by C. J. Aaron
Screams of pain and alarm sounded from their southern flank.
“Vox, light,” Ryl commanded as he reached for the Leaves.
The flames rolled along the elementalist’s tattooed left arm, rapidly coalescing into a ball of brilliant light in his hand. Ryl was already in motion to the south as the orb erupted forward from the phrenic’s palm. It shot into the sky, leaving a trail of spark and smoke, before detonating in a blinding ball of light that illuminated the area with an intense white aura.
A small glowing orb remained in the aftermath, slowly dropping to the ground, creating a disorienting array of perpetually moving shadows. The overwhelming power of the light turned the landscape under its domain into a nearly colorless contrast of shades of black and white. The only color to cross its stage was a streak of brilliant green fire from the Leaves as Ryl raced toward the sound of alarm.
The camp around them erupted into a frenzy of confusion, panic and alarm. Le'Dral, Moyan and Millis barked out orders to their subordinates. The stunned guards responded admirably, spurring themselves to action, many from the depths of sleep. The Vigil, following preset orders, fell back to the wagons housing the ailing tributes. Ryl knew the phrenics would be close on his heels. Andr would be close on theirs.
Ryl crossed the distance to their southern perimeter in a matter of moments. The scene before him turned his stomach. The road stretched out toward the south, illuminated as a light grey streak between the darker patches of ground along its flanks. A few meters to the left of the path, the shimmering surface of the lazily moving river glistened in shades of black and white.
Scattered along the road before him were the bodies of several of the rebel guards, some of which bristled with arrows. Their charcoal silhouettes lay still on the road. Slowly growing dark stains spread out from around their motionless forms. To the right, a single guard, an arrow piercing his side, screamed in pain as he slid himself across the cold, hard earth. Others hid behind the small clusters of bushes and thin, scattered trees, shouting cries of alarm to the somnolent camp at their rear.
As anger surged through his veins so too did the speed. The fire of the Leaves flared brighter—a blinding, brilliant green inferno erupted as time stopped around him.
To his front a group of perhaps twenty were in the process of nocking their arrows for a second round of deadly projectiles.
No further death would fly from their bows this night. The doomed archers couldn't react fast enough as Ryl screamed into their midst.
His stomach churned with repulsion as the last of their ruined bodies fell to the ground. He felt the hot spray of blood on his face and arms, heard the solid thump of bodies hitting the road, preceding the splashing of blood by an instant.
Ryl swept the surroundings with his senses. In the still flickering white light from above no he saw no others waiting to attack. He let the Leaves falter as he stepped from away from the bodies.
Time slapped back to normal speed; his cloak snapped out to the side.
The sounds and motion of the surrounding camp crashed into him with a dizzying force. Vox, Kaep and Ramm were at his side in moments. Vox's arm crackled with a steady flame. Kaep studied the silence of the surrounding landscape, arrow waiting eagerly for the next foe. Andr slid to a stop at their side, his blade in hand.
“We need the cover of the Erlyn,” Ryl announced. “We need to move now.”
He turned stalking his way back toward the wagons. All were awake in the camp as he walked with purpose back toward where Le'Dral likely remained at the head of the caravan.
Sarial rushed forward from her newfound position at the mender’s side. Her eyes were wide with concern.
“Ryl, are you hurt…?” her voice trailed off as she took in the full breadth of his appearance. He was slick with blood and gore. Splashes and sprays of the lifeblood of twenty were splattered across his body.
Her eyes flashed with a momentary fear.
“No, Sarial, I'm fine,” his voice was cold as he responded without stopping his march.
He witnessed a similar look on the faces of the tributes and guards he passed along the way. They shrunk back as he moved with focused intent through their midst. Their unveiled fear threatened to turn his already rolling stomach.
They lived their lives in perpetual fear.
The feared the guards.
They feared The Stocks.
They feared the Harvest.
Now, they feared him.
Ryl bit back the bile that forced its way up his throat, burning his insides.
Le'Dral stalked quickly in his direction, his head on a swivel, cataloging the action of the camp around him. His eyes surveyed Ryl up and down briefly as he stopped.
“It is done. More will come,” Ryl hissed. “Ready the march. Too much blood has been spilled already today, we need the safety of the Erlyn.”
“How many?” Le'Dral gasped.
“Four of your guards were killed in the ambush,” Ryl answered coldly. “Twenty of theirs.”
Le'Dral shook his head. Ryl could see the sadness in his eyes.
“Take their bows. Take the arrows. Leave the bodies,” Ryl growled. “They were warned. It needn't have come to this.”
The death at his hands was sickening … yet paled in comparison to the dread that rose in his body.
What was he becoming?
What had he become?
Chapter 34
Ryl avoided the others as camp was broken with haste. The first hints of the coming day’s light were beginning to lighten the eastern sky over the tops of the palisade. The dark of the night was slowly retreating from the gradient of slightly brighter blues that were pushing into its domain. The signal fires mounted atop the staggered guard towers of the Palisades had burned low in preparation for the light.
He washed his face and arms in the crisp waters of the river. The stubborn blood of the dead clung to his skin, refusing to relinquish its hold. Ryl plunged his hand into the cold water, bringing up a small handful of sand. He used the grit to scour the remnants of crimson from his arm.
The soft padding of footsteps on the loose soil behind drew his attention from the blood slickened water. Ryl turned his head to find Nielix approaching quietly. He tossed Ryl a dry scrap of fabric.
“The caravan makes for the north,” Nielix broke through the quiet burble of the gently rolling river. Ryl rubbed the cloth over his face and arms; the rough fabric sanding the last remaining traces of blood from his skin.
“You know, this is a burden you needn't carry on your own,” Nielix intoned quietly.
Ryl lowered the scratchy cloth as he finished cleaning off his face. The Vigil had been morose and withdrawn since his actions that led to the death of the phrenic Deyalou. Repentance was a long, winding road, yet he'd noted the clear reversal of the previously belligerent man's attitude.
“There was nothing you could have done to prevent this,” the Vigil continued. “The decisions they made, were made of their own volition. You know that not all will change their minds so quickly. Not all will abandon their lifelong beliefs so blindly.”
Ryl remained silent as the Vigil continued.
“The phrenics will follow you,” Nielix continued. “The tributes will follow. The captain and his guards will follow you as will the Vigil. As will I.”
Nielix stood taller as if the telling had removed a weight that had been heavy on his shoulders.
“I was wrong to have doubted you. I was wrong to have spoken out against you,” he admitted, though the concession was clearly discomforting. “You do not fight this battle alone. We will be by your side to weather any storm that blows in our direction.”
The Vigil reached his hand out. Ryl let it hover patiently in the air for only a moment before reaching out his own. The handshake was firm, the bond resolute.
Ryl and Nielix mounted their horses, cantering after the weary procession of the caravan. It wasn't long before they met with the rear guard. With an understanding nod,
the Vigil angled his horse off to the side, taking his position among the ranks of mounted soldiers that protected their rear. Kaep and Ramm now rode with them.
All, save the giant phrenic, were now armed with bows. Their supply of arrows was limited, Kaep having retained the largest share. Their silhouettes bristled with the shafts like cushions laden with pins.
Ryl spurred his mount forward, riding quickly along the western side of the column. Their eastern flank was protected by the narrow sloping bank of the river. The water from here to the Erlyn was relatively slow moving, yet fairly wide. A trained archer could easily strike a target on the opposite bank, however, the lack of trees made a stealthy approach nearly impossible.
They moved to the north with as much speed as could be safely managed and maintained. The daylight steadily grew to their east, brightening the sky with every step. Ryl reached the wagons that had been maintained for the transport of their medically needy patients. Rolan waved a subtle greeting as he passed, while Faya slept peacefully, curled on the seat beside him with her head on his lap.
Ryl marveled at the resilience of the man. He'd been a steadfast supporter, maintaining an almost perpetual responsibility for driving the black wagon since they'd left Milstead.
Ryl dismounted at the next wagon up the line. The remainder of the tributes from the facility with Elias now shared their cramped confines with several of the most severely wounded guards. The majority of Moyan's mounted cavalry had temporarily relinquished their horses, allowing the rest of the injured or hobbled to ride without slowing their progress down. Quinlen, still hobbled by a permanent limp from an injury several cycles past, stubborn as was his norm, had put up a half-hearted fight about riding, but eventually caved after a little extra convincing.
Vox offered a tired smile as Ryl hitched his mount to the back of the wagon, easily hopping up to the back of the overburdened cart.
“I'll take over from here,” Ryl said. “Get some rest. You've had a busy night.”
The phrenic elementalist needed no further motivation. He rose wearily, patting Ryl on the shoulder before departing on the mount that followed steadily behind the wagon.
Ryl eased his way through the maze of the wounded and recovering, who were arranged as orderly as possible in the back of the wagon. He nodded at the guard who'd pulled duty caring for the wounded. Jeffers slept restlessly on the pile of reorganized medical supplies at the head of the wagon. For the moment, his patients were stable. The most seriously injured from the ambush hadn't survived long enough for Jeffers to treat his wounds.
Toward the front of the wagon Ryl took a seat, leaning his back against the coarse wooden walls. He positioned himself between Elias and Cavlin. The physical condition of both had improved dramatically since they'd left Cadsae two short days earlier. Elias was still silent; his eyes hadn't opened again. Ryl hoped that someday he'd emerge again from the shell in which he currently resided. He wasn't willing to give up hope, to give up on his friend yet.
Cavlin's skin had reverted to nearly its original tone. His flesh had been a sickening, ashy grey when Ryl had left him at the discretion of the mender in the East Ward of Cadsae Proper. He'd taken a vicious beating. He’d lost so much blood, Ryl was honestly surprised the man still lived.
Ryl watched the slow steady rise and fall of both men's chests. For a moment, he put his head down in his hands, scanning the surrounding area with his mindsight. He located the four phrenics instantly. The blur of light from the tightly packed tributes that marched hurriedly toward an uncertain future in Tabenville was as incredible as it was disorienting.
The signatures of the tributes they'd rescued from the facility were still feeble at best. Like the last flickering remains of a candle, he feared it would take only the notion of a breeze to extinguish the glow forever. Would their conditions ever improve? Would they ever regain control over their senses enough to live out their lives?
Had they truly been saved when he’d pulled them from the torture chamber of the facility in the shadow of the Martrion ruins?
At his side, the distinct void where Elias lay was as painful as it was confusing. His mark was neither the golden glow of the alexen, nor the blackened stain of its opposite. In its place was a void of neither light nor dark. The emptiness that filled its confines was limitless.
Ryl squeezed his hands into fists, pressing them against his head in frustration. For a moment he tugged at the hair of his scalp as he worked to drive the thoughts from his mind.
It was a moment before he regained the clarity he sought. They had accomplished so much with so little. Whether the razing of the facility, the rescue of a father and daughter on the run from the hunter's blades or the freedom of the tributes from their captors. They'd come this far. They'd converted many to their cause.
They'd all bled for the truth. For freedom. For what was right.
“I'll not give up on you, my friend,” Ryl whispered as he looked at the still form of Elias, lying a hand’s width from his side. “I'll find a way through this. I'll be by your side until the end.”
He watched the rhythmic breathing of his friend’s chest. The steady pulsation was soothing. He waited for an answer that he knew wouldn't come. The frustration was growing harder to hide.
“He can hear you, you know,” came the airy voice from his opposite side. The sound was weak and ragged, requiring a force that was audible.
Ryl turned his head in shock. Cavlin's head had rolled to the side facing him. His eyes were open, though no more than slits. He blinked them together with sluggish effort.
“Yours was not the face I expected to see in that alley,” Cavlin mumbled. “I was sure it would be death's gaze that met my eyes. I admit I was shocked, but not truly surprised.”
Ryl leaned in close, his worried eyes darting to the bandage that remained wrapped around the wounded guard’s waist. Jeffers had changed it not long before they left their ill-fated campsite—he was relieved to see it was still clean of blood.
“We were lucky that fate chose to reunite us as it did,” Ryl answered.
Cavlin blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut in a wince of pain.
“Aye, luck had a part in it. I'll be forever thankful for that,” Cavlin stated honestly.
A convulsion of pain rolled through his body. Ryl saw his muscles tense, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“It was more than just dumb luck,” he said bluntly. “It wasn't pure luck that cut down eight professional killers in that alley. Just like it wasn't luck alone that disposed of that vile master and his henchman. It was skill.”
Ryl did his best to hide the recognition that flashed across his face. Cavlin smiled a small, knowing grin, likely the furthest extent of his muscles’ range of motion before the pain kicked in.
“Your ability is unlike any I've seen. Your movement borders on the impossible,” he gasped. “There was something about you before, something unexplainable. There is no questioning it now. What is it that you want, Ryl? Why did you return?”
Ryl stared down at the wounded guard for a long moment as he pondered the true answer to the question. There was no simple answer.
He wanted freedom. Freedom for the tributes, freedom for the children and families that fell prey to the horrors of a positive Ascertaining testing.
He wanted understanding. Understanding that the tributes were not something to be feared. They were men and women, boys and girls much like the rest. Though their powers, their skills would set them apart, they weren't something to be hunted and caged.
He wanted peace. There were battles coming. The fate of the phrenic. The fate of Vim and of Damaris would be held at the tip of a clawed hand.
He wanted hope.
He wanted the hope that freedom was truly possible. That the understanding he was witnessing around him was infectious; that it would spread across the land, carried on the winds. That peace could be realized.
“I came here to set them free,” Ryl answered after his rev
erie.
“And I'll aid you anyway I can,” Cavlin whispered. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fought to maintain his fleeting grip on wakefulness.
“Rest now, my friend,” Ryl said quietly as Cavlin's eyes closed. “The road will be long and there will be much to do before we reach the end.”
Chapter 35
The coming of dawn brought a clear blue sky overhead. The crisp breeze that blew from the south was chilling yet refreshing. Its gusts seemed to give emphasis to their march; pushing them toward their destination.
To their north, the Erlyn stretched out before them, though still several miles in the distance. Her green arms reached for the hastening caravan, ushering them to the safety of her embrace. The colossal statue of Taben the Defender urged them onward.
To their south, the tale was far less optimistic. The ambush from the night before was only a precursor; merely an advanced scouting party for the army that now marched at speed, nipping at their heels. The massive wave of soldiers moved steadily forward, casting a cloud of dust that billowed high into the air. The tips of their spears glistened, sending out brilliant flares of light as they caught the rays of the morning's sun.
Ryl left his post watching over Elias, passing the duty off to Soldi. He hastened to the rear of the column, that had now pushed forward into a desperate run. The cries of war from behind echoed over the apprehensive hush of the morning. The strides of the trained guards were rapidly narrowing the distance between their parties. Ryl and the phrenics had abandoned their horses, assisting to load as many of the slower tributes onto their backs. Of the nearly ninety horses that originally bore warriors, less than twenty remained in the hands of the most skilled fighters of the group.
With a single command, the remainder of the horses and wagons spurred themselves on with all due speed. The squeaking of the wagon wheels and the thunder of hooves was drowned out by the cheers from the army behind. The hammer of nearly ten thousand feet on the ground roared like an approaching storm.
