Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) Page 7

  Ryl and Andr followed Geshill and Aldren into the farmhouse. The heat from the interior washed over them as they crossed the threshold. Ryl cautiously investigated the room, finding it unsurprisingly unoccupied. It was a wide main chamber that served as both dining room, lounge and kitchen.

  To the right, the kitchen was set against the left wall. Immaculately arranged cupboards were lined with all manner of plates, pots and glassware. A momentary sad smile flashed across his face as he noted the meticulous organization found throughout the room. The attention to detail reminded him of a friend he'd not seen in just under a cycle.

  He hoped Mender Jeffers would still remain in The Stocks when he returned.

  In the center of the far wall, a roaring fire was crackling away in the large hearth. A pair of comfortable looking chairs were set back a few meters from the heat of the blaze. The center of the open room was dominated by a large wooden table surrounded by six chairs. All were neatly pushed in and absent of any place settings save one. Their unexpected arrival had apparently caught the farmer in the middle of his late dinner.

  “Please, do sit,” Geshill said, gently ushering Aldren to the seat directly across from his. He pulled the chair out, assisting the merchant as he sat.

  “I’m no mender, but I can take a look at that arm of yours if you’d like,” Geshill offered.

  Aldren gingerly rubbed his left arm with his opposite hand before rotating it slowly in a small circle. He winced slightly in pain, yet on the second rotation, the discomfort seemed to diminish.

  “No. Thank you, my friend,” Aldren responded politely. “It’s just sore from earlier. I can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a fall from the wagon like that.”

  Geshill nodded as he rounded the table sliding comfortably into his own chair. Ryl and Andr pulled out the seats on either side of Aldren, sitting as the merchant continued.

  “Have times changed so much that you greet all strangers with arrows?” Aldren asked, his voice a mixture of concern and sarcasm.

  Geshill lifted his mug from the table, swirling the contents absently as he peered into its depths. He took a large swig, swallowing audibly before cradling the mug in his lap. He looked up at the three newcomers he’d welcomed into his house, his eyes lingering on Andr for a long moment before travelling to Ryl. His gaze ran a cursory investigation over his body before resting on his face. Geshill squinted slightly as he attempted to make out details hidden in shadow beneath the hood.

  His questioning eyes turned back to Aldren.

  “Thankfully, the cycles still have been profitable, my old friend,” Geshill admitted, his eyes darted back to Ryl’s face. He could tell the presence of the hooded figure sitting across from him was disconcerting to the farmer, yet Ryl wasn’t ready to reveal his true identity.

  “You’re the second set of unexpected visitors that have come calling today,” Geshill announced. “In truth, I thought it was the first that had returned with greater numbers. My apologies for the arrows.”

  “Who was it that visited this morning to cause you to think that you’d need arrows?” Aldren gasped.

  Geshill took another large sip from his mug.

  “The blasted hunters,” he revealed. “Five of them came pounding on my door. Seeking a father and his young daughter on the run. Seems they were last seen near Milstead. My words to those butchers were less than kind, yet I spoke no untruth; I haven’t seen the pair. If I had, I’d have them hidden away anyway.”

  Ryl was convinced that it was the same group that they’d encountered earlier in the day. Would they have traveled back to Milstead to tend to their wounded companion, or were they lying in wait somewhere in the surrounding countryside?

  “You can remove your hood now,” the farmer said as he turned his gaze back to Ryl. “If Aldren vouches for you, you’re welcome in my house and at my table.”

  “Thank you, sir. We welcome your hospitality, yet all the same I prefer to keep it on for the time being,” Ryl admitted politely.

  Geshill stared at him for an extended moment before shrugging his shoulders.

  “Very well,” he said. “Ah, where are my manners? You must be thirsty from your travels. Will ale suffice?”

  Geshill hustled from the table to the kitchen, retrieving three large mugs from the cupboard. He filled them from a cask that rested on a table near the far corner of the room. He placed a mug in front of each of his visitors before returning to his seat.

  “You said your need was dire,” the farmer reiterated, sitting forward in his chair. “What madness drove you to my doorstep unannounced so late in the evening?”

  Aldren smiled at his friend before quickly taking a sip from the mug in front of him. Ryl did the same. Ryl had experienced few brews in the entirety of his life. The swill that his friend Quinlen brewed in The Stocks was an admirable attempt for what little resources he was provided with. His second batch, while still caustic, had been a major improvement over his maiden attempt. On several occasions he’d partaken in a mug of two at the brewery in Vim. The perfection of the craft was on fine display, and the results delicious, though Ryl’s time was consumed nearly exclusively with his training.

  Ryl took another probing sip of the ale in front of him. Though a far cry from the wonders of Vim, the drink was more than palatable. Quinlen could take note.

  “Several days past, Lord Relensier sent his assassins to collect us. Caught us just as we were leaving,” Aldren began his story.

  Geshill’s eyes went wide. He looked from Aldren back to the windows that were spaced out across the wall overlooking the courtyard. The farmer shot to his feet, nearly toppling his mug in the process.

  “Cade. Aldren, where is your boy?” the farmer pleaded.

  Aldren raised his arms calmly in front of him pacifying his agitated friend.

  “Fear not,” he said confidently. “Cade was not harmed. Though it pained me to see him go, he was sent on a task of the utmost import.”

  Geshill breathed a sigh of relief as he sunk back into his chair. His hand quickly reached for his mug, shaking slightly as he brought it to his lips.

  “If it weren’t for the timely arrival of the pair sitting beside me and their companions, we’d have both been dead,” Aldren admitted. “My home is no longer safe for Cade and I.”

  Geshill offered Aldren a pained smile before turned his focus to Ryl and Andr.

  “For the lives of my friends, you have my word that I will assist you in any manner that I can,” he said. “So, you’re on the run then. What do you need of me?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Aldren stuttered nervously.

  “Thank you again, sir,” Ryl took over for the merchant. “Though we do have needs, we ask for no charity. You will be well compensated for your troubles, your assistance, and your silence. We ask for shelter for a few days and a place to conceal a pair of wagons. We have injured companions that will need to be cared for. We are also in need of tools to manufacture several articles of clothing.”

  “What you ask for is no trouble at all. There is ample space for your wagons in the stables,” the farmer offered waving his hand toward the courtyard. “The work is slim now, I can easily make do without the extra help from Milstead as long as you or your companions can help with a few minor tasks around the farm. As for the tools to manufacture clothing, as Aldren has no doubt told you, though ill-used, I have that here as well.”

  “As Aldren said, unfortunately it is not quite that simple,” Ryl inserted. “Between the two wagons, we number twenty in total. Just over half of that number remains incapacitated though stable.”

  Geshill let out a low whistle.

  “Shall I summon the mender as well?” He offered.

  “That will not be necessary,” Ryl said emphatically. “Herein lies the root of the problem. The second wagon that waits under the cover of darkness as well as the identity of those we are tending to must remain a secret.”

  The farmer leaned back in his chair,
crossing his arms.

  “Aldren, what have you gotten yourself into?” Geshill quizzed.

  “It is a cause I willingly volunteered for,” the merchant spoke quietly as he shook his head. “It is one which we’ve long since whispered and a sentiment that we share.”

  Geshill sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him. His eyes squinted with questioning curiosity.

  “Who are those in the wagons that need tending?” he breathed.

  The room fell silent as the merchant deferred the answer to the question. Ryl turned his head slightly looking toward Andr. The mercenary blinked his eyes while nodding his head subtly.

  “Know that the information will likely put you in jeopardy should it be revealed outside of this room,” Ryl warned. “Whether you choose to aid us or not, the word of your silence is required.”

  “My silence you will have,” Geshill replied. “Now tell me who are they in the wagons that need concealing?”

  “Very well,” Ryl stated plainly.

  “They’re tributes.”

  Chapter 9

  Shock registered across the whole of the farmers face. His eyes went wide, his mouth fell open.

  “You must be joking,” Geshill gasped, his voice a mix of shock and jest. “Where did you come across nearly a dozen tributes?”

  “I assure, every word I spoke was truth,” Ryl stated emphatically. “They were spared from enduring the cruel fate of their lives after the Harvest.”

  Geshill looked questioningly at Ryl for a moment before continuing.

  “And what of the second wagon?” Geshill asked skeptically. “Does it belong to the King himself?”

  “In a sense, yes it does,” Ryl admitted. “Though the black wagon has been typically used to move tributes or the Lei Guard.”

  Geshill looked as if he was going to fall out of his chair. He blinked his eyes rapidly while shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes fell on Aldren, seeking confirmation of the tale. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryl saw the merchant smile as he nodded his head in agreement.

  “The Lei Guard would not cede their possessions without a fight,” the farmer gasped. “It is rumored they cannot be defeated.”

  “Fight they did,” Ryl said. “And yet they fell by hand, arrow and sword.”

  The farmer paused as Ryl's words echoed through the room. He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side as he attempted to peer through the darkness of the shadow that covered Ryl’s face.

  “What are you then?” He asked.

  “We are phrenics,” Ryl stated plainly. “We are the reality behind the myths you know as Taben and his fabled army.”

  Geshill observed Ryl closely for several long moments.

  “Your tale is too unbelievable for logic to accept, yet the word of my friend is sound,” he stated. “You'll have whatever assistance I can offer. You can fetch your second wagon.”

  Andr looked quickly at Ryl before standing and exiting the building. The young phrenic followed him with his eyes as he made his way out to the courtyard. The mercenary put his hand to his mouth letting out as single high-pitched whistle

  A few moments later a similar note sang back through the darkness. The hoofbeats of a retreating horse quickly faded into the night.

  “Tell me, friend,” Geshill asked quietly. “You said that you saved the tributes from their fate after the Harvest. I’ve long wondered, what lies in store for them after they leave The Stocks?”

  There was no disguising the pain that infected the farmer’s voice. The festering wound from the loss of his beloved sister, though many cycles in the past, was still deep. The pain was still fresh.

  “Aldren told me of your sister.” Ryl said quietly. He watched as the face of Geshill dropped, life seemingly draining from his animated features. “For that reason alone, I’ll spare you the details of what they endure. The torture you already feel needn’t be amplified. The pain of having one you hold so dear stolen is punishment enough.”

  Ryl focused, sending out a wave of comfort. Geshill’s shoulders rolled back slightly, his chest rose as he inhaled a deep breath. A tear rolled down his cheek, splattering as it hit the wooden table.

  “You’ve suffered enough, as have untold thousands of others at the hands of the Kingdom. Children stolen and families butchered,” Ryl stated. The heat in his veins pushed his words out with a force and conviction that startled the farmer. “The toils of the tribute, the uncertainty, the scars, the torment do not end with their Harvest.”

  “The tributes you’ve brought with you, that you’ve rescued, what lies ahead for them?” Geshill whispered.

  “Their futures are unassured, I’m afraid,” Ryl stated plainly. “They are in rough shape and there’s no telling the struggles that lie ahead once they recover. The only certainty is that they will live out the remainder of their lives as free men and women. Whether it be a day or cycles, they will be free.”

  The heat steadily rose in his veins as his mind turned to the unknown futures that lay ahead. Not only for the ailing tributes, but for them as well. His resolve was hardened by the thoughts. They'd come too far. They would see this through to the bitter end.

  Geshill leaned back in his chair, his eyes aimlessly wandering around the room. His gaze was unfocused for a few moments.

  “Long have I waited to hear words such as yours,” Geshill whispered, his voice trailing off at the end. Ryl could see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

  “Her name was Lyra,” Geshill breathed. “She was just a child. Father told me she was going to start an apprenticeship near Leremont. I said goodbye to her. Said that we'd see each other again soon. I was happy for her to go.”

  Geshill took a long drought off his mug, wiping his eyes before he continued his story.

  “Not a day goes by that I don't grieve for her,” Geshill sobbed. “The last thing she saw of me was my smiling face. My loss means nothing compared to the abandonment she felt every day at the hands of the ones who were supposed to love her, protect her and guide her. I'd give anything to say I'm sorry.”

  Aldren rose slowly, the noise of his chair scraping across the floor lost under the sobs of the farmer. He crossed the table, sitting beside his friend, placing a caring hand on his back.

  “How many cycles has it been?” Ryl asked softly.

  “Nearly thirty-five,” the farmer choked. “If I'd have had the strength or the knowledge I'd have fought for her. I'd tear the walls down with my bare hands if I could.”

  Ryl thought for a moment before continuing. It had been thirty-five cycles since Lyra was deposited in The Stocks. The average duration of a tribute’s stay before their Harvest was anywhere from fifteen to twenty cycles. How long could she have lingered in a processing facility? Could she have been corrupted into a Lei Guard like Elias?

  Though miniscule, a sliver of hope remained. He'd escaped The Stocks. He’d survived the wilds of the Outlands. He’d reversed the taint of a Lei Guard and razed a processing facility to the ground.

  The shard of hope he'd survived on had been less. He'd not give up searching. He'd not give up fighting until every last tribute had been freed.

  Ryl steadied his thoughts, focusing on sending out a heavy wave of emotion over the farmer seated across from him. Geshill raised his head from where it had been resting in the palms of his hands. He could see the stains of salty residue from the tears that had soaked his cheeks.

  “Never give up hope, my friend,” Ryl proffered, his eyes blazed with the rage of an inferno. “Though it may be bleak, there is always hope. If there is one thing I've come to understand of the tributes, they are resilient beyond all bounds.”

  A fleeting smile crossed Geshill's face only to be overpowered by the lingering melancholy.

  “Hope? How can you see hope when the world is shrouded in black?” Geshill sighed.

  “It is because I refuse to give in to the darkness,” Ryl stated emphatically. “I have seen the face of hopelessness firsthand, and I
have prevailed.”

  Geshill looked at Ryl and leaned his head slightly to the side. His eyes were wide with an unbridled curiosity.

  “Who are you?” Geshill asked.

  Ryl rose slowly to his feet, rolling back his shoulders as he stood tall. With both hands he reached up, carefully removing the hood that covered his head.

  He watched the eyes of the farmer travel the length of his face, the confusion growing. Reaching his neck, the eyes stopped, widening as they studied the brands.

  Geshill stood with a slow, purposeful motion. He pointed to the numbered brand on the right side of Ryl's neck, just below his ear.

  “You're a tribute? But, how?” He gasped. “It's impossible. Your Harvest is this cycle. Only days away!”

  Ryl smiled as he nodded his head.

  “Aye, that is true and I intend to be there for it,” Ryl stated. “You see, my Harvest came a cycle early.”

  Ryl witnessed the workings of Geshill's mind as it assembled the pieces that he'd come to understand. His eyes bulged as the connection was established.

  “It’s ... It's you!” the farmer stumbled through his words. “But ... but, you're dead! Swallowed by the sea along with your sponsor’s frigate.”

  “So I've been told,” Ryl said with a smile.

  Chapter 10

  The dawn brought with it grey skies and a cold mist that blanketed the land. Ryl pulled the hood of his borrowed cloak down, covering the grey of his phrenic cloak underneath. Strange as it still seemed, the sensation of having both his arms covered was foreign. It tugged at his mind as they plodded on toward the town ahead.

  Aldren and Geshill rode in the lead. They’d taken one of the farmer’s wagons to restock on supplies as well as to enlist the services of his daughters. Ryl and Andr followed shortly behind, while the rest of their companions and the ailing tributes had remained hidden away in the stable at the farm.

  Though he'd known the origin of the second wagon, Geshill had nearly toppled from his chair at the sight of the black wagon outside his door. The appearance of the wagon and the black cloaked riders from the darkness of the night was a menacing sign.