Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) Page 9
The words had barely coalesced into a sentence when Ryl flashed forward with a speed he struggled to track. Andr whipped his head around struggling to follow the motion; his eyes caught the aftermath. The fire dimmed for an instant before erupting into the faces of the Horde who now screamed in agony, stalling their renewed assault.
Andr saw a fleeting glimpse of Ryl disappear into the mass of the Horde. Their war cries morphed into screams of pain and fear as Ryl gave them no quarter. Showed them no mercy.
His eyes followed the wave of destruction that grew in Ryl’s wake. Five of the Horde broke from the decimated pack, charging him with renewed hatred. Their speed was incredible yet paled when compared to Ryl’s. He gasped as he recognized he’d underestimated the sheer rate and ferocity of their attack.
His sword would be too late.
The two closest to him were moving side by side, claws ready to strike. Their hateful cries ceased with an abrupt pause as the green blades from Ryl's swords erupted from the bottom of their chins in a shower of black blood. Ryl froze for a moment, one foot balanced on each of their backs, riding their lifeless corpses to the ground before wrenching his blades free, diving to face the last of his assailants.
It was over in an instant.
The final three Horde dropped to the ground in pieces. The entirety of the clearing was thick with gore. Limbs and heads severed from their bodies lay strewn across the ground; the black pools of blood merged into a putrid lake, coating the red earth. The painful wails of the few remaining Horde that still clung to life mixed into a tragic, pained melody.
Ryl’s lightning fast motion froze as he stopped in front of the mercenary.
“You can handle the rest,” Ryl whispered.
The storm raging in his eyes cleared. His shimmering green blades faded from existence as the sticks slipped from his limp fingers. The eyes that met Andr’s were no longer brimming with overwhelming confidence and strength.
Ryl’s eyes they were those of a scared child, pleading for help.
The look struck a chord with Andr. A long-repressed emotion surged to the forefront, replacing the cold indifference he’d used to cover the pain.
“Cray! No!” Andr cried as Ryl’s limp body crashed to the ground.
Chapter 16
Andr carried Ryl's convulsing body back to the crevice in the rock where he'd left him earlier. He remained vigilant by his side as his companion settled into a fitful sleep.
He watched until Ryl’s breaths became regular before seeing to the grim task of dispatching the remaining Horde. The abominations had been bent on his destruction, yet he was loath to see them suffer. Andr counted the remains of forty lanky warriors of the Horde. Only five remained clinging to the fraying strands of life.
In a matter of moments, Ryl had destroyed them all. The young man, incapacitated with the debilitating sickness, had risen to his feet before launching a devastating, coordinated attack with a speed and precision Andr hardly followed.
What was he?
The thought riddled his mind as he salvaged a small fire from the remnants of their last. What had he done to cause the fire to erupt as it had?
From the day he'd met him, Andr knew there was something different about the boy. In his wildest imagination he would not have guessed this.
With the fire quietly crackling away, once again he returned to Ryl's side. The flickering light illuminated his unconscious companion; the muscles in his face twitched as he winced in pain.
Did all the tributes control such power, or was it unique to Ryl?
Andr sunk to the ground, leaning his back against the rock. Ryl lay sleeping just off his left side, his sword rested at the ready to his right. He'd retrieved the weapons that Ryl had used during his assault. Turning one over in his hand, he carefully inspected the innocent looking stick.
His blank stare pointed out into the clearing. Just at the edge of the renewed firelight, the ruined corpses, severed heads and limbs flickered in and out of view. Andr let out a long overdue sigh. Seeing the pleading look in Ryl's eyes as he collapsed had triggered in him an uncontrollable response.
He'd practiced almost as hard as he had when first learning the sword. With effort he'd learned to cover his emotions, to hide a secret he’d held inside for nearly six cycles. He'd learned to block out the effects of the pleading face that still haunted his dreams night after night. Ryl’s face had shared the same look.
He looked back down at Ryl for a moment before leaning his head back against the rock. The night sky shared its domain with few clouds. The pinpoints of light from the stars twinkled overhead.
“I have to confess something to you, Ryl,” Andr said woefully. The pain in his voice was evident. “When I told you my reason for coming along with you. I lied.”
Andr looked back down at Ryl as if waiting for a response. He knew his admission would garner none. He watched the slow rise and fall of Ryl's chest.
“The job was to be my last,” Andr whispered. “There were four of us. We’d been contracted to defend a prominent landowner on the lands of House Felloc from a small band of outlaws that had been destroying his crops and killing his livestock. We were betrayed by one of our own, the other two were slaughtered in their sleep. The job turned out to be the venomous head of a very long and very ugly snake. I survived off the land for a moon, was hunted mercilessly before finishing the job.”
Andr kicked at a stray ember that had popped off the fire, sending it sparking back into the flames.
“The job that should have taken a matter of days yet lasted more than a moon. I longed to be home,” Andr continued. “You see, the life of a mercenary isn’t conducive to having a family.”
He paused, taking a deep breath, collecting his thoughts before carrying on.
“We lived comfortably. The money I brought home was more than enough,” Andr said, a hint of anger growing in his voice. “We had a small plot of land and a modest cottage. More than enough for my wife and I.”
Andr stopped mid-sentence, moisture welling up in the corner of his eyes.
“And our son,” he said in a whisper. “His name is Cray.”
The night was quiet, the surrounding grove was still as if listening with rapt attention to the story unfolding underneath its bows.
“When I first viewed our home from down the road, I could contain my emotions no longer. It had been too long. I ran the rest of the way,” Andr admitted. “Looking back at it now, something felt off as I reached the door. I almost cut down the stranger who opened it.”
Andr paused, leaning his head back, looking absently up into the night sky.
“I had come home to find out that my wife had our son brought in for his ascertaining testing while I was gone,” he whispered. “They confirmed the alexen in his blood. He's a tribute, like you, Ryl."
Andr stretched his legs for a moment before curling them back in, wrapping his arms around his knees. His eyes burned with a blaze that made the heat of the fire pale in comparison.
“That woman I called my wife, who he called mother, sold him to the highest bidder,” Andr spat. “She convinced them I was dead, played the part of the grieving widow. She sold the house we lived in, that our son had grown up in. It wasn’t until later that I found out she sold herself as well. She now lives a life of excess, a proud member of the noble duke’s harem, feeding off the scraps he throws her way. He bought her as well.”
Andr paused as a sudden shudder from Ryl caught his attention. He scrutinized the involuntary fevered responses of the young man at his side, breathing a sigh of relief as they calmed. He tossed another stick into the fire with an absent flick of his wrist.
Relaying his story to Ryl was soothing. Andr felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he told the tale he’d never spoken a word of before.
“At that point the man I’d used to be ceased to exist,” Andr whispered sorrowfully. “I should have been there for Cray. We would have run and never looked back. Instead, the woman who brought
him into this world traded him for his weight in gold. It pains me to admit, I wallowed in my self-loathing, anger and regret for the better part of two cycles, tucked away in whatever watering hole I could find until the money ran dry.”
Andr rubbed his hands together idly, fidgeting with the nervous anticipation.
“One morning I woke up, drunk, homeless and penniless,” Andr admitted. “I realized the folly of my misplaced anger. My wife and the Duke are rightfully to blame, and one day they will pay for her crimes. But moreover it was the system that was the root of the problem. When I began my life as a mercenary, I strove for a loftier purpose. The ascertaining decree was an enigma to me then, yet somehow over the cycles, I lost my way."
Ryl let out an involuntary groan as a spasm ran the course of his addled body.
"Call it complacency. Indifference. It matters not," he continued. "How many other children have been torn from their families as a part of this demented scheme? I needed to see my son again. I needed to be there for him. Whether it killed me in the process or not, there was no force in the kingdom that would keep me from him.”
“So I did what any degenerate brawler does when the money dries up. I joined the guard,” Andr said. “I knew being assigned to The Stocks was the ultimate punishment, so I voiced my hatred of the tributes loud enough for all to hear. I fought with every sorry, pathetic excuse of a soldier that dared or had the misfortune of standing in my way. In the end, getting sentenced to The Stocks was easy. In less than two moons, I bought my sanction.”
A noise from the grove, outside the clearing caught his attention. Andr’s hand slowly closed on the hilt of his sword.
The woods went silent again.
All was still.
He remained motionless for some time. The fire had grown low, and the noise wasn't repeated. His nerves relaxed slightly. He was still in a state of shock from what had happened earlier. Ryl's actions had been selfless. His defense had saved their lives. Yet the sheer power he'd displayed was so brutally juxtaposed with the ultimate desperation in his cry for help. It had shaken Andr to the core.
“Most guards inside The Stocks would do anything to get out,” he whispered, continuing his story. “My sole purpose became remaining inside. My insubordination kept me in The Stocks, but on patrol for the better part of two cycles. It was less than a moon before you arrived that I was attached to Osir's command.”
Andr shifted, raising his body to a squatting position. Something felt different about the night. An imperceptible yet profound change had occurred making the hairs on his arms stand on end.
“I only ever saw fleeting glimpses of him,” Andr’s voice was hushed. “Every time I look at you, I see him. I see hope. You've been the light in the darkness, the chance for my boy, for all of them to be free.”
Andr paused as his eyes surveyed the clearing.
“Ryl, the Erlyn whispered more to me than merely to take you to the phrenic,” Andr admitted quietly. “It told me that you would free them all.”
Chapter 17
Andr's story came to an abrupt halt as another sound echoed through the glade. The quiet squish of a heavy footstep on the blood-soaked ground was unmistakable in the silent night air. From the left came a shuffle of feet and a scrape of something hard against a rock.
From all around, the glade came alive with the subtle noises of movement. Andr tapped Ryl on the shoulder, hoping on the off chance that whatever powers had spurred him to fight would react again.
Ryl remained motionless.
Andr dragged Ryl behind him, wrapping his hands around the sticks that had caused such catastrophic damage earlier. He had swung the weapons around after witnessing their clandestine purpose, yet he couldn’t elicit even the slightest hint of the shimmering green blades he'd seen in Ryl's hands.
He stood his ground, staring out into the moonlit clearing as the sounds continued to his right, left, and front. As the shuffle of footsteps became painfully obvious the putrid tendrils from the foul scent of the Horde struck him anew.
The blackened shadows under the trees swelled with motion. His eyes darted back and forth attempting to confirm the sounds. The agonizing uncertainty continued.
Without warning, the noises ceased. The grove was still once more; the shadowed edges of the clearing had closed in on his position. He felt his heart thundering in his chest.
Andr was afraid.
Afraid for his own life.
Afraid he'd let Ryl down.
Afraid he'd never see his boy, Cray, again.
There was a motion from the center of the clearing in front of him. A massive shadow shifted as it inched closer. He could hear the solid, wet thud, as its feet hit the bloody ground. From all around the approaching form, the black walls of the clearing closed in further.
Andr felt as if he was being crushed in a vise. As the shadows edged closer to the firelight Andr withdrew a step, stopping just in front of Ryl. The two of them were pinned between the sheer wall of the stone and the wall of shadows closing in on them.
Andr second guessed his decision. They should have run after the first attack.
Where could they have gone? He would have been forced to carry Ryl. Without Ryl’s vision their attempt to flee would have been suicide. The Horde moved far too fast; they would have been on them before Andr could draw his sword to fight. In the open, an instant was all the Horde would have needed to tear them to pieces.
So here they were. Stuck between a rock and the incarnation of hatred and death. The overpowering, vile odor of rot and decay swelled as the black mass crept closer.
The light from the dying fire provided poor illumination for the seasoned mercenary, the black shapes still indescribable in the night. Without averting his eyes, Andr bent down, grabbing a spare stick, tossing it into the weak blaze.
As the stick made contact with the coals, a spray of sparks splashed out of the fire, floating up through the air. It took but a moment for the dried wood to flare up with flame.
The identity of the dark mass that had been closing in on them became apparent, though he’d needed no visual confirmation of what was approaching. Hundreds of sets of eyes burned as they reflected the light of the fire. The massed Horde dwarfed the party they had encountered earlier.
At the edge of the fire’s light, the approaching mass of snarling bodies stopped. The ring of illumination shrunk back, as if pulling away from the seething hatred that gathered outside its feeble glow. The massive body in the middle stepped closer.
From out of the darkness, the monstrosity that materialized was unlike any Horde they’d seen up to this point. The hulking figure shared much of the same features as the rest—the disproportionately long arms and legs, the razor-sharp claws—yet was far greater in proportion. The lanky, slender ones they’d encountered had bodies seemingly built for speed. Andr had no doubt that the beast approaching now could move at a terrifying rate, however, its body was constructed for strength. Its unnaturally long arms were easily as wide as his legs and rippled with muscles.
While the others were roughly the same height as him, the approaching newcomer stood several heads taller than the rest. In one hand it carried a rusted old sword, the blade dulled and chipped, yet still a disastrous weapon in its powerful grip.
The others shrank back from its approach. Their body language spoke of subordination and fear. The impression was telling. That this one held a greater place in the society of the Horde was evident, either through physical prowess alone or something more. In truth, nothing was known of the social structure of the beasts, if any existed within the demons that roamed the Outlands. In over a thousand cycles, not one of the creatures had even been seen.
That they had come as one massed army equipped with rudimentary weapons made a powerful argument for some basic society, learning, and leadership. In the tales of Taben they had scattered with the fall of the largest among them, a beast assumed to be their leader. Yet throughout their brief campaign there was no true strateg
y other than to overwhelm everything that stood in their path with staggering numbers.
The Horde that had stalked them since arriving in the Outlands had worked together in a coordinated fashion, with a clear strategy in place. They’d stalked Andr and Ryl, originally trying to catch them by surprise. When this feint failed, they became intent on wearing them down piece by piece, driving them to a place where they knew there would be no defensible position.
The first group hadn’t accounted for Ryl. The power that transformed the sickened boy into the unstoppable warrior that Andr had witnessed had negated any hope of their easy victory. Their strength in numbers had aided in their demise as they stumbled over one another in a clumsy attempt to defend themselves against an unstoppable foe.
Ryl remained trembling behind him, the fever raging through his body once more. Andr held no hope of his assistance this time.
He flexed his grip on his sword. If he was to die, so be it. His survival had trod precariously along the precipice of his own demise for the majority of his life. He’d accepted that his death would come in battle someday.
His death wouldn’t come alone. He’d take as many of them with him as he could before he was inevitably overcome by their crushing numbers.
The massive blackened body of the leader stopped a meter away from the fire. It glared down at Andr, baring its jagged teeth. Its yawning mouth stretched across its face, nearly splitting its head in half. He could feel the hatred pouring out of the beast, washing over him like a wave. The massed horde surrounding him erupted into a deafening jumble of noises. Blood curdling shrieks mixed with screams of rage and growls of pure animosity.
The creature raised his sword to the sky—the cacophony of sounds silenced almost immediately. Andr’s ears rang in the aftermath of the terrifying chorus. He could still hear their screams and wails echoing through his head. The beasts behind their leader seethed with anxious anticipation, jostling in place. Their faces contorted into a revolting collection of noiseless snarls.