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

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Just your mind playing tricks, Jahrra. It isn’t real, it isn’t real … Though, the pain in her scalp and the throb where a bruise was forming behind her knees was most certainly real. As was the crude conversation, spoken in a strange language, shared between the members of the Red Flange as they dragged their captives behind them. Jahrra didn’t even bother trying to discern their words, for she could only guess what they said. Instead, she tried to take stock of how Ellyesce and Denaeh were doing. Every so often, a hissed protestation or a soft, pained cry came from Denaeh, followed by an angry, almost protective growl from Ellyesce. Each time, though, the thud of a swift kick or hard slap told Jahrra her friends were receiving the same hospitality she was. Eventually, despite her attempts to slow their progress, Boriahs and his men approached the tall gates of Vruuthun. A pair of guards at the top of the wall rushed to obey him, cranking open the iron-barred doors so the soldiers could pass inside.

  The city of Vruuthun was, as Ellyesce had surmised earlier, entirely deserted, save for the occasional mongrel dog and skinny rat, both scurrying about looking for a stray scrap of food. Wooden doors guarding houses lay in disrepair, and a few coals still smoldered in pits where fires had once blazed. It was as if the city had emptied mere hours before Jahrra and her friends had spied it from the hills. Relentless gusts of wind curled around stony corners, kicking up ash and debris and throwing Jahrra’s loose hair into her face. At least, the strands of hair the foul-breathed soldier hadn’t grasped in his fist. She wanted to throw her boot heel back and kick him somewhere that would leave him incapacitated for a week, but the flash of a blade at first Denaeh’s and then Ellyesce’s throat had her behaving like an obedient child. Internally, her rage and fear battled together, giving her more courage than she thought she could muster on her own considering the circumstances. For now, Jahrra would do as she was told since so far, these men had no plans to kill her. If the Tyrant truly wished for her to be brought to him alive, then perhaps, that spark of hope she’d been nurturing hadn’t snuffed out after all.

  The party reached the top of one of the seemingly endless switchback roads, and a large rodent leapt out of a narrow alleyway between two buildings, a mangy dog snarling in its wake. The quahna closest to Jahrra squealed and snapped, almost catching the dog’s tail in its teeth. An uneasy shuffle started as the soldiers worked to get their animals under control. Jahrra’s handler craned his neck to shout something to his comrades, taking Jahrra’s hair with him. She hissed as pain shot across her skull. This time, she did kick out, the hard toe of her boot catching him in the groin. The man gasped in shock and fell to his knees. Blades hissed free of scabbards, their points aimed at her chest. Jahrra lifted her arms, showing she wasn’t about to try anything else. Not that she could if she wanted to. Her own sword, bow, and daggers were in the possession of Boriahs now. Ellyesce’s and Denaeh’s as well.

  “I just wanted the pig to let go of my hair. I won’t run. You have my friends, and you sorely outnumber us,” she said, her voice, to her surprise, calm and even.

  The captain of the Red Flange, Cierryon’s war general, narrowed his dark eyes at her, the branded scar on his cheek standing out even more against his pale skin. Jahrra did not drop her gaze. Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance, narrowing her own eyes in what she hoped was an expression of fearlessness.

  Boriahs smiled, then chuckled and shook his own head. “Very well, girl. You will be tied like your friends.”

  He gestured towards a pair of soldiers who swiftly dismounted, pacing forward with iron manacles and chains. Jahrra fought a smile as she watched them step over their injured, groaning friend.

  “His highness is going to love you, for your stubbornness rivals that of the worthless Tanaan filth he captured the other day.”

  Jahrra’s heart leapt into her throat, and she hoped dearly she hadn’t given anything away by her reaction. She flicked her gaze to Boriahs, the faint smile still on his face. His own eyes glittered, sharp obsidian like the castle above and the city surrounding them. It was impossible to tell if he had ferreted out her secret, or if his amusement lingered from whatever vile thoughts had crossed his mind when he imagined bringing her before his king. Either way, she would have to be far more careful from this point onward.

  At least, she told herself as the three soldiers climbed back into the saddle, and they began moving once again, I didn’t look at Ellyesce or Denaeh.

  As the soldiers led their captives up the final incline leading to the base of the castle, a pair of large eyes watched them intently from the shadows of an alley, the red, pointed ears rising above them swiveling to listen carefully for any potential sounds of danger.

  -Chapter Twenty-One-

  The Black Fortress

  Dervit had kept his word to Jahrra. At least, that is what he kept reminding himself as he trailed after the Tyrant’s soldiers through this awful city filled with predators and filth and bad omens.

  I promised her I wouldn’t travel with them, he thought to himself, ears twitching, nose drawing in every odor, both foul and useful. His nose didn’t look like a fox’s, but it could pick up scent like one. He had watched Jahrra, Denaeh, and Ellyesce depart the Coalition’s camp, three dark shapes moving through the moors, and he had made his decision. In all honesty, he had made it the moment Jahrra had asked him to stay behind. The cunning fox in him had agreed with her words before she could think to make him swear an oath not to follow them.

  She only made me promise I wouldn’t travel with them, he repeated again and again in his head, and I haven’t traveled with them. Only after them.

  They had never sensed him as he followed their trail, keeping no more than an hour behind them. And, he had been right about Ellyesce not sending his magic too far back. After all, the enemy was ahead of them. No need to watch their backs too intently when it would be much more useful to search ahead. He had carefully kept his distance, every animal sense he possessed on high alert. During that second night when they descended into the valley, he had waited for them to clear the wide delta before emerging from the low-growing chaparral. And, he had just crossed the Noryen himself when the Red Flange had appeared out of nowhere. That old fear from being hunted by a similar group had spiked through him, and he’d dived into a clump of thick heather. They must have been cloaked by one of those awful skurmages in order to avoid detection from Ellyesce and the Mystic. Either way, Dervit had been grateful for one thing: Boriahs and his men were so distracted by their victory of capturing the chosen and her comrades that they didn’t bother to check for anyone else as they hauled them off up the mountain. And, perhaps, that was why Dervit was able to slip through the bars of Vruuthun’s gate so easily.

  A sudden burst of angry barking, followed by a high-pitched squeal and several yelps dragged Dervit back to the present. He had closed in on his quarry now and had to stay close if he didn’t want to lose them in the labyrinthine city. The fact the place was deserted, save for the violent dogs and overgrown rodents, was a boon in his favor. He only had to focus on keeping out of sight of the fifteen or so soldiers leading Ellyesce, Denaeh, and Jahrra away.

  Blinking against the light mist weeping from above, Dervit pressed himself close to the wall as he climbed ever upward, slipping every now and then on the smooth stones of the city roads. More than once, he was tempted to stop and warm his fingers over a pit of hot coals, but he couldn’t afford any distractions. His friends needed him to stay alert and focused. To come this far only to be captured as well would be a tragedy.

  Eventually, the curving road reached the uppermost level of the city, coming to a stop at a large tunnel entrance carved right into the mountainside. Dervit, now crouching behind a pile of refuse, tilted his head upward. Between the roofs of the upper-tier buildings and the castle itself there rose a five hundred foot cliff of sheer, black rock. A few jagged peaks pierced the sky around the castle proper, becoming more numerous on the eastern side where they joined the rest of the Greater Frozen Range
. Morli dragons, some letting loose bursts of red fire every now and again, wheeled above like monstrous sea birds, and the constant, deep pounding rumble of the waves on the other side of the mountains reminded Dervit of the many dangers this desolate place featured.

  Shivering, he hunkered down even farther, nose wrinkling at the rotting meat and vegetation in the trash heap beside him. Some seventy feet away, the road rose above the main thoroughfare and met up with what had to be the dungeon entrance. Two guards wearing the red and black colors of Cierryon stood on either side of the tunnel. Dervit strained his ears, trying to pick up every word as they continued their conversation in common tongue.

  “These two can be taken to the west hold,” their leader, the one called Boriahs, was saying, “but our master will wish to see the human girl sooner. I’ll be taking a few of the men, and we’ll escort her to the traitor’s pen.”

  A few more grunted comments, then the clang of metal striking metal as the portcullis sealing off the underground tunnels was lifted. While the party made their way into the dungeons, Dervit took advantage of their distracted state and scuttled up to the base of the road. He pressed himself flat against the damp stone, heart racing, as only ten feet above him the Tyrant’s soldiers dragged his friends off to prison. If they saw him, he was certain they wouldn’t even bother to imprison him, too. He would most likely be killed on the spot. Just to his left, putrid water leaked from a sewage drain before seeping through another grate in the road. This drain was too high up to be the common sewer for the city, and based on its location, the limbit surmised it led straight into the dungeons.

  Dervit’s nerves rattled in time with the clanging portcullis as it lowered back into place, the condemning din ringing out like the solemn tolling of a death bell. Utterly disheartened, Dervit fought to hold back tears of frustration. Taking several breaths to calm himself, he inched closer to the drain. This, too, was guarded by bars, but in one corner a stone had come loose from the road wall, creating a gap big enough for him to squeeze into. Dervit did not particularly like the idea of tramping through raw sewage and the other manner of decay rotting beneath the castle, but there was no way he could slip past the guards watching the main entrance. Besides, the bars on the portcullis were far closer together than the gap between the grate’s edge and the drain. If he wanted to help his friends, he’d have to risk the filth of the dungeon drainage system. Taking a deep breath and praying to Ethoes he was making the right decision, Dervit stuck his head through the gap, fingers scrabbling at slime-coated stone on the other side, and with great effort, he managed to squeeze through.

  Darkness engulfed him, the only light coming in through the circular grate meant to keep large debris from clogging the tunnels. Dervit shivered a little, a good portion of his vest now damp with sewage. Battling the urge to throw up, he turned and narrowed his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dark. The tunnel he stood in was small, and he had to duck a little, but still had plenty of room to maneuver. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be any more tunnels leading off into different locations. That meant he had less of a chance of getting lost.

  “Well, Dervit,” he whispered to himself as he pulled his arms around his middle to keep warm, “there’s no going back now. Only forward.”

  With one final prayer to his ancestors for courage, he took the first step into the darkness, hoping he might live long enough to be of some help to his friends.

  * * *

  The mountain beneath the Tyrant’s castle was nothing but a network of roughly-hewn tunnels. Like an ant nest, Jahrra thought as she and her two companions were not so gently led deeper and deeper into the dungeons of Vruuthun. They had been blindfolded before setting off from the entrance above the city, but every so often, a flash of light penetrated the scratchy, filthy fabric covering her eyes. Torches lining the walls, she assumed. Jahrra tried to keep a tally of the turns and in which direction she was led, but it was pointless. There were too many to count, and she doubted they would find a chance to escape.

  The soldier in charge of holding onto her dug his fingers into her shoulder, jerking her violently to the side any time they made a change in direction. Gritting her teeth, Jahrra complied, her hands tied before her, her fingers squeezed together into a single fist. It was all she could do to keep from lashing out again. She might try it if she could see. With the blindfold, it was too risky. The wails and moans of the Tyrant’s captives, the occasional crack of a whip, the clang of metal bolts sliding into place, grated against her ears as they traveled ever deeper into the dank, dark fortress. The chorus of a prison. Jahrra tried not to imagine herself in the place of those being tortured, but her mind conjured up horrific images nonetheless.

  Beside her, Denaeh and Ellyesce walked in silence, making no complaint about their current dire situation. She could almost bear it, she thought, if they were to be locked away together, but half an hour after leaving Vruuthun proper behind, the soldiers came to one of many crossroads beneath the mountain and stopped.

  “Take the Mystic and the elf to their cell. I’ll escort the human to hers.”

  That was Boriahs’ voice. Cold, uncompromising, heartless. The hand clasping Jahrra’s shoulder dropped away and something was slipped over her head. She gasped as the prickly fibers of a rope tightened around her neck. A rough tug jerked her forward, and she stumbled, barely breaking her fall with her tied hands. Cold, wet rock cut into her palms, and she hissed in a breath of pain.

  “Come along, dog,” Boriahs growled, yanking on the rope again and pulling her unceremoniously to her feet.

  Behind her, Jahrra could hear Denaeh’s and Ellyesce’s complaints on her behalf. A loud cracking sound followed. A hand making contact with someone’s face. A vicious snarl told Jahrra it was Denaeh who had received the slap and not Ellyesce. Anger blossomed, burning away some of her fear. She squared her shoulders, now standing on her own two feet, and lifted her chin. The blindfold still gave her a severe disadvantage, but it did nothing to quell her spirit.

  “Are the soldiers of the Tyrant’s army so pathetic they find abusing women the only way to prove their masculinity?”

  This time, the blow landed on Jahrra’s face. Not a slap, but a fist connecting with her cheek. Pain exploded beneath her eye, and she staggered to the side, gasping against the shock. The metallic tang of blood pooled on the right side of her mouth. Using her tongue, she checked for any damage. Fortunately, she still had all her teeth intact, though the inside of her cheek sustained a nasty cut.

  “So, I guess the answer to my question is yes,” she managed, hissing as the movement of her jaw caused more pain.

  One of the soldiers beside her snarled, and she braced herself for another attack.

  “Orthan, enough!” Boriahs barked. “If you can’t control yourself over a handful of spiteful words, I’ll recommend his highness feed you to his Morli dragons.”

  Jahrra didn’t have time to be grateful, for Boriahs drew the rope taut again and breathed close to her ear, “Enough defiance from you as well, girl, or I will make it so you’ll never speak again.”

  Unlike the other lackeys, Jahrra truly feared Boriahs. Her few encounters with him were enough to inform her true evil lingered in his heart. He would not act rashly like the dimwitted Orthan. Boriahs had the patience to make her suffering last. And, as much as she enjoyed the chance to anger her captors, she had to remember why she was here. If she antagonized them into retaliation, she’d be in no shape to face down the Crimson King or help Jaax. Best to remain acquiescent. At least, for the time being.

  She was half dragged, half led through the tunnels for another fifteen minutes or so before Boriahs pulled her to a stop. The clank of keys sliding on a key ring, the scrape and click of a bolt in a door and the chilling, squealing protest of stiff hinges told Jahrra they had reached her prison cell. Boriahs, or Orthan, shoved her hard, and she almost stumbled again, catching her balance at the last second. The slam of a heavy door, the approach of weighty footsteps
and the rope and blindfold were removed. Jahrra squinted against the torchlight, then blinked several times as she surveyed her surroundings. She was in a cavernous room, about a hundred feet wide by twenty feet tall. A single door with a small, barred spy hole stood across from her. She spun around, a chill running down her spine upon spotting the metal cage, a large cube composed of iron bars, standing against the far wall. Straw lined the bottom of the prison and a pile of filthy blankets took up one corner. Jahrra’s stomach lurched when the rags writhed.

  “Your home for now, chosen one,” Boriahs sneered.

  He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and dragged her the half dozen yards or so to the cage door. Jahrra fought back, but strong as she was, Boriahs was stronger. He threw her once again through the door, slamming it shut and locking it before she could roll to her feet. Her hands were still tied, but at least the rope and chains were gone.

  “You can relax for now, girl. Someone will be down shortly to check you for any extra weapons we might have missed. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but there would be no point.”

  He turned, laughing at his own cruelty, his men joining him. Jahrra scuttled away from the pile of blankets, not keen on disturbing whatever manner of monstrosity might be calling it home. She tried not to let the despair overwhelm her, and for a while she succeeded, until a man dressed in deep red robes arrived with a set of guards. He used some kind of magic to freeze her in place, and Jahrra could only gape in horror as he stepped into her cell and searched her, none too kindly, for weapons. He found a small dagger tucked into her boot, and his fingers lingered on the pendant hanging from her neck.