The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4)

by C. J. Aaron

  His pocket of resistance moved steadily onward, the adjusted tangent angling toward where Aelin struggled. Ryl had lost sight of the scrum as his attackers had surrounded him and fighting began in earnest.

  He stood alone, defending himself against thousands who sought his demise. Even with the daunting odds, he fought with a confidence imbued by countless lifetimes of experience. His body moved and struck, parried and countered with an unconscious fluidity. Still, he’d yet to unleash anywhere near the full complement of his speed.

  Ryl held back, tempering his confidence before it reached cockiness. His abilities far surpassed any that the guard could provide, yet it would only take a single misstep to spell his demise.

  The Horde exhibited speed that nearly rivaled that of the trained phrenics. They attacked with sheer force and unending malice. The demons held nothing back, investing their full being into their charge. There was no fear of injury or death.

  The guards surrounding him were sluggish and poorly disciplined. The most exuberant of his attackers fought with little regard for their companions, though with a cautious interest for self-preservation. Ryl knew his skills. Even without the use of speed, he would be more than capable of holding his own for a time. Using the full complement of his power would have amounted to nothing more than a slaughter.

  He’d not butcher them senselessly. He’d come for Kaep. Now he found Aelin’s security was a more pressing emergency.

  Still he felt himself getting lost in the thrill of the battle. The subtle whisper, the call for death, had risen in volume and intensity. With every life that was snuffed out at the burning ends of his blades, it grew. He felt sick as a sliver of his body relished the mounting death toll.

  He struggled to quiet the foreign urges that had surged to the forefront. The sight of Aelin’s continued struggle served to refocus his attention. He was making progress toward the tribute. The view from his mindsight showed Aelin’s path moving steadily toward Maklan. Ryl growled in frustration as he realized his pace was far too sluggish. With every fallen comrade, his attackers seemed to lose a touch of their exuberant hostility. Their attacks had proven fruitless. Many struggled harder to move further from the reach of the burning green blades than tempt their fate.

  A whistle, though faint, barely audible over the commotion, caught Ryl’s attention. The light of the sun dimmed as if blocked by a thin wisp of a passing cloud. The skyline darkened as the volume of the high-pitched chorus swelled.

  The sky was choked with a flight of arrows. Their song screamed as the projectiles reached their apex.

  “Arrows,” Ryl shouted. “Cover, now.”

  The realization sank in. The fight blanched from the faces of the army in the path of the deadly swarm. Ryl was forgotten as soldiers scrambled for cover. None bore shields. Many ducked where they were, curling into a fetal position to make themselves as small as possible. Some held their blades over their heads in a futile effort to defend themselves. Some struggled to wriggle beneath the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  Ryl’s anger boiled over. The alexen in his veins mirrored his revulsion. Maklan was willing to sacrifice those most loyal among his army for the chance of seeking his vengeance. The callous indifference was toxic.

  His immediate thoughts went to those struggling for safety around him. Though likely many had made their peace with seeking his demise, he’d not willingly watch them slaughtered to feed one twisted councilor’s vendetta. How many others took up the march out of pure duty alone? His sentence had stretched out for cycles before the first hint of the true sentiment had been laid bare with the assistance of Andr in Tabenville. How many among the army shared even a sliver of those beliefs?

  Distrust and questioning were his allies.

  The bonds forged out of threats and fear were far weaker than those forged by genuine action. By saving those he could, could he tip the tenuous scales holding any of their doubts aloft?

  Ryl hardened the woodskin over his body. The wind swelled around his right arm as the cloud of arrows streaked from the sky above.

  There were too many bolts.

  With a scream, Ryl tapped into the speed that coursed through his veins. Time slowed to a crawl as the arrows limped forward. The torrent of wind swelled from his arm, ripping forward as he slashed his hand from right to left in a wide arc across the arrows’ path.

  Green flames exploded from the Leaves in his hand as the fire seemingly caught the particles of dust in the air. The focused blade of air collided with the wave of projectiles with a sharp snapping of wood. A gout of green flame followed in the wake, sizzling as it caught the splinters of wood ablaze. The steel tips of arrows, thrown off course and trackless, waffled in the air as they careened toward the ground. Sparks and burning shards of wood rained from the sky.

  Ryl’s impact on the arrows was profound. The projectiles were shattered by the hundreds. The blistering heat and flames vaporized much of the remaining wooden debris and fletching. Still, those outside the arc of Ryl’s wind were unaffected. Their damage would be dramatic, though he could do nothing to affect the outcome.

  Ducking his face into the crook of his elbow, Ryl released his hold on the speed. He’d grown accustomed to the snapping of time as normalcy was restored. Stray bits of metal and charred shavings of wood pelted his side. They bounced off the hardened crust of his woodskin, stinging where they struck, yet resulting in no substantial damage.

  Many of those outside of the path of his influence did not fare as well. The solid thuds of the projectiles striking earth were drowned by the pained screams of the guards. Hundreds felt the vicious bite of the arrows. Agonized cries rose from all around as the toll was exacted on their comrades. Jagged metal barbs protruded from flesh. Blood poured from the wounds as the tears streamed unabated. Many who fell were unmoving, a cruel twist of luck as the deadly point found a fatal entry.

  Ryl rose to his feet. His defense was unnecessary. He let the brilliant green blades flicker into dormancy. The guards who regained their footing hastened to the aid of their wounded comrades. They cast worried glances, targeting the army at the rear, not the lone cloaked warrior standing in their midst.

  Those closest to him backed away sheepishly. Their expressions were framed by looks of awe or horror at what they’d just witnessed. Ryl repressed the urge to delve into the inherent knowledge of the alexen, curious at the unexpected reaction of the blades and the soulborne wind. Green fire had burned the sky.

  The greater impact of the flight of arrows and the damage they wrought upon their friends was more profound. The guards were sapped of their morale. Their fighting spirit seemed to evaporate as the Leaves faded into nothing more than innocuous lengths of well-worn wood.

  Ryl seized the opportunity to stoke the fire of uncertainty that caught as the last of the arrows felled friend, not foe.

  “This is the callous indifference of how your kingdom, how Lord Maklan treats you?” Ryl spat. His voice echoed over the gathered army. He laced the words with emotion. Raw honesty poured from his body. “The sons of Damaris, trusted warriors, chosen to guard over the most coveted resource in the kingdom. Cut down by your own commanding officer, the mouthpiece of the king. Your lives are meaningless to them.”

  Ryl moved forward. Those in his path backed away as he put one foot purposefully in front of the other. The army around him was scattered. Wounded lay writhing in pain, their blood mixing with the loose dirt. Some pawed frantically for signs of life among downed colleagues and friends.

  Ryl could see over the temporarily placated crowd. The disturbance by the edge of the river had subsided. A small pocket moved lazily through the reserves toward where Lord Maklan remained. The fighting had ceased. The phrenic mindsight painted a picture that turned his stomach.

  The glow of the tribute was still steady—Aelin yet lived. What beating had he endured before the havoc he wrought was halted? He was strong beyond measure, yet under all his strength, he was but a child.

  A nine
-cycle-old boy, beaten by those likely triple his age. If the boy was mortally wounded, Ryl knew there was likely nothing he could do to hold himself back. The unknown, tormenting voice pleading deep within him would be granted its wish.

  “Who is it that the kingdom protects?” The anger rose in his voice as he quickened his pace. “It is the tributes they need. You are just fodder. You are expendable. Not one of you will ever be granted the power of elixir, whose source you so fiercely defend.”

  Maklan’s shrill voice cut through the crowd. “Archers. Loose,” the lord demanded. The blood flowing to his face stained his cheeks bright red. “Kill him!”

  The archers reacted with a speed that demonstrated their true acceptance of the plan. They had witnessed the destruction their arrows had caused as they crashed through the ranks of friends.

  Their target still stood. He had saved those close to him.

  The object of their attack had done more to protect their comrades than they had.

  A pair of guards moved from the ranks of reserves, depositing a body at Lord Maklan’s feet. The form was that of a child. The bloodstained, tattered apparel were evident from afar. His legs were limp. He crumpled to the ground as his captives released their hold.

  Ryl burned at the sight.

  “Hold,” Ryl boomed. He pointed his left arm toward Maklan. The innate stick was impressively threatening in his hands. “Stand aside. You have my word. Any who delay my passage will die.”

  He strode forward. The shocked guards around him scrambled aside, dragging their wounded companions from his path. An alley formed as he walked, closing behind him after he’d passed, yet well beyond the reach of dormant blades.

  The press of the crowd had subsided. Ryl quickened his steps, though he walked calmly through the avenue opening before him. His eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak, were active. Their careful observation cataloged every motion of those closest to him. With little effort, he forced a wave of emotions from his body.

  Doubt.

  Fear.

  Those with weapons drawn angled their blades toward the ground. Those with blades still holstered kept their hands far from the hilts.

  Gone were the hateful cries of bloodlust. The excitement had drained as the blood leaked from the dead and dying. Agonized wails rang from various mouths around him, forming a horrifying chorus of pain.

  Maklan’s cursing order for arrows echoed again.

  The creaking of bows drawn to their peak silenced the army.

  Ryl stopped, pivoting his head so that his voice was clear to those following in his wake.

  “The arrows will come for me yet again, whether you are near me or not,” Ryl growled. “A great deal of space would be wise.”

  Guards retreated with haste.

  The sky clouded black with arrows.

  Chapter 19

  Ryl’s patience had run thin. His worry over Kaep had now spread to the groaning figure of Aelin. The boy hoisted himself up from his stomach. Maklan stomped him down to the ground with a heel placed squarely on his back.

  The cluster of arrows this time was noticeably more condensed. The archers limited their focus in an attempt to mitigate collateral damage. The majority succeeded though some errant bolts would likely fall among their companions.

  All around Ryl, panic issued from the mouths of guards as they scrambled over one another to flee the incoming death from the skies. The pathway before him opened like a great ravine leading toward the black carriage and Maklan tucked safely at the army’s rear. The line of archers was the last defense, standing perhaps twenty meters ahead of the Lord of The Stocks.

  Ryl continued his steady progress forward as the arrows screamed through the sky. Many had targeted his progress well; his death would have been assured. He shook his head as he increased his pace, a grin crossed his lips as he called on the speed again.

  The arrows crawled through the sky as Ryl darted from under their approach. He could have lit them ablaze again or used his wind to blow them off course; however, his motivation had been altered. His battle with the army had few targets left.

  There was information to be gleamed. A rescue to be made.

  Vengeance to be enacted.

  Ryl moved like the wind, never ceasing as it rushed through the army. The archers were less than fifty meters away. Closest to the bowmen, the gap that had separated the army before him before was still in the process of tearing apart. He brushed past guards who were frozen in action as they fled from his path. Those who were too sluggish, he moved with force. The edge of the sleeping Leaves ushered them from his course. Their bodies toppled away, the surprise and the fear growing as their eyes swelled in slow motion.

  As he approached the line of archers, the weapon in his hand again burst into flame. The wash of green fire and the brilliant light were blinding as they seared any who were close.

  With no rear guard, the archers and their ranged weapons were the last line of defense. Ryl could see the recognition dawn on their faces as the perilous nature of their situation became clear. They were now alone. Their defenders, numbering in the thousands, stood behind them. The wall of their protection had been breached.

  It had been breached with ease.

  The army fled from Ryl’s path, parting before him like water around a rock.

  Their reactions were mixed. For some, it was panic. Bows were discarded as they attempted flight. Some cowered where they stood. For others, it was aggression. Arrows were nocked in a desperate plea for one final shot at the target that had proven so elusive. No thought would be given to firing their projectile amid the close quarters of their companions.

  The archers were stacked in a staggered line five deep. Ryl slammed into the center of the formation at speed. He danced among the hopeless guards. The burning blade in his hand severed bows and limbs. The serrated weapon disarmed or dismembered those who still possessed the will to fight, passing through wood and bone with little resistance.

  Ryl had no intention of killing all those who remained. He needed to break the will of the army to fight, not ensure their rage. He’d sowed the seeds of distrust among the foot soldiers. The archers had been abandoned by their host. Ill trained to fight hand-to-hand, they’d been left to die.

  He focused the wind around his arm as he worked his way back to the center of the line. The air whipped around his arm, building its intensity until it whistled in his ear. Ryl twisted in a tight circle as he let the Leaves fade, releasing the pent-up aggression of the storm. The air swelled out from his body as his rotation brought him to a knee. A horizontal front of air, a wall of pressure, crushed outward.

  Ryl released his hold on the speed as his body came to a stop. The combination of his rotation, the release of the tremendous energy, and the effects of time snapping back to normal was momentarily disorienting. His eyes glazed over for an instant. His head spun wildly as if unconvinced his body had stopped spinning. His ears were keenly attuned to the sounds while his vision caught up.

  He missed the visual effect of the soulborne wind, though the actualization was profound. The cries of alarm, the clatter of weapons preceded the moans of pain. Solid thumps sounded as bodies collided with bodies. There was a light patter of dirt and small stones as they rained down around him.

  No one remained within ten meters of his position. Each soldier had been repositioned, likely with violent effect from close proximity to his body.

  Ryl looked up, scanning the crowd around him. He slipped the Leaves into their holsters as he turned his body to face Maklan.

  “Do not interfere,” Ryl hissed. The tone of his voice broached no argument. “This is between myself and the councilor.”

  The look on Maklan’s face morphed from something that resembled awe and shock to pure malice. His face had been pale; the light complexion altered into a blistering, splotchy red. There was a hint of darkness that clawed on the lower reaches of his neck as if tendrils of blackness were disguised underneath.

 
Maklan bent down, hoisting up the squirming Aelin. One arm wrapped under one of the boy’s shoulders; the other held the needle point of a dagger to his throat.

  “Move and I’ll spill the boy’s blood,” Maklan cried, though his voice failed to hide the tremolo of horror. “There’s no more protection for the tributes or for you. I’ll gut him if you make a move.”

  Ryl stood motionless. The army remained still. For the moment, Maklan in his rage ignored the nearly ten thousand that had mustered to his call. His focus was singular. His animosity had a clear target.

  Ryl slid the Leaves back into his holsters.

  “I seek information,” Ryl echoed. “As long as the boy remains unharmed, nothing more. Enough have died today.”

  Maklan sneered. His lip curled up, showing his off-white canines beneath. The feeling of hatred that tickled Ryl’s sense was alarming.

  The councilor showed no signs of either alexen or its counter, nexela, through his mindsight. Aside from the dim yellow glow from where Aelin remained, his vision was clear. The emotion, the characteristic malice that accompanied the Horde, was eerily present. It exuded from the king’s emissary.

  For a moment Ryl was perplexed by the response. It was an unexpected ability from one who failed to possess the gift of the alexen or was of the Horde. The reality dawned on him with startling clarity.

  Maklan had been awarded the Blessing of the King, the fabled elixir promised to only the most devoted. How long had the councilor held his seat? There was no validation, though from what Da’agryn had said, King Lunek the Third was the same man who had ordered the initial murder and enslavement of the phrenics over one thousand cycles in the past.

  The elixir offered the gift of long life and, in such, the one thing most recipients coveted.

  Power.

  The undeniable benefits of the irrefusable gift had blinded those to whom it was offered to the inhumanities, both pre and post. To be willing to accept the gift, one must be willing to bid on, to purchase the life of another.