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

The troops before him looked soft. Likely none had seen more bloodshed than the infrequent injury during training and overzealous fights at the occasional drinking establishment.

The soldiers were forced to stake their claim over an open terrain that sloped slightly upward along the road, rolling calmly out to the west. The eastern flank of their deployment was anchored against a narrow bend in the river. The shallow water moved quickly as its mass squeezed itself through an opening far smaller than its original disposition. The guards spilled outward, forming their ranks among the loose terrain of the recently harvested fields. Their western flank sank into the mud as it lumbered its way into position.

Several figures stepped out from the carriage at the rear of the formation. Three had the appearance of guards. The swords in their hands glinted as they reflected the light from the sun. The fourth was dressed in a long black cloak. The finery was bedazzled with gems and assorted jewelry. Ryl could see the hatred radiating off him more clearly than the glint of the precious stones in the sunlight.

Even from the distance, he recognized the man.

Lord Maklan.

“Attack.” The shrill cry floated over the army, arriving at Ryl’s location as a muffled curse. Maklan ordered the charge long before his troops were close to mounting a cohesive charge. There was a general milling about as a few worked up the courage to lead the initial wave.

“Hold,” Ryl boomed over the gathered army, his voice crashing like thunder. He forced out a wave of reluctance.

His words carried a weight absent from Maklan’s previous command. The lines faltered and then held. The soldiers balked at his word. All eyes locked on to his position.

“Stand aside.” Ryl’s voice rose so all could hear. “Should you pursue your path to the north, you will find nothing but death. The tributes are no longer within your reach. They are free. Should they resurface, it will be of their own volition. They are no longer subject to your command.”

He let the wind swell around his body. The shifting of his cloak increased. It snapped out to the side; the echo accentuated the end of his statement. Murmurs rose from those assembled before him. In many places, the lines shifted.

Backward. Only a step, but the truth and the message of his words ran true.

“I seek information, not your death,” he announced. “Stand aside, and no harm will come to you.”

“Fools.” Maklan’s shrill voice dripped with rage. “Kill him, or it will be your heads the king has on a pike.”

The councilor, the newly installed captain of the Cadsae Proper guard, waved his hands wildly as he shrieked. His crooked finger shot out toward Ryl, pointing the way of the charge like an arrow.

Ryl knew his words would likely fall on many a deaf ear. He was encouraged that his expectations were far lower than the actuality of the result.

A cry of rage broke from the forward rank as it surged forward. Notably, in several locations the charge was far less enthusiastic than in others.

Chapter 17

The thunder of the hooves swelled as the army charged Ryl’s position. Pikes glinted in the sunlight. Freed blades flashed as they primed for the strike. He widened his stance, digging his heels into the ground as the incoming charge increased its speed and ferocity.

Encouraged by their like-minded comrades in arms, the war cries rose from the lips of many across the line of cavalry that led the charge. There was little coordination to the approach. Riders from all points in the line surged ahead of their companions.

Either that, or others lagged behind. Fearful of what was to come, or of what was to befall them should they show weakness in the face of a solitary foe.

At the heels of the cavalry, the leading element of the foot soldiers lazily plodded forward. Like the charge of the mounted guards, scores surged ahead, breaking through ranks to reach their prey.

It was evident that there were two very different armies fielding the resistance this day. One was still incensed by the thoughts of blood. They demanded retribution for the actions that had disrupted the time-honored tradition of the Harvest, the persecution of the tributes. The others had been extrinsically challenged. Whether they merely challenged their heritage, or fully embraced the turmoil, questions had rooted within their subconscious. Ryl was all too aware of the power of the mind’s hold on reality. It was his straggling belief in hope that had allowed him to look ever forward after cycles of abuse. It kept him afloat, biding time until the truth was set free.

The front lines of the charge edged closer. The rumble of the combined weight of horses and men drowned out all other sounds. In the distance, beside the plush, crimson trappings of the black wagon, Lord Maklan quivered with jubilant excitement.

To the east, along the river, the guards in the middle of the rank appeared to lose focus on him, instead turning their attention to the river. Ryl could see little else over the heads of the soldiers and the snarling grins of the riders approaching to seal his demise.

The moment was nigh. No longer could he resist the urge that pulled from within. The alexen had made their peace with the repercussions of what was to befall. They had been warned. He opened his heart to their call, careful to ignore the rumble from within. Disturbingly, a sliver, though tiny, screamed for carnage. It demanded death. It begged him to deal it out with reckless abandon. Ryl felt the call like an inky blackness that clouded his mind. It threatened to obscure the reasoning, the justification, the understanding of the truth. Its carnal rage demanded one thing.

Death.

Ryl’s internal struggle blossomed as the riders bore down on his position. His decisions hadn’t been made idly. They’d been born of cycles of his own personal torture. They were amplified by a millennium of repressed rage and sorrow