Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) by C.J. Aaron (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

The merchant had willingly agreed to postpone the start of his final delivery until the following morning, though he stressed that delaying further would only increase the risk of retribution from the ill-tempered lord. Once the councilor and patrol he’d sent to fetch him failed to return, others would come seeking answers.

He knew their questions would not be polite in nature.

Aldren’s home was a single-story building, with a small garden in the clearing at its front. The path traveled in a straight line between the neat crops to where it split in front of the homestead. A warehouse and small stable for his horses and a large corral sat off to the left, his home to the right.

“You can release the horses in the corral,” the merchant said as he stopped his wagon alongside the stable. “Make yourselves at home while I take care of my mounts.”

Andr left to help the merchant, while Ryl and the others relieved their horses of their burdens. Ramm carefully removed the body of Deyalou, laying him tenderly on the ground. Fresh tears welled in his eyes.

Moments later, Andr emerged from the stable, walking with his head low to the grieving phrenic. He spoke quietly with Ramm, and the phrenic patted him on the shoulder, nodding his head with a small smile before Andr returned to the stable. Shortly after, the mercenary returned bearing a pair of shovels and a lantern. He and Ramm walked into the distance, toward the base of a large tree that stood alone from the rest of the forest.

It was a short, somber memorial that marked the burial of the phrenic. Ryl stood back as Vox and Ramm lowered their friend’s body into the ground. The tears shed far outnumbered the words spoken. The phrenics remained after the last shovel of dirt covered his eternal bed.

Ryl had only known Deyalou for less than a cycle, yet he mourned his passing in his heart, and in his veins. His blood felt cold as it crawled through his body. The chill of agony sunk deep into his soul.

Ramm was the last to leave his graveside. The phrenic searched silently around the grave of his friend as the rest of the group moved somberly back to the light of Aldren’s home. He returned shortly after with a large flat stone, placing it alongside his pack.

A watch schedule was established; although unlikely, they would be prepared in the case of a follow up visit from the lord’s men.

The night outside was thankfully quiet. Inside, the planning continued until late. Though Aldren gave his best recounting of the force assembled inside the walled compound, their information was woefully incomplete. A crude plan was agreed upon, though a more thorough reconnaissance would be required when they neared the facility. Luckily, the sleepy hamlet of Serrate rested less than a mile from the walls of the facility, bordering the banks of the river.

By arriving after nightfall, Aldren would be forced to spend the evening at The Twin Spate, the only Inn in Serrate; an occurrence he’d been relegated to by delays on several occasions. He assured them that a small party arriving earlier that same day would raise no suspicion, as hunting parties routinely used the village as a stopping point in their travels. The others would unfortunately be forced to suffer another night in the woods.

With the planning complete, it was a weary party, both physically and emotionally, that made for their beds. Ramm remained awake, with the flat stone he’d retrieved earlier resting in his lap. He scratched away at its surface with a small tool he’d borrowed from Aldren as the others took to sleep.

Ryl was awake with the first light of the sun. The rest, although short, had gone a long way to satisfy his body’s need. He was eager to get moving. The nervous anticipation of the events to come, events that could forever shape a kingdom were pulling at him. It was a feeling that grew stronger with every passing hour. The prospect of disrupting a processing facility was too alluring to pass, though he shuddered to think of what they might find inside.

As they made to leave, Ramm called the group together, leading them to the tree under which Delayou had been laid to rest. He clutched the rock he’d labored over against his broad chest, cradling the stone as if it was as fragile as glass. With reverent care, he laid the slab down over the phrenic’s head.

The work he’d labored over was a masterpiece. The face of the stone had been flattened, smoothed to a polished shine. The detail of his design was breathtaking. Two trees stood tall along the edges; each had a single leafy branch that stretched out along the top, merging with the other as they touched in the center. Ryl could see the individual veins on the leaves. An intricately detailed vine wound its way around their trunks, continuing along the bottom border. The vines wrapped carefully around the blade of a sword extending diagonally upward across the face of the stone. The blade on either side of the fuller seemed to shimmer in the light based on the direction it was viewed.

In the center of the stone were carved two words.

Deyalou (1351)

With a silent nod, and a final tear, Ryl said his last goodbye to his friend.

The group moved quietly down the alley, passing through the small garden, leaving Aldren’s house behind them. Ryl saw the merchant cast a final look over his shoulder before the house disappeared from view. There was moisture welling in his eyes.

The next day passed in a blur of trees and plains. The road they followed soon merged with the Bredth, the main thoroughfare that connected the southern shores of the Kingdom to the frozen northern coast. Here, the path ran due south, meandering among grasslands of Damaris. To their west, the mountains were a steadfast companion. Ryl’s anticipation grew the further they