Ryl’s patience had been exhausted. With little effort, he sent a wave of calming persuasion over the increasingly fretting young soldier.
“One final question,” Ryl indicated to the visual relief of the guard. “What force remains behind in Cadsae Proper?”
Hobs eyed him curiously, casting glances to both sides, searching for the army within the peripheral of his vision.
“There may be no more than a handful left,” he whispered. “Lord Maklan commanded the entirety of the Cadsae Proper guard to give pursuit.”
Ryl studied the guard for a matter of moments. He squinted his eyes as he watched the nervous young soldier for any signs of betrayal. He witnessed nothing more than hesitance, though his words were truthful.
“You’ve answered all that was required.” Ryl softened his tone as he spoke. “I told you we sought nothing treasonous. You’re free to go.”
The relief that flooded Hobs’s face was irrefutable, though the young man tried admirably to hide it. The figurative weight lifted from his frame was evident. He shuffled backwards for a few steps, his eyes flashing between Aelin, Ryl and the Leaves still burning in his hand. Though his confidence had risen considerably, he still appeared as if any moment he’d turn and run—make a break for the relative safety of the numbers among the mass of soldiers at his rear. His retreating steps paused, and the look on his face morphed into question.
“What will you have us do?” Hobs inquired.
“I cannot tell you what you ask,” Ryl added. “The concept is foreign to that which you’re accustomed to. I fault you not for your reticence. You are free to make your own decisions, yet you cannot outrun the consequences should you choose to take arms against the tributes. I understand that the world you were raised in has been rocked on its side over the last few days. I can see the light of questioning in your eyes. I urge you to think on it. There is a history you’ve yet to learn. It is dark, written by the evil forces desperate to relgate it to secrecy. They covet their power, the information, yet they are ruled by the fear of it as well. Should the questioning that you feel now spread, the light of truth will wash away the cloud they’ve forced over the kingdom.”
Hobs froze. His steps faltered as the indecision raged in his mind. Ryl knew the internal torment. He could see the storm swelling inside the young man. The conflict was a visceral reminder of the struggles he’d powered through. His heart, his mind, and the alexen in his blood had waged these battles on several occasions. Ryl was forced to insert his will.
The battle was recent; he still felt the effects ripple through his body. The foreign voice, the urge to lay waste to the entirety of the army, to bathe the fields of The Stocks in rivers of their blood was potent. It still called to him. Though just a whisper, the voice, the impulse was undeniable. It probed his defenses as if seeking an ingress, a pathway to complete control over his mind.
“They’ll treat us as deserters. We will be hunted down,” came the feeble plea from Hobs.
Ryl tamped down the animosity at the statement. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Holding out his left arm, he placed it gently on Aelin’s chest, arresting his approach. Aelin’s eyes churned with the ferocity of an angry sea. Visions of his flight over the churning sea flashed into Ryl’s mind. The images were a painful reminder of his flight with Andr.
He let a pacifying wave of calm flow over the incensed tribute. Aelin’s eyes calmed; the waters churning within reverted to the mirrorlike calm of windless still. A look of understanding passed between the two. Ryl removed his arm as the pressure from Aelin’s movement ceased.
“Yet again, that truth will garner no sympathy from me, or any tribute for that matter,” Ryl growled, working diligently to keep his own anger in check. “For centuries, we have been hunted, enslaved, our families butchered. What was our crime? For what purpose were they murdered?”
The silence was deafening. Even the wind stilled in anticipation of his response.
“Greed. Power. The evil that poisons their minds and bodies,” he growled. “Look upon your councilor. He is nothing more than a shell, a vessel of the darkness that now stalks the kingdom in the uniform of the king. It hides under the colors of the great houses.”
Ryl moved a step closer to the guard, whispering as he continued. “The darkness that inhabits them pales in comparison to the storm brewing within the Outlands,” Ryl grumbled. “They mass by the thousands. They will come. The tributes you’ve persecuted, held in chains, are the best chance for hope.”
Ryl turned from the guard. His words had shaken the young soldier. The color that had returned to his youthful face had receded once more. His skin was pale.
“The palisades will not hold forever against the wave of death that comes,” Ryl called back over his shoulder. “We phrenics are few and the tributes untrained. I urge you to redirect your animosity. They are likely the key to your survival.”
Without waiting for response, he led Aelin onward, pushing the young tribute gently toward the front of the black-painted wagon. He angled the boy ahead of the pair of horses that drove the wagon. As they passed, he kept his body between Aelin and the remains of Lord Maklan. The sickening pool of blood crept outward from where he was suspended. The blood, nearly black, remained in a coagulated pool, the earth below seemingly unwilling to accept its tainted essence.
The stench was horrific. Far from the stale iron tang of blood, baking in the sun’s light, the odor was putrid. It smelled of death, rot and decay. His stomach churned as the potent smell contained a flavor he knew all too well.
It was the pervasive scent of the Horde.
Tamping down the urge to retch,
