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

His eyes shot open, blazing with the fire of the sun. He slapped the palm of his fist into the jar of writhing black blood. The blinding lance of light stabbed through the container—the nexela it touched screamed in his senses as they vanished in the blinding light. The cocoon of light closed over the jar freezing for a moment before imploding in on itself.

The glass jar cracked in half at the center. The top half slid off to the side, toppling over, smashing to pieces on the shelf. No trace of the black liquid remained. There was no trace of the stench left in the broken glass before him.

The tingling in his arm had ceased. He looked at the crook of his elbow, noting the second distinct smudge of black on his skin.

Quietly, he turned to leave the room. His phrenic companions stood wide eyed, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and awe.

“What was that, Ryl?” Vox whispered.

“The answer to many questions,” Ryl said bluntly. “The blood of the ancient enemy. Nexela; the darkness that counters the light of the alexen. They’ve found a way to corrupt the shells of the tributes that remained once the last drop of blood has been bled out.”

Kaep gasped, placing her hand over her mouth.

“Vox, start a fire,” Ryl growled as we walked forward toward his friends. They split, opening a path for him to stride through unimpeded.

“Raze this room. Raze this building,” he hissed.

“Burn it all.”

Chapter 56

Flames belched from the door of the storeroom, and the glass bottles popped and spewed flaming liquids across the room. Ryl had stopped at the doorway to the facility’s main, torturous room. The sight of the stained slabs brought the tears unbidden to his eyes. With one final look, he turned stalking from the building.

The heat in the courtyard was intense. Fires raged through the barracks and stables on either side as the complex quickly became engulfed in flame. The air swirled upward. His cloak snapped out to the side in the wind.

Ramm stood outside the broken gate, the reins of four horses in his hand. The mounts were unsettled by the fire, and they struggled to pull away. A loud cracking noise sounded from his rear as the roof over the main facility buckled. The timbers in the center gave way, crashing in upon itself in a cloud of sparks. With his head down he strode through the ruin of the gate, leaving the processing facility to burn to ash.

The fires of change had started. They’d begun to spread. Once they reached The Stocks, there would be no stopping them.

Ryl took the reins from Ramm with a weary smile, easily mounting the startled mare. He spurred the horse forward in the wake of his fellow phrenics. The ride to the village was short; the waning sunlight cast long shadows that stretched out from the crumbling Martrion ruins at their rear to the west. Partway between the facility and Serrate, just inside the treeline, Ryl noted a body, poorly concealed by the wild grasses and shrubs. The uniform of the guard was unmistakeable. The blood that stained the green grasses already swarmed with flies. His hateful rhetoric would never again curse the innocent lives he persecuted.

The village was abuzz with a level of activity, far from its sleepy norm. Those who possessed any skill as a mender were diligently tending to the tributes or wounded guards. Their shriveled bodies were carefully washed, dried and clothed. The mender applied a healing salve to the sores that had been allowed to fester on their backs and arms. Elias was treated separately, kept under restraints and constant guard.

Nearly all the rooms in the small inn were now reserved for the tributes. Pots of broth had been brewed in the kitchen, and the warm liquid painstakingly spoon fed to their starved bodies. Though none regained consciousness through the night, thankfully none of their conditions had worsened.

Ryl happily paid the innkeeper and the mender from the gold they’d carried with them. Mender Caravais’s eyes went wide at the sum; he refused more than half he’d been given. Ryl snuck the coins into a drawer on his desk when his back was turned. In addition, Ryl had purchased food, a supply of bandages, ointment, and several casks of the broth. They replenished their quivers along with a healthy surplus from the stock confiscated from the guards. The remaining weapons were left for the villagers.

The bound guards were moved to an oft used warehouse along the bank of the river. They found themselves under guard of the newly armed militia. Serrate had elected a middle-aged man by the name of Pell as the spokesperson for their hastily formed troop. A fisherman by trade, Pell was clearly uncomfortable with his newly given position, yet he was one of the small group that had followed in the phrenic’s wake as they stormed the walled facility.

Ryl looked up from the table where, he, the phrenics, Andr and Aldren ate quietly. Pell approached through the inn’s crowded dining room, stopping awkwardly a few steps away. They’d chosen the table furthest from the busier than average bar at the inn, not interested in celebrating. They were eager to eat and be on their way at first light. It was only a matter of time before word made it back to the King. To the Lei Guard. Notwithstanding, all agreed that remaining the night wouldn’t put them in any grave jeopardy.

They were now nearing seven days before the Harvest. They hoped that by the time an investigation of the production facility concluded, The Stocks would have already fallen.

Ryl felt a wave of remorse for the villagers. They’d been unwittingly drawn into the fold of what would most likely end in bloodshed. He was sure his warnings of such a fate would go unheeded.

Pell cleared his throat.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he stumbled to find the words. “The supplies you requested have been loaded into your wagons,