Swallowing back her fear, Jahrra managed to climb down from the saddle, wincing a little when her bad leg brushed over Phrym’s back. Once on solid ground, she put all her weight on her good side and employed her balancing skills to keep from falling over. One of the brigands led a very reluctant Phrym to where her companions stood, closer to the mountain side of the bridge. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one forced to dismount. Ellyesce, Dervit, Whinsey and Erron stood mostly surrounded by enemy soldiers, blades and bows pointed at them. They cast grim expressions her way, but they had clearly been told not to speak. She tried to read Ellyesce’s face, to gauge what he might want her to do, but her view was soon obstructed by a small team of crimson and black soldiers moving in to form a ring around her.
“I had hoped that when we met again,” a familiar voice called out from behind her, “it would be under more pleasant circumstances.”
Boots crunched in the snow as the people at her back shifted to make way for the newcomer. But Jahrra didn’t need to see him to know who it was. His voice, in that confident, appealing tone she had grown so fond of, would be forever familiar to her. Fighting against an onslaught of emotions, she turned slowly, her heart beating so fast she could feel its pulse in her fingertips as a similar wave of shock did its best to numb her senses completely. Through the gap in the circle of soldiers strode Keiron, whole and healthy and radiating pure arrogant confidence.
No, Jahrra thought, her arms and legs going numb. No!
He wore the black and red colors of the Tyrant, along with a smile not exuding charm, but malice. Jaax and Ellyesce had been right. Keiron had betrayed them. She didn’t know whether she should mourn what she had believed was a growing trust and affection between them, or give in to the rage and sorrow she felt at his treachery of not just her, but his own people as well. Perhaps, she could manage both.
When he stood only ten feet away, Keiron slowed to a stop, his ice blue eyes studying her from head to toe. It felt as if someone was scraping a razor over her; one false move and she’d be cut deep. Jahrra’s stomach lurched again, and she fought every instinct in her body compelling her to lunge at him and run him through with her sword. He was still as handsome as ever, even dressed in the colors of her enemy, but his bearing, his posture and his attitude sickened her. The charming prince was gone, the monster beneath the fine shell revealed. How on Ethoes had she ever let him pull the wool over her eyes?
Keiron, supposedly having finished his survey, drew in a deep breath and let it out on a long suffering sigh.
“So, you’ve kept that filthy little weasel with you after all,” he said, casting a sneering glance at the limbit standing several feet away.
“He’s not a weasel, you heap of horse dung!” Jahrra snarled. “He has far more honor in one of his discarded nail clippings than you contain in your entire person.”
Keiron’s cheeks turned slightly pink at the insult. Around them, feet shifted, and leather armor squeaked. Jahrra cast the mercenaries across from her a quick glance. Their lips trembled as they tried, and nearly failed, to hold in their laughter. For some perverse reason, this brought her a great amount of satisfaction.
“Is that so?” Keiron whispered, his tone as frosty as the mountain air.
Without any warning, he pushed past her, nearly knocking her into the snow, and closed in on the rest of their traveling party with undeterred purpose. Jahrra barked a surprised warning, but it was too late. She could only stand there, hissing over the sudden pain in her knee. The soldiers guarding her friends parted, and Keiron reached down to grab Dervit by the front of his vest. He dragged the limbit to the edge of the bridge as Ellyesce, Whinsey and Erron cried out in anger and fear, making to move forward. A pair of mercenaries crossed lances in front of them, keeping them trapped in place. The limbit fought valiantly against his captor, but to no avail. Jahrra watched helplessly as Keiron placed one foot on a broken portion of the bridge’s railing, lifting Dervit as if he was nothing more than a ragdoll. He turned cold eyes onto Jahrra, then shoved the hand grasping the limbit’s collar out over the side of the precipice.
Jahrra cried out and lunged forward, no longer caring about her knee, only to struggle against the soldiers who’d moved in to take hold of her arms.
“No! Keiron, don’t! Your fight is with me, not him! Leave him be!”
Dervit, his brown eyes huge with terror, clung to Keiron’s arm, no longer struggling to break free.
The Resai elf lifted one pale blond eyebrow. “Oh? You want me to let him go?” Keiron’s fingers loosened, and Dervit slipped.
“No!!” Jahrra screamed, fighting against the soldiers, only to gasp in pain when all her weight shifted to her injured leg.
Several feet away, the others watched in horror. They could not move, for the ring of soldiers surrounding them now held swords to their throats.
Keiron chuckled, but didn’t draw Dervit back in from the edge of the bridge. He was enjoying his little game far too much.
“Enough, Keiron,” a cold, empty voice boomed from the southern end of the bridge.
The two men holding Jahrra tightened their grasp and grew absolutely still. She tore her gaze away from Dervit just long enough to catch a glimpse of the one who had spoken. A tall man wearing all black and riding a quahna. He pushed the hood of his cloak back, revealing an ugly brand on one cheek. Jahrra’s stomach dropped into her toes. She recognized that scar. A warped bloodrose. The mark of Cierryon. This was the high commander of the Red Flange. The monster responsible for Hroombra’s death.
He dismounted his steed with the ease of a hardened warrior and handed the reins off to a nearby mercenary. The beast snapped at the lackey, sharp teeth almost finding flesh. Ignoring the plight of his soldier, the high commander strode over to stand in front of Jahrra. He placed a gloved finger under her chin and tilted her head up so that her attention was entirely on him. Cold, black eyes regarded her from a face that was impossible to place. Resai, Nesnan, pure-blooded elf … She couldn’t say for sure. Perhaps, he contained a little blood from each race. His skin wasn’t as pale as Keiron’s, but not as dark as her friend Torrell’s, either. Yet, there was something about the tone of it that had nothing to do with natural pigmentation. It was as if his skin had been pale once and had become stained over the years. Maybe the brand used to create the scar on his cheek had contained some dark magic that now infected him.
The horrible man smiled, his teeth surprisingly white, as he rasped just loud enough for her to hear, “You know me girl, don’t you? I know you. I have known about you for years, following you around, waiting to see if my suspicions proved true. And, they did. I almost had you once. A long time ago, when you and your friends were so careless to go wandering around in the dark so far from your home.”
Jahrra’s eyes widened. Dear gods and goddesses of Ethoes. This was the man who had almost kidnapped her? During the scavenger hunt in Lensterans? The old fear she had felt then boiled up, making her good leg grow weaker. Agony shot up her other leg, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
“But, I have you now,” he breathed, running one gloved finger over her cheek. “And, I cannot wait to present you to my Master.”
Before Jahrra could so much as formulate a response, a reverberating roar cut through the frozen air, causing the loose snow and rocks farther up the slope to break free and tumble down the mountainside. The high commander jerked away from Jahrra and whipped around, his cloak unfurling in a gust of frigid wind as his attention snapped toward the open sky to the north of the mountain. Fighting back the tears of pain in her eyes, Jahrra blinked until her vision cleared. In the near distance, she made out three large shapes heading their way at break-neck speed. One was blue, the other almost black. But it was the third one, emerald green and flecked with copper and turquoise, that gave her the first rush of joy since they’d crossed the bridge.