Allay struggled, trying to kick, but Rosahd had positioned himself in such a way that Allay could barely move. The Mage was heavier than he looked and stronger than he should be.
Rosahd’s hands gripped Allay's throat, suffocating him.
His breaths came raggedly, and his vision began to spot for a different reason.
Allay’s struggles failed. If he didn’t call out—or do something—he would die.
As he began to fade, Rosahd sagged on top of Allay, his grip relaxing.
Allay coughed, barely able to take a breath with Rosahd’s weight on top of him. With a final heave of strength, he threw the Mage off him, taking a gasping breath.
Mendi stood over him, holding Rosahd’s sword, a troubled expression on her face. He knew she wondered the same thing he did: Why would one of the Magi attack him?
Mendi dropped the sword and crouched in front of Allay, running her fingers along his neck, his scalp, before stepping back. “Nothing to worry about,” she said.
“Other than a Mage attacking me and trying to kill me?” Allay asked.
“Yes. That was unexpected,” Mendi said.
Allay tried to laugh, but his throat hurt. “Unexpected seems an understatement.”
Mendi made her way toward the fallen Mage and pulled up the sleeves of his tunic. Her breath caught.
Allay crawled over to see what had drawn her attention.
On Rosahd’s arms were the distinct markings he recognized as Deshmahne.
“This shouldn't be,” Mendi said. “They shouldn't be able to convert the Magi.”
“You saw the influence they had in the city,” Allay said. His throat hurt to talk, but the pain lessened with each breath. “We knew they had reached the Denraen. It was only a matter of time before they somehow reached the Magi.” Allay coughed again. “What happened to the Denraen? How was he able to get in here?”
Mendi shook her head. “He killed them.”
“All of them?”
Mendi nodded.
Allay offered a silent prayer. The Denraen had been reserved, but they had been good men. They had come south, had faced the Deshmahne, and had protected him. Now they were gone.
Somehow, they had to get word to Endric.
Yet… there was no one who could. He and Mendi had to reach Gomald, and there was nothing he could do otherwise.
Allay took a few slow breaths. His throat was raw, painful, but not as painful as the questions that he now had.
What did it mean that the Magi had converted to the Deshmahne?
What did it mean that one of the Magi was able—and willing—to kill?
“We should—”
“Leave,” Mendi said. “I don't feel comfortable waiting until morning. When they find a dead Mage here and the dead Denraen…” She dropped the sword and stood, turning to the door. “They’re already suspicious of our intent here. They’re going to think you instigated this attack. They will use that to further their own plans.”
“I don't think they intend to—or want to—attack Thealon.”
Mendi’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she concentrated. Pale moonlight reflected off her face. “Perhaps not, but I think it's best if we depart now. Before anyone awakens. Before anything else happens. You need to get to Gomald.”
“Need?”
She nodded but said nothing more.
Allay stood. His legs were weak, and his head throbbed from where Rosahd had punched him. He hurt more from an attack from a Mage than he ever had when he had wrestled with his brother. That seemed unthinkable to him.
And yet there it was. He had been beaten by a Mage.
Sighing, he looked to Mendi. “We can go, but I'm not sure that getting to Gomald is the right thing to do anymore.”
“Where else would we go? What else should we do?” She glanced at the bloody form of Rosahd lying face down on the ground. “Your father plans to attack. Your brother is gone. There is a rebellion. And Deshmahne roam Gom Aaldia. You’re needed in the city. That is the way you regain control of Gomald and restore the peace.”
She was right. As usual.
Allay looked around the room, checking to see if there was anything he needed to grab and take with him, but found nothing. There was something he could do, though.
He went to the table, grabbed a sheet of paper, and quickly wrote a note that he pinned to Rosahd’s body. It was an explanation, and a plea to send word to Endric. The general needed to know what happened and needed to know about the number of Deshmahne roaming Gom Aaldia. Allay wasn’t sure Theresa would act on the note, but he remembered that Locken had studied with the Denraen, and hoped he retained some loyalty toward them.
Once that was done, he stood. It was time for them to head toward his home, to see if he could find a way to stop an unnecessary war.
Why did he still feel as if there would be nothing he could do?
Chapter Eleven
The Deshmahne soldier sitting before her reminded Roelle of Endric. It was strange coming to Rondalin and sit before a man who might have attempted to kill her were he to know that she was one of the Magi. If he knew she’d fought the Deshmahne before, he might attack her. Yet he appeared to be nothing more than a soldier, though one as tattooed as any of the Deshmahne she’d met.
It was a strange dichotomy; so different from the angry and violent Deshmahne she'd faced. It was enough to make her almost believe these men could be reformed in some way, that they could see that their violence was not a way to the gods, that maybe they could see that the way to the gods was through finding peace.
It was almost enough for her to believe that they sought power in order to protect those without it. Almost enough to think they would be willing to fight to stop the groeliin. Maybe that was the reason behind the movement she’d seen.
The man’s gaze drifted to the half-open sack containing the groeliin head. Every so often he would look at it, and then pull his gaze away. He’d said nothing for long moments after she’d opened the sack.
Finally, he said, “You killed one of these creatures?”
Roelle leaned forward, forcing him to meet her eyes. “We've killed several. And they're moving. This is what's coming south. This is the reason the people have come to Rondalin for help. We’re hopeful that is what your men prepare for.”
She glanced at the wall behind him, noting the map and the stack of papers on his desk, reminding her of Endric even more. She could make out nothing from the map. It was possible that it was there only for decoration.
The Deshmahne lowered his eyes back to the sack, and his brow furrowed as he studied it. “We haven't heard of attacks this far south. It's possible they'll leave Rondalin alone. Too many people, you know?”
Hope that the preparation she’d seen by the Deshmahne might be for the groeliin faded. What did they prepare for then? “They might have left you alone for now, but that won't be the case for much longer. We killed this one two day’s ride from here.”
“We? How many are with you?”
“A couple dozen of us soldiers,” Roelle answered. Better to keep that shrouded in some mystery so that he didn't know how many Magi were with her.
She had already decided not to share anything about the Antrilii. Doing so would only raise questions that she wasn't comfortable answering. She understood now why Endric had not shared anything about the Antrilii. As he had said to her, it was not theirs to share.
“If these creatures really are the ones causing all the trouble in the north, how is it that you are able to kill one when none of those people out there could do anything?” he asked, nodding toward the outer door to the barracks. “Most people are scared, coming with stories of destroyed villages. If they can take out entire villages, how can you slow them?”
“We think we stopped these by luck, but we need help, soldiers with more skill,” Selton answered. “We were just trying to find a way to Nasua, to audition for the Denraen, when we got sidetracked.” It was the story they’d agreed upon
. Let the Deshmahne believe they traveled to the small northern city of Nasua to reach the Denraen. It explained why they could fight.
The Deshmahne grunted. “The Denraen won't help you. They won't even allow you to audition. They either choose you, or they don't.”
Roelle detected some resentment in his tone. Had there been a choosing here and he had not been selected? Endric was notoriously picky about who he selected for the Denraen, and for good reason. His men needed to be able soldiers, and they needed to be capable of handling anything that came at them. That included, apparently, the courage to face creatures they couldn't even see.
The Denraen had willingly come with her, agreeing to fight. They would've stayed—and likely have died—had Roelle not sent Hester and the remaining guide back to Vasha. Endric needed their help—and the report of what they had seen and experienced—more than Roelle did. Now that they had found Nahrsin and the rest of the Antrilii, Roelle had more than enough support.
“Would you at least bring a regiment, let us show you what we’re seeing?” Roelle asked.
The Deshmahne’s gaze drifted back down to the sack. He bit his lip as he considered. Finally, he nodded. “You can take a dozen men. They'll report back. If what you say is true,” and his tone made it clear that he wasn’t exactly certain, “then we will send others to dispense of whatever others might be found.”
Roelle looked at the other three with her. A dozen wasn't many, but perhaps if they were able to show the Deshmahne what they had witnessed, could prove that the groeliin were the threat that they were… perhaps then they could send the Deshmahne back for more help.
Besides, it was a dozen more than what they had before, even if they were Deshmahne. As she nodded, she couldn’t help but worry if it would be enough, just as she couldn’t stop worrying about why else the Deshmahne readied for battle.
Isandra stood before the king of Rondalin. She held her hands clasped before her, wearing the riding cloak she'd been wearing for the last several days. It stank, carrying with it the odor of her travels, that of sweat mixed with a bit of blood.
She still sweated. She’d thought it would have stopped once she reached Rondalin. While riding, she’d sweated from fear. Now that she was in Rondalin, that fear was not completely gone.
“Why should I listen to you when I expelled my previous advisor?”
Isandra had expected some resistance. But the sneer upon his face made her think that this was more than simple resistance. This was the expression of a man who detested her presence.
Why did he dislike the Magi so much? Rondalin hadn't abandoned the Urmahne the way those in the south had. Her people had maintained a presence within Rondalin. For him to have this level of animosity toward her, and her people, told her there was more going on here than she was led to believe.
“I come to offer advice, and to seek your aid in finding a young man trained in Vasha.”
King Tolman narrowed his eyes. He had a wide, expansive brow, and deeply wrinkled eyes. His skin was as pale as moonlight. A dark shock of hair hung limply to his shoulders, peppered with gray. “I know all about the young man you sought to train. You claimed my son.”
Isandra tried to hide her surprise. She hadn't known that Tresh Longtree was King Tolman’s son. She hadn’t realized the king had any sons.
“We sought to provide an opportunity,” she said. “The Urmahne needs a steadying influence—”
“Opportunity? You abduct my people, and you claim it an opportunity.”
She had made a mistake, what seemed another in a series of mistakes she had made since leaving Vasha. The first had been believing that Endric had sent enough men with her. That clearly had not been the case. The second had been in not understanding the true threat of the Deshmahne. Having lost all the Denraen who had come with her, men who were skilled soldiers, had driven that home. It was too late, but she understood. The final mistake, possibly the one that was the most troubling, was that she had underestimated the animosity the king of Rondalin had toward the Magi. She suspected that even Endric hadn’t known, or he would have sent more men with her than he had.
“If I've offended you, help me understand what I can do to get back into your good graces,” she said.
The king’s gaze slipped past her, and she resisted the urge to turn.
“There is little you can do to get back into my good graces. Besides, it is not only my graces you find yourself out of.”
Another man joined King Tolman. He wore a deep gray cloak, with the hood pulled up over his head. It appeared that pools of reflected lantern light glowed from beneath the hood. Isandra was aware of power coming off of him. Had she not known better, she would have thought him Mageborn.
“This is my advisor, Raime. You will be dealing with him.”
Isandra searched her mind, trying to think if she had heard that name before, but came up with nothing. She tipped her head toward Raime, thinking that she could take the opportunity to persuade him to allow the Magi to work with the people of Rondalin.
“Advisor Raime. Perhaps you can offer me some assistance in understanding what I can do to better serve the people of Rondalin. The Magi seek to serve—”
Raime took a step toward her. Power radiated from him, and she suddenly understood why she recognized it. It was Deshmahne power, the same power that had taken the Denraen from her.
“Your first mistake was taking Mr. Longtree from Rondalin. Your second was returning here yourself.”
Isandra took a step back, wanting nothing more than to get away from this man. He was Deshmahne, she was certain of it. If she could escape, she could return to Vasha and explain what had happened. The others of Alriyn’s council had to know. Not only had the Deshmahne taken hold in the north, but they essentially ruled here.
Before attempting anything, they had lost.
As she started back, she found that she couldn't move. She reached for her Mage gifts, but they failed her. Something struck her, and she screamed. Pain came next, over and over again, until Isandra lost consciousness.
Chapter Twelve
Endric unsheathed his sword, and Novan readied his staff. Alriyn held his connection to the manehlin, wanting to ensure he could reach it. There might be little he could do if the Deshmahne attacked, much like there would be little he could do if the Eldest returned to attack him. Alriyn had barely survived the first time. If it came to another attack, this time with his head still throbbing, he didn't know if he would be able to counter his old friend.
“Are you ready?” Endric asked. Alriyn was surprised to note that Endric asked Novan, seemingly unconcerned about Alriyn.
Novan tapped his staff. Alriyn had always assumed that it was a walking staff, thinking the man had achy joints from years spent traveling, but as he tapped the staff on the ground, Alriyn noted the faint twisting lines of what appeared to be letters worked into the staff. Not only were they letters, but Alriyn suspected they were made out of teralin. Was the entire staff teralin?
Why would Novan have a staff made out of metal that was mined deep beneath Vasha?
Endric once again touched the wall, and the door slid open.
On the other side, Alriyn counted seven men. Each wore a dark robe, nearly perfectly black. Tattoos were visible along their arms and up onto their necks. As he watched, the tattoos seemed to swirl, as if they were alive.
More than that, there was a dark energy that appeared to swirl around them, almost as if manehlin swirled around them, suddenly visible to Alriyn.
Why should he be able to see that?
Endric darted outward, into the middle of the Deshmahne.
When Endric had made the claim that he had defeated twelve Deshmahne on his own, Alriyn had known that he was formidable. Even before then, he had known the man formidable. One simply did not become the general of the Denraen without having significant skill with the sword, and Endric was known as the most skilled swordsman to have lived in generations, more so than even his father, and Den
dril had been considered amazing.
But there was quite a difference between hearing of the skill and witnessing it.
The Magi always worked to remain neutral, wanting to avoid getting involved in the actions of men, wanting to avoid warfare. They had retreated more in the last few hundred years, ever since their last mistake with choosing a Uniter. It isolated them, created a buffer, and that buffer had allowed the Deshmahne to increase their own influence. In addition, that buffer prevented the Magi from ever witnessing a man like Endric, a soldier in complete control of his skills.
When he attacked the Deshmahne, Alriyn could almost imagine that he was acting on behalf of the gods.
There was a fluidity to his movements, one that the other soldiers Alriyn had seen practicing never demonstrated. He slashed, his sword a part of his arm, ducking and slicing, and… strangely… power seemed to come from the end of his sword. It was almost as if Endric used the manehlin, much like Alriyn did, but such a thing should not be possible.
Then again, Endric should not have been able to open the door into the chamber either, and he had done that without difficulty.
Novan twirled his staff, dark lines streaking along it suddenly glowing, and he struck two of the nearest Deshmahne. As he did, power exploded from the staff, light glowing.
The Deshmahne fell before Endric and Novan.
One of the men slipped around, managing to get behind Endric. Tattoos that went from the Deshmahne’s fingers all the way up his arms, climbing along his neck, swirled up onto his face. Alriyn suspected those same tattoos worked their way down his back and wondered if they went across his torso and down onto his legs as well. How heavily tattooed was this man?
The man brought his sword around. His dark blade seemed to be everywhere.
Alriyn could practically see the way the sword would arc, catching Endric along his back, likely severing his spine. If he did nothing, Endric would fall.
Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3) Page 9