by C. J. Aaron
“Thank you, Ryl,” he uttered. Though he possessed none of the skill of projecting emotions as did the phrenics, the power of his statement was concrete. His words and thanks were sincere, genuine and heartfelt. He nodded at his companion before moving forward, ending the scene that would undoubtedly be an embarrassing discomfort to the child in his arms.
The hidden path was much the same as he remembered. The wide track was clean and well maintained, having the appearance of being freshly swept. Ryl had had a hand in assisting the caravan that transported the immobile bodies of the Lei Guard to the Erlyn, though he never strayed far from Cadsae. No traces of the heavy wagons remained even after the passage of so many wheels.
Ahead, the light of day streamed in from the clearing, a contrast bright enough to make his eyes squint. The air carried a definite odor of smoke, as well as the pleasant notes of freshly baked bread. There was a distant thumping sound, growing louder with every step, a staccato rhythm of wood striking wood. Scattered cheers and applause mingled with the cadence. He chuckled to himself, slightly lengthening his strides as he understood the sound all too well.
The view of the chamber was, as always, awe inspiring in its grandeur, yet today in a host of other ways. Even with their ragtag army, the activity was rarely this profound. The forest shelter was alight with a bevy of activity, the scale of which he doubted had ever been seen under her midst.
The air crackled with the unbridled release of raw emotions, mixing into a maddening conglomeration. The warming welcome that signaled proximity of those with alexen was stunning. He shuddered to think what the effect would be if all were awakened.
Men and women moved freely throughout the vast clearing. Several stoves had been established to his right between a pair of massive trees. A handful of attendants worked diligently preparing food for the masses within. Guards dressed in the garb of Cadsae Proper mingled with the Vigil of Vim as they patrolled the exterior of the chamber.
The bulk of the activity and attention, however, was focused on the center of the clearing. Several pairs of men and women sparred in tight circles; a lone figure paced between them, barking out instruction and corrections. Ryl moved ahead of his group, intent on his destination.
With the attention focused on the training bouts, few noticed his approach. He was content to watch from the rear of the crowd. Tributes, his friends, many of whom were still reeling from the withering effects of the poison that had clouded the truth in their veins, now waged simulated battle amongst one another.
The giant frame of Zed was unmistakable. In his hands was a pole that easily matched his own height. Standing opposite him, Palon danced with a short training sword. His actions were defined as if he plotted the response of every muscle, calculating the precise timing of every step. When he lunged forward, each motion had a predetermined purpose as if he followed a clearly defined path. As a result, his actions seemed choppy and clumsy. Notwithstanding, the silent twin darted forward, ducking easily under a clumsy swipe from Zed’s staff. He curled behind the massive man, slapping his wooden blade against the back of both his legs before leaping out of range. Zed’s attack seemed tentative, as if he was holding back.
“Good, Palon. Well done,” Andr congratulated the fleeter tribute. “A kill will not always be swift. An immobilized foe, though still lethal, poses far less threat. Severing a leg or two will generally sap the fight out of most combatants.”
Around the pair, the other duels ended with varying degrees of success. Ryl was stunned by the inherent ability of the tributes. Many, like him at the time, had never handled a blade, let alone been provided any real instruction. Though far from mastery, the progress was astonishing. He recalled distinctly the connection, the natural feeling of the blades in his hands. The ease with which his muscles recalled the actions of the thousands who had learned before him had been a surreal, eye-opening experience. They had a ways to go, much to learn, yet given time, he knew it would come.
Andr collected the training sword from Palon, angling his way around the remaining pairs. With a muted thump and a yelp of shock, the last of the duels ceased.
“Well done.” Andr applauded. “If only it were this easy to teach all those who were inclined to learn the blade. You’ve done well today.”
He stopped near the edge of the training circle with his back toward Ryl.
“Paasek once told me that the connection between the alexen and the mind is a potent link,” Andr instructed. “That merely watching a skill can imbue some level of experience. Witnessing a duel between two skilled swordsmen may yet be the spark needed to trigger the experiences, the knowledge you are yet to realize you already retain. Shall we give them a show, Ryl?”
Andr spun on his heel, facing where Ryl stood. He lobbed the wooden practice sword in his hand over the group. The grin spread out across his face as he watched the blade sail through the air.
Ryl calculated the sluggish rotation of the wooden weapon as it approached. He waited until the last moment before moving, snatching the blade out of the air with ease. With a quick flip of his wrist, he spun the sword once in his hand as he stepped forward.
A gap opened in the crowd, allowing Ryl to move uninhibited to the center. The group was made up of mainly tributes, as the instruction was primarily for their benefit, yet they were not exclusive in their interest. Guards watched the proceedings with curiosity, marveling at the inherent ease at which the tributes, the once weak, run-down wretches they’d corralled for cycles took to the instruction.
Ryl nodded at his friend as he reached the makeshift training grounds.
“Don’t take it easy on me,” Andr ordered. “If watching will aid in their instruction, let’s give them a show they won’t soon forget.”
Without waiting for a reply, Andr lunged forward, beginning their bout. Ryl had trained with the mercenary countless times, yet he was continually amazed at the growth of his friend’s talent. Andr had always been skilled, yet his craft had been honed. He was astonished by the sheer speed his friend had developed.
A show they would have.
Ryl and Andr danced around the clearing, trading blow after blow. The clacking of their wooden swords echoed through the clearing. Ryl fought without the aid of any additional speed, allowing for a moment of instruction for himself as well. In truth, he could have disarmed the mercenary at any time, yet there would be no value to himself or any others were he to have pursued that route.
The sparring stretched on for minutes. The initial fury of blows had decreased to a pace that was more tenable. Though fatigue was far from setting in, he knew that Andr would likely tire soon. The mercenary would mean to end the instruction soon.
Their swords connected; Andr bounced backward, for a moment sliding to a knee in a runner’s stance. It was with effort that Ryl maintained a straight face, stifling the grin that threatened to signal his understanding. Andr’s free hand clawed across the ground as he sprang back toward his feet.
Ryl knew what was to follow next.
Andr swatted at Ryl with his training sword, offering a backhanded strike. To most, the halfhearted effort would have illuminated a potentially lethal opportunity, an easy opening for a killing strike. Ryl telegraphed his own lunge, though his effort was only for show.
As soon as Ryl’s body jumped forward, intent on dealing the simulated killing blow, Andr countered with his other hand. The mercenary released the contents, scraped from the ground, bits of earth, dirt and stone in a blinding cloud aimed for Ryl’s face.
The phrenic wasn’t where he was expected to be.
Expecting the ruse, Ryl made a sudden late move, ducking while diving to his left. His body tucked, rolling under the backhand feint of Andr. As he passed, he swiped his training blade outward, chopping at the back of the mercenary’s knees.
Andr realized his plight, jumping at the last second to avoid the slash. Though agile, his motions were only a moment too slow for the unexpected turn in the attack. Ryl’s wooden sword caug
ht the toe of his boot, throwing his legs out from under him, upending his balance just enough to send him tumbling to the earth. He scrambled to find his footing only to be pinned down by the dulled point of a wooden training sword pressed gently against his forehead.
“I’m afraid the woodskin will do little to save you this time, my friend,” Ryl added as he removed the tip of the dulled wooden blade from Andr’s head. With a wide smile across his face, he reached down, helping the mercenary to his feet.
“Welcome back, Ryl.” Andr grinned as he rose to his feet, clapping the phrenic on the shoulder. “For a moment, I thought I might actually land a strike.”
“Your tricks are well known to me, mercenary,” Ryl responded, jesting, patting at the dust and debris that had collected on his back.
Andr shook his head as he stepped away to address the crowd. There were wildly differing expressions written across the faces of those assembled, though the attention was directed toward Ryl. The guards, many of whom were well versed with personal experiences as to the phrenic’s abilities, looked upon him with a measure of added respect. He had already earned their trust. For the Vigil assembled, the duel had been nothing but a recap of a bout that had been played out countless times. Though impressive, they all knew the end result. Andr, as skilled as he truly was, understood his fate.
The tributes, the unawakened phrenics, viewed the spectacle with a powerful gambit of emotions. Reverence was unmistakable. The looks were potent and hard to disguise; they turned his stomach. There was an undeniable hint of fear. Those who had known him throughout the cycles of imprisonment shied away as the imposing figure that he had become rounded on them. These, though many in number, were thankfully in the minority of expressions.
The most powerful, the most potent of all the emotions was hope. Ryl saw it written clearly across the faces of those who had known him the best. The sentiment was mirrored by many around him as they connected the hope to the reality of the strength that lived inside them. A little over a cycle earlier, Ryl had been one of them.
A tribute.
A herd.
Loathed by those who protected them. Coveted by those who counted the value of their life as a tangible number. A gold investment, to be matured until ready to harvest.
The man who stood before them now loomed as tall as the statue of Taben the Defender, who towered over the forest behind them. He was seemingly untouchable. In him was the hope for their survival. If they could but achieve a sliver of what Ryl had in the last cycle, their destinies would be forever altered.
The hope that was born in them was intoxicating.
It was a sensation that had been denied to them for nearly half of their difficult lives.
Scattered applause broke out among those gathered. He hastened to tamp the excitement before it could catch hold.
“Please stop,” Ryl begged. He amplified his voice, powering it with a sense of hesitance. “This was not entertainment. I need you to look upon what you’ve just witnessed with a sense of caution. This display should bring you no joy. It was never the phrenics’ natural place to wage war. The balance has shifted. The skills the phrenics now possess, we maintain out of necessity.”
The applause ceased. Silence settled over the crowd ringing him and Andr.
“There is much still to learn.” Ryl turned as he addressed the gathered crowd. “I see the spark of connection in some of your eyes. You must learn to trust that familiarity. Much like you, I had never swung a sword or held a bow. My mind fought the urge to accept the impossibility that my body inherently possessed the knowledge needed. Fear not, you’ll learn in time. The alexen has a plan, and when the time is right, it will be revealed in full.”
Ryl met as many eyes as he could while he continued his speech. He had not planned to lecture, yet now that he had started, he resigned himself to the fate that it was a lesson they must learn at some point.
“It will be a difficult lesson to comprehend. It is one I’m reminded of far too frequently,” he continued. “All will be explained. All will be understood in time. The talent lies inside you now, though it to some extent may be clouded by self-doubt and the concentration of alexen in your blood. Once the floodgates are open, the skills will come. Focus now on this.”
Ryl tapped his hand against his head.
“Concentrate here.” He placed his hand on his heart. “For uncontrolled emotions will be your undoing. Until you wrest control over the alexen that now begs for release, caution is required, for the results can prove catastrophic.”
At the rear of the crowd, Ryl spied the head of Paasek towering over the crowd. The phrenic councilor smiled, nodding his head in approval.
“That’s all for today,” Andr announced. “If I’m not mistaken, it is the mender who requires your time next.”
Ryl found himself uncomfortably surrounded with the press of bodies requesting his attention. The walls of the crowd seemed to collapse in unison, allowing for the sudden wave of overwhelming attention.
From all sides, the unawakened approached, scattering unfocused waves or unrestrained emotion over their surroundings. The names and faces he knew; they had been his companions to the misery that was life inside The Stocks. They were as close to true family as he would have, yet he was repulsed at the swarm of attention.
The affection was overwhelming. The reverence, disturbing. Though he knew their intentions were wholesome, the act turned his stomach.
He admittedly had little time between the Harvest and the present to connect with the tributes he’d only recently departed. The end of his tenure had been spurred by change. His Harvest had been shrouded in confusion. His return rent the world they had come to accept as their reality in two.
Here, a tribute, removed from The Stocks, had done the unthinkable. He had returned.
With him came fire.
With him came change.
If only for the simple act of their momentary freedom, they would have honored him for an eternity. Yet he had offered a vision of so much more. He had illuminated a chance for power. For a strength that many still doubted lived inside them.
Above all, Ryl had offered hope.
And that was a force not easily reckoned with.
Chapter 13
Ryl endured the swarm of attention to the point of breaking. Though it lasted far shorter than it felt, he could bear it no longer. He hoped that the novelty of his return would soon wane, and quickly.
The solitude of the Erlyn was more appealing now than ever.
His emotions were conflicted. While he was genuinely happy to reconnect with the tributes, the underlying urge to move forward tugged at him. It nagged at him for his momentary complacency. There was much to be done within the Kingdom of Damaris. The journey to Vim represented a long and daunting prospect.
Though the Harvest had been disrupted, the Ascertaining Decree still stood.
The passage through the woods to the west was discreet; the remnants of the forest would disguise their movements. The Horde, though they had vanished into the wastes of the Outlands after the battle at the gates, still posed a substantial threat.
After a time, the tide of the crowd broke. The lingering sensations of apathy and calm were a testament to the feelings of the phrenics who remained in the clearing. They had felt his pain and aided him in the only ways they could.
Absent from the press of the crowd were the faces that Ryl had come to know better than most. As the unending sea of bodies broke, he scanned the clearing, quickly recognizing the familiar group waiting together at the outskirts of the mass. The towering frame of Zed was a telltale signal. As Ryl moved through the scattered remains, Andr reached his side, talking as he walked. The mercenary understood the track of his movements.
“Your status has changed around here, I’m afraid,” Andr joked. “You’re more myth than man now.”
Ryl released a breath of frustration.
“I cannot stomach the revelry,” he spat. “It was one thing when it was
the citizens of Vim. I knew and still know virtually none of them by name. I was the physical manifestation of generations of legend. I was the missing piece to the prophecy they’d been steeped in since infancy.”
He pivoted, looking over his shoulder at the tributes dispersing in groups across the interior of the clearing.
“They were.” Ryl paused. “They are as close to me as family. I will assist them in any way I can, yet I cannot be the myth they desire. I’d give my life for any of them, but I cannot be their miracle.”
Andr stopped alongside Ryl. His expression was pained.
“There’s no helping some of that now,” he admitted. “It is inevitably part of the destiny piled on your shoulders. None has been of your choosing; it was a weight unfairly assigned to you at birth. You are likely the only one capable of bearing it. For what it’s worth, I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I’ll follow you to the end, my friend.”
Ryl placed his hand on Andr’s shoulder, nodding at him as he replied. “I know, Andr,” he whispered. “I’d not be here today without you, your blade and your wisdom.”
Ryl glanced ahead at the group who awaited his approach. He noted Cray standing among their midst.
“What of your boy?” Ryl inquired. “How has he handled the news?”
It was Andr’s turn to sigh. Ryl noted the uncharacteristic slump in his shoulders.
“He is skilled. I had little time to teach him the blade, yet he fights as if he were born with the sword in his hand. His natural instinct rivals yours, yet there is an uncertainty, a disconnect. I admit, it’s likely as much my own faults that cause the tension. I feel like I’d have better success teaching the statue of Taben the Defender to walk than make amends for the pain he’s lived as a result of my failings.”
Ryl offered his friend a sympathetic look. His position was unenviable. Both had suffered at the hands of one they loved. One they trusted. Andr’s heartache was visible to Ryl, though his outward disguise was well constructed. At the same time, Cray’s distrust was expected.
