The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  The creature stalked over to him, staring at him with golden eyes that seemed to see through him. Then blackness overtook him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The attack came quickly.

  Roelle sat atop her mount, staring quietly at the stars overhead, wondering where Endric sent his Denraen and why Jakob had traveled with them. What purpose did the general have splitting his troops? Endric didn’t act without planning. There was more to this mission than the general was letting on, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Something important, she suspected. The Denraen would need all the men they had if the raiders attacked.

  A quick cry of warning suddenly silenced was followed by the sound of swords unsheathed by the Denraen. The horses stopped, and the Denraen on the perimeter shouted orders that were passed back. Near her, Haerlin turned his head nervously about, looking out into the dark and straining to see anything that might be hiding. Still, nothing moved.

  It was the historian who saw it first. “To the north,” he whispered, stretching his arm out in warning.

  Roelle looked in the direction the man pointed and barely saw a blurring of darkness. The night was nearly a complete black; heavy clouds had rolled in and covered the half-moon that had been guiding them earlier in the night. The raiders had waited and chosen the perfect time for an attack. She wondered briefly how the historian could have seen it before she had but shook off the thought as a strange new cry split the night.

  The shadows morphed into the clear shapes of the raiders, and they were soon upon them. One jumped straight toward Haerlin, dark tattoos twining down his arms seemed to swirl independent of the man’s movements.

  Roelle had her sword in hand before she knew it.

  It was instinctive; the motion of grabbing her hilt and unsheathing the sword happening more quickly than she could think. There had been many times she had wondered how she would react if faced with a real battle. Would her Urmahne instincts trump her sword training? And now it was upon her and she had reacted.

  The man moved quickly, and Roelle barely stopped his blade from decapitating the Mage Elder. Haerlin’s face contorted in a look of shock and fear at the attack, yet the Elder said nothing.

  Roelle took a quick breath, slowing her thoughts as she’d been taught, and parried the man as she leaped from her saddle.

  On the ground, she stepped easily through familiar forms, blocking the Deshmahne attack. This was different from practice with Endric. The stakes were higher. She could easily die. Possibly worse, though, was that she could kill.

  Her hesitation was enough for the man to flicker an attack at her, a quick feint followed by a thrust at her stomach to disembowel her. The sword sliced the fabric of her tunic as she slid to the side, and the Deshmahne smiled as he stepped back for another attack.

  A sudden wave of hopelessness and fear hit her, almost a physical attack and unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  In spite of what Haerlin believed about the Deshmahne and their abilities, the rumors were true. Even knowing what they might be able to do, it was one thing to be warned about such a possibility, knowing the Deshmahne capable of a strange emotional attack, and quite another to be faced with it.

  Still, when Roelle was chosen to accompany Haerlin on this journey, her uncle Alriyn had seen to it that her training had included defense against something like this. Had he known what she might face?

  The Deshmahne was not attempting subtlety, else he may have had more success. It was a surge of emotion that slammed into her, relentless, and pressing upon her and into her. It had an oily, slick feeling, a dark current of fear, and its presence made her stomach roil with nausea. She felt despair, pain, and terror come from it, and she shivered. It was like nothing Roelle had ever felt, and she wanted it away from her.

  She honed her concentration as her uncle had taught, forcing her will against that which pressed upon her and pushed. There was a long sense of resistance as the emotions tried to slip past her concentration, but Roelle focused harder and felt the emotions slide away. She staggered back as the pressure left her.

  The Deshmahne cocked his head and sniffed the air a moment. “A Mage?” he hissed, frowning as he eyed the sword in Roelle’s hand.

  Roelle didn’t answer, instead darting forward, nearly a blur, and slashing at the Deshmahne, quickly severing his head. A surprised look was frozen on the dark priest’s face as he died.

  She heard a gasp from Haerlin nearby. She couldn’t let it slow her or others would die. Roelle wouldn’t allow that to happen while she was capable of doing something. Too often, her people stood idly by, waving the Urmahne beliefs as a blanket defense of inaction while others suffered. Her parents had died because of it.

  A shout of alarm cried out from behind her, and she turned to see two raiders trying to sneak up on her. They were not Deshmahne, and they fell quickly. She didn’t stop or rest, turning to the sound of wood clacking and splintering nearby. The historian sat atop his horse, barely keeping another attacker at bay with a staff, protecting the delegate Comity. He spun it well and smoothly, but the attacker was Deshmahne, and the historian was not fast enough.

  Roelle put herself between the dark priest and the historian. This Deshmahne was more heavily tattooed than the other, and she wondered what that meant. The tattoos crept up bare arms, onto his face and bald head. Shadows seemed to shimmer and swirl around the Deshmahne, distinct from the overcast night. Hatred radiated from the man.

  A wave of emotions oozed toward her, similar to the last attack, and she deflected it nearly instantly. It was easier this time, or perhaps she was simply better prepared. Either way, the strange attack didn’t hit her quite the same way.

  The Deshmahne smiled darkly, and Roelle barely saw the sword.

  The Deshmahne moved unlike anyone she’d seen.

  She was lucky to block the attack. It felt more like her sword got in the way rather than her placing it properly. Was she skilled enough to defeat the priest?

  Another attack came, and again, she was barely fast enough. Roelle followed her training, taking slow shallow breaths to find her focus, and moved from defense to an attack. The Deshmahne blocked it easily.

  I cannot defeat him like this.

  The dark priest seemed to sense her thoughts and smiled again, more a sneer this time. A blanket of emotion swept toward her again, and she felt it slam into her focus, nearly unsettling her.

  The Deshmahne were rumored to convert those they captured, many by force. Would she be forced to convert? What would Alriyn think? He’d been more than an uncle to her, almost a father figure, and Roelle knew he’d be devastated and disappointed by this failure. It was probably best that her parents weren’t alive to see this happen to her. No family should see such failure.

  Her arm sagged, and her sword drooped while fatigue settled into her and with it, an urge to surrender. She couldn’t win. Best to let the Deshmahne finish her quickly.

  These are not my thoughts!

  Roelle shook her head as she recognized the foreign influence for what it was.

  This Deshmahne was dangerous and had almost succeeded. The dark priest flashed forward in a lightning attack too quick for her to stop with a sword.

  Roelle acted without thinking.

  She opened herself to her Magi abilities and used the manehlin surrounding him to freeze the Deshmahne in place. It happened faster than thought, faster than the priest could move.

  Roelle flicked her sword forward in a quick attack that left the Deshmahne bleeding heavily from two wounds, dark blood pumping from them, until Roelle released him and he fell noisily to the ground. The dark priest spasmed briefly before falling still, and even then, the tattoos on his arms and face seemed to shimmer.

  Around her, other small battles raged. Roelle moved in to attack. There were no other Deshmahne, only raiders, and they fell almost too easily for her. Then there were no more attackers, and as quickly as it had started, the attack ended.

  Roelle
looked up into the night and saw that the moon had come back out from behind the clouds. She tried to catch her breath and slow her racing mind, though was not sure she was ready to process what had just happened. The dying sounds of battle echoed around her, and the pungent metallic odor of blood was strong in the crisp night air. There were occasional cries of pain, but on the whole, the night grew silent.

  Roelle looked to see who still stood. How many raiders had attacked? How many Deshmahne?

  After her confrontations with the two dark priests, she had a new respect for Endric and worried how many Denraen survived the attack. The historian sat atop his horse nearby, staring at her strangely. The delegate remained near Haerlin, an unused sword in his hand. Haerlin would not meet her gaze.

  Roelle knew why.

  She was Magi. And she had killed.

  She wasn’t sure she was ready for the consequences. There would be many. To the Magi, violence went against the core of the Urmahne tradition, and she had just violated the most central tenet of her people’s faith by taking another’s life. And more than one man’s life.

  Roelle wiped the sweat from her brow with a sigh as she looked around, taking count. She owed it to those whose lives she ended. Scattered on the ground were nearly a dozen men, raiders and Deshmahne both, lying dead or dying in awkward positions. The pale light of the moon cast strange shadows such that the night flickered around her, and she shivered before turning away. She wasn’t sure she could stare upon what she’d done.

  Had there been a choice? The attack had come quickly and silently. The raiders had been upon them with little notice, and if Roelle hadn’t acted, Haerlin at least would have died. Likely the historian, too, though the man had managed reasonably well with his staff.

  It wasn’t the fact that she’d killed that bothered her, though it did bother her. That had been instilled within her as a child of the Urmahne. Rather, it was the unsettling ease with which she had done it. The sword had felt an extension of her arm. She had barely needed to use her Magi abilities during the battle, and then only when facing one of the dark Deshmahne.

  Would I have survived otherwise?

  It was difficult to admit, but she didn’t know.

  How many Denraen would have died had Roelle not acted? Those men had needed her skills today, however she’d come by them.

  The Magi had long known they had certain physical abilities—innate reflexes, quick healing, long life—and Roelle had learned there was something more to them as she acquired skill with the sword. This was still more than she had expected. Did any of the Elders know how easily they could kill? Was this the reason Haerlin wouldn’t meet her eyes?

  A hand upon her shoulder startled her, and she spun quickly, flashing her sword up before her. It collided with another blade, and the clang reverberated into the growing silence of the night.

  “Easy,” the general said, lowering his sword.

  Roelle brought hers down to her side and shook her head. What would have happened had any other than the general come up to her then? “I’m sorry.”

  Endric reached his hand back out and settled it on her shoulder, giving it a long squeeze before releasing. With it, a bit of the tension went out of her, and she sighed again before sheathing her sword.

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” the general said. A small gash oozed blood down his face. He cast his dark eyes around the ground, quickly taking count of the men Roelle had killed. “Your Elder would have died without you. The historian too. And many more of my men.”

  “I know.” It didn’t make the consequences of what she had done any easier.

  Endric seemed to understand, and for that, Roelle felt another sense of relief. “The gods will not look upon you less favorably. I follow the Urmahne, and I am Denraen. They are not exclusive.” The general paused, giving the words a chance to be heard. “It’s a shame what the Magi apprentices fail to learn,” he said quietly. “Consider this one of your lessons, one that you will someday understand all too well.”

  Another joined them, slinking in from the darkness, tall and darkly cloaked. The historian was slender yet carried himself with confidence. Roelle had not heard him dismount. The man moved like a thief. There was an air of mystery about him that Roelle found intriguing, not the least of which was his utter lack of fear before Haerlin. It was not often that a man would challenge a Mage Elder.

  “How many?” the historian asked.

  Endric shrugged. “Enough.” The look in his eyes said that he had a complete count. Roelle wondered briefly why he did not share it.

  Novan smiled tightly, but there was no malice to the expression, merely a barely hidden amusement. He tilted his head and scratched at one ear. “How many Denraen were lost?”

  Endric narrowed his eyes, and Novan took a slight step back. “Enough.”

  Roelle wasn’t sure if it was an answer or a warning. Probably both.

  “Were they successful?” the historian asked.

  Endric frowned and looked out into the night before shaking his head. “I sent the trunk north in time.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Endric frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “But you have an idea.”

  He nodded. “Possibly.” He looked around then shook his head. “I hope so.”

  “What was this about?” Roelle asked. The loss of life that both sides had experienced was more than she had ever seen, and the general thought it all for only a warning? If so, it was a warning well received. Would she have believed the danger the Deshmahne posed if she had not seen it?

  “Testing a diversion,” Novan said. “But not only that.”

  Endric looked to him a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

  Roelle looked between the two men. “What?”

  “The High Priest had another goal in mind, I think. This was only a feint,” Endric said.

  “What goal?”

  Roelle turned to see Haerlin come walking up to them, Elder Bothar at his side. Those of the other camp had joined just before the battle started. It had added another element of confusion to the attack. Bothar looked from Novan to Endric to Roelle. Haerlin almost purposefully avoided her gaze, staring at Endric as if intent not to look elsewhere.

  The historian seemed to take it all in and chuckled lightly. In the night air, the sound carried, and Haerlin turned to face him. “What goal?” Haerlin repeated.

  “The same goal the High Priest has elsewhere, I suppose, but one he can more easily accomplish if Endric is not in the city.” Novan paused, glancing to Endric. “I think he delayed us enough to get past us so that he could reach the capital first.”

  Haerlin arched his eyebrows and frowned. It was Bothar who spoke. “You mean—”

  “The Deshmahne will do what they’ve done in the south, and what they have done in Gom Aaldia, and have now attempted in Thealon. There is only one way for them to take what I suspect they are after. I fear they seek to infiltrate your city.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alriyn, Second Eldest on the Council of Magi, barely heard the knock at the door. It was little more than a soft tap. He stood quickly and opened it a crack. Karrin stood in the dark hallway on the other side with the shadows of the hall masking her expression. He ushered her in quickly before closing the door again.

  She smiled at him slightly, tilting her head as she looked around before taking a seat on one of the hard wooden chairs that lined the walls. Little about his study was not hard. Books stacked about made it seem cluttered as well.

  “You sent for me?” she asked, her voice soft.

  He looked at her a moment before answering. Her dark hair hung unkempt at her shoulders, no attempt made to style it. She was not one for such frivolousness. Her gray eyes probed him, waiting for answers.

  “The delegates travel to the city now,” he told her.

  She nodded.

  He had expected she would know as much. Counted on it, really. “Nobles, all,” he continued, shaking
his head. The idea still worried him. Would it be enough?

  “They were chosen by those on the Council, Alriyn,” Karrin soothed.

  He nodded in response. He knew they had. He trusted the motives of those sent, though not all agreed with him. “After what I saw, I still think we need to send the Magi—”

  “We have tried. Not all are interested in leaving the city like you.””

  “With the Deshmahne moving in the south, and these rumors to the north—”

  “Rumors only,” Karrin said.

  He cast his gaze around his small study, looking over the piles of books and fragments of texts. “You didn’t see what I saw,” he said, not looking at her. “You didn’t see the fear in the people’s eyes.” He shook his head sadly. “The towns were empty. Mining towns, still with wealth to find.”

  “We don’t know for sure...” Karrin began.

  “Do you know that I’ve spent my life searching for answers? I’ve wanted to know what we overlooked in the mahne. There has to be something we’ve missed, something more to the prophecy.” Their most precious text, what they referred to as the mahne, was clear in the prophecy and the need to maintain peace, but less clear on many other things—such as the process of choosing the Uniter. “With everything now taking place, I don’t disagree with Jostephon that we must exert more influence, but what if this requires more?”

  That had been what bothered him the most. Not the idea of the delegates. He recognized the truth in Jostephon’s plan, and the need to begin reasserting their influence would take time. But he worried that they would need more than delegates. Perhaps more than the Magi. What if they needed to find the answer to the prophecy?

  Karrin looked at him a long time before speaking. “Why did you ask me here today, Alriyn?”

  “What if this is wrong? What if we delay—”

  “The Eldest knows the mahne better than anyone,” she said.