He snapped his fingers, and several soldiers rushed into action. Jahrra would have spun into a defensive crouch, but the combination of the vest and the fact her hands were tied prevented such movements. Besides, the soldiers weren’t coming for her. Instead, they spread out, six of them, each heading toward a different corner of the castle terrace. Situated every hundred feet or so were large, iron cranks protruding from the basalt walls. Each soldier stationed himself behind one of these cranks and when the Tyrant gave the order, they began to turn them with great effort. At first, nothing happened, only the air filled with the clank and scrape of metallic gears hidden somewhere beneath the rock. Then, a large, circular section of the terrace began to sink, as if some great thread was tugging it from below. Before long, a wide pit, some ten feet deep and perhaps seventy feet in diameter, lay gaping where the floor had once been smooth and even. A staircase, curving down the side of the ring, hugged the wall opposite where Jahrra stood. The clanging stopped with a resounding click, and Jahrra lifted her eyes up to meet her enemy’s.
Cierryon only smiled at her, the clouds within his dark brown eyes stirring once again. He threw out an arm, his cloak catching a gust of icy wind in the process, and proclaimed, “Your sparring arena!”
Before she could so much as sneer in the king’s direction, Boriahs grabbed her by the hair again. Jahrra snarled and turned this time, ignoring the pain as she felt some of her hair tear from her scalp. Taken by surprise, she was able to get in a good kick to the mercenary’s knee before he got control of her again.
He snapped out a curse and grabbed a hold of the back of her shirt, gathering up some of the loose chains of the vest as he did so. Jahrra gasped as the spikes dug deeper.
“Think you can best me, human? Just be grateful his lordship isn’t pitting you against me in that ring. I have spent centuries perfecting the art of causing pain.”
His mouth was far too close to her ear, that odd creosote stench rolling off him and stinging her nose.
Despite the agony of the extra pressure on the vest, Jahrra managed to hiss back, “May you perish within a column of dragon fire!”
Boriahs only laughed, then dragged her to the lip of the staircase. He called a few of the bystanders over, and they removed Jahrra’s jacket and tunic, leaving her dressed only in her boots, pants, and the traitor’s vest settled over her undershirt.
“And, to make sure our little dog behaves herself,” Boriahs sneered, “we’ve fashioned a leash.”
Jahrra craned her neck to catch sight of one of the soldiers handing over a long chain. At the end was a hinge hook. Boriahs roughly gathered up a few loose folds of the chainmail vest and snapped the hook through the links. Jahrra clenched her teeth at the discomfort, but refused to cry out. They may believe I’m weak, but I will not let them see it.
Once he was done with the chain, Boriahs sliced through Jahrra’s bonds with his knife, then kicked her forward. Jahrra shouted in alarm and threw her arms out. It was no use. She lost her balance, but her years of training with the elves in Oescienne had her instincts kicking in. Jahrra curled up, slamming against the unforgiving stone only to sprawl out upon the floor of the pit. Well-trained she might be, but she had spent at least three days in the cold with little food and water. And, that had been before the traitor’s vest was added to the mix. Those who had gathered to watch this spectacle let out a roaring cheer, pleased to see their king’s enemy in such a pathetic state.
For a few moments, Jahrra simply lay there, fighting against the nausea caused by the shock of the fall. When it passed, she crawled to her knees, grateful she hadn’t broken any bones. If she lived through this, however, she imagined her body would be one giant bruise.
You will live through this. At least long enough to fulfill your mission. A mission she still had no idea how to accomplish. With each passing minute, her failure seemed even more imminent.
Peace, Jahrra, she chastised herself. Your friends are counting on you.
Scraping herself to her feet, Jahrra tilted her head to glance up. The walls were too steep and too tall to climb, and Boriahs stood guard over the top of the staircase. He sneered down at her, and she offered him a rude gesture. That only made him smile.
“We cannot allow you to remove the vest, I’m afraid,” the Tyrant drawled.
Jahrra snapped her head around to find Cierryon watching her from the other edge of the pit. He looked unimpressed by the entertainment so far.
“But,” he added, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a familiar scabbard, “what is a sword fight without a sword?”
He threw the scabbard to her, and Jahrra caught it without flinching. Instead, her stomach tightened as she drew the blade from its sheath. The sword Jaax had given to her for Solsticetide. Her sword. Tears burned Jahrra’s eyes as she held the welcome weapon in her hands, fighting the desire to press a hand to her heart, where the dragon scale pendant would normally lay tucked beneath her undershirt. These horrible men had taken it from her. The memory of its familiar press against her skin would have to be enough.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Jahrra lifted her face to the king and asked, “And who am I to fight?”
“He will be out here shortly,” Cierryon replied, climbing back into his throne to recline there like some pampered prince. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll be pleased when you see him.”
Jahrra’s bare arms prickled from the cold, or maybe it was the malicious glee tainting the king’s voice. Either way, that pervasive sense of foreboding churned back to life in her stomach. The chainmail vest seemed to take on more weight, the sharp barbs digging into her shoulders and sides burning where they pierced her skin. Jahrra tightened her jaw and gripped her sword. At least it was her sword and not one of the soldiers’. The chain trailing from the back of her vest clanked against the ice-coated floor, and her boots slipped slightly as she turned to survey the entire pit. It had grown darker, the cloud cover above thickening, but she studied every nook and cranny of the arena, every uneven knot of stone and pocket of ice. She would memorize the curve of the wall and know the number of steps it took to cross the circular floor like the back of her hand. Her tormentors must have thought her mad, the way she paced back and forth, muttering under her breath, but she didn’t care. If it meant the difference between life and death, at least for a little while longer, she would walk the floor until the soles of her feet bled.
If this would be her end, then she would not make it easy for her enemy. Oh, no. She would prove to them that the words Jaax had spoken to her, not so long ago, were true: She may be a vulnerable human, but she had the heart of a dragon.
Satisfied she knew her surroundings as well as she could, Jahrra drew in a deep breath and held her sword out before her in her favorite guard, and waited to face her opponent.
-Chapter Twenty-Five-
The Tyrant’s Champion
Minutes passed, how many, Jahrra couldn’t tell. Somewhere above the lip of the fighting pit, the Crimson King’s soldiers and allies reveled in their own demented way, laughing and speaking in an unfamiliar language. Probably better that she couldn’t understand them.
Jahrra wondered what was taking so long, why they were delaying this bit of entertainment, as Boriahs had called it. Was it to torment her further? Set her on edge, so she would be at an even greater disadvantage? She didn’t know. Instead, she focused on breathing and calming her thoughts. Another exercise Yaraa and Viornen had taught her, so long ago now, it seemed. It worked until the crowd’s noise suddenly erupted into whoops and cheers.
Jahrra jerked her head up and moved to the east end of the pit. Just above the rim she could make out the Tyrant, sitting upon his dark throne, a small army of servants carrying trays of food and wine over to him. From where he sat, he’d be able to witness everything that took place. The king slouched in his chair now, his elbow resting upon one knee, his fingers bent at the corner of his mouth. The goblet of wine he’d been holding before sat upon the armrest of his thr
one. His attention was pinned to her, an icy, cruel regard that only threatened to freeze her blood. She would not give him the satisfaction of trembling beneath that gaze.
With a sudden spout of bravery, Jahrra lifted her sword in a high guard and demanded, “Why this spectacle? Why pit me against another when you could just kill me and be done with it?”
The king’s answering grin was a thing of nightmares; feral and pitiless. But his shrug was casual as he answered, “I thought it would be fun to see you in action, my dear. I have heard so much about you from your friends and my own soldiers. How you have been able to evade us for all these years. You must be a brilliant fighter to have done so. I’d like to see it before I crush you.”
Jahrra’s heart hammered in her chest, but she did not take her gaze from him. She made her eyes go hard and held her own expression in a state of hateful disgust.
“Well, then let’s get on with it!” she snarled, tired of waiting.
The king laughed, and when the sound deepened and reverberated around the craggy mountain peaks, causing the angry ocean far below to pause in its relentless crash against the cliffs, Jahrra knew it was a god she taunted.
“Patience, little human. Patience. Your challenger is on his way. Someone who is so very eager to get reacquainted with you. He said you knew each other once, in Cahrdyarein. But, I can’t possibly believe he means the same girl. The young woman he told me about was a rube. Easily manipulated and misled. He informed me he had you eating right out of his hand like a lovesick puppy. That doesn’t sound like the woman who thinks she can defeat my power!”
Laughter chittered around the arena, making Jahrra’s stomach churn with embarrassment while the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Keiron. She flashed her eyes to the Tyrant’s left to find Jaax, barely visible above the lip of the pit, watching her with stricken eyes. He knew as well.
“If that were so,” Jahrra managed, her parched throat suddenly tight, “then, he would have brought me to you long ago. Keiron has been telling you lies. He had me surrounded by a half dozen, well-trained assassins, and I managed to fight them off. What sort of coward faces an adversary by proxy?”
Again, the crowd sniggered, and Jahrra took a little bit of pride in knowing it wasn’t aimed at her this time.
The king’s smug look soured. “That is very interesting, indeed. He has assured me he can take you in a fight.”
Jahrra barked out a laugh, the barbs of the vest cutting into her shoulders. She grimaced, but reminded herself they were nothing more than a discomfort, a passing hurt that did not interfere with her muscles or tendons.
“Then bring him forth,” she snarled, her adrenaline pumping, readying her for the fight.
She adjusted her grip on the sword and shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Inconvenient traitor’s vest or no, she had been waiting for her chance to repay Keiron for his deceit. She knew she wouldn’t get another opportunity, so she would make this one count.
Above, Boriahs stood aside, and a tall, pale-haired elf with familiar, ice-blue eyes stepped into view. Jahrra’s heart stuttered, then recovered from its momentary tumble. Handsome, charming, and attentive, Keiron had been a source of happiness during her stay in Cahrdyarein. She had come to trust him so easily, and he had convinced her he cared for her. And then, his treachery had come to light, a betrayal she did not at first believe. When Keiron threatened to kill Dervit on the bridge in Nimbronia, she knew how horribly he had fooled her. Jahrra’s heart, and pride, had been severely bruised, but she had learned her lesson. She knew just how vile this elf was at the core, despite the beauty of his outer shell.
He has no heart, she told herself, as she watched him slowly descend the stairs.
The elf she had at one time considered a friend gave her a once over, the cold sneer on his face dripping with disgust. She knew she looked a mess. Her hair was matted and tangled, blood stained her clothing, and grime and putrid filth from the dungeon clung to her, but she would not be cowed in his presence. He may look like a prince of Felldreim in his fine fighting leathers and tightly braided hair, but beneath it all was nothing but rot and hate and cruelty.
“Hello, Jahrra,” he drawled, his muscles tensing as he held his sword out to the side, “care for a dance?”
Keiron moved without warning, his steps lightning fast as he lifted his sword. Fortunately, Jahrra was familiar with his style of fighting. She knew he would be coming down hard with a strike from above. She shifted ever so slightly, making ready to block the blow. Just before his blade met hers, the chain attached to the vest jerked, pulling her off balance and making her drop her guard. She gasped at the sharp bite of needles digging into her flesh and hissed when Keiron’s sword sliced past the left side of her face, the blade so close she felt the weight of it part the air.
Jahrra stumbled back, trying to reorient herself. Her cheek stung, as if she’d been slapped, and something warm and wet dripped from her chin. Sweat? Tears? She lifted up a hand, wincing at the pain from the barbs, and touched her face. Her fingers came away red. Blood. So, his blade hadn’t missed her completely. Gingerly, she traced a cut running vertically from just in front of her temple to the middle of her cheek. The slice was shallow, and maybe only an inch and a half long. Nothing really, considering what could have happened.
Gritting her teeth, Jahrra glared at Keiron. The anger brewing in his bright blue eyes proved he was not pleased he had missed his chance to behead her. Too bad. They were just getting started.
His next attack was clumsy, and she managed to lock his sword with hers, punching him in the nose with her pommel before Boriahs reeled her back. Keiron cursed and stumbled aside, blood spilling from between his fingers.
“So, the girl has some skill after all,” the Tyrant mused. He huffed a breath, then added, “How about we make this more interesting. Guards!” he bellowed.
Those soldiers standing closest to him jumped to attention.
“Every time the human lands a strike, award her dragon friend with a similar gesture, starting right now. Oh, and use the hammers.”
Jahrra’s eyes rounded with horror as she watched two of the guards march to stand on either side of Jaax. In unison, they reached down and picked up a war hammer heavy enough to make them struggle against the weight. Jaax, wings pinned to the wall, tensed, his eyes shifting between the two black-and-scarlet clad men holding the weapons.
“A blow for a blow,” Cierryon practically sang, before giving a duck of his head.
Jahrra knew exactly what was going to happen the moment the soldiers began to swing. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat as the broad heads of the hammers crashed into the vulnerable bone near the elbow joint in Jaax’s wings. An audible crack split the air, and a muffled roar squeezed through the dragon’s clenched teeth.
Hot, stinging tears poured from Jahrra’s eyes as she dropped her sword, the blade clattering to the ground. Unable to stop herself, her knees slammed against the stone as a mix of nausea, revulsion, and blood-searing rage threatened to overtake her. No. No. No!!! How dare they?! She would kill them. She would kill them all!
Sensing Keiron’s clumsy approach, Jahrra recovered swiftly from the shock, rolling and grabbing her sword, then spinning into a crouch and slicing the blade across his unprotected shins. Keiron screamed and hobbled out of reach, cursing her name and snarling. Jahrra blinked back the dark spots swimming before her eyes and glanced up in time to see the soldiers strike a second blow, this time snapping the bones farther up her guardian’s wings.
“Stop!” she screeched, hobbling to the staircase, ready to leap to the top and drag Boriahs along with her if she had to.
The point of his sword as well as the audible stretch of bowstrings had her frozen in place halfway up the stairs.
“I think not, little human,” Cierryon, no, Ciarrohn rumbled. “You do not leave that pit until one of you is dead.”
Jahrra cast her eyes on the king, tears blurring her vision, anger clogging
her throat.
“You leave Jaax out of this!” she snarled.
The king only smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no. This new twist is far too entertaining.”
Jahrra lifted her sword. Then, in an obvious act of defiance, she threw it to the ground. It landed in the center of the pit, not too far from where Keiron still hissed over his wounded legs.
“Then, I refuse to fight. Let Keiron kill me, if my strikes against him bring torment to Jaax.”
The dragon in question rumbled in his chest and thrashed against his bonds, moaning when the actions reminded him of the shattered bones in his wings.
“Jaax!” Jahrra cried, spinning to meet his gaze. She almost fell, for Boriahs had tightened his grip again on the chain attached to her back.
Barely contained pain laced her guardian’s eyes, but fire burned there as well. Jahrra drew in a breath to say something, but his gaze sharpened instantly and his brow furrowed. He shook his head once, his eyes going more flinty silver than emerald.
No, Jahrra, that look purveyed. Let them hurt me. It is only pain. Broken bones will heal. I can endure this. If this pain is what I must pay for your life, then I will gladly do so.
As if to reiterate those unspoken words, he shifted his shoulders, wincing as the shards of bone cut through his skin. Fresh tears poured down Jahrra’s face, but she nodded. If he would do what he must, then so would she.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and glared at the Crimson King. “I will need my sword back if this is to remain a fair fight.”
A joke, really, considering the vest, the leash, and the fact that her guardian received a punishment every time she made an advancement. One of the nearby guards climbed into the pit and retrieved Jahrra’s sword, giving Keiron a disgusted look in the process. Armed once again, Jahrra made her way down the steps, fighting against the weakness that was, in fact, creeping into her muscles. Her strength was flagging and, if she didn’t end the fight soon, Keiron would kill her.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 36
