Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  What choice did he have?

  He looked off to the side and saw Novan. Had he been there when Alriyn had passed through before? The historian tapped his staff, and the sound rang out through the entire floor. It was a sharp sound that was filled with power, but that made no sense. How could a sound have that? The staff glowed, the teralin lines upon it practically glowing with power.

  Alriyn couldn't help but stare. The way the man moved resembled Endric, though Novan attacked with a different kind of grace, his staff dancing, swinging out from him before withdrawing. No Deshmahne could get within more than a few feet of him.

  The attack was more than that, though. The energy that Alriyn saw around the Deshmahne, the dark manehlin, was countered by a light sort of energy surrounding the staff, as well as around Novan. Novan fought with the staff, but he also attacked with that light manehlin.

  How was it possible?

  He felt something approach him, and he spun.

  A heavily tattooed Deshmahne approached, and a grin spread across his face. “Mage. I will claim you.” The Deshmahne’s dark energy began to swirl.

  Alriyn took a deep breath, opening his mind, preparing. Pain throbbed in his head as he did, but he managed to force his mind open. It came slowly, as if it didn't want to open. As it did, there was a throbbing, almost a pulsating, within him. He felt the reverberation of the manehlin coming from the Deshmahne.

  He reached for it and pulled that manehlin into himself much as he had when he had faced the three Deshmahne on the first terrace.

  The man stumbled. The dark manehlin that surrounded him now streamed toward Alriyn, controlled by Alriyn. He held onto it until the Deshmahne collapsed.

  Alriyn stood watching until the man's breathing slowed, and then stopped completely.

  It was strange, but he felt little remorse.

  Alriyn looked up and saw Karrin standing at the base of the stairs. Her eyes were wide. “You just—”

  “I just withdrew his power. It was stolen anyway.”

  “Stolen?”

  Alriyn glanced to the Deshmahne. “That's how they gain their ability. They steal it.”

  Karrin said nothing for a long moment, seeming confused and likely afraid of what he said. Alriyn had hoped that others would have come with her and that he wouldn't be facing the Deshmahne alone. But then, he wasn't facing them alone. He would face them with the Denraen.

  Alriyn turned away from Karrin, toward the fighting. “Will you fight with me?”

  “Fight? Alriyn, what you're asking us to do… It goes against everything that we are.”

  Alriyn turned to her. “It goes against everything that we have been. I was wrong, Karrin. Our people—our Founders—were warriors.”

  “Will this honor the gods? How will this protect the mahne? How will this help us choose the nemah?”

  Alriyn patted his pocket, feeling the text there. They had been fools. The Magi had believed they had power, that they had ability, that they were gifted by the gods, and that it was their destiny to use those gifts. Alriyn himself had studied in a search for understanding but had failed to see the truth. Perhaps that was why Jostephon had converted to the Deshmahne. He had learned the truth.

  Yet Jostephon still was wrong.

  The Deshmahne were not a way to power. The power they wielded was stolen, and as such, they destroyed something in the process. Maybe that was why the manehlin around them was so dark.

  Feeling a sudden certainty about what he needed to do, Alriyn strode forward, into the battle, leaving Karrin watching him.

  As he did, he felt his mind shift, the way that it had when he first was learning to use his abilities, and he pulled on that connection. Five Deshmahne surrounded him, and Alriyn pushed his mind open wider.

  There was a tearing sensation—and pain—but not as severe as when he’d attempted this before. He knew his mind would survive it. Perhaps that knowledge gave him strength.

  With the tearing, the manehlin surrounding the Deshmahne became even more clear. Alriyn reached for it, drawing all of it to him. The manehlin filled him, dark and cold. He held it but did not make it a part of himself. He had the sense that he could, were he only to choose.

  The Deshmahne fell.

  As they collapsed, Alriyn moved on, holding that manehlin until he was certain they stopped moving entirely. He reached the group of Deshmahne surrounding Endric. Alriyn raised his hands, drawing the Deshmahne manehlin away from them. Knowing that it had been stolen from the Magi made this easier. It gave him strength. He pulled, drawing that energy into himself. He held it, and the Deshmahne slowed.

  Endric made quick work of them.

  Alriyn released the manehlin. He started toward Novan’s fight, and as before, he pulled on the manehlin surrounding the Deshmahne, drawing it into himself. He held it, holding that dark energy as Endric and Novan, finished the Deshmahne off.

  There was only a handful remaining.

  He turned, noting that Karrin as well Haerlin fought alongside him.

  Alriyn nodded to them with a grim determination. As the Magi withdrew the energy from the Deshmahne, the Denraen finished them.

  Alriyn turned, looking for more Deshmahne to face. But there were none.

  “Did you protect the first terrace?” Endric asked.

  Alriyn almost smiled at the fact that Endric didn't comment on the fact that he had helped him in this battle. His concern was for the city, and for the people within it. It was the same concern Alriyn should have shared, the same concern that should have driven him to understand his abilities sooner, to realize what he was capable of.

  But he had been a fool.

  “The city no longer burns. There are Denraen who have converted.”

  “You saw them?

  Alriyn nodded. “One. Saw him and was forced to kill him.”

  Endric arched brow. “Magi, fighting and killing?”

  “I don't presume to understand everything that's happened, but I see that we've been mistaken in withholding our abilities from the world. It has been the Magi, not the Denraen, who've allowed the Deshmahne to take a greater role.”

  Endric grunted. “I think it's a shared responsibility.”

  “When the city is secure, I will make certain the Magi work with the Denraen, to help eliminate the threat of the Deshmahne before we choose—”

  The ground heaved, throwing Endric to the side.

  Alriyn turned and saw a blur of power coming toward him. For a moment, he thought it was the High Priest of the Deshmahne, but that wasn't who it was.

  “Jostephon.”

  The Eldest smiled. “Do you still wish to challenge me, old friend?”

  Jostephon wasn’t alone. Over a dozen Deshmahne were arrayed behind him. All were heavily tattooed, something he understood gave them more power than those who were not, power that was stolen from the Magi. Perhaps others, he decided, glancing at Novan and Endric. Even Jostephon had more tattoos than the last time.

  Which meant he had been stealing power from the Magi.

  Anger surged within him. “I challenge you, Jostephon Ontain. The Magi will not go without a fight.”

  Jostephon laughed. As he strode toward him, his dark manehlin swirled, and Alriyn wondered if he had made a mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day passed quickly for Jakob. The rain returned and became a soft drizzle that left them cold and miserable. They moved toward the south, Brohmin finding speed, forcing himself. Salindra watched him, a worried expression on her face as she did, but she said nothing. Every so often, Jakob noted the way she used energy, how it swirled from her toward Brohmin, before retreating.

  He searched the trees as they walked, looking for a sign of the nemerahl, but saw none. Did the creature still follow them?

  As they walked, Jakob felt the same unease he’d felt before. This time, he could see how it dragged upon him, pulling on the ahmaean around him. As the day progressed, this sensation became stronger.

 
It left him with more questions. Was he feeling the pulling on himself, or was it pulling upon his sword? That was truly the question, he knew. Was it him or was it the sword?

  They continued to hear the same horrible screams, but not as frequently. Each time they heard them, each of them stopped and turned toward the sound. Anda seemed unconcerned, though Brohmin’s wearied face looked worried.

  “How much further to the forest’s edge?” Salindra asked, breaking the silence among them.

  Grey light filtered in through the treetops, easily now that the leaves had begun to fall, yet Jakob still did not know what time it was. It was hard for him to gauge, and he had given up trying, knowing only what his stomach and his body told him. His legs had grown tired, and his head throbbed, pounding differently than the pulsations he had come to know, but his stomach was still silent. Not yet time to eat, then.

  Brohmin didn’t stop to answer. “We’re making better time than I had thought.” He seemed to consider for a moment, then continued. “I think perhaps tonight we will reach the edge of the forest.”

  The statement was a surprise. The last time Jakob had been within the forest, it had taken days to pass through, and that was on horseback. Of course, there had been a diversion within that—his capture by the Deshmahne—but this time, they dealt with injury and still managed to move at a decent pace.

  They continued onward in relative silence. Lunch was a brief stop, and they ate more of the daneamiin bread.

  The day passed, and soon the forest thinned. “How much longer tonight?” Salindra asked.

  “As long as we can,” Brohmin said.

  “You push too hard,” she said.

  “I push because I have to,” he said.

  She said nothing more. They finished the meal in silence before starting off. Brohmin’s pace lagged the longer they went, until finally, Salindra grabbed Brohmin’s arm, slowing him as she had the other nights, stopping them near a small stream at the edge of the forest, much like Brohmin had promised.

  They sat, Salindra starting a fire and seeing to Brohmin, while Jakob and Anda made a circuit of the clearing.

  As they did, Anda suddenly stiffened and looked up, staring into the distance. “There is a group of riders nearing,” she said. She stared a moment longer. “They are Magi, I think, and they are armed.” She paused again as she looked. “Swords and bows, mostly.”

  Salindra had looked up at Anda’s comment. She joined them, peering out of the trees and toward the distant plains. “Not Mageborn, then,” Salindra said.

  “They are Magi, like you,” Anda said, nodding to Salindra.

  Could it be possible? “I know a Mage who would,” he said quietly.

  But what would Roelle be doing here?

  They had been fighting for most of the day, and Roelle was tired, yet still she was filled with a strange sort of sleepless elation. Many groeliin had fallen today.

  Lendra had agreed with her. The Great Forest had some kind of strange power, and the creatures were unable to escape once they were within the trees. The Magi had used the merahl to harry the groeliin toward the forest in waves, and once within its confines, the Magi warriors and the Antrilii set upon them.

  They had their losses as well, and Roelle felt each one, memorizing their names as she did with each person that fell under her command. Still, nearly fifty Magi remained, and at least three times that many of the Antrilii. Roelle allowed herself a moment of cautious optimism, the hope that they might succeed.

  The Deshmahne had not appeared.

  She’d held onto the hope that they would, but there had been no sign of Fenick or any of the dark soldiers. She told herself that they went north, but knew that unlikely, not with what she’d seen while in Rondalin. They had prepared to depart, though she didn’t know where they would go.

  It was late in the day when they neared a stream.

  They had been chasing the remaining groeliin at the edge of the forest, using it as cover, and tracking south and east. The day was still overcast, and the fog that had been covering everything for the last few days was now lifting. At least the rain and the mist stopped. Roelle was not sure she would ever dry completely.

  There came a quick whistle in warning, and she turned, expecting an attack, except there was no echoing cry from the merahl.

  Not groeliin.

  Selton rode off but turned back quickly as Zamell rode up to them. She was dirtied from the last few days and had taken a deep gash to her face, but Selton still eyed her with interest. Roelle no longer felt annoyed by it. Why had she ever been? Selton was her friend, and she wanted him to be happy. If he found that with Zamell—who had proven to be a fearsome warrior—she wouldn’t deny him that.

  “Roelle,” she saluted as she approached. She waved back at her. “There are men along the stream. Should we stop?”

  Roelle turned her horse and rode forward a bit for a better view. A small group, covered in dirt and as wet as they were, stood watching. As she did, she swore she heard her name yelled from one of the men along the stream.

  “Do I hear things, Selton?” she asked, turning toward his friend.

  Selton shook his head. “No. I think someone there knows you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You are a famous Mage warrior now,” he said.

  Roelle blinked and noted Selton smiling. The victories over the last few days—though hard earned—had put everyone in better spirits. There was hope. It was something she hadn’t realized they had lost.

  She signaled a stop. “Selton, Zamell, Lendra,” she called out. “Come with me.”

  “I will also come,” Nahrsin offered, riding up to them. Two merahl stood at each side. He said something in the ancient language, and the merahl sat, waiting. Their eyes watched him carefully.

  Roelle nodded. She didn’t order the Antrilii, yet she suspected Nahrsin wouldn’t have followed had Roelle objected. Over the last few days, she’d given up feeling overwhelmed by the role she now played, not having the luxury to question. She led the Magi, and they listened.

  Nahrsin seemed to acknowledge her lead with the Magi and had worked with her. She had appreciated his presence, thankful the Antrilii sacrificed what they did to save people they would never know.

  They rode forward quickly. As they neared, she noted a Mage among the group, as well as three others. One, a gray-haired man, had the same build and dangerous stance as Endric. And Nahrsin, for that matter. Another was covered by a cloak but looked tall enough to be Mageborn as well. The last man seemed familiar, as tall as the others.

  A light beard covered his face, and he had a muscular build. Dark brown hair was brushed back and still damp from the rain earlier in the day. Light from the overcast day caught in his deep blue eyes. A long sword hung from his waist, and he wore it as if he knew well how to use it.

  And then she realized who it was.

  “Jakob?” Endric had told her the Denraen who had traveled with him were all dead, and Novan claimed to have found alternative protection for him, but she hadn’t actually expected to see him alive. And here of all places?

  “Roelle!” Jakob said. “Is that you?”

  Jakob was different. There had been a boyish quality to him even as he developed into a skilled swordsman. That was gone, now. He seemed aged, matured, and definitely different. His dark blue eyes were harder, and the hesitancy about him was gone. She’d felt an attraction to him before, but now she felt drawn to him even more than before.

  “What is this?” Jakob asked, looking past her and toward the collected Magi. What would he think about the Magi and Antrilii? Yet he had barely taken notice of Nahrsin.

  The Antrilii had not come forward. Roelle eyed him carefully, wondering what he feared.

  “Damahne,” Nahrsin whispered.

  The cloaked figure turned to Nahrsin and appeared to stare, though Roelle couldn’t be certain. There was something exotic about her. Roelle looked at Nahrsin. “What is it?” she asked.

  The Antrilii shook his head
.

  She turned away, nodding to the Mage. “Elder.” She wasn’t concerned with how the Elder would react to seeing her Magi, not any longer. When they’d left Vasha, it had been under cover of night, and with Endric’s encouragement. None could deny the need for what they had done.

  The Elder stared at her for a long moment. “You wear a sword.”

  Roelle expected a rebuke and suppressed the irritation she felt. “As did our Founders,” she answered carefully.

  The Elder considered the comment a long moment before nodding. “You wear it well.”

  The older man interrupted, speaking softly, calmly. “You ride with the Antrilii,” he stated, nodding toward Nahrsin. The Antrilii warrior nodded back. “Nahrsin,” the man said.

  Suddenly Nahrsin laughed, breaking the strange tension that hung over them. “Hunter?” he asked, staring for a moment. “It is you, old man! I had heard you were dead.”

  “The gods have not claimed me yet,” the man answered and turned to Roelle. “Groeliin?” he asked, and Roelle nodded, shock preventing her from answering. “How many of them have you killed?” The voice was rougher than Endric’s but similar.

  Roelle looked to Selton, considering. The man spoke the ancient language and recognized Nahrsin. Was he the protection Novan had arranged for Jakob?

  “Several thousand all told,” Selton said. “We’ve lost count.”

  “How many broods?” the man asked.

  Roelle stared in mild surprise. There was definitely more to this man than it appeared. How did he know about the groeliin? Could he even see them?

  Nahrsin chuckled. “More than fifty. Less now.”

  The man stared at Nahrsin a moment, and something passed between them.

  “How many left the city with you?” the Elder asked Roelle.

  “One hundred, to start,” she answered. “Endric encouraged us to find the Antrilii. We found something much worse.”