As Ekard scrambled onto Aelin’s horse, the square around Ryl cleared rapidly. A handful of soldiers were the last to leave. Aelin turned his head around as they galloped away. He caught a single fleeting glimpse as he vanished into the shadowed tract of the Kingsway.
The shapes that charged forward had now taken form as they neared the clearing. Ryl could see the flashes of light glint off their glistening claws. Claws that had no doubt tasted a recent draught of blood.
There was little time to be lost. Others would soon follow in the wake of the advance. They would come in numbers that were likely uncontrollable. It would take time, yet the demons would continue streaming across the narrow gap of the water until every last one roamed throughout Damaris. Destroying the bridge had been necessary, yet it had only slowed their assault.
The glowing weapon in his left hand burst to light as Ryl stood ready for the charge.
So caught in the emotions and necessities of the recent moments, Ryl had done little to address the nagging pain that still plagued his left arm. He’d done his best to ignore the throbbing pain. He reminded himself that there’d be time to deal with the frustrating sensation later.
Without warning, the agony swelled, surging out from the joint of Ryl’s left arm. The jolt of discomfort was torturous. His skin felt as if it were being turned inside out, then seared with an immeasurable heat. So intense was the pain that his hand spasmed uncontrollably.
The glowing blade slipped from his fingers, fading as it fell to the ground.
Ryl released his hold on the speed that flowed through his veins as he dropped to a knee to collect the weapon. He gasped as his left hand extended to collect the dormant blade.
The tattoo on his arm had inverted. Where the blazing of the sun had been, a solid black void churned. The darkness moved with a power that was all its own. Where the light had kept the darkness that pressed from either side at bay, inky tendrils of black snaked upward toward his shoulder and downward toward his hands. Where the black lines moved, the sensation of pain, white hot and searing, followed.
Ryl closed his grasp around his weapon, returning the magical, shimmering blade to life as he lunged to his feet.
The Horde had cleared the opening of the gate, spreading out into a staggered line as they approached. Their frantic, determined pace had slowed. Their motions were now more tentative and curious as they proceeded into a crude arc.
Ryl afforded them no mercy. Their momentary hesitation sealed their hasty doom. His lightning-fast movements and glowing blade cut them down before they could react. Their steadfast attack withered to a halfhearted defense as Ryl splattered their blackened blood across the square.
An increasing tumult of shrieks and cries sounded from the Estates. The noise far surpassed that of a small advance scouting party. A considerably larger group approached, though he could see nothing of them at the present. The sound was enough.
Another lance of pain surged through Ryl’s arm as he turned eastward. He stowed the weapon in its holder, fearing another spasm would strike while he ran. Holding onto a touch of the speed in his veins, he charged from the square, heading eastward after his companions.
Ryl winced as the pain swelled in his arm yet again. His skin burned as it twisted. This time, he watched in a mixture of awe and horror as the tattoo reverted to its original design. He rubbed his right hand over the markings, disturbed yet curious about the sudden change.
With little time to dwell, and the Horde on his heels, he pushed forward. Panic had spread where Fay and his soldiers had passed. During the waning hours of the day, he and Aelin had found a city devoid of life. The road and alleys were now crowded with people as they hurriedly abandoned their homes. Some carried belongings while others held the hands of loved ones as they hastened onward. Some merely wandered curiously through the masses. Yet others still regarded the exodus with scorn. They stood with arms crossed in their doorways. Some accosted those fleeing, cursing them for fools as they heeded the warnings of an invading foe. An unusual rhythmic hammering thumped in the distance to the east.
Ryl moved on. They had been given the information. They’d made their choice.
The results would be theirs to bear.
Ryl easily avoided the press of the citizens as he eagerly approached the main intersection. Here, the Kingsway continued eastward, eventually arriving in the capital city of Leremont, the cursed lap of the kingdom. The path to the south pointed to the docks. The northern spur led directly to the Pining Gates.
The further east he moved, the volume of smoke lingering in the air had intensified. Through the gaps in the buildings, he captured fleeting glimpses of flames sparking high into the sky as they devoured anything wooden in their path. An unnatural orange glow lit the horizon like an uncanny early sunrise. The shifting winds brought either relief from the acrid smoke or misery as the stray embers floated down from above.
At the confluence, the mass of citizens divided. The largest group continued to the east, pushing to the southern side of the road, giving a cautious berth to the East Ward, which burned uncomfortably close to the road.
Of the remaining number, the greater percentage chose the southern path angling toward the docks beyond. The few who were brave enough to follow the pleas to flee to the north kept their heads down, generally regarded with scorn from those moving
