Brohmin did not have a chance.
Jakob acted without thinking and pulled upon the ahmaean as he leaped forward.
Neamiin met the Deshmahne sword in a clang of sparks, and a sharp jolt went up Jakob’s arms with the impact. The Deshmahne turned toward Jakob and stepped slightly back, just out of reach, and paused while he circled.
“Do you think you’re ready for me, boy? You were so helpless when we had you captured. So very afraid.” The dark priest smiled. “You remember, don’t you? I’ve grown stronger since then, while you have been hiding.”
Another wave of emotion came at Jakob, a heavy buffeting of hopelessness, fear, and self-doubt.
He slashed his sword at the invisible assault, and it quickly died with a hiss. The Deshmahne frowned, and Jakob knew a moment of hope. “Not hiding. And you will not win this time,” he answered.
The Deshmahne laughed then, and it was a dark sound, hoarse and thick. It echoed around them. “You think one such as you can stand before the might of the Deshmahne? I have absorbed dozens of Magi!” He gestured toward Salindra, and she cowed in response, not looking at the man’s gaze. “Surrender now, and I will add your strength to my own.”
“I am no Mage.” Jakob darted forward in a quick attack, pulling on the ahmaean and feeling time slow again. He knew he was a blur, yet somehow the Deshmahne blocked him easily before stepping back once more. He didn’t know what he was becoming, but it was not a Mage.
“And I have absorbed more than simple Magi,” the Deshmahne said softly, his eyes darting to the tree line.
The attack was almost faster than Jakob could see. If his head had not been buzzing with the ahmaean, he was not sure he would have seen it at all. As it was, he barely ducked in time to dodge the great sword as it whistled past his head. His sword came up late and was nearly knocked from his hands as the Deshmahne spun past him, past the circle of soldiers, and toward where Anda stood hiding.
The other Deshmahne surged inward. Each man held out his sword, flashing heavily tattooed arms, as they advanced quickly, a testament to the speed the Deshmahne markings had granted them. The haze surrounding the Deshmahne flooded toward Jakob and the others with dark intent. What would happen if the Deshmahne ahmaean touched his own bright ahmaean?
“Anda!” Jakob yelled in warning.
“Go to her,” Brohmin said. “She won’t protect herself!”
He threw himself against the barrier of lesser Deshmahne, knowing a moment of worry about whether he would survive to get to Anda in time. He would need to force through the line to get to her, to get to the large Deshmahne, and even then, he wasn’t certain he could stop the man.
Neamiin flashed bright, even in the light of the day, and he pulled at the energy of the sword, wrapping himself within it. His movements became light, quick.
The first Deshmahne fell before him quickly. His sword sliced through the man’s throat, nearly taking his head off in a gush of blood. Then Jakob was surrounded, separated from Brohmin and Salindra. The fear of failure almost overwhelmed him.
But if he was to fall, he would take down as many as he could to protect Anda.
Time practically slowed, allowing him to see each movement more easily, yet it still was barely enough. There were five Deshmahne around him now, and they attacked as a group, barely giving him time to block each assault.
Dark laughter echoed again across the clearing, its horrid sound penetrating the chaos and clang of the swords. A soft cry came from the tree, and his heart caught.
Anda was in danger.
He pulled again on the ahmaean, holding it in him instead of letting it run through and around him. Everything slowed once more. Time did not freeze as he had hoped, but it was as if the Deshmahne moved through water in their attack, the air itself thickening around them.
Two Deshmahne fell before the others somehow managed to push through. Jakob felt the sting of something along his arm but ignored it, pulling hard on the ahmaean within the sword, hoping briefly that he would not destroy it by using it this way.
The Deshmahne were slowed further, their attacks jerking forward, slow but spastic as they struggled against what he had done.
How am I able to do this?
It must be his sword, the power Neamiin held within it, yet a twinge of worry and doubt hit him as he remembered what had happened before the sword had been awakened.
If not the sword, then how?
Jakob didn’t let the question linger. He struck at the Deshmahne, and they provided little more resistance, falling bloodily to the ground. The air stank from the metallic odor, and it was mixed with something else, something foul and rotting. Jakob breathed through his mouth to ignore it and could nearly taste it, gagging him and filling his mouth with filth.
As the last fell, Jakob let the ahmaean he held within him flow out and saw it rush back into the sword, floating around to the dark side of the blade. The sword still hummed, and he felt relief knowing he had not damaged it.
Could it even be damaged?
The question faded as his sense of time jerked forward again and a sharp pain shot through his left arm. He’d been cut, fairly deeply, and it oozed blood.
There was a small sound, one of sadness touched with fear, up in the trees at the edge of the clearing. Jakob pushed the pain from his mind and moved toward it. Anda was hiding. She would stand little chance if she would not fight.
He rushed forward, toward the lead Deshmahne. He harbored no false hope of defeating him, not if he was as powerful as his ahmaean appeared. Yet he could buy Anda time, give her a chance for escape.
When he reached the dark priest, he saw Anda atop a branch high within the tree, her dark cloak blended with the still-green leaves making her difficult to see.
There was a strained expression on her face, and it took him a moment to notice why. The Deshmahne was pushing his ahmaean toward her, and she struggled against it, her own ahmaean pushing back.
Jakob saw the effort it cost her. Every moment that passed, the dark ahmaean of the Deshmahne pressed closer. He shuddered to think what would happen when it reached her.
Without thinking, he raised his sword, stepped forward, and slashed at the hazy energy pressing toward the daneamiin. There was a sigh of relief high above him and a soft, angry growl from the priest.
Jakob spun, pulling upon the ahmaean, taking and holding it within himself.
His head hummed, vibrating along with the sword with the nervous energy he held, and the world slowed.
The Deshmahne looked past Jakob, narrowed eyes noting the fallen Deshmahne. “Perhaps I have underestimated you. Perhaps.”
The words came out thick and harsh, as if unnatural for his mouth to form them. The light cast strange shadows upon his face, and the tattoos stretched and moved in an unsettling manner.
“The Highest warned me you would provide an interesting challenge.” With the words, a small smile played at the man’s thin lips, dark and promising pain. “He placed a high reward on your capture.”
The Deshmahne paused a moment, tilting his tattooed head in thought. “Perhaps I will not return you to him as he demanded,” he said. “You have strength, enough that I can nearly see it. I shall have it.”
The Deshmahne pushed a new wall of emotion at him, a tightening of his eyes all the notice Jakob had to steel his defenses.
The priest radiated hopelessness. It was mixed with fear and despair and came at him in an unrelenting rush. Jakob staggered back, feebly swinging Neamiin against it, but still, it came.
“Lower the sword.”
The words were spoken almost within him, a command he could not resist, and he felt his grip on his sword faltering as he lowered it.
Another part of his mind cried out, fighting against the command. But his body did not comply. He was helpless before the power of this Deshmahne priest, and it did no good to resist. His vision darkened, and he staggered again before righting himself and shaking his head.
His mind cleared
for a moment, and he slashed his sword before him, hoping to disrupt the flood of emotion coming at him, but it did little.
The Deshmahne pushed forward, harder, the look of intense concentration on his face mingled with a widening smile. He seemed to know Jakob could not withstand much more.
Who could? Why should he fight? It was useless. There was nothing more for him to fight for. He was nothing, had been nothing, deluding himself that he could do this, that he could face the might of the Deshmahne. He could not.
I will give myself to him.
With the thought, his sword arm fell.
At that moment, two things happened. There came a small cry of victory from the large Deshmahne as Jakob sensed the man moving toward him. At the same time, a wave of peace, of reassurance and calm swept through him and cleared his mind.
His head began to pulse, vibrating with the power of the ahmaean as it cleared.
Jakob pulled upon the ahmaean, and time slowed to a crawl.
The Deshmahne looked at him with a moment of surprise before pressing through it, swinging his great sword in an arc at Jakob’s head.
He saw the movement moments before it happened—whether he had anticipated it or had truly seen it, he did not know.
Jakob ducked and spun, knowing where the Deshmahne sword would be and simply moving so that he would not be there as well.
He thrust his sword quickly, sensing where the Deshmahne would move next, and caught the man in the stomach.
The Deshmahne stepped back, looking down at his wound a moment before gripping his sword with both hands and raising it once again. Bleeding slowed, and the wound began to close.
“Who are you?” the Deshmahne demanded, his words now a bit breathless.
“I don’t know.”
There came a flicker of motion, and Jakob felt the Deshmahne’s dark ahmaean streak toward him. The Deshmahne came behind it.
Jakob pulled on ahmaean, taking everything he could from the sword, from the pulsing within him, almost from the trees around him. He pulled all the energy he sensed into himself.
His head split, shattering into fragments.
He screamed and time froze.
Neamiin flashed with nearly a mind of its own, striking through the Deshmahne’s neck, beheading the priest before he could push through whatever it was that Jakob had done.
Jakob screamed again, and time pushed forward as he released the ahmaean he had siphoned.
There was a solid thunk as the Deshmahne priest’s head hit the ground. Jakob turned so he did not have to look.
Facing the tree Anda had climbed, he panted, slowing his breathing and holding his injured arm to his head. Pain lanced through his mind. Whatever had happened seemed to have split his skull, and it ached in a way he had never known. His eyes watered, blurring his vision, and he wiped them slowly in his exhaustion.
There was a stir of motion near him, and he turned quickly, raising his sword, only to see Anda standing before him.
“That was you, wasn’t it? You freed me from his influence,” he said weakly.
She tilted her head in answer. “As you helped me.” She purposefully kept her eyes fixed forward, avoiding the forest floor where the dead Deshmahne lay. Instead, she looked toward the clearing, toward Brohmin.
Jakob shook the pain from his throbbing head before also looking toward Brohmin. Jakob had taken down nearly half of the lesser Deshmahne but had left Brohmin badly outnumbered. He was not sure what he would do if he needed to fight to finish the remainder, unsure if his throbbing head would allow the necessary concentration.
Salindra stood next to Brohmin, supporting him. He bled from a dozen wounds, several on his arms, chest, and a large wound across his forehead. The Mage stood with a hand overtop the worst of them, a gaping hole in his stomach, and mumbled something that Jakob could not hear at his distance.
Around them, lying motionless and maimed, were the lesser Deshmahne. One still moved, his chest slowly rising and falling, and Brohmin had the tip of his sword held uneasily against the man’s throat, his arm quivering as if the effort strained him. In his wounded state, it probably did. The others were scattered, bodies and limbs littering the ground of the clearing, mixing bloody remains in a rotten stench.
Jakob joined them and looked down at the Deshmahne under Brohmin’s sword point.
The man was dying, a fatal wound to his belly lay open, and the stench of his bowels hung in the air. In spite of this, his eyes were narrowed upon Brohmin’s sword, and bloody spittle moved in his mouth with each breath. Tattoos covered what was visible of his arms, neck, and face. Only his shaved head remained unmarked. A powerful Deshmahne.
“Why does he want me?” Jakob asked, surprising himself with the question.
The man’s mouth turned in a small smile. “You are nothing before him,” the Deshmahne rasped. “It is not for you to question.”
Brohmin pressed a little with the sword, and the Deshmahne tried pulling back, but little strength was left in him. “You will answer,” Brohmin said, his voice soft with a quiet rage. “And tell us what he wants with Alyta.”
Defiance flashed across the Deshmahne’s eyes. “Your gods have failed you, Hunter. Only the will of the Deshmahne will save you.” He spat at Brohmin’s feet, a glob of bloody phlegm, and thrust his head forward, impaling his own throat with Brohmin’s sword with the motion. A look of triumph froze on his face as he died.
Brohmin stared at the dead Deshmahne for long moments before lifting his head and turning to Jakob. “How?” he asked, eyes flickering to where the large Deshmahne lay.
Jakob looked back before facing Brohmin again. “I don’t know. I got lucky.”
Brohmin seemed to be watching it all again in his mind’s eye. “I saw you at the end. I saw how you moved. That was more than luck.” He turned back to Jakob. “How did you do that?”
Jakob sighed, exhaustion and frustration overwhelming him. He didn’t know how he had beaten the Deshmahne—didn’t think he should have been able to have beaten him. “It’s the sword, I think.”
That didn’t feel entirely right, but it wasn’t the time to discuss it. He knew it had to be more than the sword. Something was happening to him, something that gave him abilities he should not have. He had noticed it even before the Cala maah, before Neamiin had awakened.
But what then? What was he?
Anda rested a hand on his shoulder, seeming to steady him. A wave of peace and relaxation washed through him, and he suddenly breathed easier. “Neamiin is a sword of much power,” she said. “Much was given to its making. Jakob was meant to wield it.”
Brohmin glanced to Anda before turning back to Jakob and nodding. “Perhaps that is all,” he agreed.
Salindra frowned and said nothing. She lifted her hands from Brohmin’s stomach. His wounds had closed and the bleeding stopped. Color had not yet returned to his blood-spattered face, but as Jakob watched, the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Upon opening them, a resolve seemed to settle through him, and most of his customary strength returned. After a brief coughing spell, he pulled himself upright and looked at the fallen Deshmahne.
“We should hurry, then,” Brohmin finally said. “If Alyta is in the Tower, there is far to travel, and we must go on foot unless Anda can guide us as she did across the Valley.”
Anda frowned as she stared at Jakob for a long moment, finally shaking her head. “I think that would prove too challenging now.”
“Then we walk,” Brohmin said. He, too, stared at Jakob strangely as he spoke before turning and leading them away from the clearing.
“You need to rest, Brohmin,” Salindra admonished.
Brohmin staggered and nearly fell. “Fine. Rest, but not here, not near them.”
“Where?” she asked.
“There is a place…”
They stopped in the heart of the Great Forest. Jakob couldn’t shake the idea that it wasn’t nearly as impressive as it once had been, not since spending time on the othe
r side of the Great Valley. The forest of the daneamiin was much more impressive. But this still had much power. The ahmaean he saw flowing around the trees had saved him, he knew.
He was tired, and he fell to the ground near the collection of massive boulders. Anda touched his shoulder, and a wave of relaxation flooded into him as he fell into a deep sleep.
Only, he didn’t sleep completely, not really, and not in this place.
It was powerful.
The dream came, but this time, he knew it was nothing more than a dream. A vision, much like what he’d had in the Cala maah.
Chapter Nine
The dark corridor of the Tower rarely seemed alive on the best of days. Always cool, with pale stone walls unadorned, little about the Tower was welcoming. Still, there was usually comfort in the massive walls, a sense of reassurance and purpose Aimielen always felt in the solid and immovable stone.
Aimielen? I’ve heard that name before…
The thought was distant like it came from the back of her mind.
Something felt different today.
She sighed, and her breath disappeared down the corridor, wafting away on the breeze that moved through the Tower. Sconces inset into the walls glowed softly, the pure light unnecessary for her eyes but welcomed. Aimielen fingered the golden hem of her otherwise solid green shirt, disturbing thoughts distracting her.
“Some think it would be better if the children simply did not exist.” Though Shoren spoke the words quietly, they seemed to echo along the hall.
Shoren. The god. I saw him in the Great Forest.
Aimielen blinked, careful to keep her pace steady, fearful of unseen eyes. “How can they—” she started, cutting off as she saw a hint of sadness edging Shoren’s otherwise stoic face.
“They have named them,” Shoren continued, his words slow, each measured. Always cautious. His face resumed his normal flat expression, but she saw irritation bubbling under the surface.
“What have they named them?” she asked, frowning.
“Den’eamiin,” he said, using the language of their ancestors.
Aimielen’s steps faltered as frustration flashed through her. She was careful to keep her face composed and knew that Shoren did the same, but it was difficult. The name was an insult.
Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3) Page 7
