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

  Jahrra gauged the tension on the chain once again, every sense she had focused not on her opponent, but on the one controlling her moves. She allowed herself to wilt a little more, to let the spectators think her few days spent in the dungeons were taking their toll; that she was too distracted by her guardian’s pain to focus on survival. Not that it was much of a stretch in her current state, but her ruse paid off. Boriahs believed her attempted intercession on the behalf of Jaax had taken what strength she had left. And Keiron, being the arrogant bastard that he was, believed it, too.

  “It’s really a shame it had to come to this, Jahrra dear,” he sneered, loud enough for the onlookers to hear him as he shuffled forward. “We could have had some fun together before I handed you over to King Cierryon.”

  She wanted to vomit, but she had to hold on a little bit longer. If she could defeat him in only one or two strikes, then Jaax’s suffering would be over that much sooner. Sticking with her plan, Jahrra took deep, labored breaths, allowing her arm to slip off her knee when she had leaned over to rest it against her thigh. She pressed her hand against her forehead and rocked a little, mimicking a person on the verge of passing out.

  Taking her bait, Keiron sauntered forward. “Once you and your filthy cohorts are fodder for the carrion birds, I will be free to rule Cahrdyarein. And, the first thing I’ll do is send out my army to hunt down that pathetic so-called sword master who has holed himself up in Nimbronia. With the support of the god Ciarrohn behind me, I’ll wipe those ice-loving dragons from the face of Ethoes and take the City in the Clouds, too,” he whispered into her ear.

  It was an effort not to jerk away. But, she had to get him to commit. She could not spring the trap too early. The ice and small pebbles crunched under his boots as he stood once again to his full height, kicking her in the ribs on his way up. Jahrra gasped and fell forward, her hands splayed on the ground before her. That had hurt, and now her sword had fallen from her grip. A mistake she had not meant to make. But to her astonishment, Keiron didn’t kick it away. A small thrill raced through her heart.

  “Goodbye, Jahrra. Take heart in knowing the same fate awaits your friends. And, for that overgrown lizard who has an unnatural obsession with you, know that he will be served up to Cierryon’s Morli dragons on a spit over the fire fueled by the corpses of your puny little army.”

  Jahrra noted the slight intake of his breath, detected the wisp of air that parted as he lifted his sword. She waited a split second longer, then acted. Her hand became a blur as it snapped out and tightened on the hilt of her own weapon. She grasped the handle with both hands and whipped the sword straight up. The tip pierced leather armor, skin, and muscle, the blade sliding between ribs and driving directly into the elf’s heart.

  Keiron gasped, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. His own sword remained poised above his head, ready to slice down upon her neck. Only, that blow would never come. Blood poured from the wound, and Jahrra knew he would be dead in mere moments. She stood, gritting her teeth against the ache in her joints, as he fell to his knees.

  “Outsmarted and outmaneuvered again, Keiron,” she hissed for only him to hear. “Now, you will never harm or manipulate anyone again. It will be you who will burn under the fire of the dragons of honor in the place where you are now headed.”

  His bright blue eyes widened, the rage and shock warring to take control. He opened his mouth to say something, but blood bubbled up instead of words, and he gave one more harsh gasp before collapsing upon the frozen ground.

  Jahrra stepped away from the elf she had once considered a friend, someone she had trusted with her heart. Her boots slipped again as she limped forward, only this time it wasn’t ice that compromised her footing. Bile rose in her throat, but she pushed it away. Beneath her anger and fear, regret burned like acid. Regret and horror at what she had just done. Deserved or not, she had just taken a life, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, despair was pouring in.

  Do not think about it, Jahrra, she told herself. You had no choice. You can let it all crash down later. But now, you must survive to fight again. You must finish this.

  Emboldened, Jahrra cast aside her sword, the blood-stained blade clattering against the black stone floor and lifted her eyes to the Tyrant on his throne. His own gaze burned with rage, and the god Ciarrohn flashed into existence for a heartbeat.

  “I killed your champion!” she snarled in defiance. “You may still murder my friends and destroy me, but it won’t be without a fight. I will not roll over and give up my life to you.”

  For several long heartbeats, the part of the Crimson King that still clung to mortality battled with the god, and Jahrra thought the god would win. The horned demon emitting darkness and malice, flickered behind the Tyrant’s eyes; his horrific visage pressing against the shell of the man he used as his host. She hadn’t actually seen it, only the memory of the shadow hiding in the dark cloud hovering above the castle. More than anything, she wanted to look away, but she could not. She would not cower before the creature who would rule the world through fear. She would not give him that power.

  Blood still dripped from her chin, but it came more slowly now. She hoped it gave her a savage look as she tilted that chin up in defiance. Jaax was still pinned to the wall like some insect caught for a University professor’s collection, and those soldiers could still hurt him, still continue to shatter his bones. But, she had killed the king’s champion, and he had said they must fight to the death. What happened next, she could not say, nor did she want to speculate. To do so would only invite crippling fear, and she could not afford that now.

  Like a bored, haughty king of old, Cierryon leaned to one side, his elbow propped up on the armrest of his throne, his index finger pressed to his temple as the rest folded against his cheek. For the first time since meeting this cursed man, Jahrra wondered if there had ever been any goodness in him. If he had ever felt love. Denaeh was his mother, and she had no doubt the Mystic had loved her son beyond reason and still did. Had he ever loved her in return, before the evil god poisoned his soul? For if Jahrra had learned anything in her short life, it was that love cured all ailments and kindled strength and courage where such things did not exist before. If not for love, she would not be standing atop Castle Vruuthun now, accepting every challenge from this dangerous enemy in order to buy her friends more time. Time to live, time to think of a way to escape, time to ask Ethoes to help them find a way to rid their world of such raw evil. As that time passed, Jahrra became more and more certain she would not survive to see the end. She only hoped she could hold on long enough to cleanse the world of Ciarrohn’s taint and set them all free, not just the Tanaan dragons trapped in their curse, but all those who lived with the fear of darkness overtaking them.

  “I must admit,” Cierryon finally said, breaking into her reverie. His voice was as calm as the mask he’d placed over his face as he continued, “I wasn’t expecting such a stunning performance. I know my soldiers and vassals enjoyed it greatly.”

  A roaring cheer exploded through the crowd, much of the noise more crude than encouraging. Jahrra blocked it out, every nerve ending focused on the Tyrant.

  “And what is a fair competition without a reward for the winner?”

  Jahrra froze at the Tyrant’s words, knowing exactly the type of reward he liked to dole out.

  Cierryon flicked his eyes up to Boriahs. “Drag her out of there and bring her to the dragon.”

  -Chapter Twenty-Six-

  A Glimmer of Hope

  With a grunt, the king’s mercenary yanked on the chain, jerking Jahrra off her feet. She gasped as her knees cracked against the stone, but she had little time to recover for the brute had begun dragging her up the stairs. The bare skin of her arms, numbed from the bitter cold and biting wind, scraped against the rough-hewn steps leaving behind abrasions running from shoulder to wrist. Somewhere above her, she could hear muffled snarls and the snap of chains being stretched tight. Jaax trying to break free of his co
nfines. The crack of bone shattering between iron and stone, swiftly followed by a bellow of pain told her the Tyrant had ordered his men to torture him again.

  “No!” she wheezed, gasping in pain as Boriahs hauled her over the last step. She sprawled onto the flat rooftop of the castle, fighting the blackness of pain and exhaustion.

  “Remove the traitor’s vest,” Cierryon drawled from his throne. “I don’t think she’s much of a threat anymore.”

  Jahrra craned her neck, fighting against the shivers of pain rippling through her body, to find Cierryon’s dark eyes glittering.

  “We have her dragon, after all,” he whispered.

  The locks on the vest were released, and the metal atrocity was peeled from Jahrra’s torso. She cried out when the barbs, shallow though they might be, were ripped from partially healed wounds. Her undershirt stuck to her skin, blood and sweat staining it scarlet. Jahrra struggled to her hands and knees, each breath burning her lungs with the cold. She took her time, not because she wished to, but because she simply no longer had the strength.

  “Go, Jahrra,” Cierryon, or maybe Ciarrohn seeping to the surface this time, crooned. “Go to your dragon and see what my men have done with him. A vast improvement, is it not?”

  Jahrra lifted her head, eyes swimming with tears of anger, frustration, and anguish. Her heart was breaking at the sight of Jaax with his now completely shattered wings. Blood dripped from places where shards of white bone stuck through, and his eyes, hard and ruthless as fire-lit emeralds, couldn’t quite hide the pain he must be feeling. The damage was so bad that Jahrra knew, deep down in her heart, that even if they made it out of this nightmare alive, Jaax would probably never fly again. A fresh wave of rage swept through Jahrra, rekindling her flagging strength. She struggled to her feet, stumbling over to him, tears streaming down her face. No one moved to stop her.

  “Jaax!” she managed, throwing herself onto his foreleg.

  She pressed her bloody face against the inside bend of his elbow and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing once again while she relished the rough texture of his scales, the warmth of his skin. They had hurt him so badly, but he was still here with her. Still alive.

  A self-indulgent chuckle behind her and the scrape of fine leather against stone announced Cierryon’s approach.

  “He would not tell us your weakness, Jahrra, so I had my soldiers bind him with spiked metal. And, we couldn’t have him starting any pesky fires, so the muzzle was fashioned specifically for him.”

  He came to stand behind her, one hand clasping his elbow as he casually rested his arms across his chest. The Tyrant tsked, a sound so small compared to the whipping wind churning the clouds above, a mere whisper against the incessant din of the battle far below. But, it grated at her ears like dragon talons against polished granite.

  “I had my best men and skurmages use their charms to, encourage, him to speak, but nothing seemed to work.”

  Jahrra squeezed her eyes shut, and Jaax tried to lower his head over her, to comfort or protect her, she couldn’t say. Unfortunately, the broehr still held tight to the chains keeping him in place. Even his great tail had been secured to the wall with another set of heavy links. In his current state, Jaax could only flare his nostrils and blink his eyes in silent rage. Jahrra ran a hand down his forearm in a gesture of comfort, only to recoil as her fingers dipped over an anomaly in the pattern of his scales. Blinking away her tears, she glanced down, her brow furrowed, only to have her stomach heave in horror. All along his arm, scales, large and small, had been ripped free.

  Jahrra cried in alarm and shot her eyes up at Jaax. That stubborn, hard look, softened only by his concern for her. He was able to give a small shake of his head. It is done, Jahrra. Nothing you can do about it now. The pain will fade with time.

  Fresh tears slid from her eyes, burning the cut on her cheek, the abrasions across her skin. What else had they done to him? She didn’t want to know. Didn’t think she could handle knowing. Instead, she pressed her forehead to the crook in his arm once more, passing on what strength she could.

  The Tyrant sighed, having the audacity to sound bored. “Clearly, all that hard work was a waste of time because it is now glaringly obvious what your weakness is, human. Good thing there is still plenty of the dragon Raejaaxorix left to carve away.”

  A knot formed in Jahrra’s throat, nearly choking her. Denaeh’s words came back to her, then. The conviction that Ciarrohn might draw this war out simply to feast on the misery it produced. Jahrra was starting to think her Mystic friend was right. She could not give in to that despair. She had to push back against the torment, both physical and emotional. She would not give the Tyrant the satisfaction of knowing his words and vile thoughts and deeds affected her. Instead, she focused on what mattered, on who mattered to her the most in this world.

  Jahrra tilted her head up and stepped away from her guardian, just enough so that she could see his face. What she could view through the metal and chains, anyway. Just as it had been a few moments ago, his expression was stern, unwavering. His eyes hard and unyielding. And, in that moment she knew that look in him, the full weight of its meaning striking her like one of those awful war hammers. She knew it, and it terrified her more than anything. It was the look of one willing to sacrifice anything for what he believed in. And right now, in this very minute, for the past several weeks and months and maybe even years, what he believed in was her.

  Some of the Tyrant’s soldiers stepped forward then, their pikes raised, carefully eyeing the broken Tanaan dragon chained mere yards away. Her visit with her guardian was over. There was no time to come up with the right words, so Jahrra caught Jaax’s gaze again, and through clenched teeth, she vowed, “We’ll both get out of this alive, Jaax. We’ll defeat this evil, with our friends, and we’ll go back to Oescienne, or Lidien if you wish. Ruined wings or no, I will take care of you. I promise.” She took a wobbly step back and swept her hand over her heart, her chin held high. “Until my very last breath.”

  The final word caught in her throat as the men grabbed her roughly by the arms and dragged her away. Jaax snarled again, but the broehr and mages standing nearby did something that abruptly made him stop.

  The guards led Jahrra all the way to the foot of the king’s throne and shoved her onto the cold, hard ground. Her knees cracked against the ice and stone, her hands thrown out to stop her forward momentum. Grit dug into her palms, the movement peeling the shirt stuck to her skin free of the semi-healed wounds peppering her torso. She gasped, feeling instantly nauseated again, and blinked back tears as that dark wave of oblivion threatened to sweep her away once more. Despite the vow spoken to Jaax, Jahrra didn’t know how much longer she would last. The bitter cold, the lack of food and water, the layer of filth coating her skin, the emotional and physical trauma of facing Keiron and then witnessing Jaax’s torture …

  The world was beginning to crash down around her, and it was only a matter of time before her strength, her heart, her soul, gave out. She tried to think, tried to dig deep within herself to find the answers, the solution to this grand puzzle of defeating a foe so much more powerful than her. Soon, that doubt she’d carried along her entire life, that small voice inside of her insisting the prophecy had been wrong, or that perhaps Jaax and Hroombra had been wrong, grew stronger as her will grew weaker. She wasn’t really human. She couldn’t break this curse. How could she? Whatever hope still lingered in her soul flickered like a dying flame, desperately clinging to a candlewick as icy rains battered against it.

  “Your friends are all going to die.”

  The deep, resonant voice of Ciarrohn rumbled over the black stone expanse, rattling the jagged crags surrounding Vruuthun Castle and stirring the inky, roiling clouds above.

  Jahrra drew in a shuddering breath as she lay half-sprawled before him.

  “I have your most tenacious champion, chained and broken, my word the only thing keeping him from death.”

  Jahrra pressed her teeth tog
ether so forcefully her jaw ached.

  “And your other allies,” he continued, “the other elves, are playing dragon fodder at the moment. It would be so easy to allow my pets free rein to burn the entire plain into charred rubble, but the battle has only just begun, and I’m still expecting our Tanaan prince to make an appearance. We don’t want him to show up after the party is over, now do we?”

  He angled his head and grinned down at Jahrra, a flash of white teeth against bronzed skin and dark hair. She blinked up at him, her shock at his depravity and cruelty having run dry long ago. And, for the first time since stepping foot onto Ghorium soil, a different emotion bubbled up in the pit of her soul. Pity. Not pity for the evil god entangled with this mortal’s soul, but pity for Cierryon. That he had grown up with hate and ambition showered upon him instead of love and encouragement. And, she wondered if she was the only person in their entire world, besides Denaeh, who had ever looked past the shadows and the shell and wondered if, had Ciarrohn never dug his claws so deep, the Crimson King would have ended up being someone else entirely. The very notion knocked the breath from her, but as it unfurled in her mind, in her heart, in her soul, it settled in like silt drifting to rest on the bottom of a pond. And then she felt something else, another emotion so foreign to her these days: Peace.

  Something in Jahrra’s expression must have angered him, because Cierryon’s flinty eyes grew dark as the evil billowed up inside him once more.

  “Restrain her and bring her to me,” he growled suddenly as he stood from his throne, Ciarrohn once again in control.

  Two soldiers standing nearby dropped their spears and grabbed Jahrra’s upper arms, their hard fingers digging into the bruises there. She caught a gasp of pain before it leapt from her throat, fighting against their hold until one of them pressed a knife to her throat.

  The Crimson King stepped down from his tiered dais and strode to the south-facing edge of the castle’s rooftop. His men parted as he passed, Jahrra, still resisting but not actively struggling, close behind as the soldiers obeyed their master’s orders.