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

  Cierryon had not joined the melee, instead opting to climb casually into his throne and sit there, like some spectator enjoying a friendly tournament. However, it wasn’t the calm, confident king that had caught Jahrra’s attention, but the black tendril of smoke, so thick it appeared almost solid, rising up from behind him. Blinking in surprise, she regained her feet and took a step back, no longer distracted by Jaax and the broehr. As she stood there, frozen in place, the tendril grew and swelled. Soon, it was no longer a thin vine of black, but a burgeoning plume of darkness, darkness that was forming into a shape she’d seen only in her nightmares. Cold, a frigidness that reached to her very soul, stole the breath from Jahrra’s lungs.

  As she watched, the battle raging above, below, and all around her, Jahrra realized what she was witnessing. Ciarrohn was finally, finally, drawing upon his stored power. The evil god who had threatened the people of Ethoes for centuries was no longer dormant, for his might had finally begun to erupt into their world.

  * * *

  Kehllor hadn’t thought the expanse of burning red sands would ever end. He and the army of Nephaari, some four thousand strong, had moved across the Great Samenbi Desert for what felt like weeks. They would have reached Ghorium faster, he thought, if only they could have flown like him. But, the men and women warriors needed to rest, as did their battle-trained lennux. And, they could not have taken a direct route. They had to follow the oases dotting the desert if they wished to make it across alive.

  On the fifth day of their journey, Sohlinn Mountain, a towering, lone peak south of Dhonoara, had risen into view. A few days later, they’d crossed into Iiana, the southern part of Ghorium. It wasn’t until they passed through the edge of the Eastern Stacking Range that they’d met up with another band of fighters gathered together to march to Vruuthun.

  “We’re a day away,” one of the group’s leaders had told Kehllor and the Nephaari. “But, I have received word that King Vandrian marches on the Tyrant’s army. The battle may have already started.”

  Kehllor had gritted his teeth. “We had better hurry, then.”

  They’d indulged in one last night of rest, but on the dawn of the next day, they’d pushed hard and by the afternoon, Kehllor had the southern flank of the allied army in his sights.

  “Nephaari!” he roared from above, “The Coalition’s army is only a few leagues away. Get your weapons ready, for the enemy looks to be gaining the advantage.”

  A howling roar rose from the desert people of Terre Moeserre and their battle lennux. Kehllor joined them, adding his fury to the fray as he picked up speed. They closed the distance fast, and as the Nephaari warriors slammed into the Tyrant’s forces, Kehllor raining down his own fire as he joined the Tanaan and the Korli dragons in their fight against the Morli.

  Kehllor had every intention of remaining in the air with his brethren, but when he flicked his eyes to the north, a black castle perched upon the edge of the westernmost mountain overlooking the valley flickered into view and almost dragged him from the sky. Barely, he avoided the flame blast of a Morli dragon as he winged around the beast and aimed for Vruuthun.

  Familiar, so, so familiar …

  Leaving the battle behind, he moved rapidly, cutting through the air and dodging the Morli dragons as he did so. He barely noticed when the much larger Creecemind dragons joined them, blasting the dreaded Morli with their ice. Kehllor was too focused on the castle, and as he drew nearer, memories, identical to those strange dreams he’d been having, flashed into his mind. A young elvin warrior, approaching this castle, captured by soldiers dressed in black and crimson, dragged before a king with pale skin and dark eyes …

  Kehllor still didn’t know what the visions meant, but somehow, he knew the answer lay within the walls of that castle. Still avoiding the occasional enemy dragon, Kehllor edged closer and soon, he could make out the frantic figures darting about the fortress’s rooftop. Men, mostly, dressed in red and black, fleeing in terror as the Creecemind breathed freezing vapor upon them. Against the eastern side of the castle, in a throne carved from the mountain itself, sat a figure dressed in fine robes. The Crimson King.

  Rage boiled in Kehllor’s heart, those memories spinning faster. Yet, it wasn’t the miniscule figure of the king that enraged him, but the shadowy figure rising up behind him. Made of smoke and darkness, the visage of Ciarrohn, demon god of pain and torment, evil and malice, rose like a plume of ash spewing from a volcano. Great, muscular arms and a broad torso formed of black smoke towered above the mountains, while two burning eyes sunk deep within a skeletal head sporting a corona of horns turned to regard him. The inky smoke swirled and spun beneath him like a tornado, the cursed souls of those forced to do the demon god’s bidding.

  “Tanaan prince,” the monstrosity rumbled, his voice deep and resonant, powerful enough to make the mountains tremble, “you have finally returned to meet your fate.”

  A chill of fear, and disbelief, coursed through Kehllor as he beat his wings and snarled at the horror rising above him. He didn’t know if the god’s words were true. He didn’t care, for in that moment, he spotted his friends below. Jaax, chained to a wall and struggling to break free, Jahrra standing at the foot of the throne, her screams swept away on the chill wind and lost amidst the clamor of battle. Whether he was the lost prince of the Tanaan or not, he had only one thing on his mind. He had to fight to save his friends.

  With a snarl of fury, Kehllor tucked his wings in tight and dove towards the abomination that threatened all he cared about.

  * * *

  Jahrra tore her attention away from the melee surrounding her and took a step back from the throne, where an abomination beyond imagination billowed from the soul of Cierryon. The Tyrant himself appeared lethargic, as if caught between a dream and the waking world. He didn’t terrify her. He was only a shell, the mortal body which acted as a conduit for the true Tyrant, the god who now called upon his vast power to fight the new threat currently freezing his army into statues of ice. So much swirling darkness engulfed Jahrra’s senses, but perhaps that is why she noticed the flash of gold in the corner of her vision. Jahrra whirled, slashing her eyes upward towards the sky. Stinging, icy rain struck her face like needles, but she managed to wipe enough blood and sweat away to make out that spark of yellow against all the blackness above.

  “No,” she whispered, true horror clutching her heart.

  Kehllor. He had reached the castle, winging up from the south where the Nephaari had joined the allied army to engage Cierryon’s massive army. It was difficult to see over the castle’s crenellations and past the soldiers tangled up in battle, but there was no mistaking, or missing, the fierce line upon line of desert lennux charging the Tyrant’s quahna. Fierce, animalistic cries went up to mix with the roars of dragons and the screams of Nesnan, Resai, and elvin troops. With teeth and fang, the great cats of Terre Moeserre tore into the eastern flank of the Red Flange, crushing the army’s advance and pushing them back. But Jahrra wasn’t granted time to admire their handiwork. She had been standing still too long, and those soldiers not decimated by the Creecemind had taken notice. A red-clad soldier, the side of his face painted in blood, let out a roar and charged her. She waited until the last minute, sidestepping him and drawing the true edge of her sword upward, cutting into the thin line of exposed flesh just below his leather armor. Jahrra yanked her sword free and spun into a defensive crouch, ready for the next attack.

  Before she could engage another one of the Tyrant’s men, however, a horrendous, bellowing screech rolled through the air, drumming the ground beneath her feet. Jahrra gasped and fell to her knees, her forearms coming up to cover her ears. All around her, the flagging soldiers did the same and for a split moment, the battle came to a cease.

  “Tanaan prince!” Ciarrohn, his vaporous visage now taking a more sinister, solid shape, stretched out one long, corporeal arm.

  The flaming pits that were his eyes focused in on one dragon in particular, the same one Jahrra no
ticed only scant minutes before.

  “No,” she breathed, face going pale as her friend winged closer. “Kehllor, no! Get out of here, now!”

  The enemy closest to her had shaken off the shock of hearing the god’s voice and stumbled towards her, pulling a knife and flinging his sword aside. Jahrra spun on her heel from her half-sitting position, the soldier swiping the knife wide and missing her. As she completed her turn, she tucked her longsword into her side, point sticking out behind her in a dragon’s tail guard. The point pierced the man in the leg, and he screamed, falling down and nearly jerking the sword from her grip. Jahrra climbed to her feet, teeth clenched against the myriad cuts and bruises peppering her body, and yanked her sword free.

  She half ran, half stumbled towards the Tyrant’s throne, the multitude of red soldiers dwindling now that the Coalition’s army had finally breached the castle gate. She didn’t even pause to consider what that meant; to realize her allies were gaining ground. Maybe it was the mere fact that even if the Coalition and the army of Ethoes defeated the malevolent god’s soldiers, that still didn’t guarantee a victory. Ciarrohn still had his host.

  An overwhelming wave of realization crashed into her then. That was it. That was the answer to the question that had been plaguing her since learning of the prophecy and the role she had to play. Only when the connection keeping Ciarrohn anchored to the living body of Cierryon was severed, would the Tyrant be destroyed and the evil god cast from this earth. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to separate them. Only then would Jahrra find reason to rejoice.

  Jahrra set her jaw, her focus now aimed on reaching Cierryon. A quick flick of her eyes in Jaax’s direction told her he was still chained, though doing his best to break free. It pained her to leave him there, but as long as he didn’t pose a threat, the Tyrant’s soldiers paid him no heed. He was safe, for now, even if those bands still cut into him. At least no one was trying to hurt him. Forcing down that overwhelming desire to free her guardian, Jahrra darted forward, her only goal to reach the dais so that she might engage Cierryon. So that she might break through the god’s wards and barriers and somehow, undo the hold he had over his puppet. And, she had to do it before Kehllor decided to do something rash.

  Jahrra was seventy yards away, sixty, fifty … And then Kehllor dove. He dropped through the sky like an arrow, his weight pulling him down, down, down towards the outstretched arm of Ciarrohn. Jahrra could see the fire building between his teeth, ready to breathe his fury against the enemy.

  No. It would not work. He could not destroy the god.

  “Kehllor!” she screamed, staggering to a halt a mere thirty yards from the base of the dais. “He’ll kill you!”

  He didn’t hear her. Couldn’t, not from that distance. Jahrra watched in helpless terror as the billowing mass of Ciarrohn’s arm reached out and snatched Kehllor from the sky like a child reaching into a cage to clutch a tame bird. Ciarrohn wrapped those terrifying fingers around the golden Tanaan dragon, careful not to crush his wings. He drew the dragon in close to his hideous face, those molten eyes narrowing. Kehllor struggled against him, eyes blazing like blue flame. He was still so very far away, but that much Jahrra could see. She stepped forward, not daring to breathe, her heart in her throat.

  Ciarrohn studied the dragon a bit more, his wicked mouth pulling up into a skeletal grin when Kehllor released several bouts of blue-green flame.

  “You wish to singe me, little reptile? I am the god of wrath and ruin. Fire is my slave.”

  He snapped the fingers of his other hand, smoke wisping away and reforming around obsidian claws the size of castle turrets.

  Still clutching Kehllor in his hand, Ciarrohn turned his gaze onto Jahrra.

  “Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for, little human? The lost prince of Oescienne?”

  Jahrra couldn’t speak, the terror paralyzing her. No. Let him go. Please. She couldn’t speak the words, her throat was closing up around them. So, she thought them, as hard as she could, tears forming in her eyes. She shook her head, threw her sword to the ground, held her hands out to her side.

  She vaguely registered Jaax’s muffled roar from behind her.

  “Jahrra! No, don’t stop fighting!”

  Had that been Ellyesce’s voice? But, it couldn’t be. He was locked away in the dungeon with Denaeh. It didn’t matter. Ciarrohn had Kehllor. Her friend. He had Kehllor in his clawed hand. Kehllor, the lost prince of the Tanaan. Not hiding away on some island, far away. Not a coward, after all. Far from it. Kehllor, who had no memory of his past, who had been an outcast for so long. Kehllor, who had journeyed all the way to Terre Moeserre to rally the Nephaari, a people who, all of Ethoes claimed, would never leave their homeland to fight a god. He had brought them here, and now, the most evil entity in the history of Ethoes held him between his fingers. It wouldn’t take much to crush those bones. Dragon bones that seemed so unbreakable to Jahrra were mere twigs beneath the demon god’s grip. It wouldn’t take much…

  “No,” Jahrra managed past the lump in her throat, the tears now spilling from her eyes. Still, she shook her head from side to side. Denying what she was seeing as much as pleading with her enemy.

  Ciarrohn moved ever so slightly, a minor tilt of his head.

  “I think,” he purred, his voice a harsh, fear-inducing rumble, “it is time to finish this game.”

  Before Jahrra could even register what he was doing, Ciarrohn’s free hand whipped up and grabbed Kehllor’s lower half, and with a quick jerk, he wrenched both hands in opposite directions.

  Time came to a standstill, the crunch of bone punching Jahrra’s ears.

  Ciarrohn opened both hands, and the mangled, limp form of a golden Tanaan dragon fell. Tumbled ungracefully through the air, only to slam into the stone terrace several feet in front of her.

  Jahrra’s legs gave out, her stomach heaved. She didn’t even feel the sharp pain coursing up her legs as her knees cracked against the unforgiving basalt floor. Didn’t realize it was her own horrified screaming that grated at her ears.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her own voice rose above the roaring silence, “KEHLLOR! Nooo!!!”

  The rush of sound slammed into her, time picking up once again, unsympathetic to the sudden, stabbing sorrow piercing her heart. Unaware that part of her world had just been shattered.

  Somewhere, beyond the veil of shock and grief, she could hear other screams and shouts of dismay. Her other friends who had breached the castle. Jaax’s muffled roar. Ellyesce, yes, that was Ellyesce, snarling in sickened rage. She even picked out Denaeh’s pained voice, too.

  Jahrra managed to get to her feet, stumbling forward, eyes wide, breath coming in gasps. She tried to go to Kehllor, to see if he still lived. Logic told her there was no way. Ciarrohn had broken his back, crushed his spine. When she reached his motionless form, she knew he was gone. He lay on his side, but his spine had been wrenched so badly that his hind legs jutted out to the side. His wings, the wings the Tyrant had been so careful to avoid, spread out like discarded banners. She thought of Jaax’s wings. Snapped, torn, broken beyond repair, and the anguish stirred anew. Jaax may never fly again. Kehllor wouldn’t. Fighting against the pain lodged in her chest, Jahrra limped forward, following Kehllor’s outstretched neck. Already, his scales had begun to dull, the warmth that so often accompanied dragon-kind seeping away. Sobbing, Jahrra reached out a bloody hand and pressed it to his snout. His eyes were closed, never again would she see their careful calculation, their humor, their curiosity.

  Jahrra shot her own eyes up to the evil god, rage boiling up from within. She curled her fingers into fists and clenched her teeth so tight her jaw ached.

  But, Ciarrohn didn’t care about some human girl and her pain, except to siphon it and add to his growing power. He stared down at her, his presence billowing out to nearly encompass her.

  “Give up your little war, girl. Without your prince to return to Oescienne to take his throne, there is no longer
any reason to fight.”

  “No,” Jahrra rasped. “I will never give up until your foul presence is wiped from the face of Ethoes.”

  The demon god bared his dark, nebulous teeth in a snarl and bellowed, “Very well! If you haven’t seen enough of death and ruin yet, then I’ll give it to you!”

  His essence shot up into the sky, an ash cloud rising swiftly and growing even larger than before, his molten eyes focusing entirely on Jaax.

  Jahrra screamed again, readying herself to run to her guardian. She had just lost Kehllor. She could not lose anyone else. Especially not Jaax.

  But the force of Ciarrohn’s rage was enough to smack Jahrra to the ground. She hit hard, slamming back against the stone so violently she was surprised the force didn’t crack her skull.

  She was vaguely aware of Jaax roaring in fury before the black smoke of Ciarrohn engulfed her completely and the world went dark and silent.

  -Chapter Twenty-Eight-

  The Storm Descends

  Jahrra was gone. She had been standing before the presence of Ciarrohn, daring him to do his worst, and then she was just … gone. Jaax’s eyes widened in terror, his nostrils flaring. White-hot rage, and worse yet, acidic fear, gripped his heart, and the pathetic attempts at pulling free of his chains became a true fight. He put all his strength into it, groaning against the biting pain as the spikes dug deep. Jaax snarled, fighting the waves of blackness that threatened to pull him under, and tugged his legs as hard as he could. It was no use. That soul-deep rage threatened to burn through him, hotter than dragon flame. If only his jaws weren’t sealed shut, he might be able to melt the metal chains with his fire. Even that option was denied to him. He continued to thrash, utterly unwilling to give up, to let Jahrra be swallowed by the pure evil and malice that was Ciarrohn taking semi-physical form.