Tower of the Gods (The Lost Prophecy Book 3)
Tower of the Gods
The Lost Prophecy
D.K. Holmberg
ASH Publishing
Contents
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by D.K. Holmberg
Copyright © 2017 by D.K. Holmberg
Cover art by Rebecca Frank
All rights reserved.
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Map
Prologue
The overcast sky carried with it the scent of rain. Allay Lansington tore his gaze from the clouds, and from the distant rumble of thunder, and sighed. It had been nearly a week that he’d been in the saddle since leaving Vasha, the road taking them ever more southerly as they wound down the mountain and toward the flatter lands that would eventually lead them into Gom Aaldia. With each passing day, Allay struggled to remember what it had been like when he’d been in Vasha, and what it had been like when he’d felt the freedom to simply be with Mendi.
She rode next to him, her horse a step behind his so that he had to twist in the saddle to see her. The wind caught her black hair, sending it flying behind her, and he smiled to himself. When he reached Gomald, he vowed to make certain that things would be different between them. They had to be. After the time they’d spent together in Vasha, time when there had been nothing but a comfort between them, he owed it to her… and to himself.
Riding in the lead was the Mage assigned to them, a serious man by the name of Rosahd. He had said little along the way, though Allay had expected him to insist on continuing with the lessons the delegates had been receiving in Vasha. Instead, the man preferred silence, as if he was annoyed by the fact that he’d been sent from the city in the first place. And perhaps he was. Few Magi ever left Vasha any more. Maybe Rosahd would have preferred to remain in his comfortable quarters within the palace, nothing but his studies—and whatever else the Magi did to pass time—to keep him company.
The others on the road with him were Denraen. Five soldiers tasked to him; quite a difference from the one hundred or so that had come to Gomald to escort him to Vasha. He hadn’t given it much thought since they departed, focusing more on what he would say to his father—if anything. The Magi expected him to somehow encourage the King toward peace. Allay wasn’t certain that he knew how, and he doubted his father had any intention to listen to him.
Allay slowed his horse so that he could speak to Mendi. When he’d done that before, she’d slowed hers even more, forcing him to keep riding ahead, preventing him from speaking with her while riding. Already since leaving Vasha, she’d begun modifying her behavior to keep up appearances.
This time, he didn’t let her, reaching for her reins to keep her horse near his. When she shot him a questioning look, he shrugged and asked, “Why do you think so few Denraen were sent with us this time?”
Mendi glanced at the five soldiers with them. She had known two of them before they were assigned to ride south with them, and Allay had tried not to let that trouble him. Why should it, when they were supposed to be nothing more than master and servant? Since leaving Vasha, she had been the one to place the distance between them. He didn’t know if it came from her concern about how he would treat her when they reached the city or if there was another reason.
“Do you think you need more now that you’re the crown prince?” she asked.
Allay laughed. “I don’t know why they would think I need less.”
“You’re returning home. There won’t be any trouble where we’re going,” Mendi said.
“Endric said there were rumors of an attack in Gomald.” Allay new Mendi had heard the same rumors of rebellion through her sources within the Denraen, but did she know more? If there had been a rebellion, it would make returning home that much more difficult… and unsafe.
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve shared,” she answered, apparently sensing the unasked question.
One of the Denraen riding near them, a compact man named Yongar, with a rough scrabble of a brown beard, leaned toward Allay. “We can move faster this way,” he said. “Coming north, we had to move slowly. A large caravan like that would draw attention, and we wouldn’t be able to ride quickly enough to keep you safe.”
“A large caravan was the only reason I was safe,” he said. The Deshmahne had nearly killed him. Had there not been the size of party that they had sent, he would have died. Didn’t the Denraen worry about the Deshmahne? They had been the reason that they’d nearly perished on the ride to Vasha.
“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 m
aintain 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.
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.