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

imparted a premeditated design. One chosen intentionally to remain as unremarkable as possible. The entirety of their character had the feeling of a conscious, well thought out anonymity.

The looks on their faces, however, portrayed an altogether different feeling.

Their perceptive visages were locked in scrutinizing scowls. Their eyes lingered on the faces of Aldren and Andr before traveling to his. Though he knew their penetrating glare would never pierce the darkness of his hooded face, the feeling of intense inspection was unsettling.

These men were looking for something.

Or someone.

Ryl felt his palm start to sweat at the thought. He felt the call of his blood as it began heating in his veins.

“Don’t make me repeat myself again. Who owns this wagon?” The lead rider pushed his horse forward a step. With his right hand he withdrew the sword on his left hip from its sheath far enough for the blade to glisten in the sunlight.

“It is mine, good sir,” Aldren announced. He could see the merchant straining to appear as confident as possible. Ryl could feel the anxiety that poured off him.

“I’ll have your name,” the rider growled.

“My name is Radliff, sir,” Aldren replied after a moment's pause. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit this fine afternoon?”

The sting in Aldren’s voice surprised Ryl, though the riders seemed unfazed by the remark.

“Have you passed any others on the road?” The man hissed.

“No, sir,” Aldren responded plainly. “The road has been clear all day.”

The lead rider studied the merchant for a moment. His skeptical eyes bored into him as he delved for answers. Ryl could see his jaws clench and relax. The look of suspicion was apparent.

“Is that so?” The rider asked as he jumped down from his mount. The others dismounted in turn. The sound of their heavy boots striking the ground echoed through the still of the afternoon. The action was accompanied by their hands falling to the handles of their blades. Aldren’s horses stomped their feet in agitation.

Andr’s fist closed around his blade as well, yet the mercenary stood resolute. His demeanor screamed defiance, yet his body was still and calm.

“What’s in the wagon, Radliff?” Their inquisitor continued. There was no denying the disbelief and suspicion as the man uttered his name. It rolled off his lips like a curse.

“I’m a merchant, sir,” Aldren responded. Ryl could tell his nerves were fraying under the weight of the inquisitive eyes that rested on him. “I’m bound for Leremont.”

The rider’s eyes squinted slightly as he stared into Aldren’s. To his credit, the merchant maintained eye contact with the aggressor.

The man paced to the left as he walked along the line of his companions, his eyes trained on Andr. At the end of the line, he reversed his direction, walking back in the way he’d come. His questioning glare now trained on Ryl.

“It’s an interesting company you keep,” the man spat as he came to a stop. His head swiveled, pausing for a moment as he regarded Ryl’s companions. The tension in the air thickened.

“I’ll need to see your wares, merchant,” he hissed his command as his eyes again fell on Aldren.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” the merchant stated emphatically as he puffed out his chest. “I keep this company to sway the hands of bandits and thieves like you. You have no right.”

To his credit, Aldren struck an imposing figure. Andr’s hand flexed around the hilt of his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryl noted the slight shift in the back of the carriage. The movement was accompanied by the unfettered feeling of anger that surged over him. Kaep no doubt crept ever closer to the rear of the wagon, arrow nocked and bow at the ready. Her emotion was unchecked, yet her attack pacified by temporary restraint.

Ryl closed his eyes for a long moment as the silence descended on the area. His deep, steadying breath temporarily satiated the swell that was rising within him.

The lead rider’s questioning glare turned venomous at the affront. His poorly veiled civility was swept away by the light breeze that meandered through the trees.

“You misunderstand me. I was not asking for permission,” the man cursed as he slowly pulled his blade from its sheath. The four riders at his back followed suit. The high-pitched trill as their swords cleared their sheaths rang out through the quiet afternoon. Andr merely shifted his pose slightly, his left foot sliding slightly behind his right.

“It was a command, merchant,” the rider growled, his voice rising to a shout. “We do carry the right and it has been signed by King Lunek III himself.”

The lead rider reached into his tunic with his left hand, removing a folded and weathered parchment. He held the paper in front of his body, shaking it gently, letting it unfurl. At the distance, Ryl could read nothing of the script scratched onto the paper’s surface. The telltale mark of the King, the embossed crown and serpent, however, was clear on the lower right-hand corner of the page.

Andr took a measured step forward, his hand reached out toward the rider, intent on validating the document. The man quickly folded the paper, tucking it back into his tunic before any attempt could be made to authenticate it. Ryl focused quickly sending out a focused feeling of calm toward the speaker. The tension in the air had grown stifling. The mood in the area was tenuous. Ryl guessed it would take nothing more than an ill-timed blink to lead to bloodshed. The agitated rider rolled his shoulders back, stretching out his neck. His grip, however tightened on his blade.

Ryl let his left-hand slide behind his back. The feeling of his fingers closing around the wooden handle of the Leaves was invigorating. He readied himself to call on the power that coursed through his veins. The call to be set free was enticing. No blood needed to be spilled, yet he would not allow his friends to be harmed.

“In truth, it’s