The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob stared at the sword as he began to understand what his father had said. This truly was more than a simple soldier’s sword. Why else would it be handed down through generations? It was much different from the dull steel blades he’d seen of the Ur.

  How had his family come to it?

  “It should have a name.”

  Startled, Jakob turned quickly to see Novan moving through the stacks toward him. He sheathed the sword with an embarrassed flush coming to his cheeks. “I don’t know it. It’s been in the family.” He paused, staring at the sword. “It was to have been Scottan’s.”

  Novan’s eyes narrowed. “It’s yours now, and rightfully,” he said quietly but firmly. “And it should have a name.”

  Jakob shook his head, an answer to both statements. “Only mine because the madness claimed Scottan,” he said.

  Novan clucked at him. “Perhaps, or perhaps it was always meant for you.”

  “The gods mean for me to have this?” He waved the sword before him before lowering it and sighing. “I don’t think there is such a plan for me.”

  Novan smiled at him with a hint of sadness. “There are powers other than the gods, Jakob. Perhaps something greater, deeper.” Novan paused and looked around. “The ancients believed that different lives, their energies, were woven together like strands forming rope, their threads making up a larger pattern. It was this that granted power.” Jakob eyed him strangely, and Novan laughed. “I said the ancients believed it, not I. But it matters little. The sword is yours now, and it should have a name. May I see it?”

  When Jakob handed the sword to him, Novan quickly examined the hilt and the scabbard before unsheathing and eyeing the bright blade. There was a strange expression on his face as he eyed the sword. Jakob worried what the historian was thinking. Turning it over, he whistled softly, as if to himself, before looking back to Jakob and arching an eyebrow.

  “Your family has kept this sword?” he asked.

  “So my father has said.”

  Novan nodded. “So he said,” he repeated, speaking mostly to himself. “Nialsen... Yes, it would make sense.” He hesitated as if debating whether to say more. “All well-forged blades eventually earn a name, and this was certainly a well-forged blade. It is known as Neamiin.” The word lilted and twisted from the historian’s tongue, almost familiar as if he had said it many times before.

  “How do you know?” Did the historian know his family’s story? Had he learned that in the time he’d spent perusing the stacks of books?

  Novan smiled. “Nothing as mystical as I imagine your mind might be thinking. Your sword tells me.” Novan traced the letters along the blade’s surface. Seeing Jakob’s puzzled expression, he continued. “The writing on the blade. The language itself is dead, though some still study it and know its uses, but they are few.” His eyes locked onto the sword as he spoke before looking up at Jakob. “Neamiin. It is a word from an old language with many meanings. This is surprising. It seems I will have to teach it to you.”

  The historian handed the sword back to Jakob who took it carefully. He said the name to himself, struggling to get his mouth and tongue to say it properly. There was an inflection to the word Jakob found incredibly foreign. “Have you learned why the Magi have come?”

  Novan shook his head. “No, but their visit raises several concerns.”

  “Why?”

  Novan sat and twisted a dark ring on his left hand. “The raider you killed was Deshmahne, Jakob. Do you know what they are?”

  A sudden memory hit him with a clarity that was almost like he was there. He saw the tattoo marking the man in black as he attacked and the dark smile that parted his lips. Deshmahne.

  “The warrior priests. What does that mean that they are in Thealon?” He knew little enough of the warrior priests—few did—but what he did know was that he was lucky to have lived. How could he have killed a Deshmahne?

  “They should not have attacked the Ur, but it means the Deshmahne are on the move. Thealon is no longer safe. If they have their way, their religion will infiltrate even Thealon.”

  “But Thealon is Urmahne!” Jakob said. Though he no longer trusted the gods, the priests had held Thealon so long, it was foreign to think that any other religion could infiltrate its people.

  “Is it?” Novan asked. “And what of Liispal and Coamdon? Once they were all Urmahne, and now they all favor the Deshmahne. Only one hundred years ago, the Deshmahne were nothing but a quiet sect, barely known, yet their power has grown quickly. The south converted first, either by force or by choice, and now Gom Aaldia appears to fall. It was never going to be long before they set their sights on Thealon. It seems that now they have.”

  Novan looked at him again, an unreadable expression to his face. He turned from Jakob, rifling through one of his many stacks, before turning back and handing him a small, leather-bound book. “Read through this,” he instructed.

  “What is it?” The prospect of more reading made his tone more forlorn than he had intended.

  Novan pulled himself upright, stretching to his full height. “It will help you decipher your sword, Jakob. And perhaps more.” He gave Jakob a knowing look before nodding, a decision made. “You can learn something of the ancient language from it. Not much, but a start.”

  Jakob took the book carefully. It was older than many he had seen, and the cover was embossed with the trefoil leaf in the top right corner. Jakob flipped through the pages, noting the tiny script cramming the pages, realizing quickly that this would be a more challenging read than other books Novan had assigned.

  “Treat it well,” Novan instructed. “Few have been allowed to see it.”

  “Why?”

  Novan bent at the waist, bringing his long face closer to Jakob. There was a solemn expression etched into his features, one that was near permanently there. “The language holds a certain power. Nothing magical,” he said, waving away the unasked question, “but real, nonetheless. The Magi do not learn to read it until they are fully trained, and only then, few other than the Council know it well. Its power comes from knowledge, and the ability to learn from the past.”

  Novan said nothing more, turning instead to his own reading, leaving Jakob staring at the book. With nothing left to do, he flipped it open and started to read.

  Jakob was startled awake by a sound in the library. He knew he’d been dreaming but could remember little of it. His dreams had been strange of late, and this was no different...

  There was a woman, tall and pale and mysterious, and she called to him. She struggled in a strange wall-less room. Golden eyes settled on him, and he felt a vibration echo through him, pulling at his still-throbbing head. Jakob struggled to pull his eyes away from her gaze and found a part of him tear as he did. The vibration slowly abated, and he shivered, fear coursing through him.

  Yet it was not these things he found strange. Rather, it was the memory of a smell, one of roses and lavender with a hint of rain, a smell that was tainted in his dreams by an underlying odor, a foul rotting stench. He woke up scratching his nose to clear it.

  Who dreams of smells?

  Something had startled him awake, yet as he peered across the library, he saw nothing. Footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and when he turned toward the sound, he saw the top of Novan’s peppered head appear on the other side of the stacks of read and unread books, little changed from the day before. Only the historian truly understood his system. Jakob wondered what Novan had been doing during the day, knowing he sought an audience with the Magi.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’ll finish the shelving you asked of me.”

  “I didn’t doubt that you would,” Novan said as he approached the table. His soft voice carried through the library. He looked down at the book in front of Jakob and reached his long, slender hand down to finger the page Jakob had been reading. “An interesting place to stop,” he noted.

  Jakob started reading out of curiosity, wondering what pla
ce Novan referenced. He understood only a little of it. “It... is difficult.”

  Novan nodded his head slightly. “From everything I’ve learned, it was a difficult time. What have you learned?”

  Jakob could come up with very little. “War, I think. The language was difficult to understand.”

  “The language becomes familiar the more you read.” He patted Jakob’s shoulder. “Your father did well in teaching you to read. Few men have patience to decipher this.” It was rare praise. Novan motioned to the text. “It was the last great war. Most have now forgotten.” He scratched at the side of his head and fingered one of his long ears. “The why of it is a puzzle and has always been puzzling. Some called it the War of Confusion.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Novan looked at him, his eyes hinting at gold today and piercing. “Most wars have an event which precludes hostilities, but none have been found to explain this war. The historians who first recorded it could not explain the reasons behind it.” His gaze fell to the pages again. “Yet each nation found cause to attack another.”

  “War of Confusion. How did it end?”

  “How do all wars end?” Novan asked. “Destruction. Death. The earliest Urmahne struggled against this, and if not for their guidance, the repercussions would have been greater.” His eyes took on a faraway look, almost as if he remembered it. “Still, there was much loss. Too much for a war without reason.”

  He stopped for a while, and Jakob thought it all the answer he would offer. Finally, though, he continued. “This book explains much.” Novan motioned over the thin leather book. “Yet leaves much out. The Magi, thinking to help, chose an ambassador, a man, one they named Uniter, a peacemaker for the people. He was said to be the embodiment of the Urmahne, and it was upon him to restore the peace.”

  “Did he?” The book suddenly became more interesting.

  Novan laughed. In the library, Novan rarely smiled and almost never laughed. Books were serious business to him. “Truly, the answer to your question depends on your outlook.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “The Uniter tried his hand at a diplomatic solution but found few receptive. He was forced to find another path to peace.” Novan scrubbed a hand across his head before continuing. “Those he could not reason with, he killed, until he found others who were more reasonable.” The slight quirk of his mouth returned. “It was a different diplomacy than the Magi expected.”

  Jakob stared at the book. Did it describe all of that? “Did it work?”

  Novan regarded him strangely while twisting a dark metal ring on his finger. “It did. The Magi couldn’t stomach the price. Violence to end violence. They felt it violated the Urmahne promise made to the people.” He stopped then and stood, gathering his robes about him carefully and scratching at his face and touching his ear again.

  “Has there been a Uniter since?”

  Novan considered before answering. “The ambassador of that time was not the first, but there have been none since.”

  Jakob sat silently, considering what he had learned, and slowly forming his question. “Is that why the Magi have come to Thealon?”

  Novan arched his eyebrows before tapping his nose thoughtfully. “There is much violence in the world now, as you have seen. If the Deshmahne press north...” He shook his head. “And other tidings, worse than Deshmahne.” Novan did not elaborate. “Perhaps they have decided to exert their influence upon the world once again. As I said before, there was a time when the Magi were a part of the world, when they were as numerous as the Teachers.” He smiled as if thinking of the scholars amused him. Many had studied at the great University in Vasha. “But most nations have reduced their guidance over time.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I have not been granted an audience. I am afraid the Mage Elder is none too fond of me.”

  “Why?” Jakob asked.

  “There is some unpleasant history between us.”

  Jakob’s eyes widened in surprise. What history would Novan share with the Magi that would make them upset at the historian? “What now?”

  Novan inhaled slowly and looked down at his hand. “There is something I must take care of.”

  “The Magi?”

  Novan shook his head. “No. More important that the Magi.”

  Jakob frowned at him, wondering what could be more important than the Magi, but Novan said nothing.

  The grassy yard outside the barracks was bright from the late afternoon sun, today merely warm and not the steamy heat of passing summer. There was a scent of fall roses to the air though Jakob had been unable to find them. Other scents, earthy and wet, mingled with the floral scent, creating a not unpleasant aroma.

  It had been several days since he had seen Braden in the practice yard, and he’d hoped to find him. With everything Novan had him doing, he felt isolated and hoped to have a moment with his friend.

  Instead of Braden, he found an older man, his white hair closely shorn, moving quickly through catahs swinging a practice sword fluidly. He wore a tattered shirt, more stains than not across it, and loose-fitting breeches that did not hide the fact that, though the man may have years behind him, he still had much strength in him. Nearing, Jakob watched and knew the man was good. He moved in a dance and one that would be deadly for his opponent.

  Scottan had once explained what he did when he practiced alone, though Jakob had never understood. “Let your mind go blank, an empty sky, no thoughts or distractions. Let the movements consume you, let the catahs lead the way. It will flow then.”

  Jakob had laughed. “The catahs will never flow for me.”

  Scottan had smiled. “It is because you fight them. Your mind is too full. All you have to do is let go.”

  He had never seen this man before and wondered if he was someone in the Ur. There were many retired Ur that lived in the city. Could he be Denraen? Jakob shook the thought away. The man was too old to be of the Denraen.

  The man looked over at him then, pausing in mid-swing, his body hunched in an attack crouch. Clear blue eyes fixed on him, looking him over, examining him. Jakob looked away, unsure what else to do.

  “Are you here to watch, or to practice?” the man asked, his voice rough.

  Jakob forced himself to look up and meet the man’s gaze. It softened, but only slightly. Shrugging, he walked over to the rack of practice swords and hefted one, feeling an ache in his arm again with the movement. It still burned from when he had grabbed his great-father’s sword. Wincing briefly, he willed himself to ignore it.

  Turning to face the man, he finally answered. “Practice.”

  Now that he had a sword, he had better be able to use it.

  Chapter Four

  Jakob looked up at the old man, his breathing labored and body doubled over. He had not seen Novan for nearly a week, though this was not unusual. Jakob still performed his expected duties. Mornings and early afternoon were spent shelving and pushing through the thin book on the ancient language Novan had given him. He understood little more than before he had started and had learned nothing about the naming of his sword.

  Each day for the past two weeks, he had made time to come to the yard, and each day, he found the old man practicing alone. Each day, he had asked Jakob if he was there to watch or to practice. Each day, Jakob had shrugged and grabbed a practice sword, deciding to learn how to use a sword now that he owned one.

  He knew he did not push the man—he never broke a sweat—yet the man seemed content to work with him, never saying more than brief instructions, never offering his name and never asking Jakob’s. The old man was amazing with the sword but patient, as well, giving brief demonstrations of catahs and guiding Jakob through them before they sparred. His sides ached from their practice, and he wondered if he might have a cracked rib or two.

  He straightened slowly and looked over at the old man. It was warm today, the result of the fluctuating Chrysia autumn, and the man didn’t wear a shirt. A large scar crosse
d the entirety of his chest, destroying one nipple, which had grown angry red with the workout. There were other scars, as well, too many to count, so that he seemed covered with scar and sinewy muscle. A dark tattoo crossed his chest, working alongside the brutal scar, an intricate design to it that Jakob could not decipher.

  The man still didn’t breathe hard. Jakob’s own breaths were heavy and loud, and he was wet with the heat of his exercise.

  “Better today,” the old man offered, his voice rough and an accent to his words that Jakob had been unable to place. The words were uncommon praise.

  He shook his head, frustrated that he didn’t improve, and knowing his movements were still too forced and rough. His head throbbed as it had every day after the workout, a slow beating he felt deep within his head, almost pulsing. It was nearly distracting.

  Jakob had learned many catahs from the old man and actually knew how to defend most of them, putting names to forms he once thought useless. The old man had shown him otherwise. Putting the knowledge into practice was difficult for him.

  The old man quirked a half-smile. “Each day, you come. Do you have other duties?” he asked, steely blue eyes staring at him.

  Jakob wiped the sweat from his brow and rubbed his temple. The throbbing was starting to recede. “Some,” he answered truthfully.

  The old man nodded and grunted. It was all the response he would give. “Some. Tomorrow you are with me.”

  Jakob smiled, appreciating the comment and knowing that he would have come to the yard anyway. Having the old man’s permission to work with him made him feel welcome in a way that he had longed for, but rarely known.

  The old man pulled his shirt over his head and strolled away from the yard, his gait a catlike grace.

  Jakob hesitated, considering going to the barracks; he hadn’t seen Braden in a while, and the festival was coming soon, but he wouldn’t bother him while he worked with the Ur.

  He could return to the library, but with the daylight remaining, he didn’t really want to be indoors. Besides, he should delay a visit no longer.