The Warrior Mage (The Lost Prophecy Book 2)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Deshmahne!”

  Roelle woke in a sort of daze and grabbed her sword hastily, not having a chance to even reach for her Magi robes, throwing only her cloak over her shoulders. She raced out of her tent, already seeing chaos in front of her.

  Several tents burned. Magi fought with sword and staff, facing dark blurs of Deshmahne. There were dozens—too many for her to face.

  A wave of emptiness flooded her.

  She hadn’t felt that during the last attack, or even during the attack in the first village.

  The only other time she’d felt it was when she’d been with Endric.

  Roelle recognized it, and knew how to counter it. She prayed the others with her did as well.

  Leaping into action, her sword practically guided her toward the nearest attacker. When she reached him, she noted the heavy tattoos lining his face and arms, and a dark smile that marred his face. This would not be a Deshmahne like they had faced earlier.

  “Mage. We have been watching you.”

  She swung her sword, but he blocked it easily.

  “You pose an interesting challenge for our plans here.”

  She stepped back into her catah, blocking his next blow. “And what plans are those?” Roelle asked, sword colliding with his sword.

  Much like the Deshmahne who’d attacked on her journey south, he had a deep black blade, one that gleamed dully with the early morning light, contrasting with the sharp brightness even now of the steel blade Endric had gifted her. Without realizing it, her sword had become much more comfortable, almost as if she were meant to carry it.

  “Plans you will never live to realize.”

  He danced around her, spinning so fluidly that she almost couldn't follow him.

  She sank into her Magi abilities, pulling on the small manehlin, the tiny elements of energy her people could use. She used them now, drawing them tight around the Deshmahne. With that, he slowed the barest fraction, but enough that she caught him on the arm, drawing blood.

  The Deshmahne grinned at her. “Perhaps you will be a more interesting challenge than I expected. Few of your kind have ever given me any real challenge.”

  Roelle didn't allow herself to linger on the idea that any of her people would have given him a challenge. She drew upon her Magi abilities even more. As she did, she wrapped them around the dark priest, drawing energy from him, from the earth, from everywhere, slowing him. She brought her sword up, arcing in a swift slice, and he swung his sword to counter.

  Roelle quickly shifted positions, bringing her sword down, across the backs of his legs, severing the tendons there.

  He fell, sprawling across the ground.

  Roelle dodged another attack, driving her sword through a Deshmahne that suddenly appeared near her. She spun back around, and the hamstrung man reached for his sword. Before he could, she severed his arm.

  “What is your plan for the north?” she asked the heavily tattooed Deshmahne.

  “As I said,” he began with a grunt, “you will not live to realize it.”

  Quicker than she could blink, he unsheathed a knife she hadn't seen and jabbed it into his heart, dropping onto it with a satisfied smile on his face.

  Roelle spun, looking for others to face, and saw a trio of Deshmahne approaching her.

  These were more lightly tattooed then most of the Deshmahne she had faced, especially compared to the man she’d just fought. She sank into the emptiness of her mind and quickly drew upon her Magi abilities.

  She would end this quickly. Now was not the time to worry about using her abilities in this manner. Now was the time to survive.

  She killed the first two quickly. The third stared at her, eyes wide, before dropping his sword and running into the early morning light.

  With that, the attack was over.

  Roelle stood for a moment, turning and looking for others to attack, before realizing it was truly finished. She sighed, wiping the blood off the blade and sheathing it.

  Hester found her. He had a long cut down one of his arms that he had wrapped with a strip of cloth, but it still bled through it. It would be another scar for him.

  “This was a more formidable attack. They sent nearly fifty at us.”

  Roelle shook her head. Fifty Deshmahne. “How many did we lose?” Facing this many of the dark warrior priests, the question was how many, not if.

  Hester shook his head. “There were only a handful of truly capable Deshmahne here. It's as though they didn't expect you to pose much of a threat.”

  Could that be what had happened? They might even have sent the most recent Deshmahne recruits along with whoever had recruited them. Why would they have expected the Magi to be capable swordsmen? Doing so meant going against most of their traditions, much of their beliefs.

  “They’re planning something. I don't know what it is, but that one,” she started, motioning toward the Deshmahne who’d taken his own life, “admitted there was some plan to the north. From what we’ve seen, I think it has to do with recruiting Deshmahne.”

  Hester frowned. “It makes no sense. It's one thing to attempt conversions, but what do these villagers think to gain? The Denraen have never stopped patrolling these lands. The people must know the Deshmahne would not offer the same protection as the Denraen.”

  The Deshmahne must be offering something of importance for the people of the north to so readily convert, but what would it be?

  It was a troubling thought, one that she had no answer for.

  And she doubted their search would provide any answers, either.

  Chapter Twelve

  Locken considered returning straightaway to Saeline, but needed to visit with his sister before he departed. Bryana would be angry if he left without saying goodbye, and he really did want to see her before leaving the capital. If they went to war, he didn’t know when he might see her again.

  When he stopped at her estate, he found both her and her husband Terrence at home.

  “You're leaving already?” Bryana asked.

  Locken nodded. “Richard has made a request. It's one that I must fulfill.”

  Bryana glanced at her husband, but neither of them spoke as she motioned him in. Once inside, she closed and locked the door. His ears popped briefly before it passed.

  She motioned for him to follow, waving away the servants who rushed to come in and take his coat, or offer him a glass of wine.

  “Bryana?”

  She shook her head, warning him to silence.

  Locken followed, not saying anything more, uncertain what his sister was doing. This was unlike her.

  She reached a set of stairs leading down and hurried down them. Terrence followed her, leaving Locken little choice but to follow as well. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in front of a solid oak door. When she pulled it open, he followed her in and saw rows of bottles of wine on the other side.

  “Bryana, I really need to go. I don't have need for any of your wine.”

  “Shut the door.”

  Locken frowned at her.

  She nodded toward the door. “Shut the door, Locken.”

  He had never felt uncomfortable with his sister, but this was strange behavior. After his experience in the palace, he wanted nothing more of strangeness. Having no another option, he shut the door as his sister requested. When it closed, the air felt still and heavy. The room was cool and damp, and he noted the scent of wine on the air.

  “Bryana, what is this?”

  “Why were you summoned to the city?”

  Locken glanced from her to her husband. Both stared at him intently. After a moment, he sighed. It did no harm sharing with them. They would find out soon enough. “Richard intends an attack.”

  “Richard?”

  “That's why he summoned me here. He's coordinating an attack.”

  “You can't attack Thealon.”

  Locken laughed softly. Was that what this was all about? Was his sister concerned for their safety?

  “You will be unha
rmed here in Gomald. You're far enough away from the border that any fighting won't reach you here.” Even if it eventually did, it would be a long time before any fighting reached the city.

  “You think I'm afraid for my safety? No… This is about more than my safety.”

  “Why bring me down here?”

  “You can't allow Richard’s advisor to attack Thealon.”

  Locken chuckled. “It's not Richard's advisor. This was his decision.”

  His sister exchanged a worried look with her husband. “No. This sounds like something from his advisor. We have seen it here in the months since he appeared.”

  “Seen what?”

  Terrence answered. “This is something you will need to see for yourself. Please, Locken. Before you leave, take some time, see what we've seen in our time in the city. See the reason trade has started to dwindle.”

  “Is that what this is about? Are you afraid of losing trade?” He glanced from one to the other. “You’ll be unaffected in Gomald for a while, and even if the war lingers, there will be a role for trade with the south.” He offered a placating smile, but his sister and her husband ignored it.

  “No. This is about more than only fear of trade. This is about fear for the future of our country. As our king—”

  “I'm not your king. I am the Saeline king.”

  “Fine. Then as Saeline’s king, you should be concerned as well. Let me show you before you depart.”

  Locken had never known his sister to overreact, so for her to have sequestered him in this way, for them to have drawn him aside, meant that they were worried about something more than what they let on. What did they need him to see?

  Locken said, “Fine. I can spare a few hours before I leave.”

  His sister shook her head. “It will be more than a few hours. But it will be worth your time.”

  Locken stood at the edge of the square, Terrence standing next to him. His sister remained back at the estate. Both men wore long, plain cloaks of simple black-dyed wool, the better to blend in, Terrence had said. They had the hoods of the cloaks pulled up and over their eyes, and neither man had spoken since they’d arrived. Terrence hadn’t needed to.

  Within the square, three gallows had been set up that hadn’t been there when he’d wandered the city before. A crowd of people surrounded the square, and an unsettled sort of murmur made its way across the square. From the faces in the crowd, it seemed they had seen similar executions recently.

  “How often are they executing people?” Locken asked without looking over.

  “It's become almost daily. Most of these people are little more than thieves.”

  “Executing men for thievery?” he repeated, looking over at Terrence.

  Terrence nodded.

  Locken struggled to believe the sentence. There were other punishments, plenty that were effective and standard throughout Gomald for such crimes. None of which did anything to get to the underlying cause of the thievery. Punishments like this served only as a show of power, not one where true justice was served.

  “Did Richard sanction these?”

  Terrence nodded. He had a flat face and a small nose, but his eyes were inquisitive. There was a depth to them, perhaps the most remarkable thing about the man. In Locken’s interactions with Terrence, he had learned the man had a sharp mind. That was what appealed to his sister. It certainly wasn't his outer appearance. Bryana was a beauty, and could have married much higher, but she had elected to marry Terrence.

  “Is this what you and Bryana wanted me to see?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I'll admit the executions are a bit much, but Richard is king, and if there has been increasing thieving taking place in the city, it is his right to do whatever he deems necessary to put an end to it.”

  “It is his right,” Terrence said. “But those of us who live in the city, those of us who witness these killings, suspect it may not be his choice.”

  Terrence didn't need to elaborate for Locken to understand. “You think it’s this new advisor?”

  “That is what we think.”

  “And how do the people take this?” Locken asked, surveying the crowd. Most here had a certain energy to them, almost like they looked forward to what would happen here.

  “Better than they should.”

  “How should they take it?”

  Terrence’s gaze seemed to settle on things that Locken didn't see as he scanned the crowd. “Gomald has long favored the Urmahne faith, but the people understand their place, even moreso of late with the southern priests coming to the city. They describe the unfairness in the world and convince the people that this is justice. Executions like this make the masses feel the king supports them.”

  “And yet you don't feel that way?”

  “I can see on your face, Locken, that you don't feel this is justice any more than I do. This grooms people to accept violence. It grooms them to have a willingness to accept these sorts of punishments. What happens when the punishments escalate?”

  Locken didn’t have a chance to answer.

  Three men emerged from an opening in the crowd, marched forward by six soldiers. When they reached the gallows, ropes were placed around their necks, words were said quickly, and trap doors were opened, dropping each man to his death.

  Locken forced himself to watch. The guilty deserved that much.

  “Where were the prayers?” he asked. When Terrence didn't answer, he pressed, “Where were the priests? Punishments like this—executions—require men be offered a chance to say their peace before the priests for their final moments.”

  “He doesn't allow priests to offer them any final moments or peace. He doesn't offer much other than a quick death.”

  Locken stared at the men hanging from the gallows. Had the people cheered?

  He turned his attention to the crowd and realized that they must have cheered, but he’d never heard a reaction like that before.

  “Why is it that she wanted me to see this?” Locken asked.

  Terrence turned his attention away from the dead men. “Because you need to understand the king you support. You need to understand what role you have as a man with more influence than any other in the city. Much has already changed in Gomald, and I—and others—fear more change will come.” He grabbed Locken's arm. “Keep this in mind as you make your preparations. Know that there are those who don't agree with Richard’s demands. Know that there are some who see a different future, one that is more reflective of the values we hold dear.”

  Locken's attention was pulled away by three of the soldiers unsheathing their swords. They jabbed the swords into the bellies of the now dead men, disemboweling them. He frowned, surprised at the brutality of that. A surprising shout of support came from the crowd.

  He turned to Terrence and noted an uneasy expression on his face. It was one Locken began to share as well.

  Terrence warned that people might begin to accept violence. From what he saw, it might already be too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jakob opened his eyes slowly. The sun was high overhead and nearly blinding. It was warmer too. It had been growing cold in the mountains, and overcast, and he seemed to remember his cloak offering little protection as it was whipped by the wind.

  Where am I?

  His head throbbed, the steady pulsing he vaguely remembered still there in the back of his mind. Had something happened?

  They had been fighting, facing the creatures—groeliin, he remembered now—and now they were here. How? And where were the Deshmahne priests? They’d been following them, had nearly reached them. If he and the others waited too long, the Deshmahne would reach them... but, as he looked around him, he could tell that they were no longer in the mountains. Maybe there was no longer the same threat of the Deshmahne.

  Trees towered behind him, taller than any he had ever seen. His first thought was that he was back in the Great Forest, but something was different. The color of the leaves was greener than he remembered. Fruit hun
g from a few branches, though it was not the season. Reds and oranges like nothing he had ever seen adorned the branches; there were even some purple fruits hanging from a few trees. All were high above him, too high to reach.

  The sounds of the forest were different too; it was not just the colors that seemed strange to him. Birds cawed with unusual voices, and insects chirped at a different pitch. The smells were evocative, fresh, and filled his nose with thousands of aromas—too many for his mind to sort through. And though foreign, he found them strangely comforting.

  Forcing himself up, he saw that he had been lying in a huge grassy clearing, just at the edge of the forest. Stands of colorful flowers interrupted the green field at times, almost artfully, as if painted on. The flowers were enormous and their colors incredibly vibrant. Everything around him seemed more vivid.

  The waist-high grass all around him seemed to move differently than he would expect, and not from the gentle breeze brushing lightly across his face. The grasses swayed with a life all their own. A strange, translucent haze stretched out across the plain, and it was this that moved the grass, slowly and in swishing waves. He could almost feel its pull. He touched a few of the blades, finding the edges rounded and velvety.

  A little area had been trampled down and cleared. There was an outline of where his body had lain, pressing down upon the long grass while he slept. Two other similar shapes were present—Brohmin and Salindra he suspected—though neither of them was in sight. He worried about that for a moment, but it passed, leaving him with a sense of peace.

  Jakob felt at ease. There was no way for him to explain it other than that. Amid the grasses, he felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. There was no need to worry about Brohmin or Salindra. He could sit and wait, and let the warm sun touch his skin, leaving it practically tingling. As he sat, the soft grass surrounded him, covering him. He adjusted his sword, and was comforted with the knowledge that it still rested at his side.

  After a time, he could almost feel the soft swaying motion of the grass. A few ants found his arms, and he shook them loose; they were an irritation that interrupted his relaxation. Taking a deep breath, tasting the crispness of the air, he knew he could rest in this place a long time. And he should.