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

the frigate with Andr and Lord Eligar, the true extent of his powers was a mystery to all.

Including himself.

Ryl was confident the Leaves would heed his call in a time of need. He could feel the probing pull of the alexen in his blood, pleading with him to be set free. The power would respond to his command, the world around him would slow. Objects would move as if they were passing through water, fighting desperately against an invisible current. His movements in comparison would be like lightning, little more than a blur to the human eye.

The soulborne wind had responded to his call after he found Delsith and his henchman with Sarial. He felt the familiar boiling in his blood as the wretched thoughts invaded his mind.

mind. What horrors their vile hands and twisted minds would have wrought on the defenseless women had not fate landed him outside her door at that exact moment?

Sarial was among the most caring and compassionate of souls he’d ever met. She had willingly served as the de facto mother for the tributes forced into The Stocks. She selflessly nurtured the tired, terrified, broken children and loved them as if they were her own.

Ryl for one, loved her unconditionally. As far as he was concerned, she was his mother.

Ryl shook his head, breaking the train of thought, focusing again on the movements of Andr. The mercenary was finishing his warm-up routine, a light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“I don’t know how long we are to be surviving on our own out here, or what surprises the Outlands will hold,” Andr said matter-of-factly. “While I can’t expect you to be an expert in the time we have, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you can defend yourself.”

Ryl nodded his head, holding back the excitement that surged through him. Half a lifetime spent in servitude in The Stocks had hardened his body and mind, forced him to mature faster than anyone should be required to. Deep down inside, he still felt the rush of excitement he had had as a child viewing the swords in the market.

“Before we get into the basic offensive and defensive positions, I need you to understand one thing,” Andr lectured. “The true art of sword fighting is nothing like the fantasies you dreamed of as a child. Nothing like those I pictured as a child. There’s only one goal, and that’s killing your enemy before they kill you. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, it’s brutal.”

Ryl saw in his mind the visions from the battle with the Horde he’d experienced through Caprien. The sights, sounds, and smells assaulted his senses. He could feel the splash of the warm, sticky black blood on his skin. The cries of bloodlust mingled with the sickening screams of the dying. Andr circled slowly around Ryl, moving in a leisurely arc to the right as he continued his explanation.

“This is no gentleman’s game,” he lectured.

Andr stopped his seemingly innocuous circle, angling his blade, reflecting the light from the rising sun into Ryl’s eyes. Surprised and momentarily blinded, he shielded himself from the glare with the back of his hand. The mercenary darted forward, closing the distance between the them in an instant. He swept Ryl’s legs out from under him with a quick kick, sending him careening to the ground.

For a moment, Ryl could only sit there stunned. Andr leaned forward, reaching out his hand, helping Ryl to his feet.

“The instant you assume that your opponent will fight fairly will be your last,” he said with a smile.

Ryl brushed the dirt off his pants.

“Preparation before entering a fight is a must. Know this—even the best plans will likely fail the moment battle begins,” Andr instructed. “Assume there are ulterior motives for every thrust, every swing, every feign. Predictability will get you killed.”

Andr carefully sheathed his sword without a glance.

“Can we use those sticks you’ve been hauling around with you to practice?” Andr asked curiously.

For a moment, Ryl paused in shock, his mind racing to present a believable retort to the question he knew was coming. His dire feeling of uncertainty must have been visible on his face—Andr chuckled!

“Look, Ryl,” Andr said. “I’m no fool. I know there is more to you than meets the eye and that those are more than merely sticks to you. Whatever the reason, I want you to know; to me, it’s immaterial. When you’re ready, if you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen. Everything involving the phrenic, your rescue, has been cryptic at best.”

Andr laughed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Honestly, we don’t even know where we’re going,” he said.

“Then why did you agree to come along?” Ryl posed the question, hoping it would cause no offense.

“I’m a mercenary, Ryl,” Andr responded bluntly. “Our gracious Lord Eligar offered more than I could refuse. I’ve always thrived on adventure. The challenge, the uncertainty, is an addiction of sorts. I wish I could say it was all for a noble cause, but in truth—it's the money.”

Something about the way words rolled off his lips, the inflection in his voice, gave Ryl pause. There was more to the story, he was sure of it. As Andr hadn’t pressed him about the Leaves, Ryl bit his tongue.

He could think of nothing more to than nod his head in acceptance. Reluctantly, he pulled the Leaves out of his pack, handing one to Andr. The mercenary carried on with his instruction as if nothing had happened.

Andr spent the next hour providing an overly simplified lesson on the basics of sword fighting. The detailed instructions struck a chord with Ryl. As the mercenary helped position his hand into the proper grip, his feet into the proper stance, the information seemed to trigger the knowledge inside him.

The positions which would have at one point felt foreign, now seemed like second nature. Ryl’s mind flashed back to the motions of Caprien. He experienced the movements of the phrenic as if they were his own.