The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4) Page 4

  The tributes made themselves comfortable in the interior of the adjacent trees. Their quarters were cramped, yet they encompassed the space within three of the five remaining trunks. With little to no belongings, they placed their meager possessions on the ground, staking claim to their earthen sleeping spots.

  Cray had placed his light, threadbare pack down close to the entrance of the tree nearest to that of the injured. The interior chamber under the roots of the great tree was vast. The weary tributes squeezed themselves into the opening, though there were several more trees ringing the circle. The potential of greater personal space was dwarfed by the collective mentality of the beleaguered tributes to err on the side of security and safety in numbers over personal comfort.

  The last few days had been a whirlwind of fervent activity. They had prepared with morose necessity to bid farewell to another group of their peers. The Harvest was a somber occasion that repeated cycle upon cycle.

  The sudden interruption and appearance of the black-cloaked guard and wagon was unsettling. The animosity and hatred that poured from them were palpable. Strangely enough, Cray felt it wash over him like a wave. Without warning, the sensation shifted.

  It was hope that spread over the crowd.

  Strange was a grossly insufficient word to describe what transpired after that.

  A tribute from last cycle’s Harvest had returned.

  Ryl had entered The Stocks at the head of a force that had defied the will and strength of a kingdom. Their flight had been rapid. They had been pushed hard for days on end. They were attacked time and time again. The sheer strength of the mysterious phrenic’s power was overwhelming. Unlikely allies were mustered to their cause. They fought, they bled, and they died to ensure the tributes reached their destination virtually unscathed.

  It was a different man who’d returned to set them free. They had shared few words since his sudden reappearance, yet the differences were evident. His exit from The Stocks, only one cycle past, had been startling.

  The entirety of that Harvest had been shocking.

  Ryl had stood his ground against the vile sub-master, unwittingly bringing a permanent end to his reign of terror and inhumanity. Rumors swirled that he’d survived multiple assassination attempts. Buildings and settlements throughout The Stocks, closest to his path, had been razed to the ground by suspicious fires.

  The most shocking, though entirely welcome occurrence happened only moments before the annual Harvest. The corpses of Master Delsith and his henchman were found in various stages of undress. Sarial’s bruised body was removed from the same room. It was moons before she regained full control of her capacities. Rumors again spread that it was Ryl who had sought vengeance for a lifetime of wrongs, yet at the time it was an impossible thought.

  After learning what they’d planned for Sarial, Cray would have willingly stood in line for the chance to enact a similar fate. He’d have walked with his head held high.

  Seeing Ryl’s power firsthand gave new weight to the popular theory. None knew what had transpired in the cycle since he’d strode through the Pining Gates. In his reemergence, Ryl had returned with an aura that commanded respect. Only a cycle had passed, yet he exuded a frightening maturity, one that was far greater than his age.

  His presence was potent. Cray could feel Ryl’s sensation as he walked among the tributes. It was a confusing aura; it drew the tributes to him with an undeniable magnetism. Cray felt caught in its uncontrollable pull.

  He wandered the expansive clearing, his eyes roving over the massive trees that ringed the area. His gaze scanned the silent woods that surrounded them. The growth was far thicker here than he was accustomed to seeing on the pathway through the Erlyn’s midst. Though his wandering was random, it was of little surprise to him that his path ended at the base of the tree where the wounded had been off-loaded.

  Where they had taken Ryl.

  Cray’s curious eyes peered into the interior of the dimly lit chamber. A small fire burned in the center of the cleared dirt floor. Several lanterns along the walls provided ample illumination for the room. The temperature inside the hidden confines of the woods was ideal. The added heat from the small blaze was unnecessary, though it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. Surviving as a tribute, Cray had grown accustomed to being cold. It was an expected product of poor quality clothing and even more lacking nutrition.

  Mender Jeffers was at the helm of a large gathering of men and women. Both tributes and guards alike, anyone with any semblance of skill as a mender, were in attendance, tasked with seeing to the needs of the growing number of wounded. The activity in the hollowed-out base of the tree was dizzying, though coordinated in its underlying care.

  A group exited the interior with haste. Cray backed a step away as the captain hastened from the chamber. He walked with purpose, directing orders to another of his soldiers who walked at his side. Close in his wake, the two cloaked warriors followed silently.

  Their faces were hidden beneath impenetrable shadows that revealed only a fraction of their lower lips and chins. They were phrenics, a name that had been erased from the history of Damaris. As a boy, Cray had heard of the mythical prowess of the legendary Taben and his army. So few had pushed back the tide of the Outland Horde that threatened to exterminate all life in the kingdom over one thousand cycles in the past.

  His eyes followed them with a rapt interest that was impossible to disguise. They walked with a confidence that was unfaltering. Though they were likely far superior in skill, they had never taken any steps to assert their dominance over their charges. They had remained tight lipped, conversing in but a few words. The hoods that cloaked their faces in shadows had remained drawn as if they were fixed over their heads.

  Ryl had explained that all the tributes carried in them the same blood that granted these mythical warriors their powers. Cray had struggled to search his mind since his eyes had been opened to the truth, yet he felt no different. He felt as normal, as plain as ever.

  Was Ryl wrong about him?

  Was he wrong about the tributes?

  Though Cray could see not the tangent of their eyes, he could feel their presence as they passed. It was an unnatural warmth and a welcome that seemed to exude from their cores. The larger of the two, a veritable mountain of a man, nodded subtly as he exited. The phrenic moved with a silent grace and agility that belied his massive size.

  His eyes followed the group as they made their way to the path that had materialized in the solid forest. He watched as Le’Dral, the phrenics, and the majority of the guards moved along with the wagons. The final trip would complete the emptying of Tabenville. The remainder of the supplies, soldiers, and Lei Guard, still unconscious and bound, would be reunited in the security of the forest. By the time the sun set on the day, any who happened upon the village would find nothing but empty buildings and the pervasive mists of the waterfall.

  Cray had walked that gloomy pathway through the Erlyn more times than he could count, yet the woods had never revealed its secrets before this day. Rumors circled through the tributes like a breeze through the trees, the hushed whispers like the quiet rustle of leaves.

  They said it was the mercenary who opened the path through the woods. Hushed words spoke of a power that was inconceivable, one that had never graced the body of one without alexen in their blood. Even the phrenics seemed to view the warrior with reverence at his action.

  Whatever the action, it had taken a visible toll. The life and energy had appeared to drain from the mercenary. Though he could tell the warrior struggled to maintain appearances, as Cray passed, he noted the dramatic effects. It was the cloaked phrenic who held him aloft. The knees of the mercenary shook under the light strain of minimal weight.

  Cray had met his eyes briefly. They were unfocused, yet seemed to flash with recognition as they locked momentarily. The look he gave was confusing. It was as if there were a dam holding back a flood of information, of emotion that pushed to escape.

  He shoo
k his head, ridding it of the worrisome thoughts that intruded. As the last of the retreating party disappeared into the gloom of the forest path, Cray turned his attention to the interior of the tree. He scanned the makeshift clinic. His eyes inadvertently moved to a pair of bodies resting quietly along the edge of the far wall. They had been placed at a distance from the closest of the injured. The area around them seemed purposefully devoid of activity. He recognized them both immediately. One was a cloaked warrior who had arrived with Ryl’s party.

  The other was Ryl.

  Cray stopped in the entrance to the chamber. He leaned against the right edge of the massive root that formed one border of the door. Craning his head around the edge, he squinted as he peered into the interior. He could make out the shallow, yet rhythmic rise and fall of Ryl’s chest while he breathed. The urge to rush to his side was undeniable, yet there was something more, something he’d not yet experienced. There was an unmistakable force that repelled him. Though it was overwhelmed by the attraction, its presence was clear.

  “If you’ve any skill as a mender, they could surely use the assistance.”

  Cray jumped as the voice from the interior startled him. The tone was weary, yet contained strength and confidence. He pivoted his head to the speaker, surprised to find the mercenary staring back at him. Andr leaned casually against the inner edge of the tree’s doorway. Though his pose was relaxed, the wooden wall no doubt aided in supporting his fatigued body. His left hand was on his hip; his right rested on the pommel of his sword.

  “I’ve never had the inclination nor the time to investigate or hone any skills aside from farm labor.” Cray stumbled through the words.

  Andr offered a pained smile in response.

  “Aye, that’s a tragic truth, and the kingdom has suffered from the loss,” the mercenary commiserated. “The world is changing in more ways than you are yet to understand, my friend. The time will come soon when your true calling, the calling of all the tributes, will be made clear.”

  Cray offered the mercenary a confused look. Their eyes met; the mercenary’s gaze was probing. Cray averted his eyes as it became uncomfortable. He let his eyes wander the injured, picking out the tributes among them, again finding their way to Ryl.

  “He’s changed in ways I cannot fathom since his departure last cycle,” Cray noted.

  Andr tracked his gaze, grunting in approval at the comment.

  “Aye. Ryl’s weathered more storms than many, even if they had multiple lives to lead,” Andr admitted. “He’ll recover from this. I fear one of these days though, he’ll push himself beyond the limits to where there’s no coming back.”

  Cray was puzzled by the fatherly tone that resounded from the mercenary. The stories he’d heard of their exploits had likely given way to a great deal of over exaggeration. Both tribute and guard alike revered the battle-worn mercenary as if he were something out of legend. There was something in the tales, however, that he failed to understand. That he couldn’t comprehend. It was an unanswered question that tugged at his consciousness. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath as he carefully phrased the question in his mind. When he found his voice, it was far more feeble than he’d intended.

  “Please take no offense to the question I ask,” the tribute offered as a weak initial defense. “Why did you follow Ryl? Why did you journey into assured death? I can’t believe it was for money alone.”

  Cray’s voice trailed off as the mercenary fixed his gaze on him. To his surprise, there was no indication of annoyance in his eyes. In fact, for an instant, they sparkled with what he could only describe as pride. A hint of a smile tugged up the corner of his lips. The show of emotion was fleeting, fading as quickly as it had appeared. For an instant, he felt calmed by the lack of reproach from the mercenary.

  The serene moment faded with a tangible force. What followed was a response that struck him with a power that shocked him to his core. The pained look on Andr’s face conveyed the emotion that Cray felt course through him. It was as if the mercenary projected the feeling from within. The strength of the sensation was strangely reminiscent of the feeling of hope that had imminently preceded Ryl’s return. Whereas Ryl’s message was uplifting, breathing life into the weary tributes, this was dark and endlessly cold. Chills swept across his skin, rolling up his arms like a wave. Cray felt as if a massive weight had been deposited upon his shoulders. His knees quivered and his breaths ran short and rapid. The despair, regret and dread nearly forced him to the ground.

  His shock at the potent response and his fear of reproach vanished as he again caught the eyes of the mercenary. It was apparent that the emotion that Cray felt was similar to what Andr was experiencing. Unlike Cray, the effect upon the mercenary, however, was short-lived. Andr’s hand had fallen to the handle of his sword, his body turning to address the threat.

  Inside the chamber of the massive tree, those wounded who still possessed coherent consciousness reeled from the onslaught of emotion. Moans swelled from all sides of the chamber. Cray watched as Mender Jeffers collapsed to his knees, failing under the force of the pressure.

  The sword cleared Andr’s sheath, ringing a note that momentarily snapped him from the dejection that raged through his body. All throughout the room, the wounded and those caring for them struggled to maintain their composure. Much like the mender, many had collapsed.

  Andr moved away, his actions seemingly free from the emotion that held the remainder of the makeshift clinic in check. Cray felt his heart skip a beat as he noted the figure standing at the opposite side of the room.

  Cloaked in the tattered apparel of a tribute, the man stood, impervious to the deluge of despair. His features were gaunt. His skin was stretched over his bones highlighting a life of poor nutrition and forced servitude. Cray had lived among the tributes for long enough to understand the ravages of the life they led. They were usually nothing more than skin and bones. Pale, withered reflections of what they could have been.

  The hue of his skin was different. Cray could see the lines of black that streaked down his arms, staining the skin around them. Tendrils of darkness reached up his neck, lancing their way onto his face.

  The withered frame looked fragile, yet stood with a frightful power that poured from his body. Through the hatred and maleficence that was written across his face, Cray recognized a man he once knew. The features were too familiar to ignore.

  Elias towered over the room.

  Chapter 7

  Andr charged across the interior of the hollowed-out base of the tree, his careful footsteps hurdling over ailing tribute and guard alike. Cray felt his feet frozen in place. The despair, malevolence, and terror locked him to the ground as if he were encased in stone.

  The blackened husk that was Elias cocked his head slightly to the side, regarding the approach of the armed mercenary with abject boredom. His gaze moved downward, rapidly cataloguing those being treated. His eyes bulged slightly as they found their mark. A wicked grin, more snarl than smile, tugged up on the corner of his lips.

  They settled on the still form of Ryl.

  The cunning mercenary had clearly grasped his intent, his path aiming toward his incapacitated charge. With a growl, a deep guttural rumble, Elias lurched forward, moving with wraithlike agility. Cray was horrified at the speed of the motion. It was as if his body was nothing more than a fleeting shadow crossing the dimly lit interior. Andr’s approach paled in comparison.

  Elias’s advance collided with one of Le’Dral’s guards who had been drafted into duty within the makeshift clinic. The man, who’d only days earlier stood firm in the face of the approaching cavalry, was locked in a panic. His body was hunched over, curling into a crude fetal position.

  The hateful force of Elias fell upon the doomed soldier with lethal ferocity and impossible speed. The assault was over in the blink of an eye. Before the guard could react, his body was twisted violently by his head. Cray cringed as the grating and snapping of bone roared through the chamber. His executioner
carried the body forward for a few meters, removing the sword that rested unused at his hip. As he tossed the limp corpse to his side, he slashed outward with the blade. The absent thrust cut a deep line across the deceased guard’s face. A spray of crimson splashed outward, leaving a dripping line of red among the crowded wounded.

  Another pressing wave of fear crashed into Cray, forcing him back a step. He inadvertently cowered as his back reached the interior wall of the chamber. He slid down along the cool, smoothed bark of the massive tree’s roots. Guards and tributes alike shuddered as the emotion tore through them like a scythe. Knees buckled as men and women who had nearly succumbed to the initial round of abuse collapsed at the second.

  The light in the room seemed to dim as the strength of the assault swelled beyond that of the first. A black shadow pushed outward from Elias. The air in the chamber compressed as if the atmosphere was choked by the overwhelming hatred and fear.

  He watched in horror as the blackened version of Elias cut through another pair of Le’Dral’s guards. They had been in the process of diligently caring for the recovering tributes. Both had been halted by the latest wave of paralyzing fear. Elias butchered them without compassion. His motions only slowed for a moment. He was moving by the time their lifeless bodies reached the ground. He made no attempt to avoid the sprays of blood. His cloak was slick with crimson. Vibrant red dots stained the pale skin of his face.

  Andr’s pace never slowed through the onslaught. He skipped over the ailing bodies lined up on the floor. He hurdled a guard who was frozen in fear, curled up on the ground, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. The trajectory of his sprint led him straight toward the still forms of Ryl and Kaep along the rear wall of the tree’s chamber. His feet skidded across the earthen floor as his breakneck pace halted before his immobile companions. A small cloud of dust flowed beyond him. The patter of tiny chunks of dirt was audible throughout the chamber as they rained down on Ryl.