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

down the trail. The creature would catch him.
    It moved closer and dipped its head down so that Breton stared into its tiny, beady black eyes.
    ~Eldest,~ it repeated.
    “Breton!” Artin’s voice cracked from fear.
    Breton’s awareness of the Rift King grew, until even the beast before him was unable to erase it for all of its power. It pulled him to the east. It called to him.
    The presence rummaged through Breton’s mind. Memories roused, as strong and vibrant as the day of their experience. There was a pattern to it, and Breton held his breath.
    The creature examined his every thought of the Rift King, past and present. It searched for something, and discarded the memories of Arik without hesitation.
    Emotions battered at him as though he were no more than grains of sand caught in the wind. It settled on triumph and longing, affection and respect.
    ~Beloved,~ the creature’s voice no longer thundered through Breton’s skull.
    It opened its maw and the narrow tip of its tongue burned through his tunic and dug into his shoulder and chest. The scream was torn from Breton’s throat. Its arms reached out and grasped Breton. Fire burned through his veins. His body fell limp and he dangled in the creature’s grip. It let out a high-pitched keen.
    It let him go. Breton collapsed to the ground and struggled to break free of the paralysis that gripped him. He was faintly aware of the screaming horses. Artin and   Voren were shouting. The creature’s talons dug deep gouges into the stone. Its saliva boiled and hissed and left deep, smoking holes. It stepped over him. Its taloned foot kicked Breton in the side, tossing him away from the ledge toward the entrance of the niche. Breton groaned and rolled to a halt, lying on his back.
    The Danarite’s horse screamed. Flesh ripped and the cry fell silent. The animal hit the ground hard so close to Breton that a few strands of the creature’s brown tail fell across his face.
    The heat of the sunrise warmed him, but Breton couldn’t see its light. Ferethian let out another challenging scream. Breton let out the breath he was holding. Kalen’s precious stallion had survived.
    That was enough.

    ~~*~~

    “Do you think it’ll come back?” Artin asked in a whisper.
    Breton shivered. The Rift didn’t get cold, but no matter how long he stood in the sun, it didn’t warm him. The worst of the chill centered on where the creature had dug its tongue into his chest and shoulder. Voren pressed a bandage against him.
    “Good question,” Breton replied, unable to force his hoarse voice above a whisper. While he didn’t remember screaming—or much of anything after he’d been dropped by the thing the Danarite had summoned—his throat burned and ached. He struggled to rise. “It’s near noon. We need to get moving.”
    Both Artin and Voren were already sweating, and it was going to get hotter a lot faster if they tarried much longer. While the horses could cope, they’d need water, and none of them were willing to enter the niche to find out if there was any within.
    Not that Breton could walk that far even if he wanted to. The thought of trying was enough to nauseate him.
    “At least let me bandage that properly. We’re already going to face the business end of His Majesty’s sword when he finds out we let you ride like that,” Voren said.
    Laughing hurt, but Voren looked relieved, so Breton ignored the pain and forced himself to grin. It didn’t matter which Guardian got injured, the Rift King always reacted the same. They’d all endured Kalen’s wrath at one time or another, and getting whacked with the flat of a blade didn’t hurt that much. Arik hadn’t cared enough about any of them to grant them even that. The lucky or well-liked got tended by the healers.
    The others had been left to die.
    “How’s the water supply?” Breton asked, glancing toward the niche. The sun illuminated the Danarite’s corpse. There wasn’t much left of it. What the creature hadn’t