Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) by C.J. Aaron (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) π
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- Author: C.J. Aaron
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Fulcrum of Light
Β©2018-2020 CJ AARON
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Contents
ALSO IN SERIES
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
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
Chapter 1
Ryl cursed as the jagged thorns of the small, withered bush bit into his pants. The needle of the plant traced a thin red line across his leg. If not for his toughened skin, courtesy of the Erlynβs gift, he'd have been leaking blood from multiple locations on both his arms and legs. His pants and exposed shirt were shredding into tatters.
His phrenic cloak, an heirloom from a time long erased from the learned history of Damaris, had so far proved impervious to the sharp points. He heard a curse coming from a few paces ahead, followed by the metallic ring of sharpened steel cutting through the thorny branches. Andr wasn't faring much better against the painful landscape.
βWe have to find an easier way through these,β the mercenary called back over his shoulder. βLet's make for that ridge, weβll get a better view from there.β
The older guard, his only companion, pointed to a narrow, elevated ridge in the distance, northwest of their current location.
βI'll follow you,β Ryl responded, kicking his leg to detach the thorn attempting to hold him back.
Ryl had little knowledge of where they were going. Fate had delivered them to an uncharted starting point. Theyβd set sail, parting from their companions at sea before the frigate was intentionally scuttled. Running from the gale that powered their sails, they ventured out under the cover of darkness and ruse of their own deaths as they sought to elude the warship that shadowed their host. The fury of the vicious storm had ravaged their small skiff, depositing them on a small strip of sandy beach bordering the vast, desolate expanse of the Outlands. Their destination was unknown. Nothing more than a cryptic hint.
The unmapped terrain of the Outlands encompassed the land west of the Kingdom of Damaris. The western palisade of The Stocks denoted the walled end to the reach of human civilization. As recorded history had taught, the Outlands had spawned the greatest threat the world had ever seen.
The deformed, blackened monsters of the Outland Horde had appeared without warning over thirteen hundred cycles in the past. Their numbers were exaggerated to be vast enough to blanket the entire Kingdom.
If not for the actions of legendary Taben and his scant army, the Horde would have swept across the land leaving a wake of murder and destruction unlike nothing the world had ever witnessed. The unmatched skills of Taben and his warriors had turned the tide, providing a dramatic victory over the murderous Horde. Following the short, yet decisive campaign, the scattered remains of the enemy melted back into the Outlands.
Though the victory was definitive, it marked the new border of human civilization and halted all expansion westward. The western palisade was constructed with haste in an effort to prevent another incursion. Aside from rare expeditions by foolhardy adventurers, the area beyond the palisades had been abandoned.
To venture into its midst was to tempt death.
Ryl and Andr now trudged slowly onward, lost in the realm of the unknown.
The storm that had battered their small boat, nearly costing them their lives, had robbed them of the bulk of their carefully planned supplies. The gale deposited the pair somewhere far south and west of Cadsae Proper and The Stocks. Though they could see the outline of the jagged peaks of the Haven Mountains far off in the distance, there were no other discernible landmarks.
Aside from the clothes they wore and the small packs they carried, their list of supplies was sparse.
Each had a water skin.
Ryl carried his treasured and ancient magical weapons, The Leaves, and his crude splint.
Andr had a single long sword.
The anger of the sea had swallowed all of their rationed food, extra water, spare clothing and bed rolls. Their two bows, quivers of arrows, and the spare sword for Ryl had disappeared beneath the waves. The treatments that would have staved off the inevitable sickness that loomed over tributes
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