The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  They all jumped, turning to see the general. Rit stood with him, looking at each face in turn carefully. Endric cast his gaze upon everyone, as well, lingering on Jakob.

  The Denraen all stood at attention and said, “General!” in unison.

  “Easy, men. You are dismissed.” The general watched his men disappear before turning to face Jakob and Roelle. “Rit tells me you have been serving well.”

  Jakob shrugged, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead and pushing his hair back from his eyes. “It was what Novan asked of me.”

  Endric smiled. “It is. The historian worries about the Deshmahne.” He turned his attention to Rit, who had been quiet during the exchange, and asked, “Do you think any of my men are Deshmahne?”

  Rit shook his head. “They cannot be, sir.”

  “Why?” Endric asked the man.

  “The Choosing is an Urmahne custom, blessed by the gods to allow the Denraen to see a man’s heart. No Deshmahne could pass.”

  Jakob noted that Rit had spoken the words as if by rote. “I’ve seen the Deshmahne.” Jakob chose his words carefully. “They seem to have a power that rivals the Magi. How do you know they could not use it to pass the Choosing?”

  “Indeed,” a voice said behind him.

  Jakob jumped and turned to see Novan standing behind him. The tall historian had a mischievous look on his face and his dark cloak billowed behind him in the night’s breeze. A hint of lavender hung about him, as if perfumed, and it was not unpleasant.

  Endric frowned, tight lines pulling his aged face into something more like a sneer, before softening. “Historian, you sneak like a thief. But your apprentice raises a point that has me worried. Come. We must talk.”

  They sat quietly within Endric’s large tent, a single lamp casting light enough to see. Haerlin sat covered in his heavy dark cloak, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed as he waited on Endric to begin. Rit and Pendin stood behind the table casually, looking over the general’s shoulder. Novan paced, every so often pausing to look down at a canvas map that lay upon a makeshift table, different colored pins scattered along it marking troop locations.

  Jakob could see how they appeared surrounded. How many were Deshmahne?

  “How many raiders?” Novan asked.

  Endric flicked his eyes to the map before meeting Novan’s gaze. “Enough.” His rough voice was subdued, and there was an edge to it that Jakob hadn’t heard from him before. “Though that’s not the real question, is it?”

  “No. It is not.”

  “The Deshmahne have not been seen in great numbers even in Gomald where they’ve crossed over from the south,” Haerlin said quietly. “This cannot be accurate.”

  Pendin shrugged his broad shoulders. “My scouts can count. And see.” He tapped a finger toward the map for emphasis.

  “This isn’t how they have converted in the past,” Haerlin objected. “Nor how they have attacked the Magi.”

  “No.” Endric eyed the Mage. There was a darkness to his expression, and Jakob wondered again about the passion behind it. “They have cowed, coerced, and taken. Rarely have they spilled blood. Rarely.” The last was said with particular venom, and his gaze turned to Haerlin. “This is not about conversion, though.” His gaze glanced to a corner of his tent. Was that where he kept the trunk he’d agreed to transport?

  “Why?” Jakob asked. “What do you think it’s about?”

  Surprised eyes turned and focused upon him. Haerlin’s seemed the heaviest, and the unsettled feeling he had when the Mage looked at him fluttered through him briefly before fading. Jakob fought back a bit of nausea. Roelle had a small smile quirking her lips, and she feigned a yawn to cover it. Jakob almost laughed.

  “They haven’t needed to attack the Magi,” Novan explained. “The Deshmahne is a religion that started quietly far in the south. Their numbers built slowly, the stories about the Deshmahne, mostly rumors at first, spread quickly. Before that, few knew anything about them. Secretive, they sequestered themselves away from the larger cities, supposedly building a Deshmahne fortress.”

  Novan paused, and Endric took over. “Then they came forth. First Coamdon. Then Lakeliis. Before long, Deshmahne were common throughout the entire south. Gaining influence. Little was done to slow it.” With the last, Endric looked briefly at Haerlin before glancing down at the troop locations. “Now, they move north. They have attacked us once before”—Jakob noted that Haerlin stared at Endric, his gaze hot—“and now they press their influence through Gom Aaldia and toward the Magi in Vasha. Toward the north. They have gained power quickly.”

  “How so quickly?” Roelle asked.

  “There are theories,” Novan began.

  “They are just that,” Haerlin interrupted, scratching his bearded chin in irritation.

  He remembered the helpless feeling that had come over him when he’d seen the High Priest, like a power pushed upon him. Cold eyes, glowing with reflected light of the night fires, had stared at him, and everything else drifted from his mind. Jakob shivered with just the memory. Could the Deshmahne affect a person’s feelings, their emotions?

  “I would think the Magi understand they are more than theories,” Novan said. Haerlin met his gaze, and Jakob noted Roelle looked from one to the other, confusion on her face.

  “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Jakob asked.

  Novan paced toward him, and a dark look flickered across his face before it was gone, replaced with a blank serenity.

  Endric looked briefly from Haerlin to Novan before he turned his gaze upon Jakob and held him in his intense stare. “Novan claims you’ve seen the High Priest. There are few who can make that claim.”

  All the eyes in the tent fell upon Jakob. Sweat moistened his hands, and he clapped them to his side. “I saw him once. At least, I think I did.” He glanced up to Novan who nodded. “In Chrysia during the Turning Festival. He passed near me wearing a dark cloak, and I felt a sense of hopelessness so vast...” He shook his head to clear it of the memory. “Remembering leaves me wondering if the Deshmahne can manipulate emotions.”

  Haerlin chuckled and turned away, shaking his head. “Not even the Magi can perform that feat, boy,” he muttered, turning his attention back to Endric.

  The general ignored the Mage, still staring at Jakob, his heavy gaze weighing him. “I have the same question,” Endric admitted. “I know the Magi think it impossible, but the Deshmahne have powers unlike the Magi. None, save the Deshmahne, know the extent of their abilities. The priests endowed by their dark arts have speed, strength. Men who face them feel fear they would not otherwise know, often laying down their swords without a fight.” His hard eyes bored into the Mage. “The gods only know what the High Priest can do. This would explain much.”

  Jakob remembered the Deshmahne attack, how quickly the man had moved, how he was nearly the equal of Endric. The Deshmahne frightened him.

  He glanced toward the corner of Endric’s tent, thinking of the other thing he’d seen that night at the Turning Festival. “What do they want?”

  Novan stopped pacing and spoke. “The Deshmahne were once thought a cult, something to be dismissed. Little more than barbarians blaspheming the truth that is Urmahne. Yet they gained influence. With influence came credibility and something more.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. The others in the room waited, and Novan held them in anticipation, letting it build. “Doubt. What if the Urmahne isn’t the path to the gods? Could the Deshmahne speak the truth? These questions went unanswered.”

  Novan stared at Haerlin. The Mage did not meet his gaze. “Silence held its own power, and soon, the south began to wonder. Had the gods abandoned those who followed the Urmahne? Once, the Urmahne faith was strong, demonstrated by its first followers. Now, few see the Urmahne faith in action, understand what strength there is in the peace the priests preach.” Novan’s eyes had not left Haerlin. “The Deshmahne demonstrated their strength. This was something men could see.”

  Haerlin stood
abruptly, his chair tipping. “Enough, historian.” There was a quiet heat to his words, and the hairs on the back of Jakob’s neck stood as the Mage spoke. “You will not criticize the Magi in such a manner.” Haerlin motioned briefly to Roelle who stood more carefully than her Elder, pausing a moment to eye Jakob, then Novan, before following Haerlin from the tent.

  Novan watched them leave, a hint of amusement tugging the corners of his mouth before it turned into a frown. The tall historian scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed deeply as if collecting himself.

  “You push too hard,” Endric said. He paused to whisper something to Pendin who nodded and followed the Magi from the tent. Rit stood waiting.

  Novan nodded. “It was necessary.”

  Endric tilted his head. “I am not sure it was. It changes nothing.”

  “Why was it necessary?” Jakob asked. He wasn’t sure what had just happened or why the Mage had become so irate, but Endric seemed to know.

  Novan righted the chair Haerlin had tipped over and sat down at the table. “Haerlin needed to be reminded of his past. One the Magi forget. Their religion has been weakened.”

  “And there is another reason you press,” Endric suggested.

  Novan nodded slightly, absently twisting the dark stone ring on his finger. “You know the urgency.”

  Endric sniffed. “All too well, Novan. The search is not left only to us.”

  Novan closed his eyes. “We are too few, Endric, and you know it.” He looked over the map, staring at the markings as he took a deep breath. “Yet the Deshmahne are here.” There was a hint of resignation in his tone. “These numbers are for something more than I had thought. This is not only about reclamation.”

  He turned to Endric. The general stared at him, waiting, though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “There can only be one purpose to this.”

  Endric nodded. “I fear the same.”

  “What purpose?” Jakob asked, feeling lost in their private conversation.

  Novan shook his head, pointing at the map, at the markers indicating raider presence. And Deshmahne. “If I’m right, the High Priest has a far more dangerous plan than I had thought. And we might already be too late to stop him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You’ve come a long way,” Roelle offered. The Mage ran a hand through her still damp hair before pushing it behind her ears. She studied Jakob with an appraising gaze. “Faster than most.”

  Jakob held the practice stave, the dancing flames giving light to the clearing. He wiped droplets of sweat from his brow as he caught his breath. “Still the same result.”

  Even so, he took a measure of satisfaction from the fact that he’d been improving. There was something relaxing to holding the sword, wooden or otherwise, that he had never known or felt, a relief he couldn’t explain. Perhaps Scottan had understood—it was probably why his brother had pushed to have him learn the sword—or maybe Braden did.

  They’d moved slowly today, scouts moving carefully to ensure safe passage, so they didn’t travel nearly as fast as they had been. Jakob hadn’t been certain Endric would even welcome him to practice, but once they settled in for the night, he had.

  Working with him tonight had gone better. And worse. He’d lasted longer, somehow keeping up with the scarred old general longer than he had any other night. The slow throbbing that he now experienced with each practice had come quickly, sharpening his focus, and he wondered if the quickness of its onset was at all related to his experience with Roelle the time before. Yet it ended no differently than any previous encounter with the general—his body bruised and sore, only worse tonight because he’d lasted longer.

  Roelle chuckled. “Best be prepared if ever you defeat him.”

  Jakob eyed her, frowning. “Why?”

  “It’s how one assumes command of the Denraen, at least a part of it. It’s how Endric assumed command from his father, Dendril.”

  “I’m at little risk of challenging him anytime soon,” Jakob said.

  “You keep improving as quickly as I’ve seen, and it may not be long.”

  Jakob laughed. It was cut short by a burst of pain in his side where one of Endric’s blows had struck a rib, and he reached for it as his laughter turned into a cough before dying out. Neither spoke for a time, the only sounds the smack of wooden staves behind them, the crackles of fires around the camp, and the occasional chirp of a nocturnal insect. It was Jakob who broke the silence.

  “Why was Mage Haerlin so upset last evening?” He wasn’t sure he’d get an answer from Roelle, but asking Novan wasn’t the right approach. The historian would prefer he learned some things on his own.

  Roelle sighed, tugging on her shirt. “Haerlin is an Elder. And he sits upon the Council of Elders. As such, he expects a certain level of respect. And it seems your master shared something he did not want shared. Even with me.”

  “Novan speaks his mind.” Jakob had seen it before with the priests in Chrysia, the city council, and most recently with the Ur captain. “I don’t believe he ever means offense.”

  The young Mage offered a half-smile. “Perhaps not. I think there’s some history between them, as well, though Haerlin doesn’t speak of it.” Roelle paused. “Why do you and the historian travel with us?”

  “He says he comes to observe the delegation.” There must be more to it for Novan. The historian had many layers to everything he did.

  “I think the delegates are not the reason the historian travels to the city.”

  “Why else would he have us come?”

  “I suspect he seeks the Council.” Seeing Jakob’s frown, she explained, “They are select Magi among the Elders who serve as keepers of the Urmahne. They are the Magi leaders, but they also serve the traditions of the Urmahne. Few not among the Council know the extent of what they keep and protect. The historian could learn much from the Council if he was allowed access.”

  “More than he could learn from the priests?”

  Roelle nodded. “The priests serve the Urmahne, but the Magi are the Urmahne.”

  Jakob thought about the comment for a moment. Novan had mentioned something similar about the Magi, once. The priests taught that the Magi were the voice of the gods, touched with their abilities. If Urmahne was the path to the gods, then it would make sense for the Magi to claim that they were the Urmahne. Something about the thought troubled him.

  “Why, then, do you learn the sword?” It was a question Novan had asked but hadn’t had any answers either.

  Roelle considered for a while before answering. “How does one justify war with the Urmahne ideal of peace? The Magi have taken a hard line on this, stating that to the Urmahne, there are no just wars, that destruction cannot be tolerated, and that a peaceable solution must be found to every conflict.” The young Mage shook her head. “There are others who follow the Urmahne who believe differently.”

  “The Denraen?” Jakob asked. “But they guard you.”

  “Not directly,” Roelle started. She sighed and shook her head again. “I haven’t answered your question. How is it that I came to learn the sword? As far as I know, there have been few among the Magi who’ve ever bothered to learn something as barbaric as the sword or staff. It started with boredom, I suppose. There is only so much time I can spend sitting in a classroom and studying.” She flashed a smile. “I think I’ve already told you how difficult it was to convince Endric to allow me to work with him. But he saw that we wouldn’t be dissuaded, and I’ve discovered that we of the Magi have a specific knack for it. Somehow our abilities have granted us a certain physical prowess, a muscle memory if you will, and that allows rapid growth in our skills. This was surprising.”

  “To who?” Jakob was surprised Roelle would share as much as she did.

  “Myself and others. No Magi since the Founding has bothered to try. I only started it as a curiosity, a way to pass the time. Now... Now I worry it may be necessary for more than curiosity.”

  “The Deshmahne,” Jakob said. He sup
pressed an urge to shiver as a brief memory of the High Priest threatened to overcome him.

  “Yes, though I think there is more that I do not yet know.”

  “Novan worries that whatever is in the north is worse than the Deshmahne. He would not say more.”

  Roelle frowned, and the expression looked strange on her face. “If the historian worries about it, then there is even more than Haerlin knows or admits.”

  Jakob glanced across the clearing. The general was tied in conversation with several of his officers and glanced up, as if sensing their attention, and Jakob turned away quickly. “Endric may know.”

  “He may know, but I doubt he will share with me.” The Mage sniffed, a sound of frustration. “Share what you learn?”

  Jakob thought about the request a moment. Roelle had opened up to him unexpectedly, so how could he refuse?

  “Until later, then,” Roelle said, and turned and left the clearing.

  Novan parted the tent flap and came in quickly, a slight gust of wind following him that was scented with an odor of rain and earth and fluttered the pages of the small book Jakob struggled through. The historian peered down at him before making a small sound in the back of his throat and sitting nearby. He pulled a small notebook from the pouch at his side and scribbled something inside.

  “I spoke with Roelle last night,” Jakob said, choosing to break the silence. Novan would have let it draw on before asking a seemingly inane question.

  The historian looked up, and there was a question in his eyes. He waited.

  “She thinks you seek the Council of Elders.”

  Novan’s smile didn’t spread to the rest of his face. “She’s correct.”

  Jakob frowned, unaccustomed to Novan being so forthcoming. “I thought we traveled to observe the delegates.”

  The historian tilted his head before thumbing his nose. “That’s one of the reasons we started the journey.”

  “But now?” Jakob began, but the answer came to him. “Now you worry about the High Priest and what he’s after.”