Agent of Prophecy
The Prophecies Series - Book 1
M.A. Rothman
Primordial Press
Copyright © 2020 Michael A. Rothman
Cover Art by Allen Morris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Also by M.A. Rothman
Technothrillers:
•Darwin's Cipher
•New Arcadia (coming in late 2020)
The Exodus Series:
•Primordial Threat
•Freedom’s Last Gasp
Levi Yoder Series:
•Perimeter
•The Inside Man
•Never Again
Epic Fantasy / Dystopian:
•Dispocalypse
•Agent of Prophecy
•Heirs of Prophecy
•Tools of Prophecy
•Lords of Prophecy
Trimoria
Contents
My Life Forever Changed
An Orphan’s Life
Life at Home
Training Assassins
Learning Elven Secrets
Life as a Slave
Living with the Curse
Hunting for Strangers
A Greater Evil in the Tunnels
Mastering My Gifts
Seeking Elves
The Mysterious Herb-Woman
A New Apprenticeship
Life Is Tough
Spying on Evil
Slavers
A Warning from Kirag
Talking with a Swamp Cat
Visions of the Past
A Major Decision
Blue-Eyed Boy
Suspicions
Consequences
Confrontation
Poison
Author’s Note
Preview of Heirs of Prophecy
Addendum
About the Author
My Life Forever Changed
Death awaits you. That was the only thing Arabelle remembered from her dream when she woke to her father poking his head into her tent.
“Good morning, my heart,” he said. “You shouldn’t sleep the day away.”
Arabelle groaned and stretched under her covers. “But my bed’s so comfortable.”
Her father normally indulged her love of sleep; at times she wouldn’t get out of bed until midday. She was spoiled, but hated to admit it, even to herself.
“I’m sure it is, but it’s travel day—and a beautiful one at that. I’ll send Maggie in to help draw you a bath and get ready.”
He pulled his head from the tent, and one of her guards called out for her maid.
Travel days were the one day Arabelle couldn’t lie in bed all day. When the caravan was on the move, she had to move with it. And unfortunately that happened often; at least every couple of weeks her people would uproot themselves to travel from one village to another within Trimoria.
Maggie came into her tent a moment later, saw that she hadn’t budged from underneath her covers, and frowned.
“Lady Arabelle, you must get ready. You can’t keep your father waiting. You’re supposed to break your fast with the Sheikh. Besides, the men can’t pack your tent until you’re out of it!”
Maggie, at twenty, was only three years older than Arabelle, but the way she mothered her, you’d think Maggie was twice Arabelle’s age. Arabelle’s actual mother had died giving birth to her, and sometimes it seemed like Maggie was trying to fill that hole in her life.
As Maggie poured steaming water into a bath from a series of lidded jugs that had been placed just inside the flap of her tent, the scent of roses filled the air. Grudgingly, Arabelle climbed out of bed and got ready for her day.
Arabelle bounced comfortably on Logan, her dappled gray stallion. Her father had handpicked him for her eighth birthday, and she’d loved the horse ever since, taking him out for a run whenever she could talk her guards into escorting her—which was not as often as she liked. Even though she’d always promise to not cause trouble, she’d inevitably forget and would let Logan race as quickly as he would take her. Her guards would yell and fume because they couldn’t keep up.
She didn’t do this on purpose, exactly—it was just that the exciting possibility of a few moments of actual freedom was… irresistible. The thrill of speed, the exhilaration of the wind through her hair.
Arabelle patted Logan on the neck. “I promise I’ll take you running soon, and we’ll go as fast as you can take me.”
He nickered and bounced his head up and down with approval.
To anyone who observed the migration of the caravan, it would look like an entire city was on the move. Father had once told her that they had approximately nine hundred and fifty wagons. Arabelle had asked about the mess they must leave in their wake with so many people, but her father had explained that the enigmatic blink dogs took care of that.
“If it weren’t for the scavengers like the vulture and the blink dog, the trash and spoiled foodstuffs would indeed become a burden to us all.”
Blink dogs really would eat anything—Arabelle had witnessed that herself. They were called “blink dogs” because they could blink out of existence, only to reappear as much as fifty feet away from where they had been. The popping sound that accompanied these disappearances could often be heard near the back of the wagon train, along with their unusual high-pitched laughs.
“Ahem, Princess?” Someone pointedly cleared their throat next to Arabelle, and she turned to find Roselle, her personal tutor, riding beside her. “You can’t escape your lessons, dear. Even when we’re in transit.”
Arabelle always enjoyed talking with Roselle. Roselle was easily the oldest person Arabelle knew, but she was vibrant, fun, and full of entertaining and educational stories. Arabelle loved hearing about history’s adventures, even though she could never be involved in such things herself.
“What’s today’s lesson?” she asked.
“I thought it might be good to talk about the First Protector, and the lessons a princess might gain from such a man.”
“The Protector responsible for the demon wars?”
Roselle made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Bah! Dear child, you need this lesson more than I realized.” She sighed. “You know that your father, as Sheikh, rules all in his domain.” She pointed ahead of the caravan. “But who is charged with the safety and enforcement of the laws in the town of Aubgherle?”
“Throll Lancaster!” Arabelle said excitedly. “He’s the town’s Protector. I met him once. If I recall correctly, his wife is named Gwen.”
“Very good, Princess. I’m always impressed with your memory. And what does it mean to be a Protector?”
“Protectors catch thieves and organize groups of rangers to defend against slaver raids.”
A deep voice boomed behind them. “Yes, my dearest, but that is only the barest essence of what a Protector is.”
Arabelle’s father rode up beside her, wiped the sweat off his shaved head, and recited a passage from some tome he’d likely read ages ago.
“Only the best among us could strive to emulate the sacrifices the First Protector made to save the people of Trimoria. Zenethar Thariginian, King, and the First Protector of Trimoria, sacrificed all that he was in the final battle against the demons. With this altruistic last act, he raised the barrier that keeps us safe even today.”
Roselle murmured, “May his sacrifices never be forgotten.”
“My flower, the Protectors are intended to do all that you said
, but they are selected as men who epitomize the virtues demonstrated by the First Protector. They are a force of good in this chaotic world we live in. Any Protector would be willing to lay down his life for the well-being of the people he is charged with protecting.”
Arabelle pulled lightly on her reins to keep Logan from outpacing the others. “So the lesson for me is to keep in mind all that the Protectors have done, and all that they continue to do in service of their people? I should consider such sacrifices a part of what I should do for our people?”
“It’s a start, my dearest. Always keep in mind that our people depend on us to lead them—and thus we must do whatever is necessary for their welfare. It’s our sacred obligation, even if it feels onerous at times.”
“And the people love you for it, my Sheikh,” Roselle said, bowing her head with respect.
Father smiled at the old woman, then turned back to Arabelle. “One day, you and your husband will lead this caravan. You’ll have responsibilities that are hard for you to imagine. It’s about time you give such things serious thought, my dearest flower. I won’t be around forever.”
The princess felt a growing anxiety as she wondered whether she’d ever be ready for such responsibilities.
Suddenly she was struck by a question that hadn’t occurred to her before. “So, the dream that everyone shares of the demon’s destruction, and the man on top of the hill—that’s the First Protector? It really did happen?”
Her father gave her a look of incredulity. “You thought that was a simple dream?”
Arabelle shrugged. “I suppose I never gave it much thought. What about the barrier he raised? If it isn’t just a story, then where is it? How is it that I’ve never seen it?”
“You can’t approach such things, Princess!” said Roselle. “It’s too dangerous.”
“But I don’t even know what the barrier looks like or where to find it. How can I avoid it if I don’t know anything about it?”
Her father chuckled softly. “That’s a good point. As I’m sure Roselle has taught you, the Trimoria that we know today is but a small portion of the continent our people traveled across long ago, before the demon wars. Today’s Trimoria is defined by the barrier: an impenetrable wall of mist that runs along its perimeter. No person who has ever entered the mist has returned.”
Arabelle’s thoughts had already led her to another question. “Why doesn’t Trimoria have a king anymore?”
“The line has run out,” Roselle said with a sigh. “In my grandfather’s day, King Harold Thariginian still ruled. But all his descendants met an early demise, and we have since been left without a royal house.”
“Is that when the wizard Azazel came to power?”
“L-let’s not discuss Azazel, please,” Roselle stammered.
“But the First Protector was a wizard, too, right?”
“Yes,” her father responded. “He was also a great warrior and a king.”
“Okay, but if wizardry can be used for good, such as by the First Protector, why is it outlawed by Azazel?”
Her father suddenly looked uncomfortable and a bit pale.
Roselle cleared her throat. “Why don’t we move to a more pleasant topic? Let’s discuss the relationship of our people to the city dwellers of Trimoria.”
But as her teacher droned on, Arabelle wasn’t listening. She was too busy wondering what had caused her father’s strange reaction.
Arabelle was allowed to go anywhere she wanted in the caravan, but her father did have a couple of rules that she was never supposed to break. The first was never to leave the confines of the caravan without letting him know. The second was to keep an escort with her wherever she went.
She broke both of those rules today.
It happened after the caravan had set up camp alongside the forest east of Aubgherle. Arabelle was familiar with the area, for Aubgherle was a larger town, which meant they would sometimes stay here for a month at a time—and during those stays, she took advantage of every opportunity to lose her escorts and wander into the woods. She relished the solitude she found deep in the forest.
A heavy mist blanketed the valley with silence as she crept through the trees, looking for her elusive quarry. Her father didn’t believe in the existence of elves. Most people didn’t.
Arabelle knew better.
Not only had she spied glimpses of them many times before, but on rare occasions one of the younger elves had actually stopped to talk to her. Some of them couldn’t speak Trimorian, but some could. They were a lovely race of beautiful people, but they completely mistrusted most humans.
She secretly aimed to earn their trust.
It was very early in the morning, the sun barely promised its arrival with its peach-colored bloom on the horizon. Now, as she tiptoed along, looking for the paths that the elves sometimes left, a high-pitched gurgling roar shattered the silence and a green-scaled, lizard-like creature the size of a large dog burst through the foliage.
The creature gave Arabelle a sinister stare that sent shivers up and down her back. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen or heard of in Trimoria. Its baneful yellow-and-black eyes glared at her as it growled menacingly. Then it scratched the ground with its claws, unfurled a set of wings, and gathered itself for a leap.
Suddenly a series of gray blurs whizzed by. The creature made a coughing sound as it sprouted a pair of arrows from its chest.
An elf appeared out of nowhere and struck the monster in the neck with his sword, nearly decapitating it with a single stroke. The creature’s twitching body pulsed streams of blood as its snake-like eyes closed for the last time.
The elf turned to Arabelle. “Are you hurt?”
She felt a wet burning on her chest. She looked down and saw two steaming holes in her traveling clothes. The creature had spit something at her just before the elf killed it. The world blurred, tilted suddenly, and the ground came rushing up to meet her.
“Arabelle, you are not well.”
She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t.
I can’t move.
“You are not paralyzed. You are simply unconscious.”
I don’t feel unconscious. Wait… how did you know I thought I was paralyzed?
“My name is Seder, and you are being taken care of. We have time to speak in this manner. Speak with your mind—I will hear you.”
Are you an elf? Can elves read minds?
“No, I am not an elf. I am… something else. Think of me as a spirit. Now listen, for I’m going to tell you a story that involves you. It is time you must shoulder a great responsibility.”
Will I get to see more of the elves?
“I promise you that from this moment forward, your relationship with the children of the woods will change forever.”
Then tell me!
“This tale begins many thousands of years ago. The Creator made me and my world and gave me a brother named Sammael. While Sammael enjoyed creating chaos wherever order existed, I enjoyed making order out of chaos. We were a matched pair.
“We learned that there were other worlds with more of the Creator’s children, but that Sammael and I were different than most of the Creator’s children. We could reach across the distances to these other worlds, whereas those in other worlds evidently could not.
“My brother felt the need to sow his chaos in these other worlds. I have always known that I am here to balance the actions of my brother. If my brother ever managed to achieve influence in a world without my balance, the results for that world would be disastrous.
“That is what is happening here. My brother has found a way to send a significant part of his essence into your world. He wants to tear the land you call Trimoria apart, and I am trying to keep that from happening. I have foreseen the need for you to be a part of my plans.”
How can I possibly help? I’m only a girl. I don’t even know how to swing a sword.
“The threads of destiny have woven themselves about your family, and they are especiall
y knotted around you, Arabelle, Princess of the Imazighen. I wish I could make your journey easier, for you will suffer greatly. However, it is through this suffering that you will learn much about yourself and who you are meant to be.”
What am I supposed to do?
“Survive.”
Survive?
“The fate of all you know rests on your survival. Just look within for what you need. You have it within you to accomplish almost anything. But… I will grant you one additional skill that will aid your journey. When you awake, you will be able to locate any living creature you envision.
“Now relax. I am going to release you into consciousness. Remember, the fates of your people and your land lie in your hands.”
Arabelle opened her eyes to find a wizened elf standing over her.
“Welcome back to the living, miracle child,” the elf said with a smile. “You should be dead.”
Dead? Why would I be dead?
The elf didn’t respond, and Arabelle realized she was still talking with her mind. She tried again, aloud this time.
“Why would I be dead? I merely fainted after… after an elf dispatched that hissing monstrosity. What was that thing, anyway?”
The old elf helped her sit up. Her body ached, and her muscles screamed in protest at the movement. Only then did she realize she was wearing no clothes, and her body was slathered in a pungent ointment that smelled of pine resin.
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