Jahrra glanced down to where the two roads met once again and wondered if they had time for him to count. The soldiers had climbed down from their quahna, swords drawn, and were slowly circling the limbit, nudging him with their boots and trying to get him to bolt.
“Three!” Jaax roared.
Jahrra gave a shout of surprise, so engrossed in what was happening to the limbit that she had missed the countdown.
The dragon threw his wings open and breathed a jet of emerald flame down into the clearing as Ellyesce took aim and released an arrow. A split second behind them, Jahrra did the same. Where Ellyesce’s arrow caught the taller soldier in the stomach, Jahrra’s arrow clipped the one with the eye patch in the arm.
Howling in pain, the Nesnan man tucked his injured arm against his chest and darted toward his quahna. His partner fell to his knees, clutching the shaft of the arrow protruding from his abdomen. A great buffeting gust of wind hit Jahrra in the face, and she grabbed onto Phrym’s mane to keep from falling out of the saddle. The semequin let out a nicker of agitation, short stepping backward up the trail before Jahrra righted herself.
The man with the eye patch was on his mount, digging his heels into the beast’s flanks to get him moving. Too late. Jaax was on top of him, using his sharp talons and strong hands and feet to tear the man from the saddle and crush the quahna’s ribcage. The beast bellowed in agony, and Jaax flung it against another rock outcropping on the other side of the meadow. The quahna squealed once and then slumped to the ground, dead. Its rider soon joined it, nothing more than a heap of broken bones and torn flesh. Jahrra swallowed back a lump of horror and then watched as Ellyesce, faster to get down the trail than herself, grabbed the remaining soldier’s hair. He quickly yanked his head back and slit his throat. Jaax, not wasting any time, located the second quahna, taking care of it in the same way he’d dispatched the other.
In less than two minutes, the battle was over, but to Jahrra it had felt like several. She didn’t even realize she hadn’t moved from their hiding spot until Phrym whickered and tossed his head. Blinking away her bewilderment, Jahrra turned in the saddle to see Rumble, standing patiently behind them.
“Don’t worry, old boy,” she murmured, reaching for his lead rope. Her voice was tainted with a hint of bitter disappointment. “Looks like I’m not much of a fighter, either.”
Despite her unease regarding the violence below, Jahrra was secretly chastising herself. She would be facing far more bloodshed in her future, and many more foes, and what had she done when confronted with only two challengers? She’d balked and missed her shot, then watched mutely as Jaax and Ellyesce dispatched the enemy with calculated ease. All her years of training with Viornen and Yaraa, and she’d faltered like a trainee on her very first day of practice. What would happen when they faced the Crimson King and his army? A spiraling black funnel of terror threatened to overwhelm her then, but Jahrra clenched her jaw and fought against it. No! Not now. Think of something else! Quickly!
Fortunately, at that moment, the limbit, who had remained in his curled position during the entire battle, lifted his head and stared around the broad clearing in dazed wonderment. Jaax and Ellyesce didn’t seem to notice him, as if they’d forgotten their reason for attacking the two soldiers and their quahna. In a flash, the limbit was up and sprinting, heading for the closest tangle of underbrush on the edge of the crossroads.
“Wait!” Jahrra shouted, trying to encourage Phrym to move faster down the slope. “Stop!”
The limbit either didn’t hear her or was ignoring her. By the time she made it to level ground and was off Phrym’s back, the limbit had disappeared into the shrubs.
“Jahrra,” Jaax said, his voice cracking like a whiplash.
She didn’t stop to listen to what he had to say. Her focus was entirely on the one positive thing that had resulted from the massacre: they had saved the life of the creature who’d done them a priceless favor.
“I want to explain that we were just trying to help him,” she shouted, not looking back as she pressed herself into the shrubs.
A second later, she jumped back, cursing. Not shrubs, but some sort of thorny brambles. How had the limbit slipped through with such ease?
“Thank you!” she shouted as loudly as she dared. “For not turning us over!”
Jahrra stuck the end of her thumb in her mouth, hoping it would take the sting from the thorn prick away. Though, her disappointment in the limbit’s hasty retreat bothered her more. She’d wanted to thank him properly for taking such a risk.
When she turned back around, Jaax was busy breathing flames over the bodies of the soldiers and their beasts. The queasiness from before threatened to return.
To distract herself from the carnage, Jahrra moved to stand beside Ellyesce. The elf was tracing his fingers over the ground, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“They’ve been tracking us since we left Lidien,” he murmured. “Only one of many squadrons. The Red Flange.”
Jahrra squatted next to him, her curiosity slightly greater than her unease.
“The Red Flange?” she repeated.
Ellyesce nodded. “Specially trained men who work for the Crimson King. They can be of any race. Nesnan, Resai, elf. It doesn’t matter, so long as they pledge themselves to the Tyrant. You can always tell them apart from the others because of the brand they wear on the inside of their left wrist. Some will bear the brand on their faces.”
He traced a finger down his cheek, his neatly trimmed beard the only thing marring his skin.
“The man who killed Hroombra,” she said, her throat tight, “he had that brand. But I don’t remember if the others with him did.”
Ellyesce shook his head. “Most of the Tyrant’s soldiers bear their brand on the wrist. Only his most loyal are marked more obviously. The larger brand on the face means they’ve given over their very souls to serve him. Nothing pleases them more than bringing glory for the Crimson King.”
Jahrra shuddered. The thought of people pledging their souls to the Tyrant made her ill.
“Have any dragons joined the Red Flange?” she found herself asking.
An image of Shiroxx and her companion flashed through her mind.
Ellyesce looked up at her with cold eyes. “Not that I’m aware of. The Crimson King has bred his own race of dragons. Brutal, fierce and easily molded to their master’s bidding. The Morli dragons. But it is possible, I suppose, for other dragons to join him, though highly unlikely. Dragons despise the Crimson King and his ilk. It is in their nature.”
“What about Tanaan dragons?” Jahrra pressed. “They possess human nature too, don’t they?”
Ellyesce nodded. “That they do. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Jahrra wasn’t so sure. After all, it had been Shiroxx’s nasty lies that had driven them from the city. But was she capable of stooping so low? To join forces with the Crimson King himself? It took Jahrra all of ten seconds to decide her answer. Yes. She was capable of such depravity.
Jaax, having finished with his task, turned to face them. “We had better move on,” he said. “That limbit risked much to throw the Red Flange and their dark mage off our trail. It would be unwise to waste such an opportunity.”
Ellyesce nodded and climbed back onto his semequin. Jahrra mimicked him and found Phrym. Once they had gathered the pack horse, they continued on northward at a brisker pace than before, their ears and eyes sharp in case the enemy squadron decided to double back. As they left the crossroads behind, Jahrra sent up a prayer to Ethoes, asking that their small savior find a safe haven where he could live out the rest of his life in peace.