The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Roelle explained the Council serves as keeper of Urmahne artifacts?” Seeing Jakob nod, he continued. “Some artifacts are very old, perhaps older than even the Magi know and understand. There is one, an ancient text, valued beyond all else the Council possesses. I have only managed to see it once. It was not long enough to study it, to learn and understand it.” Novan shook his head as disappointment or frustration flashed across his face. Jakob could not tell which.

  “Would the High Priest also look for this?”

  Novan nodded carefully. “I doubt he cares much for the text, but there are other items that he failed to claim once before.”

  Jakob waited, wondering if Novan would share anything about the trunk, but he didn’t. “What does he want?”

  “Power. The artifacts are a way to power. Even the ancient text possessed a certain power within the words, within the language. Power, and something more, I suspect.”

  “How can there be power within words?” Jakob had read many of the books Novan had asked of him, and none seemed capable of granting power. They were historical documents, analysis at times, but little more than that.

  Novan seemed to track the line of his thoughts. “There’s some power to knowing what has happened, in understanding it so that it’s not repeated, in learning about a time long forgotten, but this is something different. The words themselves contain a certain amount of strength.” He nodded to the small book Jakob held.

  Jakob stared at the book. “The ancient language?”

  When Novan nodded, his eyes glittered.

  “You said that when you gave me the book to read.”

  “I said it because it’s true,” Novan agreed. “There are things written in the ancient language that are more powerful than others. And this text is different from any other.”

  “Why?”

  Novan shook his head. “It was written by those who knew the ancient language better than any know it now. There’s an insight into the language that could not be gained in any other way. Yet there is more.” He turned toward the entrance to the tent, as if looking out into the night. “It may be part of the reason the Deshmahne push as they do now. Endric is out of the city. The Magi’s greatest defender in the open. The High Priest knows this and that the Deshmahne are finally strong enough to challenge the Magi.”

  “You said part of the reason. What else?”

  “There’s something he seeks, a reason for him to come himself rather than to send those beneath him. Something that will make him more powerful than he already is.”

  The trunk he’d seen. It had to be. “You think he will attack us here?” Jakob’s heart started racing as he thought about getting caught in the middle of some attack. He might have gotten better with the sword, but not so much that he thought he could help in a war.

  “If their numbers are as we saw in Endric’s tent, then that’s the only possibility I see.”

  The following few days went quickly. Jakob grew increasingly tired of riding, and his evenings were spent working with Rit before seeking out the general to practice, a new urgency driving him to improve. He fell asleep exhausted each night, dreams barely more than memories in the morning, but still haunting him as he awoke. Dark shapes danced just outside his vision, and always there was someone he couldn’t see or reach calling to him.

  The sense of being followed, being watched, was now with him day and night. During the day, it was barely more than a whisper at his senses, a tingle at the back of his mind that made the hairs on his neck stand up, and at night it was nothing more than dreams and visions. Jakob had not mentioned it to Novan again for fear of what it would mean. There was the constant fear that the madness had found him.

  He couldn’t let that thought linger. There were other concerns he struggled with. He spent each night poring over the book Novan had lent him, now most of the way through it, but still barely any better at understanding the ancient language than he had been when he started. At least he recognized the lettering, but he still didn’t think he’d manage the inflection. The words felt strange to him, and his mouth struggled to pronounce them when he tried. Even the name of his sword, Neamiin, was a challenge to him. He couldn’t pronounce it nearly the same way he remembered Novan speaking the word.

  Novan had said it was a word full of meaning, and Jakob thought he would discover something of it by reading through the text, some reference to it—even if he didn’t understand it—but had found little. Tonight was no different.

  After working with Rit setting the tent line, he learned watch was later. Rit had excused him, but Jakob insisted. He was determined to act the role of Denraen while assigned to the soldier. Rit grunted before agreeing; Jakob imagined Rit wore a pleased expression as he set off, leaving Jakob to head to his tent to read until their watch began. Exhaustion hit him before he had gotten far, and he found his eyes heavy, barely able to force through the page he’d been staring at for some time.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he forced himself up and stored the book in his pack before stepping from his tent. Outside, the night air was crisp and carried with it the leafy hint of fall decay mixed with the rain he’d sensed for days. His stomach grumbled, and he thought to ignore it before thinking better and turning toward the central cookfire to find something to eat. The sound of someone hurrying toward him gave him pause, and he turned to see a Denraen jogging his way.

  It was Braden.

  He’d caught only glimpses of his friend since leaving Chrysia, enough to wave and nothing more. Jakob expected Braden to find him, but he also understood that his friend would be busy settling in with the Denraen as well.

  “I have a night free. I thought I’d see how you’ve managed since we left,” Braden said. There was a hint of breathlessness, and sweat beaded across his brow. He’d always been a muscular person, but he was even leaner than when they had left.

  Jakob suspected he looked different, as well, but it was more a reflection of the time he had spent working with Endric. He’d always been tall like his father, but never had the muscle that he gained now. “We’ve both been busy.”

  “So I’ve heard. What’s happened?” he asked, his gaze dropping to the sword sheathed at Jakob’s side.

  “You mean with Endric?”

  Braden laughed. “Do I mean Endric? Of course, I do! Who else works with him as often as you do? But more than that, how’d you get so good?”

  “I don’t know,” Jakob answered. “I started working with him before leaving the city. With him teaching, it just clicks.”

  Braden laughed. “I can’t say I understand. I don’t dare face him.”

  Jakob wasn’t sure he would have dared to face him had he known who he was from the beginning.

  “The men of the Denraen talk about you,” Braden said. “Some call you a fool.”

  “Only some?” he laughed.

  Braden arched an eyebrow and tilted his head before shrugging. “There are those who don’t,” he admitted without elaborating.

  Who wouldn’t think him foolish for working with the general? Endric never said he couldn’t work with him, and Novan expected it. Between those two, there was little choice for him.

  “That’s not why I came looking for you, though I’m curious what you might have learned from the general. Perhaps now, you could teach me something.”

  “I doubt that.” Braden was nearly as good a swordsman as Chrysia possessed.

  Braden ran a hand through his hair, looking over his shoulder nervously as he did. “I need advice.” There was a momentary flash of worry to his eyes, maybe even fear, though Jakob wasn’t sure he saw it in the shadows of the night. “There’s something I’ve seen, something I fear. I’m not sure where else to go, or to who—”

  A man came up behind him, interrupting them. “Nialsen,” Tolsin said. He was shorter than Braden and had a rough face, his nose wide as if broken repeatedly. He scratched at his arm absently. “Braden, you’re needed,” Tolsin said.

  Braden frowned
before nodding. “Who?”

  “Iker,” Tolsin said.

  Braden cocked his head. “Give me a moment?”

  Tolsin shook his head. He had worn his hair long before joining the Denraen, and the close-cropped blond stubble looked strange upon him, giving his scalp a pale glow in the night. “Orders were to get you without delay.”

  Braden snuffed before turning to Jakob and giving him a half-mouthed smile. “Orders,” he said. “I will find you later, then. Maybe then I can see what the general’s taught you!” He followed Tolsin, glancing back once. The expression on his face was one Jakob wasn’t used to seeing from his friend: one of anxiety.

  Watching Braden depart, he wondered what could have gotten his friend so anxious. There had been real concern in his eyes, a worry Jakob had never seen. There was a little stoop to his shoulders that was new, and a little of the swagger he knew was missing. Fatigue, he hoped. The gods help him if it was something more.

  “Something burdens you.”

  Jakob spun, surprised that someone had come upon him so silently. Roelle stood behind him, a bemused expression on her face. Roelle wore her dark hair tied back with a cord. A long wooden practice sword hung loosely in her hand, and she was dressed in a light shirt and pants in spite of the cool night. There was an easy grace to her steps, a confidence, and Jakob stepped back momentarily before catching himself.

  “I thought I’d find you to spar since Endric is unavailable. I need a good challenge.”

  “Not me then,” he answered without thinking.

  Roelle laughed. It was low and throaty and did not carry far into the deepening night. “You continue to underestimate yourself. If only you could see yourself as others do, you might think different.”

  Jakob shrugged and they walked in silence for a little while before he spoke. “Novan admits that he seeks the Council.”

  Roelle turned to him. “I thought as much.”

  “There is some text he seeks. He thinks the Deshmahne High Priest seeks it as well.”

  Roelle slowed a step before picking up her pace. “Has he spoken to Haerlin of this?”

  Jakob shook his head. “They’re not on the best of terms.”

  The Mage laughed. “I don’t think he’ll be granted access to what he seeks.”

  “Why?”

  “The historian didn’t leave by choice the last time he visited. I suspect it has something to do with this text. There are certain items within the capital that only the Elders on the Council are allowed to access.”

  “Novan said there was power in the text.”

  “There is much the Council possesses that is powerful,” Roelle agreed.

  Jakob paused before pressing forward. “What do you know of the ancient language?”

  Roelle smiled. “I’ve learned a little but will learn more when I’m fully trained. It’s not for an untrained Mage.” There was a hint of annoyance to her words.

  “Why is that? I think Novan knows some of it.”

  Roelle snorted. “I wouldn’t doubt it.” She shook her head. “You mention powerful texts. There is power in the old tongue, something innate to it, almost an energy it focuses. Few know how to properly control it.” She shrugged before adding, “I know little of it myself.”

  They reached a small clearing near the center of the camp where the Denraen had taken to practicing. Roelle grabbed a second wooden sword and tossed it to Jakob, twirling the remaining one in her hand. “Now, let us break the silence of the night.”

  Jakob stepped into a low crouch to prepare when he saw someone coming toward them. As the man neared, Jakob realized it was the general. Rit was with him.

  “Such an unlikely pair,” Endric said.

  “Not as unlikely as you would think,” Roelle said.

  Endric focused on Roelle for a long moment before blinking and turning to Jakob. “I’m sending a scout mission. Men are missing, and we will know what happened. Rit and his raegan are going. I told him I knew where to find you.”

  “You want me to go?” Jakob asked, surprised.

  It was Rit who answered. “You’re part of the raegan, if unofficially.”

  “The historian knows of the mission,” Endric said. “He’s asked you to observe.”

  Jakob felt a mix of emotion. Surprise and fear mingled together along with a nervous excitement.

  “But observe only,” Endric said.

  “I’d like to go as well,” Roelle said suddenly.

  All eyes turned to her.

  Roelle shrugged. “Call it curiosity. I will go if you will have me,” she said to Rit.

  “This is for scouting only. Not rescue. Your eyes will help.” Mage eyesight was known to be a little sharper, especially at night. “We will leave soon.”

  They started off through long grasses, nothing but a sliver of moon overhead lighting the way. Rit led them at a slow jog, and Jakob glanced longingly at the line of horses.

  “Quieter without,” a man named Tian informed. He wore his hair long and in tight braids, a polished crossbow at his side. He was the Denraen Jakob had spoken to the first night they had camped. Other than Rit, Tian had been the most welcoming of the raegan.

  The heavy plod of hooves could be heard for long distances. Their footsteps were quiet, though he felt his were much louder than the others, stomping through the thick grass tearing at his ankles. He wondered if they left a trail that could be easily followed and hazarded a look back. The knee-high grass, so lifeless and brown by daylight, was a flowing sea by the light of the moon, and the areas they had trampled just flowed back together, hiding their tracks from all but a close inspection.

  They ran silently, and Jakob soon huffed with the effort. He’d need to gain conditioning if he was to survive this new lifestyle, though he’d probably gain it if he tried or not. His sword hung at his side, and he was slowly becoming accustomed to its weight. Rit and Tian ran ahead, their breaths growing only slightly louder in the silence. Another Denraen ran behind them, carrying his short bow and his quiver strapped to his hip. Roelle ran next to him; she’d said nothing since they left but had found a thin sword and had it strapped to her waist. She had left on her dark pants and shirt and blended into the night.

  They had run a long time, down several valleys only to rise up the sloping hills again, when they saw light in the distance. Rit slowed them and signaled them to drop, and Jakob did so as quietly as he could manage.

  They crawled, the sound of their passing lost in the blowing of the wind across the grassy plain. Jakob felt the wet of the evening dew begin to soak him, and he struggled not to shiver. The ground under his hands and knees was moist, and he occasionally thought that something crawled near him. It took all his will power not to stand.

  Another feeling returned, one he dreaded. He felt a crawling in his head and looked out into the surrounding night, wondering what he sensed. Now was not the time to fall to this madness. He imagined a dark shape crouching low by a nearby tree, but when he blinked, it was gone. Jakob forced the feeling out of his mind.

  Reaching the crest of the hill, they looked down on a camp. “Reckless,” Rit muttered but said no more.

  Several fires blazed high into the night, lighting everything for them to see easily. Tents were arranged without care or organization. Lines of horses were carelessly tied near a small stream. Men lounged near the fires, some eating, some drinking, others playing at stones. There were women that wandered the camp, some who cooked and others who sat near men with hands that wandered. A few of the women seemed willing, but most did not.

  It was a large camp, and nearly four times that of the Denraen. If these men were all raiders, there was more coordination here than had been suspected. Novan would have his theories when he reported back to him. Jakob searched for evidence of the captured scouts.

  His eyes were pulled to where the tents were arranged differently, more carefully, and there was a more solemn tone to the men around it. Jakob almost imagined a separation between the men in thi
s part of the camp and the other part of the camp. Something structural, but there was something else as well. Jakob wasn’t sure what he sensed.

  Just then, he saw something else, something that would stay with him for a long time. Wooden posts were arranged around a small fire, and men with the Denraen gray were tied to each. As he watched, one man was kicked casually in the chest, one of his legs already hanging useless as he struggled to stay upright. Jakob wondered why the man bothered.

  A raider dipped a long steel wand into the flames, the metal quickly turning red, and brought it out to place it on one of the captive’s cheeks. The man screamed again.

  Jakob was more fearful than ever of being caught. Forcing himself to watch, he stared at the men around the fire. Another man stood before the branded man, asking questions. With each shake of the Denraen’s head, the brand touched his face. Jakob found it difficult to tear his eyes away.

  His right hand crept to his side until he grasped the hilt of his sword. He felt the twinge of a headache growing, but he ignored it. Pulling on his sword, feeling the sensation in the back of his mind, he paused as another man entered the circle, followed closely by several others. The man was dressed in a dark robe, and there was a sense about him that Jakob felt even from a distance, one he recognized.

  The High Priest.

  The Deshmahne priest had been haunting his dreams.

  Why was he here? Why torture Denraen? His heart began to pound.

  A dark haze floated around him, smoke and dust starting to shadow his view. Another scream pierced the night. The man in black moved to the nearest edge of the circle, and the smoke seemed to follow, surrounding him and blurring his features. Suddenly, he looked up and scanned the night, almost as if he sensed something near the camp, before looking right at where they should be hidden by night.

  The sight of the man sucked the wind out of him, and he dropped fully to the ground, but not before seeing his eyes. They were lit unnaturally by light reflected from the fire.

  Jakob’s hand still gripped the hilt of his sword and the weight of his body atop it prevented him from unsheathing it. His head pounded again, vibrating with the pain, and he forced himself to relax.