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

the action that the rider with the spear had yet to let go of the reins. His horse followed the point of the weapon, the bulk of the horses’ bodies formed a living shield, staving off the assault that he could hear approaching from his rear. Ryl slashed outward with the weapon in his left hand. The flaming blade gouged a deep gash through the guard’s leather armor, biting into his chest as it passed.

Ryl found himself again on the outside of the disorganized mass of cavalry. The foot soldiers still approached at a steady clip. Stretching hundreds of meters across and several members deep, the incoming crush was thousands strong. The alexen in his blood still raced with excited fury, yet his appetite for senseless destruction lapsed.

Ryl had no desire to fight the entirety of the host. His eyes locked on the wagon perched safely at the rear of the army. Lord Maklan’s face was flushed red with rage. His screams and wild gesticulations were clear over the roar of the army.

There was no need for a prolonged battle. Ryl’s focus resolved. His target pointed a crooked finger at him, his mouth spewing out orders, and likely insults, at a fervid pace. In the lord would be an end to the battle. With a grin, he charged the approaching line of soldiers.

Off to his left, near the river, something about the disturbance caught his eye. Several bodies went airborne, flailing as they traveled meters into the mass of soldiers pressing down on the constricting circle. Where they landed amongst their comrades, small pockets opened as they toppled any within reach.

Ryl’s heart lurched at the possibility. It wasn’t mere human strength that had caused the violent action. He scanned with his mindsight as he approached the soldiers. A single telltale signature of the alexen danced in his vision.

His immediate thought was of Kaep. Had she managed to free herself from Elias? The thought was dashed as quickly as it had come. Her fighting style, while lethal at close quarters, was based on agility, not brute strength. The glow that registered in his mindsight was far too dim.

Too weak.

He hissed aloud as the reality set in.

It was a tribute.

One with inhuman strength, stubborn enough to take on an army single-handed.

Of all the tributes secreted away in the Erlyn, one had been nearing consciousness when he’d left.

“No,” Ryl cursed under his breath.

Another body was tossed from the circle. The guard careened into the wall of soldiers penning the fight in. Those jostling to control the single assailant parted for a moment, as none seemed eager to risk the beating.

His fears were confirmed as the mop of shaggy brown hair came into focus.

It was Aelin.

Chapter 18

Aelin stood alone, armed with a large stick. Even from where he was, Ryl could see the toll the exertion had wrought. The young tribute’s chest heaved as it gasped for every breath. He spun back and forth, monitoring all sides, gauging the location of the next attack he knew was imminent.

The boy, untrained, would not last long.

With a growl, Ryl dug his feet in, pivoting as he rapidly changed directions. The loose soil, churned from the passage of the cavalry, slipped beneath his force.

Panic set in as he lost his footing, toppling sidelong toward the ground. The approaching army was only meters away. Ryl could see the excitement blossom in their eyes as they grasped the opportune timing of his error.

The soft earth cushioned his fall. His inherent experience and ingrained agility reacted as if second nature. Rolling as he fell, his momentum carried him back to an upright position. His right leg was angled toward the charging army; his weight rested on his left leg, bent at the knee, the ball of his foot planted firmly in the ground. The first of the army was now only steps away.

A solitary warrior had surged ahead of his companions. He was of a medium build, muscular, though his body tended to look softer than the chiseled physique of a hardened warrior. His face was framed by short cropped brown hair. All in all, there was little remarkable about his rather mundane features.

His uniform was worn and dirty, a testament to days of marching. A thick layer of stubble coated his chin. Few scars marred his complexion, unsurprising owing to the relatively docile nature of the life of a guard in Damaris. That was where the average features ceased to command any due surprise.

It was his face that drew Ryl’s attention. The man’s mouth was curled into a vicious snarl. It had a remarkably feral appearance. His eyes, squinted and brown, dripped with malicious intent. He longed for this moment. He’d cherish the opportunity, reveling in the fortuitous situation that had developed before him. It was an honor, a tale that would be passed on as a family legend for generations to come.

Ryl had seen enough. That same face graced the features of too many who sought to run him down. What of Aelin? The boy wouldn’t last long under the sustained press of the army.

The wind ripped around Ryl’s arm. He swung his tattooed arm in a wide arc, angling low toward the ground. As the wind released, he dove backward, ripping the second of the Leaves from its hidden sheath. A gout of green fire erupted into a serrated, translucent blade.

The blade of air knifed into the lower legs of those closest to him. Across the front of the charge, legs were ripped out from under them. For a moment, their bodies were weightless before the ground regained its pull over them. The vicious snarls morphed into surprise and fear at the uncontrolled approach of the earth.

Having no time to defend against the ferocity of the wind, the lead attacker struck the ground face-first. His hand hadn’t the time to arrest his fall. His legs coiled behind him as he skidded across the dirt. Ryl hammered the butt of the Leaves into the