The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4) by C.J. Aaron (graded readers txt) 📕

weak initial defense. “Why did you follow Ryl? Why did you journey into assured death? I can’t believe it was for money alone.”

Cray’s voice trailed off as the mercenary fixed his gaze on him. To his surprise, there was no indication of annoyance in his eyes. In fact, for an instant, they sparkled with what he could only describe as pride. A hint of a smile tugged up the corner of his lips. The show of emotion was fleeting, fading as quickly as it had appeared. For an instant, he felt calmed by the lack of reproach from the mercenary.

The serene moment faded with a tangible force. What followed was a response that struck him with a power that shocked him to his core. The pained look on Andr’s face conveyed the emotion that Cray felt course through him. It was as if the mercenary projected the feeling from within. The strength of the sensation was strangely reminiscent of the feeling of hope that had imminently preceded Ryl’s return. Whereas Ryl’s message was uplifting, breathing life into the weary tributes, this was dark and endlessly cold. Chills swept across his skin, rolling up his arms like a wave. Cray felt as if a massive weight had been deposited upon his shoulders. His knees quivered and his breaths ran short and rapid. The despair, regret and dread nearly forced him to the ground.

His shock at the potent response and his fear of reproach vanished as he again caught the eyes of the mercenary. It was apparent that the emotion that Cray felt was similar to what Andr was experiencing. Unlike Cray, the effect upon the mercenary, however, was short-lived. Andr’s hand had fallen to the handle of his sword, his body turning to address the threat.

Inside the chamber of the massive tree, those wounded who still possessed coherent consciousness reeled from the onslaught of emotion. Moans swelled from all sides of the chamber. Cray watched as Mender Jeffers collapsed to his knees, failing under the force of the pressure.

The sword cleared Andr’s sheath, ringing a note that momentarily snapped him from the dejection that raged through his body. All throughout the room, the wounded and those caring for them struggled to maintain their composure. Much like the mender, many had collapsed.

Andr moved away, his actions seemingly free from the emotion that held the remainder of the makeshift clinic in check. Cray felt his heart skip a beat as he noted the figure standing at the opposite side of the room.

Cloaked in the tattered apparel of a tribute, the man stood, impervious to the deluge of despair. His features were gaunt. His skin was stretched over his bones highlighting a life of poor nutrition and forced servitude. Cray had lived among the tributes for long enough to understand the ravages of the life they led. They were usually nothing more than skin and bones. Pale, withered reflections of what they could have been.

The hue of his skin was different. Cray could see the lines of black that streaked down his arms, staining the skin around them. Tendrils of darkness reached up his neck, lancing their way onto his face.

The withered frame looked fragile, yet stood with a frightful power that poured from his body. Through the hatred and maleficence that was written across his face, Cray recognized a man he once knew. The features were too familiar to ignore.

Elias towered over the room.

Chapter 7

Andr charged across the interior of the hollowed-out base of the tree, his careful footsteps hurdling over ailing tribute and guard alike. Cray felt his feet frozen in place. The despair, malevolence, and terror locked him to the ground as if he were encased in stone.

The blackened husk that was Elias cocked his head slightly to the side, regarding the approach of the armed mercenary with abject boredom. His gaze moved downward, rapidly cataloguing those being treated. His eyes bulged slightly as they found their mark. A wicked grin, more snarl than smile, tugged up on the corner of his lips.

They settled on the still form of Ryl.

The cunning mercenary had clearly grasped his intent, his path aiming toward his incapacitated charge. With a growl, a deep guttural rumble, Elias lurched forward, moving with wraithlike agility. Cray was horrified at the speed of the motion. It was as if his body was nothing more than a fleeting shadow crossing the dimly lit interior. Andr’s approach paled in comparison.

Elias’s advance collided with one of Le’Dral’s guards who had been drafted into duty within the makeshift clinic. The man, who’d only days earlier stood firm in the face of the approaching cavalry, was locked in a panic. His body was hunched over, curling into a crude fetal position.

The hateful force of Elias fell upon the doomed soldier with lethal ferocity and impossible speed. The assault was over in the blink of an eye. Before the guard could react, his body was twisted violently by his head. Cray cringed as the grating and snapping of bone roared through the chamber. His executioner carried the body forward for a few meters, removing the sword that rested unused at his hip. As he tossed the limp corpse to his side, he slashed outward with the blade. The absent thrust cut a deep line across the deceased guard’s face. A spray of crimson splashed outward, leaving a dripping line of red among the crowded wounded.

Another pressing wave of fear crashed into Cray, forcing him back a step. He inadvertently cowered as his back reached the interior wall of the chamber. He slid down along the cool, smoothed bark of the massive tree’s roots. Guards and tributes alike shuddered as the emotion tore through them like a scythe. Knees buckled as men and women who had nearly succumbed to the initial round of abuse collapsed at the second.

The light in the room seemed to dim as the strength of the assault swelled beyond that of the first. A black shadow pushed outward