Chapter Twenty-Three
Alyta blinked open her eyes as she filtered out the darkness. Something was amiss. Even though her vision at night was nearly as good as in the daylight, she saw nothing to worry her. Inhaling deeply through her mouth, tasting the cool northern air, a small voice at the back of her mind, the companion of her kind, deciphered the scents for her. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
Still, she couldn’t shake the sense.
Alyta had come north to see the desolation for herself, already knowing what she would see. The reality of it all was no surprise. The empty towns stank of the creatures that men long ago had named groeliin, the odor foul enough that she did not need her companion Elaysa to explain what she smelled. Alyta didn’t linger long enough to see the creatures themselves, remembering their features too well from her last encounter with them. She had come only for confirmation.
She sighed. From her lips, it was the sound of the wind, quickly lost in the night air. A part of her was thankful for the wan moon and the black sky, though it didn’t hide from her the desolation that now overran the bleak northern mountains. Were she no more than the goddess that men thought her kind to be, she could change much of this. The truth was both simpler and much more complex. Never as all powerful as men would believe, her kind served the Maker as few others—and no man—could claim.
Soon that would end.
She was the last. Once, such a thought seemed impossible, but she had grown accustomed to the impossible. With each breath, she felt the passing of time, far too aware of the work remaining. Preparations had to be made, and the Conclave, once numbering the wisest and most powerful of this world, could now be counted on her two hands. Not enough for what was needed.
The stink of the air reminded her of what the Conclave needed to accomplish. Spread thin, there seemed little hope that they could capture the man responsible, not after what Raime had become. They should have been more proactive with him years ago, back while he still learned his craft. Before he had stolen his power.
Now she was not even certain she could stop him. At some point, it would come to a confrontation. None of her kind had dared confront him before, fearing to upset the balance critical to the Maker, yet Alyta had learned the price of their delay. They all had.
Alyta took another deep breath. She had not given up hope that additional help was out there somewhere. Following the fibers of time did nothing to clarify where she might find that help, as many times as she had tried. There had been a glimpse of something, little more than a suggestion, not enough to understand its meaning. Searching along the fibers for help had only triggered something else, but that illness had to be tolerated were they to succeed.
Lingering did nothing, certainly not with so much work remaining. She gathered herself and felt a slow quivering in her mind as she prepared to travel.
Something held her in place.
She tried again without success.
Her heart suddenly hammered in an unfamiliar sensation: Fear.
Alyta glanced around and saw nothing, but the distant golden glow of Elaysa’s eyes. Normally, that would be reassuring, but now?
She closed her eyes, looking through the darkness using Elaysa’s better sight.
There she saw what she feared. Three of the creatures stood around her, like the points of a triangle. Their inky energy surrounded her, masked somehow from her sight. Each was marked with more runes than she had ever seen on one of their kind. Alone, they would be formidable. Together—she had no chance. If they could hold her in place, prevent her from traveling, there was little she could do to oppose them.
Seek help, she commanded Elaysa. Find the Conclave. If I am lost, we must find the other, she begged, showing Elaysa the vision of what she had glimpsed in the fibers. If she failed, that might be their only remaining hope, the one glimmer she had glimpsed along the fibers, the reason she still searched. Alyta was not even certain whether she had succeeded.
Her companion paused before loping off into the night. Even Elaysa had been fooled by the creatures’ veil.
Yes, she decided, these creatures were powerful.
Had her time already run out?
She prayed she could last long enough to find the one she’d seen when looking along the fibers of time. If she couldn’t, Raime would truly win.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The day was overcast, gray skies shouting of rain that had yet to come. Roelle’s heavy cloak fluttered in the cool northern breeze, which no longer carried the scent of the sea. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, her sword sheathed outside of her cloak in readiness. She wouldn't be unprepared, especially given the attacks they had faced. None for several days, though. That bothered her for reasons she didn't quite understand.
“This doesn't feel like the north I once knew,” Hester said.
Roelle turned to him. They had been silent for a while, leaving her lost in her thoughts. “You knew the north?”
Hester nodded. “My family comes from a town near the lowest foothills. It's a place called Fristin, closer to the Great Valley than the sea, but it's a place much like here.”
Roelle surveyed the landscape. The lower hills climbed slowly ever northward, almost too slowly for Roelle’s liking.
So far, they hadn't encountered the Deshmahne again. She worried about that, much as she worried about the mindsets of the Magi still riding with her. The two Deshmahne attacks had changed them, but Roelle wasn't sure that was a good thing. It had hardened many of them, but had they become brittle or stronger?
They rode slowly. Though she felt a sense of urgency, and her horse seemed to notice it, as well, the rest of the Magi did not, much the opposite in fact. It was almost as if everyone dreaded the possibility of another attack.
Hester wrinkled his nose. “What—”
He didn’t finish. “What is it?” Roelle asked.
They were crossing a rocky valley. He paused, looking up to the sloping boulders around him, and shook his head. “I'm not sure. I've never smelled anything quite this awful.”
Roelle didn’t sense anything.
She sniffed tentatively at the air, looking around at the Magi, but none of them seemed to notice either. Only the other two Denraen and Lendra seemed to notice it.
“I don't smell it,” Roelle said.
Hester grunted. “Magi eyesight might be good, but perhaps your nose isn't.” He tried to laugh but only ended up gagging.
Hester took a roll of cloth out of his pack and wrapped it around his nose. The other Denraen did the same, and Lendra followed.
They continued forward, but neither Roelle nor the other Magi noticed the smell.
Lendra leaned off the side of her saddle and vomited violently. She sat up, wiping her eyes, shaking her head as she did. “I don't know what it is, but it's…”
Roelle didn’t need Lendra to finish. They’d heard stories of something like this.
Would they reach the threat of these creatures in the north before they reached the Antrilii? Were they ready?
The landscape flattened out here before sloping upward once more. Roelle motioned to the Magi, indicating a change in their maneuvers. The Magi quickly formed up, and Selton guided them, taking on the role of second in command. The clearing here was large, large enough for every rider and horse to move into a ready position. A large bluff blocked their way north, marking the beginning of the upper hills. From there, a small, narrow path led farther up into the rocks. They would have to go that way, which meant dismounting and leading their horses. It meant walking single file. It would make them vulnerable.
The clearing was silent. There was the occasional movement of hooves across rough stone, which echoed loudly off the huge bluff. One of the other Denraen vomited, and Roelle glanced over to see that it was Trenal. He was a solid and strong man, one who said little. For him to vomit meant that whatever was coming was terrible.
The sky overhead darkened, though she thought it only her imaginatio
n. The wind whistled through the clearing, catching off the stone, almost a moan of sorts. Roelle shivered.
She smelled nothing, but the look upon the Denraen’s faces told her everything she needed to know.
“What do you think is causing this?” Jhun asked.
Roelle scanned the rock. “The stories that came from the north all mentioned a sort of sickening smell. The mother of that family on the road mentioned the same thing.”
“Why don't we smell it?” Jhun asked.
Roelle didn't have an answer.
She slapped her hand against her thigh, unable to suppress a nervous energy she felt. Others turned their heads, chasing the unseen shadows. The movement did little to ease the gnawing at the pit of her stomach that told her something was amiss.
She suspected the others had thoughts much like hers. Nervousness. Anxiety. Fear.
It was normal, but her eyes darted restlessly, unable to let it go.
Even Hester was cramped over, barely able to hold onto his reins, vomiting every few moments. Lendra was the same, her face almost green.
Roelle moved into the center of the clearing.
“Is this the Deshmahne?” Selton asked.
“This isn't—”
Roelle cut off short.
There was a slight shifting of color among the rocks, and it was all her eyes detected as creatures crept down to the small path leading toward the upper hills. When she saw them, she knew instantly what they were. There was a vague shape to them, that of a dark ring faintly seen beneath an amorphous cloud of dust and dirt, and hints of a gray hide that became clearer as they approached.
How had the woman from the north even seen them? Roelle recalled her description: a trail of dust like a fog.
She raised an arm in a silent command, motioning toward the creatures.
The watchers took note and sent on the command. She was thankful they’d trained as hard as they had under the Denraen. She felt a sense of pride as she watched her people.
She didn't have time for much thought beyond that. The shapes came quickly when they realized they'd been seen.
The Magi nearest the trail were the first into the attack. They had already unsheathed their swords, and their blades flashed, a steady thud of steel landing on something hard, but no metal on metal sound, nothing like when they faced the Deshmahne.
No weapons?
Someone screamed. It was a horrible sound, a female voice.
Roelle offered a silent prayer to the gods for safety and protection, but what they needed was strength to fight through and use their training.
She kicked her horse forward, spurring it toward the battle.
Hester managed to grab her reins. “Let them fight, Mage. You lead.” With that, he sank back onto his saddle, still in significant distress.
Unable to do anything, Roelle just stared at what unfolded before her. Could she only command and organize the other Magi? She had to. Endric had taught her that confusion was as much an enemy as any attacker.
Sixty or so of the other Magi warriors sat as helpless as she, waiting out the battle, unable to get any closer. Many stood in their stirrups watching while others were on alert, eyes darting from side to side, looking for another attack.
Thankfully, none came.
The sound of the dull thuds came over and over again filling the valley. A scream rang out every so often, and sometimes a determined shout.
Each echoed loudly off the rocks, filling the clearing with the sound of the battle.
Glancing back, Roelle saw that Hester was the only Denraen who remained in his saddle. The other two lay on the ground, vomiting and convulsing. There was nothing she could do to help them.
The Magi line attacking the creatures started to bulge.
Roelle motioned to several of the Magi. As they hurried forward, she indicated the Denraen. They moved toward the Denraen and lifted their heads from the pools of vomit and rolled them onto their backs. It wouldn't do for her guides to drown in their own bile.
Lendra leaned against her horse. She had a determined set to her jaw, her throat clenched tightly trying to hold down her stomach contents. Roelle wished there was something she could do—anything—to take away the suffering of the Denraen and Lendra.
The sounds of the battle died off, and Roelle looked up. An almost eerie silence came over the valley.
As Roelle made her way toward the front line, she saw three horses without riders.
Only three? She'd heard more screams than that.
Of the three that were fallen, two were injured.
Dustin had leapt from his horse to attack at a lower level, and was cleaning and sheathing his blade before climbing back onto his horse.
A jagged tear was all that remained of Indrosea's arm. She’d chosen to fight with her staff. Selton had already reached her and was wrapping her, stopping the bleeding. They would do more for it later.
Nothing could be done for Sean, though. He was missing a leg, and his forehead was caved in, dark blood pooling around his head. Roelle turned from the gore only to see the man's missing leg a few feet away.
Four of the creatures lay strewn around Sean. She could see them more clearly in death. Grey skinned and with upper bodies covered with hair, the creatures seemed much shorter than a man and wider besides. Some were clad only in a dark wrapping that covered their genitals. Others wore ragged and dirtied breeches. Some had what appeared to be breasts.
Each had a club lying now useless nearby, though only one of them had any sort of blood on it. Long, bloodied claws extended from thick fingers and toes, and she noted many of the Magi warriors had long cuts and scratches. Some of the wounds appeared deep, and she wondered if the creatures were poisonous. She would have to ensure they all cleaned their wounds especially well to ensure their safety.
Had her mind already started going toward planning?
What other choice did they have?
Roelle studied the nearest body of a fallen creature. They were grotesque, and horrible, and she understood why people ran from the north. But how had they not heard of these creatures before?
It seemed unfathomable, especially considering the way the Denraen were incapacitated. Veteran soldiers, all of them, had dropped from their saddles with nausea, and were unable even to stand to fight. Then there was the difficulty they had even seeing the creatures.
This was worse than any Deshmahne.
As she looked up, another question came to her, one without an answer: Was this what the Deshmahne planned? Were they trying to train soldiers to protect the north?
A worried fear ate at her stomach. What if they had it wrong? What if the Deshmahne were the strength they needed to stop these creatures?
What if the Deshmahne were their only hope?
The room was dark. Almost too dark, and the light that would normally filter in between the cracks had been blocked out. He shivered. He was not one who often shivered, but there was something about the room.
A sound came through the darkness, a quiet shuffling from a source he could not quite place. He whipped his head around, trying to find it, but there was nothing but blackness.
When he gave up and just looked ahead, two pools of red stared at him. Almost flames. He wanted to jump, but did not let himself. It would not have been good for him to jump.
“There is… discontent… among your Council,” a voice from the darkness spoke. It was rough, harsh to his ears.
Part of him wanted to cringe away from it, pull himself back to protect his ears. And his mind. He dared not move. “I know, master.”
“There are those among it who will challenge you,” the voice came again.
The flames he knew to be eyes danced.
He shivered again and stared into the flames, into the eyes of the man. Or whatever he was.
With the thought, pain stole through his body. It coursed through him, pulsating.
He squeezed his hands in time with the beats, each contraction a slight agony.
As the pain moved through him, he could feel it traveling toward his head. He wanted to cry but knew he could not let himself. It would do no good. He steeled himself for it, knowing the feeling as he had known it before.
Slowly, the pain reached his mind.
It burned. Branding him, he supposed.
He could feel it pulsate within him.
As it did, his mind clouded slightly. He tried to force his concentration, to focus his mind, but the old tricks learned long ago were ineffective.
“You will be victorious,” the voice demanded.
He found himself nodding. He knew nothing short of victory would be allowed. “Yes,” he whispered. “The challenge will not succeed.”
“Good,” the voice rasped. The sound of it tore at his mind.
The pain still pulsed within him, but it seemed to lessen somewhat. He let himself breathe deeply, forcing the air into his lungs, trying to calm himself.
“What of the hundred?” he asked.
They could be a problem for him. He knew he should have stopped the whole charade long before it reached the point that it had. How were they allowed to escape the city?
A low rumble echoed in the room. A laugh. It ripped through him like a wind, tearing at him. “The hundred warriors,” the voice sneered, “are nothing.”
He hesitated. The rumors he had heard told a different story. “I have heard of victories for them,” he began carefully.
“Victories? Their only victories have come against new initiates. They will find success much more difficult when they face the larger arm of my army. They will be swept down in that tide.” His master laughed again.
He knew it best not to question, but had heard of larger battles. Larger victories for the Magelings. They were more of a threat than his master was letting on. He knew he must be careful.
“The final battle nears,” the voice began again. The flames seemed to grow with the words. “You must be ready.”
He nodded. It would be as he had been instructed. “I will be ready.”
The Warrior Mage (The Lost Prophecy Book 2) Page 21