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

are near me or not,” Ryl growled. “A great deal of space would be wise.”

Guards retreated with haste.

The sky clouded black with arrows.

Chapter 19

Ryl’s patience had run thin. His worry over Kaep had now spread to the groaning figure of Aelin. The boy hoisted himself up from his stomach. Maklan stomped him down to the ground with a heel placed squarely on his back.

The cluster of arrows this time was noticeably more condensed. The archers limited their focus in an attempt to mitigate collateral damage. The majority succeeded though some errant bolts would likely fall among their companions.

All around Ryl, panic issued from the mouths of guards as they scrambled over one another to flee the incoming death from the skies. The pathway before him opened like a great ravine leading toward the black carriage and Maklan tucked safely at the army’s rear. The line of archers was the last defense, standing perhaps twenty meters ahead of the Lord of The Stocks.

Ryl continued his steady progress forward as the arrows screamed through the sky. Many had targeted his progress well; his death would have been assured. He shook his head as he increased his pace, a grin crossed his lips as he called on the speed again.

The arrows crawled through the sky as Ryl darted from under their approach. He could have lit them ablaze again or used his wind to blow them off course; however, his motivation had been altered. His battle with the army had few targets left.

There was information to be gleamed. A rescue to be made.

Vengeance to be enacted.

Ryl moved like the wind, never ceasing as it rushed through the army. The archers were less than fifty meters away. Closest to the bowmen, the gap that had separated the army before him before was still in the process of tearing apart. He brushed past guards who were frozen in action as they fled from his path. Those who were too sluggish, he moved with force. The edge of the sleeping Leaves ushered them from his course. Their bodies toppled away, the surprise and the fear growing as their eyes swelled in slow motion.

As he approached the line of archers, the weapon in his hand again burst into flame. The wash of green fire and the brilliant light were blinding as they seared any who were close.

With no rear guard, the archers and their ranged weapons were the last line of defense. Ryl could see the recognition dawn on their faces as the perilous nature of their situation became clear. They were now alone. Their defenders, numbering in the thousands, stood behind them. The wall of their protection had been breached.

It had been breached with ease.

The army fled from Ryl’s path, parting before him like water around a rock.

Their reactions were mixed. For some, it was panic. Bows were discarded as they attempted flight. Some cowered where they stood. For others, it was aggression. Arrows were nocked in a desperate plea for one final shot at the target that had proven so elusive. No thought would be given to firing their projectile amid the close quarters of their companions.

The archers were stacked in a staggered line five deep. Ryl slammed into the center of the formation at speed. He danced among the hopeless guards. The burning blade in his hand severed bows and limbs. The serrated weapon disarmed or dismembered those who still possessed the will to fight, passing through wood and bone with little resistance.

Ryl had no intention of killing all those who remained. He needed to break the will of the army to fight, not ensure their rage. He’d sowed the seeds of distrust among the foot soldiers. The archers had been abandoned by their host. Ill trained to fight hand-to-hand, they’d been left to die.

He focused the wind around his arm as he worked his way back to the center of the line. The air whipped around his arm, building its intensity until it whistled in his ear. Ryl twisted in a tight circle as he let the Leaves fade, releasing the pent-up aggression of the storm. The air swelled out from his body as his rotation brought him to a knee. A horizontal front of air, a wall of pressure, crushed outward.

Ryl released his hold on the speed as his body came to a stop. The combination of his rotation, the release of the tremendous energy, and the effects of time snapping back to normal was momentarily disorienting. His eyes glazed over for an instant. His head spun wildly as if unconvinced his body had stopped spinning. His ears were keenly attuned to the sounds while his vision caught up.

He missed the visual effect of the soulborne wind, though the actualization was profound. The cries of alarm, the clatter of weapons preceded the moans of pain. Solid thumps sounded as bodies collided with bodies. There was a light patter of dirt and small stones as they rained down around him.

No one remained within ten meters of his position. Each soldier had been repositioned, likely with violent effect from close proximity to his body.

Ryl looked up, scanning the crowd around him. He slipped the Leaves into their holsters as he turned his body to face Maklan.

“Do not interfere,” Ryl hissed. The tone of his voice broached no argument. “This is between myself and the councilor.”

The look on Maklan’s face morphed from something that resembled awe and shock to pure malice. His face had been pale; the light complexion altered into a blistering, splotchy red. There was a hint of darkness that clawed on the lower reaches of his neck as if tendrils of blackness were disguised underneath.

Maklan bent down, hoisting up the squirming Aelin. One arm wrapped under one of the boy’s shoulders; the other held the needle point of a dagger to his throat.

“Move and I’ll spill the boy’s blood,” Maklan cried, though his voice failed to hide the tremolo of horror. “There’s no more protection for the tributes