Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3)

by C. J. Aaron

  “We were lucky to have the assistance,” Le'Dral added. “It likely saved undue bloodshed. We won't be as lucky next time.”

  Ryl agreed with the captain. He turned his head slowly, arcing over the field of battle. Guard and tribute alike helped those in the most urgent need whether they were friend or foe. His eyes settled on Jeffers. There was a pained look on his face as he rose slowly from the still form on the ground at his feet. It was a guard from Cadsae Proper. He shook his head as he moved hurriedly to the next, a tribute sporting a vicious cut along his arm. His tattered sleeve and the side of his clothes were stained wet with crimson.

  Ryl clenched his jaw, exhaling deeply as the familiar fire raged through his veins. The death had been in self-defense, yet unnecessary. They'd come for the tributes. They’d come to destroy them all. Any that stood in that line; man, woman, tribute or guard would have been a casualty of war.

  “Treat those in dire need, those who can't treat themselves. Gather the weapons, and horses, we need haste,” Ryl barked out the order to the captain. “Release the rest.”

  Le'Dral tilted his head slightly to the side, and his eyes met with Moyan’s for a brief moment. The subtle understanding of cycles of tutelage and friendship flashed between them. Moyan’s smile brightened as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Send them with a warning for the next who come to claim our blood,” Ryl growled. “The time for mercy is at an end. We will defend our freedom.”

  The raging inferno swirled in his eyes. He stood taller; his cloak billowing out as the unnatural wind swirled around his feet.

  “They will be met with a fury the likes of which this Kingdom has never seen.”

  Chapter 32

  It took several hours before those in dire need of treatment were all cared for. Throughout the time, Mender Jeffers never stopped moving. His list of patients was long. He was either hands on or shouting out orders to those who’d offered their hands to assist. Virtually all who’d taken part in the battle on the side of the tributes and their rebel guards were marred with wounds of varying degree. Most required little skilled care, though several had sustained more life-threatening injuries. Of the ten that had received the most severe injuries, Jeffers was optimistic most would recover, though the full process may take cycles. Sadly, three of their group—three of Le’Dral’s men—were buried under the boughs of the small grove that had provided a backdrop to the blood, cries and gore that had played out before it.

  If not for the addition of Moyan’s men, the number would have likely been higher for both sides. The sudden, surprising addition of his troops had altered Ryl’s plan entirely. Though the task had given him no joy, he had been prepared to unleash the full force of the phrenics on the advancing riders. Few would have survived.

  As it was, sixteen of the attacking cavalry had perished in the melee. Several had fallen victim to strikes from the frantic, panicked horses. The others succumbed to wounds resulting from the blade or bludgeon. Nearly a quarter of the force of three hundred cavalry that had formed the charge were now held in temporary captivity. While the mender and those drafted to assist his grim work hastily tended to the wounded, the remainder were stripped of their weapons and securely bound. The tributes and guards had made quick work of gathering the weapons as well as collecting those dropped amid the hasty retreat.

  Corralling the spooked horses proved to be more challenging. Aided by a boost of calming emotion from Ryl and the phrenics, the startled beasts were pacified enough to control their reins. After a tedious process, they’d added nearly thirty horses to the sum of their small army.

  With Jeffers having completed the last of his treatments on the wounded, the caravan resumed its trek toward Tabenville. They left behind a ground burnt by flames and churned by the stampede of feet and hooves; the land was scarred with fire and stained with blood of men. A small line of graves lined the edge of the small grove. Headstones of sticks and cloth were etched with their names. Small flags of torn cloth fluttered gently in the breeze.

  It was well past midday when the somber caravan marched toward the north. All were consumed with thoughts of the morning’s occurrences. Open combat was something that defied all possible imagination. The reality of bloodshed was more profound, assaulting every sense. The thick, metallic smell of blood mixed with the putrid stench of vomit and excrement. Blood, gore and bits of flesh marred the pristine wild grasses of the small field. The ground that had been solid from basking in the sun's constant rays was squishy in places. A thick puddle of crimson liquid and black dirt bubbled up around the feet that trod through the saturated patches. The peaceful calm of the desolate fields of The Stocks had been desecrated by the slash of steel, the thump of wood and the bloodthirsty and agonized screams of men and women.

  The wounded had been loaded onto the horses as the tired procession limped steadily to the north. Ryl had waited at the rear with Le’Dral and Moyan by his side. With hoods drawn and weapons still in hand, the phrenics stood like menacing statutes several steps behind as Ryl addressed the captive guards.

  Ryl’s voice was laced with fear and utmost believability as he added the projected emotions to his words.

  “The tributes are not your enemy. We are not your enemy,” he growled at the guards that remained bound, huddled together in a group. “You have been deceived since before you were born. Since before your parents were born. I tell you that there is an evil stirring in the Outlands, a blackened death that has not been seen since the times of legend. They are your true enemy.”

  He paused for a moment, allowing the statement sink in.

  “The tributes are free,” he scolded. “Free from your molestation or command. The time for our compassion and mercy has ended. Attack us again and you will feel the full force of the phrenics. Know that few will survive.”

  Ryl’s hardened glare rolled over the captives. Few harbored the constitution to meet his eyes for more than an instant.

  “Captain, cut them free,” He ordered.

  Without hesitation, Le’Dral strode forward, deftly slicing the rope bonds that secured the closest guard’s hands. He kneeled before the man, a man who’d likely served under his command for cycles, yet he spoke not a word. The guard quickly averted his gaze as well, looking meekly down at the ground. The power, the truth, the information conveyed by Le’Dral’s eyes imparted a message louder than words would have hoped to attain.

  Without a word, the captain and Moyan turned away from the freed guard before mounting their horses, falling back into line with the procession. Ryl had moved back to his position in line with the phrenics. They stood motionless, watching as the guard hastened to free his companions. It wasn’t until the last had turned away in hasty retreat that they moved. He hammered the slowly fleeing guards with a wave of uncertainty.

  He wanted them to question his words. He wanted them to question the lies they’d learned as truth.

  The phrenics regained their mounts, riding with haste, catching up with the caravan a short distance in the lead. The plan was to push on until after nightfall. A hasty camp would be constructed without the light of fire. Another night of short rest would be in store for all as they intended to resume their march before the light of dawn.

  Ryl knew the warnings would be for naught. Even now, an army marched in their wake. They’d not stop at the words of a few wounded stragglers.

  The pace they kept was hurried, yet their strength flagged rapidly, reducing the progress to a crawl. They’d covered perhaps half of the remaining distance to Tabenville when the march was halted. Shy of ten miles still remained.

  Ryl felt the subconscious pull increase as the view of the Erlyn grew throughout the day. The morrow would see them united. The statue of Taben the Defender loomed in the distance. He looked upon it with a fresh perspective. When last he’d seen the stoic warrior, he’d still known so little of the past, of the history of the proud people to which he belonged. He’d seen firsthand the incredible power contained within t
he blood of the phrenics. The myths of Taben and his small force were founded in more truth than any understood.

  There were no speeches, no questions from the assembled mass before they took to rest that night. The quiet babbling of the river that ran along the road to their right was cathartic. Many were soon asleep, though they huddled together closely to stave off the night’s chill.

  The addition of the nearly fifty horses and men that had defected with Moyan allowed for fresh eyes along the watch. Le’Dral’s guards were eager to rest, hastening through the process of tending the wounded tributes Ryl had brought with them from Martrion. Jeffers had been too consumed with treating those hobbled from the morning’s battle that little more than a passing thought was given to a remedy to speed their recovery.

  All but three now sat, though their eyes were glazed and unfocused. None had made any attempts to communicate. Elias’s outburst and subsequent dialogue along the road from Serrate had not been repeated. His guard of phrenic or Vigil yet remained.

  Ryl had stopped to see him as he made his way throughout the camp. He spoke quietly to his unresponsive friend, reminiscing about times long since passed. Trouble they’d sought as children. Hope they’d whispered in the hushed confines of their worn-down room. His vision strayed to the camp that sprung up around them. He marveled at the pace at which both the tributes and the guards had assimilated with each other. Though only sporadic at first, increasing signs of trust were visible hour by hour.

  Those who’d made up the line, who’d fought and bled side by side, were bonded by the forges of war. Feelings of uncertainty had been transformed into a hardened trust.

  Ryl patted Elias gently on the shoulder, stretching as he rose to his feet. The sound of hastily approaching footsteps brought his focus back to the present. Millis and Vox materialized steadily from the darkness.

  “One of the scouts returned with a report,” Millis announced as they stopped a few steps before Ryl. “The army seems to have split. A second smaller force remained on the opposite side of the river from us. They likely aim to flank us from the east to cut us off before the woods.”

  Ryl looked from the guard to Vox. He could see the grin form on the elementalist’s face.

  “Seems we have a thing for burning bridges,” Ryl said.

  “Either that or houses,” Millis retorted. “This one seems adept at lighting them. I’ll show him the way there and back. We’ll leave sentries along the river as a warning.”

  Ryl acceded to the plan. The fire would likely be visible to the approaching troops. Depending on their location, they’d likely backtrack to the nearest shallows where the river emptied into the still waters of the lake. It would be there that they’d likely ford the icy waters of the river instead.

  “Ride safe, my friends,” Ryl responded.

  Millis answered with a formal salute which eroded into a shrug of his shoulders as he realized the pointlessness of the ingrained action. Vox simply nodded his head as he followed the guard. In moments they’d vanished into the dark.

  Ryl finished making his rounds of the camp, checking on the wounded and exchanging brief greetings with his closest companions and friends. He settled down among the tributes, speaking in low tones with Tash and Luan. Palon merely watched, his eyes remaining in perpetual motion, as he absorbed the activity around him. Ryl couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his silent friend slowly rocking Luan’s tiny baby in his arms.

  He savored the moments as he knew they’d not last long. There was a lengthy and perilous road ahead before they’d be able to rest. Would a day come when they’d all truly be free?

  To his surprise, from the darkness, Cray appeared, though he approached with tentative steps. Ryl moved to the side making room for the tribute to sit.

  The others greeted him warmly as he joined the group, an uncommon appreciation flashing in their eyes. Among the group resting around him, Cray was the only one to have fought in the battle that morning. Tash and Palon had remained ever vigilant protectors, sticking to Luan’s side. Zed had remained with Aelin. His sheer strength was required to hold the stubborn boy back from charging into the midst of battle with nothing but his fists and brute strength.

  Cray rubbed his hand idly over the bandage that covered his right arm.

  “How are you holding up?” Ryl asked calmly.

  “I’m alright, all things considered,” Cray responded quietly. He wrapped his arms around his knees pulling them in close to his chest.

  Words weren’t needed for Ryl to sense the struggle. He focused, sending a subtle wave of calm over the tribute. Cray responded immediately. His posture relaxed as the tension ebbed from his body. His eyes remained wide as he stared at Ryl.

  “How did you do it?” He quizzed. “How have you changed so much in so little time?”

  Ryl chuckled softly at the stream of questions that flooded through his mouth. They both quieted as the babe in Palon’s arms cooed softly as it squirmed gently before settling into sleep once more.

  “You have much to discover about the past. About the tributes. About the phrenics. And about yourself,” Ryl explained. “I'm afraid there won't be time for the introspection needed yet. You must learn to focus on the alexen that flows through your veins.”

  He saw Cray's eyebrow wrinkle at the mention of the cursed blood.

  “It hasn’t been long since I shared those same feelings,” Ryl commiserated. “The compound was a curse to me for cycles. Before you can learn to control the power that is rightfully yours, you must learn to understand that which resides inside of you.”

  The twins and Luan leaned closer, listening intently at the explanation.

  “The alexen is in essence a living thing,” Ryl explained. “It's a shared connection between us all. One that you can feel. You've most likely grown so accustomed to the sensation now that it no longer strikes you as unique. It's a feeling I can best describe as a welcome. A warmth that grows in proximity to other tributes, to other phrenics.”

  There was a similar look of confusion written across their faces.

  Ryl smiled at his friends.

  “The path won't be easy, yet one day, you'll understand,” he continued. “To see the world the way I do.”

  “I have to make it that long first,” Cray mumbled.

  Ryl put his hand on the tribute’s shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don't fret, my friend,” he said. “You fought well. You’re untrained and yet had the courage to stand your ground against seasoned warriors.”

  “And if it wasn’t for that mercenary, I'd have failed,” Cray said as he hung his head.

  “In that, you and I are brothers,” Ryl added cryptically. “That mercenary has saved my life on more occasions than I care to remember.”

  Cray paused for a moment, kicking a small twig idly with his foot before continuing.

  “There's something strange about him that I can't explain,” Cray said absently. “He could have been killed. Why would he have sacrificed himself for me?”

  Ryl smiled back at the tribute. It wasn't his place to give the information to the younger man. That was Andr's. He thought for a moment before responding.

  “He's willingly risked his life for me time and time again,” Ryl admitted. “He followed me on a fool's mission through the Outlands with next to no hope of return. I consider him as close to family as I have. He can be a man of few words, but he is driven by a higher purpose.”

  “What purpose is that?” Cray interrupted.

  “You'll have to ask him yourself,” Ryl answered.

  Chapter 33

  The dull thud of hooves on the road in the distance woke Ryl from his brief rest. The night was still shrouded in darkness. The camp around him was silent as the tributes enjoyed the last scraps of their short slumber. He rose quietly, moving with haste toward the sound of the incoming riders, investigating the area with his mindsight. The undeniable signature of a phrenic moved quickly in the direction of their camp.
r />   The captain and Moyan stood alongside the lead wagon in preparation for the arrival of the riders. With the thick of the night still obscuring their vision for more than a few meters, the hands of both hovered dangerously close to the hilts of their swords. The silhouette of two horses and their riders stood out against the low, bright flicker of the remains of a fire in the distance. Ryl stopped casually at their side.

  “There’s no need for alarm,” he stated quietly. “Vox returns with Millis. I can sense no alarm from the phrenic.”

  Le'Dral relaxed his stance, casually resting his wrist on the pommel of the blade. Moyan viewed Ryl with unveiled curiosity.

  “You will see,” was all Ryl replied.

  Moments later, the riders slowed. Millis’ voice called quietly into the dark signaling their approach.

  The two emerged from the darkness moments later, alighting easily before the wagon.

  “The bridge is no more, captain,” Millis reported with a hasty salute. “We watched the flames eat away the timber before we rode. There will be nothing left but ash soon.”

  “Good work, Millis. Thank you, Vox,” Le’Dral replied saluting his subordinate, offering his hand to the phrenic.

  Vox accepted the outstretched hand with a polite nod of his head.

  “How long will we let them sleep?” Ryl interjected, changing the subject, though his words trailed off at the end. He'd thought he heard a high-pitched whine over the quiet burbling of the river. He held out his hand for silence, interrupting the captain who'd opened his mouth to speak. He focused on the sound.

  The high frequency sound repeated; the notes became a harmony. Ryl knew the song.

  “Arrows. Cover,” he yelled as he leapt forward. He tapped into the speed that flowed within, propelling the captain and Moyan behind the edge of the wagon. The whistle of arrows ended in several solid thunks along the wagons side. A single bolt slid harmlessly by his feet.