Storm Surge (23 page)

The men snapped a salute and went to work. One spun on a heel and ran into the camp. Only when Ferethian decided to follow the lead of one of the mercenaries did Kalen relent and let Moritta guide him from the warmth of the bonfire. He muttered curses the entire way. The First echoed his displeasure with wordless grumblings in Kalen’s head.

In truth, he was too tired to do more than grumble, and unlike during their ride, the others had to slow down to his pace. The healers’ tents were located in the heart of the camp. Moritta held the central tent’s flap open for him, and Kalen ducked within.

The warmth inside surprised him. He made space to let the others in. Unlike the common tents, the healers’ space was more of a canvas-covered pavilion to allow room for the injured. Two healers, dressed in green coats with thick fur cloaks on top, sat on a cot, their heads ducked together as they talked. Both looked up as Kalen entered.

With wide eyes, both men jumped up and snapped a salute.

Kalen wished he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “If I hear a single Captain, sir, or Your Majesty, someone is getting beaten to death with this splint.”

Someone behind him choked on a laugh.

“Do not hurt yourself,” Crysallis said. The witch pressed her hand to his back, propelling him forward. “The mage’s working wore off, healers.”

“That’s an interesting splint, Witch,” the older of the two healers replied, a gray-haired man with dark eyes and wrinkled, leathered skin from long exposure to the sun. Kalen recognized the man’s voice. Parice sounded much younger than he looked.

“I managed a mild pain block, but it’s not as good as yours. It shouldn’t interfere with your ability to work your magic on him. I’m hesitant to remove it until you’ve finished. He’s pained enough as it is.”

“Then this should be simple, assuming you haven’t done any more harm to yourself.” Parice sighed, closing the distance between them. Kalen stiffened, watching the Mithrian. He walked in the graceful way of a dancer—or a swordsman accustomed to wasting no energy with unnecessary movement. “Your sight has improved.”

Kalen nodded. “Blurry, but I can live with that.”

“Sit and let’s get a look at you. Nirlin, take a look over the others, would you?” Parice gestured to a cot, and with a grumble, Kalen sank down on it, holding out his arm.

The fluttering feeling of panic built in his chest as Parice took hold of his elbow. With a swallow, Kalen forced himself to draw a deep breath. There was no reason to be anxious. Parice was going to
remove
the splint. Even knowing that, he struggled with the urge to flinch away and pull his arm out of the man’s grip.

Parice’s eyes narrowed, but the man said nothing, directing his gaze to Kalen’s hand and wrist. “You were correct; there’s nothing left of the mage’s work beyond some residual magic. An annoyance, but it won’t impact my ability to heal this. It doesn’t look like there’s any new damage at least. This was really well done, Witch—and likely saved him from another few weeks in a cast.”

While he didn’t like being talked about like he wasn’t there, Kalen was relieved he wasn’t expected to say a word. The thought of another cast left his stomach churning.

“You’re lucky you still have a hand, Ca—”

Kalen twisted around to glare at the healer. Parice closed his mouth with a clack of his teeth. “Ahem. You’re fortunate you still have a hand at all. These are the same black marks one of your scouts came back with from Morinvale. What are they?”

“Taint,” Crysallis answered, sitting on the cot next to Kalen. “He was splashed by the swarm when it passed.”

“I don’t know if it’s your magic helping, Witch, but I’m actually able to get a feel for what it’s doing to him, unlike with the others. It’s attacking his nerves, so far as I can tell. Do you know if this can this be healed?”

“You told me it felt numb,” the witch said accusingly.

“It does. I was being honest.” Anything other than the stabbing throb of the broken bones in his hand would be reason to rejoice. It took Crysallis’s whispered reminder to breathe for him to gather enough strength of will, partially fueled by his embarrassment, to regain some semblance of control over his reactions.

“Well, that’s something I can easily solve without much effort at all. It shouldn’t even hurt. All I need to do is fuse the bones. The hard work has already been done. More accurately, it hasn’t been undone. An hour’s sleep will do you a lot of good, too, I think.”

Before Kalen could protest, Parice stole away his pain, and true to the healer’s implied threat, his exhausted body succumbed to its need for rest.

~~*~~

An hour’s worth of sleep wasn’t enough to dispel Kalen’s fatigue, but he didn’t complain, not even when Parice poked and prodded at the stains on his hand. True to the healer’s word, he was freed of the splint. He flexed his fingers to prove he could, earning a grumble from the Mithrian inspecting the black splotches.

Maiten and Derac had abandoned him to the healer’s mercies, although Moritta hovered nearby. While he still wasn’t certain what he thought of a Mithrian Guardian, he kept his doubts to himself. He’d have to deal with both Breton and Maiten soon enough for their audacity—and hunt down the third new Guardian so his phantom left hand would cease aching.

“If you keep fidgeting, we’re never going to finish this,” the healer muttered.

“I thought you didn’t know how to heal it,” Kalen countered, forcing himself to sit still.

“I don’t right now, but perhaps I can figure out how if you cooperate, sir.”

Kalen feigned wide-eyed innocence. “But I am cooperating. I’m sitting here very patiently while you poke at me.”

The corners of the man’s mouth twitched upward. “Do you do anything like a normal person, sir? What I don’t understand is why you aren’t screaming each and every time I touch you. So far as I can tell, these black marks are attacking your nerves. I can’t sense any pain blocks being used.”

“Crysallis?” Kalen leaned to the side so he could look around the healer. “Isn’t this your expertise?”

“I can’t heal it,” the witch repeated for the fourth time since he’d woken up. With a scowl in his direction, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You would need a Danarite Lord Priest for that. I wish you luck acquiring one, Captain.”

Kalen glowered at the woman for using his newly acquired rank—a rank he hadn’t even had a chance of protesting to the real captain of the mercenary company. “What about Verishi? Might she know?”

“She might, but she would need a ritual blade, which we do not have.”

Parice twisted around to face the witch. “Ritual blade? Jeweled dagger with barbs in the hilt?”

It wasn’t often Kalen got to watch Crysallis falter or be taken by surprise. He savored her widening eyes and startled expression. “You’ve seen one before?”

“I’ve seen that little girl playing with something like that. The Guardians keep taking it away from her so she won’t hurt herself with it, but she always manages to steal it back.” With a shake of his head, Parice stood, headed to the tent’s flap, and poked his head outside.

A blast of cold swept in, along with swirling eddies of snow. Kalen shuddered. All he could see beyond Parice was white.

Moments later, the healer sealed the tent so the coal braziers could warm the air once more. “Someone will bring the girl and her blade.”

It didn’t take long for a snow-encrusted mercenary to return with the Danarite handmaiden. She was covered from head to toe in thick furs, which were dusted with white. After stomping her feet and giggling at the snow as it fell from her clothes, she threw back the hood, revealing a tangled mass of blond hair.

“You need to comb your hair,” Kalen scolded, narrowing his eyes at the girl as she wiggled her way out of her furs. Crysallis claimed the garment before Verishi could drop it onto the canvas-covered ground.

Skipping across to where he sat, the girl held out the jeweled dagger. “You wanted this, Horse Lord?”

Kalen leaned forward, bracing his elbow against his knee, all so he could look the young girl in the eyes. “We wanted to know if you knew how to deal with the taint. Is that something you can do, Verishi?”

All signs of levity vanished from her expression as her gaze dropped to Kalen’s black-stained hand. She swallowed and jerked her head in a nod. “It is because we have sinned against
Her
.”

“Can it be cured?” Kalen asked.

The little girl sighed. “The Lord Priests should be the ones paying the price for their sins. Not you. Not others. It is not you who has sinned.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “They don’t know what they’ve done.”

The words echoed what Crysallis had told him before, and Kalen lifted his head to stare at the witch. The woman refused to meet his gaze.

“You might be the only one here who knows what we can do to fight against this taint,” Kalen said, careful to keep his voice and tone quiet and soothing. While the girl seemed calm, he’d seen her mood change faster than the shifting winds of the Rift. Sometimes she was a child, and sometimes she was a woman trapped in a child’s body.

Other times, she was as volatile as the flooding river or raging scouring.

“This is as much an illness of the spirit as it is of the body. Watch, healer. Watch, and see what
She
will do to all of us for betraying
Her
.” Firming her grip on the dagger with her left hand, Verishi placed the edge of the blade against the back of his hand. Kalen couldn’t feel the blade slice through his skin, drawing blood.

He bled black.

“Why is your blood black?” Parice asked in alarm.

“Taint,” was Crysallis’s confident reply.

“Watch closely, Healer,” the handmaiden ordered, tossing the dagger onto the cot. She turned Kalen’s hand so he bled onto the canvas floor. “You must use a blessed blade or it will melt. Any knife will do, however, so long as it can cut through the skin. It will be ruined if it is not blessed. The black blood will flow first. It desires the sunlight as much as the body wishes to be rid of it. Once the blood is flowing, it can be cured much as you would a plague. It will resist you. Exposing the taint to sunlight or water will make it easier. These are signs of purity.”

Parice watched with interest. “Sunlight or water. I hadn’t thought to bleed it out. Can leeches be used?”

The viciousness of Verishi’s expression caught Kalen by surprise. “Only if you desire to create more skreed, Healer.”

Parice flinched. “No leeches, then. What else?”

“Destroy it as you would an infection. Eradicate it from this world.” Verishi murmured something under her breath.

The back of his hand burst into golden flame. Kalen’s breath hissed through his teeth, but when he jerked his hand, Verishi’s grip tightened on him, too strong for him to break free.

The flames extinguished, leaving behind red blood oozing from the cut. The splotches were still present, but had turned a dark gray.

“Sunlight, water, and the holy fires of
Her
sun can purify what has been tainted. Once the blood has been cleansed, the blackened skin will heal on its own given time.” Verishi retrieved her dagger and murmured a few more words. The jeweled blade burst into golden flame. Heat wafted through the tent, as warm as the noon sun.

“I’m stealing your little girl, Captain. There’s a scout who direly needs her and her Goddess right now,” Parice announced, snatching the girl’s coat from Crysallis. “We haven’t been able to help him, but
you
can.”

Verishi’s eyes widened and a flush spread over her cheeks. “Me? You want me?”

The amazed, disbelieving tone tore at Kalen’s heart, and all of the girl’s seriousness from moments before was undone by the delight of a young child basking in the glow of an adult’s approval. “Of course we want you,” Kalen said, giving the handmaiden’s shoulder a squeeze. “Now go help Healer Parice.”

Judging from the haste in which Parice bundled the girl up and herded her out of the tent, the scout’s condition couldn’t be good. Kalen shivered, waiting until he was certain the Danarite handmaiden and Mithrian healer couldn’t hear him before saying, “Crysallis, what would happen if that mercenary dies from the taint?”

The witch’s eyes widened and she shuddered. “He’d…”

“Go with them,” he ordered. “Protect Verishi as though she were my own. Protect this camp as you would our people. Do not let him turn into a skreed.”

Straightening, Crysallis met his gaze, nodded once, and fled out of the tent to follow after Verishi and Parice.

Snow was like wet, cold sand raining down from the sky, and Breton didn’t like it. It caked to him, weighing him down and stiffening his muscles from its chill. If the choice had been his, he would have remained in his tent as Captain Silvereye had suggested. If the mercenary who had come for him hadn’t had a wide-eyed, stricken look, Breton might have sent the young man back to Princess Tala of Kelsh with a curt message.

Why the thrice blasted woman wanted to see him immediately and not a moment later was beyond his ability to comprehend.

Ceres grumbled something under his breath. “This filly is going to be the death of us,” the younger Guardian predicted in a disgusted tone.

“You’re likely right.” Agreeing was easier than arguing, especially when Kalen’s foal looked ready to burst from annoyance. Breton resisted the urge to sigh.

“This must be why Father insists we return to Blind Mare Run in the autumn. This snow.” Ceres clacked his teeth together. “This is terrible. It’s
cold.
”

“You sound like your father,” Breton replied, not bothering to hide his amusement. “I think it’s a little easier to understand why he hates Kelsh so much, if they think that this sort of weather is normal.”

If Kelsh was always so cold in the winter, Kalen must have hated the shifting seasons even more than the presence of his sire.

“I heard them saying it was out of season. How could anyone want to live where this could happen in any season?” Ceres complained.

“It isn’t all bad,” Breton began, warmth spreading through him despite the chill of the storm. “Wherever your father is, he isn’t in danger. They must have found somewhere safe.”

Ceres stomped his feet, hopping around in a circle. “I
hate
this. It feels like there are rocks in my head. I can’t tell if he’s close—all I can sense is that he’s alive. That’s it. Not even a direction. It must be this damned storm. And this snow, it’s
hissing.
It’s not sand, it’s not a serpent. It’s not supposed to hiss. This is unnatural.”

“I’m pretty certain it’s not unnatural. The mercenaries knew exactly how to deal with the weather and prepare for it.” As they made their way through the maze of tents erected along the fringe of the camp, he could see the mercenaries gathered around one of the bonfires. Their laughter carried in the still air of the camp. Beyond the flames and the mages’ shield, the snow fell sideways. “Smart men hide from a scouring. It looks like they want to play in it,” he said in disgust.

“Definitely unnatural.” When Ceres shook his head, snow fell from the top of his head. “Why didn’t you just tell that filly no?”

“You could have stayed in the tent.”

“And leave you to get trampled by her? I think not. Father wouldn’t forgive me if I let you be whipped by a useless mare.” Ceres snorted.

“Are you laughing at me, colt?”

“Me? Never, Breton. If I was going to laugh at you, I’d do so.”

The smugness in Ceres’s tone annoyed Breton into slowing his pace and glaring at Kalen’s foal. “Is that so?”

“It is so. For example, if I wanted to laugh at you, I’d inform Father of all of the tactics you’ve used to control him over the years.”

Breton came to a halt, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’ll make a point to tell him about the times you’ve switched places with Varest because you didn’t want Ferethian biting you again.”

With a shudder, Ceres also came to a stop, shaking his head. “He already found out about that. He beat us both with Gorishitorik for our impudence.”

“Oh, he taught you some new words, did he? And anyway, you deserved it.”

Another snort answered him. “I’ll tell him about the time you tried stone dancing, triggered a slide, and needed Maiten to haul you out of the ravine,” Ceres countered with a smug grin.

“While I said I would visit with Kelsh’s princess, I’ve plenty of time to toss you down first, colt.”

Ceres pressed his lips together into a thin line. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t take me even if you wanted to, old man.”

Breton changed directions, heading towards the bonfire and the clearing surrounding it. “Why don’t we find out?” he said in his mildest tone.

With narrowed eyes, Ceres took off his gloves, shoved them into a pocket, and cracked his knuckles. “When I win, you’re going to apologize to Father when we see him and swear to remove your head from your horse’s ass.”

~~*~~

Kalen dressed in one of the fur coats the rest of the mercenaries were wearing, basking in its warmth.

Moritta, as if sensing he wasn’t listening to her as she described the layout of the camp, glared at him. “Will you please pay attention, Captain?”

“Don’t waste your breath, Moritta. You’re going to show me the camp. When you’re done, I’m going to sleep for a week. That’s fair, right?”

The Mithrian muttered something under her breath too soft for him to hear. “Very well, Captain.”

Once he finished fastening his coat and cloak, he grabbed the pair of gloves Moritta offered him. He shoved the extra into his pocket. Putting on a glove with only one hand proved tricky, but he managed without help.

It was a small victory, and he reveled in it.

“These are probably a bit big for you, but at least they’ll keep the cold off your feet,” Moritta said, dropping a pair of fur-lined boots beside him. “Better a bit too large than losing toes, sir.”

“A bit big, Moritta? They’re huge. I could probably fit both of my feet in one of them.” He loosened the laces of his riding boots and kicked them off. The new pair proved to be a tighter fit than he anticipated, filled with several layers of fur lining. Once he had shoved his feet in both of them, the Mithrian woman knelt and started lacing them. She bound them tight enough to his calves that he doubted he’d be able to get them off on his own without the help of a knife.

Before he had a chance to try walking in them, someone swept into the tent. Judging from how Moritta straightened and snapped a salute, the man had to be the true captain of the Crimson Eye. Kalen rose to his feet, narrowing his eyes as he took in the Mithrian.

The man’s different colored eyes caught and held Kalen’s attention. “You must be Captain Silvereye,” he murmured.

“You’re looking lively,” Silvereye replied, his tone amused. “So your little adventure had positive results. Good. How much has Moritta told you?”

“She seems to have gotten it into her head that I’m a captain now?” Kalen mirrored Moritta’s glare, leveling it at the Mithrian. “A Shadow Captain, to be specific.”

“I decided it was a prudent decision, considering the circumstances. You, Satoren Delrose, fled to Mithrias from Kelsh, joining my company at quite the young age, earning the rank you enjoy today. You have gone under an assumed name—Kalen—ever since. Pick a family name of your choosing if you’d like, or keep it as your Rifter name, but it needs to match your Rifter initials. As all mercenary captains have monikers, we’ll need to choose one for you.”

“Blackhand,” Moritta supplied.

Captain Silvereye blinked. “Blackhand?”

Before Kalen could protest, Moritta grabbed hold of his arm and pulled off his glove, showing off the dark splotches. “It suits him.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No,” both of the Mithrians replied.

“Aren’t black hands assassins?” Kalen asked, shaking his head at the two mercenaries.

“It adds a certain flair to your naming,” Captain Silvereye said with a grin. “I like it. Captain Blackhand it is. You Rifters wear black all of the time anyway, so it fits. Levity aside, there’s something I need you to deal with, Blackhand.”

After retrieving his glove from Moritta, Kalen put it back on with the help of his teeth, watching Silvereye with an arched brow. “What?”

“There’s a fight I need you to break up.”

“A fight,” he echoed, straightening.

“From my understanding, it’s more of a brawl. Two of your Guardians seem to have had some issues they wanted to settle, and they decided to do so in the snow. It seems no one is brave enough to try to stop them.” The corners of Captain Silvereye’s mouth twitched.

“Hellfires. Are you serious?”

“Quite, I’m afraid.”

“Which two?”

“I’m not sure. Someone ran a message to me and didn’t tell me which two. I’ve already sent someone to hunt down Parice. He’ll be coming back here to take care of them afterward. I’m of the opinion that the cold got to them despite my warnings.” Captain Silvereye sighed. “It won’t be the last fight we’ll end up breaking up before this is over.”

“I need Maiten and—”

“I’m here,” his red-headed Guardian replied, ducking into the tent.

“Gorishitorik,” Kalen ordered.

With a grimace, Maiten tossed it over. Kalen went to catch it, but Moritta intercepted the weapon and buckled it into place around Kalen’s hips.

“That’s a clever design on the sheath,” she said, kneeling to examine the clasps allowing Kalen to draw the sword easier.

“Fall in,” Kalen barked, bracing for the cold outside of the tent. “It’s time to knock some heads together.”

He didn’t care why his Guardians were fighting, but if the mercenary captain had bothered coming to him to put an end to it, he needed to stop them before they hurt each other—or worse.

~~*~~

The cold pierced through Kalen’s cloak and furs, stiffening his already sore and aching muscles. Maiten hovered at his side, but a glare from Kalen kept the red-headed man at arm’s length. If he fell in the snow, Kalen deserved it for leaving the warmth of the healer’s tent, where he could have been sleeping.

A crowd of mercenaries blocked his path, but before Kalen’s temper could fray and snap, Maiten pushed by him and snarled, “Move.”

The crowd parted.

Blood, snow, and mud mixed as two fur-clad figures rolled a little too close to the bonfire for Kalen’s comfort. In the Rift, the observers would have been making bets on the victor. The mercenaries watched without a word, half of their attention focused on him as he considered how best to deal with the problem. Judging from size alone, one of them was Breton. The other was likely Ceres or Varest, though he couldn’t tell which as the brawl continued. Could he even count the haphazard flailing a fight? The pair flopped around like fish on the shore.

Kalen sighed.

“What in the deeps is going on?” Maiten asked in Rifter, his tone both baffled and disgusted.

“Hellfires, I don’t know. No wonder Silvereye wanted me to put an end to this. They’re acting like foals. It’s not even worth betting on at this point.” Scowling, Kalen pulled off his glove using his teeth before handing it over to his Guardian. “And here I was worried they were going to kill each other, not just bloody each other’s noses.”

Broken noses bled a lot, but it wouldn’t cause either one of them lasting long. Kalen sighed his relief and annoyance.

After hesitating, Maiten nodded. “I don’t think you need to be worried too much about that. I’m more concerned with what started this.”

Unsheathing Gorishitorik, Kalen held the blade’s hilt out to his Guardian. “Hold that. I might need it. Better get this out of the way before the Mithrians think we’re entirely undisciplined.”

Maiten flinched. “Please try to have a little mercy, Captain.”

Snorting his disgust and amusement at his new rank, Kalen flexed his hand and tried to make sense of the two men rolling in the mud. “I’ll think about it.” The fight consisted of aimless kicks, jabs with elbows, and punches incapable of doing much damage in the rare times a blow was landed. Sighing again, Kalen waited for an opening as they rolled towards him. When it came, he stepped forward, swung his foot back, and drove the toe of his thickly padded boot into Breton’s stomach. Letting his momentum carry him, he dropped over the older man to ram his knee into the center of his foal’s back. He still couldn’t tell which twin he managed to pin beneath his knee, but his foal writhed beneath him.

While they floundered from his strikes, Kalen held his hand out towards Maiten. “Sword,” he ordered.

His Guardian tossed the blade to him hilt first. The leather grip was cold and dusted with snow, slipping in his grasp before he managed to secure his hold on in. The guard bit into his finger and thumb. Tightening his hold on the sword, he lifted it and thrust it into the ground between them.

“Enough,” he stated in a tone as cold as the falling snow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both Maiten and Moritta flinch as though they’d been struck. The First’s presence surged, heightening his awareness of his Guardians.

Seven were in the camp, all nearby. He could sense more of them drawing close, faint due to distance.

He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. The feelings faded away. “That is quite enough,” he repeated in a gentler voice, rising to his feet without letting go of Gorishitorik. It took all of his strength to pull the weapon out of the muck. The wind and snow hissed, although the mage’s magic kept the gusts from penetrating the camp. Turning the blade, he cracked both Guardians across their shoulders with the flat of the blade to make certain he had their full attention.