Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)

by D. K. Holmberg

  First, she had to escape Rondalin.

  She went the only way it seemed she could go and not find soldiers. She went north.

  Reaching the gate, she found it lightly guarded and snuck through, disappearing along the street of the shantytown outside the wall. She would go north, out of the city, until it was safe to turn south again. As she did, Isandra prayed she wouldn’t find Deshmahne, and she prayed that her strength wouldn’t fail her, but mostly, she prayed to the gods, seeking their favor. It felt as if she had fallen out of it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Locken looked behind them. The wind whipped hard this day, and he was glad he did not have his standard flying. The sound of it snapping in this wind would have been more than his mind could bear. It was for the best anyway, he knew. They were not here for conquest, were not here to conquer. They were only here to stop Richard and drive him back. He had left the banners down out of respect for Thealon.

  In the distance, he could make out two horses riding hard toward them. The prince and his friend returned. The scouts had warned him. He wondered if the boy had any news that would be of use.

  A boy no longer, I suppose.

  “It is the prince,” Lonn spoke.

  He looked over to his friend. The man looked older than he had before they left, but he supposed he did too. The ride and their worries would do that to them.

  They waited quietly as the two neared, eventually hailing them. Robden came up then, looking to Locken. He stood silent with the two other men, waiting for the prince’s arrival. Robden trusted the prince, hoped for his ascension to the throne.

  That may be easiest, he thought.

  He let the thought go as the prince neared.

  “My father is one day’s march from here,” the prince announced.

  Locken nodded. He had heard as much.

  “He thinks to gain the Tower,” the prince continued.

  Locken nodded again. More news that he had heard.

  He watched as Allay shook his head. “I could not persuade him otherwise. I tried, but he won’t listen.” The prince hesitated. “There’s another thing.”

  “What did you see?” Lonn asked.

  “Deshmahne were camped with him.”

  Could Richard have formalized that connection more than Locken had realized? What did that mean?

  “Was his advisor with him?” Robden asked quietly.

  “It was only my father.”

  “It’s good he was not. If he had been there, I doubt you would be here now,” Robden said.

  Locken wondered for a moment but then moved past the thought. “It starts soon, son,” he told Allay.

  The prince nodded. “I know.”

  “Before it does, we need to know where your allegiance lies,” Locken said.

  The words seemed loud. Treason is always loud.

  “The Deshmahne can’t rule in Gom Aaldia. We will need all of Gom Aaldia to unite against them, and we will need Thealon to help. We need peace.”

  “There may not be peace for a while,” he said with a sigh. War would come soon. He’d never expected to see, but had trained his whole life as if he would. “If he’s a day out, then we’ll meet Richard tomorrow. We have to stop him before he reaches Thealon.”

  He prayed silently to the gods for answers, for help. He hoped they listened.

  Richard looked out upon the plains. The wind whipped at his hair. They were nearly there. Jeslen and Paylig looked at him expectantly. They awaited their orders, but they were orders he was still hesitant to give.

  “We are two days from Thealon,” he began. “Two days from the Tower.” The words seemed sourer today than they ever had. The Tower meant the gods. That was what he wanted… wasn’t it?

  There had been another motivation before.

  He knew there had, but that was long ago and a distant memory.

  One of his region kings began to speak, but Richard didn’t hear him. His thoughts drifted instead to his son. Allay had come to him, his slave in tow. The heir to Gom Aaldia bringing his slave with him! He spat with the thought.

  He wasn’t sure what his boy had intended, but he had seemed insistent that he stop the army’s march immediately. He remembered threatening his son and sending him away. There could be no stop of the march, he knew. Was it Allay he was upset with, or himself?

  Now, he regretted what he had said. Allay was his oldest son now. His successor when he was gone. He should have kept him near, yet he had let his anger get in the way of reason.

  And then the Deshmahne camped with them had departed, chasing after rumors of Denraen. The Magi wouldn’t send their soldiers after him, would they?

  Had that been why Allay had come to him? Had he intended to warn him of the coming attack?

  No. The boy had come to persuade him to abort the attack on Thealon. The Tower would be his! That was what he wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  “My scouts to the south report troop movement ahead,” he heard.

  “What was that?” he asked, shaken from his thoughts.

  “To the south. An army moves,” Jeslen answered.

  An army? He had heard nothing of an army to the south.

  Locken? he wondered.

  “What standard flies?” he asked.

  “The scouts report that no banner was raised,” Jeslen said.

  No banner? That would not be Locken. He was too proud not to fly his standard.

  “It is likely Thealon troops, then. The Ur,” he answered.

  Jeslen and Paylig nodded. “What will you have us do?” Paylig asked.

  Richard looked out over the plains. The sun was bright and a gentle breeze pulled slightly, waving the long blades of grass. Raime still had not returned, but Richard knew he would suffer the man’s anger if he did not keep to their plan. “We keep moving,” he answered. “It’s two days to Thealon,” he began. “And they do not have an army that can stop us.”

  He knew the words to be true. He was not worried about Thealon. No, it was the missing kings that worried him. Where was Locken? Where was Robden? It angered him that they had heard nothing. Nothing! Both men had large enough armies that stories of their movement would surely have spread across the land. He should have at least heard rumors of the men. But nothing? What did it mean?

  And his son had been no better. Allay had offered nothing of rumor to him. The boy had only spoken of the Magi and Thealon. Urging him to stop the attack. It was something Richard would not do, could not do.

  No, he could not turn back now, even if he did anger the gods.

  He was more afraid of Raime than he was of the gods.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jakob looked over the open plains spreading before them and felt the slow pulling of ahmaean on him or his sword; he couldn’t tell the difference between them and still wasn’t sure if he was meant to separate the two. He understood the source of the strange pull upon his senses, the ahmaean he saw swirling about everywhere he now looked, but not the why.

  Brohmin thought it was the sword, that he could be the nemah, but Jakob was not sure what to believe.

  What am I?

  Something different from before, he knew, though not a Mage. When Roelle had joined them, he had still thought it possible that he might be, but seeing her, and comparing her abilities with Salindra’s, he realized that he didn’t possess the same.

  Roelle’s arrival had brought back memories of their time together. Sparring. A time before his world began to turn upside down. Looking at her now, even battle weary, he still thought her lovely, the same as he had the very first time he’d seen her. And now she had changed, possibly as much as he had. She was a Mage warrior.

  Jakob glanced behind him, to the remaining warriors Roelle had brought with her. They were a ragged group, yet all among them had determined looks on their faces. He wasn’t exactly sure what they had seen—could they really have faced ten thousand groeliin?—but they were hardened and nothing like the Magi he’d met before.<
br />
  Then there were the Antrilii.

  Brohmin had told him a little of the warrior people and how they fought the groeliin. The merahl loped alongside them, occasionally calling out with a deep braying cry as they ran ever ahead, hunting. They were huge creatures, large cats, and much like the nemerahl that he hadn’t seen since that time in the forest. Even then, he wasn’t sure what he had seen.

  Anda rode next to him, as she had since the Magi had given them horses. Jakob found her presence peaceful, with a reassurance to it. He still had moments when he feared the madness was upon him, that all he had seen was nothing more than visions within his head, but then he would look over to Anda and sense the realness to her.

  She smiled at him, as if sensing his thoughts.

  With the smile, a hint of her glamour faded, and he saw the daneamiin features slip through, but it was brief. He smiled back and felt the tension leave him. As they rode onward, the question sat at the forefront of his mind: What was he?

  Alyta will have answers.

  He clung to the hope of it; it was all he had.

  They climbed a gentle rise in the land, and a city emerged in the distance. He knew it, though he had never before visited. It was a city described to him by his father, one he had read about in many of Novan’s texts. The city was known by reputation to all who followed the Urmahne as the home of the gods.

  No description had done it justice.

  Thealon.

  It was massive. A huge wall surrounded the entirety of the city, stone of an almost pure white interrupted by small turrets, stretching as far as his eye could see in either direction. A section near the south had blackened, as if damanged by an explosion, but was otherwise intact.

  Thealon was larger than any other known city. It was the home of scholars, of historians, and of the priests. It was built upon the premise of the Urmahne, and a sense of peace radiated from it, a sense of security. Buildings crept above its height in orderly rows, spires and domes creating an impressive skyline. A small stream cut under the near wall and wound its way through the city, and Jakob followed its course in his mind. He could almost imagine that it moved through the city haphazardly, though the visible rooftops told him otherwise.

  In the distance, atop a low hill, was a palace circled by its own low wall. There was an air of majesty about it. It was not quite a castle but was fortified as though it was, and even at this distance, Jakob could see the elegance to its decoration. His gaze lingered upon it. The palace of Thealon was home to the greatest priests of the Urmahne. It was where his father had dreamed to one day study.

  Greater than anything else in the city was the Tower of the Gods.

  The Tower rose from the city center, climbing higher than any other building in the city, higher than anything had a right to climb, and cast a shadow under the bright sun. It was awe-inspiring, even from this distance; white stone stretching up and up into the sky before the clouds masked its peak. There was a simple majesty to it that reminded him of the daneamiin city of his vision. The Tower was a fitting home to the gods.

  As he stared, he realized that a thin haze clung to it. As he focused, he realized that the Tower held its own energy, its own ahmaean.

  “Is it alive?” he whispered.

  “There is only one way to create stonework like this,” Anda said, turning to gaze upon the Tower. “It must be imbued with its own energy, its own life force. A certain amount of ahmaean is left behind to do this. My people once moved stone much like this.”

  Jakob thought of his vision, and the comment he’d overheard. “Like my sword?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and her hair shook with the movement. He knew it an illusion, yet wondered still what it would feel like if he touched it. Would it feel as real as it appeared?

  “Neamiin was crafted with a different method, a different intent,” she answered.

  She did not elaborate, and he did not press her. Instead, he turned toward the Tower, felt its ahmaean, and sighed, releasing a bit of pent up tension. Alyta would be within the Tower. And have answers.

  He turned to say something to Brohmin, but as he did, a rider approached and moved quickly up to Roelle.

  “Roelle,” the Mage scout began. “There is an army to the west.”

  “An army?” Roelle asked. “The Deshmahne?”

  The scout shook his head. “Not Deshmahne,” he answered. “But huge. The groeliin move directly toward it.”

  “There is another army of men to the south,” Anda said. “It, too, is very large.”

  Roelle turned to Anda. “How can you see that?”

  Brohmin cut in. “Roelle,” Brohmin started. “You’re needed for this. We have something else we must do. You chase the groeliin while we chase another sort of evil. May the gods be with you.”

  Roelle’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to Salindra. “You could fight with us. We could use another Mage. If you can see them, you can fight them.”

  “I cannot claim to approve, but lately, I have seen much I can’t explain, much the Council must learn. What you do makes our ancestors proud,” she admitted.

  Roelle looked in the distance, toward the army, before turning her attention to the woman riding near her. “Lendra, you should go with them. If we face the groeliin, I can’t guarantee your safety. Or mine.”

  The woman glanced from Roelle to Brohmin before nodding.

  “Come,” Brohmin said to Jakob. “Let’s go rescue a goddess.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Locken surveyed the field. In the distance, he could see the enormity of Richard’s army. The size of it worried him. He looked around at his own army, both his men and Robden’s, and wondered if they would be enough. Somehow, they had to be.

  “We do this, then?” Robden asked.

  Locken looked to the older man. Robden had faced many battles, had himself fought and killed, so he knew the man wasn’t scared. But the idea of fighting his own countrymen likely gnawed at him, as it did Locken. “Yes,” Locken replied. “If only we weren’t forced to this.”

  Allay nodded.

  Locken had sent a messenger to Richard when they could first see the army. The man had not come back. There would be no reprieve. War would be waged, and it would be bloody.

  At least the Deshmahne that Allay had reported camped with him were reported to have departed, though he didn’t know why. Why had they been there in the first place? Where had they gone?

  There were no answers.

  “The key will be to capture my father,” Allay told him.

  At least Allay understood. Since returning from visiting Richard, there had been something different about him. It was something Locken felt, a sense of despondency. None wanted this war. “I know.”

  “How do we accomplish that?” Robden asked.

  Difficult choices would be made today. “We must open a hole and drive in,” he began. “We capture Richard and call an end to this.”

  Suddenly, he could see a black cloud above moving slowly toward them like a horde of insects. Arrows. He watched as they arced over the plains toward his men. It had begun.

  He heard screams from his men as they fell, the painful sound of death. He watched and heard his lead archer signal, calling for the return fire. The arrows streaked the opposite direction across the plain, toward Richard’s men.

  My countrymen, he thought. He could not think that way today. It would hinder his decision making.

  His men’s arrows found targets, and he heard moans from Richard’s men. His archers began to draw back, readying another round of arrows, but he expected Richard’s archers to send a volley his way first. When they didn’t come, and his own men had fired again, he wondered. Why hadn’t Richard fired again?

  He waited and soon heard his arrows strike home again. The screams were louder this time, filling the plains with their horrible cry. Locken still expected return fire, but it didn’t come.

  “Ground!” he called and heard his order called down the lin
e.

  Soon his pikemen marched forward. As they did, he saw a change occur in Richard’s line. It was apparent even at his distance.

  What in the name of the gods…?

  A huge gap had opened on the eastern side of Richard’s line, and he yelled for his men to move toward it.

  A trap? Even if it was, they had to test it anyway.

  Victory would not come easily today.

  Something is not right.

  The thought came, and he knew it true. There was something else. He just couldn’t tell what it was.

  He watched the men of Richard’s army simply fall to the ground, as if something had struck them all down.

  What was this? It seemed too easy.

  With the thought, he smelled something. It was thick, disgusting, and burned at his nose. His stomach turned, threatening to bring its contents back toward his mouth.

  No, he thought, something is definitely not right.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Alriyn waited at the edge of the third terrace, looking out over the city. The warm bars of the teralin fence surrounding the terrace pressed upon the palms of his hands. There had been a time many years ago when he was not able to tolerate the warmth of the teralin. That had been a time before Tresten had done something with the teralin, though Alriyn still didn’t know what he had done.

  It was times like this that he missed his mentor and friend. Tresten had been greater than all of them. He was a Mage of much power, one who could do things many of the Magi could not. He could use the manehlin in ways that others could not even imagine. And still, he had passed, no differently than anyone else.

  Novan stood next to him. The historian leaned his staff on the teralin fence, the metal on it no longer glowing as it had when he had faced the Deshmahne. Alriyn considered what he had seen, thinking about the way Novan had been the one to demonstrate what he was able to do. How was it that a historian had been the one to help him see the extent of his abilities? How was it that it had been Novan who had shown him what they needed to do?