His approach was preceded by a wall of dread that hammered the wary guards. Within moments, all who surrounded the focal point of his attention had scattered, sacrificing the quaking guard to his fate. A low-hanging cloud of dust was settling to the ground as swords were cast to the earth as they scrambled away. As Ryl walked forward, he let a single blade flare to life, though the point remained angled down and to his side. The green flames licked hungrily, though harmlessly at the air.
“I assure you, I mean you no harm,” Ryl called as he stopped a few meters before the man. “Though any attempt to molest me or my companion will be countered without mercy. You’ve seen but a glimpse of what we can do.”
The nervous nod of the man’s head, and his audible, uncomfortable swallow were all the answers he needed. The surrounding soldiers continued to shuffle uncomfortably away as the waves of discomfort poured from Ryl’s core.
“My questions will be brief,” he instructed. “Let’s start with your name?”
The guard looked momentarily confused by the benign question. His mouth opened briefly before clamping shut as he failed to find his voice.
“My … my name’s Hobs.” The young man stumbled clumsily through the words as if the name was foreign to his tongue.
Ryl forced a hint of a smile to tug up on his lips. He sent a disarming wave of calm over the guard before him. For a moment, the uneasiness withered. The young guard raised his eyes, peering cautiously upward, attempting to penetrate the darkness that shadowed the upper half of Ryl’s face.
“Walk with me, Hobs,” Ryl ordered. Though spoken softly, he broached no question. With uneasy steps, the guard followed in his wake. Aelin trailed to his opposite side. His limp was hard to hide, though the boy worked diligently to accomplish the ruse.
He led the wary guard to within a few meters of the black wagon. Away from the prying ears and eyes that dwelled near the bulk of the army, Ryl had his first true opportunity to observe the man he would probe for information.
He was surprised at the youthful complexion of the man’s face. More dirt shaded his chin than did stubble. His complexion was free from scarring and the ravages of time. Though dirty, the youthful glow was startlingly present.
The thought sprang to mind as he studied the young man before him: he and the guard were likely a similar age. With the awakening of the alexen within him, Ryl had lost touch with his true age. Though he knew himself to be a young man only in his late teens, the ages of knowledge, lived through the memories and experiences of the countless phrenics who’d shared consciousness, clouded his perception.
Prior to his freedom from The Stocks, age was merely the shortened ruler by which to gauge one’s abbreviated life. His Harvest was to be the finale of what had been a tortured existence.
There was a muted choking from the nervous guard he’d called to question. Revulsion was written across the young man’s face. He swallowed roughly, his eyes squinted and watered as he stopped the contents of his stomach from spilling out.
“What is he?” Hobs squeaked.
“This is the product of the greed of men,” Ryl growled. “The taint of the Horde has allowed the torture of the tributes to carry on for so long. The alexen, which flows freely through my veins, is a prime component of the coveted, life-giving elixir. Though it is crucial to the process, it is far from alone. The alexen may grant life; it is the nexela, the blood of the Horde, that seals their fate.”
The young soldier cocked his head slightly. His look bore the countenance of confusion and questioning.
“What the alexen grants in power, the nexela removes an equal share of self-control,” Ryl continued. “The elixir binds those who consume it to their host. To the king. To what end the Horde plays is yet unknown.”
Ryl glossed over any mention of Leiroth. The young guard was likely steeped in the false mythology and narrative born from generations of complacency. It was doubtful that the name would bear any significance. Ryl felt his blood heating as the alexen inside raged at the thoughts of the traitor who destroyed their proud order.
“What is it you want from me?” The nervousness returned as the scowl grew uncontrolled across Ryl’s face.
“Have you encountered any aside from us on your march through The Stocks?” he quizzed as he forced another wave of ease over the trembling soldier. The man’s eyes widened at the simplicity of the question.
“Aye. Late last afternoon,” he blurted out. “A young man on foot, dressed in a cloak much like yours, carried a bound prisoner.”
“When did they depart?” Ryl interrupted as he felt hope surge. The guard’s admission narrowed the timeline between their passing.
“They sought immediate counsel with Lord Maklan,” Hobs announced. “They left by horse this morning. Shortly before you arrived.”
Ryl felt excitement churn in his veins. They were still close. Only hours separated him from Elias. From Kaep.
The nagging feeling persisted. It had been an ever-present irritation since he woke to find the phrenic missing. Though he perpetually failed to sense either Kaep or Elias using his mindsight, he couldn’t ignore the sensation that they were still close. It was as his friend was toying with him, keeping himself just out of the reach of his prying vision.
If what Maklan had said was true, that the king already marched on Cadsae Proper, why would Elias delay upon meeting the army? The city and the relative comforts of the barracks, when compared to sleeping outdoors, were only hours away by horseback.
They needed to leave and with haste.
“Were you privy to any of their conversations?” Ryl probed.
The guard shook his head adamantly as he spoke. “No, sir,” Hobs replied though a peculiar nervousness crept across his face. His eyes wandered as if ensuring that their current conversation
