The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  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 Dendril 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.

  Losing Endric would be almost as devastating a blow to them as losing Jostephon had been.

  Alriyn pulled on the manehlin that surrounded the Deshmahne attacker.

  There was darkness to it, and when he pulled it within himself, he felt a chill.

  The Deshmahne stiffened, his movement suddenly stopping, and Endric spun, suddenly aware the man was there, and jabbed his sword up through his gut, pulling it up toward his head.

  The Deshmahne collapsed to the ground.

  Alriyn slowly released the man's manehlin, but it didn't leave him. The dark energy hovering around him, as if him holding onto it while the man died had changed something about Alriyn.

  “We need to get going,” Endric said.

  Novan tapped his staff on the ground. Color swirled along it for a moment before fading. As it did, Alriyn noted the way that color seemed to pull on the manehlin that he had absorbed from the Deshmahne. Novan tapped his staff once more, and the remainder of the dark energy was drawn out of Alriyn. He didn't resist, uncertain what would happen were he to hold onto it too tightly, and not wanting to have that energy within him. Doing so felt dirty.

  “We need to check on Efrain,” Alriyn said.

  As they started away, Novan pointed his staff at the section of the wall, light burst from its tip, and the wall slid closed once more. Much like opening the wall, closing it from this side shouldn't have been possible by anyone other than a Council member. Even strong Magi not of the Council didn't know how to close or open the door to this room. It had been a secret maintained by the Council for centuries, since the Founding.

  Yet Endric and Novan both possessed knowledge of how to do so.

  What did that mean?

  Alriyn paused long enough to trigger the shelf to slide back into place, concealing the section of wall. It likely didn't matter now that the mahne had been removed, but doing so made him feel better about hiding it.

  Endric led them forward, and Alriyn found Efrain, the old librarian, sprawled on the ground. Blood pooled around him. He had a strange marking on his ankles, something like jagged teeth that looked almost like it had been burned onto them, reminding him of the tattoos on the Deshmahne.

  When they reached the door to the library, Endric pulled it open a crack and tipped his head forward, focused on the area outside of the door, before pushing the door closed once more.

  “We won't be able to get out that way.”

  “Deshmahne?” Novan asked.

  Endric nodded. “And powerful.”

  “Can't you fight your way out?” Alriyn asked. “You’ve faced twelve at one time!”

  Endric shot him a harsh look. “I fought through twelve Deshmahne, but they were barely powered at all. Those waiting for us on the other side are more like the man you stopped in here. Even if we faced a dozen like them… I'm not sure all three of us could stop a dozen of them.”

  “And how many are out there?” Alriyn asked.

  “I counted almost twenty,” Endric said. “Even with the historian helping me, I don't think we would be able to pass them. We need to circle around, gather my Denraen, and then we can force the Deshmahne out of the palace.”

  So many thoughts went through Alriyn’s mind. “How do you think we can get out of here? How can we circle around?”

  Endric nodded at the door. “Place whatever barrier you can on there, Second Eldest. We’ll need you to not only buy us time, but we want to prevent the Deshmahne from gaining access to the library proper. More than just the mahne exists here.”

  Endric forced the shelf to slide back again and quickly triggered the section on the wall to open, hurrying into the chamber that had housed the mahne for all those years.

  Novan trailed after him, and once they were in the room, they glanced at Alriyn, waiting.

  Alriyn's head was spinning.

  There was something more taking place here than he understood.

  But… He agreed with Endric that they needed to protect the library. This was a place of much learning. This was a place that Magi scholars over the generations had preserved information. He might have the mahne, but losing any of this—especially to the Deshmahne—would be devastating to the Magi.

  Alriyn opened his mind, pulling on the manehlin, letting that power fill him. Once more, he was aware of the soft energy that surrounded Novan and Endric, energy that strangely
enough rivaled what surrounded him. Alriyn tried not to think about what that meant.

  He drew the manehlin into him, pulling it from the air, from the stone worked within the palace, and from deep beneath them from a source he couldn't see though could feel. Once done, he released that energy, placing it into a barrier around the entirety of the library, holding it tight. There were ways to maintain barriers, much like what they had done to the mahne over the years, and Alriyn sealed this one tightly.

  Alriyn's head throbbed, worse than it had before. Was this the result of having opened his mind more than he’d ever done before? Would he be tormented from this point forward every time he reached for the manehlin? If so, would it prove to have been worth it?

  Yes. Preserving the mahne was worth his suffering.

  He joined Novan and Endric in the chamber, pausing to trigger the door closed. The two men were talking, and Alriyn overheard Novan saying something that caught his attention.

  “What will be a bloody affair?” Alriyn asked.

  Endric sighed. “Whatever it will take to push back the Deshmahne from the palace. We continue to face increasingly powerful men. That tells me that they have come in full force, there is something they want.”

  “It's Jostephon. They come to protect him.”

  Endric frowned. “That may be. It might be something else. Either way, I will be forced to sacrifice many men to push the Deshmahne out of the palace.”

  Alriyn was thankful that those of the Council were tucked away on one of the upper floors, hidden, but how long would they be safe? How long would he be able to hold off the Deshmahne?

  If they couldn’t, then those he had recruited from the Council, those who had come with him, would end up facing the Deshmahne anyway. They would run the risk of danger once more.

  “How do you intend to get us free? There's no way out of this chamber other than that door.”

  In answer, Endric tapped along one of the legs of the pedestal that had held the mahne. As he did, he seemed to press out with the energy that swirled around him.