The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob nodded. “It reminded me of you.”

  Roelle laughed. It seemed out of place after what they had just witnessed and carried into the night. “I’m glad Endric doesn’t finish me the same way he took care of the Deshmahne.”

  Jakob surprised himself by laughing. “If he does, I’ll keep him from tying you up,” he offered.

  “That would be appreciated.” Her eyes tensed, and she stared at the ground where the Deshmahne had been. “I should discuss this with Haerlin. Sleep well, Jakob.”

  Jakob nodded as the Mage disappeared and realized that he needed to report to Novan. The historian would want to know what he had seen.

  Dreams had haunted him again that night.

  Jakob stood on a hillside under a dark sky. A man with fiery eyes and dark tattoos upon his arms watched him from a distance, laughing. Jakob had yelled out something strange, words he had seen in his recent reading, but had not been quite sure what they meant.

  He felt something else pacing farther away, something with golden eyes barely visible, that was summoned by his words. Heavy clouds moved ethereally overhead, threatening rain and bringing an earthen scent with them. The man with the fiery eyes stared up at the clouds and smirked before turning his attention back to Jakob. He felt the man as he stared at him, his gaze burning into the back of Jakob’s mind, and hopelessness settled through him. A slow sharp cry pierced through it all, and he found himself dragged away from the hillside.

  Jakob struggled to waken, hearing the sharp horn of the morning alarm. He opened his eyes slowly, and consciousness returned to him. Novan was not in the tent, and his bedroll did not appear used.

  It wasn’t until they were nearly ready to depart that Novan finally joined him. The historian pulled his horse alongside Jakob as they started out. His face was lined and tired and his eyes looked as if he had stayed up chewing rumbala root the night before. The man looked exhausted.

  “You should have slept,” Jakob offered.

  Novan looked at him and said nothing for a long moment. “Sleep does not come well to me, though last night I didn’t really try.”

  “The Deshmahne attack?” Jakob asked.

  “You were with Endric?” When Jakob nodded, he pressed. “What did you see?”

  Jakob reported on what he saw during the attack. He started with hearing the alarm, and included the fight with the general. He finished by telling how Endric had cut out the tattoo of the man who’d attacked him.

  “It won’t work,” Novan said. “You would have to disrupt each tattoo. Endric would know that.”

  “It did not work.”

  Jakob turned to see the Roelle riding along next to them. A few of the Denraen nearby looked at her briefly before ignoring her as they had grown to ignore Jakob and Novan.

  “He was killed last night without telling us anything,” Roelle went on. “He awoke and killed one of the Denraen guards before he was brought down. This was while he was still tied.” Roelle looked up to where Endric rode, surrounded by his Raen and a few other high-ranking Denraen, before turning to address Novan. “I’m curious, historian, what can you tell me of the Deshmahne?”

  “What has Haerlin told you?” Novan asked.

  “Haerlin says it’s not for untrained Magi.”

  Novan raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you know?”

  “This is the second attack upon us on this journey, historian. It is two more than was expected.”

  “It’s been many years since the Magi faced opposition. I do not claim to be Urmahne, but it has its redeeming qualities. The Deshmahne are different. It’s a twisted religion. One of force and violence, born out of their frustration with the Urmahne. The Deshmahne believe shows of strength appease the gods. There are many who see its appeal.”

  Jakob watched as Roelle looked around the Denraen. What little he knew of the Deshmahne would appeal to soldiers, he realized. Could any of the Denraen practice Deshmahne?

  Not Endric. The general seemed to despise the Deshmahne attacker.

  “I don’t think Endric would allow it,” Jakob said. Both Novan and Roelle looked at him. “Just the way he acted when he saw the man was a Deshmahne,” he explained. “There was hatred in the way he handled the man.”

  Novan looked up to where Endric rode, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his tired mouth. “Hatred is mild, I think.”

  “You know much of Endric for someone not of the city,” Roelle said.

  “We’ve met before. He has always been kind to historians.” He cast an accusatory glance at Roelle.

  The young Mage laughed, her voice sweet and almost musical. “Talk to my Elders, historian. I’m not to blame for the secrecy you despise. I’ll share what I learn if you reciprocate.”

  Novan eyed her briefly before nodding. Roelle smiled then spurred her horse forward to rejoin Haerlin.

  Novan watched her ride ahead. “She… is one for me to watch, I think.” His tone was friendlier than it had been. Novan turned to Jakob. “It’s an interesting point.” His voice was pitched low, and Jakob suspected only he could hear what was said. “Though it should not be possible, the Deshmahne could appeal to the Denraen.”

  “Why should it not be possible?” Jakob asked.

  Novan ignored the question. “I have an assignment for you. You will observe the Denraen, work with them. Endric has already asked for this. It will give you a better perspective, I should think. Document what you see.”

  “Document?”

  “That is what a historian would do, Jakob.”

  Jakob flushed. “I just haven’t—”

  “You’ve reported to me, and you’ve given your opinion. Your comment about Endric confirms that you’re ready. I’ll have notebooks and ink for you each evening.”

  This was what he would become, wasn’t it? He had agreed to apprentice a historian, but it was one thing to serve Novan while he remained in the city. It was another to actually begin his training.

  As he nodded to Novan, the sense of unease settled upon him again. He turned but saw nothing. Jakob resolved to ignore it.

  A thought lingered. Did someone follow them, watching as they passed, or was it something worse? Didn’t Scottan start the same way? Would the madness claim him too?

  Jakob shook his head, but the feeling did not leave. Neither did the queasy knot in his stomach.

  Chapter Ten

  “Name’s Rit,” the man offered.

  His face was a crooked mess. His nose had clearly been broken more than once, and one ear appeared larger than the other. A slight smile cracked his scarred face, and one of his front teeth was missing. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, he came across as friendly. “We have horse duty this eve,” he informed, leading Jakob and his mare.

  “Jakob,” he told the man, trying to sound confident.

  Rit led him to a small clearing where a line of horses had been set. Other men were already at work brushing down the mounts while still other men worked quickly at erecting the line. “Each night, we pull different duty. Tonight, we groom and feed the horses; tomorrow, we cook. We rotate so that each of us knows all parts of the camp.”

  Rit helped him tie his mare to the line and loosen the saddle. Jakob said nothing, thankful for Rit’s explanation but more comfortable in the silence. It was full dark, and he brushed his mare carefully, feeling his way along. He had only limited knowledge of horse grooming and wasn’t sure if what he did was right.

  “Like this,” Rit demonstrated, sensing his uncertainty.

  He strained in the dark night to see what the man did and tried to copy. His hands followed the large, sure hands of the other man, making the same motions, until Rit finished his horse and moved down the line. Jakob followed silently and began work anew. As his hands grew practiced, he found the work went more quickly.

  “You the historian?” Rit asked, breaking the silence between them.

  “His apprentice.”

  Rit grunted but said nothing.

  Jak
ob kept his hands busy, and they spoke no more. The work was mindless and let him reflect on the day. The ride had gone little different from the day before. The feeling he had, the unease, stayed with him longer and had not left until they were fully camped for the night. Jakob had struggled to ignore the sensation all day, but the longer he did, another sense of unease started to creep through him.

  When the madness had claimed his brother, Jakob had seen it firsthand. And now he wondered if this was the beginning for him. Was this how it started for Scottan? He forced his mind away from those thoughts, but it was difficult to do. He wanted someone to talk to about his fears, but he didn’t dare go to Novan, and he hadn’t seen much of Braden.

  Nearby, he heard the distinctive clap of wood on wood as men practiced the sword. A large fire had been built, and the crackling flames grew bright in the growing dark. The night was crisp, and the smoky aroma of the fire mingled with the stench of the horses’ lather. From where they stood, Jakob could see how the old general almost lazily fought off a young guardsman. The younger man moved quickly, but Jakob saw the general’s sword strike flesh more than once. He watched for a little longer before turning back to his work.

  “Any can work with the general,” Rit said. “Endric isn’t gentle, but you can learn much.”

  Jakob heard a cry and looked up to see that the sparring was over, the younger soldier down. “Do you?”

  Rit’s wrinkles cracked the corners of his sharp eyes as he smiled. “There was a time I did. Better to practice with others I think.”

  The crack of wooden practice staves and an occasional cry of pain or laughter continued to break through the quiet of the camp. As they reached the end of their line, he looked up to Rit.

  “Eat. Later we take watch. You probably don’t have to stay up for that.”

  What did Novan want him to document? All parts of serving as Denraen. That meant the watch too. “I’ll join.”

  Rit’s face took on a serious expression. “After last night, we’ll take it.”

  “How will I know when?” Jakob asked.

  “I’ll find you.” Rit stood and stretched, cracking his back, before leaving Jakob.

  He needed to eat, but he ignored his hunger, instead walking toward the general. Strangely, it was the one part of his day he enjoyed. Endric stood talking with the hulking Raen, and Jakob stood patiently to the side, knowing well enough not to interrupt. Without intending to, he heard a piece of their conversation.

  “I’m torn, Pendin,” Endric said, his accent thicker tonight than normal.

  The muscular Raen stared at Endric before answering. “Our duty—”

  Endric interrupted. “You think I do not know our duty? No. I know it as well as any, but there’s another responsibility I can’t ignore.”

  “I understand,” Pendin said.

  “No. You don’t. But when you lead the Denraen someday—perhaps soon—you will.”

  The Raen cocked his head. “And this other?”

  Endric shook his head. “I can’t refuse the Conclave. Or her. This request may be the most important of all.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That you may replace me sooner than I had expected.”

  Pendin snorted. “Is that all?”

  Endric frowned, looking carefully at Pendin before laughing. “No. But it’s enough. You’ve learned much of the Denraen, Pendin. Soon you will be the protector of all our secrets.”

  “For now, I follow your command,” the Raen said, and his scarred face pulled grotesquely as he smiled.

  Endric sighed. “Keep vigilant. The Deshmahne will come again. They must not succeed.”

  The Raen nodded before turning and leaving.

  Endric caught Jakob listening. Instead of a reprimand for listening where he should not be, the general surprised him. “How’s Rit treating you?”

  “Like his men.”

  The general laughed. It came easily for him, though from what Jakob had seen, so did his anger. He was a man whose emotions flashed quickly. “It’s all I asked of him. Perhaps you’ll become a Denraen instead of a historian.”

  Jakob didn’t know what to even say. His brother was the soldier, not he, but there was a certain appeal to Endric’s offer.

  The general seemed to sense his struggle and grinned. “Come on then if you want to continue your lessons.”

  Jakob nodded and followed Endric to practice.

  His head buzzed.

  The last two nights working with the general he’d noticed a strange humming in his head that had stayed with him the entire practice but didn’t seem to interfere with his concentration. Tonight, toward the end, as he was moving into his first attack, there was almost a pulsing within his skull. His vision had cleared, and his mind seemed to slow. If Jakob didn’t know better, he would almost say it helped.

  Perhaps he was mad.

  He had never learned how it began. Voices were common. What else came with it? None knew what caused the madness, only that there was no cure. Was he next?

  Other than the humming in his head, the practice had gone better tonight. He’d managed to defend himself longer and actually threatened an attack once. Actually, each night was better. He no longer felt clumsy with the sword, and he was thankful for the general for that, but he worried what would happen in a real battle facing a true enemy with his sword in hand. The memory of the Deshmahne attack remained with him, the feeling of helplessness, and the luck that had saved him.

  “No practice tonight?”

  Jakob turned to see Roelle strolling in the direction from which he had just come. She was dressed in pants and a loose-fitting shirt, much different from the Mage robes she wore during the day. It made her more appealing.

  He tamped down those thoughts. “I already have.” He rubbed his arm where the practice stave had hit him last, quickly ending the practice.

  Roelle grinned, brushing back a strand of black hair and tucking it behind her ear. “Then what now?”

  “Rest first, then watch.”

  Roelle cocked an eyebrow. “The historian has you taking watch?”

  “He has me observing the Denraen. I’ve been assigned to one of the units—”

  “A raegan,” Roelle corrected.

  Jakob nodded. “I’ve been assigned to a raegan to observe.”

  “The historian has you watching the Denraen then. Is this about the Deshmahne?”

  Jakob said nothing, unsure how much to reveal. It was answer enough.

  “Clever. Though I doubt you’ll find much. True Denraen walk the path of the Urmahne.”

  “What of the recruits?”

  Roelle frowned, crossing her arms over her chest as she surveyed the soldiers camped for the night. “That’s a good question. How well are they chosen? There are nearly a dozen new recruits among us. Do all follow the Urmahne or have some slipped through?”

  “Would it matter?”

  The Mage shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t deny there’s a strange power to the Deshmahne.” Roelle frowned as if considering her own words. “You mentioned something before that has troubled me.”

  “What?”

  Roelle smiled a disarming smile. Jakob flushed, thankful for the dark.

  “You mentioned a brother. What happened to him?”

  Jakob swallowed. He tried not to think of Scottan, or to think about the fact that he had been left in Chrysia with no family around him. Novan claimed that he’d be taken care of, and Jakob didn’t doubt it, but that didn’t change that he was his brother, and he’d been left alone.

  “He fell to the madness.”

  “You said that before,” Roelle said. “What is the madness? Is it some Deshmahne attack?”

  He hadn’t considered that before, but if it were, wouldn’t the priests have known? “I don’t think so. There’s something… wrong… with certain people. My brother fell to it. The healers don’t know how to help. They waste away, having visions and speaking in tongues—”

 
“Touched by the gods,” Roelle whispered.

  Jakob grunted. “If that is the gods, then I don’t want their touch.”

  Roelle looked troubled and forced a smile. “I should go before Endric leaves for the evening. Wish me luck.” She paused. “And Jakob. Don’t fear to reach for the gods. They have a plan for us all.”

  Roelle walked away from Jacob, glancing back every so often. He intrigued her and was not at all like she had expected when she first met him. In the time that she’d gotten to know him, she had discovered that he had suffered much. Not only the loss of his father but also that of his brother to the strange illness. He didn’t speak of his mother, but she had the sense that he’d lost her as well.

  How could the gods take so much from one person?

  And still… Still, they had given him much as well. She watched the way he worked with Endric, noting the speed with which he improved. That clearly was a gift from the gods; it could be nothing else. Now, he had progressed to the point where he presented a challenge even for her, and there were few even among the Denraen who presented any challenge to her other than Endric and Pendin. That was the gift of her Magi heritage, the benefit of being Mageborn, giving her the ability to move and react quickly. It was a skill that her kind had been gifted from the gods. Endric had developed his over years, while she had developed hers over a period of months.

  Haerlin met her in the tent. He stared intently at a notebook as he made a few notes, glancing up briefly when she entered. “Tell me again about the most recent attack.”

  The abruptness surprised her. “The Deshmahne?” she asked. When Haerlin nodded, she said, “He reached all the way to the general. Had Endric not been there, I’m not sure what he would have accomplished.”

  He’d gone for Endric, not the Magi. That bothered her. Hadn’t they been led to believe the Deshmahne were after the Magi?

  “Yes, the general. He knows more than what he’s letting on.”