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

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  “Someone told me the human was something of a beauty,” one of them sneered. “Looks more like a trussed up sewer rat to me.”

  Another spat at her feet, then gave her a swift kick, just grazing her shin. Jahrra hissed at the pain, but bit her lip and kept walking. She would not give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Eventually, Boriahs led them up into what must have been the castle proper. The dank, icy blackness of the dungeons fell behind them, and hallways lined with narrow windows open to the elements soon replaced the crudely carved tunnels. Despite the damp chill of the wind blowing in through the openings above, Jahrra breathed in the fresh, clean air, enjoying it as much as she’d enjoy a cool ocean breeze back in Oescienne.

  Several more hallways and a few sets of stairs later, Jahrra was standing before a pair of massive wooden doors, stained black from the passage of time. Boriahs snapped out an order, and the guards on either side of the doors leapt to do his bidding. As the ancient doors swung open, an immense hall loomed. Walls composed of black and deep red stone stretched on either side of her, and at the very end of the great room a throne, hewn roughly from the same dark basalt throughout the castle, rose like the jagged head of some dark dragon. The king’s mercenary gave Jahrra another unforgiving shove, and she stumbled more than stepped into what was clearly the Tyrant’s throne room. Guards lined the walls on either side, standing between the places where long, narrow slits in the stone looked out over Vruuthun City below. Only the echo of two sets of boot heels cracking against the stone accompanied them as they approached the throne, and the single man who sat there, waiting.

  Boriahs stopped her some yards before the dais, then knelt before his king. Jahrra forced herself to glance up at him, to meet his gaze. After spending years learning about this man, this Tyrant the whole world feared and despised, she finally laid eyes upon him. At first glance, he resembled any other Nesnan elf she had seen in her lifetime. He was darkly handsome, his hair and closely trimmed beard nearly black. Pale skin in a finely formed face that held hints of Denaeh almost glowed white against the black and dark red colors he wore. He appeared almost normal, a fine lord like all the others, but when Jahrra’s eyes met his, she knew this outer shell was nothing compared to what roiled beneath his skin. In the depths of those black eyes she sensed it, saw it, if not with her own eyes then with her soul. Demon god. Power, hatred, pure evil. Ciarrohn, in all his horrible might, lingered just below the surface, a writhing, suffocating black cloud of death, waiting for his moment to pour forth into the world. Jahrra clenched her teeth against a shudder, as her soul tightened with instinctual fear.

  “What do you want from me,” she managed, pouring as much loathing into her tone as she could.

  The Tyrant huffed a small laugh, the rings upon his fingers flashing deep garnet red.

  “I would love for you to die, human filth,” he rumbled, his voice too ancient, too dark to be of their world, “but you may hold information I simply must have before I wipe you from the face of this earth.”

  Jahrra drew in a breath through her nose, trying to quash her fear. That had been the question she’d been trying desperately to figure out, and purge from her mind, for the past few days. Why was she still alive? Why did the Tyrant allow her to live when she was prophesied to bring about his undoing? Why would he take that risk? Unless, he suspected her of harboring some information he needed to regain his full power. Jahrra could think of no other reason to keep her alive.

  Drawing on the last dregs of her courage, Jahrra met the Tyrant’s unrelenting gaze with her own. “And, what exactly,” she choked out from a dry throat, “do you think I know?”

  The king snapped his fingers, and a scarlet-clad attendant rushed forward with a glass vessel full of a blood-red liquid. Jahrra’s stomach lurched as the servant poured the thick liquid into a crystal goblet and continued to fight her rising nausea as the Tyrant took a drink.

  He laughed at her expression. “Relax, my lovely little prisoner. It is only marsh berry wine. One of Ghorium’s finest products. I’d offer you some, but this particular bottle is ancient and worth more than your pathetic life.”

  The king’s words were no longer encased in the power of a god, and the blackness swirling in the depths of his eyes had stilled. So, Ciarrohn had settled back into the pit of Cierryon’s soul, then. When he proceeded to recline in his throne, sipping his wine like a lord relaxing before a fire after a long hunt, Jahrra’s patience cracked. She would rather be back in her dank cell, shivering and fighting off hungry rodents than playing the day’s entertainment to her mortal enemy.

  “I’ll ask you again,” she growled, “what do you want from me?”

  The Tyrant’s face sobered, and he set his goblet aside, then leaned forward in his throne, his elbows pressing against his thighs.

  “I am looking for a Tanaan dragon.”

  The words were spoken so softly, she almost missed them. Nevertheless, Jahrra’s heart slammed against her chest, and she fought desperately to calm her erratic nerves. Jaax. Could he mean Jaax? But, he’d already captured her guardian. Who else might he be looking for, then? Realization poured over her like ice water. The last prince of Oescienne …

  When she thought she could speak without her voice betraying her, Jahrra licked her lips and rasped, “Tanaan dragon?”

  The Tyrant nodded. “As much as I wish to slit your throat and be rid of you before that thrice-accursed prophecy can be fulfilled, there is one more act of vengeance I must enact. But, I cannot do that until I find the missing player.”

  Jahrra said nothing, but she felt what little color she had left in her face drain away with her flagging courage. Deep, deep within the depths of her heart, a lingering question, a suspicion that had so often waxed and waned over the years she’d spent in her guardian’s company, came bursting forth. She had almost spoken the words that night in Dhonoara, on the balcony overlooking the valley after the banquet. They had been on the tip of her tongue, but she had been too afraid to speak them, hadn’t even been willing to whisper them to herself within the privacy of her mind. And now, the Tyrant was asking her about Tanaan dragons. Either she was utterly wrong, or he had no idea who his Morli dragons had captured.

  “You see,” he drawled, his voice deepening as Ciarrohn rose within him once again, “this particular individual had the audacity to attack me, after his father failed miserably to usurp my throne. Was stupid enough to traverse a continent and face me because he was upset I killed his entire family.”

  Jahrra’s heart drummed against her ribs.

  “I wish to break every bone in his scaly body. Show him what true vengeance is. Prove to that pathetic little Tanaan prince that, even in dragon form, he is nothing but a weakling, and that his escape five centuries ago was nothing more than mere luck.”

  Jahrra was trembling now, her blood running hot and cold. No. He couldn’t know. Because if he has Jaax locked away somewhere, she thought with horror, he would already know… Or, he was simply toying with her.

  “Perhaps, I should describe the dragon prince to you. Then, you can tell me whether or not he is one of those who traveled with you.”

  She couldn’t breathe. The air had grown too thin, or her lungs had shriveled up.

  “I remember the circumstances of his transformation as if it happened yesterday,” he said, shifting in his throne so that he now leaned forward, elbows on his knees, interlaced fingers resting beneath his chin. “Upon assuming his dragon form,” the Tyrant drawled, oblivious, or uncaring, to Jahrra’s growing distress, “I reached out for the Tanaan prince with a clawed hand, slicing through his scales and flesh, leaving a long scar from the top of his brow, running over his eye, and continuing down his neck and ending just above his heart. It would have left a visible scar. Perhaps, not deep, but noticeable.”

  Suddenly, Jahrra’s shaking stopped, and a new horror washed over her. Ethoes above. She had been wrong. So, so wrong. Not Jaax. Not Jaax, not Jaax, not Jaax …

&
nbsp; She wheezed in a shuddering breath and glanced up at the Tyrant. A quick look, nothing more, but she caught the wicked smirk on his face, the eyes, sharp with malicious intelligence, informing her she had given too much away.

  “So, you do know of this dragon. A Tanaan dragon with blue eyes and scales of gold. And, a scar running down his face and neck. Tell me, is he the one they called your guardian, and not the male I currently have imprisoned? Is the Tanaan prince a close friend of yours?”

  The king stood from his throne and climbed the shallow steps to stand before her, his dark cloak unfurling like a menacing thundercloud behind him. All around the hall, the guards shifted ever so slightly, as if Ciarrohn’s evil, barely contained within the confines of the Crimson King’s fragile body, pressed against them. Like scarlet and ebony chess pieces sliding to the edge of the playing board, they shifted to make room for the dominating force that ruled them all.

  When Ciarrohn - for Cierryon was nowhere to be found in those fathomless eyes - was mere feet away from Jahrra, he stopped, his dark robes settling about him like dense smoke. He had his hands clasped casually at the small of his back, a jovial king coming to chat with a penitent subject. If only that were the case. He leaned forward, his face not too far from Jahrra’s. She made to step back, but Boriahs’ presence, as stealthy as a loyal cat’s, kept her in place.

  The god-king whispered harshly in her ear, “Did he tell you what he was, who he was, Jahrraneh Drisihn?”

  Her name was like a foul taste on his tongue, spat from his mouth with revulsion.

  “Did he tell you he started his life as a human, just like you? In all that time, he kept you hidden, did he tell you he was the last prince of the Tanaan?”

  Erratic thoughts bombarded themselves against her skull. Not Jaax. Not Jaax. Not Jaax. That deeply imbedded suspicion torn out by the roots now, leaving her reeling. She had been so sure, so very sure, especially in these past few months. How her Tanaan guardian always managed to exude a regal presence. How he seemed to know everything about the history of the Tyrant and the last Tanaan tribe of humans. How he did everything he could to keep those secrets locked up and out of her reach. His influence with the Coalition. The beautiful estate in Lidien. His ability to speak freely with the kings and stewards they had met along the way. She had even tried asking him, before this looming war finally broke; before it simply became impossible to discuss such things. And now, her certainty had been dashed against the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. She had been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Jaax was not the last prince of the Tanaan. Kehllor was.

  The other young Tanaan dragon with the capacity to lead and hold himself with regal grace if called to do so. Her friend who had been so quiet at first, always thinking, always calculating. An outcast among his own kind. A dragon with a forgotten past. Ethoes above. How could she have not seen it before?

  Jahrra had been so caught up in her own swirling thoughts, she had forgotten the Tyrant’s close proximity. At least, until he shifted beside her. His wicked smile grew, and he stepped away, but still remained too close for her liking.

  “He never told you, did he?”

  Jahrra shook her head, and rasped an answer. “No.”

  “What a selfish, cruel creature. Why would he not tell her?” This, he addressed to the guards and mages lining the walls. Their continued silence told her he didn’t expect an answer from them. “Why would he keep something so important secret from the one person who has been prophesied to save him? The one being who is meant to save his kingdom?”

  He turned swiftly, his heels grinding against grit and ice. The Crimson King leaned in and said, softly, “You are nothing but a means to an end, human.”

  The amused, spiteful chuckles of the guards standing watch filled the massive chamber like the crackle of fire. Jahrra ignored it, still recovering from her enemy’s revelation. Kehllor was the lost prince of the Tanaan. He hadn’t kept away on purpose; hadn’t hidden himself in some far off corner of the world, trying to avoid his fate. And, he hadn’t kept the truth from her out of some selfish need to hide his identity. The last prince of the Tanaan hadn’t shown himself because he had forgotten who he was. Jahrra gritted her teeth, trying hard to remember what she knew about his story. Kehllor had been taken in by Shiroxx, found wandering the great southern desert with no memory of his past. Gods and goddesses of Ethoes. How long had he been alone and unaware of his identity? Decades? Centuries?

  It would be so easy for Jahrra to let the shock, her anger at the Tyrant, overwhelm her. She could let herself fall apart now, after all, she had every right to. But instead, she gathered up that strange concoction of emotions; spun them into a great funnel of determination and set it hurtling toward the Tyrant before her.

  “A means to an end?” she whispered harshly. “And, you would know all about that now, wouldn’t you, Ciarrohn? After all, if anyone is an expert on using and discarding people, it would be the great god whose presence is only possible because of a host. You are nothing but a parasite. A hideous worm feeding off the life-force of another. Your power would not exist but for the weakness and suffering of others. I will not give in to that weakness.”

  Even though her mouth was parched, Jahrra managed to spit at his feet. She expected retaliation, to be backhanded or shoved to her knees by Boriahs and forced to apologize. She would not. Cold silence met her, and even those mages and guards standing around to witness the spectacle ceased their haunting sniggering.

  Finally, Jahrra worked up the courage to glance back up at her tormentor. He was as still as his throne room, a tall figure dressed in rich robes. Yet, a daunting brittleness clung to him. A shell on the verge of shattering. And his eyes … Crimson clouds swirled there now, not just the simmering black. No pupils, no whites. Just pure, hateful power. Jahrra swallowed, a trickle of fear skittering down her spine. She had gone too far. She had said more than she should have. But, she would stand her ground. She would not shame those who had sacrificed so much to protect her all these years by breaking before him.

  Just when she thought that mortal body would shatter, the Crimson King breathed. Color returned to his face, and that raw anger and terror brewing beneath his skin subsided. The ancient, wrathful god finding control. Jahrra didn’t dare release the breath she was holding.

  “You think you know me so well, Jahrraneh Drisihn?”

  His voice, pitched low, regained that deeper, darker resonance. The god stepping aside but still very much present. And, Jahrra continued to struggle against that instinctual terror whispering in her ear, telling her to run, to cower, to step back. She thought of her friends, of what they might be enduring at this very moment. She thought of Denaeh and Ellyesce, trapped Ethoes’ knew where and enduring any manner of horrific torments. She thought of Jaax, wondering if he was unhurt, praying to the stars above he was not suffering the cruelty Shiroxx had threatened. And, she thought of the army of Ethoes, marching towards a foe they could not possibly defeat, simply to give her a chance to bring this monster standing before her to his knees and banish his existence from the world for good. No. As much as she wished to, Jahrra could not back down.

  “Where is he, Jahrra? Where is your Tanaan prince?”

  A cold, probing tendril of darkness prodded her mind, burrowing in like an icy worm. Jahrra gasped, too shocked to scream. That tendril of icy power shuffled through her thoughts, seeking, digging deeper. Memories, good and bad, flashed by, but the intrusion, Ciarrohn’s power, Jahrra realized, was not interested. Only when the image of a golden-scaled dragon melted into view did the memories screech to a halt. Now, only thoughts of Kehllor filled her consciousness … How she had reached out to him in kindness, how he had been Shiroxx’s puppet, how Jaax had left him in charge of the Coalition when they fled Lidien. When it became clear none of her recollections revealed Kehllor’s current location, the Tyrant snarled and recalled his terrible magic. The repercussions of it left Jahrra staggering.

  “Boriahs,” the king said,
his voice back to normal but sharp as a blade, “take this filth back to her cell. And make sure she gets one more gift from me.”

  His lips curled in cruel amusement, a flash of that dark evil brewing behind his eyes once again.

  “My lord?” Boriahs asked.

  He stepped forward, his gauntleted fingers digging into Jahrra’s arm. The Tyrant studied her, his eyes traveling from her shoulders all the way to her toes.

  “It is so cold in my dungeons,” he mused, “I would be an irresponsible host indeed if I did not provide enough layers to my honored guest.”

  Jahrra’s stomach churned. Perhaps her earlier, brash words would have consequences after all.

  “The traitor’s vest, I think. We will start with that.”

  “Of course, my liege,” Boriahs crooned, gleeful malice tainting his words.

  The mercenary’s grip tightened briefly before he yanked Jahrra back towards the throne hall entrance. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, but made an effort to drag her feet all the way back to her cell. It meant being jerked around by Boriahs and the other men that were ordered to accompany them, but it gave her time to study her surroundings a little more closely. Unfortunately, her perusal provided little information. The underground portion of the fortress remained a tangled web of crudely carved tunnels with no glaring features, at least in her eyes, to mark the direction or commit to memory. She had no idea how Boriahs and the other soldiers knew where they were going.

  Eventually, the Tyrant’s mercenary stopped at a familiar oak door. As soon as he got the door open, Boriahs lifted his foot and kicked Jahrra in the small of her back. She gasped, not expecting the blow, and braced herself as she went stumbling forward. Since her hands were tied behind her back, she crashed onto the filthy ground. Rolling over onto her side, she drew in a few shuddering breaths as the pain in her back radiated through her entire body. She hissed in a breath, but refused to complain.

  “Radyon,” Boriahs barked, “bring me your torch.”