The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  “The delegates will not remain in the city for much longer. We have already lost one, and I need to ensure we do not lose another.”

  “Lost?” Allay asked.

  The Mage nodded. “The delegate from El’arash had an accident.”

  “An accident? What kind of accident?”

  “He… slipped. A terrible injury. The healers work with him, but…”

  Allay didn’t hear the rest. Stohn had fallen? How was that possible? Was it coincidence that the one devout Urmahne among the delegates had an accident, or was he reading too much into the news?

  “Do you understand me, Prince Lansington?”

  Allay shook his head, clearing the thoughts. He would have to think on what Stohn’s injury meant later. “What was that?”

  “ When you leave, you will be assigned a Mage advisor, and you must find a way to work together. I fear that even though we might have the best intentions in the south, there will be no cooperation.”

  It surprised him that the Mage would make such an admission.

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I need you to be a faithful servant. Do you think that you can do that, Prince Lansington?”

  Allay stared at him, uncertain. If he had learned anything while in Vasha, it was that there were many paths to peace. What if the Deshmahne offered one his people needed more?

  Now that he was next in line, that was what mattered, wasn’t it? Not what he wanted, not the fact that he wished he could remain in Vasha, if only because it had given him time with Mendi. He needed to help Gomald.

  “Endric suggests that I need to work with the Thealon and Rondalin delegate. He fears war.”

  The Mage tipped his head in a nod. “He is ever prepared. And you? What will you do?”

  Allay thought about what would be asked of him when he returned to Gom Aaldia. With Theodror dead, he would be next in line. His responsibilities would change, but war did not serve Gom Aaldia. He didn’t know what he would be able to do. Could he work with the other delegates as the general asked? Would it matter?

  “I will serve my people,” he answered. It was all the answer he could give.

  Alriyn hurried through the city, his concern overriding his need for any level of secrecy. Endric had summoned him, and Endric never summoned. Something was seriously amiss. He was still troubled by his visit with the Gomald delegate, but Alriyn was troubled by all the delegates. The Council’s attempt to deploy the delegates in hopes of spreading the Urmahne influence had failed, as he had suspected it would.

  He reached the barracks and was met by a young Denraen, solidly built and with the closely shorn hair of a new recruit. The recruit acknowledged him with a nod before ushering him to Endric’s office. The door was closed, and Alriyn wondered about the summons as he waited. How long had it been since he had seen Endric?

  Weeks perhaps.

  In that time, there had been no word from Roelle, though Alriyn had not truly expected any news so soon, not if she followed the task Endric asked of her. The Antrilii were nomads, wanderers, and he worried it would take his niece many long weeks before their trail was found. If it was to be found.

  His own council had not come up with answers. Rumors had begun to circulate that the Deshmahne moved within Vasha. Alriyn did not see how that was possible, but the rumors persisted. Because of the rumors, the Council hadn’t given consideration to the need for the Uniter—something Alriyn grew increasingly certain would be needed. It made Alriyn uncomfortable.

  Yet he knew what he was to do. The goddess had spoken to him.

  He still could not believe it, but when he had woken from his dream, there was a scent of flowers on the air, and he remembered everything. She was real. The gods were real.

  Was he more surprised by the fact that his gods were real or that one had visited him? Alriyn didn’t know. She had told him to leave the north to Roelle, and so he had. Their council would focus instead on the Deshmahne and on what happened in the city.

  Do not let him have a presence here.

  The words stuck with him most of all. The High Priest. Though he remembered the dream, parts of it remained unclear. Had she wanted him to watch the mahne itself? The text was so well protected that none save a Councilor could access it—the High Priest had no way to reach the ancient text. That left protecting what the mahne stood for—the ideals, the peace that the Magi were long ago tasked with securing.

  How?

  There were so many questions without answers. Now even Endric summoned him.

  The peace is truly broken, he realized.

  He had known peace his entire life, with little more than minor squabbles breaking through on occasion. It was the Urmahne way. And now? Now, the mahne was in danger. Yet the Council did not act, and he began to worry that his council might need to make the next move, only he was not sure he knew what to do.

  Will the mahne be lost?

  Alriyn did not let himself think upon that, turning his mind to the task at hand. What could Endric want? And what was taking him so long?

  Finally, the door to Endric’s office opened, and the general motioned him in. The recruit set off, back to his post without another word or glance.

  Could he be Deshmahne?

  The thought came suddenly, and there was a time when he would have laughed at the thought, but Endric himself admitted the Denraen had been breached. Yet, he sensed nothing. Alriyn sighed, slowly attempting to relax, knowing the worry unnecessary.

  “What is this, Endric?” he asked as he swept into the general’s office.

  It appeared little different from the last time he had visited. The map remained, though there were different markings. Alriyn let his eyes pause long enough to try and puzzle their meaning, but no answers came. He scanned the room and was about to comment when a long cot in a corner of the room caught his attention.

  There was a man lying atop the cot. His face was covered in blood, and he was missing part of an arm, but he breathed. Breaths came slowly, but came nonetheless. Alriyn turned toward Endric, a question on his lips.

  “My men found him a day’s ride north,” Endric answered. “All he does is whisper your name.”

  Alriyn stepped over to the cot, unsure what he would see. The man’s clothing was tattered and caked in mud. His legs were sliced open, as if a wild animal had attacked him, and the remaining hand still gripped a sword.

  Something gave Alriyn pause as he studied the man.

  “Inraith?” Alriyn whispered. Inraith was one of Roelle’s oldest friends and one of the first to follow her to the sword. Alriyn had known his father well—he had served on the Council—and recognized the wounded Mage.

  The Mage’s eyes flashed open.

  “By the gods!” Alriyn said. “What happened?”

  “Elder?” he whispered.

  “I’m here,” Alriyn said, taking Inraith’s hand. He opened his mind and probed, knowing immediately he could do nothing. Inraith would die. “Rest,” he directed.

  “No!” The strength of his voice was surprising given his condition, and he struggled to sit up.

  Alriyn placed a firm hand on his chest, holding him down, and finally the Mage relaxed.

  “He was found near the body of another. We think it another Mage. There were two Denraen with him…” Endric swallowed hard, and Alriyn knew they’d been lost. “There was something else.”

  “What else?” Alriyn asked.

  No answer was given as Inraith spoke again. “Ronad?”

  “He is—” Endric began.

  Alriyn cut him off. “He is with the healers.”

  Inraith sighed and visibly relaxed. “Roelle sent us back,” he began. “We had been nearly to the foothills.” Inraith fell quiet for long moments, taking slow breaths. “We fought them—the smoke beasts. There were many… so many… and Roelle was…”

  His next breath came more slowly, and Alriyn knew his time was short. “How many?”

  “Thousands, tens of thousands,” I
nraith whispered.

  Alriyn and Endric shared a look. Had Endric sent Roelle to die?

  “Did you find the Antrilii?” he asked. He wanted to ask about Roelle but feared there wasn’t time to do so. He prayed to the gods for his niece’s safety.

  Endric looked at him harshly. “They would not be found so easily.” Still, there was a note of concern in his voice and a strange hesitation.

  “They found us,” Inraith whispered. His words had become a struggle, and his breathing gurgled. “They found us,” he repeated slowly before falling silent.

  His chest barely rose with his breaths. “Inraith?” Alriyn asked.

  The Mage fluttered his eyes open. They were dull before they blinked closed. “They are…” He didn’t finish.

  “Where are they?” Alriyn asked, feeling a sense of urgency. What would he lose if Inraith died before he could answer?

  The Mage’s chest rose again and stopped. Slowly it fell, and as it did, he mumbled, “Founders.” He fell silent and said no more.

  Alriyn looked to Endric. “What does this mean?”

  Endric ignored the question and walked to the other side of the room to grab a bag. It was stained with blood and dirt. “Look,” he offered.

  Alriyn took the bag carefully and looked inside. It was a head and more grotesque than he could have imagined. It was hairless with wide-set eyes, but it was the razor-sharp teeth, too long for the mouth and pushing out past the lips, that made Alriyn catch his breath.

  “Groeliin?” he asked.

  Endric nodded. “Seems your niece found them.” He paused, looking over at Inraith. “And the Antrilii.” He said the last with a hint of surprise.

  Alriyn took a deep breath. “The Council will need to see this.”

  “You think it matters?” Endric asked.

  “The Council must know,” he said. He could not keep this from them but was not sure what they would do with the information. “They must know everything.” The realization of something greater settled in as he spoke.

  Endric eyed him. “Everything?”

  “There is more to this, I fear,” he admitted. “A prophecy lost now coming true. The Council must know.” It had all been so academic before. He glanced again at the severed head and shivered. The reality of it was more frightening than he could ever have imagined.

  “And what will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” When he’d traveled the north, he’d heard the rumors but hadn’t seen anything. And now Roelle had found a nightmare. “They are barely grown, and facing that?” he said, motioning to the head.

  “You underestimate them,” Endric said. “Look at him. This man had become more than a Mage. He was a warrior Mage. A soldier. Sent to report. And he did.”

  “What can the Denraen do? They have to be help with this.”

  “This is not a battle the Denraen can fight,” Endric admitted.

  “Why?”

  Endric paused before answering, an internal struggle slowly resolving. “Groeliin have an ability to mask themselves. My men would not be able to see them.”

  Alriyn would not ask Endric how he knew. The general would not answer the question regardless. “If not the groeliin, then what of the Deshmahne? I hear rumors.” He had not revealed his vision to anyone, and none could know why his interest in the Deshmahne had returned. Alriyn would not fail the gods; he would not fail the mahne.

  “Rumors? I have killed five Deshmahne in the city. They are more than rumors. One of your delegates tells me they have moved into the mines—”

  “They attacked there once before.”

  Endric nodded. “I know.”

  “You must remain vigilant. We must preserve the city, the mahne,” Alriyn said. The general was the only man outside the Council who knew of the mahne. “I fear the High Priest seeks it.”

  Endric frowned, looking from the groeliin head to Alriyn before framing his question. “There is something else he seeks, though he should not be able to reach it.”

  “You must—”

  Endric looked at him sharply. “Now you choose to focus upon the Deshmahne?”

  “I am tasked with protecting the mahne from the Deshmahne,” he said.

  “That is the realm of the Denraen,” Endric answered, before pausing. “Ah,” he said, as a realization swept through him. “You mean the balance. Peace.” The general nodded. “That will require broader action than the Magi are accustomed to pursuing.”

  Alriyn understood but knew he had little choice. “Things have changed. If we do not act, the Deshmahne will. And too much will be lost. This was my task.”

  Endric studied him. “She tasked you with it, didn’t she? I wondered who she would choose.”

  Alriyn frowned and stepped back, startled. “You know her?”

  Endric laughed. The sound was out of place with the macabre sight of the groeliin head and the dying Mage. “Nearly my whole life,” he said, fingering a dark ring upon his finger.

  “How?”

  Endric shook his head. “It began by accident. I became part of something greater than even the Denraen long ago. I have known her—and who she is—for many years and serve willingly.”

  The general’s startling admission shocked Alriyn. Not even the Magi could claim service to the gods such as Endric now admitted.

  What did this mean? Did the gods still walk the earth, only now disguised?

  A strange palpitation began in his chest, a nervous anxiety. Fear? Alriyn did not think so, but why wouldn’t he fear?

  He looked at Endric in a very different light. “I must protect the mahne,” Alriyn repeated.

  Endric nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Help me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The room was dark. Almost too dark, and the light that would normally filter in between the cracks had been blocked out. He shivered. He was not one who often shivered, but there was something about the room.

  A sound came through the darkness, a quiet shuffling from a source he could not quite place. He whipped his head around, trying to find it, but there was nothing but blackness.

  When he gave up and just looked ahead, two pools of red stared at him. Almost flames. He wanted to jump, but did not let himself. It would not have been good for him to jump.

  “There is… discontent… among your Council,” a voice from the darkness spoke. It was rough, harsh to his ears.

  Part of him wanted to cringe away from it, pull himself back to protect his ears. And his mind. He dared not move. “I know, master.”

  “There are those among it who will challenge you,” the voice came again.

  The flames he knew to be eyes danced.

  He shivered again and stared into the flames, into the eyes of the man. Or whatever he was.

  With the thought, pain stole through his body. It coursed through him, pulsating.

  He squeezed his hands in time with the beats, each contraction a slight agony. As the pain moved through him, he could feel it traveling toward his head. He wanted to cry but knew he could not let himself. It would do no good. He steeled himself for it, knowing the feeling as he had known it before.

  Slowly, the pain reached his mind.

  It burned. Branding him, he supposed.

  He could feel it pulsate within him.

  As it did, his mind clouded slightly. He tried to force his concentration, to focus his mind, but the old tricks learned long ago were ineffective.

  “You will be victorious,” the voice demanded.

  He found himself nodding. He knew nothing short of victory would be allowed. “Yes,” he whispered. “The challenge will not succeed.”

  “Good,” the voice rasped. The sound of it tore at his mind.

  The pain still pulsed within him, but it seemed to lessen somewhat. He let himself breathe deeply, forcing the air into his lungs, trying to calm himself.

  “What of the hundred?” he asked.

  They could be a problem for him. He knew he should have stoppe
d the whole charade long before it reached the point that it had. How were they allowed to escape the city?

  A low rumble echoed in the room. A laugh. It ripped through him like a wind, tearing at him. “The hundred warriors,” the voice sneered, “are nothing.”

  He hesitated. The rumors he had heard told a different story. “I have heard of victories for them,” he began carefully.

  “Victories? Their only victories have come against new initiates. They will find success much more difficult when they face the larger arm of my army. They will be swept down in that tide.” His master laughed again.

  He knew it best not to question, but had heard of larger battles. Larger victories for the Magelings. They were more of a threat than his master was letting on. He knew he must be careful.

  “The final battle nears,” the voice began again. The flames seemed to grow with the words. “You must be ready.”

  He nodded. It would be as he had been instructed. “I will be ready.”

  “Yes. You will.”

  He shivered again.

  “The Tower will fall. It will be mine. And then our strength will be known.”

  When the Tower fell, he would get his reward. He would earn power that even he did not have now.

  A wave of excitement rushed through him. Yes… All would know their strength soon enough.

  “You will go now and make things ready,” the voice commanded.

  He bobbed his head, nodding his agreement. With it, the flames seemed to fade into nothing and disappear. The room lightened somewhat, so that he could almost see his hand if he held it out in front of him. He knew what he needed to do. There were others waiting for him now.

  He moved toward the door he knew was behind him. At least, it had been behind him when he’d entered. He could see nothing in the dark, could not really remember where he was in the room.

  I can change that.

  With the thought, a glow erupted in front of him. A huge ball of light seemed to float before him, illuminating everything. With the light, he could suddenly see everything better, could see where he was in the small room.

  Turning his head, he saw a small wooden shelf in one corner, its stain fading. The door was near the shelf.