A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  A Tribute at the Gates

  The Catalyst Book One

  CJ Aaron

  Contents

  Map of Damaris

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Message To The Reader:

  About the Author

  Contact

  A Tribute at the Gates copyright © 2018 CJ Aaron

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 9781790177394

  Prologue

  The rusted iron hinges of the carriage door shrieked in protest, causing a mild resistance as it was slammed shut. A small cloud of fine metallic dust wafted into Ryl’s face, sticking to the lines of fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. The two massive draft horses snorted as the bits were jostled in their mouths from the force created by the slamming door. The additional weight of the small child added to their load was an inconsequential burden.

  Without uttering a word, the clean-shaven soldier who had unceremoniously deposited the struggling Ryl into the four-wheeled cell had turned and walked out of his limited view through the small, barred window on the door. Ryl threw himself against the door, wrapping his small hands around the cold iron bars, standing on his tiptoes to get a better view.

  “Help me, please,” he choked out the words between desperate sobs. “Mother. Father.”

  No response.

  “Why are they doing this?” he screamed, shaking the bars with all his might. Ryl may as well have been trying to move a mountain. His answer came not from his parents but in the form of a hard wooden baton slamming against the bars, the reverberation stinging his tender hands. The baton struck close enough that Ryl could feel the wind from its passing. He withdrew his hands, guarding them against his quivering chest.

  “That's enough out if you,” the guard demanded. The look of utter disgust on his face was the last thing Ryl saw before the steel shutter was slammed shut over the window, drowning his cell in blackness.

  1

  Ryl looked up from his work to watch as the small carriage disappeared over the hill in the distance. The top of Thayers Hill was the only place in all The Stocks that you could get a decent glimpse of the world outside. He drove his worn shovel into the ground, hard enough for it to stand on its own. The wooden handle, polished to a dull shine after cycles of use, swung gently side to side. The unwelcomed memories had returned unbridled at the sight of the carriage.

  “Another tribute,” he muttered reverently. “Poor soul.”

  Subconsciously, Ryl’s hand rubbed at the right side of his neck before moving to the left, noting the raised markings of the brand just below his ears. Marks of shame. Ryl had seen the brands only once in the eight cycles since their addition, but the protruding scars left a permanent reminder nonetheless. The images burned into his memory.

  Under his left ear, the image of an owl clutching a pickaxe in its talons. Under his right was the number used to define him.

  H1351+

  The skin had long since healed but, inside, the wounds were still raw.

  Resting his forearm on the shovel, putting an end to its slow wobble, Ryl stared at the horizon. The only evidence of the departed wagon was the smudge of reddish dust silhouetted against the light blue of the afternoon sky. His eyes locked on the dissipating cloud of dust, mind lost in thought. The agonizing memories of the past had yet to relinquish their hold.

  The morning had started out like most. The songs of the birds greeting the rising sun had woken him from his slumber. Slowly rising from his pallet, avoiding the low-hanging beams of the sloping attic ceiling, Ryl yawned as he rubbed his eyes. Donning his threadbare trousers and tunic, he did his best to mat down his wild morning hair as he shuffled toward the ladder.

  Approaching the trapdoor, his nose was greeted with the smell of fresh baked bread and honeyed sausage. Sausage was a luxury above their station in life, reserved only for special celebrations. Ryl pondered the occasion as he swung his foot over the top rung, beginning the descent from his bedroom loft.

  As a family they had little, eking out a simple, impoverished living, surviving on a paltry income from his father's job at the lumber mill. His older sister was coming of age where she could begin apprenticing with the local seamstress. Ryl lived the carefree life of child in Ilisot, attending school during the week, doing chores around the house, and otherwise being lost in the imaginative mind of an eight-cycle-old boy.

  The quiet crackling sounds of sausage cooking in a pan on the modest single burner stove were almost deafening. Surprisingly absent was the ever-present morning banter between his parents and his older sister.

  Reaching the floor, Ryl cautiously started down the hall to the main room of his home. His mother’s back was turned to him as she carefully flipped a sausage in the pan. Reaching the small main room, he surveyed the scene. His mother was at the stove, his father looked lost in thought, staring out the window, slowly raising a cup of coffee to his lips. He exhaled to blow a waft of steam from the piping hot liquid. His sister was sitting in her usual seat at the four-person table. Her eyes looked red and swollen. Was she well?

  His mother turned as a creak from the floorboards gave away his approach. She smiled as she crossed the room, planting a halfhearted kiss on his forehead.

  “Morning Ryl, dear. Sleep well I suppose?” Her smile looked forced as she tousled his disheveled hair.

  “Yes, of course. Mother,” mumbled Ryl, “something’s happened, hasn’t it?” An instant of panic streaked into his mother’s eyes as she stumbled
to find the words.

  “No Ryl,” his father’s comforting deep voice intoned as he started across the room. “Your mother’s made a fine breakfast for us this morning. Sit down and enjoy.”

  A delicious, yet subdued breakfast followed. Ryl pardoned the lack of conversation, assuming the unusually flavorful meal was worth enjoying, not to be spoiled by trivial conversation. Nearing the end of breakfast, his father rose from the table, taking up vigil staring out the window by the door. Working to clear the table, as was Ryl’s usual task, his father interrupted, clearing his throat.

  “Ryl, come with me a moment,” his father said, placing his coffee on the windowsill, leaving a growing halo of condensation on the glass. He motioned for Ryl to follow him toward the door. Glancing at both his mother and sister for answers, Ryl wasn’t regarded a look. His mother absently scrubbed the same spot of a plate, his sister had her head down, staring at the table, body quivering trying to disguise the fact that she was crying. Reaching his father’s side, he was taken back by the unusual forcefulness of his hand as it ushered him through the open door.

  Their small family house was set a dozen paces off South Gate Causeway, the main thoroughfare connecting their village of Ilisot with the southern entrance to the city of Pernell. Living on the outskirts, as the majority of the laborers did, the road here was of poorly maintained hard-packed dirt. During the warmer season, dust from passing carriages and riders covered everything in a fine layer of grey powder. The rainy season brought patches of deep mud and ruts that solidified making traveling uncomfortable during the freeze that was soon to follow.

  Exiting the house, Ryl and his father stepped onto their meager porch, barely large enough for the two small chairs his mother and father would sit in most pleasant nights. The door to the house behind them closed with an audible click.

  Parked on the side of the road directly in front of their home was a black carriage hitched to two massive dray horses. Both horses shuffled their enormous hooves, as if impatiently waiting for their task to be complete. On the side of the dark carriage was a small design in white, a large gate, one door wide open. Somehow the black within the open door appeared darker, more ominous than the black of the balance of carriage. Ryl had seen its like before, but couldn't place where.

  Two men, wearing the telltale grey and gold-trimmed dress of Pernell guards accompanied the horses and carriage. One remained in the driver seat, reigns still in hand. The other guard, face emotionless, stood waiting, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  Ryl felt a twitch in his father’s hand as he was again ushered forward.

  “What’s happening, Father,” Ryl asked sheepishly, looking up at his father as they made their way toward the carriage. His father answered without returning the look.

  “Walk with the man, Ryl. He has some questions for you,” his father said coldly, the quivering in his lower lip was barely noticeable. “Everything will be fine.”

  Ryl’s feet hesitated as his father’s steady hand pushed him forward. The guard had taken a step to meet them, face remaining emotionless as he reached out his hand for Ryl. Expecting to be taken by the hand, the steely vise grip that grabbed his wrist made him yelp and pull back in surprise. Ryl turned his head back for his father as the guard reeled him in toward his body, wrapping his other arm around Ryl's torso, lifting him off the ground. Now screaming for help, the tears welling up in his eyes, he watched his father's retreating back, head hanging down as he made the way back toward the house.

  Ryl hadn’t the strength to fight back as he was deposited into the cell, door slamming shut behind him. The guards had made it clear they weren’t here to help him. He couldn’t understand what he had done.

  From inside his blackened cell, Ryl felt the carriage lean slightly as the guard mounted his seat. At a muffled command from the driver, the carriage lurched forward, sending the off-balance child careening headfirst into the solid wooden door. He felt the warm trickle of blood that started from just below his hairline slowly ooze down the side of his face.

  Ryl couldn't remember how long he had screamed for help. The guards who had started by kicking their heels against the wall to emphasize their command to “shut up” had long since given up in their attempts to silence the frantic child. His screaming pleas ceased when his feeble voice gave out.

  The excruciating trip had lasted an eternity as far as Ryl was concerned. His fists were bloody from pounding on the doors and walls for help. Splinters had made a home beneath his fingernails from failed attempts to scratch the shutter open.

  Every bump threw his light body into the walls or rough benches that ran along either side of the carriage. The enclosed space was becoming a furnace, sweat mixing with blood stinging his eyes and the fresh cuts that covered his riddled hands. The pungent aroma of stale urine and feces was becoming unbearable, the air thick enough to taste.

  Nowhere in the mind of the eight cycle old could the answer to what had happened be found.

  Why was this happening?

  Why hadn't his parents helped him?

  Did they mean for this to happen?

  At long last the carriage had ground to a stop. Ryl, who had been pressed against the door, desperately gasping for any drop of fresh air that slipped through its gap, spilled out, landing in a painful heap on the smoothed cobblestone road. Heavy hands had grasped him under both arms, hoisting him off the ground before he could make an attempt to flee.

  “Would’ya believe it? This one thought he was a bird. Tried to fly,” the smooth-shaven guard chuckled to the driver.

  “Been overdue for a change,” the driver responded, “Tired of chasing after rabbits anyway.”

  The guards carried the struggling Ryl from the carriage toward a nondescript wooden door set slightly back in a darkened alcove. The narrow street, not much more than an alley, looked scarcely wide enough for two carriages to pass by side to side. Both sides were lined with closely packed buildings. The sun had fallen well past midday, the buildings’ shadows stretched across the street. Not a soul could be seen.

  Above the entrance, Ryl could make out the white-painted design matching that of the carriages side, the half-open gate. A heavy knock by the guard on the solid door was rewarded a moment later with the scraping of metal on metal as a small window slid open. The pair of eyes, flickering from the interior light, nodded in acknowledgement and the window slammed shut.

  The sound of multiple locks unlatching preceded the door swinging open. As Ryl was carried into the building’s candlelit interior, the doorman closed the door behind them, immediately sliding the deadbolts back into position. The small entryway contained nothing but a meager table with a lamp and a stool for the doorman, who wore a sword comfortably at his waist.

  Passing through entryway, the party stepped into a brightly illuminated room. Between his frantic struggling and his eyes having not yet adjusted to the bright light, Ryl toiled to take in what he could of the room for any means of escape. The chamber contained very little aside from a small workbench with various nondescript tools that stood next to a tall narrow cupboard. The adjacent wall housed a small fireplace raised a few feet off the ground, a white-hot fire quietly crackling away. Two long, thin metal poles with wooden handles extended out of the fireplace, one end buried deep within the glowing coals.

  A second doorway led from the room. However, Ryl could discern little of its interior or occupants. His heart started racing as his eyes focused on the room’s centerpiece, a small metal table, its thick leather restraints dangling peacefully from each side.

  Ryl did all he could do to scream, pleading with the guards to let him go as they made their way directly toward the table. He squirmed, kicked and fought with all his might as they began strapping him down. Tears were flowing from his eyes as they finished tightening the restraints on his arms, legs, and chest. Forcing his mouth open, a well gnawed wooden gag was inserted between his panicked jaws. The close-shaven guard left the room through the secon
d door, leaving Ryl alone with the driver who tinkered with another restraint near his head.

  From the other room, an unfamiliar voice, greeted the guard. The raspy voice sounded aged, but excited.

  “Ah, so this is one old Fesslin’s been ranting about?” the new voice continued, “Dose is gonna be large for this one. Crazy old coot of a mender says this boy’s alexen’s active, off the charts. Less than fifteen minutes before it reacted. The Deliverance was heated, negotiations musta been a sight to see.”

  “Nah,” his captor interjected, “heard the family agreed with the first. Not a second’s thought.” Ryl heard a gasp, then the guard continued. “Still gonna be livin’ like kings, all compared now I suppose.”

  The ratchets clicked as a thick leather strap compressed on his forehead, forcing his head to the side, cheek on the cold slab table. Ryl was now facing the second doorway as his captor re-entered the room, on his heels a wiry older man with disheveled, thinning grey hair and a matching mustache. The older man wore the traditional garb of a mender, long open white cape, with an apron around his waist, undoubtedly carrying the tools of his profession.