The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob had begun to look forward to his time in the yard and the lessons. Now he wondered if he had seen the last of his instructor.

  He walked over to the covered rack of wooden swords and grabbed one, hefting its weight and ignoring the ache in his arm and his head. The sensation was familiar now, ever since the attack upon the Ur, but other than a mild discomfort, it didn’t seem to affect him or slow him. Moving to a now-familiar place on the lawn, he crouched into his starting stance before swinging the sword through the catahs he knew, methodically moving from one to the next, always thinking of their defense as the old man had taught him.

  He smiled to himself as he moved, knowing that he was more fluid now than he had been and remembering how jerky and cumbersome the movements had first seemed. He could tell an improvement, if only slight, and was pleased because it had only been a few weeks. It was something he knew Braden would understand; strangely, he had not yet told Braden of his time spent in the practice yard.

  Moving through the catahs again, he changed them this time, trying to anticipate a defense and counter it before swinging in an imaginary attack again. He felt a drop of sweat work its way down his brow as his breaths began to grow heavier. His head began to ache, buzzing almost, as he worked. His sword work may have improved slightly, but his conditioning left much to be desired.

  Finally, he stopped and looked around the yard and realized that it was still empty. He decided that the old man wasn’t going to come today and walked back to the rack when he heard the old man’s voice from behind him.

  “Giving up on me, boy?” the old man asked, his voice rough and the accent still untraceable.

  Jakob spun quickly, surprised, confident that no one had been in the yard only moments before. The old man stood casually before him, his dirtied shirt slung over his shoulder, baring his scarred and tattooed chest. The pale scars looked grislier in the overcast light, and Jakob looked up quickly so as not to stare. The old man seemed unperturbed.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” he answered.

  The old man looked at him strangely for a long moment before answering. “You’re early.” It was all he said, but Jakob felt as if there was a question left unasked.

  He looked back toward the library, unsure how to answer, as the old man slid past him to grab a wooden sword. “Today is three-one,” the man explained, moving into their usual places and tossing his dirty shirt to the ground.

  Jakob moved to stand next to him, readying his stance and watched as the old man demonstrated the movements of the catah. Knowing that he would next be expected to replicate them, Jakob tried to concentrate in spite of the tired buzzing in his head.

  The old man finished the movement, and Jakob followed, working cautiously through the unfamiliar stances, swinging his sword deliberately as he struggled to remember what he had seen. Each day, it was the same, but each day, he forced himself to remember the new movements as he was shown more.

  “Good,” the old man offered. “Now the defense.”

  Jakob was expected to offer the attack, moving through the catah as the old man demonstrated how to fend off the advance. The second time through the catah was always easier, and he began to feel how the sword was meant to move—the flow to the movement, in spite of meeting the resistance the old man offered. Finishing the catah, the defense was always shown twice, giving him the opportunity to again work on his attack, and he moved quickly through the motions one more time, his wooden sword moving faster now and the smack of wood on wood more rapid.

  As he finished, Jakob moved into the defense. He always struggled with the defense, finding that the old man could move too quickly for him, and he was always trying to hurry to catch the next swing of the wooden blade, but feeling as if he was just a hair too slow. It was how he acquired his bruises each day.

  Jakob stepped into the ready stance and waited for the old man to follow. The old man readied himself and began his attack quickly, his own sword a blur as he worked through the movements that Jakob had only just learned. Jakob struggled with his focus. He needed to follow the movements to know how to counter, but he fumbled as the sound of footsteps running toward them caught his attention.

  He felt a hard sting as the old man’s wooden sword caught his left arm, and he dropped his sword. Ignoring it, he looked to see who had come even as he heard the old man tell him, “You must never lose your focus.” His voice was stern, not menacing. “You can shift your focus, but never lose it.”

  Jakob nodded, mumbling an apology, before looking again to see who had run up. A young soldier, his face stained with fine blond stubble, stood panting. The boy wasn’t someone he knew.

  “General,” the boy gasped, his voice high and breathy, “I was sent for you. You’re needed.”

  The old man nodded and returned his sword to the rack, patting Jakob lightly on his injured arm.

  Jakob looked down at his dropped sword before the boy’s words sank in.

  General?

  The Ur didn’t have anyone ranking above captain in Chrysia. The general was in the capital of Thealon.

  That only left the Denraen.

  A memory came to him then, a memory of the Denraen and their arrival. They had said something about the general to Novan.

  He groaned as he muttered, “General?”

  The old man’s scars and his sword skill suddenly took on a different light. The old man smiled at him as he walked back over his way.

  Jakob forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. “I’ve been wasting your time,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Though he knew he should, he still didn’t feel remorse; the old man had taught him much.

  The general laughed, the first time Jakob had heard the sound from him. “Time is never wasted teaching those who truly wish to learn,” he told him. He started off, the young guardsman in tow, before looking back. “Tomorrow, we’ll continue,” he said in a somewhat demanding tone.

  Jakob could do nothing more than nod as he watched the old man walk away, dozens of questions suddenly springing to mind.

  Sitting in the library, Jakob’s mind wandered, and he let it, watching the shadows shift through the small window, seeing the afternoon passing and realizing that he was expected back in the yard to face the old man. The general, he forced himself to think.

  His thoughts jumped to all the things he had ever said to the man, all the things he had left unsaid. Could he have discovered his identity sooner had he asked the man’s name? Had he seemed more than foolish, a simpleton seeking knowledge of something he should not?

  He had hoped Braden would offer some help, at least share a laugh and make him feel better about the whole thing, but his friend had not been at the barracks last night. Jakob wasn’t sure what he would have told Braden anyway. Or if I would have told him anything, he realized. How to explain his foolishness?

  He remembered the first time he had seen the old man without his shirt, the sight of the ugly scar crossing his chest, the strange tattoo, and had wondered how he’d acquired such a scar and survived. The Magi, he now knew. Theirs was a healing different from that used by other healers. There were no flowers or elixirs or aromas to their healing.

  Jakob could recall each scar upon the man and wondered now about them. The story of each would be worth listening. Like those about Jarren Gildeun, there had been stories of the Denraen when he was growing up, and he knew the general of the Denraen would have his share.

  Other questions came to him. Why had the general been there that night at the festival? Who had he been speaking with... and why had he been asked to carry something north? Wasn’t his responsibility to the Magi?

  Sitting there, he hadn’t heard Novan come in, nor heard him approach. A hand on his shoulder made him sit up suddenly, and as he did, the ache in his head became a steady throb. It started pounding as Novan squeezed before letting go, and the pounding quickened to nearly a buzz. He rubbed at his temple, frowning, and stood to let Novan sit.

  Novan looked down at
the table, considering the book that lay open, before looking up and considering Jakob. He still struggled through the thin text the historian had given him, the ancient language proving difficult to decipher, and he had not come upon anything that helped him understand his sword any better.

  Jakob worked his temple, hoping to ease the pain buzzing within.

  “Something is bothering you.” Novan’s airy voice sounded concerned.

  Jakob sighed, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, a flush coming to his cheeks. “I’ve been a fool without knowing, and my folly has recently been shown to me.”

  Novan stared at him curiously, his eyes almost a deep yellow today, the color seeming to shift each day, varying shades of gold and yellows, before shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to offer me more than that.”

  “In the practice yard, each afternoon, I have been—”

  “You work with Endric.” He shrugged. “There’s no folly there if he will have you.”

  “With the general?” Jakob asked. He should have known that Novan would know how he spent his afternoons. He was as well informed as the priests.

  Novan smiled at him broadly, his teeth glittering in the soft glow of the lamps. “I have known Endric, and he teaches whom he chooses. You were willing. It was enough for him.”

  Jakob was sure he stared at Novan strangely before answering. “How long have you known?”

  “Since the first,” he answered simply.

  “He must think it foolish for one like me to try and learn from him, the leader of the Denraen!” His head now ached for a different reason.

  Novan stood and brought an arm around him, guiding him toward the stairs. “It’s no folly teaching those who truly wish to learn,” Novan informed.

  The words echoed those he’d heard from the general, and he relaxed somewhat.

  “Do not let it bother you,” Novan said, dismissing his concern. “At least, don’t let it bother you now. I need you to come with me. There’s someplace we must be.” He started toward the library door. Jakob had little choice but to follow.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve discovered why the Magi came to the city. Today, there is going to be a choosing of a delegate. I would like to be there for this, and perhaps offer my suggestions.”

  They strode quickly from the library and out onto the palace grounds. The sky overhead was cloudy, and there was a smell of rain and decay in the air. It reminded Jakob of the day of the raider attack. Novan kept a brisk pace, his long legs leading them to the palace, and Jakob hurried to keep up. Their path took them toward the temple where the Magi roomed while staying in Chrysia.

  Jakob looked over at the tall, circular building; it was hard to miss its tower rising into the sky. A replica of the true Tower, and a visible reminder of the nameless gods, the temple loomed over everything in the city, as it did all of Thealon. Nothing taller was allowed to be built. The palace had been set near the temple. It was oft wondered if it was for better guidance of the Council or so the priests could keep a closer watch.

  Strangely, the doors to the temple were closed. Rather than inviting believers inside to share prayer and meditation, they were shuttered. Jakob wondered if they were closed because of the Magi presence, though they had been left open in the prior days. They kept walking, as if toward the palace.

  Nearing the palace doors, a boom erupted from behind them.

  Jakob spun in time to see an explosion rock the eastern wall of the temple. Stone shook and crumbled in a thunderous crash, dust and debris flying across the lawn as a massive fire spewed forth smoke and ash. An acrid scent hung in the air, and several smaller explosions shook the temple again.

  Everyone was frozen, unmoving in shock, but slowly, the dust settled, and a gust of wind swept the smoke away. The temple doors burst open and priests streamed out, many covering their faces, and most coughing.

  Father?

  The thought hit him as he watched the priests come forth. He started forward, but a strong hand on his shoulder restrained him. Jakob looked back to see Novan holding him.

  “It’s not safe, Jakob.” Concern was etched in the soft features of his face and the tight squint of his eyes.

  “My father,” he cried, coughing as he struggled to speak. Smoke was coming out of the temple in huge plumes now, and the palace yard was heavy with it.

  “I know,” Novan said. “We must wait to see him come out.”

  There was logic in what he said, but Jakob’s mind wasn’t thinking logically. He had lost his mother and his brother. Would the gods now take his father from him too?

  As if in answer, another massive explosion suddenly rocked the temple, making the earth shake with its force. The top of the tower fell forward with a thunderous crack, raining down huge stones and chunks of rock as the upper floors of the temple fell in a loud groan of snapping stone. Dust billowed up from the ground before slowly settling, and by that time, smoke streamed out from the open doors and windows.

  The priests nearest the doors screamed as they were thrown forward onto the lawn or crushed beneath fall rock. A wave of heat ballooned outward and forced Jakob back a step. He brought an arm to his face as a shield while his eyes watered and his nose clogged with smoke and ash. His ears rang slightly, and everything had a muffled quality to it.

  He felt Novan pulling him backward, away from the temple, away from his father. Jakob struggled, but the historian was stronger than he looked and easily pulled Jakob toward the palace. He kicked, trying to break free to run to his father, but could not.

  “What is this, historian?”

  The voice was strange, a slight lilting quality to the words, and Jakob squinted against tears and smoke to see. A Mage stood before them, his dark robe hanging around him and his bearded face annoyed. Jakob had never seen one of the Magi before, and his watering eyes and racing heart made it difficult to appreciate him.

  Novan released him, and Jakob staggered forward before catching himself. The historian turned toward the Mage. “An explosion, Haerlin,” Novan said. “The temple.”

  The Mage looked at Novan, his slightly arched eyebrows raised in a curious expression and his dark hair fluttering in the slight breeze blowing through the yard. Mage Haerlin reached a hand up and scratched his nose before smoothing his dark robe. “An accident?”

  Novan snorted. “I think not. What is there to explode in the temple?”

  “You think this planned?”

  Novan nodded.

  “To what end?”

  “Perhaps none, perhaps it was only an accident,” he started. “Yet an explosion in the Urmahne temple only days after the Deshmahne priest was seen. I believe you are staying within the temple?” Novan didn’t pause to see the Mage’s nod in response. “I think it more than coincidental.”

  “The Deshmahne was not seen,” Haerlin objected.

  “Only sensed?” Novan asked. The Mage raised his eyebrows with the question. “This one saw him.” Novan motioned toward Jakob.

  “Him?” the Mage asked, eyes flashing to Jakob before returning to Novan. “The High Priest was here?”

  Novan nodded.

  The Mage turned his full attention to Jakob. Jakob could feel the weight of his gaze and couldn’t turn away. It felt as though his mind was being rifled through, as if his soul was bared, and he blinked, suddenly dizzy. His head pounded, and there was a brief sensation of movement as he felt himself falling. A hand tried to catch him, but it was not enough, and he sank to the ground as darkness took him.

  Why?

  The question was screamed within his mind but went unanswered. Why would the gods do this to his family again?

  A thought struck him as he passed out, a memory. It was his father’s voice, and it spoke into his mind, almost mocking him. “There are always answers,” he had said. “They just may not be to the questions you thought you were asking.”

  With that, Jakob faded into darkness.

  Chapter Seven

&nbs
p; Roelle stood in the debris from the explosion. The destruction of the temple had happened rapidly. Had she not been working with Endric and the other Denraen soldiers, she might’ve been within the temple as well.

  “They intended for us to be caught in the explosion,” Haerlin said, studying the rubble.

  Dust hung suspended in the air and didn’t seem as if it would settle. It created a haze, a blackish fog that drifted, mixing with a bitter sort of stink, something that she’d never smelled before, but there was a familiarity to it.

  Roelle used her Mage ability, pulling on the motes of dust from the air, drawing on the power the Magi referred to as manehlin. Haerlin glanced over at her, his mouth pinched in a frown, but she ignored it. He should have been the one to remove the dust so the priests could better see where others had fallen.

  “They wouldn’t be attacking the Magi directly, would they?” Roelle asked.

  “You saw what happened on the road to the city. They failed then, but they nearly succeeded this time.” Haerlin’s eyes seem to take in the line of priests making their way out of the remains of the temple, visible now that Roelle had settled the fog.

  So many were lost. Roelle didn’t count the bodies, heartbroken that so many could die so quickly. And for what? If this was the Deshmahne, what had they proven? The Deshmahne claimed to have power to reach the gods, but that wasn’t what the Magi knew to be true. What did so much killing accomplish?

  She forced herself to watch as broken and bloodied bodies were pulled free. How many people had lost those they cared about? How many faithful to the Urmahne had now fallen?

  The answer came easily, as did the anger that accompanied it. Too many. “If there is any question about our purpose here, this should solve it.”

  Haerlin shook his head. “No. If this does anything, it makes me wonder if perhaps your uncle was right.”

  Haerlin had mentioned that before, but what had her uncle suggested? What was there that the Magi knew that might be able to defeat something like this? If the Deshmahne were willing to attack like this, what prevented them from taking such violence further? What prevented them from reaching their city?