Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3), C.J. Aaron [book recommendations .TXT] 📗

mouth of the woods, they oozed across the land like a blackened stain. At least fifty cloaked warriors stalked purposefully from the trees. Ryl felt the tingling blossom to a constant throb as they moved toward him.

There were too many of them.

This would be a slaughter.

The familiar heat surged through his veins along with an overwhelming urge to fight. The sensation tore at him, luring his body toward the woods. His head cried out against the desire, though his heart refused to accept the fate that would befall those who stood against the black warriors of the Lei Guard. The attackers were once tributes after all.

Ryl closed his eyes for a moment as a wave of fear slammed into him. Hopelessness followed closely behind.

In the gloom of the moments before morning, his left arm glowed with a dull golden light. He swiped it at the rolling waves of hopelessness and despair that assaulted him, and the arm cut through them like the prow of a ship through water.

The pull from the alexen within his blood and throbbing from his left arm were too much to bear. With a growl, he gave in to the power inside him. The world around him slammed to a stop. The commotion of the village froze. Only the steady but slowed sounds of footsteps echoed from three behind him. The voices that accompanied them were familiar. They were phrenic.

With a sigh, Ryl strode onward toward the incoming wall of death. His confident stride showed no hitch or hesitation. Miniscule droplets of moisture from the falls hung in the air. He cut through them, leaving a temporary void of dry air in their wake. Around his right arm the wind began to swell. The glow of the sun tattooed over the flesh of his left arm increased.

The Lei Guard continued forward, forming into a concave wall that stretched out around him. His left arm burned with power, the light intensifying with every step. Every pace forward revealed more details; their wicked, curved swords still hung in their sheathes, their shields were still slung over their backs. Behind them, the motionless bodies of the sentries littered the path.

The sight stoked the fire that raged through his veins.

Ryl raised his left hand to the sky; a ball of light swelled in his palm. What started as a pinpoint of light grew larger by the moment. The throbbing in his arm increased to a frantic pitch. He experienced the energy, the power, the alexen coursing through his veins into his arm. The sensation was as unique as it was alarming, as if the power was pulling from the entirety of his body, focusing on his arm alone. In its wake, he was left with a chilling emptiness.

Over the thrumming of his own power, he caught the lingering hints of sensation from the woods just beyond his reach. The Erlyn screamed in frenzied warning. The trees bordering the forest's edge shuddered. Their branches crashed together with a thunderous rumble. Leaves fell from the boughs above like rain, swirling as they got caught in the desperate breath of wind that blew from her midst.

The Erlyn was scared.

She was scared for him.

Her screams and pleas were nothing but a whisper. The roar of the power massing in his left hand drowned out all other sounds. The power had consumed Ryl. His hazy view of reality fractured.

He was present in the fields before Tabenville, his light boots sinking slightly into the soft mud of the neglected fields. The hood of his cloak was down. Carried by the wind from the forest, his hair whipped against his face, and his cloak snapped out behind him.

The tributes and the guards roused by his warning, were frozen in place. Ramm and Vox charged forward from square, while Kaep was the closest, nearly past the stables.

They'd never reach his side in time.

Ryl stood alone in the nexus. His feet were planted firmly in the center of the stone circle. The pacifying green apparitions of the phrenics had long since passed—the alexen were nowhere to be found. In their place, only wispy black figures remained.

The dichotomy of the area had failed.

The vivid picture burned into his recollection from his awakening had been catastrophically altered. The sky had been divided at its zenith into two starkly contrasting worlds; toward one horizon there had been vibrant fields of wild grasses and trees laden with fruit. The living, green peaks of mountains rolled onward, silhouetted against the azure shades of a brilliant blue sky. A burning orb of yellow had shone life over the terrain.

Toward the other, the terrain had been sterile. A fractured wasteland of jagged peaks and drab brown. Stunted and withered bushes dotted the barren fields, their blood red flowers the only glimpse of color against the monochrome soil. The black sun overhead had been cold, draining the life and color from its surroundings.

Now, the lifeless wastes of the barren land spread in all directions. The colorless vacuum of the dead sun had swelled as the pale sky encroached over the air that once was blue. The life of the mountains and plains had been leached from the soil. All that was once green had been replaced by the browning of rot and death. The fields of wild grasses were shriveled, and the withered husks of dying trees and bushes leaned lifelessly to the sides. Rotting fruit littered the ground where they’d fallen. The life-giving yellow sun was nothing more than a pinpoint of light, surrounded by a receding halo of blue.

The only color that remained were the blood red flowers that spread from the expanse of the dead terrain. Their bloodied petals dripped in a sporadic cadence, the accumulation of their drops trickling downhill to the stone circle where he stood.

Ryl’s eyes were hesitant to leave the wispy, blackened shadows that encircled him. He risked a cautious glance at the ground at his feet.

The smoothed stone flooring was now drenched in a thick