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

How many Horde had fallen at their hands? Hundreds had ambushed them.

None within the radius of their blades had survived.

Ryl focused, scanning the area with his mindsight. Lingering streaks of black raced away from the opposite side of the tree. A pair of Horde paused for a moment along the edge of the willow. The first was lanky, its skin deep red, bordering on black. The terrifying image he’d come to associate with the harriers of the Horde.

It was the other that sent a chill down his spine.

The second was shorter, covered from head to toe in what looked like black fabric. Its black cloak rippled in the breeze that fought to clear the area of the putrid smell of death.

With a snarl from the harrier, the pair retreated, disappearing from the clearing.

Ryl scanned the area, watching as the final two black shapes vanished from his view. He released his hold on the power that flowed through his veins, letting the cooling sensation spread through his body.

As the power faded, time flashed back to normal with a colossal force. The impact left him reeling, and he staggered as he fought to retain his footing. The dizzying rush of pain and exhaustion was overwhelming. His body convulsed with an uncontrollable shudder as the chill swept through him. He felt as if he was being frozen alive, his blood turned to ice. His vision blurred.

“Ryl,” Kaep cried as he collapsed to the ground.

Chapter 35

Ryl blinked his eyes open to a new vista yet again. He was growing tired of the dangerous habit. The last images to cross his eyes were of utter carnage. Death and destruction; the ruins of hundreds of bodies. The dead of the Vigil and the Horde mingled together in a mangled mass of severed limbs and entrails. Spreading pools of blood had covered the ground, saturating the soil; the excess life-giving liquid pouring down the gentle hill in a stream of death.

Now, the sight before his eyes was clean and sterile, the straight lines of four walls forming a perfect rectangle. The immaculately polished walls and floors, smoothed to a crack-less perfection, were an indicator that he had somehow made it back to Vim. Ryl recognized the construction, yet the layout of the current room was unfamiliar.

The small chamber he awoke to was larger than his previous apartment, yet by no means an expansive dwelling. The simple furniture was beautifully crafted in the same artful style he’d grown accustomed to within the city. Opposite the foot of his current bed stood a closed door. A solitary lantern fixed to the wall beside it provided illumination for the room. A small desk and chair sat against the wall to his right, a standing closet with a table stood along the wall to the left.

Arranged on the table were his original holsters, the Leaves sitting patiently atop the worn fabric. Ryl sat up carefully, fearful of the effects of lying still for an undetermined amount of time. Surprisingly, he arrived in a seated position with little pain or discomfort. His head throbbed with a mild ache and the skin on his left cheek felt tight. He ran a finger along his face, tracking the line of an already scabbed over laceration.

Ryl swung his legs off the bed, His feet tingled as they came in contact with the cold stone floor. His left leg was sore; the memory of the attack played through his mind. He felt the vile claws of the harrier tear through his skin. He looked down at his leg, unsurprised to find a bandage stretching from his upper thigh to his ankle. Small traces of blood seeped through the clean, white dressing.

He tested his weight on the leg. The wound was sore, but he found there was little hindrance to his mobility. If not for the blood and bandage, the limp would have been hardly noticeable.

Ryl crossed the room to the table. He felt the familiar surge of energy course through his body as his hands closed eagerly around the wooden handles of the Leaves. Being reunited with the weapons was a relief. The contact was invigorating and simultaneously a balm to his mental well-being. Their absence felt like he was missing an appendage. With them back in his hands he felt whole once again.

Unseen hands had cleaned the weapons after the battle; there was no trace of the foul-smelling black blood or the lingering odor of the Horde. The Leaves however, seemed anxious, as if they had been dormant for too long. He noted an eager sensation—as if the weapons were anxious for the throws of battle.

A battle he hoped he would be long separated from.

Ryl replaced the Leaves on the table. He was inside the walls of Vim; this was perhaps the only place in the entirety of his known world he felt safe. He opened the standing closet beside the table, relieved to find his phrenic cloak hanging in its interior, alongside a fresh change of clothes.

Someone had changed him since he had returned to the city. The clothes he now wore, with the exception of the bandage around his left leg, were neat and clean. He pulled the cloak from the closet, easing it over his arms. He felt comforted as it wrapped him in its embrace. The cloak had been cleaned and expertly tailored. At the conclusion of the battle before the Prophet's Tree his body had been drenched in blood, both his own and of the Horde. His clothes and cloak had likely been in tatters. He inspected the fabric, finding it as perfect as the day he was led to its hidden cache within the depths of the Erlyn.

As Ryl removed the phrenic cloak from the wardrobe, the leather belt tucked behind the folds of the fabric came to light. He pulled the object from the closet, studying it closely for a moment.