The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “I will come with you,” she said with eyes forcing his gaze upward. “And you can call me Salindra.” She had a small bag slung over her shoulder and a plain, brown cloak in her other hand. As she turned, he caught sight of a thinly bladed knife tucked inside her belt.

  He followed her out of the inn and to the stables behind the large building. They waited silently while the stable hands saddled their horses. He quickly tied his pack to the back of his horse, along with some other wares that he had purchased from the kitchen the night before, and climbed into the saddle. Moments later, he led them away from the inn and headed north.

  Time passed slowly, the sun’s position gradually rising higher into the sky until it reached its peak. They had come upon the forest, and the great trees’ limbs arched high above the well-trodden path, an occasional stone from the old road turned up to reveal the past. They traveled under cover of the trees for a long time in silence, the only sounds from deep within the forest. Every now and again, they caught a glimpse of the sun through an opening in the trees unfiltered by the leaves. It was then that they could see how the day progressed, each opening revealing the sun moving higher.

  As they came around a turn, they caught sight of the two soldiers from the night before resting along the path. A giant red leaf tree had been felled and lay across the path.

  He looked at the tree that blocked the road, noting that the base of the trunk ended in a gully not far from the path. The branches were spread out in the opposite direction, hundreds of feet into the forest. They would be forced to go around the end of the branches. The gully would provide too much of a challenge for the horses.

  “We’ll stop here for now, and then travel around the top of the branches.” He pointed, and she nodded.

  “Something about your name has puzzled me,” she said after a long pause. “Do you know who else shares the name Brohmin?” He slowly nodded his head, and she smiled. “I suspected as much. Curious.” Another pause and then, “Brohmin Ulruuy, the last great failure of my people.”

  He smiled at that, almost to himself, and said, “I do not know if you should say he was your last failure.”

  “There aren’t many who claim knowledge of the Magi history.”

  “I know... some,” he replied.

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence, then stood at the same time and brushed themselves off. Brohmin turned to the two soldiers who were now repacking their horses and said, “We’ll go off around the top end of the tree. You’re welcome to accompany us.”

  The soldiers glanced at each other before one nodded.

  They reached the top of the mighty tree and turned their horses back toward the road when one of the soldiers suddenly sat upright in his saddle.

  “Does anyone smell that?”

  Brohmin’s eyes widened quickly as the soldiers wrinkled their noses in disgust. He scanned the forest but didn’t see what he feared.

  “Aye,” grunted the other soldier. “And it’s getting stronger.” The man suddenly leaned over in his saddle and vomited.

  As he did, Brohmin caught sight of two dark shapes sliding along the fallen tree.

  “Go north through the forest. Catch the road, and we’ll meet you!” he commanded.

  The men looked at him questioningly, hands moving to swords.

  “Don’t be fools! Move!”

  The soldiers paused, uncertain, then released their swords and spurred their horses on.

  Salindra looked at Brohmin, with a question in her eyes. He nodded to the shapes, two strange figures that were now pulling away from the tree and moving closer to them, surprised to find them this far south. Salindra turned her head and stared.

  “Can you?” he asked, but she shook her head, her eyes flickering to her ankles.

  The figures moved further from the trees, and the horses backing up in fear.

  Brohmin closed his eyes, words quietly spoken under his breath. A slight bead of sweat touched his forehead, and he welcomed the sensation in his mind. He didn’t know how much longer he would have the power it granted but was thankful every time he felt it.

  “What are they?” Salindra asked.

  Brohmin didn’t open his eyes, murmuring to himself. Suddenly, a tree branch fell. Then another. And another. The branches kept falling over the figures, eventually covering them. The branches had fallen into a sort of cage around the creatures.

  Smoke rose above the tops of the branches as they caught fire, and horrific screams came from within the tree-branch cage. He allowed himself a moment to relax.

  Movement caught his attention, and Brohmin pulled a knife out from within his cloak and threw it, catching another of the strange creatures through the throat with his knife. Dark grayish skin was now stained with its blood.

  “Those are...”

  He nodded grimly, and finished for her, “Groeliin.”

  Her eyes turned in a question at the name.

  Chapter One

  Jakob Nialsen watched as Novan squinted out into the distance through the shimmering veil of heat rising off the dry rock. He saw nothing, but Novan seemed able to peer farther than he could manage. “What do you see?”

  “Denraen,” the tall historian spoke, though it was mostly to himself.

  “Denraen soldiers?” Jakob asked.

  Novan turned to him. “Yes,” he answered with a thin-lipped smile. “And I see at least one Mage.” His long face took on an unfamiliar expression, more sour than not, as he squinted through the eyeglass.

  Jakob whistled softly to himself. The Denraen weren’t rare—they were the guardians, warriors who protected the Magi and roamed the land keeping peace—but the Mage was. “We haven’t seen a Mage here in years,” he told the historian. He was never certain how much Novan knew of Chrysia. The man had been in the city a little over a year, plundering the library and quizzing the priests. How much had he learned in that time?

  “I know,” Novan answered, looking through his glass again. “They rarely leave their city these days. There was a time when the Magi chose to be a part of the world, but…”

  When he didn’t finish, Jakob pressed him. “Where do you think they travel?”

  Novan chuckled before staring once more into the small valley. “There’s only one destination on this road. The better question is why.”

  Jakob stared. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nearly one hundred Denraen. This is more than a simple squad. Whatever reason they travel, this is something.” He scrubbed a hand across his shorn head. A nervous look passed quickly across his eyes. “We had best find the captain.”

  “For what?”

  A gruff voice came from behind them, and Jakob and Novan both turned to look.

  The captain walked stiffly up to them before looking out over the valley. His long hair was pulled back in the style of the commanding officers, and he carried his helm under his arm, always mindful of the saber strapped to his side. When he looked over to Novan with tired eyes, he ignored Jakob.

  “What do you see, historian?” he asked, shifting the helm to his other arm.

  Novan’s mouth tightened again before he answered. “I see the reason I suggested this journey, Captain. The rumors are true.”

  “Rumors. I don’t put stock in rumors.”

  “What of the Denraen marching toward us?”

  The Ur captain grunted, squinting down into the valley. “Are you certain? How do you know it is not raiders, or worse, Gom Aaldia?” His voice turned into a sneer with the last. After decades of fighting between the nations of Thealon and Gom Aaldia, few among the Ur felt anything other than hatred for Gom Aaldia. From the heat of the captain’s words, he felt a special disdain. It surprised Jakob, as the tentative peace that had held between the nations had lasted nearly a decade.

  Novan chuckled, and the captain snapped his gaze back to the historian. “Not raiders. Too organized.” He paused, looking over to the captain with a slightly incredulous look. “And do you think Richard would sen
d so few men so brazenly across the border and into Thealon?”

  The captain shook his head rigidly. His shoulders remained tight, tense. “You’re right. Yet Denraen? My scouts tell me there are nearly eighty men camped there. That’s too many for the Denraen.”

  “There are at least one hundred Denraen,” Novan answered, handing the captain his viewing glass. “And a Mage,” he finished. “The numbers are significant.”

  The captain took the viewing glass from Novan, and after a long look down into the valley, he handed it back to him, nodding. “That is what our scout described,” he said. “Though he should have recognized Denraen soldiers. Not raiders. Not Gom Aaldia.” He turned and walked away without saying anything more to Novan.

  Novan watched him leave before turning and looking back down into the valley. “Why are you here, Mage?” he asked to himself. “Why now?” The historian’s soft voice barely carried to Jakob.

  “What are you worried about?” Jakob hoped Novan didn’t mind him interrupting his thoughts. In the time he’d spent serving Novan, he was never certain.

  The historian didn’t look up. “Long ago, the Magi themselves served as priests to the Urmahne. They have slowly pulled away from that role, and now priests like your father guide the Urmahne.”

  The Urmahne taught peace as a way to serve the gods, claiming that only through peace would the gods return. As the Magi were said to be the only ones able to speak to the gods, Jakob still didn’t understand why they had abandoned their role, leaving men like his father to serve as priests. Had Jakob the necessary faith, he was to have followed his father into the priesthood, but how could he serve gods that would allow such suffering to befall his family?

  “Do you think the Magi speak to the gods as they claim?”

  Novan shook his head, then stood suddenly. “That is what they would tell you. We should return to camp. I’m sure the captain prepares for our departure. We must ready to meet the Denraen.”

  The historian turned and led them away from the bluff’s edge, striding back to their camp. It was a well-organized camp, though hastily set. They had ridden out from the city after a scout had discovered evidence of a large camp of soldiers. Too many raider attacks upon the surrounding villages had warranted more investigation, but they had found no sign of raiders.

  And now Novan found the Denraen. It wouldn’t please the captain. The man had been annoyed that Novan had wanted to come, but pressure from the ruling council and the priests quickly swayed him. Jakob wasn’t sure which had influenced him more. The Ur served the Urmahne first but protected all of Thealon as well.

  They quickly reached the camp, and once back among the Ur soldiers, Novan waved Jakob away with a quick instruction to gather their horses. Jakob hurried away, and as he neared their mounts, he heard his name called out by the only other person he knew in camp.

  Braden had been like another brother to him since they were young boys and was a new member of the Ur. He had always been quick with the sword—quick to learn, quick to attack, and quick on the defense. More like his brother Scottan than himself, Braden and Jakob had been unlikely friends, though both raised within the palace walls. Braden had learned from Scottan what Jakob had failed to master, and before the madness took Scottan, he had helped secure Braden a position in the Ur.

  “What is that?” Braden asked, pointing to the sword at Jakob’s side.

  He looked down and laughed. He knew he wore it awkwardly. “When Novan told me what we were going to do, I went looking for Scottan’s,” he answered, “but couldn’t find it. This was under my father’s bed, and I borrowed it.”

  Braden wiped his brow, brushing his wavy hair away from his eyes. “Why would a priest need a sword?”

  Jakob hadn’t thought of that. Why would his father need a sword? “I don’t know.” Images of strange Urmahne ceremonies jumped to his mind, but he dismissed them, knowing it unlikely.

  “You’ll need to get better using it if you’re to wear it,” Braden said.

  Jakob was barely average with the sword. Scottan had been the one with the ability; he had risen quickly among the Ur until the madness struck. Yet his strength and skill still weren’t enough. Now he rested with the healers like the others afflicted with the madness, unable to feed himself, strength and muscle wasting away, and nothing left of his mind.

  Jakob looked up at his friend and saw a hint of strain under his pale blue eyes. He knew how hard Braden worked for his position, having seen what Scottan had gone through to rise in the ranks, and he understood what it meant for Braden to be out on his first patrol. Rarely was one his age allowed more than city patrol. Yet it was taking a toll on him.

  “Novan says there are Denraen in the valley,” Jakob said, hoping to give Braden some good news. He knew how his brother had felt about the Denraen, a sense of awe and intrigue mixed with the hope that someday, he would be chosen to join their ranks. It was a rare event, supposedly coming only at a time when the Denraen numbers were low, and few were chosen. Most men were born to the Denraen.

  “Is he sure?” Braden asked.

  “I never question Novan.” The historian was rarely wrong and remembered everything he saw or read. It was an amazing skill and the reason the priests allowed him such unfettered access. It was the reason they were even allowed out to ride with the Ur. “He says there’s a Mage with them.”

  “A Mage?” Braden laughed. “There hasn’t been a Mage in the last five years! Why would one come now? Especially when Thealon is in the midst of so many raider attacks?”

  The Magi were averse to violence, refusing even to take up arms to protect themselves. That was the role of the Denraen. They taught that it was the only way toward the peace of the Urmahne, the only way to truly know the gods.

  His father had explained the gods expected more from the Magi than they expected from other men. For a Mage to travel through lands under attack raised questions Jakob had not considered.

  But Novan must have.

  It explained why the historian had wondered at the reason for the Mage, along with the Denraen. What did Novan know? Working alongside the historian had been challenging at times. When he’d refused his position as an acolyte, the first step to becoming a priest, his father had arranged for him to assist Novan during the historian’s time in the city. Jakob hadn’t expected it to last as long as it had. Chrysia, his home city, had known a few historians of the guild to visit—the proximity to the capital of Thealon and the Tower of the Gods gave it historical importance—but none had ever stayed more than a few months.

  Novan had been in the city for nearly a year, time Jakob had been asked to simply observe and assist, nothing more. It gave him the chance to delay decisions about his future, though he suspected his father hoped the time would eventually bring him back around to serving the Urmahne.

  I will not join the priesthood, he told himself for the hundredth time. His father was disappointed when Scottan had joined the Ur, but the Ur still served the priesthood and the Urmahne. He maintained hope that Jakob would one day join him in the church.

  “Novan is convinced,” he answered, finally shaking the line of thinking from his head. “I’ve learned not to doubt him.”

  They were interrupted by another of the Ur running up to Braden. The man was tall, though not as tall as Jakob, and had the hardened look of experience. “Captain prepares to depart.”

  Braden nodded and saluted before the man ran off and then moved in close. “I don’t like it that you’re here. It’s not safe. You should return to the city.” He left unsaid that he, too, thought Jakob should return to the church. In that, Braden shared his father’s position.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, patting his sword. “Besides, Novan feels we must observe, and I’m with Novan.” For now, he didn’t say.

  But what else would he do?

  The historian sat hunched atop his mount, staring at a small notebook in his hand and squinting. His dark gray eyes were unreadable, and Jakob wondered wh
at Novan was thinking. He always wondered.

  They rode toward the bluff, toward the slow switchback leading to the valley floor. The captain led them, and nearly fifty Ur rode ahead of him and Novan. Jakob didn’t mind but suspected the historian did; he preferred to be in the midst of the action. Better able to observe, he would say.

  “Why do you think the Mage would come?” he asked Novan again. “With the raider attacks increasing and the Ur spread thin.” The last was merely supposition. Novan hadn’t indicated there was a problem with the Ur.

  The historian looked up from his book and smiled. “Indeed,” he answered, pausing and watching as the column of Ur began to disappear down the road. “Why would he come? I have a theory, but we will have to wait to find out.”

  Novan turned back to the small book in his hands. The road meandered down the side of the bluff, forcing them to move slowly. The valley was the last true boundary between Thealon and the plains of Gom Aaldia; beyond the valley the Ur would not travel, though borders did not sway the priests. The Ur served as protectors of the Urmahne faith, and of the priests, but lately, they had become little more than the guards of the entire nation of Thealon. With the tower situated in the capital, Thealon had long been the stronghold of the Urmahne religion, even when the Magi had led the church.

  “They say a river once flowed here,” Jakob commented, staring over toward the valley. His father had told him that when he was a child, and he was not sure he believed it.

  “Once,” Novan agreed. “One of the three great rivers. It was known as the Shaen. It was a wide river, powerful, running from the northern mountains through the great forest and on to the sea.”

  “Where did it go?” How could a river disappear?

  “The lands change,” Novan answered. “If you look, you will see evidence everywhere. The Shaen is but one.”

  Jakob shook his head, unsure how the land could change that much. “When did it dry up?”

  “Records would say the Shaen last flowed over a thousand years ago.” He returned to his book after answering.