“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.
Kalen’s
throne is his saddle, his crown is the dirt on his brow, and his right
to rule is sealed in the blood that stains his hand. Few know the truth
about the one-armed Rift King, and he prefers it that way. When people
get too close to him, they either betray him or die. The Rift he rules
cares nothing for the weak. More often than not, even the strong fail to
survive.
When
he’s abducted, his disappearance threatens to destroy his home, his
people, and start a hopeless and bloody war. There are many who desire
his death, and few who hope for his survival. With peace in the Six
Kingdoms quickly crumbling, it falls on him to try to stop the conflict
swiftly taking the entire continent by storm.
But
something even more terrifying than the machinations of men has
returned to the lands: The skreed. They haven’t been seen for a thousand
years, and even the true power of the Rift King might not be enough to
save his people — and the world — from destruction.
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Genre - Fantasy
Rating – PG - 13
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