The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Isandra turned her attention back to the road, focusing on keeping the horse moving forward. Her first order of business awaited her in Rondalin. She had five Denraen riding with her, support General Endric had determined she needed. Isandra thought it was a little ridiculous that she would be sent with five soldiers. A pair would’ve been more than enough.

  Then again, the general had thought it necessary to send practically a hundred soldiers with each Mage when they had first gone to collect the delegates. Even that had almost not been enough. When the Deshmahne had attacked, those Magi had been thankful for their numbers.

  But the silver stallion she rode was sleek and quick, and she figured the five Denraen would be able to ride just as quickly. Besides that, they were traveling north. There had been no sign of Deshmahne out of the north. The only concern that troubled her was that of these groeliin creatures, like the one Alriyn had shown them. Would they encounter them?

  It may have been a fool hardy idea to come, to believe that she could intervene with the delegates, and that she could somehow broker peace, but someone had to do it. And Karrin supported it. If her sister thought it the right thing to do, it must be.

  “Mage, we should camp for the night.”

  Isandra glanced over at Stephen. He was an older man, with a scarred and grizzled face like so many of the Denraen. He had a short crop of hair, and his blunted nose looked like it had been broken before and hadn’t healed properly. He led the other Denraen, and they deferred to him, giving him some title she still hadn’t caught. Why would Endric send this man with her? If they did encounter anything, he was too old to be of any use.

  Isandra nodded. “We can stop—”

  She didn't get the chance to finish.

  There were flashes of darkness, enough that it caught her off guard. The Denraen were not.

  Almost as one, the men turned their horses, surrounding her. As they did, Isandra counted seven men, each wearing dark clothes, and one with strange markings along his face.

  “Stephen?”

  Stephen nudged his horse backward. “We’ll protect you, Mage.”

  One of the approaching men laughed. It was a strangely dark and horrible sound. There was a harsh quality to it, one that grated against her.

  “Protect me from what?” she asked.

  “Deshmahne.”

  The men in the dark clothes—Deshmahne—unsheathed their swords.

  She’d never seen the Deshmahne before. There were stories, but most had seemed impossible to believe. Could they be as powerful as the stories made them seem?

  Isandra watched with horrid fascination as they darted forward, moving quickly—almost too quickly.

  The Denraen reacted.

  They fought, resisting the Deshmahne. The four younger Denraen held their positions around her, facing the Deshmahne and wielding their swords with precision and skill. But it was Stephen who surprised her.

  It quickly became clear why Endric had sent him. Stephen was a marvel with the sword, displaying more skill than she could imagine any person ever achieving. As he fought, his sword moved so quickly that she struggled to follow it.

  They cut down six of the Deshmahne, leaving only the one with the strange markings on his face. Stephen jumped from his saddle and faced him one on one. Their blades clanged off each other, the sound ringing unnaturally. It was as if the swords were made of a strange and unearthly metal.

  The Deshmahne was more than a match for Stephen.

  For a moment, she felt a tremor of fear for his safety, thinking he might be brought down, but the other Denraen leaped from their saddles and surrounded the Deshmahne.

  The man flicked his gaze toward her, the strange markings on his face seeming to move, swirling in a pattern.

  Isandra blinked. She must've imagined that.

  There was a shifting of darkness, almost as if the shadows came alive, and then he disappeared.

  A silence stretched over everything. She waited, afraid the Deshmahne would return, but there was no sign of him.

  The Denraen checked the bodies of the dead, rolling them together before one of them lit the bodies on fire. Then they sheathed their swords and climbed into their saddles. When all were mounted, including Stephen, Isandra finally was able to loosen her tongue.

  “Stephen?”

  “They should not be this far north, Mage.”

  “Endric knew, didn't he? That's why he sent you.”

  “Endric suspected. This will not be an easy journey.” Stephen spurred his horse forward, motioning her to follow. “Come, Mage. We must ride quickly.”

  As he rode away, Isandra's gaze trailed after him, and she wondered if she had overestimated her ability to counter the Deshmahne and prevent a war, much as she'd underestimated the Denraen's capability.

  Chapter Four

  Racing through the palace, the smooth stone a blur beneath his feet, Alriyn scanned the halls for signs of Deshmahne but thankfully found none. As Endric and the other Denraen, still carrying some of the Council members, pushed on, Alriyn’s grip on the manehlin grew weaker and weaker as his own strength failed. Finally, his hold slipped away, and his mind slammed closed.

  It was agony. His head pounded like it never had before.

  With the release, an awful roar echoed through the palace.

  The Eldest.

  He should have finished it when he had the chance. Would he have the strength the next time he faced the Mage?

  He looked down the hall before turning his attention to Endric. The old general seemed even more grizzled than ever. Alriyn wondered how he could have survived what the Eldest had done to them. Alriyn barely survived it, his body aching from the blows.

  It was his mind that hurt the most, though. He could still feel the agony of what he had forced it to do.

  He looked at the historian, but Novan did not meet his gaze. The strange, unfocused look was still upon his face, and his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. Alriyn suddenly knew there was more to this man than he had ever suspected.

  When they reached the main hall of the palace, the ceiling looming high above, the small sconces on the walls seemed to flicker strangely. “Up,” he announced, deciding. “The central tower.”

  Endric looked to him. “You want to go up when we face Deshmahne in the palace? That only risks isolating you. If they reach you—”

  “We must protect the mahne. I will show you where it is hidden. The Eldest and the Deshmahne must not be allowed to reach it. We will need it if we are to follow the ancient prophecy.”

  Alriyn had time to think about the attack, though his pounding head made it difficult. The Eldest had converted. He was Deshmahne. It was the only explanation for the strange assault. No longer just a Mage, he had become something different, something worse and twisted.

  “Jostephon is Deshmahne,” Alriyn said.

  Endric nodded. “I saw it.”

  “There were nearly a dozen Deshmahne back there,” Alriyn remembered.

  Endric grunted. “No longer.”

  Alriyn looked over to the Denraen general. “How many did it take to stop them?”

  “Me.” He turned his iron gaze upon Alriyn, and it almost stopped him. “I will not let them defile the palace,” he said, the cold steel in his voice frightening. “And they will be eliminated from the city.”

  Alriyn shook a moment. Could Endric really have just stopped nearly a dozen Deshmahne single-handedly?

  He was suddenly thankful they were on the same side.

  “We’ve known they were in the city, but they should not have been able to reach the palace,” Alriyn said.

  Endric closed his eyes in a tight anger before opening them. A dark resolve was written on his face. “They had help, much like they did the last time they attempted to breach the palace.”

  Alriyn looked over to the Councilors. All were still slumped unconscious across the shoulders of the Denraen carrying them. A few appeared seriously injured; blood clotted in a small pool t
hat had formed beneath Haerlin’s nose. He quickly prayed that he had the strength and ability to heal them.

  They were selfish prayers, though. He needed them all.

  Alriyn led them up stairs that spiraled higher and higher into the palace. Each floor they passed was more unused than the next, but he feared to stop, knowing they had a far climb. Darkness followed them as they climbed.

  The guards’ breathing grew more labored as they climbed. How much higher could they carry his friends?

  There were no lights this high in the tower. He stretched to fill the open part of his mind, noting a deep ache as he did, and managed to light a few candles along the wall as they climbed. He reached a hand up to wipe his brow. It came away with sweat mixed with blood.

  Finally, he led them away from the stairwell. By his count, it was the twentieth floor. Dust covered everything. The tower rose another dozen floors, but this was high enough. It had been many years since he had traveled this high in the tower, since anyone had been this high in the tower. There was a time when the tower had been filled with Magi, but it had been centuries since they had known such numbers.

  Alriyn chose a door that opened slowly, and he led them into a large dusty room. Tables and chairs were scattered around the room, piles of tattered scrolls, aged leather-bound journals also coated with dust. Several pale maroon curtains hung, dividers for the room, but were molded through with holes.

  Here, a voice whispered to him, and Alriyn paused, looking over at Novan. The historian was lost in the strange trance. Was it his voice he heard? If so, how?

  “Here.” Alriyn motioned. “They can rest here.”

  Endric issued orders. Alriyn didn’t pay attention to what they were, trusting the general. The Denraen soon had pulled several of the scattered tables to a central location and had wiped the dust off them before laying each Mage on a table.

  Alriyn walked among the tables, resting his hands lightly on each Mage. His head throbbed. He could tell almost immediately that Haerlin was the worst. His injuries were extensive and would need the most help. Crayn and Karrin, on the other hand, were much better off. He barely touched them, probing at their manehlin, and their eyes opened. Bothar was not as bad as Haerlin but was not in as good of shape as Karrin or Crayn.

  Karrin moaned as she sat up. He turned briefly to her before looking back to Haerlin. The man needed much help.

  Alriyn let his mind open, and it ached. It opened much wider than he knew possible. Had what he’d done become permanent?

  He probed into Haerlin, letting the man’s damage lead him, and used the man’s own manehlin to work over what had happened, before pouring his energy into the broken Mage. It was all he could do. He could only give the Mage energy and let his body do what was needed with it.

  He looked up as he finished, tired. Karrin and Crayn both stood over Bothar, working at him. After a while, they finished and looked to Alriyn.

  “How?” Karrin asked him finally.

  He gave her a blank look, not understanding. “How what?” he asked tiredly.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I saw what you did to them, to the Eldest” she answered. “It should not have been possible.”

  Crayn nodded agreement.

  Alriyn shook his head. “I am not Deshmahne,” he said, answering their unspoken question by pulling up his sleeves to reveal his thin arms. He hiked up his robe to reveal his pale legs for good measure. “I don’t know how.”

  “I saw what you did,” Karrin said.

  Alriyn nodded. “What you saw was me forcing my mind open wider. I couldn’t hold it.” Manehlin could never be held too long.

  Crayn’s eyes went wide. The expression was mirrored on Karrin’s face. “You forced your mind wider?” he asked, his voice shocked.

  “I shouldn’t have attempted it. I know it’s dangerous,” he started.

  “Not just dangerous,” Karrin said. “You could tear yourself apart!”

  Alriyn knew it to be true, knew he would have thought the same had they told him. He returned their stares for a while before Karrin spoke.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “The Deshmahne infiltration is much worse than we had thought. We knew they were in the city, but I hadn’t imagined they would reach the palace.” He stopped, his head throbbing and making his thoughts difficult. “We must find them all.”

  “We will,” Endric said.

  Alriyn looked at where Haerlin lay before nodding. “Watch him,” he said to Karrin. “And search for as many others as you can. We need to protect those who have not converted.” She nodded, and he turned to Endric. “I need you to come with me. We will secure the mahne. Then we will root out the Deshmahne.”

  Endric nodded, and Novan stepped forward, watching Alriyn. The historian might be of use, so he motioned for him to follow as well.

  Where had the other Elders gone? They needed to find those of his council to keep Jostephon from attacking them as well.

  Chapter Five

  Isandra looked back, her horse racing beneath her as they sped across the flat plain, the mountains of Vasha now nothing but a memory behind them. In the distance, there was the faint outline of trees and the start of the forest. Where was the city? They had to be close, if only they would make it.

  They'd been riding hard for the last hour. Only three of the five Denraen still lived. Stephen had almost sacrificed himself during the last attack by the Deshmahne but had managed to escape. His fighting had helped buy her time.

  The Denraen seemed unconcerned about their own safety, more concerned about hers. Isandra had always known the Denraen considered themselves protectors of the Magi, but seeing firsthand the lengths they had gone through to see her to safety only reinforced how little she had really understood. Her time in the city, time spent studying, learning about her abilities, even studying the history of her people, hadn't fully prepared her for what she faced. This was brutality.

  Isandra had considered herself a worldly woman. She, unlike so many Magi, had spent time out of Vasha, visiting the nations to the south. It was what made her a natural fit to go north, travel to Rondalin, and see if there was anything she could learn about what happened to their delegate. She had believed they would be able to prevent war, but it was too late for that, and possibly too late for much of anything.

  She had considered returning to Vasha, thinking that doing so might get them to safety, but the Deshmahne had effectively surrounded her and forced her north. The longer they rode north, the more they were chased, and the more she wondered whether there was something else she had missed or something else she had misunderstood.

  Stephen leaned forward in his saddle. He didn't say it, but he was more injured than he let on. His tunic was stained with blood, and occasionally, he would slump forward before catching himself and forcing himself upright. Isandra had offered to help him, but he had rejected that.

  He was dying, and there was little she could do to stop it. When she’d attempted to probe using the manehlin, she had discovered that there was little she could do even to slow it, even were he to agree to her help. Much longer, and he would perish.

  What would happen to her then?

  She didn’t want to think about that. She couldn’t, not with Rondalin in the distance, but would they reach it in time?

  Isandra chose to believe they would.

  Stephen started to sag in his saddle.

  Isandra slowed, reaching for his reins, but he shook her off. “Keep going, Mage. We’re here to protect you.”

  “You can't protect me if you're dead.”

  He looked up, his eyes as clear as she had seen them in hours. “We can protect you through our deaths.”

  Isandra met his gaze, a shiver working through her. She didn’t deserve that level of dedication. She wasn't certain she deserved his sacrifice.

  They topped a rise, and in the distance, she caught sight of a massive city spilling outward from an enormous gray stone wall. A huge makeshift shantyt
own surrounded the wall. She couldn't see anything behind the wall.

  This must be Rondalin.

  Isandra didn't know Rondalin well. She had visited once long ago, back when she had first been raised to full Mage. Rondalin had had a Mage advisor until recently, but they hadn't heard from Salindra in many months. None knew what had happened to her, though all assumed she’d been exiled by the Rondalin king like the Magi advisors had been in the south. What other explanation made sense?

  She looked back, ready to tell the Denraen that they would reach the city, and saw a familiar flicker signaling the Deshmahne. They had seen it too many times over the last few days, enough that Isandra recognized it easily. It was a sight she had come to hate.

  She slowed her horse, nodding to Stephen and their remaining two Denraen. Both were seasoned soldiers. Thinking of the two they’d lost, and of her original thought that Endric had gone overboard with her security, she again was thankful for the general’s foresight but also wondered about it.

  How much had Endric expected?

  Or—she wondered—how much had he feared? Had he known that the Deshmahne had made it this far north?

  “Ride for the city,” Tolan said to her. He had a baritone voice that had a musical quality to it. In their quieter moments during the trip, when they’d had time for conversation, she had imagined him as part of a choir, singing during the worship service of the Urmahne. She never did get a chance to ask him if he’d ever used his beautiful voice in such a way.

  “We'll all ride,” she said.

  Stephen turned in the saddle, steeling himself. Strength she hadn't seen from him in hours was evident in his stiffened spine, granting him the strength to unsheathe his sword as he turned the horse to face the oncoming Deshmahne. “Reach the city, Mage. See this through.”

  “If they've already reached this far, how do you know they haven't reached Rondalin?” Isandra asked.

  “I don't. Keep your eyes open. Be prepared for anything that might come. Look for markings. You remember what those are?”