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

to the next, a tribute sporting a vicious cut along his arm. His tattered sleeve and the side of his clothes were stained wet with crimson.

Ryl clenched his jaw, exhaling deeply as the familiar fire raged through his veins. The death had been in self-defense, yet unnecessary. They'd come for the tributes. They’d come to destroy them all. Any that stood in that line; man, woman, tribute or guard would have been a casualty of war.

“Treat those in dire need, those who can't treat themselves. Gather the weapons, and horses, we need haste,” Ryl barked out the order to the captain. “Release the rest.”

Le'Dral tilted his head slightly to the side, and his eyes met with Moyan’s for a brief moment. The subtle understanding of cycles of tutelage and friendship flashed between them. Moyan’s smile brightened as he shrugged his shoulders.

“Send them with a warning for the next who come to claim our blood,” Ryl growled. “The time for mercy is at an end. We will defend our freedom.”

The raging inferno swirled in his eyes. He stood taller; his cloak billowing out as the unnatural wind swirled around his feet.

“They will be met with a fury the likes of which this Kingdom has never seen.”

Chapter 32

It took several hours before those in dire need of treatment were all cared for. Throughout the time, Mender Jeffers never stopped moving. His list of patients was long. He was either hands on or shouting out orders to those who’d offered their hands to assist. Virtually all who’d taken part in the battle on the side of the tributes and their rebel guards were marred with wounds of varying degree. Most required little skilled care, though several had sustained more life-threatening injuries. Of the ten that had received the most severe injuries, Jeffers was optimistic most would recover, though the full process may take cycles. Sadly, three of their group—three of Le’Dral’s men—were buried under the boughs of the small grove that had provided a backdrop to the blood, cries and gore that had played out before it.

If not for the addition of Moyan’s men, the number would have likely been higher for both sides. The sudden, surprising addition of his troops had altered Ryl’s plan entirely. Though the task had given him no joy, he had been prepared to unleash the full force of the phrenics on the advancing riders. Few would have survived.

As it was, sixteen of the attacking cavalry had perished in the melee. Several had fallen victim to strikes from the frantic, panicked horses. The others succumbed to wounds resulting from the blade or bludgeon. Nearly a quarter of the force of three hundred cavalry that had formed the charge were now held in temporary captivity. While the mender and those drafted to assist his grim work hastily tended to the wounded, the remainder were stripped of their weapons and securely bound. The tributes and guards had made quick work of gathering the weapons as well as collecting those dropped amid the hasty retreat.

Corralling the spooked horses proved to be more challenging. Aided by a boost of calming emotion from Ryl and the phrenics, the startled beasts were pacified enough to control their reins. After a tedious process, they’d added nearly thirty horses to the sum of their small army.

With Jeffers having completed the last of his treatments on the wounded, the caravan resumed its trek toward Tabenville. They left behind a ground burnt by flames and churned by the stampede of feet and hooves; the land was scarred with fire and stained with blood of men. A small line of graves lined the edge of the small grove. Headstones of sticks and cloth were etched with their names. Small flags of torn cloth fluttered gently in the breeze.

It was well past midday when the somber caravan marched toward the north. All were consumed with thoughts of the morning’s occurrences. Open combat was something that defied all possible imagination. The reality of bloodshed was more profound, assaulting every sense. The thick, metallic smell of blood mixed with the putrid stench of vomit and excrement. Blood, gore and bits of flesh marred the pristine wild grasses of the small field. The ground that had been solid from basking in the sun's constant rays was squishy in places. A thick puddle of crimson liquid and black dirt bubbled up around the feet that trod through the saturated patches. The peaceful calm of the desolate fields of The Stocks had been desecrated by the slash of steel, the thump of wood and the bloodthirsty and agonized screams of men and women.

The wounded had been loaded onto the horses as the tired procession limped steadily to the north. Ryl had waited at the rear with Le’Dral and Moyan by his side. With hoods drawn and weapons still in hand, the phrenics stood like menacing statutes several steps behind as Ryl addressed the captive guards.

Ryl’s voice was laced with fear and utmost believability as he added the projected emotions to his words.

“The tributes are not your enemy. We are not your enemy,” he growled at the guards that remained bound, huddled together in a group. “You have been deceived since before you were born. Since before your parents were born. I tell you that there is an evil stirring in the Outlands, a blackened death that has not been seen since the times of legend. They are your true enemy.”

He paused for a moment, allowing the statement sink in.

“The tributes are free,” he scolded. “Free from your molestation or command. The time for our compassion and mercy has ended. Attack us again and you will feel the full force of the phrenics. Know that few will survive.”

Ryl’s hardened glare rolled over the captives. Few harbored the constitution to meet his eyes for more than an instant.

“Captain, cut them free,” He ordered.

Without hesitation, Le’Dral strode forward, deftly slicing the rope bonds that secured the closest guard’s hands. He kneeled before the man,