The scorn was undeniable.
Ryl growled as his patience thinned. The call for violence swelled within his body. He could feel the alexen surging within him. The heat of their agitation was alarming.
“Believe me or not, that is your choice. A choice that your freedom allows,” Ryl boomed over the chatter. His words dripped with honesty and truth. The projected emotion hammered the surrounding soldiers. “I speak now, not to educate. The time for that will come. Trust your eyes, for they rarely tell untruths.”
Ryl turned abruptly, dipping into the speed that remained waiting within his veins. He reached the side of the lifeless councilor in an instant. With his left hand he grabbed a fistful of the wiry hair on the top of Maklan’s head, lifting his face for the army to see.
In the clear light of the sun, the husk that remained was shocking even to Ryl. The flesh had receded further, cracking in places as the strain proved too much for the feeble, ancient flesh to withstand. The dark stains now touched his hairline. His eyes were black as the heart of a starless night, an unnatural matte that failed to reflect even the gleam of the sun.
“See for yourselves the poison of the Horde.” Ryl held the head aloft. “These are not the ravages of long life, but a taint that affects the entire body.”
“What would you have us do?” came a voice from the crowd.
“The phrenics returned to Damaris to set free those who’ve been held against their will for centuries.” Ryl fumed as the visions of his own torture under the foot of the guards flashed to life inside his mind. “The Ascertaining Decree will stand no more. There will be no more testing. No more children ripped from their families. No more tributes. No more Harvest. Yet there is far more to be concerned about. The very demons that stalk the wastes of the Outlands walk amongst you. You’ve followed them blindly for cycles. The leaders you revere have been tainted by the Blessing of the King they so covet.”
Ryl let the grumbles of muted conversation continue for several moments before another voice broke above the ranks. The speaker was among the front row of the army, closest to Ryl. He was nondescript standing amongst his comrades. His uniform was spattered with mud along his legs, the rest covered with dirt, dust and grime from miles of marching.
“Are you asking us to abandon this army? To run home? We will be traitors to the crown. They’ll hunt us down, murder our families …”
His voice trailed off as he neared the conclusion of his sentence. The error of his logic set in. His face blanched even before Ryl could respond.
The anger settled over Ryl like a cloud. He felt the agitation of the alexen in his veins. The muffled voice screamed for bloodshed.
He released his hold on Maklan’s head. The skin on the side of the councilor’s neck tore as his chin bounced off his chest. The tear splayed open, stretching from behind his ear to the back of his neck. Strangely, no blood issued from the wound.
With purposeful steps, Ryl stalked toward the speaker. Toward the center of the army. The wind swelled from his right arm, swirling around his body. His cloak snapped out to the side as it was grabbed by the invisible hands of the gust. Dust, loose earth and tiny pebbles uprooted, spinning around his body in a clouded wall that shrouded his legs from view. He flexed his hands into and out of fists. The woodskin formed a protective crust over his palms, preventing his nails from digging into his skin from the pressure.
Ryl stopped several meters from the speaker. The guard’s eyes darted from Ryl’s face to the ground, failing to meet his burning stare.
“And in that, you’ll garner no sympathy from me or any other tribute,” Ryl hissed. His voice was low, yet it carried over the gathered army. For a moment, pure malice poured from him as he struggled to wrest full control over his senses.
“Don’t think the irony isn’t lost on me,” he chided. “There isn’t a tribute here who has been spared the price in one way or another. We have been hunted for generations. Whether directly or indirectly, you’ve aided in perpetuating the cycle. Their blood is on your hands.”
Ryl paused, hardening his glare. His eyes burned with the rage of an inferno. He met the eyes of as any who dared to match his sweeping gaze. Many shied back a step, withering under the weight and anger of his pointed stare.
“At the moment, we seek information. Nothing more.” His voice softened. “Return to your barracks. Return to your homes. Remain here. The choice is yours. Your pursuit of the tributes ends now. There is a war coming. Every blade, every bow will be needed. Now who will answer my questions?”
He knew the information he sought, though as bland as it was, wouldn’t be garnered openly. The sense of duty to the kingdom, the closed-lipped attitude of comrades in arms would likely prevail.
That is, without force.
Ryl’s eyes swept over the army. Few met his eyes. Those who did retreated immediately as his gaze froze on them. He desired to waste no more time dealing with the pacified army.
Not surprisingly, none seemed eager to volunteer.
In the front row, his gaze focused on a single soldier. He was far shorter than his peers who surrounded him. His hands rubbed nervously on his pants. His body quivered. Being located at the rear of the army, he was likely a reserve. If Andr’s description held true, he was hardly trained, more likely to cause harm to himself than another when pressed in combat.
Ryl grinned as he pointed his finger at the quaking guard.
“You.”
Chapter 21
Color bleached from the man’s face as rapidly as his companions abandoned his side. The soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder scrambled to
