by C. J. Aaron
The grandeur of the sight stopped Ryl inadvertently in his tracks. Andr and Paasek had carried on and were a few paces ahead of him. The last of the trailing Vigil was just now entering the clearing. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a slight pulse of energizing electricity. He turned his head to find the smiling face of Kaep.
“Don’t delay now,” she said. “The prophet awaits.”
Chapter 34
Ryl glanced beyond the phrenic at the Vigil that had bottlenecked behind him. Most were apathetic to the delay, though the eyes of Nielix stood out from the rest. Anger still smoldered in their depths. With a venomous snarl, he looked away, pushing past as he started up the hill.
The lead members of the Vigil had covered nearly half the distance between Ryl and the tree. A hundred meters separated them from the concealing veil of the enormous willow.
Without warning, the hint of discomfort he'd noted on the periphery of his senses blossomed into a sudden wave of panic. The sensation carried with it the voice. A single, unmistakable word echoed in his head. The voice was frantic in its emphasis.
It was a familiar voice, one which Ryl would never forget.
Da'agryn’s voice.
“Run.”
Ryl took a step forward, calling out to his companions that had forged ahead.
“Stop now,” he hissed to the forward group. The desperate tone of his voice broached no question to the seriousness of the request.
Andr wheeled in his direction, sword partially drawn from its scabbard. Paasek’s hand closed on the handle of the greatsword strapped to his back. Kaep removed her bow from her shoulder, reaching for an arrow with her opposite hand.
To a man, the Vigil looked confused at the warning. The unfounded aggression from the phrenics and Andr only added to their concern.
The wall of weeping branches surrounding the willow shook subtly to the right as if being jostled by an unseen hand. The top branches in the center of the tree blew skyward for an instant before slowly falling back into place. Tiny leaves fluttered silently as they rained down toward the ground.
“Something's wrong,” Ryl gasped. “Do you feel it? The Erlyn, it's gone.”
All traces of the Erlyn had vanished. In its place, only an inky, cold darkness remained.
His hand closed on the end of the solitary member of the Leaves strapped to his left arm. The shimmering green blade flashed to life unbidden the moment it cleared the holster.
Andr's blade sung as he tore it from its sheath.
“Vigil. Weapons ready,” Andr shouted to the confused soldiers.
With few exceptions their responses were sluggish and half-hearted.
“Now,” Andr reiterated his order. “Fall back to the woods.”
The words hadn't finished cursing from his lips when the first blackened, disproportionately shaped body crashed through the arboreal veil in an explosion of tiny leaves.
Harriers.
The Outland Horde.
A wave of lanky bodies followed the first, their rough skins so dark red they appeared almost black. Their screams sent a shiver down his spine.
From the other side of the rise the Horde sprung to their feet from where they had concealed themselves in the tall grass behind the earthen dome. Their shrieks and wails mixed with the sounds of their compatriots into a blood curdling chorus that shook the forest.
Ryl dipped into the power flowing through his veins—time slowed to a crawl. He felt the familiar heat surge through his body. Flipping his glowing blade to his left hand, he launched himself forward. With the power inside flowing freely, the Horde slowed to a fraction of their original speed. Andr and the Vigil were nearly frozen in comparison. Kaep and Paasek’s motions still flowed at a comparable rate to that of the Horde.
Even with the speed at his command, Ryl knew the front line of the Vigil was doomed. He was halfway to them when the mass of harriers tore into their line. Many of the Vigil remained frozen in terror, some had fallen to their knees; all were rent to pieces where they stood, their bodies savaged before their swords cleared their scabbards.
Ryl cursed the speed of the innate power that flowed through him. The pace of his movements was like lightning while others seemed frozen in place. He was forced to watch the horror unfold in slow motion as the Horde mutilated the bodies of the Vigil. Limbs were torn from their sockets, the skin stretching until it split in a spray of blood and gore: the sickening, crimson particulate hovering in the air.
Revulsion and anger boiled over as Ryl screamed in defiance. The life had drained from the eyes of the last of the lead group as the harrier severed his head from his body. The fire inside Ryl’s veins swelled to an inferno. From under the cover of the tree and opposite side of the hill, distorted bodies flowed over the pristine landscape like a flood of black water.
The first of Kaep’s arrows screamed by Ryl, exploding through the face of a harrier to his left, showering those behind it in blood before imbedding itself into the chest of another. He plunged into their line fueled by the burning hatred that coursed through his veins.
His blade never ceased moving as he stabbed and slashed, severing arms, legs and heads in a deadly dance. His movements were fluid, too fast for the Horde to counter. All around him the air became thick with the suspended bloody rain from the dead and dying harriers. He felt the splash of the putrid, hot blood against his skin. The fetid odor of death choked the air.
Ryl heard the repeated, high pitch melody of arrows as they screamed past. Kaep nocked and fired with astounding speed. Her quiver was empty in moments. Her accuracy lethal; felling or hobbling all her targets.
He lost count of the death he was dealing, sliding far into the mass of abominations. Still they came. Through the din of the battle cries and wail of the dying, he heard the powerful voice of Paasek cut through.
“Ryl, fall back,” the phrenic screamed. There was fear in his voice.
What had he done? The words of Andr, the lesson he’d taught to the headstrong Nielix echoed in his head. He’d let his emotions rule his actions; let his better judgement slide behind the lead of pure unadulterated rage.
His friends were in danger.
Ryl let out a roar of unfettered frustration. He’d strayed too far. The harriers were nearly upon them. Kaep and Paasek stood in the face of a wall of incoming hundreds. The abominations had been worked into a frenzy by the fear of their prey and scent of fresh blood.
A hundred meters separated him from his friends. A hundred meters of death stood between them.
He propelled himself forward at lightning speed. His glowing blade sliding through flesh and bone as if it were air. Ryl focused the power in his right arm, releasing a blast of air as he leaped—the rush of wind pushing him up over the heads of the charging harriers. For a moment he was weightless as he sailed over the heads of the Horde.
Only for a moment.
Gravity reclaimed its lost hold on him, tearing his body from the sky. He plummeted toward the backs of the mass of the lanky harriers that were only moments away from reaching the waiting phrenic.
With blade and soulborne wind Ryl crashed down with meteoric speed. The unearthly force of the impact crushed the unlucky demon he’d fallen upon, and sent the surrounding abominations toppling. He dove forward on impact, rolling into the backs of the hobbled front line of the Horde that separated him from his friends.
Ryl felt the sting of claws as they tore into the flesh on his left leg as he reached a crouch. Staying low, he wheeled around, severing the offending hand and leg with one motion.
“Stay down,” boomed the voice of Paasek.
An instant later the edge of a greatsword, dripping with black blood rushed over his head, cleaving an arc of destruction. Bodies were severed in two; Ryl dove through the staggering remains, regaining his feet between the phrenics.
Kaep was engaged on all sides, her two daggers slashing with vicious accuracy, immobilizing the Horde one after another. Andr’s sword was already moving to en
d the struggling of those who’d fallen victim to her crippling strikes. Behind him, Nielix had rallied the remaining Vigil into fighting order, though they’d lost nearly half their number. All bore injuries of varying degrees.
Ryl darted through the group, intercepting a rush of harriers that would have devastated the remaining Vigil. Catching the attack on its flank, the Horde were helpless to defend themselves from the ferocity and speed of his assault. Ryl moved with deadly efficiency, halting the charge before it fell upon the wounded soldiers. Without pausing he rushed back, taking his place to the side of Paasek.
“Retreat to the entrance,” Ryl called to the remaining members of their ill-fated party. “We can hold them off there.”
The battle raged for what seemed like an eternity, yet not once did Ryl’s movements slow. He was a ceaseless whirlwind of death and destruction. His blade severed all that came within its glowing reach. The ground was littered with remains of the dead and dying. The pristine wild grasses of the clearing were trampled underneath foot and claw, soaked in a mix of black and crimson blood.
The constant influx of Horde had at last subsided. With every fallen abomination their numbers finally dwindled. As the remaining harriers mounted a final, desperate push, the bulk of the battle swung toward Kaep. Ryl surged around the defenseless flank of the attackers, tearing into them from their rear. Caught in the lethal vise between Ryl and the phrenics it was a matter of moments before the last of the Horde fell. A vicious downward strike from Paasek separated its body in half. With a splash of blood and a final sickly gurgle the pieces of the body crumpled to the ground.
How many Horde had fallen at their hands? Hundreds had ambushed them.
None within the radius of their blades had survived.
Ryl focused, scanning the area with his mindsight. Lingering streaks of black raced away from the opposite side of the tree. A pair of Horde paused for a moment along the edge of the willow. The first was lanky, its skin deep red, bordering on black. The terrifying image he’d come to associate with the harriers of the Horde.
It was the other that sent a chill down his spine.
The second was shorter, covered from head to toe in what looked like black fabric. Its black cloak rippled in the breeze that fought to clear the area of the putrid smell of death.
With a snarl from the harrier, the pair retreated, disappearing from the clearing.
Ryl scanned the area, watching as the final two black shapes vanished from his view. He released his hold on the power that flowed through his veins, letting the cooling sensation spread through his body.
As the power faded, time flashed back to normal with a colossal force. The impact left him reeling, and he staggered as he fought to retain his footing. The dizzying rush of pain and exhaustion was overwhelming. His body convulsed with an uncontrollable shudder as the chill swept through him. He felt as if he was being frozen alive, his blood turned to ice. His vision blurred.
“Ryl,” Kaep cried as he collapsed to the ground.
Chapter 35
Ryl blinked his eyes open to a new vista yet again. He was growing tired of the dangerous habit. The last images to cross his eyes were of utter carnage. Death and destruction; the ruins of hundreds of bodies. The dead of the Vigil and the Horde mingled together in a mangled mass of severed limbs and entrails. Spreading pools of blood had covered the ground, saturating the soil; the excess life-giving liquid pouring down the gentle hill in a stream of death.
Now, the sight before his eyes was clean and sterile, the straight lines of four walls forming a perfect rectangle. The immaculately polished walls and floors, smoothed to a crack-less perfection, were an indicator that he had somehow made it back to Vim. Ryl recognized the construction, yet the layout of the current room was unfamiliar.
The small chamber he awoke to was larger than his previous apartment, yet by no means an expansive dwelling. The simple furniture was beautifully crafted in the same artful style he’d grown accustomed to within the city. Opposite the foot of his current bed stood a closed door. A solitary lantern fixed to the wall beside it provided illumination for the room. A small desk and chair sat against the wall to his right, a standing closet with a table stood along the wall to the left.
Arranged on the table were his original holsters, the Leaves sitting patiently atop the worn fabric. Ryl sat up carefully, fearful of the effects of lying still for an undetermined amount of time. Surprisingly, he arrived in a seated position with little pain or discomfort. His head throbbed with a mild ache and the skin on his left cheek felt tight. He ran a finger along his face, tracking the line of an already scabbed over laceration.
Ryl swung his legs off the bed, His feet tingled as they came in contact with the cold stone floor. His left leg was sore; the memory of the attack played through his mind. He felt the vile claws of the harrier tear through his skin. He looked down at his leg, unsurprised to find a bandage stretching from his upper thigh to his ankle. Small traces of blood seeped through the clean, white dressing.
He tested his weight on the leg. The wound was sore, but he found there was little hindrance to his mobility. If not for the blood and bandage, the limp would have been hardly noticeable.
Ryl crossed the room to the table. He felt the familiar surge of energy course through his body as his hands closed eagerly around the wooden handles of the Leaves. Being reunited with the weapons was a relief. The contact was invigorating and simultaneously a balm to his mental well-being. Their absence felt like he was missing an appendage. With them back in his hands he felt whole once again.
Unseen hands had cleaned the weapons after the battle; there was no trace of the foul-smelling black blood or the lingering odor of the Horde. The Leaves however, seemed anxious, as if they had been dormant for too long. He noted an eager sensation—as if the weapons were anxious for the throws of battle.
A battle he hoped he would be long separated from.
Ryl replaced the Leaves on the table. He was inside the walls of Vim; this was perhaps the only place in the entirety of his known world he felt safe. He opened the standing closet beside the table, relieved to find his phrenic cloak hanging in its interior, alongside a fresh change of clothes.
Someone had changed him since he had returned to the city. The clothes he now wore, with the exception of the bandage around his left leg, were neat and clean. He pulled the cloak from the closet, easing it over his arms. He felt comforted as it wrapped him in its embrace. The cloak had been cleaned and expertly tailored. At the conclusion of the battle before the Prophet's Tree his body had been drenched in blood, both his own and of the Horde. His clothes and cloak had likely been in tatters. He inspected the fabric, finding it as perfect as the day he was led to its hidden cache within the depths of the Erlyn.
As Ryl removed the phrenic cloak from the wardrobe, the leather belt tucked behind the folds of the fabric came to light. He pulled the object from the closet, studying it closely for a moment. His cautious eyes studied every detail; it was readily apparent that the craftsmanship was the work of none other than a master. To determine the purpose however, required further inspection.
The leather was dyed a deep forest green, so dark that it bordered on black. Burned into the belt was a subtle yet intricate design featuring a winding, leafy vine that wrapped around the entirety of the belt. The details were exquisite. The individual veins of each leaf were visible, though they seemed to move with a life that defied their permanent nature.
In the middle of the belt, a pair of empty, parallel sheathes awaited their weapons. It only took a moment for its purpose to solidify in Ryl's mind with resounding clarity. He reached for the Leaves on the table, sliding them easily into the waiting holsters. Each of the dormant blades fit with a snug precision, leaving a hand width exposed from the leather. Ryl weaved the belt around his back, cinching the buckle around his front. The Leaves remained snug to his body, concealed from sight in the curve of his lower back.
He reached with both hands,
grasping the exposed handles of the Leaves with ease. The weapons slid from their custom holsters with the fluid motion of practiced perfection. Ryl was astonished with the immediate familiarity he felt with the holsters. The action felt natural, as if it had been the trained response from thousands of repetitions.
His mind snapped back to the conversations with the phrenics before they'd left for their disastrous mission to the Prophet's Tree. Deyalou had promised a sample upon his return. The work he now wore around his waist was a treasure. No thanks would be great enough for the phrenic master.
What of the others?
Ryl felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he struggled to recall the events. He had survived the battle, yet he knew nothing of his friends. Ryl slipped his feet into his shoes that waited patiently alongside the wardrobe before striding purposefully to the door. The latch opened with a muted click and the wooden door swung inward without the slightest hint of complaint from its metal hinges.
He exited to a small, yet cozy waiting room. Two comfortable looking chairs sat on either side of a small circular table against the left-hand wall, and a lantern burned peacefully away on its center. There were two doors leading from the room. To the right the door was closed, ahead the wooden door was cracked open, revealing a sliver of the room beyond.
Ryl strode across the small room, knocking quietly. He waited, yet there was no response from within.
Swinging the door open, his eyes roved the similarly decorated room to the one he awakened in. Simple, yet masterfully carved furniture was arranged in a likewise manner, however the room appeared as if it had yet to be lived in. Heading back through the sitting room, he opened the remaining door to a narrow, dimly lit hallway beyond.
Ryl paused as he entered the hall, peering in both directions. The hallway was silent. To his left, the path ended in a flat, stone wall. To the right, it proceeded a short distance before ending in a doorway. A narrow stream of light from the room beyond crept through the gap. Two doors were spaced evenly along the opposite wall while one shared the same wall as his.
