Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3)

by C. J. Aaron

  The escaping bodies had bottlenecked for an instant as they reached the door in unison. The swelling pressure from the surging crowd behind forced them through; spreading out in a wave of humanity as they were exploded out of the tavern. There were cries of pain and surprise as several lost their footing, toppling those around them. An unlucky few were trampled as they poured out from the exit like water. Many turned back toward the tavern, helping those who had fallen, or gaping at the scene that was unfolding. Some ran.

  The cool night air seemed to sap the will to fight out of most of those who had escaped the melee. The square was bright with the light of the nearly full moon above, casting the area in a cool blue glow. Most hadn’t the slightest idea of why they were fighting in the first place. Ryl stalked to the rear of the crowd, probing the mass of bodies, finding Andr easily. The mercenary had ended up being pushed out the door to the same side as him.

  “Nice move,” Andr said, flashing him a wicked grin. “I’m afraid I lost our friend at the door.”

  Ryl and Andr surveyed the crowd eagerly, searching for any sign of Cavlin. True to his form, the man had disappeared into the mix.

  Ryl’s heart raced. He longed for confirmation that the ruse had at least freed the soldier from his fate at the hands of an unseen blade. Slinking along the wall past the darkened side of the massive building, he noted the measured gait of a group of six. Each had a blade in their hands. The face of the last in their line was bloodied, his clothing soaked. Their gaze didn’t comb the crowd seeking their prey. Their attention was pointed; focused not searching.

  They were hunting.

  Ryl followed the trajectory of their focus, noting the fleeting figure moving quickly in the shadows of the buildings along the adjacent side of the square. His heart skipped a beat as the two darkened figures jumped out at him, launching their attack from behind the cover of a low gated wall that prevented access to the alley beyond. Caught by surprise, Cavlin was helpless to resist. He struggled against the arms that restrained him, yet was pulled into the alley with ease.

  The group in pursuit, hastened their steps. Even from the distance, Ryl could see their bloodlust.

  “There!” Ryl exclaimed as he moved toward the edge of the square. Andr followed a step behind.

  They moved with speed, yet still cautious of drawing too much undue attention. The trap had been carefully planned—who knew how many other remained in waiting throughout the square?

  Ryl and Andr reached the shadows of the line of buildings a step after the last of the assassins entered the alley. Under the cover of darkness, they rushed forward into a sprint. The sound of fist and foot striking flesh became frighteningly obvious.

  The burning sensation raced through his veins as he drank deep from the power within. Andr’s footsteps ceased as the mercenary nearly froze in place. His sprint slowed to a crawl as his body crept through the air. Ryl was nothing more than a shadow to the naked eye as he covered the distance to the gate in a flash.

  The final assassin had closed the gate to the alley as he passed. The sound of the thick metal bar preventing the inswing of the gate had been barely audible over the abuse that was being delivered to Cavlin.

  The sturdy metal gate was the solitary break in the narrow wall that closed off the alley from the avenue outside. The wall itself was relatively low, its peak only slightly above eye level. To most, hurdling its height would have proved only a minor inconvenience.

  To Ryl it was immaterial.

  On either side of the gate, the wall stretched out for a few meters before connecting with the edges of the buildings on either side. Without breaking stride, Ryl leaped; planting his foot easily on the top of the wall. It took him but an instant to survey the scene unfolding several meters into the darkened alley.

  In their haste to begin their long overdue assault, the group had only dragged Cavlin ten meters or so before eagerly commencing their beating. One stood on either side of the motionless body, propping him up on his feet. The others were arranged around him in a small loose ring, eagerly awaiting their next turn. A single figure, who Ryl recognized immediately as the first of the knife wielding assailants from the tavern, stood a few steps away. His left hand was balled into a fist. Blood drenched his knuckles.

  In his right hand was a slender dagger. The blade shimmered in the low light of the alley. A large drop of crimson welled from its tip as it was pulled toward the ground.

  The blade was smeared in red.

  Was he too late?

  From the quick glance Ryl knew the abuse they’d doled out had been intense. Cavlin’s face was splattered with blood, his eyes nearly closed from all the swelling. His legs were bent, holding no weight of their own, and his feet rolled over, resting awkwardly on their outer edges. Along his right side, Ryl could see where his shirt had been slashed; the red stain spread down his abdomen and pants. He was relieved that there were no other apparent punctures.

  Even so, he knew the life of his friend would be ending soon.

  As skilled as Cavlin was, eight against one wasn’t a fair fight. But the odds tipped hopelessly back into his favor as Ryl entered the fray.

  His survey had taken less than a breath. Without stopping, Ryl pushed off the top of the wall with his right leg, his left foot planting firmly on the top of the windowsill of the building to his front. He forced himself outward and upward high above the alley.

  For a moment, he was weightless. His legs churned and his cloaks billowed out behind him. He saw the eyes of several of Cavlin’s attackers begin to bulge, their mouths open to voice their warning as his body blacked out the moon above.

  Ryl hardened the woodskin.

  His trajectory brought him down onto the backs of the two closest to the entrance. He barreled into them with the force and weight of a fallen tree, riding their bodies to the ground. The sickening snapping under his weight was of bone, not of branch. Ryl knew neither would ever rise again.

  Their lifeless bodies cushioned his fall slightly, though the impact still rattled throughout his bones. For the second time in a matter of minutes, his controlled roll dislodged the feet of the knife wielding assassin from the ground below. The speed of his assault carried him into and through the remaining three attackers standing beyond.

  Ryl wasted no time regaining his footing and was back on his feet before the last of the falling assassins hit the ground. Of the eight that began, only the two who held Cavlin still remained on their feet. They’d released their hold on the semi-conscious guard, reaching desperately for the swords that hung comfortably from their hips.

  Cavlin’s legs crumpled in slow motion as they failed to support his bodyweight. He plummeted unrestrained toward the ground.

  Seeing the man who’d shown him unexpected kindness and comradery beaten mercilessly stoked the fire in Ryl’s veins. The steel of his borrowed sword sung a high-pitched melody as he whipped it from its sheath. A vicious strike severed the neck of the closest assailant as he struggled to regain his footing. He ducked under the spray of blood that hung like mist in the air, darting forward toward Cavlin, burying the sword through the heart of the closest attacker. The blade slid through to the hilt; he watched the light of life extinguish from the man’s eyes. His momentum propelled him and the lifeless body forward, impaling the blade through the man who had restrained Cavlin’s left arm. The sword exploded through his back, digging deep into the stone on the wall behind him, pinning the two corpses together.

  To his left, Cavlin’s body crumpled to his knees. Blood splashed from the pool that was growing around his feet.

  Ryl spun around his falling friend, hardening the woodskin on his right forearm and fist as he swung it out to the side. The assassin’s right hand was occupied, halfway through the act of withdrawing a narrow blade. Ryl’s arm connected with the man’s neck. There was a sickening, wet gasping sound, accompanied by a loud crack as it was crushed between his arm and the building behind.

  Cavlin slumped forward, his arms st
retched desperately out in front of his body.

  Ryl reached down with his right hand, freeing the halfway withdrawn blade that had slipped from the assassin’s lifeless fingers. With one motion, he lunged forward, shortening the distance between himself and the two remaining assassins. One step was all he needed to adjust the range without having to reverse his current handhold on the blade. He snapped his arm forward—the rotation of the knife was perfect, burying itself into the temple of one of the assailants.

  Only one man remained.

  The apparent leader of the ambush was in the process of lashing out at Ryl with his knife. Part feeble attack, part desperate self-defense, it was a futile effort. Ryl stepped to the side, chopping down on his arm with a fully hardened left fist. He felt and heard the bones in the assassin’s hand and lower arm snap. The knife fell harmlessly to the ground.

  He landed a quick jab to the side of the man’s face before grabbing him by the collar, lifting him off the ground. The few meters between them and the opposite wall of the alley closed in a flash. Bits of mortar and loose stone rained down from the impact.

  Ryl released his hold on the speed letting time flash to normal as he released his hold on final living assassin. His cloak snapped out to his side as it carried on his motion. The man crumpled to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. From behind him, there was a wet splash, a muffled gurgle and the sound of bodies connecting with the hard, alley floor.

  Andr’s boots hit the ground as he finished vaulting the wall at the end of the entrance to his right.

  Ryl planted a kick in the midsection of the assassin, knocking him backwards into the wall. He remained hunched over with his back against the wall. His head rose and fell as he panted for breath. His legs lay still. His arms hung limp at his sides.

  “Who sent you?” Ryl growled. “Why him?”

  “Bloody traitor to the King,” the man spat between breaths. A trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth. “They all deserve to die.”

  With a snarl, Ryl dropped his heel onto the man’s remaining unbroken hand. The fingers crunched under the impact.

  “I asked who?” he demanded.

  The assassin gritted his teeth through the pain.

  “It matters not,” he cursed. “The captain and all his cronies are as good as dead. Only thing keeping them alive is the Harvest. There’ll be a culling soon.”

  Andr interrupted his words with a shout of alarm.

  Ryl twisted to the side, backing away from the assassin as Cavlin stumbled past, sword in hand. His blade rammed through the neck of the assassin, biting deep into the mortar of the building behind. Cavlin’s frantic grip slipped from the blade as his remaining strength failed. His stumbling momentum, likely a result of sheer adrenaline alone, carried him forward. His hands lacked the energy to slow his approach. The guard managed to turn his head to the side as his body connected, face and chest first with the side of the building.

  Cavlin slid down the wall, his face dragging across the rough stone. Ryl and Andr were at his side in an instant. They carefully lifted the guard away from the growing pool of blood spreading out around the wreckage of the final assassin.

  Through the swelling, Ryl could see Cavlin attempt to focus his eyes on either of the men now supporting his weight.

  “What are you?” the guard choked out. Specks of blood sprayed from his lips cast out by the force of his breath.

  “A friend,” Ryl whispered.

  Andr reached over gently tearing the shirt along the slash on the guard’s side. The cut was deep, and blood bubbled freely from the incision.

  Andr’s eyes widened at the wound. He looked at Ryl shaking his head sullenly.

  “He’s going to bleed out,” the mercenary said honestly. “We can’t stop the bleeding. He’ll never make it to a mender.”

  Cavlin issued a weak, wet cough, spraying hot blood across the side of Ryl’s face.

  “Please. Leave me,” he gasped. “Warn the captain. Tell him Cav ... sent you.”

  Ryl regarded Cavlin for a moment. A seedy back alley at the hands of an ambush was not the place the guard was to die. Not if he could help it.

  “Hold him still,” Ryl barked the quiet order to Andr.

  The mercenary responded with a grunt and placed his hands on Cavlin’s shoulders, carefully pinning his body to the wall.

  Ryl placed his left hand on the side of Cavlin’s face, bringing his head close to the fading guard.

  “This is not your night to die, my friend,” Ryl whispered. “You can tell Le’Dral yourself.”

  Ryl reached down and tore the guard’s shirt. Cavlin’s breathing was labored; the wound pumped out more and more blood with every ragged gasp. The blood-soaked fabric gave way easily, revealing a gash that ran from his abdomen up to nearly his armpit.

  With his right hand, Ryl reached behind his back. He felt the anticipation, the energy surge through his body as his fingers closed around the handle of discreetly secured Leaves.

  The brilliant green blade flared to life as it cleared his cloak.

  Ryl smiled as Cavlin’s wounded eyes widened in recognition as the light of the shimmering blade illuminated the face of his savior. His grin faded at the task ahead. He took a deep breath as he placed his hand over the guard’s mouth.

  With all the care he could muster, he placed the flat of the burning blade against the gash on Cavlin’s skin.

  Chapter 19

  The putrid scent of burning flesh still clung to his nostrils. Ryl breathed deeply of the cool night air attempting to rid the smell. He followed Andr, keeping to the shadows as they made their way through the back alleys toward the tavern. Though Cavlin’s fate was still unsure, Ryl was contented knowing they had done all that could be done.

  The glowing blade of the Leaves had served to cauterize the wound. The intricate design of a long, narrow, serrated leaf was now burned into the guard’s side, stretching out beyond the vicious incision. Cavlin had screamed into Ryl’s hand, struggling with his remaining strength as the blade scorched his skin. His fight was blissfully short as his feeble remaining reserves of energy quickly evaporated.

  Thankfully, Andr was familiar with the area of the East Ward. There was a mender in close proximity to the tavern and brothel. One which was well known, and well compensated by Breila for his services, and more importantly in her profession, his discretion.

  They'd dragged the unconscious guard through the shadows as best they could. Their route was hasty, yet their travel was cautious. By the time they reached the concealed rear door of the mender’s private clinic they were certain they had not been followed.

  The mender was likely no stranger to rude awakenings at all hours of the night by frantic pounding on his door. His initial response was harsh, yet as his eyes fell on Cavlin, his tone altered.

  They were ushered into a small room in the rear of his home, where the mender wasted no time with his treatments. The explanation he received was brief, lacking any true substance, yet aside from a knowing look, he questioned them no further.

  The mender’s mouth had fallen open at the sight of the intricate details of the brand that had sealed the would-be fatal would. After a thorough examination, his prognosis and outlook were guarded, yet positive. Though much work remained, his concerns were centered around the potential for internal injuries, cautioning that internal hemorrhaging could be tricky and easily fatal.

  Ryl graciously thanked the mender for his service and continued care. He tossed a handful of gold onto the table beside the bloodied rags and implements. The look that flashed across the mender’s face acknowledged that the sum paid had been far more than ample for his treatment.

  And for his silence.

  As they made their way back to the tavern, Andr came to an abrupt stop before him. The flickering of light from fast moving torches and the sound of heavy boots striking the alley gave them pause. The pair ducked into a narrow alcove, waiting silently as the lights, and heavily armed guards, passed by
at speed.

  By the time they had left the mender’s, the area surrounding the tavern had come to life. The discovery of the bodies of eight men in an alley had put the city guard on high alert.

  “We're nearly there,” Andr whispered as he watched the receding light from the torches fade down the crossing street ahead. “Another few alleys and we'll be there. Let's make haste.”

  Ryl nodded in reply as the two rushed to remain under the cover of the predawn darkness. The last several avenues were crossed thankfully with no further interruption. The nickering of horses filtered through the wall of the building to their right as Andr paused in the shadows of a discrete alcove, tucked conveniently behind a large pile of refuse. He quickly lit the small torch he’d stolen from a sconce outside one of the houses they’d passed several avenues back before passing it to Ryl.

  The small flood of light splashed on the wooden surface before them. Unlike the weathered, horizontal boards of the building, the slats of the panel ahead were vertical. With the ramshackle, patchwork nature of the surrounding structures, the discrepancy would have been easily overlooked. Andr reached into his tunic, removing the silver key that Breila had given him. With a glance over his shoulder, he slid the key into a small circular hole created where the center of a knot had dislodged from the board.

  There was a muted click as the lock hidden behind disengaged. The groan of the ill-used hinges sounded like thunder as they echoed through the alley. Cautiously, Andr swung the door inward, letting the light from the torch in Ryl’s hand illuminate the spartan room.

  The area was nothing more than a crudely furnished cell that looked barely big enough for the pair of them to fit comfortably. A narrow pallet served as a bed along the left-hand wall, while the chest at its foot and the small chair on the opposite side constituted the entirety of the room’s possessions. Ryl closed the door rapidly, eager to abbreviate the audible complaints from its hinges.