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

caught the right arm of the guard with both of his hands. He latched on as he continued his motion forward. The unprepared guard’s feet lifted free from the ground as his lower body continued moving forward while his upper body followed Ryl’s motion in the opposite direction. Ryl planted his feet; torquing his body to the side, carrying the guard with him. Halfway through his rotation he released the helpless man—the guard sailed through the air for a few meters before landing in a heap, skidding across the ground, and coming to a rest along the edge of the mass of tributes.

Ryl let time snap back to normal.

The stunned looks on the faces of the tributes were now alight with a mix of confusion, astonishment, hope and awe. The guards looked afraid.

Strangely enough, the line of soldiers standing behind the bulk of the tributes remained still. Ryl stalked back toward the line of tributes beyond which the captain remained. With a smile, he jostled the hair on the top of Aelin’s head as he passed. The escorts for the tributes had their hands on their batons, though they shrank back at his approach. They frantically worked their way into a condensed group, seeking safety and the false sense of security that their cluster would bring.

“The next to move to harm a tribute will die,” Ryl growled. He needed no added feeling to emphasize the determined severity in his voice.

“Order your men to stand down, Captain,” Ryl commanded as he stopped a step away from Le’Dral. “We do not come seeking blood but know that we will grant no safe harbor to those who choose to stand in our way.”

Ryl watched Le’Dral. The captain remained motionless, though Ryl knew his mind ran rampant with thought. With questions. The officer’s eyes studied him inquisitively as if probing for a sign of weakness.

“Stand down,” Captain Le’Dral announced after a moment of contemplation. Ryl could see the struggle that played out in the officer. His dogged sense of duty clashed with the last remaining fibers of his morality. The guards standing escort for the tributes looked at each other worriedly. None were willing to make the first move.

“I said stand down,” Le’Dral ordered again. The command and force behind his voice were inspiring. “Release the tributes.”

This cycle’s Harvest needed no second command to act. Without hesitation, the nineteen scurried back to the relative safety of their companions.

“Traitor,” Maklan’s voice cracked as he shrieked at the top of his lungs. His cries were echoed by a myriad of voices from the top of the palisade. Nobles draped in finery and gold; ladies clothed in dresses that shimmered like gemstones; all wailed in a discordant harmony. Their faces contorted into disfigured visages of rage, disgust and insult. Ryl could almost see the blackness pouring from the depths of their souls. Their faces were illumined by pure anger; they radiated hatred. The feeling was potent, shockingly similar to that of the Outland Horde.

Under the press of the crowd along the peak of the Palisades, the guards stationed there had lost precious real estate with which to mount an attack. Ryl noted two groups of soldiers, arrows nocked, pushing through from opposite ends of the mass of spectators. Without warning, the arrows came from the gathering of soldiers on the eastern palisade to his left.

The projectiles screamed through the air, loosed with malicious intent. Their wooden shafts wobbled; their vicious metal tips spun rapidly as they eagerly sought his demise. Ryl had expected this response, was prepared for the action. He called on the speed—the progress of the arrows slowed to a crawl. They inched forward with dogged determination to reach their mark.

Wind swelled around his right arm, starting as a nothing more than a light breeze that gently swayed the hairs, tickling his skin. The breath of air quickly rose to a gale as he released a focused arc into the incoming projectiles. The blade of air decimated the missiles as it scythed its way through, oblivious to the shafts of wood in its path.

Ryl again released his hold on the speed. A shower of splintered wood and dislodged arrowheads rained harmlessly down around him. Stray bits of the feathered fletching floated gently through the air as they descended to the earth.

The panicked cry of alarm that rolled through the crowd as they witnessed the impossible destruction of the arrows was immediately drowned out by a thunderous explosion from his right. Ryl felt the searing wave of heat from the blast rip past him. Throughout the square, guards, spectators and tributes alike dove for cover, shrinking back from the gout of fire that had detonated in the air before them.

Ryl turned his head to see the remnants of showering sparks and flaming bits of wood fall to the ground. They sizzled as they extinguished upon contact with the earth. A plume of black smoke wafted gently away in the breeze. The blast had occurred several meters away from the palisade, yet the force had tossed the closest guards and spectators from their feet. Incandescent flames rippled around Vox’s tattooed left arm.

The panicked cries from earlier blossomed into shrieks of pure terror as the bulk of the crowd clambered over each other to flee the top of the wall. Nobles, lords, ladies, commoners and guards alike fought amongst each other with heartless ferocity as they fled the area. A few heads dared frantic, rapid glances over their shoulders in horrified disbelief. A single arrow loosed from a foolhardy archer fell to the ground harmlessly, far short of Ryl.

“Silence,” Ryl boomed. His voice was amplified with an overwhelming sensation of paralyzing fear that quickly hushed the frenzied crowd. They huddled together, for the time being ignorant of the rank or the station of those who surrounded them. They were aligned in their terror of the unknown.

There was no understanding of what had taken place before their eyes. No comprehension of the potent emotions that had surged through their