The soft padding of footsteps on the loose soil behind drew his attention from the blood slickened water. Ryl turned his head to find Nielix approaching quietly. He tossed Ryl a dry scrap of fabric.
“The caravan makes for the north,” Nielix broke through the quiet burble of the gently rolling river. Ryl rubbed the cloth over his face and arms; the rough fabric sanding the last remaining traces of blood from his skin.
“You know, this is a burden you needn't carry on your own,” Nielix intoned quietly.
Ryl lowered the scratchy cloth as he finished cleaning off his face. The Vigil had been morose and withdrawn since his actions that led to the death of the phrenic Deyalou. Repentance was a long, winding road, yet he'd noted the clear reversal of the previously belligerent man's attitude.
“There was nothing you could have done to prevent this,” the Vigil continued. “The decisions they made, were made of their own volition. You know that not all will change their minds so quickly. Not all will abandon their lifelong beliefs so blindly.”
Ryl remained silent as the Vigil continued.
“The phrenics will follow you,” Nielix continued. “The tributes will follow. The captain and his guards will follow you as will the Vigil. As will I.”
Nielix stood taller as if the telling had removed a weight that had been heavy on his shoulders.
“I was wrong to have doubted you. I was wrong to have spoken out against you,” he admitted, though the concession was clearly discomforting. “You do not fight this battle alone. We will be by your side to weather any storm that blows in our direction.”
The Vigil reached his hand out. Ryl let it hover patiently in the air for only a moment before reaching out his own. The handshake was firm, the bond resolute.
Ryl and Nielix mounted their horses, cantering after the weary procession of the caravan. It wasn't long before they met with the rear guard. With an understanding nod, the Vigil angled his horse off to the side, taking his position among the ranks of mounted soldiers that protected their rear. Kaep and Ramm now rode with them.
All, save the giant phrenic, were now armed with bows. Their supply of arrows was limited, Kaep having retained the largest share. Their silhouettes bristled with the shafts like cushions laden with pins.
Ryl spurred his mount forward, riding quickly along the western side of the column. Their eastern flank was protected by the narrow sloping bank of the river. The water from here to the Erlyn was relatively slow moving, yet fairly wide. A trained archer could easily strike a target on the opposite bank, however, the lack of trees made a stealthy approach nearly impossible.
They moved to the north with as much speed as could be safely managed and maintained. The daylight steadily grew to their east, brightening the sky with every step. Ryl reached the wagons that had been maintained for the transport of their medically needy patients. Rolan waved a subtle greeting as he passed, while Faya slept peacefully, curled on the seat beside him with her head on his lap.
Ryl marveled at the resilience of the man. He'd been a steadfast supporter, maintaining an almost perpetual responsibility for driving the black wagon since they'd left Milstead.
Ryl dismounted at the next wagon up the line. The remainder of the tributes from the facility with Elias now shared their cramped confines with several of the most severely wounded guards. The majority of Moyan's mounted cavalry had temporarily relinquished their horses, allowing the rest of the injured or hobbled to ride without slowing their progress down. Quinlen, still hobbled by a permanent limp from an injury several cycles past, stubborn as was his norm, had put up a half-hearted fight about riding, but eventually caved after a little extra convincing.
Vox offered a tired smile as Ryl hitched his mount to the back of the wagon, easily hopping up to the back of the overburdened cart.
“I'll take over from here,” Ryl said. “Get some rest. You've had a busy night.”
The phrenic elementalist needed no further motivation. He rose wearily, patting Ryl on the shoulder before departing on the mount that followed steadily behind the wagon.
Ryl eased his way through the maze of the wounded and recovering, who were arranged as orderly as possible in the back of the wagon. He nodded at the guard who'd pulled duty caring for the wounded. Jeffers slept restlessly on the pile of reorganized medical supplies at the head of the wagon. For the moment, his patients were stable. The most seriously injured from the ambush hadn't survived long enough for Jeffers to treat his wounds.
Toward the front of the wagon Ryl took a seat, leaning his back against the coarse wooden walls. He positioned himself between Elias and Cavlin. The physical condition of both had improved dramatically since they'd left Cadsae two short days earlier. Elias was still silent; his eyes hadn't opened again. Ryl hoped that someday he'd emerge again from the shell in which he currently resided. He wasn't willing to give up hope, to give up on his friend yet.
Cavlin's skin had reverted to nearly its original tone. His flesh had been a sickening, ashy grey when Ryl had left him at the discretion of the mender in the East Ward of Cadsae Proper. He'd taken a vicious beating. He’d lost so much blood, Ryl was honestly surprised the man still lived.
Ryl watched the slow steady rise and fall of both men's chests. For a moment, he put his head down in his hands, scanning the surrounding area with his mindsight. He located the four phrenics instantly. The blur of light from the tightly packed tributes that marched hurriedly toward an uncertain future
