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

along the wagons side. A single bolt slid harmlessly by his feet.

Screams of pain and alarm sounded from their southern flank.

“Vox, light,” Ryl commanded as he reached for the Leaves.

The flames rolled along the elementalist’s tattooed left arm, rapidly coalescing into a ball of brilliant light in his hand. Ryl was already in motion to the south as the orb erupted forward from the phrenic’s palm. It shot into the sky, leaving a trail of spark and smoke, before detonating in a blinding ball of light that illuminated the area with an intense white aura.

A small glowing orb remained in the aftermath, slowly dropping to the ground, creating a disorienting array of perpetually moving shadows. The overwhelming power of the light turned the landscape under its domain into a nearly colorless contrast of shades of black and white. The only color to cross its stage was a streak of brilliant green fire from the Leaves as Ryl raced toward the sound of alarm.

The camp around them erupted into a frenzy of confusion, panic and alarm. Le'Dral, Moyan and Millis barked out orders to their subordinates. The stunned guards responded admirably, spurring themselves to action, many from the depths of sleep. The Vigil, following preset orders, fell back to the wagons housing the ailing tributes. Ryl knew the phrenics would be close on his heels. Andr would be close on theirs.

Ryl crossed the distance to their southern perimeter in a matter of moments. The scene before him turned his stomach. The road stretched out toward the south, illuminated as a light grey streak between the darker patches of ground along its flanks. A few meters to the left of the path, the shimmering surface of the lazily moving river glistened in shades of black and white.

Scattered along the road before him were the bodies of several of the rebel guards, some of which bristled with arrows. Their charcoal silhouettes lay still on the road. Slowly growing dark stains spread out from around their motionless forms. To the right, a single guard, an arrow piercing his side, screamed in pain as he slid himself across the cold, hard earth. Others hid behind the small clusters of bushes and thin, scattered trees, shouting cries of alarm to the somnolent camp at their rear.

As anger surged through his veins so too did the speed. The fire of the Leaves flared brighter—a blinding, brilliant green inferno erupted as time stopped around him.

To his front a group of perhaps twenty were in the process of nocking their arrows for a second round of deadly projectiles.

No further death would fly from their bows this night. The doomed archers couldn't react fast enough as Ryl screamed into their midst.

His stomach churned with repulsion as the last of their ruined bodies fell to the ground. He felt the hot spray of blood on his face and arms, heard the solid thump of bodies hitting the road, preceding the splashing of blood by an instant.

Ryl swept the surroundings with his senses. In the still flickering white light from above no he saw no others waiting to attack. He let the Leaves falter as he stepped from away from the bodies.

Time slapped back to normal speed; his cloak snapped out to the side.

The sounds and motion of the surrounding camp crashed into him with a dizzying force. Vox, Kaep and Ramm were at his side in moments. Vox's arm crackled with a steady flame. Kaep studied the silence of the surrounding landscape, arrow waiting eagerly for the next foe. Andr slid to a stop at their side, his blade in hand.

“We need the cover of the Erlyn,” Ryl announced. “We need to move now.”

He turned stalking his way back toward the wagons. All were awake in the camp as he walked with purpose back toward where Le'Dral likely remained at the head of the caravan.

Sarial rushed forward from her newfound position at the mender’s side. Her eyes were wide with concern.

“Ryl, are you hurt…?” her voice trailed off as she took in the full breadth of his appearance. He was slick with blood and gore. Splashes and sprays of the lifeblood of twenty were splattered across his body.

Her eyes flashed with a momentary fear.

“No, Sarial, I'm fine,” his voice was cold as he responded without stopping his march.

He witnessed a similar look on the faces of the tributes and guards he passed along the way. They shrunk back as he moved with focused intent through their midst. Their unveiled fear threatened to turn his already rolling stomach.

They lived their lives in perpetual fear.

The feared the guards.

They feared The Stocks.

They feared the Harvest.

Now, they feared him.

Ryl bit back the bile that forced its way up his throat, burning his insides.

Le'Dral stalked quickly in his direction, his head on a swivel, cataloging the action of the camp around him. His eyes surveyed Ryl up and down briefly as he stopped.

“It is done. More will come,” Ryl hissed. “Ready the march. Too much blood has been spilled already today, we need the safety of the Erlyn.”

“How many?” Le'Dral gasped.

“Four of your guards were killed in the ambush,” Ryl answered coldly. “Twenty of theirs.”

Le'Dral shook his head. Ryl could see the sadness in his eyes.

“Take their bows. Take the arrows. Leave the bodies,” Ryl growled. “They were warned. It needn't have come to this.”

The death at his hands was sickening … yet paled in comparison to the dread that rose in his body.

What was he becoming?

What had he become?

Chapter 34

Ryl avoided the others as camp was broken with haste. The first hints of the coming day’s light were beginning to lighten the eastern sky over the tops of the palisade. The dark of the night was slowly retreating from the gradient of slightly brighter blues that were pushing into its domain. The signal fires mounted atop the staggered guard towers of the Palisades had burned low in preparation for the light.

He washed his face and arms in the crisp waters of