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

warrior. Cray attacked like a man possessed. Moyan and a small group of his cavalry arrived an instant before Ryl joined the fray. Within moments the brutal shafts of his bladeless Leaves and the solid batons of the Moyan’s riders ended the battle with a resounding victory.

The remaining guards who had failed to heed the sounds of retreat threw down their arms, giving themselves in to the victors.

A cheer—ragged, yet heartfelt—broke from the lips of Le’Dral’s men. The note was echoed from the terrified tributes that hovered at the edge of the grove of trees to their north. Though the victory was theirs, Ryl felt the nauseous pang of the knot in his stomach as he hastened for his friends' side.

Andr was up, but resting on a knee, when Ryl arrived. Cray was already at his side, helping lift the mercenary with a hand supported under his arm. Dav hovered menacingly around the pair, watching the retreat and surrender of the guards. Le’Dral, Moyan and their combined troops were working steadily to round up the wounded and capitulating guards. No pursuit was given to those who limped away in escape.

They had all been companions until the morning before.

“I owe you my life,” Cray gasped in a low voice. His eyes wandered over the mercenary with a confused sense of wonder and appreciation. “Thank you.”

Ryl watched as the shock of pure emotion rushed over Andr’s dirt and blood covered face. A smeared line of crimson trickled down the side of his head. A thick clump of hair had already matted itself to his cheek. He grinned back at Cray, his boy, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You fought well,” Andr replied with a nod of his head. His words sounded as if they were stuck in his mouth as he struggled through the brief sentence.

Ryl stepped in to help steady the staggered mercenary. His weight rested heavily on Ryl’s arm.

“Let’s get you to the mender,” Ryl added, knowing Andr’s reply before it left his lips. His eyes roved the field surrounding the grove. Bodies of men and horses squirmed on the ground. Some lay motionless. The trampled grass was discolored in patches. Painted with the dark red of blood.

“The mender will have enough tending to do before we leave,” Andr admitted wisely. “I’ll tend to my own wounds. He’ll need all the help he can get. We still have miles to go. We can’t wait long.”

The mercenary winced slightly as he shrugged off the support, rolling his head side to side, followed by both shoulders. The veiled hint was subtle, but the look in Andr’s eyes as they met his own was blatant.

Now was not yet the time.

Ryl, nor none other, would have faulted him for revealing the truth to his son at that moment. He continued to marvel at his friend’s self-control and commitment to seeing their task through to the end.

“Cray, see who you can round up with any skills in mending,” Ryl ordered. “Bring them to Jeffers.”

The tribute nodded his head as he backed away slowly. His eyes lingered on Andr for a long moment. His look was that of gratitude, confusion … with an inkling of something deeper. Somewhere far beneath the upper layers of his consciousness, buried deep within his memory, Ryl knew the answer to the disquieting puzzle lurked. He understood Cray’s confusion firsthand. Though his father’s face had been burned into his nightmares for cycles, the face of his mother and his only sister had nearly faded. Thoughts of them had long since failed to produce clear images in his mind. Would he recognize their faces today if they were standing beside him?

Cray shook his gaze free before hastening to the tributes in the glade. Ryl patted his friend on the shoulder again. There were no words for the moment. The smile was all that was needed.

From the edge of the grove, the mender was already moving steadily from the trees. Sarial was at his side; a score of tributes swarmed in their wake. Many remained at the outskirts, hesitant to leave the feeble protection of the trees. Jeffers was calling out orders to those around him, his hands pointing in rapid succession in the direction of those whose need was the greatest.

Le’Dral approached from the west with Moyan on his heels. The massive guard loomed behind the captain like an oversized shadow. Ryl removed the hood of his cloak as the pair stopped a meter away. Free from the shadow of the fabric, a gentle breeze from the south blew a lock of stray hair across his face. With it came a hint of the unmistakable, metallic smell of blood.

Moyan’s eyes squinted in curiosity as they catalogued the features of Ryl's face. A moment later they went wide as they fell upon the brands on his neck. Clarity soon followed. The wide grin that spread across his face was again disconnected with his rigid features.

“I'm relieved to find your death was more suspicious than it originally seemed,” Moyan said with a grin. “I heard tales from the Palisades, from the Harvest ceremony. They were too unbelievable to comprehend. The truth of the matter is much more unexpected.”

“As was your arrival, my friend,” Ryl said appreciatively as he stepped forward extending his arm toward the lieutenant. The massive hand of Moyan's closed atop his, swallowing it whole in his grasp. His hands were rough from calluses, yet his grip was light.

“We were lucky to have the assistance,” Le'Dral added. “It likely saved undue bloodshed. We won't be as lucky next time.”

Ryl agreed with the captain. He turned his head slowly, arcing over the field of battle. Guard and tribute alike helped those in the most urgent need whether they were friend or foe. His eyes settled on Jeffers. There was a pained look on his face as he rose slowly from the still form on the ground at his feet. It was a guard from Cadsae Proper. He shook his head as he moved hurriedly