Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1)
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Authors: RJ Blain
Storm Without End
by RJ Blain
Copyright © 2013 by RJ Blain
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher or author
excluding the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-0-9920289-7-8
For more information or to contact the publisher, please visit penandpage.ca or rjblain.com
Original cover art copyright © 2013 by Chris Howard
Chapter One
Kalen stared down at his feet and wondered what had happened to his boots. Thick, black mud oozed between his toes.
If he had his boots, the cold, wet forest wouldn’t have bothered him quite so much. His feet tingled, promising agony if he dared to take a single step. His only arm alternated between burning and freezing. A pair of dark dots on the back of his hand marked where he’d been bitten. He remembered that much. The serpent had been red, gold, silver and black, and it had struck faster than he could react.
What had happened after he’d been bitten? He had flung the serpent away, too late to stop its venom.
That, however, had been within the Rift, where the sun heated the stone and blistered the feet of those who dared to walk without boots. Serpents didn’t thrive in forests. They basked in the sun, waiting for people foolish enough to walk the trails of the Rift without paying attention. Kalen’s mouth twisted up in a rueful grin. Shaking his head, he stared down at his feet again and wiggled his toes.
How could he have journeyed so far without his boots? The answer to where he was and how he had gotten there surely hinged on the mystery of his bare, mud-covered feet.
At least whatever had happened to him hadn’t hurt his horse. While far away, Ferethian was alive. The animal’s presence was a soothing warmth in his chest—the only part of him not plagued with the damp chill of the forest. Kalen furrowed his brow and rubbed his temple with his hand. Ferethian had been with him. How had he gotten separated from his stallion?
He shook his head and lifted his gaze from his feet. The forest stretched out around him, fog coiling around the roots of trees and spreading out as a misty blanket over the ground.
The trees didn’t compare to the sheer cliffs of his home, but there was something majestic and defiant about the way they reached toward the sky.
A blast of wind whipped his rain-slicked hair across his face. Kalen flinched at the cold against his cheeks. For a brief moment, the fog cleared. Long furrows tore across the forest floor revealing mud, overturned beds of moss, and exposed roots.
His breath caught in his throat. Figures moved through the shadows of the forest, and the rain gleamed on the steel of their naked blades. The winds stilled and the fog rushed back to cover the ground.
Kalen tensed and for a moment he forgot the cold and the aches plaguing him. Even the throb in his right arm faded to little more than a burn creeping toward his shoulder. He slid his left foot back and turned so that he presented less of a target. Despite the fifteen or so years since he’d lost his left arm, he was too aware of the phantom sensation of flexing a hand he no longer possessed.
Reaching down to his side proved fruitless. The corners of his lip twitched upward. His sword must have suffered the same fate as his boots, another thrice-cursed mystery he didn’t want to solve.
Another breeze whispered through the trees and disturbed the clouds of white engulfing him, but did little to clear it. The wind tugged at the thin pair of braids tucked behind his ears, which draped over his shoulders and down his chest. His every instinct urged him to step forward and strike. It whispered to him, urging him destroy the threat. Kalen drew one breath, held it, and then let it out before drawing another. Feet splashed through the water and mud. One pair, two pairs, three pairs. His heartbeat sounded in his ears with the same steady driving tempo of the drums of war.
A gust parted the fog; the shapes were closer. Branches creaked overhead, then the wind stilled once more. Through the gaps in the mist, Kalen saw six, but somewhere in the forest lurked a seventh, splashing through the mud whenever the others hesitated to move forward.
He stood his ground, watched, and waited. If he moved too soon, they would be ready for him. Too late, and escape wouldn’t be possible. He had to wait for the moment when those before him were assured of their prey. Then, he would strike. His lip twisted up in a grin. Would they believe him a child due to his height? Many did. Some survived to regret it. Would they hesitate at his lack of a left arm, and believe they had the advantage?
Kalen hoped so.
If he could take one of their weapons, he’d have a chance.
One of the figures stepped forward. While most men were taller than him, the stranger towered over him enough that Kalen was forced to tilt his head up to stare at the man’s face.
All he saw was a frown and narrowed eyes. The man’s squared jaw twitched. Kalen shuffled back a step, the mud clinging at his trousers and sucking at his feet. The man’s sword was held low and at the ready, gripped with white-knuckles. Kalen swallowed and glanced around for something—anything—he could use as a weapon. If the man wanted his head, so be it, but it wouldn’t be without a fight.
They stood and stared at each other with nothing but the patter of rain and the rustle of branches and leaves to break the silence. The darkness of the forest couldn’t hide the paleness of the stranger’s hair. It was a color Kalen hadn’t seen in so long that he blinked several times to assure himself that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
The color didn’t change.
The cold of the rain seeped into his veins. Blond hair didn’t exist in the Rift. Those with the man’s light-toned skin and hair the color of the sun were killed on sight in neighboring Danar. Mithrias had forests, but blond hair was rare; even in the gloom, the glints of yellow and light brown was predominant. The clans had men with blond hair, but they lived on plains, not within forests.
Many Kingdoms bordered the Rift, but only Kelsh had men with such pale hair.
Loathing and disgust burned within him. It was bad enough that he was cold, wet, bootless, and without his sword. But to be stuck in
Kelsh?
He longed for home, even if he had to subject himself to the watchful eyes of his Guardians.
Kalen fought to keep his expression neutral and his gaze fixed on the man in front of him.
“Why have you come here?” the man asked in the trade tongue, the words clipped, harsh, and grating to Kalen’s ears.
“Passing through,” he replied, careful to keep his voice quiet and his tone even, like he did when soothing a wild or unruly animal.
“With no horse? With no pack? Your clothes aren’t from here. We don’t wear such symbols,” the man replied, moving closer. The tip of the sword was lifted. “We’re far from the trade road. Only raiders, outlaws, and beasts come this way. Which are you?”
Kalen reached up, touching the cloth crossing his chest. The sigil, crafted of black silk and embroidered in silver and gold thread, was in the shape of a winged serpent. Had he been wearing it when the serpent had bit him? If he had been in the city of Blind Mare Run, he would’ve worn his sigil as a sash. Had he been on the trails? He couldn’t remember.
“Which are you?” Kalen challenged, stealing glances to both of his sides when he could without losing sight of the man before him. The rain and the groaning of the trees masked too much sound. The other men were out there, but Kalen wasn’t certain of where they were.
The disadvantage could get him killed. He could only hope that their sight was as hampered as much as his, and that their muscles were also cold and stiff.
Fervent obsession lit the stranger’s eyes. “We’re those who will bring you to justice.”
“I am no Danarite,” Kalen said in the Kelshite tongue. Hatred ran thick between the lands of Danar and Kelsh. Few Kelshites learned Danarite, and fewer Danarites learned Kelshite. He jerked his chin at his left shoulder and his empty sleeve. “Do I look like a raider? Or a beast? I have broken none of your laws.” He took one step back, then another, until the bark of the tree bit at his back through the material of his tunic.
~Truth,~
a voice whispered. It was a sound, but Kalen didn’t hear it with his ears. It was a voice—a woman’s voice—but it resonated within his mind. It was meaning, intent and thought rather than spoken word.
Kalen shivered. Hearing voices in his head was the last thing he needed. Was the last vestiges of his sanity finally slipping away?
If the Kelshite also heard the voice, there was no indication of it. “The beast was here. It led us to here. To you.” Rage contorted the man’s features. “You lie.”
“Beast? What be—” Kalen sucked in a breath through his teeth and swallowed back his words as the man leaped forward.
“Hareth, wait!” someone—a man—shouted.
Rain whipped off of the blade as it was thrust at Kalen’s chest.
Kalen dove out of the way. The mud sucked at his feet and legs. The bark tore at his tunic, scratched at his back, and slowed him. Steel grazed his arm, and a pained hiss slipped out from between his clenched teeth. The blade bounced off the tree trunk and showered him with bark.
Then the tip of the weapon rose, arcing to strike Kalen down as he fell.
~~*~~
~Stop!~
For one moment, the world obeyed the command that thundered through Kalen’s head. There was no sound, and even the rain ceased falling on him. He was unable to resist the power of that one, simple word. His legs collapsed beneath his own weight, and he hit the ground hard.
The mud enveloped him in a suffocating grip. Bursts of light danced in front of his eyes. He struggled to move, but his muscles stiffened and refused to obey. The sword, so close to running him through, splashed down beside him. It wasn’t just within reach; it rested on his hand, as though imploring him to take it up and use it.
~Kill.~
It wasn’t the woman’s voice. It wasn’t a man or a woman, but instead a strange, echoing sound in Kalen’s head which embodied the rumbling tones of a man matched with the sultry, lighter intonations of a woman. The images of battle and bloodshed, and a deep, burning hatred accompanied the word. The taste of blood was hot on his tongue, sweet yet metallic, and he wasn’t certain if it was from a past memory or the present.
The new compulsion was born of malevolence so strong that Kalen’s heart ceased beating. Those who defied him needed to die. Those who dared to raise their hand against him would be destroyed.
Kalen wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword.
“This isn’t right, Hareth,” a deep voice said from within the mists. “Would you turn us into murderers?”
Movement drew Kalen’s eye. A dark-haired man emerged from the forest to stand beside Hareth.
All Kalen needed to do was lift up the sword and take but two steps, and he would be free. He would feed the forest with the blood of those who tried to strike him down.
The need to use the sword burned within him and drove away the chill of the rain and the mud.
Muscle by muscle, Kalen gained back control of his body. His breath came as short pants.
~This isn’t right,~
the woman’s voice said. He couldn’t sense any ill-intent from her, but he got the sense that she wasn’t speaking to him. It reminded him of listening in on a conversation others didn’t want him to hear.
It was nothing like the other’s voice. Its message was simple and clear, and it was meant for him and him alone. Its message was one he knew too well: Kill, or be killed.
~Kill,~
the malevolent voice whispered again, taking on a more masculine than feminine tone. Kalen rose to his knees, his hand tight on the sword.
Within two short strides, his enemies glared at one another. The forest was silent and the rain ceased falling, as though anticipating his choice. Two steps and he could cut his way to freedom.
“Do you really intend to kill a harmless cripple you just injured? Have you lost your mind?” The questions were whispered, but they carried the weight of loathing and disappointment.
