The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  “The caravan drew attention,” Yongar said. “I’ve patrolled these lands in parties twice this size. That’s enough to search for trouble. Enough to know if there’s anything we need to send troops to investigate. This size moves quickly. That’s important these days.”

  Allay glanced over to Yongar. He’d been staring at the road, noting the change from trees to the rolling plains of grasses that would stretch for leagues as they pressed into Gom Aaldia, and toward the province of Saeline. “These days? What’s changed?”

  Yongar’s brow furrowed, and Allay noted the way he gripped his pommel more tightly. “Damn priests are moving in greater numbers these days than ever before.”

  “Even more reason to send more men than this,” Allay said.

  “The general can’t spare too many for parties like this. The Denraen have been spread thin, especially as we hear more and more of attacks. I think that’s what the Deshmahne want. They want us to be spread so thin that we can’t respond the way we want.”

  One of the other Denraen, Walden, an older man with a pair of scars over his bushy gray eyebrows, shot Yongar a hard glance, and the younger Denraen nodded, guiding his horse away from Allay, giving him a little distance. Allay wondered why Walden would have quieted the other man, but decided he shouldn’t press, especially given he had other things to worry about. He needed to prepare for what he’d say to his father.

  Walden was a skilled veteran, one who Allay had seen practicing each night with the other soldiers, working the sword. They made a habit of practicing, almost as if they needed to hone and maintain their skills. It'd been much the same on the travels north to Vasha. Those Denraen—all one hundred of them—also practiced nightly.

  At times, Allay had watched, longingly, thinking what it might be like to pick up one of the practice staves and swing it, working with the sword much as he had when he was a child working with his father’s swordmasters. It'd been years since Allay had fought. Richard had made it clear that Allay would not need to use a sword, forcing him to learn tactics that had never suited him. His father believed that though Allay might not rule, he would lead.

  And yet Allay felt a part of him aching to hold a sword.

  Another part was not interested at all. He’d always been drawn to learning and study, wanting nothing more than to sink into a chair in one of his father's libraries. What might it be like if he could do that now? How had so much changed for him, forcing him away from what he’d thought he would be able to do, and toward fighting that he wanted nothing to do with?

  “I don’t know how to do what they want of me,” he whispered to Mendi.

  “We’ve gone over this before,” she said without taking her eyes off the road. “You need to work with your father. The Magi have asked you to reestablish peace in Gom Aaldia.”

  Allay wasn’t certain that was quite what they’d asked of him. They had spoken of the role of the Urmahne, given each of the delegates guidance on the ways that the Magi have served through the years. Had they not realized that half of the delegates had already been converted? Those from the south were already swayed by the Deshmahne, and some from the north had begun to be influenced as well.

  “I think—”

  Walden raised his fist, and the Denraen circled Allay’s horse with theirs.

  Allay looked around, wondering why the sudden protective circle.

  A trio of horses thundered along the road toward them, dark-robed men riding them.

  Had that been what he’d heard, and not thunder?

  “What is it?” he asked Yongar.

  “Deshmahne,” the young soldier said.

  Walden made a motion with his hand, and three Denraen rode off toward the advancing riders, leaving Walden and Yongar protecting Allay, Mendi, and Rosahd.

  They reached the Deshmahne, and for a moment, Allay thought the soldiers intended to speak with the priests, but any thought of cordial conversation ended when the priests unsheathed their swords, and hacked at the Denraen.

  The Denraen had been prepared. Allay wasn’t, not for the suddenness of the violence, or the skill of the Denraen. He had expected Endric to have sent skilled soldiers with them, but these men were amazing with their swords, much better than any that he’d seen other than the general himself on the road to Vasha.

  The Deshmahne didn’t stand a chance. The Denraen cut two of them down quickly, and chased the third as he attempted to run. They caught him and dropped him from behind.

  “Why didn’t they let him go?” Allay asked Yongar as the Denraen rode back toward them. He noticed Rosahd staring at the Denraen, his long face unreadable. Allay imagined that he was disgusted by the violence, as would be any of the Magi.

  “The Deshmahne are moving in numbers,” Yongar answered softly. “If they learn that they have a chance to attack one of the Magi, and a man trained by them, they would return with more than we could manage.”

  “But fighting like that—”

  Yongar looked over to Allay. “Make no mistake about what we do, and why we’re here. The Deshmahne have moved into the north, but they have come with a different intent than they had in the south.”

  “Which is?” Allay asked.

  “Something we haven’t seen in generations. War comes to the north, Prince Lansington. You need to determine which side your father intends to fight for.”

  Roelle was exhausted.

  The merahl howled near her, the sound a steady cry that pierced the gloom of the overcast day. Rain sputtered from the gray clouds above, and her cloak was soaked. In the distance, she noted the road leading toward the city, the reason they had remained in place for as long as they had.

  “I guess we’re not done,” Selton said when the merahl howled again.

  Roelle sighed, wiping rain from her forehead, trying to keep her mind focused, but it was difficult. How long had they been fighting? It felt like hours, but it probably hadn’t been nearly that long. This brood of groeliin was larger than the last, and though the Antrilii took care of most of the attack, there had been plenty of fighting for the Magi warriors too.

  It had been more than any of them had planned on when they’d agreed to come north. Find the Antrilii, Endric had suggested, but what he hadn’t shared was that he knew that the groeliin moved south in dangerous numbers. He must have known for him to have sent her warriors.

  And she couldn’t be angry, even if it would have done any good.

  The Magi had fought—and some had died—facing the groeliin. They were creatures out of a nightmare, creatures that had once devastated the world, leading to the Founding of the Magi. And now they returned.

  So many questions, but there hadn’t been the time to search for answers. Only more questions.

  She had become a skilled soldier, but that hadn’t been what the Magi needed from her. She had also been forced to lead. They had needed her knowledge of tactics, those that she had acquired during her time working under the general, as well as the tactics that she had learned studying the book his father had written. Few had been applicable when faced with the groeliin.

  The merahl howled again, closer this time. The huge cats were skilled hunters, and tore through the groeliin in ways that the Magi could not, but there weren’t nearly enough merahl for the number of groeliin they faced. For that matter, there weren’t nearly enough Magi—or Antrilii.

  Roelle squeezed the hilt of her sword. “No. We are not done,” she said.

  She looked around, searching to see the others with them. Zamell, the striking Mage who had caught Selton’s attention, remained nearby, always close by him. She had proven a skilled leader as well, and Roelle tried not to let the hint of jealousy—only a hint—color the way she used Zamell.

  Jhun was also nearby, her cloak tattered and blood-stained. She wore a grim expression, but it was one that she’d earned, bringing down more groeliin than any other Mage other than Roelle.

  When the merahl called a third time, Roelle caught sight of a flash of brown fur.<
br />
  They were near, which meant the groeliin were near.

  “How can we keep going?” Jhun asked in a whisper. “There are too many!”

  Roelle licked her lips, swallowing against a dry throat.

  It was a question without an answer, one that had begun to trouble her too. How would they be able to fight the groeliin? If Nahrsin’s numbers were correct, there were still nearly ten thousand of these creatures. They lost a few fighters each time they faced them. How long would it be before they were outnumbered? How long would it be before the groeliin overwhelmed them, and continued their violent way south?

  And there was no doubt that they were moving south, driven, if Nahrsin was to be believed. The Antrilii believed that some empowered groeliin, something like a Mage to the creatures, sent them south, but Nahrsin didn’t seem to know why. To Roelle, that seemed the most important answer, but the one that was the least forthcoming.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Roelle said. “We need to fight, or others will die.”

  That had been her response anytime anyone questioned their purpose. There weren’t many times when it was questioned anymore. After coming upon the dead in the last village, the entire town destroyed by a single brood moving through, the Magi understood that they had a purpose, one that others did not possess.

  They had been directed by the gods.

  Roelle believed it, even if she no longer knew if the peaceful way of the Urmahne was correct. How could it be, when they were forced to fight like this? How could it be when the Magi were the only ones able to even see this threat—and the Antrilii, though Roelle had learned that they were also descended from the same Founders as the Magi.

  When the groeliin fell upon them, the horrible gray bodies attacking with violence, Roelle and the Magi reacted. She swept through the forms that she’d been taught, tearing through the groeliin, feeling her strength diminish with each attack.

  How much longer would they be able to face them?

  When they couldn’t, what would happen to the people in the cities? Would they be destroyed, much like the stories of the destruction a thousand years ago?

  Roelle and the Magi had to do what they could to prevent that, even if it meant dying.

  Yet they needed help.

  If it wouldn’t come from the Magi—and so far, there had been no word from the Council after she’d sent Hester back to Vasha—then it would have to come from someplace else. A dangerous idea had begun to form in her mind, but it was one that she hadn’t been willing to share with others yet, not certain how they would react. Roelle wasn’t certain how she felt about it.

  How could she think to look to the Deshmahne for help?

  No, she would keep it to herself a little longer.

  There came a scream nearby as one of the Magi fell.

  Roelle wondered: how much longer could they wait before learning whether they needed the help of an enemy?

  Chapter One

  Deep in the palace in Vasha, Alriyn took a step back as the Eldest approached along the wide hall. His dark robe hung motionless as he walked. The air had taken on a chill, but perhaps that was nothing more than Alriyn’s imagination. Lanterns flickered along the wall; that wasn’t his imagination.

  Could Jostephon be involved?

  Alriyn had a growing suspicion that some had been converted by the Deshmahne, but he hadn’t expected it to be Jostephon. How could the Eldest be involved with the warrior priests? How could his old friend?

  Seeing him striding toward him, the knowing look on his face, he couldn’t think of any other explanation.

  But why?

  Jostephon was a scholar—and a more learned one than he. He would have understood the implications of this choice. Unless Alriyn had this wrong. He prayed that he did, otherwise, everything was happening faster than he had expected.

  Without Jostephon, any hope of choosing the Uniter was lost before it even began.

  “What is this?” Jostephon demanded, pointing toward Rendrem who lay helpless on the ground. A small trickle of dark blood flowed from Rendrem’s nose.

  “Jostephon—these men are Deshmahne. And they’re in the palace.”

  Alriyn hoped Jostephon wouldn’t be involved. He couldn’t be involved—could he?

  “The Deshmahne are not what you believe, Alriyn.”

  He blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected from his old friend. “Not what I believe?”

  “They are not priests, and this is not religion.” He took a step toward Alriyn and lowered his voice. “You’re a smart man, Alriyn. You should have learned that the gods are not gods. They were not placed above men to guide them. They did not Ascend as we have claimed. They were powerful beings, but their power has faded. It is our time now.”

  “What are you saying?” Alriyn asked. “You deny the gods now? With everything that is happening, we need to choose the nemah—”

  “Consider that there is another answer, one that we have not ever considered. There is a reason we have not seen the gods in centuries—they no longer exist! The Deshmahne know a different way to power, one that augments what the Magi already possess.”

  “You’re making a mistake. All of this is a mistake. The gods are real, Jostephon. I have seen one! She asked that I—”

  Power built from Jostephon. Alriyn could feel it as the subtle shifting of the manehlin, the small energy slowly vibrating with the power.

  Could Jostephon think to attack them?

  He glanced at the others with him. They all watched him, none able to speak.

  Alriyn had to act. He had no other choice.

  He took a deep breath. “Jostephon Ontain, I challenge your position as Eldest. I do this in accordance with the ancient laws passed down to us from our Founders. I do this—”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, Alriyn.”

  Alriyn swallowed. His mind opened, welcoming the power flowing around him. “I challenge you, Jostephon. If you have sided with the Deshmahne and abandoned the gods, you are no longer fit to lead the Magi in a time when we must follow the ancient tradition and seek the Uniter.”

  “You think you can challenge me?” Jostephon asked. “You know so little, Alriyn Ral, if you think you are capable of challenging me.”

  With the words, Alriyn felt something akin to a blow to his head.

  It came quickly and unexpectedly. The shock of it forced him to release the energy he held, and it slipped back into the men. Rendrem moaned lightly.

  Alriyn gathered himself. “Jostephon Ontain, I challenge your position as Eldest. You will answer the challenge in accordance with the ancient laws, those of the Urmahne and the mahne before it—”

  Jostephon’s laughter interrupted him this time. “You challenge my position as Eldest? I warn you, I have learned enough that I am now much more than just the Eldest.”

  A flurry of sharp blows seemed to come from everywhere around him at once.

  Alriyn lost his focus and struggled to regain it. As he did, he forced his mind to relax. If he couldn’t, he would not be able to prevent this attack. Slowly, it opened wide—as wide as it had when he had dealt with Rendrem and the Deshmahne. It wasn’t enough.

  He strained, pushing again.

  Doing so was dangerous. Magi who had attempted it before had been left injured, but what choice did he have?

  He felt a tear, and he grunted. He pushed harder and suppressed a scream. He would need more strength than he had.

  He dared not look away from the Eldest, but he chanced a glance around him. Endric winced frequently, as if being whipped. A few of the Magi with him cried out. But it was Novan he was most interested in seeing. The historian’s face was tight, a frown upon his lips, and his eyes were unfocused as he seemed to concentrate upon something unseen.

  He is Deshmahne.

  It was the voice in his head, and it was strangely familiar. Could it be Novan’s voice?

  Alriyn realized that the voice was right. Jostephon was more than the Eldest. He h
ad been converted in full, otherwise he would not be able to do what he did to him now.

  The Eldest laughed again, and the sound filled the hall. “You made a grave mistake, Alriyn. You should have allowed Rendrem to escort you to me. We could have ruled together.”

  Alriyn turned his attention back to Jostephon. He would need every ounce of concentration. “Jostephon Ontain, I challenge you!”

  He pressed power into that open part of his mind, stretching to his limits, and pushing beyond them with a scream. It felt as if his mind split in half.

  Sudden awareness and power flooded him, but it did so painfully. He focused, straining to access his ability.

  A sense of manehlin filled him. It was everywhere, practically glowing. Alriyn could see it in ways that he never had managed before.

  It surrounded him, a bright glow, and surrounded everyone with him.

  Including Jostephon.

  Alriyn reached for that manehlin, trying to reach inside the Eldest. There was resistance, as if a hard shell surrounded the Mage.

  The Eldest laughed again. The fury of blows hit him harder, punishing him. The intense pain forced him to fight to keep his focus, to keep his mind open.

  “You have made a mistake in challenging me,” the Eldest said.

  Protect the mahne!

  It was as if the goddess’s words rang out in his mind, a bell clearing from it the pain and fear he felt about what he faced.

  Alriyn roared, pushing at his mind, straining to open it even wider.

  There would be consequences. No one had ever tried what he was attempting now.

  He reached beyond what he should be capable of doing and pushed through the barrier around the Eldest. He seemed to squeeze through.

  It was slow, like moving through mud, but he penetrated the barrier and tore at the manehlin that filled the Eldest, pulling it back toward him.

  Jostephon screamed this time, a harsh cry that filled the hall with his anger.