Boriahs’ skin crawled as he left the mages to their work. The last time he had spoken to Cierryon, he had good news to report. They had taken Cahrdyarein and then the sniveling elf, Keiron, had convinced himself he held a higher rank than Boriahs. The Tyrant’s commander grinned, the only bit of satisfaction he could find on this cold morning, and cast a glance over his shoulder. The spoiled princeling, no, not even a prince but a regent’s son, curled quivering in a pathetic ball on the floor. The cavern might have kept the harsh winds from peeling the skin from their bones, but it was still bitterly cold. And since the supplies were limited, Keiron, being an outsider, did not get a blanket at night. That he was still alive was a miracle in and of itself. Boriahs had seen him leap from the bridge, screaming in terror as the Tanaan dragon bore down on him, streaming torrents of emerald flame. The boy had nearly broken his ankles from the steep fall, but managed not to tumble over the edge of the cliff and plummet to the river thousands of feet below.
Boriahs sneered and turned back around. The only reason he kept the elf with his company was so he’d have a sacrifice to hand over to his master. When Cierryon learned of Jahrra’s escape, his rage might be strong enough to span the distance currently separating them. Even if he waited until their arrival in Ghorium to unleash his wrath, Boriahs had every intention of thrusting the regent’s son before his king and pointing out, very carefully, that it was the elf who had failed his master, not his loyal commander.
The cavern grew abruptly narrow, the path curving around a blind corner. Boriahs bent down to retrieve the torch left beside the tunnel, sucking in a sharp breath as his knee protested, and used his flint and knife to light it once more. Before stepping into the darkness, he peeked over his shoulder again. The skurmages had a fire going, and his men were beginning to stir. He had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Dreading the conversation with Cierryon, but knowing avoiding it would be worse, he stepped into the small alcove hidden from the main chamber of the cave and blinked at the reflection of firelight upon a black surface. They had been lucky to find a cave with pools of water available for scrying.
Taking a deep breath, more carefully this time so as not to coat his lungs with ice crystals, Boriahs wedged the handle of his torch into a crack in the wall and knelt before the pool. His injured knee creaked as he lowered his body onto the other one, but he ignored the pain, a fragment of anxiety creeping into his heart. The moment it fluttered to life, he squashed it with more force than necessary. If he was to be a lord of his own realm once he delivered the human girl to his master, he mustn’t allow any weakness to show.
Focusing his mind, he went through the steps to transform the black, smooth surface of the pool into a scrying mirror. For several seconds, he waited, heart thundering in his ears. Then a pinprick of molten red winked to life in the water, quickly joined by another.
“Master,” Boriahs breathed, head bowed in reverence.
“Fear clings to you like the stench of death,” a deep, malevolent voice rumbled, shaking loose stones free of the cavern wall.
None broke the surface of the water, however, and Ciarrohn spoke on, his demonic visage growing clearer in the gloom.
“You have news to deliver that will not please me. Come, tell me now.”
Boriahs blinked up, fighting hard against a shudder. He was used to seeing the more human-like form of Cierryon, the man who had been poisoned by the evil god since his birth. But in the spirit world, the one accessed through dark magic and the scrying pools, Ciarrohn’s image most often appeared. A black, elongated skeletal face capped by two wicked horns melted into view. Empty slits for a nose, burning embers for eyes and a mouth locked in a hideous grin, the jaws lined with black pointed teeth filling out the rest of the horrid face. A demon monster to cast fear into the hearts of even the most wicked beings of Ethoes.
Dropping his gaze again, Boriahs admitted the truth, “The girl has slipped from our grasp.”
Even though he was expecting it, the searing, bitter cold slicing through his flesh and bones drew a rasping cry from his throat. Boriahs fell over, convulsing upon the floor as his master let his rage run its course.
“You will tell me every detail, and if you leave anything out, you will suffer for it,” Ciarrohn hissed after his initial anger passed.
Boriahs was no fool. He told the dark god everything that had happened between their pursuit of Jahrra and her companions after leaving Cahrdyarein. How Keiron, certain of his victory and eager to see Jahrra hauled off by the commander of the Red Flange, had insisted on joining them. How they had surprised the small party on the bridge spanning the canyon below Nimbronia. How, at one point, they had both the girl and the dragon in their custody. And how she had thrown herself from the bridge as a distraction to give the Tanaan beast a chance to break free.
“So, it was the elf whelp who allowed the girl to escape, then?”
Boriahs jerked his head, tamping down the spark of delight warming his heart. He had to play this just right, or Ciarrohn would accuse him of pointing a finger at another. That would only prove to the god he was weak. Boriahs wasn’t weak. Nor was he stupid.
“I should never have allowed him to join our party, my lord,” Boriahs said in what he hoped was a humble tone. “After nearly ruining everything with his ill-fated attempt at kidnapping, I should have removed his head from his shoulders. But,” he added when the god’s eyes flared within the black pool’s depths, “I wished to save that honor for you.”
Ciarrohn’s visage settled, those molten eyes cooling.
“You chose wisely, slave, but do not think your punishment will be overlooked. When you arrive in Vruuthun, you will be dealt with, as will the elf. He travels with you still?”
Clenching his back teeth, Boriahs nodded. “He wished to return to Cahrdyarein, but we refused to send him. I have a pair of soldiers keeping an eye on him at all times to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak away.”
“Good.”
The reply from Ciarrohn reverberated throughout the cavern on a long, droning note. Much of the activity of Boriahs’ men had been blocked by the curving walls of the back chamber, but the god’s response clearly alarmed the others. Nervous, frightened chatter kicked up as the crash of stalactites breaking free and plunging to the ground greeted his ears. His master’s displeasure reaching across realms.
“Do you wish for us to pursue the girl?” Boriahs asked when the uproar had settled once again.
“No,” Ciarrohn replied. “I wish for you and what remains of the Red Flange to return to Ghorium immediately. My power grows every day, and soon I will be strong enough to strike a death blow to those pitiful elves to the south. Once we crush the heart of the Coalition, the girl will be easy enough to pluck from what remains.”
Boriahs wondered why his master wanted the girl alive. If she was prophesied to destroy him, why he would allow her to continue drawing breath was beyond him. But Ciarrohn was the god of cruelty, hate, malice, and despair. Killing Jahrra outright would not prolong her suffering and to give someone a quick death, especially someone who had caused him so much trouble, went against his nature.
With a quick nod and a newly sworn vow to do as he was asked, Boriahs spoke the words to end the connection through the pool, then rose to his feet. He once again limped back to the main cavern to find the men shaken but ready to continue their march down the Great Hrunahn Mountains.
“What has our master asked of us?” one of the higher ranking soldiers inquired.
Boriahs flicked his dark eyes from face to face, noting the grim expressions, some a bit nervous, some resentful, before they locked with the blue gaze of Keiron. Hatred and loathing burned there, but beneath that defiance churned fear. The commander of the Red Flange grinned with malicious glee, the action pulling at the scars branded into his cheek. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and barked, “Gather the quahna! We ride for Ghorium and war!”
A cheer erupted, and the anxiety tightening itself around the group less
ened. Boriahs’ beast was brought to him, and as he mounted, he called over two of his better riders.
“I need you to travel to Cahrdyarein and tell the rest of the Flange our master wants us home. You can join them and catch up with us later. Before you leave, however, make sure more messengers are dispatched to round up the rest of our soldiers dispersed throughout the west. Cierryon and Ciarrohn have called us to battle, and we will eagerly comply.”
As Boriahs and his ragged soldiers left the cave, finding a snow-clogged road leading out of the ranges and toward the Great Hrunahn Wilderness, two red riders turned south to return to Cahrdyarein with the news the Tyrant was finally ready to wage his war. And as the servants of the Crimson King dispersed like flame ants scattering from their nest, a set of golden eyes marked their every move from much farther up the peak.
Dread pooling in her heart, the Mystic Archedenaeh breathed, “Ethoes above and below, I can no longer afford to wait.” For she could not deny what she had overheard in that cavern nook. As the last lingering threads of her consciousness swept up through the ice-laced cracks of the earth, returning to her mind after eavesdropping on the Tyrant’s commander, the terrifying truth of those words spread forth like the long, lingering peal of a bell. A death knoll as the first cry for war echoed through the core of the world.
With a shaking breath, the Mystic threw the hood of her cloak up over her head.
“Come along, Milihn,” she called out to the korehv resting on a jut of rock just above her head, “we have to catch up to Jahrra. We have run out of time.”
-Chapter Two-
The Great Forest
Jaax had been right. The next morning the group of travelers came to the bottom of a great culvert and discovered a sea of lower mountain peaks stretching out before them.
“The eastern group of the Hrunahn Footmountains. No more severe altitude sickness and, Ethoes willing, no more snow.”
Jahrra glanced over at Ellyesce, whose expression remained as neutral as his tone. A pall of impending dread had been nipping at her heels ever since leaving the protective walls of Nimbronia, and the elf’s own prolonged stoicism had not helped. In fact, ever since leaving Cahrdyarein behind she’d been antsy, nervous, certain someone or something had been following them. Her mouth thinned as she reminded herself that her instincts had proved true in one aspect, at least. Keiron’s betrayal still clung to her with sharp, bitter claws, even if it wasn’t so fresh anymore. An old scar she could run her fingers over, recalling the memory of pain but not feeling it. Still, it had taught her not to extend her trust so easily in the future. A good lesson, probably, considering what awaited her in Ghorium, but it had hurt nonetheless.
A dragon’s shadow passed overhead, followed by a draft of wind kicked up by the beat of great wings as Jaax dropped from a peak above.
Well, Jahrra thought to herself as she watched his graceful form cut through the air, gliding toward the lower ranges, at least I can still place my faith in one soul.
She shifted in her saddle to check on Dervit, clinging to Rumble’s mane behind her. The limbit had been rather quiet of late, too, only becoming more animated at night while they chatted around the fire and played Astral cards. Once reassured Dervit hadn’t fallen off his horse farther back up the trail, she angled her head and gave Ellyesce another sidelong glance. He wasn’t looking at her, but watching Jaax, as she had done earlier. Or, perhaps, he was studying the seemingly endless range of craggy, snow-capped mountains reaching almost to the horizon below, calculating the time it would take them to reach Dhonoara. A shiver of nervousness boiled up in the pit of her stomach. Dhonoara was to be their last reprieve before plunging headlong into war. As much as she longed to see the legendary valley, she also dreaded the day they stepped foot between its sheer walls.
Stop it, Jahrra, she chided herself. Worrying about what is to come will only make you sick. Jahrra frowned, her stomach plunging uncomfortably as Gliriant took a sudden, jerking step forward at Ellyesce’s command.
Jahrra’s brow furrowed as she studied the tense set to the elf’s shoulders and the way he jumped at every little sound. Yes, he’d been overly alert of late, but this was almost verging on paranoia. Glad to have another puzzle to occupy her own harried mind, Jahrra tried to recall the details from Ellyesce’s conversation with her guardian the night before. Unfortunately, she’d only caught a few of the words exchanged between them.
Jaax had mentioned something about the elves of Hrunah, and Ellyesce had asked if they planned to travel south. She had no idea what one had to do with the other, but she figured she’d know soon enough.
“Look, Jahrra,” Ellyesce said quietly, drawing her away from her reverie.
Jahrra narrowed her eyes. They were still a good deal up the Hrunahn Mountains, but off to the south the slopes gave way to an immense forest, its thick canopy of leaves crashing against the stony cliffs like an endless jade ocean. The view was absolutely breathtaking, and for a few moments, Jahrra let that beauty engulf her and chase away all her worries and fears. She strained her eyes, trying to see farther than they would allow. At the very edge of her vision, two great expanses of blue water shimmered between the mountains and the endless woodland. Lake Hrunah and Lake Runess, if she was remembering her geography lessons properly. A silvery thread of color twined from the base of the mountains and met up with the southernmost lake, the Runehn River. Jahrra closed her eyes and pictured some of Hroombra’s old maps. While the Runehn fed Lake Runess with the snowmelt from the Hrunahn Mountains, the Saem curved away from the lake and emptied into the ocean in the west. They had made a full, sweeping arc since leaving Oescienne a little over a year ago, though it seemed like they’d traveled thousands upon thousands of miles and been gone for much longer. Jahrra wasn’t sure how far the mouth of the Saem River was from where they stood, but she imagined they might make it there in a week or two if they wished. But they were not heading home.
A pang of soul-deep regret pierced through her, and the moment of blissful ease melted away like a flake of snow drifting into a campfire. How much she longed to return home now, to forget about her responsibilities as Ethoes’ savior. Responsibilities she never asked for. For just a little while, Jahrra imagined going back to Lidien to see Torrell, Senton, and Dathian. To spend one more day attending classes at the University and practicing her fighting skills in the park. She’d gladly put up with Shiroxx and her cronies and their nasty glares and whispered lies if only to feel the freedom of being a careless young woman once again whose only responsibilities included studying and attending boring Coalition meetings. If not for the Tyrant and his looming threat to the entirety of Ethoes, she could spend her summer break in Oescienne with Gieaun and Scede, maybe even convince her friends from Lidien to join her. They could ride across the fields of tall grasses, seek out unicorns in the Wreing Florenn and camp for an entire week at Lake Ossar.
“Jahrra?”
Dervit’s quiet voice crept into her thoughts, and she drew in a deep breath, letting the memories and fantasies drift away. It was for the best, she told herself. Lingering on what could not be would only make her heart ache worse. If she wished to succeed in Ghorium, she had to focus on devising a plan to overthrow the Tyrant, as impossible as that seemed.
Jahrra turned in the saddle to regard the limbit and forced a smile. Not all of her friends were lost to her, at least. She had Dervit and Ellyesce. And Jaax. Three close friends who would never betray her. Of that, she was certain, and such knowledge was just as heartwarming as picturing herself in Oescienne once again.
When all of this is over, she told herself, determined to look on the bright side, we will all return to Oescienne again.
Dervit managed to convince Rumble to move forward, the gentle packhorse complying without a fuss.
“Look,” he murmured, one furry hand pointing off toward the massive forest, his brown eyes wide with wonder.
Brow furrowed, Jahrra followed his finger. There, along the distant horizon,
a section of the rolling green canopy lifted like a tall hill toward the sky.
Jahrra blinked, then turned and reached into Phrym’s saddlebags to extract a spyglass. She held the narrow end to her eye and found the patch of forest Dervit had indicated. The expanse of trees remained relatively uniform for miles upon miles except for that one portion.
“What on Ethoes?” she muttered to herself.
“The giant conifers of Hrunah,” Ellyesce explained.
Jahrra let out a small yelp, nearly losing her spyglass. The elf had been so silent, Jahrra so lost in her daydreaming of home, that she’d forgotten he was right beside her.
“What?” Dervit asked.
“The forest elves live there, but I do not think we will have the liberty of visiting their great city this time around. Doing so would take us too far off our course. However, some of the trees we’ll be passing through in the northern part of their territory you’ll find rather impressive, I believe.”
He gave her a tight smile, and once again, Jahrra got the prickling feeling that Ellyesce was not so eager to cross through the territory of the forest elves. She furrowed her own brow. Perhaps she should just ask him about it tonight when they set up camp.
Ellyesce glanced up at the sky, taking note of the sun’s location. He turned an inquiring brow over at Jahrra and Dervit. “Shall we get moving again? I would like to cover as much distance as possible before the day ends, and Jaax has already flown ahead of us. We don’t want to fall too far behind.”
Jahrra nodded and put her spyglass away. For five more miles or so, the trio descended the steep mountainside, moving ever closer to the sea of trees below. The moment they entered the true edge of the forest, a feeling of cool, green wildness settled over Jahrra. She took in deep, cleansing breaths of air, closing her eyes and letting her other senses take over as the full, overhead branches of evergreens and deciduous trees alike blotted out the relentless glare of the sun. The distant trickle of water, the cries of birds, squirrels, and a nameless number of other forest animals greeted her ears. Far above, the boughs of the trees rustled and creaked in the breeze, and the delicate scents of flowers in bloom perfumed the cool air. Spring had awoken across Ethoes, well, at least the lower altitudes of Ethoes. Feeling at ease for the first time in days, Jahrra opened her eyes and scoured the trail ahead of her. Ellyesce led the way, following a wide ribbon of dark, rich earth that twined around the trunks of mixed aspen, birch, pine, and fir. On either side of the path, ferns, small dogwoods, wild azalea, ivy, and other various shrubs filled in the space between the trees and their fallen brethren. It was a stark contrast to the sheer cliffs and snowy peaks that had accompanied them since leaving Nimbronia, but a welcome one nonetheless.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 3