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

The wind bought him a moment to regain his footing before the wave of soldiers encircled his location. He was engaged on all sides, dodging sword points, daggers, and bludgeons as the guards, grinning at the release of their misguided rage, sought his death. Ryl needed only a touch of the speed to hold them at bay with lethal efficiency.

He chopped downward, defending against a sword aimed at his gut. The burning blades severed the weapon at the handle, a finger’s width from the soldier’s handhold. Ryl watched as the man’s baleful eyes flashed with panic. He followed up with a fist to the man’s face, the crushing impact sending a splatter of blood as the soldier toppled backward into his companions.

Wherever his blades flashed, they handed out death and destruction in heavy measure. The Leaves burned with an uncontrolled fury, severing weapons and limbs. The battle quickly became complicated by the volume of dead and wounded that surrounded the storm that was his defense.

His pocket of resistance moved steadily onward, the adjusted tangent angling toward where Aelin struggled. Ryl had lost sight of the scrum as his attackers had surrounded him and fighting began in earnest.

He stood alone, defending himself against thousands who sought his demise. Even with the daunting odds, he fought with a confidence imbued by countless lifetimes of experience. His body moved and struck, parried and countered with an unconscious fluidity. Still, he’d yet to unleash anywhere near the full complement of his speed.

Ryl held back, tempering his confidence before it reached cockiness. His abilities far surpassed any that the guard could provide, yet it would only take a single misstep to spell his demise.

The Horde exhibited speed that nearly rivaled that of the trained phrenics. They attacked with sheer force and unending malice. The demons held nothing back, investing their full being into their charge. There was no fear of injury or death.

The guards surrounding him were sluggish and poorly disciplined. The most exuberant of his attackers fought with little regard for their companions, though with a cautious interest for self-preservation. Ryl knew his skills. Even without the use of speed, he would be more than capable of holding his own for a time. Using the full complement of his power would have amounted to nothing more than a slaughter.

He’d not butcher them senselessly. He’d come for Kaep. Now he found Aelin’s security was a more pressing emergency.

Still he felt himself getting lost in the thrill of the battle. The subtle whisper, the call for death, had risen in volume and intensity. With every life that was snuffed out at the burning ends of his blades, it grew. He felt sick as a sliver of his body relished the mounting death toll.

He struggled to quiet the foreign urges that had surged to the forefront. The sight of Aelin’s continued struggle served to refocus his attention. He was making progress toward the tribute. The view from his mindsight showed Aelin’s path moving steadily toward Maklan. Ryl growled in frustration as he realized his pace was far too sluggish. With every fallen comrade, his attackers seemed to lose a touch of their exuberant hostility. Their attacks had proven fruitless. Many struggled harder to move further from the reach of the burning green blades than tempt their fate.

A whistle, though faint, barely audible over the commotion, caught Ryl’s attention. The light of the sun dimmed as if blocked by a thin wisp of a passing cloud. The skyline darkened as the volume of the high-pitched chorus swelled.

The sky was choked with a flight of arrows. Their song screamed as the projectiles reached their apex.

“Arrows,” Ryl shouted. “Cover, now.”

The realization sank in. The fight blanched from the faces of the army in the path of the deadly swarm. Ryl was forgotten as soldiers scrambled for cover. None bore shields. Many ducked where they were, curling into a fetal position to make themselves as small as possible. Some held their blades over their heads in a futile effort to defend themselves. Some struggled to wriggle beneath the bodies of their fallen comrades.

Ryl’s anger boiled over. The alexen in his veins mirrored his revulsion. Maklan was willing to sacrifice those most loyal among his army for the chance of seeking his vengeance. The callous indifference was toxic.

His immediate thoughts went to those struggling for safety around him. Though likely many had made their peace with seeking his demise, he’d not willingly watch them slaughtered to feed one twisted councilor’s vendetta. How many others took up the march out of pure duty alone? His sentence had stretched out for cycles before the first hint of the true sentiment had been laid bare with the assistance of Andr in Tabenville. How many among the army shared even a sliver of those beliefs?

Distrust and questioning were his allies.

The bonds forged out of threats and fear were far weaker than those forged by genuine action. By saving those he could, could he tip the tenuous scales holding any of their doubts aloft?

Ryl hardened the woodskin over his body. The wind swelled around his right arm as the cloud of arrows streaked from the sky above.

There were too many bolts.

With a scream, Ryl tapped into the speed that coursed through his veins. Time slowed to a crawl as the arrows limped forward. The torrent of wind swelled from his arm, ripping forward as he slashed his hand from right to left in a wide arc across the arrows’ path.

Green flames exploded from the Leaves in his hand as the fire seemingly caught the particles of dust in the air. The focused blade of air collided with the wave of projectiles with a sharp snapping of wood. A gout of green flame followed in the wake, sizzling as it caught the splinters of wood ablaze. The steel tips of arrows, thrown off course and trackless, waffled in the air as they careened toward the ground. Sparks and burning shards