Jaax had been right in his opinion of Keiron being dangerous, but for an entirely different purpose than he had thought. Whoever had betrayed them to the Red Flange had betrayed the regent’s son as well. But it was too late, it was all too late.
Her captor tensed to make the cut, and just as the sword began its descent, something the size of Jahrra’s fist came flying through the air, catching the mercenary on the jaw with a loud CRACK. The jolt of the strike threw him off balance and he fell back, dragging Jahrra with him. The pain of having some of her hair ripped out along with the shock to her damaged leg caused her head to swim again. But before she blacked out, she noticed several things at once: a red blur pelting large rocks down onto the black-clad attackers; Phrym, biting and kicking and chasing some of them away as blood poured from the slash in his shoulder; a tall menacing figure in black, red staining his chin as he held his hand there, cursing in rage; and lastly, a dark shadow hovering overhead, a roar that contained all the terror and rage of a menace far greater than all of these men combined, and a stream of blue and green fire that would surely incinerate them all.
-Chapter Fourteen-
A Recurring Dream and a Long Lost Memory
Jahrra jerked awake with a gasp, her heart racing and her head aching.
“Jahrra?”
Someone said her name. A familiar voice, but one that was newer to her memory.
“Jahrra! It’s me, Dervit.”
Jahrra blinked, her eyes fluttering open only to squint at the bright light infiltrating the room. She groaned and covered her face with her forearm.
“Wh-What happened?” she rasped.
“You were attacked,” the voice, Dervit, answered. “At the Round. The Crimson King’s soldiers.”
Jahrra’s head instantly swam with images. Black-clad mercenaries carrying serrated swords, a snow covered landscape, the struggle of a fight, the certainty of death ... Jahrra groaned again. She remembered now.
“You have a sprained knee and a bad gash on one leg, lots of bruises and cuts, but nothing that won’t heal eventually. We got there just in time,” Dervit finished rather pathetically.
“Keiron,” Jahrra breathed, a sob catching in her throat as she remembered one final detail of the attack.
“No, Keiron wasn’t the one who att–”
“No!” Jahrra cried, cutting him off. “He was there. They captured him before I arrived.”
At least, she thought they did. After falling and hurting her knee, she only remembered being grabbed by the hair, the mercenary ready to cut her throat. Jahrra shivered, the memory of her fear and pain all too real.
“We didn’t see Keiron,” Dervit said tentatively.
Jahrra turned her head, carefully because every joint and muscle she possessed seemed to ache.
“They must have taken him,” she croaked, the fear climbing up her throat once more. “He tried to warn me. He came running from behind the standing stones, his hands tied behind his back. He tried to tell me to run, but it was too late.”
Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Her scalp burned where the soldier had grabbed her hair, and the lower part of her left leg throbbed.
Dervit reached out and placed one of his furry hands on hers. Jahrra glanced at him again. He appeared exhausted, and there was a large abrasion on his face. He had saved her. The friend she had so brazenly told to leave her alone.
“Dervit,” she murmured, her throat clogging with emotion once again.
He shook his head and patted her arm. “No, don’t you dare feel guilty. It won’t help you heal. Ellyesce gave you a sleeping draught when we first arrived, and it should still be in your system. We’ll talk more when you are feeling better. You need to sleep.”
He turned to walk away, but Jahrra grasped his arm with as much strength as she could muster, which wasn’t a terrible amount. Already, waves of drowsiness were crashing against her resolve, and she was slipping back into sleep.
“Tell Jaax ...” she mumbled.
“I know. I’ll tell him about Keiron.”
Jahrra could only whimper in response as she gave in to her weariness. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was what she had really meant to say: “Tell Jaax I’m sorry.”
The darkness overwhelmed Jahrra, but she could not find her way out of it. Breathe Jahrra, just breathe, she told herself. She stopped her struggle against the suffocating emptiness, and slowly filled her lungs with cool, damp air that smelled of earth and apples. Apples? That was odd.
When she was certain the panic squeezing her heart had fled, Jahrra opened her eyes and found herself sprawled upon a bed of fallen leaves in the middle of a foggy orchard. Confused, she blinked her eyes and held her hand up to her temple, pressing against the pain that lingered there. Where was she? And what had she been doing before she fell asleep on the ground? Bits and pieces of some long-gone memory swirled around in her mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind. She had been traveling with someone, Jaax and two other people. There was a great city in the mountains, surrounded by a towering black stone wall. A party, an altercation … Jahrra squeezed her eyes shut, and the memories playing out in her mind spun faster.
A slow, cool chill brushed over her, like a sluggish ghost just rising from the grave. Goose pimples rose on her skin, and she took a moment to check her surroundings once more. Trees stood in neat, straight rows and on the far end of the orchard, there loomed a dark forest. A bad feeling emanated from that direction, so Jahrra quickly whipped her head around, regretting the pain it caused, and searched for a more pleasant visage elsewhere. A shape loomed in the distance, obscured by the thick tendrils of fog. A shed? A barn? A house? She narrowed her eyes at the building, thinking it was oddly familiar somehow. Before she could place it, a twig snapped behind her, the sound far louder than it should have been in this quiet world.
Immediately, her heart began racing again. Someone watched her from the end of the row of trees, someone tall and unmoving, the hood of his long cloak pulled completely over his head. The figure stretched out a gloved hand, and the cloak rippled from the movement. The green cloak. Familiarity rushed over Jahrra, and she almost fell back into her disregarded pile of leaves. No. She wasn’t awake after all. It had been so very, very long since she’d had this dream that she’d almost forgotten.
“Let me guess,” she murmured, her voice rough, “you have something to show me?”
The cloaked man said nothing. He merely kept his hand outstretched, waiting for her to join him. Sighing, Jahrra started out toward the edge of the forest. Every muscle in her body whined in protest, but she ignored the discomfort. As she walked, she glanced around the mist-shrouded apple orchard and the dark, wild forest beyond. Jahrra paused, mere feet from her strange guardian, suddenly realizing where she was. A deep sadness gnawed at her heart, stealing her breath. The cloaked stranger stepped close, as silent as their subdued surroundings, and reached out to caress her cheek with a gloved hand.
Jahrra snapped to attention immediately, her eyes darting upward. She wanted so badly to see this person’s face. Was he a friend? A foe? Was he even a man or perhaps an elf? Never before had he shown such compassion, but Jahrra couldn’t even catch a glint of his eyes beneath the darkness of that hood.
“I am home,” she murmured.
He nodded slowly, his thumb gently brushing the ridge of Jahrra’s cheek. Cool air followed, and she realized he’d wiped away a tear. Feeling foolish, she stepped back, scrubbing at the tears with her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she grumbled, though she didn’t know why she said it.