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

At the present, there was no time for deciphering the text, as alluring as the proposition sounded. There were others in far more worrying states that needed tending. In addition to Elias, they had saved ten of the twelve tributes from further torture in the processing facility. From the brands on their necks, Ryl knew all had languished there for cycles.

Ryl sat quietly in the bed of Aldren’s wagon. His unfocused gaze watched the slow but even rise and fall of Elias’ chest. He could see the ribs of his friend’s gaunt and withered frame protruding through his clothes.

It had been nearly half a day since they'd left the small hamlet behind, yet neither he nor any of the other tributes they'd rescued had woken. The merchant's cart along with the black wagon of the Lei Guard that they'd confiscated had been hastily transformed into rolling clinics.

The tributes they'd rescued would no longer endure a life of torment in the facility. Unwillingly milked of their blood, their lives drained to make the fabled elixir—the so called Blessing of the King. The extended lifespan and heightened intelligence it provided came at the cost of another’s life. For the select few of the King’s sycophants who were allowed to consume the draught, that price was immaterial. The lives they stole were nothing compared to their self-preservation. Did it too contain the nexela?

Ryl had seen firsthand the power and speed of the Horde. Did the elixir grant physical attributes to the sponsors as well?

Either way, it was a practice that must be brought to an end.

Even the guards at the facility were blissfully unaware of the true nature of the horrors that they had allowed to befall under their protection. The veil of innocence had been torn from their eyes. It was a seemingly small step along the path to their goal. If all went as planned, it would be removed from the eyes of the Kingdom once and for all.

After a millennium of deceit, the people of Damaris would know the truth.

The annual Harvest was only seven days away. Ryl and his companions from Vim were intent on making it a Harvest none would forget. One final ceremony to end the abomination that had continued unchecked for cycles.

The wagon slowed to a halt and he heard footsteps crunch on the loose soil on the path. The curtain at the rear shifted, the light that streamed through the opening was nearly blinding. The motionless bodies of Elias and the other five tributes in the carriage looked far paler and more shriveled in the light of the sun. The black streaks that had snaked their way up Elias’ face had all but faded.

The faces of Andr and Vox appeared through the opening.

“How are the others?” Ryl asked his companions.

“There's been no change, though I'm not sure if that bodes well or not,” Andr replied with a pained smile. “Let's get some food in this lot, then Vox will take over for you.”

Ryl nodded in agreement as he moved to the task of carefully spoon feeding the emaciated shells of the tributes. They had purchased large pots of broth from the Serrate before their departure, although their supply was already running thin.

He was hesitant to leave Elias. The husk of a man that lay unconscious before him had once been close enough to be his brother. The ruthless warrior that had attacked him on the bridge seethed with hatred, the true depths of which were impossible to comprehend. Ryl felt an overwhelming pang of apprehension at the thought that was ever present in his head. Which version of his friend would wake?

Airing on the side of caution, Elias had been bound to his litter with thick leather straps around his wrists, chest and legs. One phrenic would remain on permanent guard until he woke and the answer to that question could be more readily understood. They had stripped him of his black cloak, replacing it with the simple clothing they'd purchased in Serrate.

“Please let me know if he wakes, Vox,” Ryl said as he lowered himself down from the rear of the wagon.

“Aye, Ryl,” the phrenic elementalist replied, placing his comforting hand on Ryl's shoulder before using it as leverage to hoist himself into the wagon.

The expedition to Serrate had been unexpectedly fortuitous and yet it had made achieving their final goals increasingly complex. Until now, their plan to infiltrate The Stocks had primarily involved brute force. Their path had now taken an unexpected turn. Disguise, deceit and a great deal more subtlety were required.

The cloak that Elias wore was now serving as a template for additional black garments—six to be precise. None would dare challenge a contingent of the Lei Guard desiring to enter The Stocks, no matter when they chose to enter.

Ryl had no recollection of seeing the black cloaked guard at a Harvest in the past. Either way, through force or disguise, they would gain entry to The Stocks.

Night was fast approaching as Ryl made his way, with Andr in tow, toward the front of the wagon. Aldren was ambling down from the raised front bench as they approached, a pile of black fabric in his hand. Dav, who'd been driving the wagon, was stretching out after the long stint in the driver's seat.

“How're the cloaks coming?” Ryl asked.

“It's tediously sluggish work, I'm afraid,” Aldren groaned. “I've cut most of the pieces at this point. It'll take some time to sew them together, especially if it's done from a moving wagon. I don't have the appropriate supplies for the work either.”

Ryl frowned at the statement. They were running out of time. He was confident they could make The Stocks before the Harvest, yet without the completed cloaks their plan would be troublesome.

“Are there any villages between here and Cadsae Proper where we can restock?” Ryl posed.

“I've never taken this road before, but the town of Milstead isn't far past where this path crosses back over the river and joins