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

the wagon, her arms still bound, but her legs unrestrained. Ryl felt the heat surge through him as his anger boiled over. Every fiber in his body twitched in response to the affront. The urge to attack was overpowering.

A crushing wave of emotion froze him in his tracks. Elias spun Kaep around to his left side, slipping a short sword from his belt, holding it to her neck. His devilish grin was sickening. Ryl didn’t doubt that he’d slit her throat in an instant. He struggled against the restraint as he felt his body start to crumple under the weight. The burning in his left arm crescendoed.

Kaep stared at him, her eyes filled with the moisture of overflowing emotion. She chewed on the cloth gag in her mouth, though the effort faded as the paralyzing hopelessness crushed her will as well. Slender lines of black snaked up from her neck, slithering onto her cheeks.

The pair of Lei Guard from the rear of the wagon rounded to the side after Kaep’s unceremonious dismount. They separated, standing on opposite sides of the door. Each bowed at the waist, holding an arm outstretched to the passenger within. Ryl stifled a gasp at the appearance of the hands that extended from the depths of the carriage.

The skin was pale, cracked and dry. It looked more like tanned leather than flesh. The hands were marred with dark splotches that stretched up to where the skin hid beneath the golden trappings that covered it. The man who followed was trapped in the most opulent clothing Ryl could have imagined. The jewels he’d seen on display, flaunted carelessly by the lords at the Harvest, were nothing more than pebbles compared to the extravagant adornments on the king’s clothing.

King Lunek the Third shuffled from the carriage, hardly the image of royal grace. His motions were sluggish, painstakingly planned. He seemed to hold his posture in check, arching his back with effort to hide the inherent slouch of ages.

Every inch of the king’s clothing seemed to sparkle as the fire from the sun scintillated off gold leaf, precious stones, and shimmering fabric. The sheer grandeur made Ryl’s stomach turn. The excess was flaunted to such a degree that the image made him long for the simple beauty of Vim.

Adorned with finery the likes of which few had likely witnessed, the rest of the man seemed extraordinarily plain. His body was thin, though the flowing robes seemed to make his presence swell beyond its natural state. The features of his face were stern. His rigid jawline and high, sharp cheekbones had likely one day commanded obedience. Today the pale, splotchy skin shielded the features that had eroded with the ages. A diminutive figure, cloaked in all black, slipped out from behind the king, taking its place behind him, hidden behind the flowing robes of the ruler of Damaris.

The finery of the king presented a fine show for those inclined to greed and the thirst for power. Every inch of the man seemed to be steeped in riches. Lords and ladies would kill willingly for the opportunity to collect but a miniscule share of his scraps.

Ryl’s eyes weren’t fooled by the image. The king was but a man, ancient, dressed in finery that did little to disguise the truth. His age was undeniable. So too was the black essence that oozed from his very soul. To the naked eye, he was one who commanded respect. To the phrenic, he was a man. Tainted and ruthless.

Controlled by the dark power of greed.

The one who truly held the strings lurked unseen in his shadow. There was no shielding his presence. Even without the screams of the alexen that coursed through his veins, his identity was indisputable.

Leiroth.

“At last, the tribute has come before the king to beg for forgiveness.” The voice of the king was still powerful. “Your insults will not go unpunished.”

Ryl felt the undeniable tingle of forced emotion as the king attempted to add an air of dominance to his words. The sensation was sickly, dark, and unnatural. It wafted over Ryl, leaving an aftertaste of disgust. The effort, though masterful for a man born without the gift of alexen, fell flat against the phrenic. Lunek snarled as his effort broached no sign of response.

Ryl had no fear of the king.

The pain in Ryl’s arm swelled. He felt the burning as the power in his veins pleaded for release. Though feeble, the light around his arms swelled.

“I beg nothing of you,” Ryl growled. “You are a mere puppet. A twisted old man, too foolish to see that you control nothing. Even the life that flows within you is a lie.”

The king’s face flashed with anger before blanching, reverting to a calculating coldness. Ryl could feel the lingering tendril of Leiroth’s actions, his persuasion as the king spoke again.

“Such a fight for one so ill-versed in the nature of the world,” Lunek growled. “I’ve seen ages pass before you were even a glimmer of hope in your parents’ eyes. They cast you aside for the abomination you truly are.”

Ryl felt the heat of anger rush through his veins. The Leaves in his hands flashed to life. The serrated green blades were fragile, burning with nothing more than a flicker of their usual strength. A wave of fear and hopelessness crashed over him, forcing him to his knees. The mythical weapons fell from his hands, bouncing harmlessly on the stones of the courtyard.

“You have failed. Those who trusted you were duped by your tricks into believing they held a sliver of a chance at survival,” Lunek cursed. “There is no hope. The tributes will be rounded up, they will be hunted without mercy, for in their stead, I will have you. I will have those you brought from the depths of the Outlands.”

The king took a single small shuffled step forward.

“The demons know where they hide,” he sneered. “We will wipe them from existence. They do not even exist in myths. There is nothing