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

far without slipping. Behind them, the first of the hunters barreled into the water. The cries of the terrified child cut through the rolling sounds of the rapids and the splash of the hunter’s boots in the river.

With a look back over his shoulder, Ryl confirmed that Andr had reached the alley.

“They're crossing the river,” he called to the mercenary before hurdling after the chase that was now underway.

The father and his daughter had crossed the river. The father slipped in the mud of the slick bank, dropping the child in front of him. As they both scrambled to regain their feet, the laughter, taunts and threats of the hunters washed over them. As soon as the pair regained their footing, the father grabbed the child by the arm, sprinting into the forest on the other side. Her feet dragged across the soft ground as they struggled to maintain his pace.

They'd lost precious time slipping in the mud. The chase would be short lived. The hunters would have their kill.

Ryl let out an involuntary growl as he exploded forward. The last of the hunters had now crossed the water. Their swords flew from their scabbards as they dashed headlong into the cover of the trees.

The river ahead of him narrowed to a distance of fifteen meters where the hunters and prey had passed before him. As he closed on the bank, he let the wind build around his right arm. The feeling of the air working around his covered arm was foreign and uncomfortable. The fabric of his borrowed cloak strained against the torrent growing around it.

Reaching the edge of the riverbank, Ryl threw his hand down, releasing a focused blast of air as he leapt forward over the water.

With the blast, the final bonds holding the cloth together failed. There was a tearing of fabric as the force of the wind rushing around his arm released downward. The right sleeve of his borrowed cloak shredded as the power flowed from his hand. The cloth tore at its weakest point, the stitching holding it in place at his shoulder severed by the unnatural strain. The tattered remains dropped silently into the river below.

Ryl's momentum, aided by the gout of air propelled him out over the rapids. He hardened the woodskin on the right side of his body as the ground of the opposite bank rushed toward him. As his feet hit the soft, wet dirt, he pitched forward, tucking his right shoulder under him as he rolled ahead. The motion was fluid; he was back on his feet in an instant, silently slipping into the woods in pursuit.

The forest here was thick. The mixture of trees, shrubs and vines disrupted the lines of sight, hiding the parties within. It was only a matter of meters into the woods before his ears picked up the sounds of conversation.

The gruff, weathered voices of the hunters were dripping with spite and animosity as they taunted, threatened and laughed at their cornered prey. Ryl cringed as he heard the pleading cry of the father, begging them to spare the life of his child.

In a crouch, Ryl silently sidled along the edge of a large tree. He'd noted movement behind its staggered boughs. The glowing yellow signature of the panicked child before him shone with an unmistakable golden glow. The anger in his veins swelled at the sight before his eyes.

The woods opened to a small clearing, where father and child were backed against a rock. The man held the weeping child protectively behind his back with one arm, while he brandished a small knife with his other. That arm was shaking.

His effort would be valiant, though hopeless.

This would be a slaughter.

Ryl commended the father for his actions. The man had done what his own parents had failed to do. He had chosen the life of his child over the gold. He was willing to protect his offspring, even if it meant paying the ultimate price: his own life.

The hunters had stopped in a staggered line several meters away from their cornered prey. In a similar formation to when they'd stopped Ryl and his company on the road; a pair on either side flanked the leader in the center. All, save the one in the middle, had swords drawn.

Joem, their heartless leader, held out a weathered parchment. By his words, the signed proclamation of the King.

“She is no longer your concern,” Joem hissed. “By the rule of the Ascertaining Decree, that child belongs to the Kingdom.”

“Please, she is just a child,” the man pleaded. “Let her be. I beg you.”

The hunter’s laughter was vicious. The normally joyous noise was an affront to the action. It bit into Ryl’s ears with a concrete force.

“Hand her over and you have my word, your death will be merciful,” the hunter spoke with no remorse. “The child is the property of the King. She is a tribute.”

That word.

Property.

The heat in Ryl's veins boiled into a raging inferno.

He stepped out from the cover of the woods, still undetected by the hunters ahead of him. The wind swelled around his hand; his cloaks flapped in the breeze that brewed around his feet.

Ryl released a pointed, focused jet of air into the parchment in the leader’s hand. The hunter let out an involuntary shout of surprise as the paper flew into the air. The eyes of all of the hunters followed the errant parchment as it fluttered above their heads. As it reached its peak it curled backward, heading toward the forest at their rear.

They watched as the paper descended before the tree line. Their eyes went wide with shock as the parchment fell softly, coming to a rest in Ryl's outstretched hand.

“No King holds sway over that child's life,” Ryl growled. His voice was hushed, no more than a whisper. The sheer animosity and command in his voice roared through the clearing.

“No butcher of men will lay a hand on either of them,” he spat.

The wind around him swirled with