The dappled-brown mare danced beneath her. Roelle patted the horse’s side, trying to soothe her. The horse had seen more battle than Roelle had expected when she had first traveled north. Then again, Roelle hadn't expected to see any battle. She had come seeking answers and had found allies. Finding the Antrilii had been the goal. Finding the Deshmahne had been a possibility. Finding these creatures—the groeliin—had been a nightmare.
The Magi with her were exhausted. Each had ridden hard over the last few weeks, and they had fought only one other battle with the groeliin. For the most part, the Antrilii took care of them. The Antrilii were amazing fighters, better than most of the Denraen she had trained with, even more skilled than General Endric in some ways.
More impressive than the Antrilii were the merahl. They were amazing creatures. She heard their braying, that long, haunting howl that split both day and night. More than even the Antrilii, the merahl guided them.
“The city lies in the path of these creatures,” Selton said.
Roelle turned in the saddle, facing her muscular friend. He had grown increasingly more somber the longer they had ridden, the shock of facing the Deshmahne replaced by horror of the groeliin. He had come north out of Vasha thinking to find adventure, perhaps explore some of the north. What they had encountered had been nothing like what any of them had expected.
“The merahl seem to be leading us east, which means that’s where the groeliin are going. That would be away from the city.”
Jhun rode on her other side and strained to see the city clearly. “It makes no sense. Why would the groeliin be heading away from the city? We’ve seen them destroy two villages already, moving straight through them.”
“They were empty,” Selton reminded her.
“Empty or not, does that matter to these creatures?” Jhun asked. “We’ve seen their disregard for pretty much everything in their path. Why would they care about avoiding Rondalin?”
Roelle looked for signs of the Deshmahne. She had seen them initially, thinking that they were in the city. The more they saw of the groeliin, the more Roelle began to wonder whether the Deshmahne sought to gain power and strength in the south because they knew about the growing threat in the north. The strength they possessed made the Deshmahne better equipped than most to handle the potential threat. Once again, her thoughts wandered to the notion of somehow partnering with them.
Roelle pushed the thought away. Partnering with the Deshmahne was not only out of the question, she doubted they would make effective partners. They were like the groeliin. They attacked the Magi. They sought destruction.
Only… what choice did they have?
Roelle bit back a hint of a smile. Could she really be thinking about trying to coax the Deshmahne into partnering with them? After everything they’d experienced, after all the fighting with the Deshmahne, did she dare?
“You have an idea?” Selton said.
Roelle breathed out a sigh. “Not a good one.”
“But an idea?”
Roelle looked back at the Magi with her. They waited in formation, all seated stiffly, ready to attack if needed. They had become soldiers. She wondered whether that would make her Founders proud or whether that would anger them.
“We’re outnumbered. Even with the Antrilii and the merahl, the groeliin far outnumber us. We’ll need help if we intend to stop the onslaught of ten thousand groeliin. If they reach farther south, all the people here will be in danger. Everyone will be slaughtered.” She turned to Selton and then Jhun. Both watched her, saying nothing. “We've seen what happened in the north when these creatures attacked. We've seen how they annihilate everything.”
“Roelle, are you actually thinking of convincing the Deshmahne to help us?” Selton asked.
She took a deep breath. “I’m beginning to think we have to.”
The only problem was, she didn't know how.
Isandra led the small caravan north. The chill mountain air whipped at her cloak, and the horse she rode tossed her from side to side uncomfortably. It had been years since she’d spent this much time in the saddle, and that had been a time when she’d frequently traveled outside of the city. Her body had begun to ache not long after leaving Vasha, and she wished she were already at their destination. Rondalin.
What was she thinking? She was already regretting that she’d agreed to travel to Rondalin. But there was no turning back; she had to continue, though she missed the comfort of Vasha with every passing hour.
When she looked back, she noted the mountains rising ever higher behind her, reminding her of the home she was leaving behind.
She had volunteered to make the trip to investigate what might've happened to their missing delegates. The Magi Council needed to preserve that connection after all they’d gone through to set the plan in motion. But she’d not fully considered the journey itself. Magi no longer left the city unless kings from other regions requested advisors. That had been a decision of the Council all those years ago when they had failed to follow the prophecy and choose a Uniter. But now, few kingdoms were even willing to use them as advisors, claiming the Magi had refused to intervene when they were asked. These thoughts led her to believe volunteering for this mission may not have been the best idea.
But who else was going to do it? Alriyn had left the city before, traveling north in pursuit of his studies. She could've put it on him to go—and had considered doing so—but if she were honest with herself, the real reason she had volunteered was because she wanted to see for herself what might be happening. To see if there was any truth to the rumors Alriyn claimed. If there was, then Alriyn’s push to choose a Uniter had even more merit than the others believed. They might be able to convince the Council to select another Uniter.
The other reason she chose to come north was one that Alriyn didn’t know. Inraith, the young Mage who had returned to Vasha to alert Endric and Alriyn of what they had encountered in the north—and had died from his injuries shortly thereafter—was a relative of hers. Isandra and Karrin had agreed that they needed to find out what was happening up north. If creatures the likes of what Alriyn had shown them were attacking the villages, they had to do something about it. And they had to find Roelle and the other Magi and return them to safety. She would return to Vasha with what she learned and hope that Endric would send his troops north.
Isandra turned her attention back to the road, focusing on keeping the horse moving forward. Her first order of business awaited her in Rondalin. She had five Denraen riding with her, support General Endric had determined she needed. Isandra thought it was a little ridiculous that she would be sent with five soldiers. A pair would’ve been more than enough.
Then again, the general had thought it necessary to send practically a hundred soldiers with each Mage when they had first gone to collect the delegates. Even that had almost not been enough. When the Deshmahne had attacked, those Magi had been thankful for their numbers.
But the silver stallion she rode was sleek and quick, and she figured the five Denraen would be able to ride just as quickly. Besides that, they were traveling north. There had been no sign of Deshmahne out of the north. The only concern that troubled her was that of these groeliin creatures, like the one Alriyn had shown them. Would they encounter them?
It may have been a fool hardy idea to come, to believe that she could intervene with the delegates, and that she could somehow broker peace, but someone had to do it. And Karrin supported it. If her sister thought it the right thing to do, it must be.
“Mage, we should camp for the night.”
Isandra glanced over at Stephen. He was an older man, with a scarred and grizzled face like so many of the Denraen. He had a short crop of hair, and his blunted nose looked like it had been broken before and hadn’t healed properly. He led the other Denraen, and they deferred to him, giving him some title she still hadn’t caught. Why would Endric send this man with her? If they did encounter anything, he was too old to be of any use.
Is
andra nodded. “We can stop—”
She didn't get the chance to finish.
There were flashes of darkness, enough that it caught her off guard. The Denraen were not.
Almost as one, the men turned their horses, surrounding her. As they did, Isandra counted seven men, each wearing dark clothes, and one with strange markings along his face.
“Stephen?”
Stephen nudged his horse backward. “We’ll protect you, Mage.”
One of the approaching men laughed. It was a strangely dark and horrible sound. There was a harsh quality to it, one that grated against her.
“Protect me from what?” she asked.
“Deshmahne.”
The men in the dark clothes—Deshmahne—unsheathed their swords.
She’d never seen the Deshmahne before. There were stories, but most had seemed impossible to believe. Could they be as powerful as the stories made them seem?
Isandra watched with horrid fascination as they darted forward, moving quickly—almost too quickly.
The Denraen reacted.
They fought, resisting the Deshmahne. The four younger Denraen held their positions around her, facing the Deshmahne and wielding their swords with precision and skill. But it was Stephen who surprised her.
It quickly became clear why Endric had sent him. Stephen was a marvel with the sword, displaying more skill than she could imagine any person ever achieving. As he fought, his sword moved so quickly that she struggled to follow it.
They cut down six of the Deshmahne, leaving only the one with the strange markings on his face. Stephen jumped from his saddle and faced him one on one. Their blades clanged off each other, the sound ringing unnaturally. It was as if the swords were made of a strange and unearthly metal.
The Deshmahne was more than a match for Stephen.
For a moment, she felt a tremor of fear for his safety, thinking he might be brought down, but the other Denraen leaped from their saddles and surrounded the Deshmahne.
The man flicked his gaze toward her, the strange markings on his face seeming to move, swirling in a pattern.
Isandra blinked. She must've imagined that.
There was a shifting of darkness, almost as if the shadows came alive, and then he disappeared.
A silence stretched over everything. She waited, afraid the Deshmahne would return, but there was no sign of him.
The Denraen checked the bodies of the dead, rolling them together before one of them lit the bodies on fire. Then they sheathed their swords and climbed into their saddles. When all were mounted, including Stephen, Isandra finally was able to loosen her tongue.
“Stephen?”
“They should not be this far north, Mage.”
“Endric knew, didn't he? That's why he sent you.”
“Endric suspected. This will not be an easy journey.” Stephen spurred his horse forward, motioning her to follow. “Come, Mage. We must ride quickly.”
As he rode away, Isandra's gaze trailed after him, and she wondered if she had overestimated her ability to counter the Deshmahne and prevent a war, much as she'd underestimated the Denraen's capability.
Chapter Four
Racing through the palace, the smooth stone a blur beneath his feet, Alriyn scanned the halls for signs of Deshmahne but thankfully found none. As Endric and the other Denraen, still carrying some of the Council members, pushed on, Alriyn’s grip on the manehlin grew weaker and weaker as his own strength failed. Finally, his hold slipped away, and his mind slammed closed.
It was agony. His head pounded like it never had before.
With the release, an awful roar echoed through the palace.
The Eldest.
He should have finished it when he had the chance. Would he have the strength the next time he faced the Mage?
He looked down the hall before turning his attention to Endric. The old general seemed even more grizzled than ever. Alriyn wondered how he could have survived what the Eldest had done to them. Alriyn barely survived it, his body aching from the blows.
It was his mind that hurt the most, though. He could still feel the agony of what he had forced it to do.
He looked at the historian, but Novan did not meet his gaze. The strange, unfocused look was still upon his face, and his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. Alriyn suddenly knew there was more to this man than he had ever suspected.
When they reached the main hall of the palace, the ceiling looming high above, the small sconces on the walls seemed to flicker strangely. “Up,” he announced, deciding. “The central tower.”
Endric looked to him. “You want to go up when we face Deshmahne in the palace? That only risks isolating you. If they reach you—”
“We must protect the mahne. I will show you where it is hidden. The Eldest and the Deshmahne must not be allowed to reach it. We will need it if we are to follow the ancient prophecy.”
Alriyn had time to think about the attack, though his pounding head made it difficult. The Eldest had converted. He was Deshmahne. It was the only explanation for the strange assault. No longer just a Mage, he had become something different, something worse and twisted.
“Jostephon is Deshmahne,” Alriyn said.
Endric nodded. “I saw it.”
“There were nearly a dozen Deshmahne back there,” Alriyn remembered.
Endric grunted. “No longer.”
Alriyn looked over to the Denraen general. “How many did it take to stop them?”
“Me.” He turned his iron gaze upon Alriyn, and it almost stopped him. “I will not let them defile the palace,” he said, the cold steel in his voice frightening. “And they will be eliminated from the city.”
Alriyn shook a moment. Could Endric really have just stopped nearly a dozen Deshmahne single-handedly?
He was suddenly thankful they were on the same side.
“We’ve known they were in the city, but they should not have been able to reach the palace,” Alriyn said.
Endric closed his eyes in a tight anger before opening them. A dark resolve was written on his face. “They had help, much like they did the last time they attempted to breach the palace.”
Alriyn looked over to the Councilors. All were still slumped unconscious across the shoulders of the Denraen carrying them. A few appeared seriously injured; blood clotted in a small pool that had formed beneath Haerlin’s nose. He quickly prayed that he had the strength and ability to heal them.
They were selfish prayers, though. He needed them all.
Alriyn led them up stairs that spiraled higher and higher into the palace. Each floor they passed was more unused than the next, but he feared to stop, knowing they had a far climb. Darkness followed them as they climbed.
The guards’ breathing grew more labored as they climbed. How much higher could they carry his friends?
There were no lights this high in the tower. He stretched to fill the open part of his mind, noting a deep ache as he did, and managed to light a few candles along the wall as they climbed. He reached a hand up to wipe his brow. It came away with sweat mixed with blood.
Finally, he led them away from the stairwell. By his count, it was the twentieth floor. Dust covered everything. The tower rose another dozen floors, but this was high enough. It had been many years since he had traveled this high in the tower, since anyone had been this high in the tower. There was a time when the tower had been filled with Magi, but it had been centuries since they had known such numbers.
Alriyn chose a door that opened slowly, and he led them into a large dusty room. Tables and chairs were scattered around the room, piles of tattered scrolls, aged leather-bound journals also coated with dust. Several pale maroon curtains hung, dividers for the room, but were molded through with holes.
Here, a voice whispered to him, and Alriyn paused, looking over at Novan. The historian was lost in the strange trance. Was it his voice he heard? If so, how?
“Here.” Alriyn motioned. “They can rest here.”
Endric issued orders. Alriyn didn’t pay attention to what they were, trusting the general. The Denraen soon had pulled several of the scattered tables to a central location and had wiped the dust off them before laying each Mage on a table.
Alriyn walked among the tables, resting his hands lightly on each Mage. His head throbbed. He could tell almost immediately that Haerlin was the worst. His injuries were extensive and would need the most help. Crayn and Karrin, on the other hand, were much better off. He barely touched them, probing at their manehlin, and their eyes opened. Bothar was not as bad as Haerlin but was not in as good of shape as Karrin or Crayn.
Karrin moaned as she sat up. He turned briefly to her before looking back to Haerlin. The man needed much help.
Alriyn let his mind open, and it ached. It opened much wider than he knew possible. Had what he’d done become permanent?
He probed into Haerlin, letting the man’s damage lead him, and used the man’s own manehlin to work over what had happened, before pouring his energy into the broken Mage. It was all he could do. He could only give the Mage energy and let his body do what was needed with it.
He looked up as he finished, tired. Karrin and Crayn both stood over Bothar, working at him. After a while, they finished and looked to Alriyn.
“How?” Karrin asked him finally.
He gave her a blank look, not understanding. “How what?” he asked tiredly.
She narrowed her eyes. “I saw what you did to them, to the Eldest” she answered. “It should not have been possible.”
Crayn nodded agreement.
Alriyn shook his head. “I am not Deshmahne,” he said, answering their unspoken question by pulling up his sleeves to reveal his thin arms. He hiked up his robe to reveal his pale legs for good measure. “I don’t know how.”
“I saw what you did,” Karrin said.
Alriyn nodded. “What you saw was me forcing my mind open wider. I couldn’t hold it.” Manehlin could never be held too long.
Crayn’s eyes went wide. The expression was mirrored on Karrin’s face. “You forced your mind wider?” he asked, his voice shocked.
Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3) Page 3