Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3)

by C. J. Aaron

  “Understand that there will be no mercy for those who stand in our way, Le’Dral,” he cautioned.

  “Those men are loyal to me and me alone,” Le’Dral sighed as he announced. “My decision has been made. Long have I disagreed with the policies that I’ve been duty bound to uphold. I will stay; so will my men.”

  “Know that there is no coming back from this choice,” Ryl said knowingly.

  The captain looked Ryl in the eyes. They glistened with a hardened determination and an unmasked sense of relief. He showed no sign of backing down.

  Le’Dral extended his right hand.

  There it hovered for a moment while the grin tugged up on the corner of Ryl’s lips. To him, the significance of the gesture was earthshattering. A defining moment with long standing effect he hoped would ripple throughout the land. The single handshake would be the beginning of the events that would set straight the Kingdom from the twisted course it had followed for a millennium.

  Fire surged through his veins, spreading the heat of insuppressible triumph through his body.

  Ryl reached out his hand, meeting the captain’s with an audible clap, albeit the sound was lost over the receding cries of the fleeing nobles and spectators. The significance of the act shook the very foundation of The Stocks.

  Chapter 25

  No sooner had Ryl clasped hands with the captain, then the pair was nearly pulled from their feet as young Aelin crashed into his side. The strength in the boy’s embrace was staggering. A thought passed quickly through his mind; an acknowledgment of the true powers that were blossoming in the child's veins.

  He’d grown taller throughout the last cycle. Though still under ten cycles in age, his muscles were well defined, likely a combined result of his labor in the smithy and scant calories. Tears rained from his eyes like a summer downpour.

  “You’ve grown, young man,” Ryl said as he broke his handshake with the captain, resting his hand on the ruffled hair atop Aelin’s head.

  Le’Dral took a step backward from the pair. He nodded his head at Ryl.

  “We need to move the tributes beyond the line of my men,” Le’Dral offered. “They stand at an arrow’s distance. Anything less is inviting injury.”

  Ryl agreed with the captain’s assessment, however he had no intentions of staying in the village for long. They would need to move quickly. Ryl understood the reasoning behind the questioning look on Le’Dral’s face.

  “You hold a precarious position, Ryl,” the captain stated. “They will descend on Cadsae like a wave. From the little I’ve seen today, you and your allies are no doubt skilled beyond comprehension. Know that there are nearly ten thousand troops in the port city. You can be assured the capital with be sending more when word reaches their ear.”

  Ryl knew the news would reach the capital city of Leremont before long. It wouldn’t take an intellectual to connect the destruction of the facility at the Martrion Ruins with this upheaval at The Stocks. They would descend upon The Stocks with a collective force never before mustered by the Houses of Damaris.

  “All will be explained in time, captain,” Ryl answered cryptically. “Know that we have no intention of holding Cadsae. We move to the north.”

  “To the north lies nothing but farmland. You know that,” Le’Dral countered. “The only location close to a defensible position is …”

  The captain’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened in a look of both shock and surprise.

  “Aye, captain,” Ryl responded. “We make for Tabenville. Can your men ready the supplies? We’ll take the wagons, mules and all the provisions we can muster. We need to move quickly.”

  The need for haste was unnecessary to stress. Le’Dral knew full well the predicament they’d put themselves in. His face broke from his official regimented pose as a sly smile crossed his lips. He nodded before hastening toward his men, barking out orders along the way.

  The mass of tributes had slowly crept closer as he’d spoken with the captain. The handshake along with the urgency were understood by all. The tributes parted as the captain rushed through their midst.

  Ryl turned his eyes on the gathered mass of tributes. Friends, family, faces that were nothing more than a memory since their separation a long cycle earlier. His eyes landed on Sarial, her cheeks wet with tears. She rushed forward, pulling him into a tight embrace. He could feel the warm moisture pooling on the shoulder of his cloak.

  Gently, she pushed herself away. She looked up at him through glossy, water-soaked eyes. She spoke quietly between racking sobs.

  “I’ve seen you in my dreams, Ryl,” she whispered. “I knew you’d return to us someday.”

  He leaned down planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “There’s no power in the world that could keep me away forever,” Ryl said softly. There was no power in the world that could contain the smile that spread across his face.

  “Welcome home, Ryl,” a voice came from the crowd. Quinlen stepped forward from the edge of the group. Ryl greeted his friend with a nod before addressing the entirety of the group.

  “There will be time for greetings, and time for explanations soon,” Ryl announced. “I regret that the time is not now. We need to move and move quickly. The full brunt of the Kingdom’s guard will be upon us soon. To them, we are the truant. We are the rebels. Gather whatever possessions you cannot live without, all the food you can carry, and meet behind the line of Le’Dral’s men. We move north with speed.”

  His words were laced an overpowering sense of urgency. Though he knew his friends longed for a greeting, they would understand the need for expediency.

  With a smile and a nod, Ryl guided young Aelin toward Sarial’s waiting arms. Gently turning the young man, she, Aelin and the tributes broke from the group with a disorganized alacrity, rushing like water back toward their meager rooms to gather what little they called their own.

  Kaep backed up a few steps, stopping beside him, her eyes never leaving the nearly empty palisade.

  “Can he be trusted, Ryl?” she asked softly. He watched the object of her questioning ahead, issuing orders to his troops. The men under his command scattered at his word, moving rapidly in the direction of their prescribed tasks.

  “In my heart, I truly believe so, Kaep,” he acknowledged. “In my head, I cannot yet reconcile the truth of it. Any allies will be an asset, they will yet be on a short leash.”

  He turned his head to face the phrenic archer at his side. Her hood was still drawn, yet the low angle of the morning sun illuminated the profile of her lips and chin. His eyes moved past her to the Master’s House and clinic that stood apart slightly apart from the other buildings. He grinned as he recognized the figure standing in the doorway.

  Mender Jeffers.

  “Have Rolan pull the wagon forward out of the range of arrows. The Vigil and Andr will remain guard. The phrenics will hold the gate. I’ll go collect the mender.”

  Without another word, Kaep rushed back toward the wagon and the inner doors of the Pining Gate. Her bow remained ready to loose its deadly projectiles. Her eyes scoured the top of the Palisades for danger.

  The great wall’s top was now devoid of citizens and nobles alike. The guards that remained, hidden behind its staggered crenulations, cautiously peered inward with worried eyes. They had been shaken by the incomprehensible actions of the phrenics. What thoughts ran through their heads as arrows were shattered to splinters by an invisible hand, or incinerated in a fireball that appeared out of nowhere?

  In nothing but myth had such fantastical occurrences ever materialized. They were afraid. Some were curious. Few were awestruck.

  The divide continued to grow.

  Ryl turned his attention back toward the clinic as he quickly strode forward to meet the mender. Jeffers remained standing where he had first seen him; his normally sterile, emotionless face showed true shock and wonder. He knew the mender’s scientific mind was working feverishly to decipher all that he had seen. All that he couldn’t c
urrently explain.

  He took the short staircase leading to the door in a single bound, stopping a step before the mender. Ryl opened his mouth to speak, Jeffers interrupted him before the words could escape his lips.

  “Sarial spoke often of your return,” his voice was flavored with an undeniable tinge of wonder. “I’ve wanted to believe. I’ve worried it was a lingering effect of the trauma she sustained from Delsith.”

  Mender Jeffers’ voice dripped with anger as the name of the previous master invoked a physical response. His brows furrowed; his lips curled into a snarl. Ryl felt the heat of anger surge through his body as well. The previous master had monstrously abused and tortured the tributes for cycles, forever striving to keep any glimmer of hope, of joy, from catching light.

  “It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Ryl admitted.

  The look of hate diffused from the mender’s face as quickly as it had come. In its place Jeffers grinned with wonder. He reached his hand out toward Ryl’s right arm. The mender hesitated before his fingers contacted his tattooed skin.

  “What happened to you?” Jeffers gasped.

  Ryl smiled at the mender, reaching out, clapping him on the shoulder with his left hand. The sudden contact broke the inquisitive, determined concentration on the studious man’s face. The sudden jolt sent a wave of pain shooting through Ryl’s body.

  “There will be time for answers soon enough,” Ryl admitted with a shrug though he winced at the discomfort. “Now we need to make haste. Jeffers, I have with me tributes that are in desperate need of your aid. Clear all the supplies you can from the clinic; we leave for Tabenville now.”

  Jeffers shook his head quickly, snapping himself from his contemplative trance. His look began as one of curiosity before quickly morphing into concern.

  “You’re injured,” Jeffers stated plainly. The mender had tended to Ryl on more than enough occasions—it was almost as if he’d anticipated that some treatment would be required. He moved to Ryl’s side, carefully probing his shoulder with his hands.

  “It’s dislocated,” Jeffers announced. One hand remained still against the back of Ryl’s shoulder, the other gently felt for any additional sign of damage.

  “I know, I could …” Ryl’s words were cut short as Jeffers applied careful pressure to his shoulder without warning. The momentary surge of pain was intense yet faded rapidly as the shoulder popped back into its socket.

  “Compassionate as always, I see,” Ryl hissed at Jeffers through gritted teeth.

  A look of mild annoyance flashed across the mender’s face. He opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off before his retort could be heard. Captain Le’Dral with a pair of guards in tow loped up the steps behind them; Ryl watched them cautiously as the guards approached.

  “Mender, it’s time to go,” Le’Dral announced. “Bring everything you can. These men will help you pack. Do hurry. The entirety of the Cadsae Proper garrison will likely fall on these walls before long.”

  Jeffers’ eyes travelled from Ryl to the captain then back again. Ryl offered a subtle nod of his head. He rolled his shoulder gingerly, pleased to find that the pain had mostly subsided. Jeffers mumbled under his breath as he wheeled toward the door, obviously anxious to reach his obsessively organized supplies before Le’Dral’s men. He stopped abruptly, pivoting his head back, using his arm to block the doorway.

  “You spoke of injuries earlier. I see no more that need my assistance,” Jeffers commented. The captain looked on curiously awaiting the response.

  “I know not whether you’ll remember their names,” Ryl said. Jeffers’ immediate grimace acknowledged the unintended insult in his words. He was quick to amend his statement to placate the mender.

  “I mean no offense, my friend. Names have never been given much weight among the guard,” he added quickly. “There are eleven. In truth, though I recognize most of their faces, it pains me to admit, I cannot remember their names. Except for one. He was like a brother to me. His name is Elias.”

  Both the mender and the captain gasped in response. His was a name the pair clearly remembered.

  “That name was well known by all,” Le’Dral interrupted the mender who’d opened his mouth to speak. “His stunt at his Harvest carried vastly polarized responses among the guards. He was taken two cycles ago. How …?”

  The captain’s voice trailed off as his eyes traveled to the square. The breeze from the sea had picked up again, kicking up small clouds of dust independently from the turbulence caused by the commotion of the foot traffic. Several black cloaks, soiled by the light-colored dirt, blew casually across the ground. Le’Dral’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled back to Ryl.

  “The black cloaks,” the captain gasped. “Those aren’t mere props?”

  Ryl shook his head sullenly.

  “Most are, though they were fashioned after the only original to have survived,” Ryl admitted. “I assure you, the Lei Guard that wore them didn’t relinquish them willingly.”

  The jaws of the captain and the mender hung open as their eyes remained fixed on Ryl.

  “All will be explained in time. I promise,” Ryl insisted. “Now make haste, Mender.”

  Jeffers moved his arm allowing the pair of guards to slip past. He turned quickly to follow the two into the clinic. A thought again stopped him in his tracks he made to turn the corner from the entranceway.

  “Ryl, we just issued the treatments yesterday. Apart from a trivial supply for emergencies, we don’t have any extra,” Jeffers gasped. There was a look of panic written across his face.

  Ryl chuckled as he met eyes with the mender.

  “Waste not the time packing them or the space they’d take up,” Ryl said. “Leave the poison to rot.”

  “Without the treatment they’ll die, Ryl,” Le’Dral interjected.

  “I’ve not had any in a nearly a cycle and I stand before you today,” Ryl added. “It won’t be pleasant for them. Nightmares of what they are about to endure still plague me yet survive it they will.”

  The thunderous sound of an explosion sounded from the direction of the gate. From his position, Ryl couldn’t tell if the voices screamed out in agony or fear. Backing away from the pair, he reached his hands up, pulling the hood up over his face.

  “There’s much you have yet to learn, my friends,” was all he added as he hastened toward the gate.

  Chapter 26

  The beleaguered village was made ready to be abandoned in rapid order. For the tributes it took but a moment to gather their paltry possessions. A good number carried nothing more than a simple pack and water skin. Some carried nothing.

  They arranged themselves in a worried group toward the edge of the village’s northern boundary. Le’Dral had stationed a pair of guards at the edge of the city. Both groups eyed each other cautiously, either preparing for hostilities to ensue at any moment.

  Andr and the Vigil had taken charge of corralling the tributes in the absence of the phrenics. Ryl had rushed to the gate as the fireball from Vox’s hand had exploded with a terrifying force. Embers were still raining down from the sky, fizzling as they extinguished on the rough earth. The screams were those of terror. The detonation had occurred to the west of the gate, meters from where the head of the stairs met the walkway along the palisade’s top. The small contingent of brave—or foolhardy—archers who had made ready to loose their deadly arrows now fractured in all directions. While there were inevitably some minor burns and singed hair, none appeared to have been seriously wounded in the assault.

  Ramm and Nielix had made quick work of clearing and sealing the interior of the gatehouse. The guards inside the gatehouse had eagerly abandoned their stations as the last of their companions who’d escorted the tributes to the Harvest vacated Cadsae. They streamed through the narrow door into the safety of the barracks, hurriedly closing the door behind them. Any ideas of counterattack withered as the ominous footsteps of the massive phrenic thundered at their tail. With the gate cleared, Ramm remo
ved the substantial drawbar that secured the inner doors, wedging the thick timber into the earthen floor; effectively barring the side door leading to the barracks.

  Ryl joined Kaep and Vox as they stood guard. Her bow remained in hand; her eyes diligently covering the Palisades for any signs of threat. Flames burned along Vox’s arm, eagerly crackling for release. The sound of approaching footsteps from behind drew Ryl’s attention. He pivoted to find the twins, Tash and Palon, moving to his position; a group of nearly a dozen tributes followed closely in their wake. Each had armed themselves with crude metal tipped cudgels, likely the cast away scraps from the rundown smithy.

  “Ryl, is that you under there?” Tash inquired, tilting his head; peering into the blackness of his hood.

  “Aye, Tash, it is,” Ryl acknowledged, quickly removing the hood from over his head. The act of covering his face had been so involuntary, so natural that it was now purely second nature. He felt an awkward sense of nakedness with its removal. “It’s great to see you again.”

  “Always knew there was more to you than you let on,” Tash added. “A story for another time, I reckon though. Let us know what you need us to do. Odus and Zed have taken charge of the rest of the tributes.”

  To their west, Ryl saw a guardsman lead a set of mules and cart from the stable, pulling up in front of the clinic. A pair of guards, arms loaded with supplies from the mender’s stores, hastened to deposit their wares before rushing back inside.

  “I fear our time will soon be up,” Ryl commented with a dry, matter-of-fact tone. “The mender could surely use some help. We need haste.”

  “Consider it done,” Tash answered with a wink before turning to the group that had followed him. Palon, silent as always, observed the happenings around the square; absorbing all from their surroundings. His keen eyes logged every detail as they ricocheted across the commotion. He nodded, flashing a wry smile before hastening after his twin.

  With the addition of extra hands, the clinic was cleared of the remainder of its supplies in short order. Ryl watched as ever-organized Jeffers cringed when he noticed the haphazard order in which his goods had been deposited into the cart. The final trip from the clinic contained perhaps the most meaningful cargo. The guards exited; carefully navigating the stairs with a litter laden with an unmoving body. Ryl felt relief flood his body as they loaded the clinic’s solitary patient into the back of the cart. How Le’Dral had managed to smuggle the wounded body of Cavlin into The Stocks in the dead of the night was a mystery, one which he was sure to learn the answer sooner or later.