Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3)

  Ghost of the Erlyn

  ©2018-2020 CJ AARON

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  Contents

  ALSO IN SERIES

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  ALSO IN SERIES

  About the Author

  ALSO IN SERIES

  A TRIBUTE AT THE GATES

  FULCRUM OF LIGHT

  GHOSTS OF THE ERYLN

  Prologue

  The heavy oaken door closed with a thundering boom. The reverberations echoed around the great hall, paying homage to the finality of the act. Lord Eligar sunk into his cushioned chair with a profound sense of relief that the day had at long last reached its close. He leaned back, crossing his right leg over his left, his fingers closing longingly around the stem of the newly filled goblet of wine. He lifted the glass to his nose, gently swirling the deep red liquid; closing his eyes, savoring the complex aromas that flooded his senses.

  Fay Eligar routinely made himself available to hear the complaints and petitions of those who lived on the lands that fell under the dominion of House Eligar. It was a habit instilled in him since his youth, an inheritance from his father's rule.

  The great hall was a spacious chamber; its high vaulted ceilings supported by thick columns, evenly spaced along both walls. Light shone through the narrow, stained glass windows. Their vibrant colors danced along the walls and floor as they caught the rays of the setting sun.

  A large, beautifully carved, wooden desk dominated the front left corner of the hall. It had been his home for the balance of the day. To his left, on a raised dais at the end of the room rested a massive, ornately carved and decorated throne.

  He wrinkled his nose unintentionally at the sight.

  He hated that chair.

  Hated looking down on those who sought him out for whatever reason. It wasn’t the petitioners he despised—it was the groveling and disconnect that it created. His father had imparted him with a valuable lesson before his untimely passing.

  Look someone in the eyes on their level and you’re bound to hear truth with much less delay.

  He could still hear the booming voice of his father resound through the hall. His mood had blanched as the day grew late. Lord Eligar looked with trepidation at the disarrayed stack of parchment to his right, yet it was the small missive lying face down on the desk in front of him that caused his consternation. The day’s requests had been mild if not boring in their tedium. As was the new norm over the previous moons, however, reports of mild aggression at their borders had increased steadily.

  With a sigh, he flipped over the parchment in front of him. Though his eyes had catalogued every word already, he carefully scanned the brief document.

  Dearest Lord Eligar,

  The Honorable King Lunek the Third again wishes to express his deepest condolences at the loss of your tribute and soldiers. He hopes you now understand the importance of leaving the transport of the tributes from their unmolested security of The Stocks in the hands of the prescribed guards. The Harvest is to be a joyous occasion for the Blessing of the King is not a gift bestowed without due care and the utmost reverence. He fears that the sanctity of the event has been forever marred by your selfish acts.

  After careful consideration, in light of recent events, however, your petition to attend the upcoming Deliverance has been denied.

  As to the matter of your accusations regarding the hostilities at your borders, the King has found them baseless. The insinuations that either House Sarnac or the Royal House are involved are meritless and an insult to their honor. Complaints of this nature will no longer be tolerated and will cease immediately.

  Furthermore, the King maintains that it is your family’s continued reluctance to house larger contingents of Royal Troops in your cities that is the root cause of the hostilities plaguing your unfortified borders. It is his sincerest hope that you reconsider these requests for the safety of the citizens of Damaris residing under the protection of your House.

  Lord Eligar tossed the missive to the side, sending it spinning off the edge of the table. His exclusion from the Deliverance was neither unexpected nor unwelcome. In truth, he had no interest in participating. The request was merely an added effort to maintain appearances. That the King was suspicious of the disappearance of his tribute, he was sure.

  The mock funerals, both private and public had taken considerable planning, effort and finances. Silence was costly. The ceremonies and honors posthumously bestowed upon those soldiers and sailors lost at sea were tedious, yet necessary to uphold the ruse. Though he knew not the fate of Andr and Ryl, that all aboard had made it home safely with minimal injuries was a miracle.

  Fay absently rubbed his right hand over his opposite shoulder. The wound had healed, yet a profound tenderness remained. The uncontrollable fury of the explosion that heralded the intentional demise of his frigate had nearly cost him his life. Along with the captain, he was among
the last to disembark the doomed vessel. When she took to flame, the night sky illuminated with the light of the midday sun. He’d scoured the horizon for a final fleeting sight of the pair his act was meant to save—a distraction that was nearly fatal. A flaming timber thrown from the blast, plummeted from the sky, tearing the narrow skiff into pieces. The battleship that had tracked their course scooped them from the sea a short time later.

  Waterlogged, nursing a host of scratches, minor burns and a painfully dislocated shoulder, Fay had faced inquisition at the hands of the King’s councilors. The newly appointed Ambassador to The Stocks, Sir Maklan, was especially volatile. He’d even received a private, verbal lashing at the hands of the ancient King Lunek the Third himself. His obtuse nature at court and carelessness with regard to the safe transportation of his tribute were regarded with unveiled scorn.

  There was no question that the increase in aggression and the poorly disguised land grabs along his borders were a direct result of the King and other Houses. House Sarnac, in particular, which bordered the majority of the land directly on House Eligar’s west stood the most to gain.

  Lord Eligar had long planned for this eventuality. Not long after the decision to sponsor Ryl, he’d secretly hired teams of Ferro blacksmiths, the indigenous people who occupied the Isle of Mattume off the southern coast of Leremont. In the known world, the Ferro people were far and away the most skilled ironworkers available.

  Using the deposits of iron that were abundant on the lands of his house, he’d been able to amass a substantial stockpile of weapons and armor. Armed and armored, his soldiers trained diligently. On short notice, he’d be able to mount an army of nearly six thousand with another two thousand in reserve.

  The knocking on the door cut through the morose solitude of his thoughts. Three sharp, quick raps, and a pause before the fourth. The signal was clear; the need was of great import.

  The door opened slowly, swinging silently on its massive iron hinges. Lord Eligar was surprised to see Mender Gencep stride through the door. Rarely did the mender have cause to interrupt the calm after his meetings. The wizened face of his elder, most trusted confidant was unusually animated as he shuffled across the great hall. Following closely on his heels was a weary, filthy looking young man.

  “I beg your pardon, Fay,” Mender Gencep announced. The lack of formality in the greeting was unexpected. Lord Eligar’s curiosity was piqued. What was the meaning of the intrusion?

  The young man trailing in the shadow of the mender appeared to be no older than his mid-teens. He wore the trappings of exhaustion over his body. His face was gaunt and dirty, though Fay could see that he’d tried admirably to clean it before entering his presence—there were undeniable streaks of mud and grime where his hands had missed.

  His wavy shoulder-length hair was wet and matted against his face. His clothes appeared too large, yet under the dirt, had the trappings of finery, well above the station of a mere beggar or peasant.

  “I trust there’s cause for this interruption,” Lord Eligar announced. He was mildly annoyed, yet the determined fire in the boy’s eyes gave Fay pause.

  “I found this one outside the gates,” Mender Gencep recounted. “The young man arrived after the doors were closed for the evening. He says he’s been traveling for nearly a week. Says it cannot wait a moment longer. He claims to have a message of extreme importance, to be delivered to you, and you alone.”

  Mender Gencep placed his hand gently on the boy’s back, urging him forward.

  “Fay, you’re going to want to hear this,” the mender said quietly.

  The boy approached steadily, though his hesitant steps revealed his uncertainty. In his hand, the he clutched a rolled document. He extended it cautiously as he neared. Lord Eligar reached out carefully taking hold of the slightly crumpled paper.

  The missive was small, sealed with a single, unmarked dab of red wax. The paper was damp to the touch and warm from where the young man had been holding it.

  “What’s so important about this letter?” Fay asked kindly as he slid a thin metal blade from his desk under the red seal.

  “I know nothing of the contents, sir,” the young man stuttered as he spoke between breaths.

  “I see no marking on the seal,” Lord Eligar commented. “Who’s this from?”

  The young man took a breath as he prepared to speak.

  “He said he was an acquaintance of yours, that you'd know his name well,” the young man spoke quietly.

  “His name is Ryl.”

  Chapter 1

  The wagon groaned in protest as it skipped over the roots that had overtaken the narrow road. They traveled south along the western bank of the river, sandwiched between the water on one side and the thinning remnants of the forest on the other. Through the trees to the west, the rocky pinnacles of the Haven Mountains thrust into the sky. Their dagger-like peaks formed the jagged top of the range that stretched virtually the entire north south expanse of the Kingdom of Damaris.

  Above the tops of the trees to the north, a thin line of smoke still stained the sky. The facility they’d set ablaze the evening before still smoldered as the flames sought to consume the last of the timbers. Ryl shivered as a chill rolled through his body. The horrors that resided within those walls were still as potent in memory as they were in person.

  He could smell the odors. The fetid stench of death and human waste. He could still taste it polluting the air. His stomach turned in revulsion.

  The images were burned into Ryl’s mind. His memories painted every traumatic detail even as he attempted to blink the visions away. Battered, lifeless bodies were secured upright along tables leaned against the walls. Blood fell, drip by drip from the arms of each as they were painstakingly drained. They were all tributes as he had once been. Children, stolen from their families for the alexen in their blood. They’d been raised under the heel of the Kingdom, forced into servitude within the confines of The Stocks. That prison had been their home, now the filthy wooden slabs in an unmarked facility were to have been their deathbeds.

  Ryl felt the rage as it raced through his veins. It demanded the lives of the guards who’d unknowingly concealed these horrors. In the end, it was only the facility and its machinations that had been razed.

  Raiding the facility, tucked away in the shadows of the Martrion Ruins had never been a part of their intended task. The goal was and remained the freedom of The Stocks. A chance encounter had cost them the life of their companion and friend, Deyalou, Master Swordsman and defender of Vim. Yet from the chilling heartbreak of loss came the information that resulted in the freedom of an additional ten tributes. Their emaciated, addled bodies were mere shells of their former selves. They’d endured untold horrors. Yet, even as uncertain as their paths to recovery were, they still lived.

  They were free.

  Now, with every turn of the wagon’s wheels, they moved closer to their destination. The crude pathway they now followed would allow them to close a portion of the distance to The Stocks in secrecy, yet it would make their progress decidedly more sluggish. Ryl had planned to retrace their steps to the east, crossing the river and leaving Serrate and the smoldering remains of the facility behind. From there, they were to meet with the main thoroughfare whose southern end terminated to the east of Cadsae Proper and The Stocks.

  Crossing the river at Serrate was no longer an option. The stone bridge that spanned the watery gap had fallen amidst their battle with the Lei Guard; an unintended casualty of war. They’d expected a single group of seven, black-cloaked warriors. They’d been caught off guard by the appearance of the second detail.

  With the collapse of the bridge, their plans had again been altered. The ill-used path represented their only hope of moving the laden wagons onward toward The Stocks. They’d be forced to follow its lazy bends to the closest river crossing, nearly fifty miles to the south. From there, they’d be able to rejoin the main thoroughfare

  The ambush upon the bridge had been a sho
ck. Ryl’s previous encounters with the Horde had been perilous. The misshapen beasts attacked with lethal speed and a terrifying ferocity. The battle with the Lei Guard had been equally fierce. It had been frantic. Ryl fought with a desperation founded in hopelessness.

  It nearly cost him his life.

  Ryl and his companions had prevailed, yet it was a hollow victory as light had pierced the veil that shrouded the truth. In total, thirteen Lei Guard, only one shy of two full parties, had been destroyed.

  Though they were cloaked in black, it could no longer disguise their true form. They fought for the Kingdom, for the Ascertaining Decree, for the very system that robbed children of their lives, families and freedoms.

  Underneath the guise they were all tributes. Or at least they once had been.

  All that remained now were withered, black-stained shells of their previous identities. Some he had known. The majority of those whose faces were still recognizable he didn't. Ryl had wept openly as they hastily buried the remains.

  Had he known the true nature of the Lei Guard before that morning, would the outcome have been different? Had he known the power that dwelled within him, could he have saved more of them?