The Great Betrayal (The Lost Prophecy Book 8)

by D. K. Holmberg

  She touched on a concern for Jakob. There could be others like Scottan who had been turned by Raime before Jakob had a chance to get to them. If there were, how many would he have gathered? How many would use the abilities of the damahne against them?

  “If you’re interested, then I will teach.” There was another benefit, and he hoped that Malaya would agree. “You can use what you learn to help teach the others.”

  She studied him for a long moment before nodding.

  Jakob sighed. Could they learn enough—and quickly enough—to counter Raime and what he had planned?

  All he could think about was the sense of darkness he saw when he looked forward. It loomed in his mind. It lent a sense of urgency to finding who Raime worked with, but even when he found this other person, he would need help to stop them.

  What help did he have?

  There were the damahne, and he hoped they would find more, but they needed training. There were Magi, but would Roelle answer a summons? He suspected the Antrilii would, but they would be better served facing the groeliin. What of the daneamiin? Would they help?

  As much as they would prefer not to get involved, they might have to.

  He had allies, and now that Jakob had found other damahne, they should be able to succeed, but would they have time?

  Chapter Ten

  The familiar breeze brought comfort to Roelle. There was something about the smells coming off the Saeline plains that reminded her of Vasha. It had been a long time since she had been here, long enough that she had begun to wonder whether she would ever return. This had once been home—the only home she had ever known. Now, it was nothing more than a waypoint on her journey to the north.

  She glanced over at the campsite. Her Magi were all arranged in neat and orderly rows, lined up the way Endric had long ago taught them. The Deshmahne that journeyed with them had gradually begun to organize in the same way and had even begun to camp near them, though it had taken time. There had been a separation for the first few weeks of their travels, but it had gradually relaxed, though there was still a division between Magi and the Deshmahne. She wondered whether that would ever change. Perhaps considering everything both sides had gone through, it might not.

  The night was clear, and stars shone overhead. The bright light of the campfire dimmed the sky somewhat, though it couldn’t extinguish it completely. There was something reassuring about looking into the sky and seeing stars that her people had once believed represented the ascended gods. She smiled at the thought.

  “What makes you smile, Mage?”

  Roelle turned to see Safran watching her. He was short, but heavily tattooed, and served as a leader of the Deshmahne. She had not gotten to know him very well during the journey so far but recognized a cool confidence about him.

  “I’m just thinking about the stars,” she told Safran.

  “The stars represent the ascended gods, Mage. Surely the Urmahne beliefs are not so different.”

  “They are not so different,” she agreed. Safran didn’t know Jakob, so he couldn’t understand the amusement she felt. What would Jakob tell her if she asked about whether the gods had truly ascended as the Urmahne taught? Would he even know?

  “How long do you think we’ll need to travel before we start seeing these creatures?”

  “Another week, possibly more.”

  “And your Magi. They intend to take the journey all the way to the north?”

  She glanced over at Safran. “They do. What is it that you’re concerned about?”

  Safran surveyed the line of tents before looking back toward the Deshmahne. “I am all too aware of the way the Deshmahne have been treated in these lands. Your presence is what will keep us alive.”

  Roelle frowned. She hadn’t considered it that way before, but she supposed that was true. Without her and the other Magi warriors, it was possible that they might come across Denraen patrols, and might risk an attack on the Deshmahne.

  “You can’t say that it wasn’t warranted,” she said.

  Safran’s eyes twitched. He showed little expression and revealed little about himself. She knew that he was a high-ranking Deshmahne, but not much more than that.

  “The Highest brought us into war. We didn’t realize that was his intention.”

  “What did you think he intended when he came north?” It was a question she had not had answered by the High Desh in Paliis.

  “The Highest never revealed his plans entirely. We believed that his intent was conversion.”

  “How long has he been the Highest?”

  Safran tipped his head to the side. “As long as I can recall.”

  “Has there ever been a different leader for the Deshmahne?”

  “The temple in Paliis is led by the High Desh. The Highest resides over all temples. He provides guidance to all of the High Desh.”

  “And now?”

  “I do not know.”

  Roelle sat in silence for a moment, trying to contemplate what it meant that the Highest no longer would lead the Deshmahne. The High Desh led in Paliis, though how long would that last? How long until the Highest focused his attention on places like Paliis?

  “Why did you agree to come north with my people?” Roelle asked.

  “I wanted to see these creatures for myself.”

  Roelle looked over at the row of Deshmahne tents. There were nearly two hundred Deshmahne, and from what she had gathered, most were heavily tattooed, indicating a significant connection to their manehlin. Would they try to steal from the groeliin? That was one of her reservations about traveling with the Deshmahne. She wasn’t interested in attacking—and being forced to kill—the Deshmahne.

  Safran was silent, and Roelle realized she needed to bridge the distance between them. “My warriors have a tradition when we camp at night,” she told Safran.

  The Deshmahne arched a brow. “Would this be some sort of song or chanting for the gods’ benefit?”

  Roelle grinned. “Nothing quite like that. This is more of a soldier type of tradition.”

  Safran studied her a moment. “I have a feeling that I will not care for this.”

  “It’s nothing like what I suspect you imagine. We spar against each other, honing our skills.”

  The Deshmahne glanced down at her sword. “You would like to spar with me?”

  Roelle shrugged. She hadn’t seen Safran fight before, and it would provide several benefits to her. It would allow her to gauge his level of skill, but it would also allow her to form a bond with him. There was something about sparring that connected soldiers when they were training. She had felt it when working with Endric, and felt it with the Magi when she was leading them north. Maybe it would even help with Selton if he would spar with her again.

  “I would be happy to spar with you if you are interested.”

  Safran tipped his head.

  Roelle hurried off to grab the practice staves, ignoring Selton’s questioning glance. He had been mostly quiet during the journey north, keeping to himself after they came into port in Gomald and began their journey on horseback.

  When she returned to Safran, she tossed one of the practice staves to him. “How much training do you have with the sword?” she asked.

  “The Deshmahne have much training with sword work. It is through our physical prowess that we demonstrate our abilities to the gods, and it is through that strength that we can show them how we honor them.”

  She took note of his tattoos, thinking that he would have incredible physical prowess if he were anything like the other Deshmahne she had encountered. Many of his tattoos weren’t nearly as thick as some on the more powerful Deshmahne, but they extended along his arms and up onto his neck.

  He took a step back, raising his sword so that it pointed out at her. It was an unusual posture. Roelle took her typical ready stance and nodded to Safran.

  He darted forward, lunging with astonishing speed. When he reached her, he spun his practice stave around into sharp blows, connecting
with hers. Roelle blocked, forced on the defensive.

  She grinned to herself. How long had it been since she had been challenged by someone with the sword?

  Safran worked through a different series of patterns than any she had ever seen. They forced her to defend creatively, not flowing through catahs as she knew them, but mixing them. It was a type of creativity that she had not been forced to use in a while, but she enjoyed it.

  He presented her an opening, and she snapped forward, catching him on the wrist, completing the catah.

  Safran stepped back, holding his sword pointed at her again. “You have an interesting technique, Mage. We were taught to believe the Magi refused to carry a weapon because of their adherence to the Urmahne beliefs.”

  “As was I.”

  “I am curious why you took up the sword.”

  “The Magi Founders were swordsmen. They were soldiers first, and that only changed once we settled in Vasha.” She smiled again. “Are we going to spar, or are we going to talk.”

  A hint of a smile spread on Safran’s lips. For a man who had shown little emotion in the time that they had traveled together, it was practically a grin.

  He slipped forward, his sword moving in a tight and controlled fashion, barely more than a dip of the wrist. Each movement forced her back, and she danced around as she blocked, parrying his attacks. His fighting style was nothing like she was accustomed to. He managed to catch her on the shoulder, and then once on the leg. If this were a real fight, she wondered whether she would be strong enough—or quick enough—to win.

  Then again, if it were a real fight, she would focus her attention differently.

  There had to be something in the catahs Endric had taught her that would allow her to defend this sort of attack.

  She took a deep breath, focusing herself once more. As she did, she slipped forward, slicing at his attack. Safran used small and controlled movements, which forced her to be more compact with her catahs.

  Was there some way she could force him away from that strategy?

  When she had managed to get him to open his posture, he had been easier for her to attack. She thought through what she knew of the catahs Endric had taught her and settled on one that might force him to open his posture.

  Roelle flicked her wrist one way, quickly turning the other.

  It had the desired effect. Safran overcompensated, and in that moment, she slipped forward, slicing up, catching him on the stomach, and then spun away so she could strike him on his back.

  When she darted back a few steps, he smiled at her. “It has been quite some time since anyone has managed to strike me in such a way.”

  She smiled at him. “I am rarely challenged these days, either.”

  “I wonder what it will do to the morale of the others to see me so humbled?”

  Roelle glanced over and realized that the Deshmahne and the Magi both watched their sparring session. She turned her attention back to Safran. “It’s possible that they’ll think to challenge you.”

  Safran grunted. “They may try, but they have a ways to go before they master many of the basic techniques.”

  “You’re fighting style is unusual.”

  “Only unusual to Northerners.”

  “So it’s a southern technique?”

  “I come from El’arash. It is a fighting style well known in my land.”

  “Are you considered a master?”

  “When I lived there, I wasn’t. I traveled to Paliis, drawn by the promise of the Deshmahne. How could I not, when they offered a way to reach the gods that those from my homeland did not?”

  Roelle leaned forward, clutching her practice stave as she looked at Safran. “It has always troubled me the way that the Deshmahne have pursued power.”

  “Only because you already have it.”

  She shook her head. “When I traveled north before, I saw entire cities destroyed by the Deshmahne. The people were forcibly converted, and many lives were lost.”

  Safran’s brow wrinkled slightly. “That is not the way of the Deshmahne.”

  “What is the way of the Deshmahne?”

  “We offer a different option. In the earliest days of the Deshmahne, forced conversions happened, but we realized that was not a way to bring people to understand. All it did was create dissension.”

  “You no longer force conversions?”

  “People have a right to choose, Mage. They have a right to know, but they also need to understand that the gods value a demonstration of strength. It is only through the Deshmahne that they can reach the strength necessary to truly appease the gods.”

  “The Magi have long believed that peace is the way to know the gods. It’s not so much a showing of strength, but a showing of restraint. In that way, the gods are honored, and you are able to understand them.”

  “You said the Magi rather than we.”

  Roelle sighed. “My beliefs were challenged long before I came to Paliis,” she said.

  “And who challenged them?”

  “There are others who serve the gods, and they do so with a noble purpose, one that was born out of fighting.”

  A knowing look crossed his face, and he nodded. “The Antrilii.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised that he would make the connection, but she still was. “What do you know of the Antrilii?”

  “We know that they adhere to the old teachings. They are warriors, and they serve the gods through their fighting.”

  “Do you know that the Antrilii are responsible for fighting off the groeliin?”

  Safran grunted. “Considering I have only recently heard of the groeliin, the answer is obvious. That doesn’t mean that it changes anything. On the contrary, I think I would very much get along with the Antrilii.”

  Surprisingly, Roelle had the same sense. She originally had thought the Antrilii and the Deshmahne would not get along, but the more that she interacted with these Deshmahne, the more that she questioned that.

  “Thank you, Safran.”

  He tipped his head.

  When she turned away, she heard a rumbling. Thunder?

  She didn’t think so. The sky was clear, and if there were storms, they would be far off. On the plains of Saeline, there wasn’t the steady rumbling of thunder that was so constant in Paliis, the threat of rain as the clouds crashed into the neighboring mountains. Here, the skies were clear.

  That could only mean…

  She hurried over to the Magi and tossed her practice stave toward one of the tents. “Riders.”

  Jason, the Magi nearest her, nodded and ran off.

  Selton hurried up to her. “What was that—”

  She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Riders approach.”

  He frowned and cocked his head to the side, trying to listen, but shook his head as if not hearing what she did. “Are you sure?”

  She was sure, but how was it that she detected it and Selton did not?

  The rumbling sounds continued, growing more intense. Roelle ran to the edge of their camp and searched the darkness, looking for signs of the riders. They would have to be approaching from the west given the direction that she felt the rumbling more intensely. She stared into the night, letting her eyes search the shadows for any sign, and after a dozen heartbeats, she saw them.

  They were at least a hundred coming toward them, all mounted, and all soldiers.

  “Be ready,” she said to Selton.

  Selton stared into the darkness, shaking his head. “I don’t see it.”

  “I do, so be ready.”

  She watched as the riders approached, keeping an eye on them, and as she did, she realized that there was a formation to them. She’d seen a formation like that before.

  She glanced over to Safran and the Deshmahne arranged with him and shook her head. Now would be the time when they would learn what reaction the Deshmahne would have.

  “What is it?” Selton asked.

  She breathed out and looked back toward the approach
ing riders. “It’s the Denraen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Roelle wasn’t surprised to find Denraen riding through here. They would naturally patrol, especially given the most recent attacks, but she had thought her group would be safe at night. If the Denraen were pushing their attacks, regardless of time of day, would there be anything that she could do to prevent them from attacking the Deshmahne?

  She made a motion with her hand, signaling to the Magi. Before this became a confrontation, she needed to get a handle on it and needed to ensure that no one began to fight before she had a chance to attempt communication.

  “Why do you look like you’re concerned?” Selton asked.

  “Because I’m not sure what will happen with the Deshmahne here. We aren’t in the south anymore. There has been enough confrontation in these parts—with the Deshmahne—that I think we need to be cautious.”

  “We know some of the Denraen. And at the least, they should recognize us.”

  She looked over at her friend. “Have you seen the way you’re dressed? Have you seen the way I’m dressed? We don’t look anything like Magi. What makes you think they will believe us when we tell them who and what we are?”

  And then there were the markings that most of the Magi now wore. If they weren’t careful, this could get out of hand, and she was not interested in fighting the Denraen.

  The Magi quickly arranged themselves into their formation, and Roelle positioned them so that they would be in front of the Deshmahne. If nothing else, she would block the Deshmahne from the Denraen for as long as she could. The Denraen soldiers’ eyesight wouldn’t be nearly as good as the Magi’s, which meant that they had a few moments before conflict erupted.

  She glanced at the others before focusing on Selton. “I’m going to ride ahead,” she said.

  “Not alone and not at night. If you’re concerned that they might attack—”

  “I’m more concerned that they will see us here. And concerned that they might think to react in a way that places us—and the Deshmahne—in danger.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  At least he wasn’t objecting to her decision too forcefully. She had thought he might and was thankful that he backed off a little. “I need you to maintain the Magi position in front of the Deshmahne.”