“Here, let me clear some more for you.”
Jahrra stood back as Hroombra let out several more blasts of air, clearing one whole wall and the small section on one side of the doorway.
“That should be enough for now,” he said, nodding.
Jahrra began in the corner of the northwest wall and worked her way southward, following the painted scenes with her eyes and her fingers the entire time. She found dragons and elves, dwarves and a strange variety of other beasts and beings. The mural depicted battles and celebrations, births and funerals, peaceful times and periods of turmoil.
The colors were dull now, but Jahrra could tell that this painting once held immense detail and more pigments than she could name. She placed her hand on the wall and closed her eyes. She could almost hear the clash of weapons, the music and laughter at a wedding celebration, the intense silence of the night sky painted above much of the scene. A feeling of wonder crawled over her skin, and when she looked more closely at the wall in front of her, she realized that she’d finally reached the end.
Disappointed to be finished so soon, Jahrra concentrated on the small section in front of her, trying to make the tale last a bit longer. The story, at its end, began with a frightening looking figure surrounded by large, shadowy dragons. Jahrra gasped and a shock of fearful memory burned through her. The menacing figure, despite its worn and degraded state, looked exactly like the one from the nightmares she’d had after her parents’ deaths.
Jahrra shivered and forced herself to keep looking at the scene. She pulled her eyes from the dark demon and instead focused on the dragons, creatures that didn’t frighten her. When she saw the winged reptiles, however, her heart sank even further; these dragons looked nothing like Hroombra or Jaax, they looked ominous and evil, like the monster they surrounded.
Jahrra covered the frightening animals with her hand and tried to finish the end of this tale. Much of the painting had been eroded, and about halfway to where Hroombra stood, there was a large portion that was horribly damaged, as if time had taken it upon itself to chisel away at this particular scene. Fortunately, it didn’t impede Jahrra’s progress in following the story.
Near the final section of the mural she spotted a proud figure on a great horse, and soon her attention was drawn away from the sinister creatures. As she drew closer, she noticed that the elf on the horse seemed unafraid of the fearsome, dark dragons. His face was faded and chipped away and try as she might, Jahrra couldn’t conjure up an image in her mind. That’s strange, she thought, I can usually imagine anything!
The young girl frowned and focused on his other features. His clothes were ancient, like those worn by brave warriors in the fairytales she read. He held a great sword, broken in half from a missing piece of wall, and the color of his great cloak had faded over time, making it impossible to decide whether it had been blue, green or violet. She couldn’t tell why, but as she gazed at this figure she felt a vague familiarity towards him. Maybe I’ve seen him in one of Master Hroombra’s books, she pondered, not giving the subtle feeling of acquaintance any further thought.
Jahrra moved on to the final scene of the painting, a picture of more elves fleeing the black, menacing figure from before, now billowing overhead like a great, poisonous cloud that engulfed the sky. The elves were extremely frightened, and in the background their twisted shadows looked like black, screeching dragons.
“What does all this mean Master Hroombra?” Jahrra looked up at the great dragon, her brow creased in concern. “Who is that horrible creature, all black and red, and who’re all these elves?”
Hroombra gazed down at her in cloaked consternation. Was he really ready to tell her this story? Yes, his conscience told him, yes.
Hroombra drew a long breath and said very slowly, “Jahrra, those people aren’t elves. They’re humans.”
-
Chapter Eleven -
The Legend of Oescienne
Jahrra gazed up at her mentor with a blank look on her face. “Humans?” she said disbelievingly.
She thought humans were just a myth, a fairytale like everything else. Had they really once existed, or was this mural just another story? She waited patiently for Hroombra to go on.
“Yes, Jahrra, humans. The king and the queen of this land were human beings.”
The old dragon paused, as if to gather the thoughts that churned in his mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind.
“I have a story to tell you now,” he continued after some time, “a story that I believe you’re finally old enough to hear.”
Jahrra sat down upon a piece of crumbled wall and gazed up at him, not believing her luck today. I finally get to come to the Castle Ruin and now new a story?! she thought with delight, trying not to look overly eager.
“Long ago, before even the land of Oescienne existed, the god Ciarrohn was born. He was the youngest son of Ethoes and Haelionn and as he grew he became twisted and evil. He turned the elves against the world, and because of that he was thrown to the earth from the heavens during the great battle with the dragon Traagien.
“Now, I’ve told you part of this story before, and you know that Ciarrohn’s form became the Elornn and the Thorbet mountains, but what you don’t know is the story of the people who were brave enough to cross those mountains and settle in the land beyond them, this land.”
Hroombra snuck a peek at Jahrra and noticed she was sitting attentively, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. He smiled slightly and continued on, “This is the story of the Tanaan Tribe, the human race that became the rulers of Oescienne. Their people came into this land when the world was in turmoil, many ages ago after the defeat of Ciarrohn but before Ethoes was able to restore peace. When the Goddess finally divided her world into the present day provinces, she gave this province for them to rule.
“For many years the Tanaan ruled their realm in peace and prosperity. They built this great castle and the people thrived under their fair reign. The Tanaan were happy and knew their world was safe, but as the years passed and one generation took the throne after another, talk of a great evil in the east reached their province.
“A young man in the cursed province of Ghorium had seized power over the land and in turn had gained the aid of the dreaded god Ciarrohn. This news struck a great chord of fear into the hearts of the people, for not only had Ciarrohn awoken from his deep slumber, but the evil god and his mortal accomplice had destroyed all the other races of humans in the world. All but the Tanaan.”
Hroombra paused to draw breath, taking stock of Jahrra’s enraptured state. He cleared his throat and continued, “The world was no longer safe, and the king of the Tanaan knew that he had to do something before more damage could be done. He sent messengers to the different kingdoms of the world and gathered together an army of allies to march upon the east and purge the land of the evil that had awoken. He took with him seven of his eight sons, leaving his queen and the youngest prince behind.”
Hroombra paused, closed his eyes and took a breath, looking very much like he was trying to unravel a difficult riddle. When he opened his eyes again he looked down at Jahrra and felt a shiver when he saw the slight despair in her eyes.
Oh, how he knew that despair . . .
He shook his head slightly and cleared his throat, “It took the king and his allies nearly a year to reach the east, and when they did they were met with devastation. The evil king who’d taken over the land with Ciarrohn’s help killed the Tanaan ruler and his sons, along with many of the other warriors who’d joined them. They were laid to waste on the Desolate Plain, and those who escaped fled west, towards home, hoping against all hope that the god Ciarrohn and his new pawn, the tyrant Cierryon, didn’t follow them.
“Another two years passed before the remaining, defeated Tanaan came crawling over the mountain pass and through the ancient canyon their ancestors had used when they first settled in Oescienne. Soon word spread throughout the land of their return and the forlorn men were brought to t
he castle. The queen waited eagerly for any sign of her husband and sons, and when she learned of their demise, she fell into despair.”
Hroombra took a deep, calming breath and shut his eyes. At first, Jahrra wasn’t sure if he would continue, but after several agonizing minutes he trudged on, his voice sounding strange, his eyes still shut.
“A great Korli dragon, the royal family’s mentor and tutor had gone to the fight with the king and was the one to break the news to the beautiful queen, now lost in anguish.
“The dragon had regretted the king’s decision in the beginning, but he’d refused to let them go alone. Now it all seemed such a waste, such a horrible, impossible waste. So many had died and now the queen and her young son were left without a family. The dragon knew that the only thing he could do now was teach the young prince everything he knew so that he may learn to be a good king like his father.
“The Tanaan people eventually healed from this terrible blow, but one of them did not. The queen, who had become overcome with grief on the day the bedraggled soldiers returned, had remained bed-ridden since, slowly slipping away. Her heart couldn’t take such a loss, and although her young son was there beside her his love couldn’t keep her in this world. She died only a few months after learning of her husband’s fate, perishing of a broken heart.
“The prince lost all hope after that, and no matter how hard the great dragon tried to aid his new student, the boy simply couldn’t comprehend such a loss. His mother had been the last thing keeping him anchored to the world. After her death, a shadow fell over the boy, and he was never again to be the laughing, bright child he used to be.
“Ten years passed and the boy grew into a young man, his Korli tutor watching him like a hawk every waking hour. The prince learned everything the dragon taught him, but he never learned how to move on or how to forgive. He desired vengeance, a vengeance that inspired him to organize a group of men bent on revenge for what had happened to them. Secretly, the prince and his alliance planned a march against Cierryon, now known to all as the Crimson King, hoping to attack before the Tyrant gained more power.
“Another year passed before the prince found a chance to enact upon his revenge. His great mentor, who had no idea of the prince’s plans, was absent from Oescienne. The prince saw his opportunity and gathered his men together to march on their common enemy. By the time the dragon returned, the prince had been gone nearly two months. Panicked and desperate, he called together as many dragons as he could and flew after the young man and his army, hoping that somehow they’d been delayed in their quest. The desperate dragons soared over mountains and plains, great ravines and deserts, the whole while calling upon the aid of old friends and former allies.
“Finally, they reached Ghorium, the dreaded land of the Crimson King. What they found there, however, was a nightmare. A chill that nearly extinguished the fire within his stomach crept through the great dragon, guardian of the prince. He didn’t find his beloved Tanaan humans, but the evil Morli dragons he recognized from before, surrounding a race of dragons that he didn’t recognize.
“With a cold heart, the prince’s guardian realized that these new dragons were their very own Tanaan humans, the humans they were supposed to care for and nurture. The soldiers who had been bold enough to attack the Crimson King had been transformed into the creatures the evil god Ciarrohn despised the most. He had conjured up a dark curse, a curse sealed in hatred and blackness.
“Despite the odds against them, however, the Korli dragons and their allies managed to free the new Tanaan dragons and together they fled westward, as far away from the blighted east as they could. When they finally arrived in Oescienne, exhausted and dejected, they found that their families too had become dragons.”
Hroombra sighed and shook his head ever so slightly. He hated telling this story, but Jahrra had to know. He adjusted his posture then continued on, “The royal mentor lost heart then and fell into despair. The Tanaan had been the last race of humans in the world of Ethoes, and the Crimson King and the evil god Ciarrohn had taken the first step in conquering the world. Not one human being was left to take the throne of Oescienne, so now it lay open for the evil king to rule as soon as he desired to take it.
“After the transformation of the Tanaan, the great castle which they’d built over several hundred years began to crumble. The same curse that made them dragons also began to destroy their castle. Not a single stone mason, no matter how hard he tried, could repair the eroding palace. It seemed as if the fortress itself was a living part of Oescienne and was weathering away in despair. That was five hundred years ago now, and since then the castle has remained in disrepair, forgotten, just as the story of the curse of the Tanaan has been forgotten in time.”
Hroombra ended his somber tale suddenly, the final sentence hanging in the air like a resounding, mournful note. He took a few moments to let it pass before looking down at Jahrra once more. When he finally did, he couldn’t help but give into the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth; she stared up at him as if he were changing colors before her very eyes.
“Now,” he said, his tired voice sounding slightly strained, “I’m sure you have many questions, so I’ll allow you to ask three.”
Jahrra’s eyes, if at all possible, became even rounder. Questions? she thought. I never get to ask questions after a story! She sat quite still for a while, not wanting to waste her three precious questions.
Finally, after what felt like hours, she asked, “If the humans were turned into Tanaan dragons, where did all the dragons go?”
Hroombra smiled knowingly. He’d been expecting this inquiry, and it would be an easy one to answer, easier than some at least.
“They still exist in the world, only not in Oescienne any longer. As a matter of fact, you’ve seen one before. Jaax is a Tanaan dragon; his ancestors are the very same people who were cursed by the Crimson King so long ago.”
Jahrra started at the mention of Jaax’s name but simply nodded, her lips sealed tight. Hroombra smiled secretly, however, when he realized that her mind was fighting against itself, the evidence of this portrayed in her facial expressions. He was sure she wanted to ask a million more questions about this answer but knew she only had two questions left. He suppressed an urge to laugh out loud and waited for her next query.
“Did the Crimson King ever take over the world?” she blurted.
Jahrra knew of his existence of course; she had learned so in class and from Hroombra, but she never knew if he really ruled the world or if he just ruled the province of Ghorium.
“No, Jahrra, he hasn’t yet taken over this world. It is thought that the curse he set upon the Tanaan and their castle weakened him so severely he is still, centuries later, recovering. Many believe that he is building up an army that will be unconquerable, but no one is brave enough to venture into Ghorium to find out for sure. For now we sit and wait, hoping he’ll never inflict war upon the lands. Now,” Hroombra breathed deeply, “one last question.”
This time it took Jahrra longer than before to come up with her question, but when she finally asked it, Hroombra knew she had picked a good one.
“Whatever happened to the Tanaan prince?” she said timidly, gulping slightly. “Did he die when he fought the Crimson King?”
Hroombra took a breath and spoke, “It is said that he survived the battle, but it’s uncertain whether he escaped with the rest of his people. You see, once they became dragons, the Tanaan no longer recognized one another. It’s hard to say if the prince was one of the many to escape or not. Some say the prince’s mentor believed he survived the battle and took to searching the ends of the earth for him, only to perishing in his hunt. I myself like to think the prince is still out there somewhere, waiting for his second chance at revenge.”
Jahrra listened and when Hroombra was done, she nodded her head contentedly. She closed her eyes and mulled the story over in her head, making it into something beautiful the way an oyster makes a pearl. After several
minutes she stood up and walked back to the mural, to the end where she had seen the figure on the horse facing off the dark, menacing form.
“So, this is the whole story of how the Tanaan became dragons, the story of why Oescienne has no king,” Jahrra whispered with a heavy heart, her hand pressed against the brave, faceless figure challenging the Crimson King, her eyes locked with Hroombra’s.
“That’s right,” he said, “before the castle began to crumble, someone painted the last part of the story upon this wall. But they left several feet of the wall at the end there. I like to think they held out hope that somehow, someday, the land and the castle would return to the way it was.” Hroombra sighed. “Many believe that someday the Tyrant will be defeated and there will be nothing left to fear.”
“Master Hroombra?” Jahrra asked, furrowing her brow. “What exactly is a “tyrant”? Master Tarnik has talked about the Crimson King, but he has never called him by that name.”
Hroombra curled his lip grimly and answered, “A tyrant is someone who rules by fear and oppression, but I don’t want you to worry about it now, Jahrra. The king is far away and can’t hurt you, but it would be best not to talk about this at school.”
Hroombra released his breath, suddenly realizing that he’d been holding it, as Jahrra nodded her head in agreement. He knew that this statement may be true now but it was only so long until the king would want to find Jahrra, to destroy her. I’m sorry young one, I lied, the old dragon thought in private agony. The king can hurt you and I fear someday he will. But not now, I won’t let him harm you now. Hroombra shook these awful thoughts from his head and looked back down at Jahrra.
She was now peering more closely at the people running in terror, those casting the shadows of dragons. Hroombra imagined she was trying to impress the pictures into her mind so that they matched up with the story he had told her. Jahrra trailed her fingers over the images slowly, but halted her hand when she spotted something else. It was a strange writing that followed the tale along the bottom of the mural. She had ignored it before, figuring she didn’t need to read it. Now she was dying to know what it said.
The Finding Page 16
