Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) C.J. Aaron (mobi reader .txt) 📖

The uncomfortable gulp from the guard standing in front of Ryl was unavoidable. The man now stood alone, crushed between the massive gate and the incomprehensible myth and hatred of the Lei Guard. The request, owing to the current circumstances of the Harvest, was unorthodox at best. The guard looked cautiously over his shoulder at Ryl before partially turning his head replying to the unseen voice within. His wide eyes never strayed from the blackened figure of Ryl.

“Sir. It’s the Lei Guard, sir,” he stumbled

The eyes of the guard flashed nervously between the gate and Ryl as he awaited the response. Agonizing moments stretched onward as the silence loomed over the square. Ryl tapped his index finger impatiently against the locket of the sheath.

With a thunderous groan the great wooden doors shook as they began their sluggish motion toward opening. The placating expression of the officer in charge of the outer gate was the first to materialize from the dimly lit interior chamber of the gate.

“I apologize for the reception,” his voice wavered as he worked himself into a pitiful attempt at a half bow.

“Your dereliction is noted and will be dealt with,” was all Ryl responded with a hiss. He redirected the outpouring of animosity towards the unprepared officer. The man’s knees visibly shook from the impact. He staggered back a step before turning his head side to side, issuing frantic orders for the guards lining the inside of the gate to make way.

Ryl and the phrenics pushed forward without waiting for the gates to open fully. They reached the interior as the black wagon carrying their charges began its slow entrance into the enclosed holding area. The phrenics dismounted, spreading themselves out evenly a pace behind Ryl.

The confusion written across the faces of those inside the dim light of the wall was glaring. There was no hiding their uncertainty or their fear. It stood out like a blazing fire in the depths of the night. The line of guards that had formed the man-made wall along the inside of the outer gate had split, spreading out along their side of the wide chamber. A pair of guards stood in the far left corner of the inner gate adjacent the chains that worked the great bar that secured the door.

To Ryl’s right a small group remained near the doorway that led to the guard’s barracks. All were soldiers, save one. The other was dressed in finery that clearly highlighted the self-importance of his position. Jewels, carefully stitched into the silken thread of his black pants and shirt, sparked with an unnatural fire. He wore a long, ruffled blood-red robe that stopped just shy of the ground. There was a perpetual scowl across his hawkish face. He held himself tall. There was an uncompromising arrogance to his demeanor.

Ryl recognized the face.

It was Sir Maklan. The newly appointed councilor of The Stocks. Beyond the councilor, a large pile of fetters waited on the packed dirt floor alongside the door.

Nineteen. One for every tribute to be Harvested.

Ryl seethed at the sight.

The councilor’s eyes went wide as the wagon, followed by the final three black cloaked riders, made its way into the enclosed chamber.

“What is the meaning of this?” the nasal, antipathy laden voice of Sir Maklan shrieked, competing with the creak of the wagon’s wheels.

Ryl slowly turned his head, his blackened gaze purposefully sweeping across the guards lining the walls of the room. After what seemed like an eternity his glare landed on its target. He moved forward, overemphasizing each pointed step. Maklan and the others near the door rapidly gave ground, finding themselves quickly with their backs against its rough stone surface.

Behind him, the wagon came to a stop once it fully entered the chamber. Without a command, the gates behind them began to close, blocking out the terrified and curious faces that filled the street and square.

“We deliver a tribute,” Ryl stated bluntly. The gate behind them closed with a deafening thud that he felt through his body. He recognized the slightly uneven footfall of Andr approaching from his rear.

“Have you no sense of timing?” Maklan snarled with undisguised animosity. Ryl could feel the anger pulsing off the vile noble. “The Harvest is underway. I was made aware of no new tributes.”

The high-pitched song of a sword freeing its scabbard tore through the room like a peal of thunder splitting the sky. The tip of the wicked, curved blade in Andr’s hand stopped, its lethal point resting gently against the side of Maklan’s neck. The councilor’s eyes squinted in fearful anticipation as his head tilted back and to the side. A quiet hissing preceded the dulling of the shimmering fabric of Maklan’s pants as his bladder involuntarily released its contents. A thin puddle grew steadily around the polished, gem encrusted shoes of the councilor.

“We take no orders from you,” Ryl snarled.

Maklan made a clear show of acquiescence as his head trembled in an attempt to nod. The needle point of the sword pushed more firmly against his skin with his every motion.

“Apologies, sir,” Maklan gasped. “The timing of your coming is ... unorthodox.”

Ryl forced out a wave of pure unadulterated anger.

“Unorthodox?” he whispered. He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Bind him.”

Around the room, the mouths of the guards fell open. Maklan’s eyes bulged beyond what Ryl thought possible.

When none moved, Ryl repeated the command with a force that broached no question. The officer who’d answered the call at the outer gates, frantically moved to the pile of fetters, pulling the first set off the top. He whispered his apology in the councilor’s ear as he began clasping iron shackles to Maklan’s wrists. Ryl felt a disturbingly profound sense of satisfaction as the final clasp on Maklan’s feet was locked into place. The officer shrunk back from the bound noble, distancing himself from his forced work.

Andr’s blade slowly lowered from the councilor’s neck. Though his skin had not been pierced, a bright red