The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Read online

  Now, as Jahrra lay in her freezing prison, wondering if the night had passed and just how far away dawn was, she did her best to push away her misery. Darkness, not just the lack of light in this deep place, but the physical manifestations of evil and hatred, threatened to poison her. Jahrra refused to give in, not when she still had no idea where Jaax might be, so she fought back. She filled her mind with memories of home: the fields of Oescienne in spring, riding Phrym across the golden sand dunes surrounding Lake Ossar, going on adventures with Gieaun and Scede, listening to stories told by Hroombra, gathering mushrooms and wild herbs in the Wreing Florenn with Denaeh … She squeezed her eyes shut, even as her teeth chattered, and let the brightness flood over her. Soon, Jahrra was back in Lidien, attending classes with Torrell, Senton, and Dathian. They were out in the woods studying some exotic bird with Professor Anthar. The phantom clash of swords drowned out the moans and cries of the other prisoners of war as she recalled sparring with her classmates. She was in Jaax’s house on the hill, helping Neira make dinner. Torrell’s distinctive laugh lightened her heart as they perused the shops in Lidien.

  And then, the gentle flood of memories came to an abrupt stop and all was still and silent, darkness suspending her in the midst of it all. Jahrra didn’t know how long she remained in that place, but she became aware of soft, damp sand beneath her feet. The rush and crash of waves scraping against the shore as they returned to the sea. If Jahrra had to place the time of day, she would say it was either right before sunrise or just after sunset, if this place experienced such a thing as the passage of time. Before her, the beach stretched on for miles, the relentless waves just to her right and golden dunes to her left. The dome of the sky above was dark and spangled with stars, far more brilliant and colorful than the ones she remembered in Ethoes.

  Jahrra might have sat down in the sand where she stood to watch those stars for eternity if something to her left hadn’t caught her attention. Turning ever so slightly, she peered beyond the fields of needle-sharp beach grass to study the crests of sand dunes rippling away from the shore like so much rich fabric. A phantom wind blowing from the north picked up the tiny grains of sand and sent them streaming over the valleys between the dunes like shimmering banners. But, it wasn’t this silent beauty that had captured Jahrra’s attention. It was the figure standing atop the highest dune. His bearing was regal, his stature tall. And, the hooded cloak he wore was a brilliant emerald, as if a beam of sunlight had split the dark fabric of sky above, only to illuminate him and nothing else.

  The figure stepped forward, beginning his descent down the steep slope, an avalanche of sand shifting away from him as his cloak whipped about his feet in that same silent gust. Although his pace was unhurried, he reached Jahrra within a dozen heartbeats, stopping just before her.

  She gazed up at him, her brow furrowed. She hadn’t seen him in her dreams since Cahrdyarein, and still, his face was shadowed beneath that hood.

  “You found me,” Jahrra managed, her voice raw.

  Why she said that to him, she didn’t know. It was as if all those memories sweeping through her had left her empty of thought, and those were the only words left to speak. Somehow, she reached within and discovered more. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

  Jahrra didn’t realize she was crying. Not until her unknown guardian lifted a gloved hand to wipe the tears away. She didn’t draw back at the touch, but rather fell into it. She had tried to remain strong for so very long; to put forth a brave face for her friends, but something about meeting this stranger she’d known her entire life, this silent, steadfast guardian, broke that last bit of resolve. She cried freely, her sorrow and fear and worry, a keening wail rising up, up into the swirling clouds above. And then, her dream guardian did something he’d never done before. He pulled Jahrra into a close embrace, his strong arms wrapping around her. She only leaned into him, allowing him to shoulder her fear, her sorrow, her regret, as the brilliant stars whirled above, as the shifting sands drifted on that ethereal breeze, and as the rhythm of the ocean’s every breath mimicked her own.

  Jahrra woke with a start, the clanging sound of a key turning in a lock shattering that place of peace. The memories of her dream evaporated like a wisp of morning mist, but she clung to that feeling of safety and strength her strange guardian and passed on to her. She held onto that feeling as if her very life depended upon it.

  The door leading into the prison room swung open and firelight from torches spilled into the cavernous space. More torches joined that first one, accompanied by the whispering of men’s voices. Jahrra scrambled into a sitting position and wrapped her arms around her legs, barely suppressing a whimper of pain as her movement dug the iron spikes of her vest deeper.

  “His majesty is ready for your presence,” Boriahs’ voice crooned.

  Chuckles followed, the cruel amusement of hateful men. Jahrra reached deep once again for that thread connecting her with her dream guardian. You just found me. Don’t leave me yet. Something warm pulsed within the center of her soul. Had she imagined it? Or, had it been some sign from Ethoes herself? Either way, Jahrra allowed that tingle of hope to give her some strength, if only a little.

  The Tyrant’s mercenary sent two of his underlings to fetch Jahrra. She didn’t bother resisting. She imagined that whatever horror awaited her in the king’s throne room would require every ounce of energy she possessed. It would be foolish to waste her strength on a battle she could not win.

  They dragged her, once again, through the maze of tunnels and hallways, and when she was certain they had reached the throne room, they kept moving upward. She didn’t have to ask where they were going, because in the next few minutes they came to another massive door, one that was drawn open before them. Jahrra didn’t know what she was expecting, but it hadn’t been the blast of frigid air, nor the pounding crash of waves in the distance, like the ominous drumbeat of war. She blinked beneath the weak sun, her eyes too used to the darkness of the dungeons that even the muted light, filtered by cloud cover, pained her. But, she didn’t need her eyes to know exactly where she was: the roof terrace of the Crimson King’s fortress, the one overlooking the violent sea of Ghorium on one side, the vast frozen plain on the other.

  “On your feet, filth,” Boriahs growled, grabbing Jahrra by her hair and yanking her upward.

  She hissed between clenched teeth, and made to reach up and grab his hand, but the biting reminder of the traitor’s vest and her bound hands prevented her from doing so.

  When she could stand on her own, the mercenary let her go, and she shuffled forward. Shouts rang out, and the Crimson King’s soldiers immediately surrounded her.

  “Stand down!” The Tyrant’s voice cut through the noise of the tumultuous sea, aided by the power of the evil god.

  The soldiers immediately obeyed, their pikes and swords drawing back as they retreated. Jahrra took advantage of their absence and quickly scanned her surroundings, her eyes now more adjusted to the light. She had thought to look for a means of escape, but the longer she studied the vast open roof top of the castle, the more she realized she would be going nowhere. From this high up, all of Ghorium, it seemed, could be seen. Save for a few ragged spikes of black rock framing the terrace and obstructing part of the view, the Great Red Tundra stretched on for miles upon miles to the south. And scattered over that vast wasteland, she could barely make out patches of color, dark closer to the base of the castle, but mottled in several shades of brown, green, blue, and gray farther out. Tendrils of smoke rose from several locations, and great winged beasts dove and spat fire.

  Jahrra’s heart clenched. The war had begun. While she was locked away in the dungeons, the allied armies of the Coalition had crossed the Noryen and now clashed against the soldiers of Ghorium. Those winged beasts were dragons, many of them the evil Morli creations of Ciarrohn, but some of them were the Tanaan and Korli dragons fighting for Ethoes.

  The gusting wind died
down, and the low, rumbling of the battle rolled up the mountainside like echoing thunder. Elvin men and women from across Ethoes screamed their battle cries and bellowed in agony and terror. Beasts of burden and dragons roared their battle fury. Weapons, claws, and teeth clashed as the terrible song of war filled the world around them.

  “Well, human,” the Tyrant drawled, from yet another throne carved into one of the basalt spires at the far end of the terrace, “are you ready to return to the weakling goddess who sent you? I thought a traditional execution would be boring, so instead we are going to make a show of it.”

  Jahrra snapped her eyes up to her enemy, but she said nothing, her mind going almost numb. She wasn’t surprised, or shocked. After all, what did she expect to happen? She could not tell him where Kehllor was, nor would she ever do so unless forced. She was the one meant to bring an end to his reign, to destroy him. That he had allowed her to live this long was a miracle in of itself.

  Enough, Jahrra, she snarled to herself, rekindling that flagging courage. You are not dead yet, and you will not give up, not until your very last breath.

  Thoughts of her missing guardian flared in her mind, and suddenly, that encroaching fear did not seem so troublesome any longer. If Jaax were here, he would be disappointed in her cowardice. She would not, could not, let him down.

  Cierryon stood, his royal robes more scarlet than ruby today, and descended the dais fanning out from the base of his massive throne. Guards stationed every twenty feet or so along the crenellated wall of the vast terrace stood as still as statues, each one of them grasping a sharply pointed spear. In the short towers standing at the corners of the roof top, archers peeked through narrow windows, their bows and arrows ready. Even if Jahrra managed to struggle free and make it to the grand terrace’s edge, someone would stop her. And, there was nowhere to escape to. The entire north face of the castle opened into empty space; the fortress perched upon the edge of a cliff that plunged thousands of feet into the rough surf crashing against a collection of jagged rocks below. To the east and west, and to some extent, the south, raw mountain rock would make a quick passage impossible. She wouldn’t make it far before someone plucked her up and dropped her back into this living nightmare. If one of Ciarrohn’s Morli dragons didn’t roast her to death first. Most of them were busy on the battlefield far below, but a dozen or so winged overhead like scaled vultures ready to pounce.

  “We will begin today’s entertainment,” the king of Ghorium was saying, “with a duel.”

  His smile dripped venom, but Jahrra grew very still. A duel? She was expecting something much worse. Would he fight her, then? Was that how she might defeat him? Could it be that simple? No, it couldn’t. Denaeh had told her it must be her, the Mystic, who struck the killing blow. But Denaeh, and Ellyesce, were nowhere to be found. Jahrra hadn’t seen them among the soldiers and mages gathered for this macabre spectacle. Were they even still alive? Clenching her teeth, Jahrra found that thread of hope within herself and held onto it. They were alive, as was Jaax. She had to believe that.

  “However,” the Tyrant continued, “our audience is a bit lacking, and what sort of host would I be if I didn’t supply the challenger with a patron in her corner?”

  Dread pooled in Jahrra’s stomach, and she flicked her eyes around the spacious mountaintop terrace, wondering if she’d missed spotting one of her friends. Besides the guards stationed along the edge of the terrace, she estimated at least fifty to sixty more soldiers and mages occupying the space in some aspect. Ellyesce and Denaeh were nowhere to be seen.

  “Boriahs! Bring out our other guest of honor!”

  The Tyrant’s mercenary offered his master a wicked grin, sketched a quick bow, then disappeared through the massive entryway back into the castle. A few minutes later, Jahrra understood the cruel look of triumph in her enemies’ eyes. Boriahs reemerged from the dark, followed by a half dozen of those servant beasts, the broehr, pulling on long chains. The chains were thick and heavy, making the need for the muscled creatures obvious. But it wasn’t the broehr that had Jahrra collapsing to her knees in horror. It was who they had secured at the end of those chains.

  Triangular head held high, despite the multitude of iron restraints weighing down his shoulders and wrapped around his jaws like a muzzle, the dragon Raejaaxorix stepped forward onto the grand terrace the way Jahrra had always seen him approach a potential threat. Cool, regal, fearless. One would think he was strolling down the long hallway in a royal palace, arrogance and confidence unfurling behind him like a cloak. Part of Jahrra’s heart, the part not desperately fighting against despair, gave a flutter of pride. They had not broken him, though the runnels of blood streaming down several puncture wounds suggested they had tried.

  The Tanaan dragon’s eyes were hard as stone, glittering emeralds that could cut like blades if only given the chance. When those eyes fell upon Jahrra, however, their defiance faltered, and the dragon’s steps lost their smooth, determined rhythm. That one look told her everything: He had not expected to see her there.

  With tears in her eyes, she shook her head once at her guardian. Relief clashed with anguish inside her. He was alive. They had not killed him. But, they had hurt him and attempted to humiliate him with the chains and the muzzle. To them, Jaax was a mongrel dog, a feral thing meant to be controlled through pain and imprisonment. A sudden, vast anger sprouting from Jahrra’s very soul burned through her then. They would pay for what they did to him. Before the end, they would pay.

  Since Jaax had stopped dead in his tracks, the broehr leading him tugged hard on the chains. The collar they were bolted to tightened about his neck and fresh runnels of blood streamed from beneath the edge of the thick metal. Jahrra realized the steel cuff must have had spikes on its inner band. Just like her macabre vest, the collar Jaax wore pierced his scales and dug into his skin, forcing him to comply or suffer for disobedience.

  “The dragon Raejaaxorix, I believe,” Ciarrohn rumbled from the much more mortal king’s lips, a smug look gracing his face. “Not the golden dragon, but a very good friend of yours, Jahrra. If I’m not mistaken.”

  He flicked his eyes to his left, and there, partially hidden among the red-clad mages, Jahrra saw her. Dark auburn hair, dressed in a gown and matching cloak so deep red it appeared black, stood Shiroxx. Her brown eyes glittered with malice, a smirk curving one corner of her mouth.

  Jahrra’s blood boiled. Traitorous harpy!

  Jahrra cast Cierryon an acerbic glare before returning her attention to Jaax. The Tyrant’s slaves were leading him to an alcove beside the dark throne. Heavy metal hooks and rings were driven deep into the wall and floor nearby. The many chains trailing from her guardian were swiftly secured to these anchors and pulled taut by the broehr and some of the soldiers standing nearby. Somehow, Jahrra managed to remain calm during the whole ordeal. That is, until the brutes took hold of the ends of Jaax’s wings, spreading them wide, then piercing the delicate membranes at their tips through upturned hooks imbedded in the wall.

  Jaax drew in a breath of pain when first one, then the other wingtip was punctured.

  Jahrra screamed and climbed to her feet. “No! Jaax!”

  Her guardian snapped his head in her direction, his eyes fierce. One small shake of his head had her choking on her own words.

  No, Jahrra, she read in that glance. No. Do not make them hurt you on my behalf. I can take this pain, it is nothing compared to what they can do.

  Jahrra bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as tears of rage seeped from her eyes.

  More spiked cuffs were clamped around Jaax’s forearms and hind legs, just above his feet. He growled and fought against a flinch at the fresh wounds, and with the click of each metal restraint snapping into place, Jahrra’s heart slammed hard against her chest. They were doing this on purpose. Whatever game the Tyrant was playing, they wanted her rattled, and torturing her guardian was the best way to do so.

  Jahrra cast her eyes downward, unable to meet Jaax’s. She h
ad meant to look away entirely, but the flash of polished stone winked at her from where her guardian stood. She sucked in a breath. His spirit stone ring. They hadn’t taken it from him.

  Either the Tyrant somehow heard her thoughts, or they were painted clearly across her face.

  “Ah, yes. Such a lovely ring, is it not? I tried to remove it when the beast was first brought to me, but he killed seven of my men and injured twice that number, some so badly I think they might just perish from their wounds. Strange, how he threw such a fit over that one item. He didn’t fight nearly as much when we took his armor, but that ring ...” He paused and clucked his tongue, shaking his head back and forth like a disgruntled school master. “One would think it meant the world to him.”

  A flicker of shadow blocked out the malicious brightness in Cierryon’s eyes for a fraction of a heartbeat, and Jahrra’s blood ran cold. Ciarrohn was definitely present, then. Simmering just beneath the surface as he had the day she faced him in his throne room.

  “Master, let us use the girl to remove the ring from the dragon.” Boriahs ripped his sword from its scabbard, the blade hissing through the air and coming to rest a hair’s width from Jahrra’s throat. She flinched, jerking back, but not fast enough to avoid the small nick it put in her skin. Warm blood, only a trace, trickled down her neck.

  Against the wall beside the throne, a menacing rumble rolled up Jaax’s throat. His eyes bored into Boriahs, promising not just death, but pain.

  Cierryon sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. The beast will be dead soon enough. I can just take it then.”

  Boriahs sketched a small bow, then re-sheathed his sword. “Would you like me to fetch the others, master?” He had the audacity to sound bored. Jahrra wanted to run him through with her sword.

  Cierryon raised two fingers in a gesture that suggested the mercenary should hold off.

  “Perhaps, later. I am impatient to get started.”