The more they got to know Fenick, would they be able to attack him?
There was danger in allowing themselves to get too close, danger that came from familiarity. From what she'd seen of the Deshmahne, they wouldn't hesitate to attack her for being one of the Magi. She needed to be ready to match their intensity and be ready to fight if need be.
“Most converted to the order are soldiers. We organize like soldiers, we fight like soldiers, and we train like soldiers.”
“Most?” Roelle asked.
Fenick glanced over. “Some join the priests. The priests are responsible for finding people to convert.”
“They're the ones who roam the countryside?” When Fenick's eyes narrowed, Roelle hurriedly finished. “We've heard stories of men coming through villages. I thought that were Deshmahne soldiers, but…”
“Those would be the priests. They have a different organization. I'm not familiar with it. The Desh are the ones closest to the High Priest. They’re given even greater power. I'm just a soldier. That's enough for me.”
As they continued north and east, the occasional sound of the merahl near her, Roelle noticed the shadows stretching. She grew weary and wanted nothing more than to simply sink into a bed, something she hadn't had the luxury of in far too long. All she had known had been the discomfort of the ground, blankets beneath her, but rarely even the warmth of a fire at night. She always remained cold in her blankets, shivering against the night’s chill, much like now.
The shadows shifted, and Roelle sat up alertly in her saddle. Those weren't shadows.
“Groeliin,” she hissed.
Roelle unsheathed her sword, turning to Selton and Jhun. They had followed her lead without hesitation. What of the Deshmahne? What would they do?
Now would be the deciding moment. With their dark power, she thought the Deshmahne wouldn’t be affected the same way as Lendra and the Denraen—those without any abilities—especially given their particular strengths and skills, but she hadn't known, not with any certainty.
“You found these creatures?” Fenick asked.
Roelle pointed with the tip of her sword. They were moving in the distance, possibly two hundred yards away, but following parallel to them. They weren't moving toward them—not yet.
Roelle's experience with the groeliin had taught her that as soon as they realized they had been seen, they would attack. “Do you see them?” she asked, praying silently to the gods—Deshmahne even, if it required that to stop the groeliin—that he would be able to see the creatures. If he could, her ill-fated plan might work.
Fenick stared into the distance, his eyes squinted. After staring for a long while, his breath caught, and he reached for his sword.
She allowed herself to relax, but only a little.
“I see them,” he said. “How is it that you saw them first?”
With the groeliin following as they did, she had a chance to count them. This wasn't as large a brood as others they’d encountered, possibly only fifty. With just the three Magi, she doubted she would be able to do much other than get overrun. But if the Deshmahne were able to face them, they might have a chance.
“See?” Roelle asked. “See how close they have come to Rondalin?”
Fenick nodded. “This is enough for me to report back to the captain. We can shift some patrols—”
He didn't get a chance to finish. The groeliin noticed them.
The creatures raced toward them, swarming over the ground, covering the two hundred yards in several heartbeats. Roelle, Selton, and Jhun all jumped from their saddles, all more comfortable fighting on foot. The Deshmahne stayed mounted and moved into a tactical position, one she recognized from Endric's book, but it was a basic maneuver. She hoped it would suffice. This was not her group to command.
At least they would fight.
Roelle met the groeliin, slashing with her sword, the blade blurring with her movements. She hacked, drawing on the strength of her ancestors, pulling upon that part of her mind that gave her the Magi abilities, opening herself to them and using that to wrap around these creatures, slowing them enough to make them mortal.
Even that was barely enough to slow them.
She hacked, cutting groeliin after groeliin, spinning through them. Her mind was blank, focused only on the forms, on the sword, and the next creature that appeared.
Distantly, she was aware of Selton fighting alongside her, his movements perhaps a half second slower than hers, but still fast enough, still strong enough, to cut through the groeliin. Jhun fought equally well. She could sense the Deshmahne engaging as well, but couldn’t turn her attention to see how they were faring.
Even with the additional forces, she feared there were too many.
With fifty in this brood, she didn't know whether they would be able to withstand the attack. She had probably brought down a half-dozen herself, enough that she had diminished their numbers, with Selton and Jhun cutting down another couple. But the creatures kept coming. They were relentless, all claws and teeth and clubs. She had no idea how many the Deshmahne were taking down.
Fatigue started to get to her. There was only so much fighting she could do. She had fought for days and knew she would have to fight more, but the numbers here were too great.
Finally, she turned to see how the Deshmahne were doing.
Their horses were seasoned warhorses. Somehow they had trained them to battle, though they probably had not seen any. The horses kicked at the groeliin, fighting nearly as ferociously as the merahl. Deshmahne swung their swords from above, raining blows down upon the groeliin, cutting them into pieces.
They fought quickly, and several of the Deshmahne fell. A distant part of her mind told her that with only fifteen against fifty, some were bound to fall, but it still stung.
As quickly as the battle had begun, it was over. The groeliin were slaughtered. The brood destroyed.
Roelle paused to catch her breath, moving to wipe her blade clean on the ground. They had survived. And more, the Deshmahne had seen the threat—the real threat—the groeliin posed.
Would it be enough to coax them into joining them?
Fenick glanced from the fallen groeliin to her, the perpetual frown on his face deepening. He stood that way for a long moment without saying anything. He looked at Roelle, a question in his eyes, one she knew she would have to answer, but she wasn't sure how he would respond.
What would he say to her once he knew that she was a Mage?
“I have not seen a man fight like you. Not only you, but the three of you, and with skill unlike anything I have ever witnessed.” His gaze once more went toward the fallen groeliin. “What are you?”
Roelle readied to answer but was not given the chance.
Shadows flickered nearby, and Selton caught her attention, noting another brood swarming toward them. This one had more than fifty in it.
“We can talk more, but first, first we deal with this,” she said.
Fenick looked where she pointed, his eyes narrowing again as he saw the oncoming groeliin. “After. I will have answers.”
“After,” Roelle agreed.
Chapter Fifteen
Allay's heart pounded as they raced along the road. Rumors of problems in Gomald plagued them the last few leagues. They had plagued them since leaving Saeline. Each person they encountered shared the same tale: rebellion in the city and war with the north.
The war he believed. He had been a part of it and had seen the Deshmahne movement. As they drew closer to the city, every story they heard about the rebellion spoke of more violence, more death, and he began to wonder how much of the city would remain for him to rescue.
“We can slow the horses,” Mendi said.
Allay glanced over, noting her muscular frame confidently holding the horse’s reins as they galloped along the road. The wind blew her hair back, and the sun shone on her face.
He still couldn't believe that Rosahd had been Deshmahne. How many more of the Magi had converted? After
what he'd seen in Vasha, how the Deshmahne were using the abandoned mines, he should have expected more. Maybe he'd gotten out of the city at the right time.
Would Saeline send word to Endric as he’d asked?
Allay had to hope they would. The Denraen needed to know what they might face.
And now? Now he returned to Gomald without his Mage advisor, fearing the Deshmahne influence, but more important, fearing for his people. If there was a rebellion taking place, Allay couldn't deny that it had just cause. How could he, when he had seen the way the dark warriors honored their gods?
They topped a rise, and in the distance, he saw the outline of Gomald.
The city was massive, stretching for miles until it reached the sea. Huge ships lined the port, their tall masts and furled sails visible even from here. The scent of the saltwater drifted toward them, a scent that struck a chord within him, a sensation of being home.
And yet Gomald was not the same home as it had been years ago before his mother had passed. That had been a time when his father still had most of his sanity. Since losing his wife, his father had been a changed man, focused on his anger with the gods and a perceived slight. Allay knew better than to challenge his father on that.
From where he stood, he could see smoke rising from within the city, from multiple places. The fires down in the city made the rebellion a reality.
Mendi looked over at him. “What do you intend to do?”
“I'm the crown prince, aren't I? I need to deal with this rebellion.”
Could he stop it? Could he regain control of the city?
A more troubling question came to him. Given all that he’d seen, with all the Deshmahne attacks they’d witnessed—including the conversion of the Magi—did it even matter if he did?
Allay and Mendi led their horses into the city. There'd been no resistance at the city gate, though Allay had not expected any. The city was crowded as usual, and he noted the dress of dozens of different places, letting him know that whatever might have happened in Gomald—if there had been a rebellion—it hadn’t impacted trade in the city.
They weaved their way along the side streets, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. The people they encountered in the streets hadn't seemed any different from when he had left. There was always an edge to the people of Gomald, especially over the last few years, mixed with the activity from the ships coming in and out of the port. A few ships came from farther north, and a few came from the east, out of Thealon, circling around Salvat. Then there were the ferries that traveled between Salvat and the mainland.
“It seems a little too quiet,” he said.
“I don't know about quiet, but unsettled. Something is not quite right here.” They turned the corner, slowly making their way toward the palace, when Allay caught sight of a group of men and women brawling in the street.
“Careful,” Mendi said.
She put her arm out, blocking him from stepping out onto the street. Allay thought it amusing that she would be so protective, and he didn't push. Besides, he wanted to see what was taking place here. As he watched, he realized they weren't brawling, but battling. Brawling involved fists or clubs. This involved swords and knives.
Blood spilled, with men falling, one with his belly cut open, his intestines spilling onto the ground. Someone screamed, and Mendi stopped, turning toward him with an alarmed look on her face.
“We should get away from here,” she said in a hushed voice. “You're not even armed. We should've been more careful entering the city.”
“I don't think anyone's going to recognize me.”
“I think you'd be surprised at what people are able to recognize. You’re not exactly an unknown figure in the city.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, pulling him back toward one of the side streets they had just come off, “that the people of the city would recognize you. Even though you’ve been away.”
Allay hazarded a glance back toward the fighting and realized it was Gomald soldiers battling regular citizens.
This was the rebellion. This was what the rumors he'd heard on their way back to Gomald had been about, and the reason he needed to be careful.
Mendi seemed to have recognized that more quickly than he had, and hurriedly moved him along the street, wanting to get him away from the fray.
Allay shook himself, knowing that he needed to move, but Mendi had stopped short.
A dark-skinned man stood barely a few paces away from them with his sword outstretched, pointing it at Allay. A wide grin spread across his face, and his eyes practically twinkled. Nearly a dozen others were arrayed behind him, men and women, each armed with crossbow or sword unsheathed, all prepared to attack, and almost all of them had their gaze fixed on Allay.
There wasn't anything he could do, nothing that would keep him and Mendi safe from harm. She was right: he had been a fool coming in here unarmed. He left the city without a sword and returned without a sword. He was to have had Rosahd and the Denraen with him, but they had been lost in Saeline.
Coming to the city empty-handed had placed himself at risk, as well as Mendi. And for what?
He could do nothing to defend them, save for the short knife he had in his pocket.
“Prince Lansington. It’s wonderful that you've returned to the city,” the lead man said, as his gaze drifted past Allay to the fighting taking place down the street. “I think you'll find that the city is less welcoming than it was the last time you were here.”
Allay started to say something, but Mendi cut him off with a slight shake of her head.
“Silence?” the man asked with a grin. “Interesting that you would choose silence. Had your father chosen silence, this might be different, but he thought to destroy half of his people, thinking that he would introduce the southern religion to Gomald.”
Allay's mind raced. Was this man saying that they were not with the Deshmahne? If so, then maybe Allay would be fine. Perhaps he'd be able to tell them that he was trained by the Magi, that they should listen to him.
But, what proof did he have? Now that Rosahd was gone, there wasn't any way for him to prove where he had been, or what he had learned, other than him asking his people to take his word for it.
Allay got the sense that it didn't matter what he said. He got the sense that his relation to his father was all that mattered.
The man stepped back, motioning to two men behind him, and they stepped forward. They made short work of grabbing Allay and pulling him toward the dark-skinned man. Rough hands grabbed Mendi as well.
When Allay started to object, someone punched him in the stomach.
He caught sight of Mendi shaking her head again, warning him from saying anything, but he wanted only to keep her safe. Now, returning to Gomald, he couldn't even do that. She had been free when they were in Vasha, and now they had returned to Gomald—his home—and she was not only a slave again, but she would be captured and harmed, all because of him.
Allay could do something about that. If nothing else, he would protect her.
He looked up, and one of the men sneered at him. “You don't need my slave. Let her go.”
The man slammed his fist into Allay's stomach again, sending him to the ground groaning in pain. As it passed, the man chuckled. “You think we would release her so that she could run back and find help for you?” He punched Allay again. “No, I think she will remain with us. As will you. The crown prince will be useful.”
Chapter Sixteen
Alriyn descended the stairs below the pedestal where the mahne had rested for centuries. The heat assaulted him, growing more intense with each step. Something clicked, and darkness overwhelmed him as the pedestal sank back into place, an oppressive sort of darkness, the kind where he feared he would never see light again.
“You could've left the pedestal elevated,” Alriyn said.
Somewhere in front of him, Endric answered. “If they penetrate your barrier, and they enter t
he library, I don't want them to know where we might have gone.”
“You're the only one who knows how to find this?”
Endric grunted. “There aren't many still alive who remember this pathway. Your predecessor saw to that when he shuttered the mines.”
Alriyn followed Endric and Novan, trailing them, using his sense of the manehlin to do so. Even in the darkness, he could sense the energy and the power that surrounded both men.
As he followed, his mind raced back, thinking of the Mage he had succeeded. Tresten, his mentor, and a man he had thought would eventually rise to the role of the Eldest, had been Second Eldest prior to Alriyn unassuming the title. Tresten had been his friend, more than a mentor, something of a father figure to him. Losing him had been a huge blow to the Magi, and seemed as senseless today as it had then. He had slipped and fallen, perishing from something as simple as an accident, proving that even as powerful as the Magi were, they had the same human frailties as everyone else. They were not the gods.
The shuttering of the mines had happened several decades ago when the city had been attacked. Alriyn knew some of the details, though parts were hazy to him. Tresten had been responsible for protecting the city. That had been a time when the teralin mine still flowed, a time when the miners of the city and their guild held a loftier position. It was a time when the Magi still believed they needed the teralin to help them speak to the gods.
It had been Tresten who had closed the mines and ended that tradition. And few had objected. Teralin was difficult to work with and could be explosive in the wrong hands. Many Magi had been burned working with the ore. Tresten was widely regarded as a greater scholar than even Jostephon had ever been, and when he declared that teralin served no purpose in worship, the change was quickly adopted. Now, no one used teralin other than for decoration. Remnants of it were still found throughout the city.
What Endric alluded to—that Tresten somehow silenced those who knew of the path—made Alriyn wonder if maybe there was a connection to the teralin that Alriyn didn’t fully understand. Could there have been more to that invasion all those years ago than what any of them understood?
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