“He said he saw nothing.”
Endric snorted. “This is the Second Eldest. Surely, he saw something.”
This was getting her nowhere. Roelle felt her frustration rising. “What do you know? There’s something my uncle does not say. He says there is something terrible in the north, worse than the Deshmahne. What does he know?” Roelle pleaded. “What’s worse than the Deshmahne?”
“He may know nothing, yet,” Endric began, seeming to choose his words carefully. “It’s what he suspects that interests me.” The man’s dark eyes stared at Roelle for another long moment. “There are stories, something few believe. Ancient rumors, mostly, and not well understood. Little has been found.” Endric looked around before settling his gaze upon Roelle again. “The Antrilii know of a foul creature, like something from a nightmare, that brings death wherever it roams. Only those gifted by the gods can see it.”
The Antrilii were a tribe of warriors in the far northwest. Fierce warriors, and renowned swordsmen, and it had long been rumored Endric had trained with them, had learned much of his skills from their masters. Few knew if it was true. They lived in isolation, and were rarely seen. Was this Endric’s admission of his ties to them?
“What of those who could not see it?”
“They died,” Endric said. “I’ve worried about the rumors coming from the north for a long time and have failed to find confirmation. My position makes it difficult for me to find answers myself, and so far, there is proof of nothing.”
“What can we do?” Roelle asked.
Endric searched her face before answering. “What can you do?” The general shook his head. “Fight the Deshmahne with me. You fared better than most who face them in battle. They have come to Vasha before, and what you saw was not the first nor will it be the last.”
The Deshmahne had been in the city before? Why would Alriyn hide that from her?
“I’m not sure that is what Alriyn had in mind for me,” Roelle said carefully. Could she join the Denraen? Could one of the Magi do that? She knew she could help, knew the Deshmahne would not be defeated easily. But she was a Mage.
Endric saw the struggle on her face. “Tell me what you know of your Founders.”
The abrupt change disarmed Roelle. “All Magi know the story. It’s taught to us at an early age. There is the Great Mother—”
“Not your Great Mother. Earlier.”
Little was known of the time before the Founders, and the Council guarded that which was known. “I know only what I’ve been taught.”
“And that’s little enough,” Endric answered. “Search out your Founders. You’ll find your uncle’s answers there. Maybe then you’ll know what you need to do.”
“What do you mean?” Roelle asked.
The general turned his back on her without answering and picked up one of the nearby books on his desk.
Roelle sat waiting, hoping for more answer, but none came.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jakob was led to a small clearing where three horses stood quietly waiting, though tromping their feet a little. The man and the Mage jumped swiftly into their saddles. He was motioned to mount the remaining horse. Jakob hesitated, uncertain whether he wanted to go with this pair.
North to Avaneam. It was almost a compulsion. Would they allow him to ride north?
“Break it off and put this in it.” The man handed Jakob a powder. When Jakob hesitated, he said, “We can help.”
Jakob glanced toward the city and still saw fires burning, the flames leaping brightly in the night. Turning back to the two strangers, he was still uncertain. “Who are you?”
“I’m Brohmin.” His face was aged, wrinkled, but strong. “She’s Salindra.”
Jakob still didn’t move.
“You’ll be safe with us,” Brohmin assured before turning his horse and starting away, tossing the powder at Jakob’s feet.
Each step shot pain through his leg, and he knew he couldn’t walk. He broke the arrow off carefully; the head of it was still buried in the side of his leg, and he bit back a scream. He smeared a pinch of the powder on the wound. It stank, an acrid sulfur, and burned, but the bleeding slowed. Careful to strap the trunk to the saddle, Jakob mounted. Pain stabbed his leg with each movement, but once settled in the saddle, the horse was a welcome change. His stomach grumbled, loudly.
Jakob waffled. Did he follow them or ride off on his own? How far would he make it, injured and in pain, on his own?
Yet, he knew nothing of these two.
One is a Mage.
Once, that would have been enough to convince him, but maybe his time traveling with the Magi, and seeing how Novan treated them, had changed him more than he realized.
The safety of the trunk, the mission to Avaneam, weighed on him. Continuing toward Avaneam was the only way he would find Novan or Endric again. That the trunk was crucial to stopping the Deshmahne weighed on him as well.
Pain shot through his leg again, and with it a dizzying wave of fatigue, and he knew he couldn’t do it alone. He followed them.
They rode quickly. The night sky was dark, and he couldn’t see much as they rode. The horses moved silently, fast sure-footed steps making little noise in the soft undergrowth and covering of leaves.
Did the Deshmahne follow?
The question worried him. Would these strangers help him travel north? Would they even believe him? Jakob glanced at the Mage woman, uncertain. Should he tell her of the attack on the Magi? Without details, it made little difference.
Jakob said nothing.
They rode quickly and generally northward. The trees blocked out the light of the moon, and it came through in flickers of pale light as it streamed through the branches overhead.
Hours stretched and still they rode on, trees growing thicker as the forest around them grew. Jakob struggled to remain awake, more sleep lost in the saddle. Pain became numbing. There was pain in his leg where the arrowhead was lodged, a trickle of blood drying on his leg, and a soreness from the saddle. The area on his back where he had been injured when he faced the Deshmahne still pained him, as well, but he was able to push that pain away. His head throbbed, a slow ache from the pulsation that never left him, and it grew increasingly difficult to ignore.
On top of it all was the itching sense that he was followed yet again.
He hadn’t felt it for days—since traveling with the Denraen.
Jakob looked side to side, constantly searching the source of the feeling. He found nothing. Brohmin glanced at him occasionally, a strange look to his shadowed face, but he remained silent. As the forest grew thicker, the trees larger, the sensation increased, and he was soon looking incessantly.
Finally, Brohmin spoke. “What is it?” His voice was hoarse and reminded Jakob a little of Endric.
Shaking his head, Jakob answered. “Nothing. Paranoia, I think.”
Brohmin huffed. “You have a right to it, it seems.”
“It feels as if we are watched,” Jakob finally said.
The woman glanced back, concerned, but Brohmin shook his head. She glared at him a moment before turning to face forward.
“May be that we are,” Brohmin answered.
Jakob looked around again but saw nothing. Was Brohmin toying with him? Was this the start of the madness, the constant itch in his head, the feeling that he was watched? Fear of the madness was a constant concern that he fought to suppress.
“I have heard merahl in these woods,” Brohmin explained. “May be they watch.”
“Merahl?” Jakob asked.
“An animal, though a clever one. They prowl these woods from time to time,” Brohmin said but explained little more.
They rode on in silence. Could it be all he felt was the intermittent stalking of some animal? The paw prints surrounding the Deshmahne had been real and unlike anything he had ever seen, and he had seen eyes in the night so many nights before while riding with the Denraen. Still, they were eyes he’d seen in his dreams as well. Jakob was n
o longer sure what to think.
The feeling did not leave; he’d known it for several weeks now and had almost grown accustomed to it. Merahl may be in these woods, but what had he sensed while riding with the Denraen? This seemed something else, something different.
Finally, Brohmin slowed his horse and brought them to a halt. They stopped under a huge tree, the canopy so far overhead he couldn’t begin to see an outline. Brohmin quickly tied his reins around a smaller tree growing nearby. The Mage followed. There was something about her that felt wrong, though he couldn’t explain what he sensed.
Following their example, he led his horse to the nearby tree and tied off. He patted it down carefully as Rit had taught him and felt a moment of sorrow sweep through him. So much lost. Jakob eyed the trunk and shook his head as he did, hoping it was worth the price the Denraen had paid.
Brohmin prepared a small pile of sticks and underbrush and then cupped his hands outward, toward the pile. A small fire erupted from the center. Jakob blinked, uncertain if his tired eyes played tricks on him while he watched the fire slowly build to consume the pile.
A cold chill shook him, and he moved to warm a little by the fire. He kneeled carefully, adjusting the sword at his side so that it didn’t catch him. The move sent sharp, radiating pain throughout his leg, reminding him of the arrowhead still embedded there. He stifled a shout of pain.
Brohmin crept toward him, motioning to his leg. Jakob tore his breeches around where the arrow pierced him and groaned as he saw the bloody mess, suddenly feeling the pain of the injury anew. The jagged shaft met a brutal steel arrowhead buried deep into his leg. Jakob didn’t want to consider what it would take to remove.
Jakob caught Brohmin staring at the stone ring upon his hand. Jakob had forgotten about it, the weight of his father’s ring comfortably reassuring to him. Finally, Brohmin turned away and placed his hands on him, one on the arrow stump and the other on his leg. A sense of coolness worked its way through him and he shivered.
“It’s done,” Brohmin spoke.
He looked at the man’s hands and saw that he held the remainder of the arrow. His leg still felt cold, but it didn’t hurt as it had. He narrowed his eyes as he frowned at Brohmin, wondering how he’d removed the arrow painlessly.
“Not a Mage, boy,” he told him as if reading his mind, “just a healer. We need to wrap that leg now and keep it clean.”
After dressing and wrapping his wound, he laid back to rest. He felt complete exhaustion, and it threatened to overcome him before he found anything to eat. Jakob was unsure if he cared.
“Why were those men chasing you?”
It was the Mage woman. He hadn’t even heard her approach, and he decided he needed to be more careful. The light from the fire cast strange shadows about her face, her eyes. He saw darkness to them, nearly black, and they reminded him of the High Priest. No fire danced within them, though.
There was no mistaking her height. It named her even before she spoke, a voice hard with authority. A voice used to having orders followed.
“Why were the men chasing you?” she repeated. She knelt, slowly, to look him in the eyes. It was a look that was careful in its consideration as she judged him. He would need caution in what he told her. Though Magi, she seemed more like Haerlin than Roelle.
“Deshmahne,” he started.
Brohmin cast a hard gaze at him. “That was what you said earlier. Why follow you here?”
“Where are we?” Since the day he found himself along the road, missing his horse, he’d wondered how much farther he had to reach Avaneam. How much farther to reach Novan and Endric?
Salindra arched an eyebrow with the question. “That was Rondalin.” There was a layer of disbelief to her voice.
Rondalin?
How was that even possible? Rondalin was north, true enough, but far to the east of where they had been heading. There should have been no way he would have reached Rondalin. More north of Thealon, it was a city isolated.
How?
“I didn’t know.” How to explain to them what he had been through? “I’ve seen Deshmahne, fought one once, though it was nearer Chrysia than Rondalin.”
“Perhaps you should tell us your tale from the beginning,” Brohmin prompted.
Salindra nodded, staring at him with iron eyes.
Jakob sighed. How to begin? What would they believe?
What if they work with the Deshmahne?
The thought worried him. Tolsin had been Deshmahne.
He shook the thought from his head. No Mage would ever become Deshmahne.
“There is a reward out for you,” Brohmin said.
“Me?”
“Must be you, you fit the description,” Brohmin answered.
“Why?” Jakob asked, but he remembered what he had overheard at the city gates.
Brohmin laughed. “I thought you could explain. Fifty gold clips. The king’s advisor wants you badly.”
The king’s advisor? What was this? What had he gotten himself into?
“Explain why we shouldn’t claim the reward,” Brohmin suggested, though it was spoken softly and not as a threat.
Jakob pushed himself to his feet, and felt a jolt of pain as the wound in his leg opened. He lowered his hand to the hilt of his sword carefully. Brohmin stood casually and touched the hilt of his sword as well.
“I need to go north,” Jakob said. He glanced over to where the trunk had been set to the side of the fire. He couldn’t move quickly enough to grab the trunk and run were it necessary, not with his leg in the shape it was.
“Tell us,” Brohmin urged. There was no fear in the way he stood, no alarm that Jakob may attack. He stood ready, a cat ready to pounce.
“I... I come from Chrysia, apprenticed to the historian Novan. We left with a contingent of Magi and Denraen after they’d chosen a delegate from my city.” He looked quickly to Salindra before settling his gaze on Brohmin. “We traveled north with them, toward Vasha it was presumed, when we came upon raiders.”
“The Denraen should have no trouble with raiders,” Salindra said.
Jakob could sense disdain from her and knew he needed caution. She was a Mage, perhaps an Elder, and was to be respected. “They were more than simple raiders. There was an attack one night, and one man made it all the way to our general, Endric, before capture. He was Deshmahne.”
“How did you know?” Brohmin asked.
“Their arms were marked. The general said it gave them strength, speed.”
Brohmin merely nodded, prodding Jakob along.
“Another night, we discovered the raider camp. The High Priest was among them—”
“High Priest?” Brohmin interjected, frowning. “He rarely leaves the south.”
“That may have been, but he’s here now. Endric escorted the Magi and our delegate to Vasha and Novan sent me with a raegan of Denraen Endric sent north on a separate mission with a package.”
Jakob paused. The retelling made it all more vivid, more real. He had become fearful that his mind created the entire story, but he remembered the sounds, the smells. This was not the madness.
But how was he to know? Certainly, there had been much strangeness around him and dreams too vivid to shake. He could still see the goddess Sharna if he closed his eyes, could remember what she said. Was not that the madness?
“What of the Denraen then?” Brohmin asked.
“They’re dead. I’m the only one who survived.” He felt his eyes misting. “We were chased and attacked by the raiders. There was at least one Deshmahne.”
“How is it that you survived this attack?” Brohmin asked, his tone softening.
“I don’t know.”
“You alone out of a dozen Denraen survived?” Salindra repeated. “You must be an impressive swordsman.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him disbelieving.
He wouldn’t let her goad him, not if they were willing to help. “Not always, but lately I’ve improved.”
“Lately?�
�� Brohmin repeated.
Jakob nodded and said nothing more.
Brohmin considered him before speaking again. “What of this package? What is it?”
Jakob looked between Brohmin and Salindra. This was the choice he wasn’t sure he could make. Salindra was obviously a Mage, but her distrust of him was plain. Brohmin was different. He didn’t strike Jakob as Deshmahne but carried himself in a way that reminded him of Endric. Still, there was something strange about him.
“I’m not Deshmahne, son,” Brohmin said, reading the question in Jakob’s eyes. “If you travel for the Magi, perhaps we can help.” His tone was reassuring, helpful, and Jakob wanted to believe. Long moments stretched before Brohmin suddenly pulled off his shirt and walked to the light of the campfire. “See? No markings.”
Finally, Jakob relented. He limped over to the trunk and picked it up. The weight had become familiar over the last week, and it no longer seemed as cumbersome as it once had. He carried it back to the firelight and presented it to Brohmin who took it carefully.
Brohmin stared at it silently, and his finger traced over the engravings, working around the edges before settling on the lock. He twisted at the piece of metal stuck inside but couldn’t move it. Brohmin set his hand atop the box and mumbled a few words before looking back at the lock. Nothing had changed. He seemed somewhat surprised but hid it well.
“Who sent you with this package?”
“Endric.”
“Endric’s duty is to the Magi,” Salindra said. “He wouldn’t send men away if the Magi were in danger.”
Jakob looked at her and saw anger flash in her eyes before it was suppressed. Had he been wrong to tell them of the trunk? “I know he agonized over it. It was something he intended to carry north himself.”
“Endric intended to bring this himself?” Brohmin asked, surprised.
Jakob nodded. He didn’t elaborate on what he had overheard the night of the Turning Festival, unsure if he could explain it in such a way that would make sense. Then there was the business of the Conclave, and Jakob didn’t know enough to answer questions about it.
Brohmin held the trunk in front of him. “What’s in here?”
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 26