

Captain Silvereye shook his head. “What if I told you that I have reason to believe that King Aelthor of Kelsh may be among those who hired the Wolf Blades?”

Breton gaped at the Mithrian, torn between shock and rage. Before his anger could spill out as vehement curses, he swallowed several times. “If that is the case, why allow for the Rift King to dirty his hand? I’d rather attend to the matter myself.”

“Like son, like father. You two are more alike than you’d probably care to hear—and frighteningly similar to Lord Delrose. You wouldn’t say no to a little help, would you?”

“I want proof. Then we can talk more about this help you’d like to offer to the Rift, Captain Silvereye.” Breton paused, sighing as he considered his next words. “Should anyone discover that the Rift has moved, Captain, it will be war—them against us.”

The Mithrian’s expression was grim. “Guardian, the war is already here, waged on children, farmers, and tradesmen—against common folk. If I do not choose sides, it will be chosen for me. That is unacceptable. Of all of the sides to choose from, there is only one who has maintained any honor at all.”

Breton arched a brow, staring down at the Mithrian and said nothing.

Captain Silvereye’s smile was grim. “I have always wondered what would happen if the Rift ever left its canyons. I look forward to finding out.”

Instead of guarding in place, Honey trotted. Her stride was purposeful, but smooth enough Kalen could sit it without too much trouble or exhausting her—or himself. Kalen didn’t stop her. While the ground no longer rumbled and the thunder had subsided, something was still amiss. With his sight, he might have been able to judge what was wrong. The darkness, as it had been since Morinvale, was absolute. He shifted in the saddle, considering what to do.

Like most horses, Honey was happiest with her herd, and Kalen heard no indicator they were near anyone, equine or otherwise. He fought to remain relaxed in the saddle. If he panicked, so would she. Honey didn’t spook often, but the way she quivered beneath him warned him that she might. An unexpected move on her part, when he couldn’t see her physical cues, would likely result with him hitting the ground that he couldn’t see.

Cursing at his decision not to follow Maiten, he touched his heels to Honey’s side and gave her free rein. She transitioned to a smooth, rolling canter. He lowered his hand and grabbed her mane, careful to move with her. That she hadn’t broken into a flat-out gallop comforted him a little; while uneasy, she wasn’t terrified—not yet.

When he reunited with his Guardians, he’d find out what was going on, and maybe even take Maiten up on his offer. While Kalen was of the opinion handing over his rank was his best and only option, he was weary. Letting his Guardians have their way would be easier on him and on them, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.

Unless something changed, it was time for a new Rift King.

Lulled by Honey’s rolling gait, all of Kalen’s problems came back to haunt him, one by one. If the Rift showed weakness, every kingdom would fight for the chance to be rid of them. War would prove inevitable. Without his sight, he couldn’t fulfill his duties, not without a lot of help he wasn’t accustomed to needing.

He needed a purpose, and there wasn’t one left for him.

By the time Honey slowed, Kalen was gasping from exertion. She settled into a brisk walk, smooth enough he was able to slump in the saddle without much fear of falling. Breton had been right; in his current state he was weak and useless. In his pride, Kalen had fought for what little he could do. Guilt dulled the edge of his anxiety and fear of what scared Honey so much.

The things Kalen had said had hurt them both, and he still stung from Breton’s harsh but truthful rebuke.

Honey slowed, her stride hesitant until she came to a halt. She snorted, dragging his attention from his worries of his argument with Breton. “Clear?” he asked, careful to keep his tone soothing and calm.

She snorted again, a derisive sound similar to the one Ferethian often favored. Deciding she meant no, Kalen clenched his teeth. Unable to think of a single thing he could do to change his circumstances, he felt as useless as Breton had claimed he was.

The thought forced a bitter laugh out of him. The loss of his sight had undone him. There was no reason to fear him, not now. Breton had been right in that much; without his vision, he was easy prey. Time and time again, he’d heard rumors of how he was feared by anyone with any sense. Kalen had witnessed the truth of it; even those hungry for his title were frightened of him. Their apprehension of him had grown so much that few had tried to assassinate him in recent years—too few.

The Danarites and Kelshites were doing a better job of trying to rid the lands of him than the people he ruled, and the change unnerved him. Honey’s nose touched his knee, and Kalen released her mane and reins long enough to rub her ears. She caught his fingers with her teeth and nibbled on him. If she was comfortable enough to be affectionate, they weren’t in immediate danger. He freed his hand and patted her neck before straightening in the saddle.

Honey resumed walking at a leisurely amble.

“Hellfires,” he muttered, wondering if sending Maiten and Ferethian away had been a symptom of his stupidity or wisdom.

~Many come,~
the First whispered to him. Kalen stiffened.

The creature’s presence stabbed through Kalen’s head, painful in its chill. There were no images with the words, but he could sense the First’s fear.

With his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, all the while questioning his sanity, Kalen asked, “Who is coming?”

Instead of words, a deluge of images battered at him. The chill of the cellar in Morinvale was chased by the feeling of something being forced down his throat. Kalen gagged, shuddering at the memory.

He had tried to forget that. Part of him still hoped it had been some sort of nightmare or hallucination spurred by blood loss.

~Truth,~
the First replied to his thoughts. Another shudder ran through Kalen. The memory of the Blood Priests and their murderous ritual replied in his mind.
~See?~

“If I could see,” he began to growl, but shook his head and snapped his mouth closed with a clack of his teeth. Yelling at the voice in his head wouldn’t help anything and confirmed he had, somewhere along the way, lost his sanity.

~See?~
the First asked tentatively.

Doubting he could explain the problem to the First without losing his temper, Kalen remained silent. It wasn’t the First’s fault he was blind. That much he had managed to learn from the Guardians. Lightning, like rock slides, cared nothing for those in its path. He still couldn’t remember most of what had happened when he had been blinded. Anger tainted the few memories he still possessed. Bloodlust and his desire to wipe out the Wolf Blades lingered. The cries of caged children haunted his sleep.

Kalen didn’t remember how he had been reunited with Breton, Maiten, Ceres, and Varest, but something had unsettled them. He winced. Breton was the worst, treating him as though he would shatter or vanish. Even Ceres and Varest feared something, but Kalen didn’t know what.

No one would talk to him about Morinvale.

On his own, he could almost delude himself into believing that he wasn’t the Rift King, that he didn’t have to rule, and that he didn’t have to fight for his survival. Without his sight, the cage of his rank didn’t close in on him quite so tightly.

There was something liberating in the futility of struggling when a child with a club could sneak up behind him and finish him off. He would live or he wouldn’t. The choice wasn’t his anymore, not really.

Honey shifted beneath him, once again brushing her nose against his knee. Smiling at her affection, he stroked her neck. Ferethian would be angry at him for forcing him away, but his horses didn’t seem to care he was blind. It was a comfort.

They still believed in him at least.

Ferethian would trouble him when they were reunited. With luck, the stallion would forgive and forget—sooner than later, preferably.

Honey snorted, and the sound was so full of equine disgust that Kalen wondered if the mare understood his thoughts. He shivered. The last thing he needed was his horses understanding him like one of the Kelshite Yadesh. It was hard enough to accept the truth that the deer-horse creatures could talk to Kalen in his head when they desired.

The First roused in Kalen’s head, its presence once again chilling him. The prickle of danger stabbed at the back of his neck. He twisted around. Without his sight, it was a futile motion. Honey trembled beneath him.

Kalen couldn’t fight what he couldn’t see. He nudged Honey with his heels. “Go,” he ordered.

Honey surged into a gallop, and Kalen clung to her with his legs and lone hand.

~See?~
the First asked. Color exploded in front of Kalen; reds, yellows, and oranges blurred to blues and blacks. Shapes streaked by so quick he couldn’t determine what they were. He tightened his grip on Honey’s mane. He blinked, but the blurring colors remained. As his bafflement grew, he became aware of Honey’s fear. It tore at him, stealing away his breath. Shudders ran through him. His heart pounded, throbbing in his throat, and its beat matched Honey’s.

~Still!~
the First demanded. The command shattered the link binding him to Honey. Everything stopped. Kalen’s heart ceased its frantic beating, and he couldn’t breathe. The rush of blood in his head faded to numbness.

Kalen wasn’t aware of falling until he hit the ground.

~~*~~

Kalen blinked at the light streaming through the canopy overhead. His dreams taunted him with the ability to see, but the longer he lay on the ground, the more he doubted whether he was asleep at all. His head throbbed, and the forest spun around him. Clutching at the ground with his hand, he struggled to fight off the rolling vertigo plaguing him.

Nausea and pain weren’t things he typically fought in his nightmares; what usually stalked him was far more terrifying, unseen terrors out for his blood.

Instead of light and blurred green foliage, darkness should have greeted him when he opened his eyes. Kalen drew several deep breaths. If it wasn’t a nightmare or a dream, why was he staring up at a forest canopy? The memory eluded him. Behemoth trees loomed over him. The sun warmed the mossy ground around him, keeping the worst of the darkness at bay.

Kalen closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. The memories flitting through his head didn’t make much sense to him. The most prevalent one was of dry heat on stone, reminding him of home. But where was home?

His puzzlement shifted to alarm when he couldn’t think of the answer. Sucking in a breath, he opened his eyes once again. The forest hadn’t changed. His vision remained blurred. Lifting his arm to rub at his brow woke aches and pains all over his body. Stifling a groan, Kalen lurched upright. Shuddering at the agony lancing up his right arm, he took stock of his injuries.

His hand hurt the most, but he couldn’t remember what he had done to it. None of his fingers looked broken, but moving his wrist hurt. There were no marks to indicate what he could have done to himself.

Why couldn’t he remember? Kalen suspected it had something to do with his skull-splitting headache. With a grimace, he rubbed at the back of his head, prodding at a particularly tender spot above his neck.

“Hellfires,” he muttered. The word triggered memories of a red-haired man. In most of them, the stranger laughed. The sense of familiarity alarmed him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the man’s name.

He muttered the word again. Speaking it roused his sluggish memories. Hellfires came from the Rift.

It should have meant something to him, but it didn’t. It was important, although he couldn’t remember why. When he cursed, he recognized the language as the Rifter tongue. He tried to climb to his feet, but the forest spun around him and when the world stilled, he was lying on his back again.

What had happened to him? Kalen didn’t know, and that worried him most of all.

~~*~~

When Kalen finally managed to climb to his feet, he stumbled to the nearest tree, each step triggering nausea and pain in his head. His eyes didn’t focus quite right, the blur compounding the throb in his skull. Closing his eyes didn’t help; the stomach-churning sensation of the world spinning around him worsened.

The ground trembled beneath him. He remembered being afraid of the shaking, but the reason behind his anxiety, like the rest of his memories, eluded him. What he could recall worried him. If he drew short breaths, he could minimize how much his head throbbed. Pain seemed to be something he was used to, as familiar to him as an old friend. At the thought of friends, a scant few faces came to mind. His affection for them was strong.

But what were their
names
? Who were they, and why did he care for them?

A life’s worth of memories banged around in his skull, but most of them lacked meaning.

The trembling intensified. Something urged him to act, but he ignored the impulse. His memories confirmed he usually acted, dealing with his problems directly. More often than not, he solved them with a sword, but he didn’t carry a blade. Someone—the red-haired someone—had his weapon. He had left it behind, unable to use it because of his treacherous eyes. That he could see anything at all was an improvement
.
The circumstances surrounding his troubled vision were hazy, as was the reason for its return, however blurred.

He took comfort in one of the few names he could remember—his. He was Kalen. His name carried weight and meaning, though many of the details were lost among his fragmented memories. Grunting from frustration, he stared down at his hand. Ignoring the pain the motion caused, he curled his fingers into a fist.

The tremble grew, accompanied by the rumble of dry thunder. Running wouldn’t do him any good, not without knowing what he ran from. His confidence in that knowledge surprised him, and it dulled his anxiety of the unknown.

When the threat revealed itself, he would act. He’d figure out what he would do later.

A whinny drowned out the rumbling. Kalen twisted around to face the source of the sound, wincing when the motion antagonized the pain in his head. Two golden animals surged out from the underbrush. The first was a horse, and with a shock of recognition, Kalen recognized her as his mare. She ran full out, weaving between the trees to elude the beast and rider chasing her. The second animal, while the same shade as his golden chestnut, wasn’t a horse. It wasn’t a deer, either, but an odd conglomerate of the two species.