Free Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) by RJ Blain

spurred the most steadfast of horses into bolting.
    Breton dismounted and the other two Guardians followed his lead. Thrusting Perin’s reins into Artin’s hands, he stepped toward the narrow opening of the niche.
    From within came the low, pained groan of a dying man. When Ferethian refused to step closer, the witchlight followed him and illuminated the niche.
    The steady, white glow drove the serpents back. Their hisses deepened in tone. They slithered over one another in their haste to flee the light.
    “That won’t hold them back long,” Artin warned.
    The nibblers’ victim lay in the entrance of the niche, both arms stretched out toward the trail. Dark, bloodshot eyes stared up at him.  
    The figure groaned again, bloodied, bitten fingers clawing at the stone and sand. Breton shuddered. The man’s garb was all but gone, ripped away in the serpents’ frenzy. Strips of flesh hung from exposed bone. Blood stained the ground and what remained of the man’s skin.
    “Curse you,” the man rasped in the Danarite tongue. “Curse you and your wretched king.”
    “What is he saying?” Voren asked.
    “Don’t know,” Artin replied.
    “He’s a Danarite,” Breton said. He frowned and knelt down in front of the dying man. Then, in Danarite, he asked, “Why have you come here?”
    “Why?” The Danarite coughed up blood. The nibblers hissed and writhed on the edge of the light, but didn’t approach.
    Yet.
    Breton watched the circle of light and the shadowy shapes of the serpents beyond the man dying before him.
    “We’ll destroy you and take your king.” The Danarite coughed again and tried to spit blood at Breton’s boots. “When we do, our Lady Selestrune will hold dominion. You’ll perish.”
    “Talkative for a corpse,” Artin growled. “What’s he saying now?”
    “Some drivel about that Goddess of theirs and conquering. About the same as their typical missive. Seems they’re after Kalen,” Breton said.
    “Who isn’t?” Artin asked. “Let the nibblers take him before they come for us too.”
    “Wise,” Breton agreed. Ignoring the man’s efforts to spit on him a second time, he stood and backed out of the entrance.
    “I’ll show you.” The Danarite choked out the words and struggled to rise. Breton didn’t turn around. “Our power. Her power. Behold, curse you. Behold!”
    The horses whinnied in alarm. Breton jerked towards the animals. The Rift Horses remained still, but their ears were back. They stood tense and ready to bolt.
    The Danarite horse they’d found down the trail, which he presumed belonged to the dying in the cave, struggled against Voren’s hold on the reins. It reared with a high-pitched scream.
    Even Ferethian stood with his ears cocked back and his small frame quivering.
    “You can’t run,” the Danarite said.
    “Shut up and die already,” Breton replied.
    The man’s last sound was a gurgled shriek. Breton jerked around. The body convulsed. Bone twisted and cracked. On the stones, the spilled blood boiled and smoked.
    Within the depths of the cavern, the shadows reached out with malevolent intent.
    The nibblers’ hisses fell silent.
    “What’s going on in there?” Artin asked.
    “I’m not going in there to find out.” Voren backed away from the niche. With most of the horses following behind him, they disappeared into the night.
    Breton held his ground and watched. The witchlight darted back to Ferethian and hovered, leaving Breton in the shadow of the cliffs.
    Something hit the ground at Breton’s feet. His heart pounded in his throat and its drum echoed in his ears. An acrid odor hit his nose. It was the stench of smoke, decay, and filth. Breton’s stomach heaved and he swallowed several times to clear his throat.
    The horses whinnied another warning. Teeth grabbed hold of the back of his collar and pulled. Breton fell back several steps. A sharp pain raced up his leg. Ferethian draped his head over Breton’s shoulder and squealed in challenge. The