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

been driven into the grove as their only hope for salvation. Andr was struck with the sickening feeling that they'd been forced into a trap. For some reason, the Horde wanted them here. They’d been toying with them for nights.

They would have their answers soon.

Leaving Ryl propped in the rock crevice, Andr made a rapid survey of the clearing, collecting anything that would burn. The area was devoid of trees but small patches of shriveled bushes dotted its sparse interior. The clearing spanned twenty meters across; the trees that formed its border, though healthier than those they'd grown accustomed too, looked sickly. They appeared to be suffering, slowly withering into their stunted relatives from the heart of the Outlands. Their living sprigs were condensed into a single area, while the balance was left to rot.

Andr amassed a large pile of dead and dried branches, building a stack for the fire several paces from where he’d left Ryl. He doubted he’d gathered enough to last the night, yet there was no more time.

The mercenary rushed to start a fire. The spark caught easily in the dry tinder, bursting into flames. Without warning, the tormenting cries from the Horde echoed through the trees coming from every direction. He could feel the anticipation in their fevered wails.

The light of the day faded into night. A deep violet covered the sky overhead as the final glow of the sun's light was pushed out by the spreading darkness.

The weary mercenary watched with apprehension as one by one the trees lining the outskirts of the clearing disappeared behind a growing wall of darkness. Shadows crept silently closer until they struck the outskirts of the illuminated circle of the firelight. The flickering light of the blaze seemingly held back the darkness from enveloping them all.

Ryl moaned as a fit of convulsions racked his body, collapsing forward to the ground. Andr was at his side in moments, propping him back up in the crevice and crossing his arms, resting his hands on the makeshift bracers that he still wore. He was shaking with chills from the fever that plagued his addled body. Andr pulled the hood up over his head for warmth.

He looked over the young man who'd only just recently tasted true freedom. His mind travelled back to the day he'd first aided him on the road outside Tabenville. It had been later that same day that Ryl stood his ground against the wicked sub-master.

He had guessed at Ryl's desperate plan. Andr cringed in horror as it unfolded. He watched as the boy was beaten senseless. Here was a tribute, just past boyhood, with no chance to succeed in a fight, taking a stand for what was right. No longer cowering behind the safety of inaction and reluctant acceptance; there was something different, something magnetic in Ryl's open defiance. Andr had been drawn toward him. There was something about the look in his eyes. For a moment, they swirled with the raging fire of an inferno. In that instant, Ryl loomed larger than life.

Something had snapped in his mind at that point. One final drop of revulsion was all it took to overwhelm the levy that was holding back his complacency. In his self-loathing disgust, he'd thrown caution to the wind. He silently assisted a boy who he knew by nothing more than a number to bring an end to the vile sub-master, Osir. A man who had grown fat feasting on the pain, suffering and fear he instilled upon his helpless charges.

And for what crimes did they suffer?

They were punished for the crime of being born. For the crime of inheriting blood that none could predict or understand.

Andr risked a final glance at Ryl.

“Be thankful you don’t wake,” he lamented. “I made a promise to deliver you safely, and I intend to keep it. While there is still blood flowing through my veins, I will fight for you. Rest well, my friend.”

Andr stood and turned defiantly, his sword singing its high-pitched melody as it slid from its sheath.

He heard the snap of the twig from the darkness on the opposite side of the fire’s flickering ring of illumination. He needed no light to tell him what was approaching.

Andr took a step forward, removing a long stick he'd left burning on the edge of the fire. Sparks dripped from its flaming tip, hissing as they struck the ground. Sword in one hand, a torch in the other, he waved the flame side to side; illuminating the mass of the horde stealthily creeping forward.

He counted six abominations, with skin so dark red it looked nearly black. Light reflected off their razor-sharp claws as they flexed in anticipation. Their mouths were frozen in a hideous snarl revealing pointed teeth dripping with putrid saliva. Their stench fell over the area, choking out the fresh air, overpowering the acrid smell of the fire.

For the moment their cruel dark eyes were fully intent upon him. Ryl was of no immediate concern to them as he stood to raise no opposition. He was ripe for the slaughter. They had one obstacle left.

It was exhausted, outnumbered, awaiting its death before their eyes.

Andr’s head and eyes darted from side to side readying for the assault. He flexed his grip on the short sword in his right hand. Would they come at once? If not, who would lead the attack? His sword would taste their flesh before he would succumb.

There was a sudden motion to his side. A clawed hand ripped through the air to his left, wrenching the torch from his hand, tossing it to the ground at its back. The flaming branch hit the ground in a shower of sparks—setting a small clump of dry, stunted bushes ablaze. The wood flared into flame, for a moment illuminating the clearing with the intensity of the sudden fire.

Andr’s heart sunk at the sight.

The six Horde that he could see were only the front line of the assault. A few paces behind them, just outside the light