Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) Page 8

  They'd placed the wagons back to back, their rear flaps held ajar. Though none of the tributes had awoken since Elias the previous day, they were beginning to see encouraging signs of life. On several occasions, arms had moved purposefully, heads had rolled from side to side, or bodies shifted. The movements, though slight and most likely still involuntary, were progress nonetheless.

  The dismal grey sky above and the pervasive mist fought to unseat the optimism that surged through his veins. They moved in silence, turning west from the small road leading to Geshill's farm and entering the main road to Milstead. Hints of the village lurked in the distance like shadows in the bleak grey of the morning.

  On both sides of the road, rocky, rolling hills and small copses of trees stretched out to the horizon. The terrain surrounding Milstead was elevated, with the village itself resting in the shallow depression of a valley. A narrow river, the tepid continuation of the one that ran alongside Serrate, lapped along the western border of the village.

  Ryl was feeling especially anxious this morning. The risk of involving two extra individuals in their schemes was disconcerting. Geshill had assured them of their willingness to comply and of their silence. His daughters had grown up with daily reminders of their father’s hatred of the Ascertaining Decree and the Kingdom that had stolen their aunt from their lives. There was no amount of gold that could sway their opinion on the matter.

  Ryl turned from his thoughts back to scanning the bleak, mist-soaked surroundings. He was unsurprised to see nothing of note. No signatures of tributes and, thankfully, no black stains of the Lei Guard. To his side, Andr's eyes made their continuous furtive sweep of the countryside.

  There had been no sightings of the hunters throughout the night, though the threat of their appearance was genuine. Ryl subconsciously stretched a hand behind his back, letting the comforting feeling of the Leaves quiet his anxious mind.

  Through the mist of the morning, the entranceway to Milstead materialized like the head of a tunnel choked with clouds. Ryl's eyes could barely penetrate the occluded air for much more than twenty meters. The swirling breeze constantly shifted the patchy cover, making details indistinct.

  From the descriptions of the farmer and his brief, extended view from the overlook the previous evening, Ryl knew what to expect of the town. The main road entered through a once-ornately adorned gate, the likes of which would have made the artisans in Vim cringe. The vertical posts, fashioned in what looked like rusted attempts at wheat stalks, were nearly indecipherable. The faint words of Welcome to Milstead scrawled into the thin metal plaques that stretched above the road were nearly illegible.

  A low stone wall surrounded the city. At a little more than a meter in height, it stood as a poor bastion should the town ever require a substantial defense. At opposite corners of the main street, two inns stood, their vastly differing facades alluding to their calling.

  To the right, the poorly maintained front steps of the inn led upward to a narrow porch that was in a state of minor disrepair. The painted exterior was cracked and peeling. Though the hour was early, he could hear the muted sounds of drunken revelry emanating from within.

  As they approached, the door to the inn sprung open, spewing out a stumbling patron who toppled down the stairs into the street. Ryl and Andr stopped their mounts abruptly as the man careened into their path. The staggering drunkard smiled a sickeningly weak smile before continuing across the road, following the narrow alley that ran along the interior of the walls of Milstead. The distinct, unpleasant odor of vomit wafted past in the man's wake.

  Across the street, the dichotomy was startling. The facade of this inn featured a small garden that ran atop a thin, stone wall separating the modest patio from the street. The area was protected from the elements by a wide overhang that jutted out from the building. Several sets of chairs sat vacant, flanking small bistro tables. Blooming flower arrangements hung from the awnings above, providing a burst of color against the white-washed stone exterior.

  Ahead, the street was lined with a bevy of buildings selling wares of different varieties. The light from within the shops diffused as it passed out into the misty morning, creating rings of illumination around their fronts. Several residences were mixed in with the shops, though Geshill had explained that the bulk of the residential habitations were located along the alleys that stretched out behind the main road. Ryl could see movement inside the buildings as they passed, yet the streets around them were nearly devoid of traffic. In the distance, the steady pounding of a blacksmith's hammer broke the quiet of the morning.

  The wagon that they trailed had two destinations on this current venture. The first was the general store that bordered the square that opened out at the end of the main avenue. Along with the standard foodstuffs they'd need for themselves and the tributes, Ryl had convinced Aldren to purchase a bottle of the famed, Milstead Rye that the town was known for. He smiled at the memory of the pleasant, yet brief moments he’d shared a drink with the generous sub-master in Tabenville, shortly before his harvest. He knew that a single bottle of spirits would certainly not buy the allegiance of sub-master Millis, yet the bottle alone was an important gesture for him. A trivial repayment for the unexpected kindness he'd received at the hands of the officer.

  The second stop was at the shop of the seamstress whose storefront bordered the end of the plaza. The trivial meeting of Geshill with his daughter would be a front for the serious discussions that would occur in private at his farm later that evening. He was convinced that his daughters would need no further persuasion and would likely acquiesce to the offer without an argument.

  Ryl and Andr made a brief circuit of the square as they waited for Geshill and Aldren to finish their first stop. Their presence wasn't necessary for the excursion, yet they'd come as added security in the event of another encounter with the hunters.

  The square was large, bordered on three sides by buildings and the last by the calm stretch of river that ran alongside the town. They traveled away from the corner where the wagon had stopped, passing the assorted shops and residences that formed two edges of the large square.

  At the center of the space was a large fountain. The artisan who'd created the monument had chosen to create the likeness of a large wooden cask. Water streamed from its top, cascading down the sides into a circular pool ringed by a low stone wall.

  The square, which was nearly deserted when they first entered, began to show increasing signs of life as they waited for Aldren and Geshill. They could see activity blossom from inside the confines of the buildings through the dew-covered glass of their windows. The numbers of people moving about through the square increased as time ticked by. None paid the hooded riders any mind as they passed.

  As the sun rose into the eastern sky, Ryl felt the warmth of the rays as they burned off the mist that had dampened the morning. The two layers of cloaks he wore would become sweltering as the day progressed. As the mists receded, the sleepy town came to life.

  Sporadic, everyday noises of the village floated in from all sides. Conversations and salutations rose as neighbors greeted neighbors. The thrumming of a hammer on wood rose through the mists. From the fields beyond the city's eastern border the errant crow of a tardy rooster called a late start to the day. Ryl and Andr maneuvered their mounts close to the edge of the fountain where they could maintain a careful watch over their companions and their surroundings.

  Though they'd yet to see sign of the hunters, Ryl was cautious of their appearance. Their past calling at the doorstep of Geshill placed them close to the sleepy village.

  The thought of the hunters stalking the runaway girl and her father sent a chill of revulsion through Ryl's core. His stomach churned as his mind conjured horrifying images of their capture.

  He scoured the village for any sign of the wayward child.

  He let out an audible gasp. After repeated searching, his heart skipped a beat as a pinpoint of light flickered at the extremity of his vision. Ryl sp
urred his horse into a canter moving toward the low wall that bordered the water. Andr, surprised by the sudden movement, followed a few meters behind.

  Ryl leaped from his mount before it came to a stop, leading it to the railing along the sluggish stretch of the river.

  “She's here!” he gasped at Andr. “The tribute’s here!”

  Ryl looped the reins of his horse to a post that stood a step away from the wall. He moved forward, leaning on the low railing that separated the stone of the square from the lazy waters of the sluggish river below. He looked toward his left following the trajectory of the faint sign he'd witnessed.

  The railing followed the waterline, connecting to the side of the building that marked the final habitation on this side of the courtyard. From his cursory inspection, it appeared to house some form of manufacturing, though he couldn’t determine what from ambiguous exterior facade. The muted sound of construction leaked out from the interior.

  Beyond, the buildings along the eastern edge of the water were old in comparison to the newer construction along the square. The dilapidated abodes still reveled in their original, historic glory. They were relics of this town’s humble beginnings.

  Nearly a hundred meters downstream from the lazy pool formed by the river, the water again increased its pace. The remains of an ancient mill sat in a state of gross disrepair. Its large waterwheel had long since succumbed to the elements, now nothing more than a withered semi-circular frame. The bottom half was nearly gone, likely eroded by the constant abuse of the running water. Suffering from countless cycles of neglect, the doors and lower windows were boarded up with rough panels of wood. Relegated to this distant locale in the town, the historical significance of the mill had turned into an eyesore before being forgotten by the ever-evolving village.

  Ryl scanned the area again. He was convinced the signature that he saw so clearly in his vision was coming from that mill. His eyes cautiously covered the scene—the area before him was still, the surrounding buildings displayed no indication of life. As he scrutinized the vicinity, he noted a subtle, discrete movement coming from the hatchway leading to the cellar of the ill-maintained mill.

  The door was partially hidden by the remnants of a pile of weathered and ruined crates, yet the movement was obvious. Ryl watched as the body of the first figure emerged from the cellar hideout before cautiously peering around the edge of the building.

  The man was tall and slender, yet even from distance Ryl could clearly see the suffering his body had endured. A life on the run had ravaged his otherwise healthy body. The man’s eyes were sunken, casting large, dark shadows over the craters of his eyes. His skin was pulled tight over his face. His sharp cheekbones and chin were accentuated to a shocking degree. The man’s hair had grown long, shaggy and unkempt. His clothes looked threadbare, ripped and hastily repaired in places. He carried a small pack over his shoulder, likely the last of their worldly possessions.

  As Ryl watched from a distance, the father leaned down, gently assisting the small frame of a child up from their hidden shelter. The child’s head was covered by a small dark cloak, though the curly golden locks spilling out from underneath gave her away. Her head turned toward Ryl as she took stock of the area. Though even through the shadow of her hood, the brilliant blue of her eyes was startling.

  He watched as the father lovingly patted the top of the child’s head. Ryl’s heart skipped a beat as the piercing blue eyes of the girl stopped again as they met his. She pulled on the hem of her father's shirt and pointed her finger in Ryl's direction. The father’s cautious eyes immediately followed the finger of the child, bulging when they landed on the hooded figure of Ryl watching from the edge of the square.

  The man’s face blanched with fear. Without hesitation, he scooped the girl up and quickly darted behind the corner of the old mill. Ryl backed away a step, holding his hands up in a placating manner, yet the pair had already disappeared. He chided himself mentally for the intrusion. His appearance must have terrified them. He’d been holding out hopes that their paths would cross, that he could somehow aid in their escape, yet his actions had pushed them further afield.

  “They’re running,” he hissed to the mercenary who’d only just arrived at his side.

  With no other means to reach them along the water's edge, Ryl turned, backtracking his way around the building’s face, turning hastily, ducking into the first alley.

  He tracked the young girl easily with his mindsight as the pair moved rapidly toward the south. Not wasting time, he hastened ahead, eager to catch up with the fleeing family before they moved too far.

  Ryl was only a few strides into the alley when a group flashed by at the far end. They moved with speed. The slap of their sheathes against their legs was thunderous. The group passed by in rapid succession like shadows along the avenue. From where they ran, at the opposite end of the alley, they afforded Ryl no attention as their focus was trained ahead.

  The five, armed men hunted like a pack of wolves, homing in on the scent of their fleeing prey. The last of the group ran slightly slower than the rest, his right arm wrapped tightly in a sling against his body. Ryl knew in that instant what he’d feared all along.

  The hunters had caught the scent of their prey.

  They were moving in for the kill.

  Anger swelled in Ryl's veins as the familiar heat began raging inside. He tapped into a fraction of the power surging through him, propelling himself down the alley at a dizzying pace. His scan of the area with his mindsight confirmed the child’s path continued its course to the south.

  Their speed had increased.

  They knew they were being pursued.

  Even from this distance, he could feel fear pouring from the child.

  Stopping at the corner, he peered around the edge of the building toward the river. South of the old mill the banks pinched inward. The force of the water at the narrows increased though the depth was shallow. The terrified father was carrying the child across the rapids. Ryl could hear her sobs over the splashing of the agitated water.

  The icy liquid sprayed up around the struggling pair as they lumbered through the river. It was a miracle they'd made it so far without slipping. Behind them, the first of the hunters barreled into the water. The cries of the terrified child cut through the rolling sounds of the rapids and the splash of the hunter’s boots in the river.

  With a look back over his shoulder, Ryl confirmed that Andr had reached the alley.

  “They're crossing the river,” he called to the mercenary before hurdling after the chase that was now underway.

  The father and his daughter had crossed the river. The father slipped in the mud of the slick bank, dropping the child in front of him. As they both scrambled to regain their feet, the laughter, taunts and threats of the hunters washed over them. As soon as the pair regained their footing, the father grabbed the child by the arm, sprinting into the forest on the other side. Her feet dragged across the soft ground as they struggled to maintain his pace.

  They'd lost precious time slipping in the mud. The chase would be short lived. The hunters would have their kill.

  Ryl let out an involuntary growl as he exploded forward. The last of the hunters had now crossed the water. Their swords flew from their scabbards as they dashed headlong into the cover of the trees.

  The river ahead of him narrowed to a distance of fifteen meters where the hunters and prey had passed before him. As he closed on the bank, he let the wind build around his right arm. The feeling of the air working around his covered arm was foreign and uncomfortable. The fabric of his borrowed cloak strained against the torrent growing around it.

  Reaching the edge of the riverbank, Ryl threw his hand down, releasing a focused blast of air as he leapt forward over the water.

  With the blast, the final bonds holding the cloth together failed. There was a tearing of fabric as the force of the wind rushing around his arm released downward. The right sleeve of his borrowed cloak shredded as the po
wer flowed from his hand. The cloth tore at its weakest point, the stitching holding it in place at his shoulder severed by the unnatural strain. The tattered remains dropped silently into the river below.

  Ryl's momentum, aided by the gout of air propelled him out over the rapids. He hardened the woodskin on the right side of his body as the ground of the opposite bank rushed toward him. As his feet hit the soft, wet dirt, he pitched forward, tucking his right shoulder under him as he rolled ahead. The motion was fluid; he was back on his feet in an instant, silently slipping into the woods in pursuit.

  The forest here was thick. The mixture of trees, shrubs and vines disrupted the lines of sight, hiding the parties within. It was only a matter of meters into the woods before his ears picked up the sounds of conversation.

  The gruff, weathered voices of the hunters were dripping with spite and animosity as they taunted, threatened and laughed at their cornered prey. Ryl cringed as he heard the pleading cry of the father, begging them to spare the life of his child.

  In a crouch, Ryl silently sidled along the edge of a large tree. He'd noted movement behind its staggered boughs. The glowing yellow signature of the panicked child before him shone with an unmistakable golden glow. The anger in his veins swelled at the sight before his eyes.

  The woods opened to a small clearing, where father and child were backed against a rock. The man held the weeping child protectively behind his back with one arm, while he brandished a small knife with his other. That arm was shaking.

  His effort would be valiant, though hopeless.

  This would be a slaughter.

  Ryl commended the father for his actions. The man had done what his own parents had failed to do. He had chosen the life of his child over the gold. He was willing to protect his offspring, even if it meant paying the ultimate price: his own life.

  The hunters had stopped in a staggered line several meters away from their cornered prey. In a similar formation to when they'd stopped Ryl and his company on the road; a pair on either side flanked the leader in the center. All, save the one in the middle, had swords drawn.