All feelings aside, they had larger, more pressing issues at hand.
The army.
The force had remained frozen, as if locked in trance by unseen magic. The last few days since Ryl’s interruption of the Harvest had tested the foundations of their beliefs. Unknown magic, speed, and powers out of myth had assailed them. Their arrows were incinerated by fire or shattered by wind.
The stress had fractured as their commander abandoned his post, siding with the tributes over the kingdom at large. Maklan’s authority as the king’s councilor and his autonomy over the rule of the guard had stripped it of any true leadership. Missing were the senior officers who’d served under Captain Le’Dral. They’d been branded as traitors.
The rumors were far darker. All had been presumed dead.
The leaderless army had suffered defeat after painful defeat. They had run the pathetic force to ground before the border of the Erlyn Woods. The phantom army and the storm from the heavens had sent the army scattering. It was days before a sense of order was restored. It was a shaky march that had stumbled upon the lone warrior on the hill.
The fracture had now bisected their beliefs in two. Ryl could see it in their eyes. It was clear from their demeanor. They carried their shoulders slumped as if the weight of the Haven Mountains were piled atop them. They fidgeted nervously. Likely the bulk of their numbers served as the weight that held them in place. All it would take was for one to run. They had all witnessed the wrath of the solitary warrior who had severed their ranks with apparent ease.
The warrior who had stood firm against an army that outnumbered him by thousands. Those who had attacked, eager for the chance to strike down their foe, had met with disastrous results. Those who raised swords against him had been cast aside with little effort.
Ryl surveyed the faces. The sea of expressions were varied, but potent. The cracks in the foundations that had been instilled for generations shined through the doubt and fear. He put his hand on Aelin’s shoulder, casting him a brief glance as he spoke.
“Stay behind me.” Ryl spoke in a low tone. “They look to have lost the nerve to fight. Still, it’ll be easier to protect you in case any seek foolhardy heroics.”
Aelin nodded as Ryl gave him a gentle squeeze before removing his hand, stalking slowly forward. The youngster fell in behind him as he approached the army.
The front rows of the force shifted, visibly discomforted at Ryl’s advance. The winds swelled quietly around his right arm. The intricate leaves decorating his tattoo shifted as if pushed by the gust. He hardened his gaze, focusing on a wave of intimidation as he addressed the army.
Again, the call for bloodshed, the call to lay waste to the entirety of the force, to soak the soil with their blood tugged at his senses. It argued with the alexen. The white-hot, scorching essence of the phrenics was a calming salve compared to the thirst for blood hidden within the whisper.
The voice beckoned in a language he couldn’t understand. Yet just as he could project his emotions over others, he understood the vicious intent. As he felt the familiar heat surge through his veins, the voice silenced.
“Your war against the tributes ends here.” Ryl’s voice roared like thunder. “They are not your enemy. They are not to be feared. They are not your slaves.”
He spat as the last words escaped from his mouth. The notion, still so fresh, so potent, was like poison to his mouth. He could taste the animosity in the word alone.
“If none seek to harm us or the tributes, you will be left alone,” he continued. “It is a point I believe I’ve stressed enough already this morning. It is without a hint of conceit, but confidence that I say none here could lay a hand on me. Neither your arrows nor blades will harm me. We seek nothing more than answers now.”
The murmurs rolled through the army. Guards spoke to their comrades in hushed tones. Ryl comprehended several of the conversations closest to him. Though he was loath to believe the segment spoke for the entirety of the army, there was no hostility there.
They were afraid.
As afraid of him as they were the king himself.
Ryl pitied them in that respect. They had yet to learn the true face of fear. The demons from myth lurked ever closer to their border. Casting a rapid glance back at Maklan, he realized the enemy was already here.
“Look at your commander now.” He gestured with his tattooed right arm toward the lifeless husk of Maklan pinned to the carriage by his own soldiers’ arrows. A gust of wind from his arm pushed the streaks of silvered hair back from his face. Even with his head slumped forward, the blackened stains that streaked across his face, extending up to his scalp, were obvious.
“The stains on his skin are the marks of the ancient evil that history claims to have been wiped from the face of Damaris,” Ryl growled. His eyes travelled over the placid army upward. The towering figure of Taben the Defender stretched into the clear midday sky.
Though featureless from this distance, Ryl felt the eyes bore into him.
“Taben and his band of warriors failed that day,” Ryl hissed. “Though they routed the forces of the Outlands, pushed them back into the wastes where they originated, a part of them remained. The evil festered and grew. The Horde have tread openly on the soil of Damaris. They’ve rewritten the history of a once thriving civilization. Those who’ve accepted the Blessing of the King have done so with not only gold, but their lives.”
The rumble of scattered divisions rolled across the army. One voice rose above the rest.
“Why should we believe you?” a guard sneered.
Ryl couldn’t see the face of the speaker, though he envisioned the expression that marred his features.
He knew the face
