The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4), C.J. Aaron [best novel books to read .TXT] 📗

across their features. The ever-present feeling of hatred, and anger, was dampened. The unmistakable hints of emotions that peered through startled him.

There was compliance.

Deference.

The soft crunch of footsteps on the ground belied the size of the phrenic who approached. Ramm stopped a meter away from his side. He turned his head slightly to Ryl, yet never removed his gaze from the Horde. He gripped the massive war hammer defensively in both hands, held protectively between himself and Ryl.

Ryl tilted his head to view his friend. The phrenic was soaked with splatters of black blood. His clothes were torn in several places; crimson stains swelled.

“Is it you, Ryl?” Ramm whispered. The concern, the caution in his voice was startling. “You vanished from my mindsight. I can see you now, but only a flicker of your glow remains.”

Ryl’s head fell for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut as his gaze dropped to the ground. The sheer effort required to concentrate on his thoughts was monumental. He found that he was afraid to open his mouth. Afraid of the sound that might come out.

What had happened to him?

He opened his eyes to a view of his left arm. The skin was now drenched completely in black tattoos. The tendrils that had snaked out from the writhing void around his elbow replaced the unmarked skin to his wrist. A single wisp of black snaked onto the back of his hand.

The blackness of the mark was neither solid, complacent nor still. It writhed with motion, so subtle that it tricked the eyes. The throbbing was gone. The deep whispers that called for death had silenced. The feeling of the alexen in his fingers was faint.

Ryl squeezed his fist tighter around the Leaves still in his hand. He pictured the alexen streaming through his veins, passing through the clot of darkness. With every pump of his hand, the darkness subsided.

Understanding flowed in its wake. The information flooded his mind. He let his hand fall still.

He had vanished from the sight of his phrenic companions. The Horde before him feared him. He’d seen the look before. The collected experiences, over a thousand cycles old, jolted his brain.

Few facts were known of the demons from the wastes of the Outlands. Most conclusions were drawn from assumptions, many of those extrapolated by people without firsthand knowledge. The connection in Ryl’s mind was clear.

The Horde respected power in their own ranks as much as they hated the alexen. The tattoo. The flash of light that had seemingly eradicated the Lei Guard’s power. He’d not vanquished it, he’d absorbed it.

Just as he had before, he’d failed to understand the power that had begged for release. The foreign whisper, the unnatural lust for bloodshed, was a result of the nexela that now resided in him. By letting the blackness overtake his arm, he bathed himself in the shadow that was the taint of the Horde. The hesitance of the beasts was understandable. They saw him as one of their own.

No longer were they drawn to the power of the alexen that coursed through his body. He was one of them.

He was stronger than them.

“Ryl?” Ramm’s hushed voice questioned again. His fingers tightened on the shaft of the hammer.

Ryl looked up at his friend. The worry receded as he grinned in response.

“It is me, Ramm,” he acknowledged.

With a smile, Ramm extended his hand toward Ryl, though his pensive gaze remained on the Horde. The beasts crept forward as the moments passed.

With effort, Ryl waved off the support, leveraging his body upright using the dormant Leaves. His body felt weak. Drained. He rolled his shoulders back, standing tall. He took a purposeful step toward the Horde as he let the blackness slip down his arm.

The line of Horde waffled at the afront.

“What?” Ramm gasped at the sight.

Ryl was in no condition to argue or explain at the moment.

“Fall back to the palisade, Ramm,” he commanded in a whisper. “I can’t carry on without a rest.”

The hushed, yet slow steps of his companion signaled his retreat.

Ryl backed slowly through the wreckage of the buildings. As he moved, the Horde maintained their distance. With every step their looks grew more suspicious, yet none contested his strength. He paused as an idea flashed into his head.

He knew of no communication by which the Horde conveyed thoughts, save one.

Emotion.

The Erlyn, the ancient woods, communicated with sensation, feelings and images. The phrenics used emotion to embolden and persuade. Fear and hatred were seemingly flowing from the beasts in a constant stream.

Ryl focused on the Horde at his front. He projected his emotions outward, forcing the command over the demons at his front. He demanded restraint. The sensation was that of fear. Fear of what would happen if his commands were disobeyed.

With a tentative motion, he moved another painful step backward.

The Horde who had been matching him move for move remained still.

Chapter 49

Ryl stopped his careful retreat, pausing as he cleared the mound of debris that marked the edge of the courtyard. Over his right shoulder he heard Paasek grunt in pain as Ramm and Paelec worked to tie a tourniquet around his leg, staunching the flow of blood. A rope ladder had been lowered from the wall. Clad in the telltale white cloak, a mender from Fay’s army descended with haste.

The Horde still maintained their distance. Ryl was careful to keep his anxiety from giving away his emotion. The demons remained still, though he could feel their eyes watching the movements with anxious curiosity.

Paasek grumbled an unintelligible string of obscenities as he rose to his feet. The sturdy phrenic used the tip of the great sword to lever his body off the ground. Fay’s mender found an icy cold reception when he arrived, though the sensible warrior acquiesced to the treatment, nonetheless. The phrenic councilor nodded subtly as he noted Ryl’s concern. A stubborn wave of indifference flowed from his body.

Ryl’s gaze traveled to the palisade. He scanned the rampart, noting immediately that the