The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4)

by C. J. Aaron

  Ryl moved closer to the corpse now suspended from the side of the black carriage. His steps were tentative though he knew the man to be dead. Maklan’s face hung down, obscuring the view of his face. His silken robes seemed to hang off his frame with a roomy sag. A light breeze blew from the west. The folds of his garments shimmered as the light of the sun played off the billowing fabric.

  Using the dulled end of the Leaves, Ryl pushed lightly backward on the head of the councilor. The gasp from the pacified army at his rear was potent. To the left there was a coughing gag followed by the sound of chunky liquid splattering on the ground.

  The face that looked back at Ryl was unlike the wild, malevolent visage that had glared at him moments before. Maklan’s eyes were open, staring ahead into nothingness though there was no shimmer of life remaining. The withered orbs were shriveled, wrinkled as if puckered by age and drought. The skin stretched back, peeling away from his eye sockets, creating a disturbing image of eyes opening wider than Ryl imagined possible.

  Maklan’s skin was stretched across his face. Streaks of black crept up from his neck, reaching above his cheeks. His lips curled dramatically, forming a hideous inhuman snarl armed with yellowed, bared teeth. Ryl couldn’t help but see the similarities between the desperately emaciated body before him and the tributes he’d grown to know as family. The similarities, and the irony stopped there. The gaunt frame had more in common now with an enemy long since hidden from the kingdom.

  The similarities between Maklan’s remains and the Horde were chilling.

  Chapter 20

  Ryl held Maklan’s head aloft for a long moment. The effect of the showing was profound. Silence emanated from the ranks of the army, which stood petrified. He released the councilor’s head as the muffled padding of Aelin’s footsteps approached. Maklan’s head slumped forward, stretching down until his chin rested against his sunken chest.

  A rapid, cursory glance at the young boy before him caused his lips to curl into an uncontrolled snarl. Aelin walked with a noticeable limp. The youngster favored his right leg slightly as he shuffled to a stop. Ryl could see him working admirably to hide the wince as the pain of his wounds lanced through his body. The boy’s face was smeared with blood, his hair matted to his dirt-covered skin. The clothes of a tribute, while normally haggard, were filthy and torn, stained with mud and dyed with splatters and stains of crimson. How much blood belonged to him? How much belonged to the soldiers who were unlucky enough to find themselves in his destructive path.

  Aelin tested his arms one at a time, the small smile growing as he satisfied himself that neither appeared unmanageably injured. The relief that flooded Ryl’s eyes must have been obvious, for the mischievous smile that spread across Aelin’s lips was contagious.

  He tamped down the joy in seeing that the boy survived as the agitation of his presence rose. He’d always liked Aelin, had felt a connection to the boy since they’d first met. The youngster was untrained though his strength was undeniable. At the moment, Ryl needed speed. The distraction of watching over the inexperienced tribute was a worry he had not accounted for.

  All feelings aside, they had larger, more pressing issues at hand.

  The army.

  The force had remained frozen, as if locked in trance by unseen magic. The last few days since Ryl’s interruption of the Harvest had tested the foundations of their beliefs. Unknown magic, speed, and powers out of myth had assailed them. Their arrows were incinerated by fire or shattered by wind.

  The stress had fractured as their commander abandoned his post, siding with the tributes over the kingdom at large. Maklan’s authority as the king’s councilor and his autonomy over the rule of the guard had stripped it of any true leadership. Missing were the senior officers who’d served under Captain Le’Dral. They’d been branded as traitors.

  The rumors were far darker. All had been presumed dead.

  The leaderless army had suffered defeat after painful defeat. They had run the pathetic force to ground before the border of the Erlyn Woods. The phantom army and the storm from the heavens had sent the army scattering. It was days before a sense of order was restored. It was a shaky march that had stumbled upon the lone warrior on the hill.

  The fracture had now bisected their beliefs in two. Ryl could see it in their eyes. It was clear from their demeanor. They carried their shoulders slumped as if the weight of the Haven Mountains were piled atop them. They fidgeted nervously. Likely the bulk of their numbers served as the weight that held them in place. All it would take was for one to run. They had all witnessed the wrath of the solitary warrior who had severed their ranks with apparent ease.

  The warrior who had stood firm against an army that outnumbered him by thousands. Those who had attacked, eager for the chance to strike down their foe, had met with disastrous results. Those who raised swords against him had been cast aside with little effort.

  Ryl surveyed the faces. The sea of expressions were varied, but potent. The cracks in the foundations that had been instilled for generations shined through the doubt and fear. He put his hand on Aelin’s shoulder, casting him a brief glance as he spoke.

  “Stay behind me.” Ryl spoke in a low tone. “They look to have lost the nerve to fight. Still, it’ll be easier to protect you in case any seek foolhardy heroics.”

  Aelin nodded as Ryl gave him a gentle squeeze before removing his hand, stalking slowly forward. The youngster fell in behind him as he approached the army.

  The front rows of the force shifted, visibly discomforted at Ryl’s advance. The winds swelled quietly around his right arm. The intricate leaves decorating his tattoo shifted as if pushed by the gust. He hardened his gaze, focusing on a wave of intimidation as he addressed the army.

  Again, the call for bloodshed, the call to lay waste to the entirety of the force, to soak the soil with their blood tugged at his senses. It argued with the alexen. The white-hot, scorching essence of the phrenics was a calming salve compared to the thirst for blood hidden within the whisper.

  The voice beckoned in a language he couldn’t understand. Yet just as he could project his emotions over others, he understood the vicious intent. As he felt the familiar heat surge through his veins, the voice silenced.

  “Your war against the tributes ends here.” Ryl’s voice roared like thunder. “They are not your enemy. They are not to be feared. They are not your slaves.”

  He spat as the last words escaped from his mouth. The notion, still so fresh, so potent, was like poison to his mouth. He could taste the animosity in the word alone.

  “If none seek to harm us or the tributes, you will be left alone,” he continued. “It is a point I believe I’ve stressed enough already this morning. It is without a hint of conceit, but confidence that I say none here could lay a hand on me. Neither your arrows nor blades will harm me. We seek nothing more than answers now.”

  The murmurs rolled through the army. Guards spoke to their comrades in hushed tones. Ryl comprehended several of the conversations closest to him. Though he was loath to believe the segment spoke for the entirety of the army, there was no hostility there.

  They were afraid.

  As afraid of him as they were the king himself.

  Ryl pitied them in that respect. They had yet to learn the true face of fear. The demons from myth lurked ever closer to their border. Casting a rapid glance back at Maklan, he realized the enemy was already here.

  “Look at your commander now.” He gestured with his tattooed right arm toward the lifeless husk of Maklan pinned to the carriage by his own soldiers’ arrows. A gust of wind from his arm pushed the streaks of silvered hair back from his face. Even with his head slumped forward, the blackened stains that streaked across his face, extending up to his scalp, were obvious.

  “The stains on his skin are the marks of the ancient evil that history claims to have been wiped from the face of Damaris,” Ryl growled. His eyes travelled over the placid army upward. The towering figure of Taben the Defender st
retched into the clear midday sky.

  Though featureless from this distance, Ryl felt the eyes bore into him.

  “Taben and his band of warriors failed that day,” Ryl hissed. “Though they routed the forces of the Outlands, pushed them back into the wastes where they originated, a part of them remained. The evil festered and grew. The Horde have tread openly on the soil of Damaris. They’ve rewritten the history of a once thriving civilization. Those who’ve accepted the Blessing of the King have done so with not only gold, but their lives.”

  The rumble of scattered divisions rolled across the army. One voice rose above the rest.

  “Why should we believe you?” a guard sneered.

  Ryl couldn’t see the face of the speaker, though he envisioned the expression that marred his features.

  He knew the face nonetheless. The tone of the voice gave it away.

  The scorn was undeniable.

  Ryl growled as his patience thinned. The call for violence swelled within his body. He could feel the alexen surging within him. The heat of their agitation was alarming.

  “Believe me or not, that is your choice. A choice that your freedom allows,” Ryl boomed over the chatter. His words dripped with honesty and truth. The projected emotion hammered the surrounding soldiers. “I speak now, not to educate. The time for that will come. Trust your eyes, for they rarely tell untruths.”

  Ryl turned abruptly, dipping into the speed that remained waiting within his veins. He reached the side of the lifeless councilor in an instant. With his left hand he grabbed a fistful of the wiry hair on the top of Maklan’s head, lifting his face for the army to see.

  In the clear light of the sun, the husk that remained was shocking even to Ryl. The flesh had receded further, cracking in places as the strain proved too much for the feeble, ancient flesh to withstand. The dark stains now touched his hairline. His eyes were black as the heart of a starless night, an unnatural matte that failed to reflect even the gleam of the sun.

  “See for yourselves the poison of the Horde.” Ryl held the head aloft. “These are not the ravages of long life, but a taint that affects the entire body.”

  “What would you have us do?” came a voice from the crowd.

  “The phrenics returned to Damaris to set free those who’ve been held against their will for centuries.” Ryl fumed as the visions of his own torture under the foot of the guards flashed to life inside his mind. “The Ascertaining Decree will stand no more. There will be no more testing. No more children ripped from their families. No more tributes. No more Harvest. Yet there is far more to be concerned about. The very demons that stalk the wastes of the Outlands walk amongst you. You’ve followed them blindly for cycles. The leaders you revere have been tainted by the Blessing of the King they so covet.”

  Ryl let the grumbles of muted conversation continue for several moments before another voice broke above the ranks. The speaker was among the front row of the army, closest to Ryl. He was nondescript standing amongst his comrades. His uniform was spattered with mud along his legs, the rest covered with dirt, dust and grime from miles of marching.

  “Are you asking us to abandon this army? To run home? We will be traitors to the crown. They’ll hunt us down, murder our families …”

  His voice trailed off as he neared the conclusion of his sentence. The error of his logic set in. His face blanched even before Ryl could respond.

  The anger settled over Ryl like a cloud. He felt the agitation of the alexen in his veins. The muffled voice screamed for bloodshed.

  He released his hold on Maklan’s head. The skin on the side of the councilor’s neck tore as his chin bounced off his chest. The tear splayed open, stretching from behind his ear to the back of his neck. Strangely, no blood issued from the wound.

  With purposeful steps, Ryl stalked toward the speaker. Toward the center of the army. The wind swelled from his right arm, swirling around his body. His cloak snapped out to the side as it was grabbed by the invisible hands of the gust. Dust, loose earth and tiny pebbles uprooted, spinning around his body in a clouded wall that shrouded his legs from view. He flexed his hands into and out of fists. The woodskin formed a protective crust over his palms, preventing his nails from digging into his skin from the pressure.

  Ryl stopped several meters from the speaker. The guard’s eyes darted from Ryl’s face to the ground, failing to meet his burning stare.

  “And in that, you’ll garner no sympathy from me or any other tribute,” Ryl hissed. His voice was low, yet it carried over the gathered army. For a moment, pure malice poured from him as he struggled to wrest full control over his senses.

  “Don’t think the irony isn’t lost on me,” he chided. “There isn’t a tribute here who has been spared the price in one way or another. We have been hunted for generations. Whether directly or indirectly, you’ve aided in perpetuating the cycle. Their blood is on your hands.”

  Ryl paused, hardening his glare. His eyes burned with the rage of an inferno. He met the eyes of as any who dared to match his sweeping gaze. Many shied back a step, withering under the weight and anger of his pointed stare.

  “At the moment, we seek information. Nothing more.” His voice softened. “Return to your barracks. Return to your homes. Remain here. The choice is yours. Your pursuit of the tributes ends now. There is a war coming. Every blade, every bow will be needed. Now who will answer my questions?”

  He knew the information he sought, though as bland as it was, wouldn’t be garnered openly. The sense of duty to the kingdom, the closed-lipped attitude of comrades in arms would likely prevail.

  That is, without force.

  Ryl’s eyes swept over the army. Few met his eyes. Those who did retreated immediately as his gaze froze on them. He desired to waste no more time dealing with the pacified army.

  Not surprisingly, none seemed eager to volunteer.

  In the front row, his gaze focused on a single soldier. He was far shorter than his peers who surrounded him. His hands rubbed nervously on his pants. His body quivered. Being located at the rear of the army, he was likely a reserve. If Andr’s description held true, he was hardly trained, more likely to cause harm to himself than another when pressed in combat.

  Ryl grinned as he pointed his finger at the quaking guard.

  “You.”

  Chapter 21

  Color bleached from the man’s face as rapidly as his companions abandoned his side. The soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder scrambled to give distance as Ryl stalked forward.

  His approach was preceded by a wall of dread that hammered the wary guards. Within moments, all who surrounded the focal point of his attention had scattered, sacrificing the quaking guard to his fate. A low-hanging cloud of dust was settling to the ground as swords were cast to the earth as they scrambled away. As Ryl walked forward, he let a single blade flare to life, though the point remained angled down and to his side. The green flames licked hungrily, though harmlessly at the air.

  “I assure you, I mean you no harm,” Ryl called as he stopped a few meters before the man. “Though any attempt to molest me or my companion will be countered without mercy. You’ve seen but a glimpse of what we can do.”

  The nervous nod of the man’s head, and his audible, uncomfortable swallow were all the answers he needed. The surrounding soldiers continued to shuffle uncomfortably away as the waves of discomfort poured from Ryl’s core.

  “My questions will be brief,” he instructed. “Let’s start with your name?”

  The guard looked momentarily confused by the benign question. His mouth opened briefly before clamping shut as he failed to find his voice.

  “My … my name’s Hobs.” The young man stumbled clumsily through the words as if the name was foreign to his tongue.

  Ryl forced a hint of a smile to tug up on his lips. He sent a disarming wave of calm over the guard before him. For a moment, the uneasiness withered. The young guard raised his eyes, peering cautiously upward, attempting to penetrate the dark
ness that shadowed the upper half of Ryl’s face.

  “Walk with me, Hobs,” Ryl ordered. Though spoken softly, he broached no question. With uneasy steps, the guard followed in his wake. Aelin trailed to his opposite side. His limp was hard to hide, though the boy worked diligently to accomplish the ruse.

  He led the wary guard to within a few meters of the black wagon. Away from the prying ears and eyes that dwelled near the bulk of the army, Ryl had his first true opportunity to observe the man he would probe for information.

  He was surprised at the youthful complexion of the man’s face. More dirt shaded his chin than did stubble. His complexion was free from scarring and the ravages of time. Though dirty, the youthful glow was startlingly present.

  The thought sprang to mind as he studied the young man before him: he and the guard were likely a similar age. With the awakening of the alexen within him, Ryl had lost touch with his true age. Though he knew himself to be a young man only in his late teens, the ages of knowledge, lived through the memories and experiences of the countless phrenics who’d shared consciousness, clouded his perception.

  Prior to his freedom from The Stocks, age was merely the shortened ruler by which to gauge one’s abbreviated life. His Harvest was to be the finale of what had been a tortured existence.

  There was a muted choking from the nervous guard he’d called to question. Revulsion was written across the young man’s face. He swallowed roughly, his eyes squinted and watered as he stopped the contents of his stomach from spilling out.

  “What is he?” Hobs squeaked.

  “This is the product of the greed of men,” Ryl growled. “The taint of the Horde has allowed the torture of the tributes to carry on for so long. The alexen, which flows freely through my veins, is a prime component of the coveted, life-giving elixir. Though it is crucial to the process, it is far from alone. The alexen may grant life; it is the nexela, the blood of the Horde, that seals their fate.”