by C. J. Aaron
Behind him, the wagon came to a stop once it fully entered the chamber. Without a command, the gates behind them began to close, blocking out the terrified and curious faces that filled the street and square.
“We deliver a tribute,” Ryl stated bluntly. The gate behind them closed with a deafening thud that he felt through his body. He recognized the slightly uneven footfall of Andr approaching from his rear.
“Have you no sense of timing?” Maklan snarled with undisguised animosity. Ryl could feel the anger pulsing off the vile noble. “The Harvest is underway. I was made aware of no new tributes.”
The high-pitched song of a sword freeing its scabbard tore through the room like a peal of thunder splitting the sky. The tip of the wicked, curved blade in Andr’s hand stopped, its lethal point resting gently against the side of Maklan’s neck. The councilor’s eyes squinted in fearful anticipation as his head tilted back and to the side. A quiet hissing preceded the dulling of the shimmering fabric of Maklan’s pants as his bladder involuntarily released its contents. A thin puddle grew steadily around the polished, gem encrusted shoes of the councilor.
“We take no orders from you,” Ryl snarled.
Maklan made a clear show of acquiescence as his head trembled in an attempt to nod. The needle point of the sword pushed more firmly against his skin with his every motion.
“Apologies, sir,” Maklan gasped. “The timing of your coming is ... unorthodox.”
Ryl forced out a wave of pure unadulterated anger.
“Unorthodox?” he whispered. He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Bind him.”
Around the room, the mouths of the guards fell open. Maklan’s eyes bulged beyond what Ryl thought possible.
When none moved, Ryl repeated the command with a force that broached no question. The officer who’d answered the call at the outer gates, frantically moved to the pile of fetters, pulling the first set off the top. He whispered his apology in the councilor’s ear as he began clasping iron shackles to Maklan’s wrists. Ryl felt a disturbingly profound sense of satisfaction as the final clasp on Maklan’s feet was locked into place. The officer shrunk back from the bound noble, distancing himself from his forced work.
Andr’s blade slowly lowered from the councilor’s neck. Though his skin had not been pierced, a bright red dot marked where the point had been pressed against his throat.
“Bring him,” Ryl ordered.
Andr slid his blade into its sheath, taking his place at Ryl’s side. Dav approached from the rear, carefully avoiding the puddle as he spun the councilor, wrenching him toward the side of the wagon.
With Maklan in irons, Ryl made his way slowly to the back of the wagon. As the guards who would have been standing along the outer gate had moved to the side wall, there were none within eyesight of the interior. He opened the door slowly, making a show of collecting Faya from the inside. He gave the young girl a gentle, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as she whined in feigned protest. She dragged her feet, tracing mild lines on the dirt floor as he pulled her toward the towering inner gate before them.
A feeling began tickling at his senses as he stepped toward the inner doors. Distant at first, the familiarity rapidly became overpowering. The warmth of the welcome—that natural presence that exuded from the very cores of those with alexen in their blood—blossomed as his proximity to the tributes shortened.
Ryl stopped a few meters from the edge of the gates. His hand was balled up in the loose fabric that made up the ill-fitting rags they'd clothed young Faya in. The phrenics and Andr stopped a step behind him. Dav and Nielix followed along the rear corners of the wagon. Nielix's hand hovered menacingly close to the hilt of his confiscated sword. Dav pushed the uncooperating form of Maklan roughly in front of him. The chains on the vile councilor’s feet jingled as they scraped across the hard earth.
The tributes inside The Stocks had been alerted to the commotion from the top of the palisade. The uncertainty manifested in several unfiltered waves of fear, anxiety and infinite sadness that swelled unknowingly from their ranks.
The heat flowing through Ryl’s veins reached a scorching inferno. The call from his blood was nearly undeniable, virtually uncontrollable. He fought the urge to tear the gates down by hand. With a deep steadying breath, he temporarily stilled the force that raged from within.
It was time.
He turned his head slightly to the left, nodding at Ramm to his side. Wrapped in the black cloak, the massive phrenic moved like a shadow across the room. His destination was well telegraphed, leaving no question as to his purpose. The pair of guards manning the control chain for the massive wooden bar blocking the doors frantically scurried from the path of the gigantic black figure moving in their direction.
Ramm reached his hands high above his head, staggering their grip as he pulled down on the thick metal chain. After the initial exertion of the pull, his arms moved with ease. The massive wooden bar that spanned the pair of doors slid into the far wall. He continued pulling until the bar disappeared entirely into its recessed slot. There was a grating sound of wood on stone followed by an ear-piercing cracking of timber as the drawbar smashed into the end of its concealed track. Bits of mortar and debris rained down from the ceiling above.
Ryl closed his eyes, steadying himself for what was to come. He opened his mouth, the roar that resulted shook the very foundation of The Stocks.
“A tribute at the gates.”
Chapter 23
The volume of his call resounded through the enclosed chamber. Young Faya at his side covered her ears with her hands, shrinking away from the noise. From outside the wall, the murmured sound of voices drifted through the cracks in the thick wooden doors.
After handling the chain for the drawbar, Ramm moved to the center of the gates where the two panels met. Several inches of wood were now the only physical barrier standing between them and The Stocks.
Standing between them and the tributes.
Ramm swiveled his head slightly, looking at Ryl with his peripheral vision.
The subtle nod of Ryl’s head was the signal the hulking phrenic awaited. He watched with rapt attention as the phrenic strode forward toward the meeting of the massive wooden gates. Ramm rolled his shoulders as he lunged toward the monumental doors. Rearing back, he let out a guttural grunt, one that bordered on a scream, as he planted his hands on each of the solid panels.
Ryl watched in awe as both sides of the normally sluggish doorway burst open. The rapid movement kicked up a thick cloud of dust and dirt from the road beyond. The light from the early morning flooded through the open gates. He squinted his eyes as they rapidly readjusted.
Ramm paused as the doors parted, his breathing heavy. The phrenic’s shoulders rose and fell with every breath. The air passing violently from his nostrils was audible—like the snorting of a bull ready to charge. His hulking frame, shrouded in black, struck an ominous pose in the open doorway.
The phrenic remained where he stood, letting Ryl pass. He fell in line with the other phrenics and Andr as they followed several meters behind. Cloaked in the black of the Lei Guard, Ryl appeared from the cloud of dust at first as a shadow, which then resolved into the form of a man as he separated himself from the gloom of the interior chamber. The hanging particles in the air swirled into small eddies in his wake as he materialized into Cadsae with a new tribute in tow.
His sudden appearance caused a gasp of surprise from the spectators assembled on the wall as well as from the unfortunate souls gathered within. The area fell silent, watching in anxious anticipation as the line of black cloaked warriors, mounts in tow and a wagon followed through the settling dust and debris.
The tension in the air was tangible; a definitive weight of uncertainty and fear. The air felt thick as if the gravity of the Harvest and the oppression from the Palisades loomed over the square, choking out the precious oxygen.
Ryl’s first view of the inside of The Stocks nearly robbed him of his breath, threatening to swee
p him off his feet. From his brief visual survey, the town looked unchanged. The three, nearly identical inn-like boarding houses occupied the space just past the warehouse along the edge of the eastern palisade. The conjoined Master’s house and mender’s clinic stood alone at the closest tip of the horseshoe shaped arrangement of buildings that constituted the village of Cadsae. The drab structures seemed to be frozen in a perpetual state of disrepair. The dusty main road led in a northerly direction. Fallow fields, overtaken by wild grasses bordered the edge of the villages’ boundary. The village remained identical to the picture that had forever been burned into his mind.
It was neither the city, nor the view of the road he’d traveled hundreds of times that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. It wasn’t the rippling of the grasses in the distance as they swayed gently in the gusts of wind from the sea. It wasn’t the silhouette of the Haven Mountains growing from the horizon far off in the distance.
It was the tributes.
In a tightly packed semicircle stood the men and women he’d grown to call his friends. Those he’d honored as if they were family. Intimately familiar faces immediately jumped out from the crowd. Zed, the gentle giant and humble blacksmith of The Stocks towered over the middle of the crowd, looming nearly a head above the tallest around him. Tash and Palon, the inseparable twins, with Luan between them. Quinlen and Odus stood nearby. In his brief survey, his eyes failed to note the position of Cray among the tributes in the square.
Ryl exhaled a deep breath of relief as he noted the woman standing in the front row at the center of the tributes. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been teetering on the verge of life and death. She’d been the victim of the master’s forced drunken lust and unquenchable penchant for violence. Sarial lived! Her face still wore the perpetual smile that he’d seen dim only seldomly. By her side, leaned tight against her body, she held the hand of a single, small child.
One of The Stocks’ newest tributes.
Behind the mass of tributes, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder was a row of guards. A dramatic mixture of emotions played out across the faces of all present inside the crowded square. To a man, the guards looked worried. The appearance of the Lei Guard was an ill omen. Their appearance in the middle of the Harvest was unheard of.
Across the faces of the tributes the emotions were profound. Tears streaked down the faces of many. Heartbreak shone clearly though the valiant attempts at strength. For some the anger burned like a fire, nearly bright enough to be doused for contempt. In the vast majority though, confusion abounded. Most had been through Harvests just like this for cycles. Never before had the ceremony been interrupted.
A few paces ahead of the mass of tributes stood a second line.
This cycle’s offerings. The Harvests of cycle 1351.
Behind each of the tributes to be harvested stood a pair of guards. Their uniforms were cleaned and pressed to their finest. These unrelenting ushers were prepared to drag their charges into the mouth of the Pining Gate. Standing between Ryl and all of the tributes a single man remained. A man he recognized well.
Captain Le’Dral.
The captain stood frozen in his usual stoic pose even in the face of the uncertainty that had presented itself. To Ryl the captain looked tired. Creases had formed in the corners of his eyes. He’d likely endured a long, contemplative night after Ryl had disappeared into the darkness. Surprisingly missing were both sub-masters: Millis and Moyan. Their absences were curious, though Ryl was certain the reasoning would come to light sooner rather than later. The captain’s eyes widened as he noted the bound figure of Maklan shuffling to maintain his feet as he was dragged through the gate.
The scene had required but a moment to take in. Ryl stalked forward, stopping a few paces before the captain.
Silence settled over The Stocks. All those gathered held their breath in anticipation. Even the steady wind from the ocean seemed to pause its relentless course as the events unfolded.
Le’Dral’s eyes darted from Ryl to his companions then quickly back to him.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” his voice was quiet. Though the uncertainty was there, the words were uttered with well calculated concern for political tact.
Ryl studied the captain for a moment before responding. There was no sign of intimidation, no sign of fear. The captain remained steadfast as the silence stretched on.
From behind, the hollow thud of the massive wooden doors slamming shut echoed through Cadsae. The guards inside had no doubt wasted no time closing the exit the moment the Lei Guard had passed. The scraping of wood on metal heralded the sound of the drawbar being retracted into place.
For better or for worse, there was no turning back. They were locked inside The Stocks. Immediately the oppressive feeling from the walls returned unbidden as it attempted to infiltrate his confidence.
Ryl turned his body sideways, motioning for Dav to approach with the shackled councilor. The metallic grating of the chains as they dragged across the hard ground resounded through the still of the square. With a final push, Dav heaved Maklan forward—the councilor landed hard on his knees to Ryl’s left side.
Ryl let go his hold on Faya’s shirt. In one fluid motion Ryl wrenched the sword of the Lei Guard from its sheath, reversing his hold as he sprung toward the hobbled councilor. Maklan cried out in horror, squeezing his eyes together as Ryl stabbed the blade down toward him. Captain Le’Dral, whether out of shock or acceptance, remained motionless.
The blade bit deep into the ground as it squeezed itself between the wide links of Maklan’s fetters. The force of his motion drove the blade nearly to its hilt. Tears streamed down the councilor’s face, the dust and dirt collecting in the damp residue. He whimpered quietly to himself as he worked to free the blade to no avail. A sickly half-sob, half unhinged laugh poured from the councilor’s throat.
Ryl turned away from the maniacally cackling noble, redirecting his full attention on the statuesque form of Captain Le’Dral who remained a few meters away. The captain was motionless as Ryl approached within a few steps.
“The time to make your choice is upon you, Captain,” Ryl whispered loud enough for only Le’Dral to hear. He pointed to Faya then Maklan in turn.
“Tribute or Jailer?” Ryl questioned. His voice raised for all to hear. “An innocent life or the corrupted—who happily slaughters the family, fleeing to save their child?
Le’Dral’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened involuntarily as he recognized the voice speaking from under the impenetrable shadow of the black hood.
Ryl took a step back. To his left, the writhing form of Maklan still spewed incoherent venom through his maniacal cackling. Only a step from the councilor’s side, Faya stood still, her brilliant, wide, blue eyes seeming to glow, overpowering the light of the early morning.
The call from his blood was overwhelming. The alexen tore through his veins with an excited anticipation that made his skin tingle. Ryl closed his eyes, focusing momentarily, before unleashing a wave of sensation over those arranged throughout the square.
Le’Dral took a step back as the force of the emotion crashed over him.
The collective stare from the gathered tributes centered on him.
From his rear, the black cloaked phrenics and Vigil prepared themselves for what was to come.
It was time.
Time for the world to see the truth that had been hidden from them for generations.
Ryl slowly reached his hand to his chest, undoing the simple clasp that held the black cloak secure. His hands moved to his face, collecting both hoods, pulling them back from his head. The sun felt warm on his skin as the covering fell away. The brands underneath either ear burned with a self-conscious fire.
For how many cycles had he been defined by the raised scars of the number and insignia on his neck?
That was the past.
His freedom was now.
There was a collective gasp from all those who bore witness to the spectacle b
efore them. None louder than from the tributes who had a full view of the face that was exposed from under the shadow of the hoods.
As his arms dropped to his sides the black cloak fell silently to the earthen ground at his feet. A gust of wind swelled from his right arm, curling around his body. The tainted, constricting black cloak, though unquestionably unsettling to wear, had served its purpose well. The garment was carried off to his side, the last tendrils of wind blowing an errant strand of hair across his face, jostling the end of his grey phrenic cloak.
The warning cry resounded like a wave that rippled through the nobles and spectators alike that lined the wall behind him. Without turning, he knew the cause. Six black cloaks had fallen to the ground.
His eyes raged with an uncontrollable, defiant fire as they met with the captain’s.
Chapter 24
“Ryl!”
The startled yet excited cry screamed from a single, shrill voice from inside the mass of tributes. Ryl quickly scanned the crowd. Shock was written across the awestruck faces of all assembled in and around the square. His eyes hesitated for an instant as they focused on Sarial. She held a single hand to her mouth, yet it failed to hide her astonishment. The tears were already streaming down her face.
A commotion began near the middle of the group, just to her left. Bodies were jostled to the side as the unseen body pushed its way though. The lumbering frame of Zed gave chase to whoever was the focus of the furor, and he hastened toward the edge of the line.
Aelin exploded through the front row of tributes, nearly toppling several unprepared bodies as he burst free from the group. A pair of guards moved quickly to intercept the young boy.
The first of the two met Aelin before he reached the line of tributes due for Harvest standing before Ryl. In the man’s eyes, the young boy approaching him was just a child, yet Ryl knew differently. The guard’s arms opened to wrap the charging boy, expecting to give little ground as he easily overpowered the errant child. At the last moment, Aelin dropped his lead shoulder, colliding with him at full speed.
