The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob dismounted quickly when they came to a stop. Standing next to the horse, he felt the cold night air seep through his cloak, his shirt, his breeches, and he shivered. He held tightly onto the reins, wondering what was next. He leaned down, massaging his thighs briefly. His backside ached from the ride, bruised and stretched in ways he’d not known before. He wondered how his body would tolerate riding more tomorrow and if he’d ever grow used to days in the saddle.

  “Your body will adjust.”

  He turned, expecting to see Novan speaking to him. The words startled him, and the strange feeling left him. The tall historian still stood nearby, but it was not he who spoke. Instead, a Denraen stood before him, his youthful face capped by long, dark hair pulled back and knotted. The man had a crossbow slung over his shoulder and a curved sword at his side. Jakob forced himself to smile, unsure if the man would even see it in the waning light.

  “First day in the saddle?” the man asked. He had a slight accent, one that Jakob couldn’t place, but not as thick as that of the general.

  Jakob nodded. “For this long, at least,” he answered hesitantly.

  “Stretch before sleeping and when you wake in the morn. It will make tomorrow more tolerable,” he said before turning and joining a few of the other Denraen who began to gather the horses together.

  Novan chuckled as the Denraen soldier left. “He speaks the truth about the stretching. Otherwise, you’d rather walk tomorrow.” He grabbed Jakob’s reins, handing them to one of the Denraen, and motioned for him to follow.

  Jakob followed stiffly, worrying briefly about his belongings before shrugging it off, focusing instead on how his body was slowly adjusting to the ground and his own movements again.

  All around them, the Denraen were making camp. Each group had an assigned task. Several made quick work of starting a few fires, small at first but growing quickly larger, and around the fires were others setting up tents, arranged neatly and in a pattern he couldn’t quite see. Every person worked quickly, efficiently, at their task, and there was little talk as they did. He wondered when the general would begin his work with the Denraen.

  Novan led him past all of this to a smaller open area where another tent was set. It was larger than some of the others, and there were two Denraen standing guard who waved Jakob and Novan past, the first women he’d noticed among the Denraen. One leaned on a long staff, much like the one Novan had brought with him, and the other carried a crossbow. Both had a dangerous look to them.

  Inside, a few tables were arranged, and lamps were set atop, casting a flickering light. The two Magi stood looking down at one of the tables where a map was spread. The new chosen delegate, Thomasen Comity, hovered nearby trying to listen and was ignored by the Magi. A Denraen stood alongside the table, as well, motioning to the map as he talked. The man was enormous, a bear of a man, and thick arms strained at his uniform. He was nearly a head shorter than the Magi.

  “He is the Raen, the second-in-command,” Novan whispered.

  Jakob remembered the man from the raider attack and could easily believe him the leader of the Denraen. The general didn’t strike him the same way. Endric had a casual air to him while this man seemed intense. There was strength in his posture, in his gaze, that he’d not seen in the general’s. His sheer size was intimidating.

  “Bothar’s group is here,” the Raen said, stabbing at the table with a thick finger. A long scar traced the side of his face and pulled tight as he spoke. Others could be seen around his neck, each a shiny angry line. “Perhaps another week before we meet them, maybe more.” His voice was husky as if he had been yelling all day. The Raen looked up from the table and saw Novan and Jakob, nodding to each in turn.

  At the motion, the Magi looked up as well. It was Haerlin. The bearded Mage stared at Novan, saying nothing, an unreadable expression to his dark eyes. The other Mage, a woman, younger by all appearances, wore an interested expression, occasionally touching the back of her neck. Haerlin turned his gaze upon Jakob, and he felt the uneasy feeling he’d had the first time the Mage had stared at him, as if he were being looked through, examined, and then discarded. Nausea swept through him, and he shuddered, trying to suppress it. He felt a moment when blackness threatened to overcome him, but it finally passed. His head pounded, thudding with each beat of his heart.

  Haerlin finally turned back to the Raen, and Jakob shivered involuntarily. “And the raiders?” Haerlin asked.

  “I’m not certain they’re all raiders, not if we’ve seen Deshmahne. But they’re here,” he pointed to a location on the map. “Another here. There’s likely a larger party as well that we haven’t found. We think that’s all.”

  “Think?” Mage Haerlin asked.

  “I can’t be more specific. You didn’t allow a larger party.”

  The Mage huffed. “A larger party would have traveled too slowly.” It had the sounds of a familiar argument. He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Will our paths cross?”

  The Raen shook his head. “We can ride around their known locations. The scouts will help. Otherwise...” He shrugged.

  “We cannot risk too much delay,” Haerlin said.

  “Your safety is worth a slight delay,” the Raen answered firmly.

  The Mage Elder shook his head before speaking again. “Fine.” The word was thick with his frustration. “Do you know who’s with Bothar?”

  “We do,” the Raen smiled. The gesture pulled strangely on his scars such that only half his lip moved as it should. “Allay Lansington.”

  Novan grunted a surprised sound. Jakob looked up at him, but Novan’s face quickly became unreadable. Thomasen Comity was the son of a councilman, near nobility in Chrysia. Could this Lansington be another? There must be other delegates they were meeting, all of whom chosen like Comity.

  “Lansington?” Comity asked, speaking for the first time.

  “That may help.” Haerlin ignored Thomasen as if he weren’t there. The Mage was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke again, “Report again tomorrow.” It was a dismissal.

  The Raen nodded before leaving. For a large man, he moved gracefully and with a light step. A dangerous man, Jakob knew. His departure left them with the Magi and Thomasen Comity. The other Mage had been silent through the exchange, but now she motioned Comity and led him from the tent as well, leaving them alone with Mage Haerlin.

  “You agree that Lansington is an interesting choice?” Mage Haerlin asked Novan. He did not wait for a response. “The Prince may provide greater traction than this one,” he said, nodding toward the tent flap. “I wonder about the others. Can this work?”

  “You have not yet informed me of what it is you intend,” Novan answered quietly. “Nor why you chose him when you had your sights set on one of the priests.”

  “Historian,” Haerlin began sharply, his eyes staring icily at Novan before softening as he sighed. “I guess I cannot keep you from knowing.”

  “You cannot. I know enough already about your delegates.”

  Haerlin faced the map, his fingers tracing the lines upon its surface. “Delegates. Yes, that is what some would call them. I prefer the term ambassador. Our influence is not what it once was, and so much of the land is unsettled.”

  “The Deshmahne.”

  Mage Haerlin traced his fingers over the map. “You said that the High Priest was in Chrysia while we were there.” The city name sounded strange as spoken by the Mage, foreign. “There, as he has been in other cities. Now he finally braves Thealon. He has sent others north before, but never himself. What does it mean that he now comes?” He looked up to Novan with the question, and his eyes were worried. He no longer stood arrogantly, appearing somehow smaller for it.

  Novan shook his head and seemed as if he would not answer. “I do not know what it means.”

  “Do not know or will not say?” Haerlin asked pointedly.

  “It’s possible he seeks something,” Novan started. “You seek to influence, yet why Comity? Why Thealo
n? The priests rule Thealon.”

  “We need solidarity, unity. Thealon has not yet felt the influence of the Deshmahne.” Mage Haerlin seemed to stop himself, as if wanting to say more, but thinking better of it.

  There was something larger here that Jakob did not understand, something to the Deshmahne priest. He had seen the man, sensed him and felt the fear, so he understood the concern, but it seemed a disproportionate response. He was one man. What were they not saying? What else did they know?

  “You don’t seek the Uniter,” Novan stated.

  Haerlin eyed him a moment before sighing. “You know too much,” he whispered. “We chose a different tact this time. A Uniter, yes. But not to unite with the Deshmahne. We must unite all nations against the Deshmahne. The Denraen will assist in this, but our delegates will help lead.”

  “This is what you hope?” There was a hint of disdain to his tone. “And when it fails? The High Priest is the keystone to the Deshmahne. Do you really think your ambassadors can do anything against his influence? The Magi must take a stand in this, Haerlin.”

  “That is not the Urmahne way,” Haerlin answered. “Nor the way of the Magi.”

  Novan raised his eyebrows and was silent for long moments. Finally, he inhaled deeply. “You don’t fully understand the consequences of delay.”

  Mage Haerlin sniffed. “And you do?”

  Novan’s eyes were piercing. “More than you know.”

  “You doubt the wisdom of the Magi? And the Council? You who has seen more than any not Mageborn?”

  Novan drew his shoulders back. There was a resigned look to his face as he answered. “I do.” He let the words hang in the air for a long moment before he turned and walked from the tent. Jakob stood looking at Haerlin’s surprised expression before he followed. Novan’s long legs had carried him quickly away, and Jakob hurried to catch him.

  Night had settled, and the air was cool. He was sweating in spite of it. He could smell the smoke of the dozen fires of their camp, could nearly taste the smoky aroma, and the hunger pang he felt made him wonder when he would eat. When he reached Novan, the man slowed and looked down at him. “You should find your swordmaster and continue your instruction.” Novan glanced back to the tent and shook his head. “Arrogant. If only they knew,” he started before realizing that Jakob was still watching him and waved him away.

  Jakob left and wondered at first how to find the general before realizing that his ears could guide him. The crack of wood staves was loud. The men of the camp didn’t make much other noise, and Jakob quickly found the general. He worked with a tall figure near a larger fire; its light just enough to make out their movements. They were moving quickly through catahs, flashing from one movement to the next, their practice staves whistling through the air. He had thought the general casual, not as dangerous or intimidating as the Raen. He shook his head with the thought.

  The general moved quickly, his steps a light dance, and he darted from one catah to the next, nearly a blur. Jakob could barely keep up. There was a fluidity and efficiency to the movements that he marveled. The man was deadly.

  Yet the opponent kept up. His own stave swung as quickly, its movements nearly as fluid, nearly as efficient, but there was hesitancy to him, barely noticeable, that the general didn’t share. Jakob watched in amazement before becoming aware that he wasn’t the only one standing and watching. A dozen or so men of the Denraen stood around watching, each man holding his breath at the performance. Long minutes stretched, the only sound the crackling flames of the fire and the crack crack crack of staves smacking against each other.

  Finally, Endric’s opponent stumbled, and Endric moved in, deadly as a viper, ripping the stave from the other’s hand and swinging his own down in a deadly arc that stopped just shy of the man’s head.

  He tapped the stave lightly on his chest. “You’re dead,” he growled.

  The men around Jakob whistled appreciatively, and one or two clapped, before turning back to whatever they were doing. It was the most sound Jakob had heard from the soldiers. The general helped up his opponent, and they walked over to the fire, the general speaking quietly to him before sending him on his way. When the man came toward Jakob, he realized he wasn’t a man at all.

  It was the younger Mage.

  She stopped near Jakob and when she saw him staring, leaned over to pick up her robe that had been folded and tucked carefully away.

  “I’m Roelle,” the Mage said, her voice breathy. She still panted with the effort of the challenge match. “You the historian’s apprentice?”

  “Jakob,” he answered, shock keeping him from saying much more.

  Roelle must have seen it before. “I may not use my abilities against another, but that doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself,” she said as an explanation. Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of something deeper beneath the surface.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so good!”

  A smile twisted her lips. “At least you’re not telling me I shouldn’t work with him because I’m a Mage. I got that too often from these others at first. Now...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to Endric. Besides, I’m still not good enough. Just once, I’d like to...” She looked over Jakob’s shoulder.

  Jakob turned and saw the old general standing behind him. There was a smile on his face.

  Endric chuckled. “One day, perhaps. It’s more than your Elders can claim.” He turned to Jakob. “Your turn.” It was not a question, and Jakob realized the man was not even breathing hard. “This is different from in the city,” the general told him as he walked him over to the wooden staves, throwing one to Jakob. “When you’re ready.”

  Catching the practice sword, he nodded. “I’m ready to learn.”

  “Then I’m ready to teach,” the general said.

  Jakob followed the general into the clearing and stepped back into his ready stance, waiting as the general did the same. He quickly learned how it would be different from their encounters in the practice yard. There was no demonstration of the catah tonight, no chance to learn the movement before learning its defense.

  The general moved suddenly into attack, sliding through the motions of a catah Jakob didn’t know. He defended as best he could, struggling with the practice sword and feeling the sharp blow of the general’s wooden sword hit his arm and back several times. The general stepped back before starting in again suddenly, and Jakob realized what the man did; he demonstrated a catah in full, showing all the movements before stepping back to signal its end.

  After the second time through, Jakob thought he had the movements and leaped in a quick attack, his sword moving fast, but Endric’s moved even more quickly in defense. He struggled to note the defense, knowing it another lesson the man taught, and struggled to keep his attack.

  His legs left him, and he felt the wind knocked out of him as he landed on his back. His head ached as it hadn’t for a while, but still, he stood shakily and dusted himself off, reaching to pick up the wooden practice sword. The general took him through several other catahs and their defense, and Jakob found himself on the ground many times before he knew he had to stop. He ached all over as he stood for the final time, dusting himself and leaving the wooden stave on the ground.

  “You do well, boy. You must see your opponent’s move before it happens. When you do, it will be as if the fight has slowed and your movement easy.”

  Jakob was unsure how to answer. He didn’t think he could ever reach the point where it seemed the fight slowed. He struggled to keep his mind on his own motions let alone think he could know his opponent’s before he—or she—moved.

  “Tomorrow, you will come again.”

  Endric moved on to another student, and Jakob limped away so he didn’t find himself in the middle. His legs and back hurt differently than they had after a day in the saddle, and he worried how tomorrow would go. He would be a mass of bruises before the week was over.

  “You’re too tense.”

 
Jakob looked up. The Mage Roelle stood facing him. He hadn’t noticed before, but the Mage could not be much older than he was. With her raven black hair, she was lovely.

  “You’re not bad for a scholar,” she said.

  Jakob arched an eyebrow. He had never thought of himself as a scholar. Apprenticed to a historian, what else but a scholar? “My brother was the soldier.”

  Roelle laughed. It was an easy sound and unexpected from the Mage. Jakob found himself liking her. “Relax through the catahs. Let them flow. Don’t fight the river, move with it.”

  “You sound like a priest,” Jakob offered, wishing immediately to take it back. Did he just insult a Mage?

  Roelle smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She paused. “I come because I would know how men fight.”

  “But you’re a Mage.”

  “You’re lucky Endric is willing to teach you. It took me weeks to convince him to teach me. It’s taken the others longer to accept it.”

  Jakob shrugged. “I didn’t realize he was the general when I first started working with him.”

  “Who did you think he was?”

  Shaking his head, Jakob answered, “An old man willing to work with me on the sword.”

  Roelle laughed deeply then. “In my city, there’s no mistaking Endric. I should go, but I’ll speak with you again, Jakob.”

  Jakob watched Roelle walk away, a smile stuck to his face. Sparring with the Denraen general and talking with a Mage. What would happen next? Maybe some good could come of this.

  The feeling was short lived.

  As he started away, he had the unsettling sensation of something watching him again. He resisted the urge to look around, but a fear began to creep through him. Had he left the city only to suffer from the madness?

  Chapter Nine

  Morning found him sore in ways he had never considered.