The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Roelle thought back to the attack. When the attack came, she hadn’t been certain how she would react. Practice was one thing, but implementation of those learned techniques during an attack... That was something else entirely.

  When the raiders and the Deshmahne attacked, she had been unable to move from her horse. It wasn’t so much that she was frozen in place, but that she struggled with the brutality of the attack, the bloodshed. She had been trained her whole life to work toward peace. That was the central tenet of the Magi teaching.

  She wasn’t sure if she would have been able to do anything anyway. Seeing the Deshmahne soldier fight, seeing how quickly he moved, she wasn’t sure if she would have been able to slow that attack.

  Haerlin stopped at the wide double door and glanced back at the two Denraen soldiers accompanying them. One of them was Pendin, General Endric’s second-in-command. He was a scarred man, one with a stern countenance, and he was nearly as skilled as Endric when it came to fighting. She had seen firsthand how he had brought down three raiders and then worked with Endric to stop the two Deshmahne as well. There had been a third dark priest, but he’d died strangely, and she hadn’t learned how.

  Haerlin sighed one more time. “This is a mistake.” He said the words softly, and almost to himself.

  “Elder?”

  Haerlin squeezed his eyes closed before opening them again. “Perhaps we should have listened to your uncle.”

  “What did my uncle say?”

  “The Second Eldest was not a fan of choosing these delegates. He didn’t think that it went far enough.”

  “What did Alriyn want to do instead?”

  Haerlin sighed again. “If nothing else, he thinks the Council should force our way back into the roles we once had, the one we still do in a few places.”

  “Advisors?”

  Haerlin nodded. “Rondalin still has a Magi advisor. Thealon as well. If we can influence the south, perhaps there would be no need to follow the warrior priests.”

  Roelle heard a note of fear in Haerlin’s voice. “Have you seen something?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to push back a painful memory. “A dangerous vision. One that your uncle thinks means an ancient prophecy has been triggered. The Eldest does not share this belief.”

  It was the first Roelle had heard of this. “A prophecy?”

  “I’ve said too much. I think the attack has affected me more than I realize.”

  “But if Alriyn thought—”

  “Your uncle is wrong in this. What he believes is something that has not been done in over two hundred years. Something that the Council has failed to achieve during our previous attempts.” He pushed the door open and stood for a moment, looking at Roelle before drawing his back upright. “Forget what I’ve told you. Let’s see if there’s anything Chrysia can do to change the growing unrest.”

  As they started into the room, Roelle couldn’t shake what he’d told her, or what it might mean. Alriyn was a renowned scholar, and if there was something he feared, then why wouldn’t the Council act on it?

  And why did Haerlin seem so unsettled?

  Jakob knocked firmly on his father’s door. There was no answer. His father often didn’t answer if he was engrossed in his work, so he opened it and stepped inside, finding the office empty.

  The room was small and simply decorated. There was a desk stained with ink and stacked with parchment, several travel chests, and a prayer pad. Incense hung heavy in the air, the after effect of the noon prayer, and on one of the desks, he saw a small, carved wooden bowl filled with ash. A carving of a trefoil leaf hung on one wall. Other than that, there were no other decorations. Simple, like his father.

  Jakob hadn’t been to his father’s rooms much recently. His time with Novan kept him preoccupied, but there was more to it than that. Losing his mother had left him with difficult memories and a foundering faith in the Urmahne and the gods. Scottan succumbing to the madness had turned that into anger. Anger was an emotion his father did not understand.

  Jakob put the sword he had borrowed back where he had found it under the bed. He’d washed the leather as best he could, getting most of the stains off, but he suspected he would have to replace the leather wrappings another time. For now, he would make sure his father had it back if it was needed. His father could be strange about things like that if something went missing for too long.

  As he pushed the sword back under the bed, his arm and head began to throb again. Since the attack, his head had bothered him the most, but his arm still felt strange. He tried to shake the sensation off, but felt a wave of nausea and dizziness course through him and had to blink a few times slowly before the feeling finally passed.

  As he stood to leave, slowly so as not to become dizzy again, the door opened.

  His father entered, dressed simply in a brown wool cloak, his wrinkled face exposed and a black ink stain on his cheek above his thick beard. He, like all the priests, wore few ornaments, only a few items of jewelry, markers of the priesthood. Jakob had never taken the time to learn what they all meant.

  “Son,” he said, smiling. His voice was soft, as usual. “It’s early in the day for you to visit.”

  “I came yesterday as well,” he admitted. “Novan had me accompany him on a ride out of the city. We went with the Ur.” A look of concern quickly crossed his father’s face. Jakob wondered briefly whether it was the mention of Novan or the Ur.

  “You were with the Ur?” his father asked, running a hand through his black-peppered hair. Jakob nodded. “The attack?”

  Jakob was surprised his father would have learned of the attack. “I was there.”

  “You saw the Magi?”

  That explained his father’s interest. He shook his head. He hadn’t seen the Magi, only what Novan had described. Neither of them had seen the other Mage the Denraen said had come. On the return to the city, the Magi had remained out of sight. “Denraen, though.”

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, stepping toward the desk and setting down a stack of papers.

  “Barely. It was raiders,” Jakob began. “Though something more, I think,” he continued, remembering the tattooed man he had been forced to kill.

  “What did you see?” his father asked, using words that strangely mirrored Novan’s typical question.

  Jakob shrugged. “Not sure what it means, but we were attacked by a tattooed man. Novan seemed to know and was worried by it.”

  His father frowned and closed his eyes slowly, muttering a quick prayer. “They shouldn’t be here, yet,” he said softly, mostly to himself. Looking to Jakob, he asked, “You were here yesterday?”

  “Novan warned me to bring a sword if I had one, so I came here looking for Scottan’s,” Jakob said in a rush. “I couldn’t find it but found one under your bed and grabbed it.” He looked at his father apologetically. “It wasn’t until later I learned it was a ceremonial sword.”

  His father shook his head slowly. “Ceremonial? Why would an Urmahne priest have a sword?”

  Jakob shrugged. “I thought there might be some ceremony or service you performed.”

  His father laughed. It was a hearty sound and the first time Jakob had heard him laugh in a long time. “Perhaps that, as much as anything, tells me how little you’re meant for the priesthood,” his father said ruefully. “The Urmahne value peace above all else. There is no ceremony like you speak about.”

  “Then why do you have it? Where’s Scottan’s sword?”

  His father sniffed loudly, scratching his nose, before answering. “Scottan’s sword rests at the santrium. The healers hope to use it to aid his recovery.” The tone of his voice said that he did not think it likely. “As to the one you found, that is our great-father’s sword.”

  His father kneeled to reach under the bed and pulled the sword carefully out from beneath it. His eyes narrowed as he saw the hint of red staining the hilt. “He was a soldier, I suspect, though I know little about him. The story of th
is sword has been mostly lost. There was a time when I wondered about him.” He glanced up at Jakob. “Much of what remains cannot be more than exaggeration. Though the sword is more than a simple soldier’s blade.”

  His father stood, stretching his back as he did, raising himself to his full height. He was a tall man, taller than most men, and seemed to tower over Jakob. They shared the same chestnut hair and deep blue eyes. “It’s been handed father to son through the years, down many generations, to me. I’ve had no use for it.”

  He looked toward the door and stared for a long moment. Jakob knew what the gesture meant; he had seen it many times. His father thought of Scottan again and worried. Or he thought of Jakob’s mother, remembering. Jakob wondered if today it was more. What sort of disappointment was he to his father?

  Looking down at the sword in his hands, his father said, “It was to go to Scottan,” as if reading Jakob’s thoughts. “He would have had the most use, I suppose. Now...”

  “What now?” Jakob asked.

  “Now?” He exhaled slowly, as if a decision reached, and turned. Lifting his head to look Jakob in the eyes, he spoke. His blue eyes were soft, and Jakob felt the love of his father radiate from them. “Now it should go to you.”

  Jakob shook his head. He had no use for it, not like Scottan did. “It’s for Scottan,” he said, afraid to put words to his thoughts.

  His father smiled at him fondly. His eyes glistened with restrained tears. “It’s for you, now,” he said gently, offering Jakob the sword.

  Jakob took it carefully by the leather-wrapped hilt. He knew the wrappings worked all the way up the blade and wondered briefly what the blade looked like. Probably worn and tarnished with age.

  “You must honor our family,” his father said. “The sword is said to honor the gods. So, too, should you.”

  His father knew Jakob’s struggles, and he wondered if his father shared in them. How could he not? “I’ll try.” Knowing the sword was his great-father’s somehow made if feel heavier as if the weight of their history weighed upon him. “But how can I when I’ve disappointed you, Father?”

  A smile came to his father’s lips. “Never.” He set his soft hand upon Jakob’s shoulder before squeezing. “You must question before you can find the answers you need.”

  “I am afraid there are no answers to my questions.”

  His father frowned before pulling him in for a quick embrace. It had been a long time since his father had shown him affection. “I was there, once,” he admitted.

  Jakob looked at him, surprised.

  “There are always answers. They just may not be to the questions you thought you were asking.” Letting Jakob go, he stepped back. “Now I want you to be safe with Novan. Learn what he can teach but discover your own questions. It’s only then the answers will come.”

  Jakob nodded, feeling closer to his father than he had in nearly a year. Since Scottan fell to the madness.

  “May the gods watch and comfort you,” his father spoke, dismissing him.

  “And you,” he answered, knowing not to push his father by saying anything more.

  His father turned toward his desk and sat, grabbing a sheet of parchment.

  Jakob left, glancing at his father once more as he did. Novan had asked him to see what he knew yet he could not bring himself to do so. Clutching the same sword he came with, he left his father and his office.

  Braden stopped him on his way back to the library to find Novan. The library stood in the middle of a large courtyard in the center of the city, the massive stone structure rising high over the city, almost as if it had been intended to be the center of the city itself. When Braden found him, he still clutched the sword and felt uncomfortable with it, an imposter.

  His friend stood in the Ur practice yard and waved him over. Braden’s angular face was covered in sweat, and his black hair streamed in the wind. He eyed the sword briefly.

  Jakob flushed. “I guess it wasn’t a ceremonial sword. My father said it’s a family sword.”

  “Was it Scottan’s?” he asked.

  “It would have been. Now... now I guess it’s mine.”

  “You should learn to use it,” Braden suggested.

  “Scottan always tried to teach me. I never had much talent.”

  “So have I.” His friend hesitated, and seemed reluctant to say what he asked next. “How is he?”

  Jakob shrugged. Scottan had been locked in the city santrium now for the last year. Jakob used to visit often, but as his brother’s condition worsened, he found less and less time to do so, though he often heard updates from his father. Braden had been close to Scottan, as well, seeing him as an older brother and one who had helped turn Braden into the soldier he is now.

  “The same. Perhaps a little worse. Stable for now, I guess.” Jakob flicked his gaze to the library. Novan would be waiting for him. “There are others there worse than him.”

  “And more lost every week. It seems like half our patrols involve someone whose mind has started to go.”

  The madness seemed to spread, becoming more prevalent with each month. Once, it had befallen only a handful a year. Never curable, it destroyed those it took, claiming their minds while their bodies remained. Lately, it took several a month. Jakob wished it could have been different for Scottan. It had been hard enough on their family losing his mother, but when Scottan had fallen to the madness, his father had become a different man.

  Braden cleared his throat. “The Turning Festival is soon. We need to find clothes to impress the Mancley sisters.” Braden grinned, a charm to his smile that couldn’t be faked reflected in his eyes.

  Jakob laughed. “You mean you want to impress Jessila Mancley.” Braden had pined over Jessila for months while she preferred teasing him; he understood why Braden persisted—Jessila was beautiful.

  “Fine, but her sister’s nice too!”

  Jakob laughed again, shaking his head. Marli was much like her sister, and just as difficult for him to talk to. “I don’t think there’s much hope for me there. I don’t have the same way with women as you.”

  “You could try. You’re too much like your father. Serious.”

  “And he always said I took after my mother.” Braden laughed, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt in the attack,” Braden said after a time.

  Jakob took a deep breath. “I thought we were trapped.” His voice was distant as he relived the events from the day before. “We’d moved too quickly down the road. They caught us at the narrows, and only a few could battle at a time. Those in front were lost.” He swallowed. “If not for the Denraen...”

  A sound across the yard caught their attention. Jakob saw several dozen of the guard crossing the practice yard as if just leaving the barracks. “What is it?”

  Braden looked over nervously before hurrying to return his practice sword to the rack. “Attacks are getting more frequent. Looks like I have to go, but I’ll find you later,” he promised as he ran off, catching the other guardsmen and joining them. The promise of the Turning Festival was left unsaid.

  Jakob watched as the men welcomed Braden among them, and he remembered it had been the same with Scottan. He wondered if he would ever know a feeling such as that. With Novan, he had purpose, but he never felt welcomed, and never felt a part of anything.

  With a sigh, he continued on his way to the library.

  Chapter Three

  Jakob stared at his sword in the darkened library. The leather scabbard was well worn, faded writing etched along its length, and only a few words decipherable. Other markings were there, too, and Jakob could nearly make out figures now lost to time.

  A simple blade guard ran off a hand’s width from the edge of the blade. It was of a polished steel, plain-looking when compared to some he had seen, and curved very slightly toward the tip of the sword. Each side ended in a three-pronged split of the guard, the three metal pieces twisting and almost taking on a shape of their ow
n as they curled up at the ends.

  Jakob wrapped his fingers around the leather-covered hilt. For a moment, the sword seemed to hum. The hilt was long enough that his right hand securely gripped near the guard still left room for half of his other hand. He suspected the wrappings gave a surer grip in battle. There was some carving to the hilt he could feel under the wrappings, but he dared not remove them.

  A heavy brass pommel rounded off the hilt. Opposing sides of it were slightly flattened. The weight of the pommel balanced the weight of the blade, and lettering circled the flat edges of the pommel on each side—tiny letters he could barely see, let alone read. A single figure was also worked carefully into each flattened edge of the pommel, a different form to each side. Both were foreign to his eyes.

  He pulled it carefully from the scabbard. The stains on the leather wrappings unsettled him, and he worked quickly to remove them, both to rid him of the memory of what he had done and to see the blade underneath. The edges of the blade had been well kept, and he ran his thumb lightly across one side, wincing as it drew blood. It was very sharp. There was not a mar to either edge, almost as if it had never been used. The faint lamplight reflected brightly from the blade, its well-polished surface nearly mirror-like in how it reflected the light. More lettering was inscribed along the blade itself that Jakob couldn’t read, the language foreign to him.

  Jakob was about to sheathe it when something compelled him to turn it over. Rather than the same gleaming metal, what he saw on the other side was darker, almost black. Light was not reflected on this side, rather it seemed almost as if it absorbed the light. There was lettering down the center of this side of the blade, as well, equally unreadable.