Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3)

by C. J. Aaron

  The overconfident guard was ill prepared for the force of the impact. In his defense, none were prepared for such dramatic results. The strength of the unsuspecting young man and the power behind his motions were transferred into the helpless guard—sending him careening across the square. His body flailed uncontrollably before he slammed into the back of a pair of guards standing to the side, throwing all to the hard earth.

  That brief pause was all the second guard needed to catch up. Coming from the side of Aelin, his intent was different from the first. Whereas the initial guard had sought merely to collect the rampant tribute, the second was far less kind. His baton was already free from its holster, his arm cocked back to his side, swinging to deliver a blow to the young man’s legs.

  The rage in Ryl’s veins boiled over. He tapped into the speed that flowed within his body. The impending attack from the guard. The erratic movement of his counterparts as they struggled to regain their feet. All came to a standstill as Ryl catapulted forward.

  His movement was a blur as he slipped through the line of nervously waiting tributes, moving beyond their escorts. He covered the distance between himself and the guard in an instant. The right arm of the attacker was pulled back, parallel to the ground, just reaching its apex as he primed for a strike at the lower body of the disobedient tribute.

  The strike would never find its mark.

  Ryl caught the right arm of the guard with both of his hands. He latched on as he continued his motion forward. The unprepared guard’s feet lifted free from the ground as his lower body continued moving forward while his upper body followed Ryl’s motion in the opposite direction. Ryl planted his feet; torquing his body to the side, carrying the guard with him. Halfway through his rotation he released the helpless man—the guard sailed through the air for a few meters before landing in a heap, skidding across the ground, and coming to a rest along the edge of the mass of tributes.

  Ryl let time snap back to normal.

  The stunned looks on the faces of the tributes were now alight with a mix of confusion, astonishment, hope and awe. The guards looked afraid.

  Strangely enough, the line of soldiers standing behind the bulk of the tributes remained still. Ryl stalked back toward the line of tributes beyond which the captain remained. With a smile, he jostled the hair on the top of Aelin’s head as he passed. The escorts for the tributes had their hands on their batons, though they shrank back at his approach. They frantically worked their way into a condensed group, seeking safety and the false sense of security that their cluster would bring.

  “The next to move to harm a tribute will die,” Ryl growled. He needed no added feeling to emphasize the determined severity in his voice.

  “Order your men to stand down, Captain,” Ryl commanded as he stopped a step away from Le’Dral. “We do not come seeking blood but know that we will grant no safe harbor to those who choose to stand in our way.”

  Ryl watched Le’Dral. The captain remained motionless, though Ryl knew his mind ran rampant with thought. With questions. The officer’s eyes studied him inquisitively as if probing for a sign of weakness.

  “Stand down,” Captain Le’Dral announced after a moment of contemplation. Ryl could see the struggle that played out in the officer. His dogged sense of duty clashed with the last remaining fibers of his morality. The guards standing escort for the tributes looked at each other worriedly. None were willing to make the first move.

  “I said stand down,” Le’Dral ordered again. The command and force behind his voice were inspiring. “Release the tributes.”

  This cycle’s Harvest needed no second command to act. Without hesitation, the nineteen scurried back to the relative safety of their companions.

  “Traitor,” Maklan’s voice cracked as he shrieked at the top of his lungs. His cries were echoed by a myriad of voices from the top of the palisade. Nobles draped in finery and gold; ladies clothed in dresses that shimmered like gemstones; all wailed in a discordant harmony. Their faces contorted into disfigured visages of rage, disgust and insult. Ryl could almost see the blackness pouring from the depths of their souls. Their faces were illumined by pure anger; they radiated hatred. The feeling was potent, shockingly similar to that of the Outland Horde.

  Under the press of the crowd along the peak of the Palisades, the guards stationed there had lost precious real estate with which to mount an attack. Ryl noted two groups of soldiers, arrows nocked, pushing through from opposite ends of the mass of spectators. Without warning, the arrows came from the gathering of soldiers on the eastern palisade to his left.

  The projectiles screamed through the air, loosed with malicious intent. Their wooden shafts wobbled; their vicious metal tips spun rapidly as they eagerly sought his demise. Ryl had expected this response, was prepared for the action. He called on the speed—the progress of the arrows slowed to a crawl. They inched forward with dogged determination to reach their mark.

  Wind swelled around his right arm, starting as a nothing more than a light breeze that gently swayed the hairs, tickling his skin. The breath of air quickly rose to a gale as he released a focused arc into the incoming projectiles. The blade of air decimated the missiles as it scythed its way through, oblivious to the shafts of wood in its path.

  Ryl again released his hold on the speed. A shower of splintered wood and dislodged arrowheads rained harmlessly down around him. Stray bits of the feathered fletching floated gently through the air as they descended to the earth.

  The panicked cry of alarm that rolled through the crowd as they witnessed the impossible destruction of the arrows was immediately drowned out by a thunderous explosion from his right. Ryl felt the searing wave of heat from the blast rip past him. Throughout the square, guards, spectators and tributes alike dove for cover, shrinking back from the gout of fire that had detonated in the air before them.

  Ryl turned his head to see the remnants of showering sparks and flaming bits of wood fall to the ground. They sizzled as they extinguished upon contact with the earth. A plume of black smoke wafted gently away in the breeze. The blast had occurred several meters away from the palisade, yet the force had tossed the closest guards and spectators from their feet. Incandescent flames rippled around Vox’s tattooed left arm.

  The panicked cries from earlier blossomed into shrieks of pure terror as the bulk of the crowd clambered over each other to flee the top of the wall. Nobles, lords, ladies, commoners and guards alike fought amongst each other with heartless ferocity as they fled the area. A few heads dared frantic, rapid glances over their shoulders in horrified disbelief. A single arrow loosed from a foolhardy archer fell to the ground harmlessly, far short of Ryl.

  “Silence,” Ryl boomed. His voice was amplified with an overwhelming sensation of paralyzing fear that quickly hushed the frenzied crowd. They huddled together, for the time being ignorant of the rank or the station of those who surrounded them. They were aligned in their terror of the unknown.

  There was no understanding of what had taken place before their eyes. No comprehension of the potent emotions that had surged through their bodies. The shock and horror were apparent.

  What they had witnessed was something out of myth.

  “We now near the close of cycle 1351,” Ryl announced to the crowd, turning slowly, ensuring his voice was heard by all.

  “What you witness now is the final act. The abomination that has been allowed to persist for centuries end today,” he continued. His voice dripped with the seething fire of unstoppable determination. “There will be no more Harvests. As of this moment, there will be no more tributes.”

  Murmurs of discontent rose from the crowd on the southern palisade. A single lord sprung to his feet pointing his greedy finger toward the tributes arranged before him. Ryl recognized the colors of the house. He recognized the abhorrent, agitated countenance of the noble who openly dared to challenge his command. The paunchy face twitched with unfiltered anger and disgust as he glared at Ryl.

  The golden opul
ence of the Lord of House Sarnac glittered in the morning sunlight.

  “You have no right!” the Lord cried. “Who are you to defy the will of the King?”

  “We are the Phrenic. As are they,” Ryl responded with a wave of his hand, motioning to the huddled tributes behind him. “We are free to do as we choose.”

  To his side, Maklan made a cackle as he opened his mouth to protest. In his struggles, the councilor had worked the blade nearly halfway from the ground. He was hunched over, desperately using his chains to free the sword from the earth. Ryl took a single step forward and slammed his foot down on the cross guard.

  The blade plummeted back into the ground with the force of his step. The taut chains of the fetters wrenched the vile councilor from his feet. His body impacted the ground like a stone, and his face struck the earth unrestrained by the help of his hands. An involuntary groan escaped his lungs. Maklan lay still, unconscious.

  “Whatever you call yourself. Whatever tricks you employ, you have no power here. You have no authority,” Lord Sarnac howled. His greedy eyes hovered on the tributes, his face contorted into a mix of anger and childish jealousy.

  “This is the King’s law,” the opulent noble shrieked, emboldened by the superficial words that spewed from his lips. “That is my tribute. My property. Purchased with my own gold.”

  Property.

  The word sent a shiver of raw emotion rolling through Ryl’s body. Rage. Repressed, built up from nearly half a life spent under the heel of those who were considered fortunate to be born without the alexen in their blood.

  The compound was an unwanted inheritance. For cycles he had cursed fate for choosing him to carry its burden. How much had changed over the last cycle? The words of Da’agryn rang through his ears.

  He acknowledged now that the alexen was truly a blessing.

  Ryl grinned as he saw the path in front of him clearly as if it were written on the ground. The noble lord’s retinue was stationed along the edge of the wall, slightly left of the center of the Pining Gate.

  Time froze as he exploded forward. Ryl vaulted upward, planting a foot on the driver's seat of the black wagon. He could see the surprise in Rolan’s slowly widening eyes as he passed. Another step put him on the top of the black wagon. His legs were coiled as he planted his next step on the back edge of the carriage. The wind that had been building in his right hand, exploded downward propelling him skyward toward the peak of the palisade. The rear of the wagon dipped heavily, creaking in protest. A thick cloud of dust billowed out in a circle from the force of the wind.

  Ryl’s cloak billowed out behind him as his momentum carried him to the top of the wall. His feet landed on the top of the stone railing. A single bound from there landed him directly behind the paunchy lord’s back.

  He wrapped his left forearm around the man’s thick neck, pulling him in toward his body. Ryl let go his hold on the speed. As time flashed back to normal, he spun the hopeless, misguided lord around. As they rotated his right hand spewed a semi-circle of wind into the legs of the gold clad retainers and personal guards that ringed the lord of House Sarnac.

  His cloak whipped out to his side, snapping as its momentum stopped abruptly. Those standing in the face of his wind toppled from their feet, knocking down the others standing beside them or fleeing the wall. Ryl reached his right arm behind his back, his fingers eagerly closing on the hilt of the Leaves. The blade awakened with a brilliant explosion of green light and fire as it freed its holster. Green flames distorted the air as they dripped from the serrated edges of the shimmering blade. The cries of alarm again resounded through the crowd.

  “We are no one’s property,” Ryl boomed loud enough for all to hear before his voice quieted. He curled his right arm and burning blade inward, stopping before the green flames reached the lord’s neck. The distinct smell of singeing hair filled the air as the flames licked at the curls that crept out from the top of his golden, jewel encrusted shirt.

  He spoke softly into the ear of the now quivering noble. The fight had all but left the opulent head of his household. In its place was nothing more than a blubbering, obese wretch. His long-life, a product of the so-called Blessing of the King, amounted to nothing.

  “I’ll warn you one time, and one time only. Losing a few coins will be a trivial concern should that vile sentiment again spew from your mouth,” Ryl hissed. “You’ll find money is worthless once your head has been detached from your shoulders.”

  With tears streaking down his face, the lord of House Sarnac shook his head in rapid, short nods, keeping his distended chin as far from the glowing blade as possible.

  Ryl pulled the blade away from the neck of the bawling lord, sweeping its point slowly in a semi-circle. The air behind the shimmering blade rippled as its point passed all those huddled in fear before him. He made eye contact with any who dared; none held his gaze for more than an instant. His eyes burned with a fire that dwarfed the green flames swelling from the Leaves.

  “There is neither person nor money that can claim authority over the lives of these men. These women. These children,” Ryl boomed. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

  Those surrounding him on the walls shrank back further at the force of his words.

  “Know you the fate of the tributes after they leave this pen?” Ryl asked rhetorically. “They are hung like swine, drained over cycles of every last drop of their blood. This is how they produce the blessed elixir you covet.”

  A grumble of voices rolled through the crowd, as few among them held compassion for the plight of the tributes. All traces of humanity had long since been stripped from the gaunt figures that were paraded before them on an annual basis. Ryl felt the fire in his veins surge with his anger.

  “They are humans, like each and every one of you,” Ryl roared. “They were born, by no fault of their own with a gift, the alexen, that dwelled in their blood. In ages past, the power that flows through their veins was all that stood between this Kingdom and destruction.”

  Astonishment registered on the faces of many of those huddled together or attempting to flee the Palisades walkway.

  “Those who you call tributes. Who you steal from their parents; they share the same blood as did Taben and his army,” Ryl thundered. There was a scattering of gasps throughout those who listened over their fear. His voice softened a touch, though the intensity was still overpowering.

  “This is where the history you’ve learned for generations has betrayed you,” he continued. “There is more truth to the myths of Taben the Defender and his army than you know. All were phrenic.”

  Ryl emphasized his statements; pouring out a profound feeling of acceptance, believability and of truthfulness. Though few, there were murmurs of contented surprise from those who’d yet to flee the wall.

  “The same blood that saved the Kingdom from certain doom now courses through my veins and those of the tributes you see before you,” Ryl continued. “The root of myth was founded in truth, and that truth was more potent than you could ever imagine.”

  In the distance, a sound akin to a quietly rolling rumble of thunder reached his ears. From his position atop the palisade, he could see through and beyond the crowd before him—the Sea of Prosper dominated the scene; stretching outward until it met with the horizon. Along the main road coming from the west, a steady stream of guards darkened the surface like a shadow.

  Ryl pushed the lord forward; his sobbing body collided with his personal guards. The group slid across the narrow, stone walkway of the Palisades into a writhing heap of arms and legs. Without another thought, he tossed the burning blade to his opposite hand, wheeling around toward the interior of The Stocks. With a single step he mounted the low stone railing before launching himself outward.

  The air whistled in his ears as the ground below approached at a terrifying speed. He quickly hardened the woodskin over the entirety of his body in preparation for the impact that was shortly to follow. A torrent of wind swelled rapidly around his right arm.
At the last moment, Ryl thrust his tattooed right appendage downward, using the force of the wind to counteract the rate of his descent.

  He struck the ground with bone-jarring force, rolling forward as the motion carried him onward. Ryl felt his left shoulder pop from its joint, and the glowing green blade of the Leaves flickered out as it slipped from his fingers.

  He regained his footing immediately, turning to reclaim his weapon. He grinned as the flowing grey robes of Kaep flashed before him. Her bow was drawn, an arrow nocked waiting to fire. Ryl felt the sensation of relief wash over him as she released the tension on the bow string before kneeling to retrieve his dormant blade.

  Without moving her eyes from the palisade she tossed it casually back in his direction. The blade flared back to life as he snatched it from the air with a fluid grace.

  “Clear the square. Move the wagon,” Ryl called out the orders to his companions. He grimaced as he worked to hide the pain that lanced through his left shoulder.

  “It seems we’ve stirred the ant’s nest,” Ryl added. “They come in numbers.”

  Ryl stalked back to the captain, who’d remained motionless, seemingly rooted to the ground throughout the entire rapid exchange.

  “Le’Dral. Get your guards out of here,” Ryl commanded. “Ramm, take Nielix with you. Tear down the gate if they don’t open it. Seal the inner doors once the guards are out.”

  The captain acquiesced with a surprising lack of argument. With a brief, yet curt order, the guards whose duty it was to escort the departing tributes hastened from the square. Most cast terrified, side-eyed glances at Ryl and the other cloaked phrenics as they scurried past. Massive warhammer in hand, he lumbered behind their retreat.

  Still the line of guards forming the outer ring, blocking the northern exit to Cadsae, remained motionless. Ryl squinted his eyes, tilting his head slightly as he looked questioningly at the captain.