I waited in agony as the weeks passed and the rumors became more frequent. The very air was vibrating with the essence of doom and many reports from the castle to the far north only confirmed my fears. My son was creating more of his battle dragons. He was planning a campaign to the west.
We would never see the Crimson King march with his great armies, however, for one month before he was to leave on his great conquering mission, a small band of warriors arrived in Ghorium, led by a young, vibrant man full of passion and vengeance. I later learned that this young man was the eighth son of the king of Oescienne and he had spent the past several years planning a mission of revenge. The poor young fool. But I understood his pain; his need for vengeance. I could only imagine that the love between a son and his father was just as strong, if not stronger, than the love between a mother and a son. Though I yearned for him to return to his homeland where he might be safe for a little bit longer, I could not blame him for what he had chosen to do.
I remember the day the Tanaan fell as if it happened only yesterday. I had left my forest retreat behind and had joined the masses of people who had marched across the plains of Ghorium to witness what they hoped would be the end of my son’s reign. I longed for an end to this tyranny; for an end to the slavery my child was enduring under the control of Ciarrohn, but at the same time I anguished at the thought of his demise. I prayed for the release of his soul while at the same time I longed he would be forgiven. Yet, deep down in the depths of my heart I feared, I knew, that this battle would end in tragedy for all.
I remember it well. The trees were gilded in flame and gold and the autumn air held a chill that always seemed to linger in the province of Ghorium, no matter the time of year. We huddled together, the peasants and common folk, alongside those who had once owned grand houses and titles. We gathered along the edge of the plain like rats awaiting their turn at a carcass freshly caught by wolves. Silence was our cloak, and fear was the shoes we wore. The Tanaan prince led his soldiers and even from our great distance, I could tell that he was propelled by pure fury and purpose. He resembled my husband in his looks and his father who had come and died before him. But he also reminded me of my son, or of who my son could have been had he not been corrupted by the god.
He sat proudly upon his horse, commanding his great army of men and dragons. From looks alone I would have said he had a great chance of defeating my Kalehm, but the Korli dragons did not stand a chance against the army of Morlis, their size and pure brutality no match for the more peaceful kruel of their brethren. As the day turned from dawn, to noon, to dusk, we watched and listened in horror as the great battle dragons burned entire legions and tore to pieces the Korlis charged to aid the Tanaan race of humans. Slowly, those around me crept back towards the forests, their numb terror nearly keeping them from their escape.
I could not leave. I stood there, watching as my child destroyed an entire army of men, dragons and elves. I witnessed the carnage, tasted the metallic tint of blood in the air and smelled the acrid scent of burning flesh on the wind. I forced myself to observe the tragedy, for it was my sentence. Someone had to witness what occurred here; someone had to write it down, to remember it. I was the most appropriate candidate. After all, it was I who had brought this about. Had I not been selfish, had I not fallen for the king’s charms, had I been braver and taken my son and fled, then this would never have happened.
The air was rife with emotion; pain, anger, sheer terror. By sundown I was sure everyone was dead, for the carrion crows were circling and the Morli were backing down, retreating to the north. But I was wrong. As the sun dipped behind the distant mountains, a piercing flash of light rent the air. Blinded, I blinked and sucked in a deep breath. When I regained my sight, I fell to my knees and felt the blood drain from my body. My senses were so numb that, for several moments, I could only feel the pebbles beneath my knees and dirt gathering beneath my fingernails. It felt as if I had fallen into the sea while in a deep sleep and I was struggling to reach the surface.
When my hearing returned to me I gazed off into the distance. There were more dragons than I had seen before, perhaps hundreds or even thousands of them, but they were not Morli, nor were they Korli. They resembled Traagien, that great savior from so long ago. I felt my consciousness slipping away, but all I could hear was screaming, a screaming like no other sound I had ever heard before. It was the sound of a soul being torn from a body, the sound of a mother holding the broken body of her child. I could not bear it. I curled into a ball and rocked myself back and forth, trying desperately to cleanse my ears of that horrible sound. But it was no use, the wails and shrieks of pure hopelessness tore down my barriers, and I fell . . .
-Chapter One-
Getting Away
Jahrra woke to the sound of her own cries, tearing through the pre-dawn air like a wailing banshee flying down a steep canyon. This time the nightmare was worse than before, holding her hostage even though she knew it wasn’t real; keeping her within its own evil world even as she tried in vain to escape. Only after hearing the horrible sounds of the screaming dragons did the night terror release her and allow her to wake. That was when the shouting stopped and the sobbing began.
Jahrra forgot all about her throbbing ankle and aching knee, as well as the deep, late winter chill that had managed to seep into her bones. She had even forgotten about her semequin Phrym, now standing sheepishly aside where he was tethered, lightly whickering in concern as he eyed his suffering master. He knew something was wrong but he could not discern what it was.
Jahrra’s cries were soon joined by the heavy wing beats of some large animal, a dark shadow against the still-black sky.
“Jahrra!” a strong voice hissed. “Jahrra, what’s wrong?”
A great Tanaan dragon landed beside her, pulling his wings in before they became entangled in the low oaks dotting the hillside where they had made their camp the night before.
The distraught young woman couldn’t answer him, or wouldn’t. The unfamiliar memories from long ago too near and too real for her to do anything other than fight against the pain. This particular dream had visited her too many times in the past week of travel and it had exhausted her both physically and mentally. More often than not, the dream changed before she woke, scooping up her own memories and pasting them on to the end. Instead of the battlefield rife with screaming dragons, it became Hroombra, crying out in agony before his death. Jahrra shivered and squeezed her eyes shut. How many times did she have to suffer the loss of the dragon she loved as a father? But tonight the terrible screams had shaken her from sleep before she could revisit her own horrifying memories.
Jaax scanned the surrounding area, his dragon sight not missing a thing, and when he found no immediate threat he narrowed his eyes and glanced down at Jahrra. He relaxed, then took a deep breath and whispered knowingly, “The nightmare.”
Jahrra simply nodded, clenching her teeth and curling into a ball despite her injured leg. Her tears still came, but she was no longer sobbing so aggressively.