by C. J. Aaron
The soldiers were forced to stake their claim over an open terrain that sloped slightly upward along the road, rolling calmly out to the west. The eastern flank of their deployment was anchored against a narrow bend in the river. The shallow water moved quickly as its mass squeezed itself through an opening far smaller than its original disposition. The guards spilled outward, forming their ranks among the loose terrain of the recently harvested fields. Their western flank sank into the mud as it lumbered its way into position.
Several figures stepped out from the carriage at the rear of the formation. Three had the appearance of guards. The swords in their hands glinted as they reflected the light from the sun. The fourth was dressed in a long black cloak. The finery was bedazzled with gems and assorted jewelry. Ryl could see the hatred radiating off him more clearly than the glint of the precious stones in the sunlight.
Even from the distance, he recognized the man.
Lord Maklan.
“Attack.” The shrill cry floated over the army, arriving at Ryl’s location as a muffled curse. Maklan ordered the charge long before his troops were close to mounting a cohesive charge. There was a general milling about as a few worked up the courage to lead the initial wave.
“Hold,” Ryl boomed over the gathered army, his voice crashing like thunder. He forced out a wave of reluctance.
His words carried a weight absent from Maklan’s previous command. The lines faltered and then held. The soldiers balked at his word. All eyes locked on to his position.
“Stand aside.” Ryl’s voice rose so all could hear. “Should you pursue your path to the north, you will find nothing but death. The tributes are no longer within your reach. They are free. Should they resurface, it will be of their own volition. They are no longer subject to your command.”
He let the wind swell around his body. The shifting of his cloak increased. It snapped out to the side; the echo accentuated the end of his statement. Murmurs rose from those assembled before him. In many places, the lines shifted.
Backward. Only a step, but the truth and the message of his words ran true.
“I seek information, not your death,” he announced. “Stand aside, and no harm will come to you.”
“Fools.” Maklan’s shrill voice dripped with rage. “Kill him, or it will be your heads the king has on a pike.”
The councilor, the newly installed captain of the Cadsae Proper guard, waved his hands wildly as he shrieked. His crooked finger shot out toward Ryl, pointing the way of the charge like an arrow.
Ryl knew his words would likely fall on many a deaf ear. He was encouraged that his expectations were far lower than the actuality of the result.
A cry of rage broke from the forward rank as it surged forward. Notably, in several locations the charge was far less enthusiastic than in others.
Chapter 17
The thunder of the hooves swelled as the army charged Ryl’s position. Pikes glinted in the sunlight. Freed blades flashed as they primed for the strike. He widened his stance, digging his heels into the ground as the incoming charge increased its speed and ferocity.
Encouraged by their like-minded comrades in arms, the war cries rose from the lips of many across the line of cavalry that led the charge. There was little coordination to the approach. Riders from all points in the line surged ahead of their companions.
Either that, or others lagged behind. Fearful of what was to come, or of what was to befall them should they show weakness in the face of a solitary foe.
At the heels of the cavalry, the leading element of the foot soldiers lazily plodded forward. Like the charge of the mounted guards, scores surged ahead, breaking through ranks to reach their prey.
It was evident that there were two very different armies fielding the resistance this day. One was still incensed by the thoughts of blood. They demanded retribution for the actions that had disrupted the time-honored tradition of the Harvest, the persecution of the tributes. The others had been extrinsically challenged. Whether they merely challenged their heritage, or fully embraced the turmoil, questions had rooted within their subconscious. Ryl was all too aware of the power of the mind’s hold on reality. It was his straggling belief in hope that had allowed him to look ever forward after cycles of abuse. It kept him afloat, biding time until the truth was set free.
The front lines of the charge edged closer. The rumble of the combined weight of horses and men drowned out all other sounds. In the distance, beside the plush, crimson trappings of the black wagon, Lord Maklan quivered with jubilant excitement.
To the east, along the river, the guards in the middle of the rank appeared to lose focus on him, instead turning their attention to the river. Ryl could see little else over the heads of the soldiers and the snarling grins of the riders approaching to seal his demise.
The moment was nigh. No longer could he resist the urge that pulled from within. The alexen had made their peace with the repercussions of what was to befall. They had been warned. He opened his heart to their call, careful to ignore the rumble from within. Disturbingly, a sliver, though tiny, screamed for carnage. It demanded death. It begged him to deal it out with reckless abandon. Ryl felt the call like an inky blackness that clouded his mind. It threatened to obscure the reasoning, the justification, the understanding of the truth. Its carnal rage demanded one thing.
Death.
Ryl’s internal struggle blossomed as the riders bore down on his position. His decisions hadn’t been made idly. They’d been born of cycles of his own personal torture. They were amplified by a millennium of repressed rage and sorrow from the alexen that burned in his veins. He had no desire to spill the blood of man. He’d seen enough blood to last him a lifetime.
Yet, in his heart, he failed to believe the truth. There would be death.
The riders shouted in wild bloodlust as their target remained unmoving. Their prey, seemingly paralyzed by fear, stood rooted in place. The excited cries of the approaching soldiers washed over Ryl. The mirth they gleamed from the prospect of death was sickening. His stomach churned in revulsion.
Kaep was in danger. The army stood as the most immediate obstacle in his path. Though massive, it was not immovable. If blood was needed to free her …
Blood they would have.
Ryl squeezed his eyes shut. The earth thundered as the riders neared. With a final effort, he silenced the rumble demanding slaughter. Wind screamed around his tattooed right arm. A cloud of dust billowed out in a ring from his body. The ferocity of its storm whistled. A shrill, high-pitched wail rang out, muting the thunder of hooves and the savage cries of man.
Ryl opened his eyes. They burned with the repressed fire of ages of persecution. His left hand closed on the Leaves, wrenching a solitary blade from its holster.
With an explosion of brilliant green fire, the weapon flashed to life. The particles of dust that stormed around him reflected the glow of the fire. A mottled green cloud undulated around him, spreading like a creeping mist from his position.
He surged forward to meet the charge.
The wind screamed from his arm as it reached a frenzied pitch. He struggled to contain the wrath that was brewing. Ryl slammed his right arm forward, angling a narrow arc, several body lengths wide, into the center of the incoming attack. He felt his body shudder. There was a dramatic release in pressure as the gout of wind poured from his arm. A low, thick cloud of dust rolled after in its wake. His body was obscured as he slipped into the churning haze.
The focused blast of air collided with the riders with a chilling force. Men and beast screamed in surprise as the invisible wall tore into their ranks. Men cried in agony; horses nickered and whinnied as their swift forward momentum reversed instantaneously. The invisible wall of the clouded front tore through their ranks. Bodies twisted uncontrollably as the blast of air threw them backwards, toppling man and beast in its path.
The loosely ordered charge of mounted guards devolved into utter mayhem.
Ryl emerged from the
cover of the approaching cloud. With a green, flaming blade in hand, he materialized from the dust, charging into the gaping alley his blast of wind had hewn through the assault. The ground underfoot was loose, churned by the pummel of hooves. The dry dust was abrasive. The scent of the earth mingled with the odor of horses.
All around him there was chaos. He choked down the revulsion at the damage he’d wrought. The power of his blast had exceeded his expectations. Men and beast struggled to regain footing. Some staggered hopelessly before collapsing again, succumbing to injuries. In several cases, arms and legs were cocked at unnatural angles, while blood flowed freely from others. Many remained still.
Those still atop their mounts reined in their horses, wheeling to regain control of their spooked animals. Ryl hammered those around him with a wave of panic and fear. Several of the majestic beasts reared up in protest, ridding themselves of the riders clinging to their backs.
For a moment, Ryl remained unmolested as he traveled through the melee. A gap of nearly fifty meters had opened between the riders and the charging guard. The forward ranks of the army sprinted at him. Curses of anger and hatred swelled as they watched the invisible power knife its way through their companions.
Ryl noted the disturbance that had grown along the river’s edge. Whatever had caused the commotion had now moved into the midst of the eastern flank. A densely packed circle of guards constricted around what appeared to be a fight in the middle. Had the guards turned on themselves?
His survey was interrupted as his more immediate concerns charged again with bared blades and spears. His vision of the approaching foot soldiers was blocked as riders again worked to close the gaping hole he’d punctured through their line.
Their approach was slow, as their forward momentum had stalled. Training, drills, and the experience of simulated mounted combat were lost as the reality of the battle eviscerated their plans. Mounted warriors now fought as single units. They jostled amongst each other as they sought a solitary target in their midst. Many of those unlucky enough to be unseated by Ryl’s initial attack were trampled by their companions, lost in the haze of dust that blanketed the battlefield.
A pair approached from his front. Separated by a little more than a meter, they spurred their mounts toward him. The rider on the left snarled as he pointed his spear at Ryl’s chest. The one on the right held his sword aloft, priming for a killing strike. If their blades didn’t shred his flesh, the horses would run him to ground.
They moved with caution, though their anticipation was palpable. They longed to spill his blood. There was a vicious desperation, a need to inflict damage. Ryl dipped into a hint of the power that flowed within his veins. His movements were a blur. In a flash, he ducked under the spear leveled at his chest by the rider on the left, grabbing the shaft with his free hand as he passed beneath.
The rider had been ill prepared for the unexpected speed or unpredictability of the action. With little effort, Ryl redirected the point of the lance. There was a sharp cry as the blade punctured through the midsection of the rider to his right. The point punched through the back of the doomed soldier, spilling a river of blood and gore. The color blanched from both men’s faces.
So sudden was the action that the rider with the spear had yet to let go of the reins. His horse followed the point of the weapon, the bulk of the horses’ bodies formed a living shield, staving off the assault that he could hear approaching from his rear. Ryl slashed outward with the weapon in his left hand. The flaming blade gouged a deep gash through the guard’s leather armor, biting into his chest as it passed.
Ryl found himself again on the outside of the disorganized mass of cavalry. The foot soldiers still approached at a steady clip. Stretching hundreds of meters across and several members deep, the incoming crush was thousands strong. The alexen in his blood still raced with excited fury, yet his appetite for senseless destruction lapsed.
Ryl had no desire to fight the entirety of the host. His eyes locked on the wagon perched safely at the rear of the army. Lord Maklan’s face was flushed red with rage. His screams and wild gesticulations were clear over the roar of the army.
There was no need for a prolonged battle. Ryl’s focus resolved. His target pointed a crooked finger at him, his mouth spewing out orders, and likely insults, at a fervid pace. In the lord would be an end to the battle. With a grin, he charged the approaching line of soldiers.
Off to his left, near the river, something about the disturbance caught his eye. Several bodies went airborne, flailing as they traveled meters into the mass of soldiers pressing down on the constricting circle. Where they landed amongst their comrades, small pockets opened as they toppled any within reach.
Ryl’s heart lurched at the possibility. It wasn’t mere human strength that had caused the violent action. He scanned with his mindsight as he approached the soldiers. A single telltale signature of the alexen danced in his vision.
His immediate thought was of Kaep. Had she managed to free herself from Elias? The thought was dashed as quickly as it had come. Her fighting style, while lethal at close quarters, was based on agility, not brute strength. The glow that registered in his mindsight was far too dim.
Too weak.
He hissed aloud as the reality set in.
It was a tribute.
One with inhuman strength, stubborn enough to take on an army single-handed.
Of all the tributes secreted away in the Erlyn, one had been nearing consciousness when he’d left.
“No,” Ryl cursed under his breath.
Another body was tossed from the circle. The guard careened into the wall of soldiers penning the fight in. Those jostling to control the single assailant parted for a moment, as none seemed eager to risk the beating.
His fears were confirmed as the mop of shaggy brown hair came into focus.
It was Aelin.
Chapter 18
Aelin stood alone, armed with a large stick. Even from where he was, Ryl could see the toll the exertion had wrought. The young tribute’s chest heaved as it gasped for every breath. He spun back and forth, monitoring all sides, gauging the location of the next attack he knew was imminent.
The boy, untrained, would not last long.
With a growl, Ryl dug his feet in, pivoting as he rapidly changed directions. The loose soil, churned from the passage of the cavalry, slipped beneath his force.
Panic set in as he lost his footing, toppling sidelong toward the ground. The approaching army was only meters away. Ryl could see the excitement blossom in their eyes as they grasped the opportune timing of his error.
The soft earth cushioned his fall. His inherent experience and ingrained agility reacted as if second nature. Rolling as he fell, his momentum carried him back to an upright position. His right leg was angled toward the charging army; his weight rested on his left leg, bent at the knee, the ball of his foot planted firmly in the ground. The first of the army was now only steps away.
A solitary warrior had surged ahead of his companions. He was of a medium build, muscular, though his body tended to look softer than the chiseled physique of a hardened warrior. His face was framed by short cropped brown hair. All in all, there was little remarkable about his rather mundane features.
His uniform was worn and dirty, a testament to days of marching. A thick layer of stubble coated his chin. Few scars marred his complexion, unsurprising owing to the relatively docile nature of the life of a guard in Damaris. That was where the average features ceased to command any due surprise.
It was his face that drew Ryl’s attention. The man’s mouth was curled into a vicious snarl. It had a remarkably feral appearance. His eyes, squinted and brown, dripped with malicious intent. He longed for this moment. He’d cherish the opportunity, reveling in the fortuitous situation that had developed before him. It was an honor, a tale that would be passed on as a family legend for generations to come.
Ryl had seen enough. That same face graced the features of too many who sought
to run him down. What of Aelin? The boy wouldn’t last long under the sustained press of the army.
The wind ripped around Ryl’s arm. He swung his tattooed arm in a wide arc, angling low toward the ground. As the wind released, he dove backward, ripping the second of the Leaves from its hidden sheath. A gout of green fire erupted into a serrated, translucent blade.
The blade of air knifed into the lower legs of those closest to him. Across the front of the charge, legs were ripped out from under them. For a moment, their bodies were weightless before the ground regained its pull over them. The vicious snarls morphed into surprise and fear at the uncontrolled approach of the earth.
Having no time to defend against the ferocity of the wind, the lead attacker struck the ground face-first. His hand hadn’t the time to arrest his fall. His legs coiled behind him as he skidded across the dirt. Ryl hammered the butt of the Leaves into the back of his skull, silencing the man’s muffled curse.
The wind bought him a moment to regain his footing before the wave of soldiers encircled his location. He was engaged on all sides, dodging sword points, daggers, and bludgeons as the guards, grinning at the release of their misguided rage, sought his death. Ryl needed only a touch of the speed to hold them at bay with lethal efficiency.
He chopped downward, defending against a sword aimed at his gut. The burning blades severed the weapon at the handle, a finger’s width from the soldier’s handhold. Ryl watched as the man’s baleful eyes flashed with panic. He followed up with a fist to the man’s face, the crushing impact sending a splatter of blood as the soldier toppled backward into his companions.
Wherever his blades flashed, they handed out death and destruction in heavy measure. The Leaves burned with an uncontrolled fury, severing weapons and limbs. The battle quickly became complicated by the volume of dead and wounded that surrounded the storm that was his defense.