What they had witnessed was something out of myth.
“We now near the close of cycle 1351,” Ryl announced to the crowd, turning slowly, ensuring his voice was heard by all.
“What you witness now is the final act. The abomination that has been allowed to persist for centuries end today,” he continued. His voice dripped with the seething fire of unstoppable determination. “There will be no more Harvests. As of this moment, there will be no more tributes.”
Murmurs of discontent rose from the crowd on the southern palisade. A single lord sprung to his feet pointing his greedy finger toward the tributes arranged before him. Ryl recognized the colors of the house. He recognized the abhorrent, agitated countenance of the noble who openly dared to challenge his command. The paunchy face twitched with unfiltered anger and disgust as he glared at Ryl.
The golden opulence of the Lord of House Sarnac glittered in the morning sunlight.
“You have no right!” the Lord cried. “Who are you to defy the will of the King?”
“We are the Phrenic. As are they,” Ryl responded with a wave of his hand, motioning to the huddled tributes behind him. “We are free to do as we choose.”
To his side, Maklan made a cackle as he opened his mouth to protest. In his struggles, the councilor had worked the blade nearly halfway from the ground. He was hunched over, desperately using his chains to free the sword from the earth. Ryl took a single step forward and slammed his foot down on the cross guard.
The blade plummeted back into the ground with the force of his step. The taut chains of the fetters wrenched the vile councilor from his feet. His body impacted the ground like a stone, and his face struck the earth unrestrained by the help of his hands. An involuntary groan escaped his lungs. Maklan lay still, unconscious.
“Whatever you call yourself. Whatever tricks you employ, you have no power here. You have no authority,” Lord Sarnac howled. His greedy eyes hovered on the tributes, his face contorted into a mix of anger and childish jealousy.
“This is the King’s law,” the opulent noble shrieked, emboldened by the superficial words that spewed from his lips. “That is my tribute. My property. Purchased with my own gold.”
Property.
The word sent a shiver of raw emotion rolling through Ryl’s body. Rage. Repressed, built up from nearly half a life spent under the heel of those who were considered fortunate to be born without the alexen in their blood.
The compound was an unwanted inheritance. For cycles he had cursed fate for choosing him to carry its burden. How much had changed over the last cycle? The words of Da’agryn rang through his ears.
He acknowledged now that the alexen was truly a blessing.
Ryl grinned as he saw the path in front of him clearly as if it were written on the ground. The noble lord’s retinue was stationed along the edge of the wall, slightly left of the center of the Pining Gate.
Time froze as he exploded forward. Ryl vaulted upward, planting a foot on the driver's seat of the black wagon. He could see the surprise in Rolan’s slowly widening eyes as he passed. Another step put him on the top of the black wagon. His legs were coiled as he planted his next step on the back edge of the carriage. The wind that had been building in his right hand, exploded downward propelling him skyward toward the peak of the palisade. The rear of the wagon dipped heavily, creaking in protest. A thick cloud of dust billowed out in a circle from the force of the wind.
Ryl’s cloak billowed out behind him as his momentum carried him to the top of the wall. His feet landed on the top of the stone railing. A single bound from there landed him directly behind the paunchy lord’s back.
He wrapped his left forearm around the man’s thick neck, pulling him in toward his body. Ryl let go his hold on the speed. As time flashed back to normal, he spun the hopeless, misguided lord around. As they rotated his right hand spewed a semi-circle of wind into the legs of the gold clad retainers and personal guards that ringed the lord of House Sarnac.
His cloak whipped out to his side, snapping as its momentum stopped abruptly. Those standing in the face of his wind toppled from their feet, knocking down the others standing beside them or fleeing the wall. Ryl reached his right arm behind his back, his fingers eagerly closing on the hilt of the Leaves. The blade awakened with a brilliant explosion of green light and fire as it freed its holster. Green flames distorted the air as they dripped from the serrated edges of the shimmering blade. The cries of alarm again resounded through the crowd.
“We are no one’s property,” Ryl boomed loud enough for all to hear before his voice quieted. He curled his right arm and burning blade inward, stopping before the green flames reached the lord’s neck. The distinct smell of singeing hair filled the air as the flames licked at the curls that crept out from the top of his golden, jewel encrusted shirt.
He spoke softly into the ear of the now quivering noble. The fight had all but left the opulent head of his household. In its place was nothing more than a blubbering, obese wretch. His long-life, a product of the so-called Blessing of the King, amounted to nothing.
“I’ll warn you one time, and one time only. Losing a few coins will be a trivial concern should that vile sentiment again spew from your mouth,” Ryl hissed. “You’ll find money is worthless once your head has been detached from your shoulders.”
With tears streaking down his face, the lord of House Sarnac shook his head in rapid, short nods, keeping his distended chin as far from the glowing blade as possible.
Ryl pulled the blade away from the neck of
