The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4)

by C. J. Aaron

Of a child.

  That flagrant sense of amorality coincided with the elixir perfectly. The taint was already within the body. The willingness to sacrifice a life to extend your own precious longevity proved the case. The blackness had already overtaken the heart before the first drop of elixir ever wet their lips.

  That the pivotal source of the elixir, the prime ingredient, was sourced from a living creature, let alone a human, was never subject to much consideration. That alone should have proven the inherent revulsion unjustified.

  Yet it was the eternal, undeniable hunger for more that won out in the end.

  More time meant more wealth.

  Greater wealth meant increased influence.

  Increased influence garnered more control.

  “You have no power to bargain here,” Maklan cursed. “You’ve played your hand. Your tricks have worked to this point, but they hold no influence here. It is I who hold the leverage.”

  He pressed the blade against the neck of Aelin. The point dimpled the skin; a drop of crimson leaked from the wound.

  Aelin’s face was bruised in places. One of his eyes was already shading black. A thin cut split the skin just south of his hairline. Blood mixed with dirt and hair, forming a sticky, wet mat over his right eye.

  The boy was still clothed in the standard garb of a tribute. His pants and shirt were a few sizes too big for his still-youthful frame. A frayed rope belt held them from falling to the ground. The threadbare fabric was normally tattered, yet now it was torn in various places, exposing the angry, reddened skin beneath.

  The rage burned in Ryl’s veins. The boy was far too young. Too innocent. He’d accounted for himself well, as witnessed by the sheer pandemonium of his charge. It had required overwhelming numbers to subdue the enraged youth. Maklan sought to use him as a token, yet to what end?

  Ryl sensed no fear from the councilor. His haughty arrogance was all encompassing. The vile man, in his own mind, could do no wrong, and as such was untouchable. Like Master Delsith. Like sub-master Osir. The power had run unchecked for so long, they were blinded by the reality that they were not beyond question. That they could be called to task.

  Ryl had lost far too many to the abhorrent misery of The Stocks. To the abomination that was their Harvest.

  Aelin would not be one.

  The call for action rippled through him as the alexen demanded action. The bloodlust of the unknown voice was noticeably absent.

  “Take off the cloak,” Maklan hissed. “Drop those vile weapons in your hands. I want to look upon your face as they burn on the pyre.”

  Ryl felt his face curl into an involuntary snarl. With the pressure of Maklan’s blade still firmly imprinted on Aelin’s neck, he was hesitant to move. His speed was unheralded, yet the force of the blade against the boy’s neck would prove his undoing. With a simple twist of the councilor’s wrist Ryl would be forced to watch the child bleed out. He needed to buy a moment of time. Needed to elicit a reaction from the councilor.

  He folded his arms defiantly across his chest, ignoring the command. He knew Maklan wouldn’t hurt the boy until Ryl was fully subdued. The hatred of the councilor knew no bounds, yet Ryl didn’t believe he was an unintelligent man.

  Focusing, he forced a wave of fear toward the tainted man. The feeling was never meant to garner a heavy response. He didn’t need one strong enough to move mountains. All he needed was to goad Maklan.

  The councilor laughed as the feeble wave washed over him.

  “Your pathetic attempts are useless against one who is all too versed in their administration.” Maklan laughed at the attempt, his body shaking with glee. Aelin, suspended in his arms, was jostled along. Ryl watched the blade slide a finger width further from the boy’s neck.

  Aelin’s eyes fluttered.

  “Enough.” Maklan’s mirth ended abruptly. “Drop your robe and those weapons you hide behind your back. Do it now, or you’ll watch the boy bleed out before you die. Guards, bind him.”

  None moved with the command. For a moment, all were still, cautiously watching the proceedings. Even the most devout had been tempered by the ease with which the lone warrior had knifed through the army.

  “You are all soldiers of the king,” Maklan shrieked. His face reddened. Spittle flew from his mouth as he fumed. “It is to King Lunek you answer. Until he arrives, I speak for him. You will answer to me, or you will die the same traitor’s death as those who disrupted the Harvest. Who allowed the tributes to be moved. Who’ve made a mockery of an event that has held the kingdom enthralled for a millennium.”

  Ryl saw Aelin’s hands, which had remained limp at his sides, flex with intention.

  “Seize him,” the councilor cried. “Now.”

  The enraged man emphasized every word with an air of superiority. Of unquestionable authority. His hand thrust outward; the knife point aimed squarely at Ryl.

  The grin on Ryl’s face was uncontrollable. His peripheral vision marked subtle movement from his sides. His ears heard the crunch of footsteps as they crept from behind.

  He hammered Aelin and the councilor with a wave of emotion, one powerful enough to rock an unprepared man from his feet. It was the most potent sensation he uncovered. It had kept him alive for cycles. Had brought him back from the darkness when the light seemed to fade to black.

  It was hope.

  The sensation washed over Maklan. His sneer turned into a wicked growl as the emotion passed by uninhibited. Ryl readied the speed in his blood that begged for release.

  Aelin’s eyes abruptly opened.

  Ryl met eyes with the young tribute. The recognition within their depths was vast. Panic that had clouded his face cleared like fog in the light of the sun. Aelin winked.

  Before Ryl could move, the young tribute lifted his left leg. Maklan failed to note the seemingly innocuous, involuntary motion of the wounded boy. The vile man’s attention, his animosity was directed toward the guards who failed to react with enough willful abandon. To follow his orders without question or pause.

  Aelin’s left heel hammered into the top of his captor’s left foot. The violent crack, the snapping of bone tore through the air. The councilor shrieked in agony. The wild, pain-filled wail was sapped of every shred of confidence and superiority that had dripped from his voice only moments earlier.

  As Maklan crumpled, Ryl darted forward. Less than twenty meters separated them from each other; the gap closed rapidly. Aelin twisted his body to his left, his hands closed like vises over the arm of the councilor who had held him in check only moments earlier. He tucked his body, using the momentum and his strength to heave Maklan’s figure over his back.

  The councilor wailed as his body went airborne. The knife that he’d held so intently against Aelin’s neck slipped from his fingers, spinning harmlessly to the ground.

  Ryl had almost closed the gap as Maklan’s uncontrolled flight reached its apex. He was astounded at the sheer strength of the youngster. He’d tossed the man, easily more than twice his size, meters into the air with little effort.

  Maklan’s eyes bulged in apparent fear. The moment that he’d thought to control had slipped irrevocably through his grasp. Ryl dipped into the speed as he reached the airborne body of the councilor.

  The man was nearly prone in the air, though his body angled slightly so his head was above his frantically churning feet. His legs spun out of control as if searching for the ground to dispel the weightlessness of the sudden, unexpected flight.

  Maklan’s body was suspended chest high from the ground. Ryl collided with the helpless man, catching him with his right hand hooked underneath his chin, his left hand on the collar of his shimmering black tunic. The resistance of the man’s weight as Ryl reversed the direction of his flight was inconsequential.

  He carried him backward a few steps. As he did, he spun him around, head over heels. With a final lunge he planted Maklan’s body on the ground with a force strong enough to sink him a finger’s width into the recently churned earth. The
breath escaped from the councilor’s lungs in a rasping gasp.

  Ryl left the speed again fade. His cloak snapped past him as he wheeled to face the army, which was now at his back. His left hand slowly but menacingly slid behind his back. The refreshing jolt of excitement coursed up his arm as his fingers wrapped around the worn wooden handle.

  The approach of the soldiers, the footsteps he’d heard from behind had now ceased. Around him, guards stared at him with a mix of utter horror and awe.

  The silence was broken as Maklan gasped, his body frantically scrambling to regain the air that had been robbed from his lungs. He sucked in a desperate breath, with a raspy, high-pitched gurgle.

  Ryl turned his head, glancing down at the writhing form of the councilor before raising his gaze to Aelin. The young tribute’s chest heaved as he inhaled breath after deep breath. The fury still swirled in his eyes. His hands were balled into fists as he glared down at the councilor.

  The look was dangerous. Ryl feared that the boy, stubborn as he always was, had been overtaken by emotion and the call of the alexen. Having been freed from the poison in his veins, emotion and unrestrained powers were an ill-begotten mix. He forced a wave of calm over the boy. The tension in his shoulders seemed to fade as the sensation rushed through him.

  Aelin’s eyes cleared. The pained gaze was that of a frightened child, fearful of what he’d done. His expression reminded Ryl just how young he truly was.

  No child should be forced into this situation. The kingdom had forced it upon him. With little self-control, the alexen had compelled him to act. Both had taken advantage of the weakness of his youth. Ryl pitied the boy, who’d aged far beyond his cycles.

  Ryl nodded to Aelin. The young tribute slowly paced to his side. Ryl took a knee at the left side of the squirming councilor while keeping his eyes locked on the army that waited less than ten meters away.

  He placed his right hand on Maklan’s chest, pinning him to the ground, temporarily stalling his distressed writhing.

  “It seems your leverage has abandoned you, councilor,” Ryl hissed. His eyes remained on the forces that surrounded them. Though they seemed to itch with nervous anticipation, none moved to assist their commanding officer. “It seems your army has abandoned you as well.”

  For a moment Maklan’s eyes held his gaze. Fear was written across his countenance, though the expression was dwarfed by the emotion contained within his eyes. Ryl stifled an uncomfortable feeling of inferiority. He felt swallowed alive by the volume of hate contained in the councilor’s glare. The small orbs teemed with an unnatural wrath and fury that was wholly incompatible with human emotions.

  “The tributes are out of your reach. Out of the kingdom’s reach,” Ryl growled. “You’ll find nothing but the mist from the fall within the boundaries of Tabenville. Be warned, death will plague you at every step should you pursue.”

  He let the threat float for a moment, hanging over Maklan like a cloud. The gravity of the occasion only seemed to hold true for a moment. Maklan’s blackened rage overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation as he foamed at the mouth.

  “Fool,” he rampaged. “This army is nothing compared to the true power of the king. Your puny insurrection will have no safety when his full might comes to bear. Your time is short. Your friend will be the first to die. The king comes. His mercy will be savage.”

  The councilor broke into a racking fit of deranged laughter and maniacal ranting. Ryl’s eyebrows wrinkled as the sudden blackness pressed on his senses. His mindsight captured a wisp of black that blossomed in the councilor’s core.

  The sounds that issued from Maklan’s snarling mouth strayed further from human. His vocalizations devolved from wild gibberish to a cacophony of feral grunts and growls. The expressions on his face contorted. His lips curled, showing his teeth. He gnashed them together as he struggled to rise, snapping at Ryl with vicious intent.

  Ryl wrapped his hands in the folds of Maklan’s opulent black tunic, balling his fists as he hoisted the man to his feet. He hardened the woodskin on his arms as the councilor slapped and clawed at him like a deranged animal. It was only a matter of steps before he reached the black carriage.

  He slammed Maklan’s back into the side of the wagon high enough that his feet flailed a hand’s width from the ground. The impact again robbed Maklan of his breath, for a moment stalling his attempts to kick and claw his way to freedom. The wood groaned. Several large splinters sprouted from the side, revealing stripes of unvarnished wood hidden beneath.

  The councilor’s body covered the white symbol painted along the carriage’s side. The white gate with a solitary door standing ajar, though small, elicited a virulent response that Ryl could feel course through his body. A carriage similar to this had sealed his fate, and the fates of countless others throughout the cycles. From his fateful last moment with his biological family, the family who chose gold over their son, to now, the image still haunted him. Though only smears of white paint on a black surface, it stood for so much more.

  Hatred. Persecution. Torture.

  He snarled at the thought, increasing the pressure he forced against Maklan’s body. For a moment, the hatred whispering from the deepest recesses of his mind swelled into a scream. It was all encompassing. Ryl felt himself give in to the emotion. The wood of the carriage buckled inward as he pinned the councilor against the wall.

  “Where did he take her?” Ryl growled. The tone of his voice shocked him as it cursed from his mouth. It was colored in the venom of hatred, dripping with malevolence. A board to the councilor’s side snapped as it buckled under the force. Tiny shards of wood splintered, stinging as they sprayed across Ryl’s face.

  Maklan’s convulsions, his feral attacks had subsided. The wild, savage look on his face had reverted to a more humanlike emotion. His eyes bulged as the pressure crushed him. The ever-widening orbs swelled with fear and with pain.

  Ryl knew he was killing him. He had lost control of his body. He could feel the churning of the alexen in his blood. It was agitated. It was afraid. It pleaded for his attention, begging him to stop.

  His mind was singularly focused. Maklan would die. He was prepared to tear the councilor’s cursed body apart. Rend his limbs and flesh using his own hands.

  The voice at his side was nothing more than a whisper in his ear. An unintelligible word in a voice that was familiar, yet one he could not place. The emotion behind it, though faint, was genuine. It was immediately recognizable.

  The untrained raw feeling swept over him, snapping the bloodlust that had overtaken his control.

  “Ryl,” Aelin shouted this time.

  Ryl could see the boy out of the corner of his eye. His clothing was torn and spattered with blood. His face was bruised and red, covered with a mix of scratches, dirt and blood.

  The look on his face was pained, though not from the discomfort of the beating he’d taken. It was awash with horror at what Ryl was doing. At what he’d become.

  Ryl felt a shudder of chill rush through his body at the realization. He felt the familiar sensation of the alexen coursing through his veins, leaving only calm in its wake. He released the overpowering tension on the councilor’s body. The wagon rocked back toward them as the weight applied to its side reduced.

  As his senses cleared, the revulsion of the action he had been about to undertake threatened to turn his stomach. Ryl turned his head toward Aelin, offering a forced smile as he nodded his head.

  The creaking of bows and the twang of the strings releasing their burden echoed over the hush that had settled atop the pacified army. Ryl let the speed flow through him as he released the suspended councilor. A flight of a dozen arrows approached, their waffling shafts aimed toward him and Aelin.

  A single bound covered the distance to the boy. Ryl scooped Aelin up without slowing, depositing him a few meters away, safe from the path of the deadly flight. He’d covered nearly half the distance to the front of the army’s ranks as the last of the speed snapped back to nor
mal. Several solid thunks sounded from his rear as the arrows bit into the wagon where he and Aelin had been standing moments earlier.

  A gathering of ten archers had clustered together. Bolstered by each other’s animosity and seeing an opportunity, they’d acted. Ryl barreled into the gathered resistance as the Leaves flared to life.

  The bright green fires flickered out a moment later. Ryl’s stomach churned. He averted his eyes from the devastation scattered around him. The wind swelled around his right arm, releasing in a wide arc that sent the closest guards tumbling backward. He stepped backward into the wide swath of space he’d cleared with the soulborne wind.

  “Enough,” Ryl boomed as he pivoted to keep a full view of the army. Green flames crackled off the Leaves, which burned menacingly in his hands. His sweeping glance focused on the carriage for a moment.

  The black wagon was littered with arrows sunk deep into the wood. Four shafts, undoubtedly aimed to seal Ryl’s fate, were buried deep through Maklan’s chest. The fletching of the fatal bolts were all that remained visible. The councilor was slumped forward, suspended by the arrows. A widening pool of blood collected on the hard ground beneath his lifeless feet.

  The vile councilor of The Stocks. The dreaded emissary of the king, Maklan, was dead.

  Ryl breathed a momentary sigh of relief, savoring the air that rushed into his lungs. Air that smelled sweeter than it had in cycles. The dreaded councilor was no more. Still, the kingdom was yet to be freed from the oppression. It still languished under the hatred that had constricted and poisoned the minds of the populace for nearly as long as recorded history.

  His mindsight captured a fleeting image. It was only a subtle shadow, a movement so insignificant that it almost passed without a thought. A faint wisp of black, a thin cloud, like the mist that covers the dew-soaked fields of morning, only to be burnt off by the sun. A haze of black emanated from Maklan’s body. It oozed from his skin. His arm twitched as the shadows evaporated into the air. For all his knowledge, Maklan had faithfully served the king for countless cycles. How long had he consumed the elixir? How long had the taint of the nexela added to the elixir poisoned him to his core.