The creature was grotesque, even through the haze. Its skin was the color of gray stone, and the head was completely hairless. Walking on two legs, brown breeches covered the creature’s lower half, while the hairy upper half was left naked. The face was a monstrosity. Ears were only holes on each side of the head. Narrow eyes were more like a rat than anything else, and he caught a glimpse of sharp teeth within the mouth. There was nothing natural about the creature. Nothing pure. It seemed a creature straight from a nightmare. Evil.
Other figures walked among the creatures. They were taller, with skin a soft pink, and he realized they were men and women walking naked, looking dazed. Some carried weapons. Others carried food or led horses.
Even from where he stood, he could tell they were slaves.
Jakob couldn’t bear to look at the creatures any longer. Their shape, their coloring, and mostly the sense he felt from their aura disgusted him. They churned his stomach in an uneasy way.
Through the thick haze burned another field of energy appeared, larger than any of the thousands of others streaming from the cave. It was dark and cold much like the others, but different too. Part of the energy pulsed and twisted. Hundreds of fingers of energy shot out from this aura and touched each of the creatures. A finger would touch one creature, pull away, and move on to the next. It was almost a dance as they twisted and twined about, never tangling.
Something about the aura tugged on a memory. He had seen it before. He stared through the haze, and his vision cleared enough for him to see a dark cloak hanging limp around a balding man, short gray hair still barely ringing his scalp. The man turned to look up the slope of the mountain where Jakob stood. Black eyes, dark as the darkest night, stared up at him. Flecks of fiery red jumped about within those eyes.
Jakob knew the man.
The Deshmahne High Priest.
He felt himself jumping back to get away and was suddenly falling.
Petrified, he didn’t know what was happening, or what he could do to save himself. He kept falling. He squeezed his eyes shut, resigning himself to his fate. He knew he could do nothing to stop or slow his fall. He didn’t even know how high up he had been, or how far he had to fall.
He dropped for long moments, felt the wind stinging his bare flesh. He kicked, fighting, before realizing it was useless. He would not survive this fall.
A feeling came to him then. A feeling that part of his mind opened. It was almost what he felt when the tearing pain came, though this time, it came without agony, without ripping. The pulsing came on stronger again, pushing away all thoughts, pushing away all fear. He welcomed it, pulled at it as he had learned he could and welcomed the humming in his head. It spread throughout his body, touching his heart, stomach, and moved into his legs. Strangely, it touched his fingers last. The sensation left him vibrating, and he could almost hear it in his ears. He thrilled in the feeling of the tingling, thrilled in the fall.
He cried out.
As he did, everything stopped.
The sense of falling ceased. The wind stopped howling in his ears and biting at his flesh. The pounding in his head stopped.
He opened his eyes, expecting the haze.
Instead, he lay on the edge of a forested area. A hard-packed road ran nearby, heading straight west based on the direction of the sun. Weeds that had not yet been trampled by travelers peeked through the road every so often. The haze was gone from his vision, and with it the blurring.
A dream. It was all a dream.
Or was the madness?
It seemed chillier, and he noted that the landscape was different. The sun was shifted from where it should be in the sky, and after he pondered it, he realized why. He was farther north.
How?
He propped himself up, looking around. There was no sign of anyone else around him, no sign of the Deshmahne attackers. His sword was still with him, the trunk still hung from his belt, and his saddlebags still draped over his shoulder. Relief surged through him before being replaced by despair.
His horse was gone. He would be on foot.
Jakob walked to the road, knowing what he needed to do. North. The Elasiin path toward Siirvil’s Peak and Avaneam.
Looking north, there was nothing but dark forest, and he knew he wouldn’t find the path through the forest.
West first. Then north.
After that, what would he do?
Chapter Twenty-One
A knock at his door drew his attention, and Alriyn looked up. “Come,” he called. His voice felt rough. He had done much talking lately. Part of him missed the traveling and the solitude of his studies.
Karrin opened the door and slipped in. She glanced quickly toward the empty chairs before sending a curious glance his way. Her pale yellow robe swished quietly around her as she moved. She smiled at him, lips only curling partly up. She wasn’t happy about something.
“We’ll wait for—” Another knock came at his door. “Come,” he called again.
The door pushed open and Haerlin slipped in. “You summoned me, Alriyn?” His words trailed as he saw Karrin in the room. “What is this?”
“Close the door, Haerlin,” Alriyn said.
Haerlin did as he was asked, then asked again, “What is this?”
“You faced Deshmahne,” Alriyn began.
Haerlin shook his head. “Not I.”
Alriyn laughed, knowing the truth of the statement. Endric had made mention of how Haerlin had corralled the delegate in the center of the Denraen at the onset of the attack. Roelle, on the other hand, had been something else—something he’d never dared dream to hear about—a warrior Mage.
Alriyn felt mixed emotions about that and kept the pride he felt hidden—few would understand, could understand.
“They were Deshmahne?” Karrin asked.
Haerlin nodded, and Karrin whistled quietly. That now made four confirmed attacks upon the Magi. They should all remember the attack decades ago. It had been the one that set Alriyn on his course to discover what lay beyond the borders of Vasha. That the Deshmahne continued their attacks could not be mere chance. Alriyn had sought out Endric when they returned. The man was tired, worried, but not about the Deshmahne.
“The Denraen can kill Deshmahne,” Endric had said.
“Yet you worry,” Alriyn had pressed.
“There are some things we cannot kill,” he replied.
The comment, off-handed though it was, had carried a deeper meaning. Endric was never one to easily pass on information. He was Denraen and served to protect the mahne. Alriyn had learned long ago to trust what Endric said and to look for another layer. In this case, he wondered what he would find.
Never had the Denraen been as distant as they had under Endric’s leadership. The Denraen had been founded nearly as long ago as the Magi and were tasked with protecting the mahne. Most felt they were guardians of the Magi, though they were not, not truly. The Denraen kept peace when others could not.
“The Denraen can manage the Deshmahne,” Alriyn said to the two Elders.
“Manage?” Haerlin asked. “The Denraen haven’t stopped the Deshmahne’s influence from spreading in the south. They barely stopped the attack when the Desh—”
“Their purpose is not to start war,” Alriyn reminded, “but to maintain peace. The balance.” He watched Haerlin, realizing how much the attack he’d experienced had shaken the man. “And the delegates can serve us. I don’t dispute the Eldest’s plan.”
“Then why am I here?” Haerlin asked, glancing from Karrin to Alriyn.
“The stories from the north grow stranger.” The stories had become wilder since his return. He wondered which to believe, which to ignore. It didn’t seem prudent to ignore any at this point.
“Rumors,” Haerlin shot.
“More than rumors,” Karrin said.
Alriyn nodded again. “More than rumors. You traveled with Endric. What did you learn from him?”
“He lets on only what he wants to.”
�
�He does.” The comment mirrored Alriyn’s thoughts.
“There can be little truth to the tales,” Haerlin pushed.
Karrin shook her head. Alriyn suspected that she would have heard similar tales. He hoped so. The far north was a growing wasteland. Winter was coming, and it would be much more difficult to do anything during the harsh northern winter. Worse, though, was the word that this menace moved south.
“The delegates will train as the Eldest directed. The situation is in hand,” Haerlin said.
“The delegates were chosen to help with the Deshmahne and the disruption in the south.” And, if Gom Aaldia continued down their current path with the Deshmahne, perhaps the delegates would be needed closer to home. “Unless the Deshmahne have pushed farther than we know, the delegates can do nothing about the north.” He looked hard at Haerlin before turning to Karrin.
“I’ve seen some good from them,” Haerlin said.
Alriyn cast a strong eye at the words. “A prophecy?” The man had a rare gift, though was not a true prophet. Haerlin was the first in many years to show any signs, however weakly. They had learned to trust Haerlin’s visions long ago.
The other Mage shook his head. “I don’t know. I look at the delegates together... and I see a mixture. Good with bad. Bright and dark. A mixed message.” He paused. “When I look at each alone, I see nothing clearly. I don’t know what it means.”
Alriyn considered what he’d just heard. He hadn’t expected that. “They will be of use, but even with the old tradition, the Uniter, we missed something.” There was something to the selection that they’d been unable to learn. The mahne was incomplete, and Alriyn had spent his life trying to fill in the holes. A fragment he possessed, that few had seen, spoke of a test. Years of searching had taught him nothing more of this test. “How can these delegates help?”
“Some are stronger than others,” Karrin suggested.
He arched an eyebrow.
“Lansington, for one,” she continued. “The boy has an inner strength.”
Haerlin nodded agreement. “When Bothar and his group joined us for the remainder of the journey to Vasha, I traveled with the boy. Son of the High King of Gom Aaldia.”
“Any others?” Alriyn asked.
“The boy from the west, om-Elraihn. A quiet one, and strange, but there is more to him, I think.”
Alriyn clasped his hands together. “I must speak with them,” he declared.
“To what purpose?” Haerlin asked. “The Eldest guides their training.”
He turned to Karrin. They had agreed Haerlin would be the first they spoke to. “There’s something worrisome about the north, Haerlin. It is more than stories. There is an ancient threat, one I’ve read about in my studies—”
Haerlin looked at him carefully. “What studies?”
“Us.” Alriyn said. The word hung in the air. “The Great Mother. Our Founding.”
“Founded in a time of war, the Great Mother brought us together, settling the bloodshed and sealing our futures, and we became the Urmahne,” Haerlin recited.
Karrin looked at Alriyn with uncertainty. Their Founding was taught to them at a young age; any Mage could recite the same line. Alriyn shook his head. “Yes, but before that.”
“We know almost nothing of that time. The records are lost,” Haerlin said.
Alriyn shook his head. “There is the mahne.” Ancient, unclear, and written in a language long-since dead, it was the only surviving recording prior to their Founding. It was written with knowledge and explained much of their purpose, their gifts from the gods. “I’ve seen the old texts, the fragments. There was something terrible at that time, something only our people could face. We must buy time and determine if now is the time the mahne calls for.” He feared whether the others would agree with the need to call for the nemah, but the more he heard, the more he wondered if perhaps the delegates wouldn’t be enough. “There is too much strangeness for my liking, too much that sounds like what happened then,” he admitted.
Haerlin was nodding slowly now. That was good.
“There is something,” Haerlin began, his voice barely more than a scratching whisper. “Something I saw of a boy.”
Alriyn looked at him a moment. “A vision?”
Haerlin shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought...” He shook his head. “I thought it was wrong. He traveled with us when we first set out on our journey, an apprentice historian.”
Alriyn looked at him. “Novan?” Alriyn had been surprised to learn that Haerlin had allowed the historian to travel with him.
Haerlin snuffled. “Novan, indeed. A new apprentice, and one whom your niece found quite interesting, I might add. I saw it twice; the first time, I thought I imagined it. The second could not be ignored.” He looked around, eyes searching for understanding. “It was nothing I had ever seen before. It seemed almost a ball, circular, and dark. As if he held everything and nothing in his future.”
Haerlin sighed. “It was brief, but I think on it sometimes. It seemed that if I looked, I could see everything, could know any answer I needed. Or lose myself trying. I can’t explain it. It was both frightening and exhilarating. I still don’t understand.” He paused before continuing. “I hoped to see more along our journey, but it never came.”
Alriyn didn’t know how to react, didn’t know what it meant, but suspected. “You let him leave?”
“Not I,” Haerlin replied. “Novan sent him north with the Denraen. They carried something for Endric. Novan felt it important to observe.” Haerlin looked at him expectantly. “I could not find out what it was. And I did not stop him.”
North again, and now Endric was involved.
What was that man up to? What did this mean?
He needed answers, and he suspected Endric would not be forthcoming. “We need you and a select council of others to study this further.”
“Which others?” Haerlin asked.
“First you join,” Karrin demanded.
Haerlin’s gaze shifted from Alriyn to Karrin. “After what I saw, I am with you. For now.”
Alriyn smiled to himself. It was enough. It had to be enough. “Councilors only. They must know and understand the mahne. It is too dangerous otherwise. Bothar, Isandra, though we have yet to speak to them.” He looked over to Karrin. “Time is moving faster now. We must follow.”
“We will have to have a compelling reason to choose the Uniter, Alriyn,” Haerlin said. “My hazy visions will not be enough, and neither will rumors.”
Alriyn nodded, and worried what more they might discover.
The next week passed slowly. Brohmin’s body tired, though they hadn’t pushed too hard. His shoulder still ached from his injury, but he had cleaned the blood from his shirt. At least he felt cleaner.
Salindra still rode next to him. He had wondered if she would disappear as they neared Rondalin. She surprised him when she cut her hair short and rubbed jensain root in it to darken. She looked different. Different enough that he doubted she would be recognized.
He glanced over to her with the thought. She sat tall in the saddle, her confidence returning with her strength. Somehow, his healings were helping. Each night he tried again. At the least, it helped slow what was happening. She looked more like the woman she had been. She would have to carry herself differently to pass as a common woman. She was too tall to be anything but Mage.
They came atop a hill. The sun was only partway along its path for the day and bright overhead. In the valley far below them, a huge city came into view. Massive walls encircled its entirety, and a huge fortress stood in the center of the city. Separate walls blocked the fortress from the rest of the city, higher than the outer walls. He knew it to be a strong fortress. A poor location, though. The hill he stood upon could easily hide an army.
He looked over to Salindra. She did not return his gaze. He asked much of her by returning to Rondalin. She risked much.
He spurred his horse down the hill and Salindra followed. The ride toward
the city passed quickly. They were soon upon the main road leading into the city proper. The road was empty, though packed hard from use. It hadn’t rained in several weeks, so it was dry as well, kicking dust up on them.
“I am afraid, Brohmin,” Salindra whispered next to him.
He looked over to her. Her voice was softer than he had ever heard. He could see her shaking slightly. He had not thought a Mage could know that much fear. “I promise no further harm to you, Salindra.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure you can.”
With her words hanging in the air, he looked toward the city. They were approaching the main gate, and he could make out the sentries standing guard. Their presence surprised him somewhat. Rondalin had always been an open city. He looked over to her again. “Why?” he asked finally.
She did not take her eyes off the gate as she answered. “I did not think this could be done to my people,” she answered. “What if the same is done to you?” she asked worried.
He laughed lightly. “I am not of your people, Salindra,” he told her.
She looked at him then. Her eyes were harder than he had seen from her since their journey together began. “You must be of...” she began.
“I am not of your people,” he reassured.
She stared at him a long time before turning away. He knew the question she didn’t ask and laughed at what he knew she thought. He knew he was little different from the guards at the gate. She would doubt him if he told her that.
“When were guards posted?” he asked to break the silence.
She looked in the distance. “Several days after the new advisor arrived. Only a short while before I left the city.”
Her words were hurt. He knew why.
They rode silently up to the gate. Reaching the sentries, he looked down at them, eyeing their uniforms with curiosity. Bronze helmets capped their heads, and polished silver breastplates covered their chests. The sun reflected brightly off the metal. The shirt and pants underneath were black and green, hugging muscular frames.
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 22