The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  A Deshmahne.

  Jakob needed to get away.

  The guard spoke again, ignoring the comment. “He’s a thief too. Snuck away with the priest’s sword. A valuable bauble.”

  One of the men in front of him glanced back at him again. His eyes widened as he saw first Jakob’s height, then his hair, eyes, and finally the sword. The man nudged his friend who looked back curiously, and his breath caught.

  Without warning, he felt a hard whack across his calves. The old man behind him brandished his cane and cocked an arm back for a second strike. From behind him now, one of the men yelled, “Here! The killer is here!”

  Jakob panicked, trying to move, but the mass of people blocked him.

  He vaguely heard someone farther back in line joke, “No, I’m back here you dolt!”

  At the front of the line, he heard the sound of swords being unsheathed, followed by the terse shout, “Hold him!” and “Stay where you are!”

  The old man started to bring his cane down, arcing from high overhead and swinging toward Jakob’s skull. He ducked from the blow and turned. One of the men in front of him grabbed at him. He twisted and broke free of clawing fingers and ran.

  At first, he ran back down the main road he had come in on. But the further out he got, the more people seemed intent on stopping him. Reaching arms forced a sudden left on a nearby street. It was narrow, almost too narrow, and he had to slow down to slink past others along the street. He was comforted knowing his pursuers would have to do the same.

  Fear raced through him as he ran. The Deshmahne were in the city.

  Where was he that Deshmahne would be openly in the city? But not just in the city. It appeared they controlled the city and the guards.

  As he ran, the fatigue of the last week threatened to overwhelm him. He pushed through it, hoping to get far enough away that he could hide.

  He noted people huddled near small fires for warmth. A few people were cooking as he ran, and his empty stomach ached and his mouth watering. It had been a long time since he had eaten.

  Those he saw were dirty, unable to clean themselves. Fear in their eyes changed to relief when they saw it was not them being chased.

  What could make them scared like this?

  People almost cowered. The fear he saw, the suffering, their defeat almost made him give up. It reminded him of the feeling he had during the Turning Festival. If the Deshmahne were here, would they always feel hopeless?

  With the question, a slow helpless feeling crept through him and settled. His steps slowed, and he nearly stopped. Jakob felt hollow and useless.

  Why bother? I’ll be captured eventually.

  The thought came unbidden, and Jakob felt its truth. He faltered again, heard the sounds of his pursuers nearby and readied his surrender.

  Avaneam, came another thought. The general.

  Jakob felt the weight of the trunk as it hung from his belt, and his mind snapped back into focus as he remembered that too much had already been lost to lose the trunk now. So he ran.

  He took corners, side streets each smaller than the last, until he was panting. His breath was loud in his ears. His empty stomach churned, crying for food. Slowing his pace, he looked around. It looked the same as any other place in this outer city, with ramshackle houses and makeshift tents that had sprung up almost haphazardly. There was no one around him and, for a moment, he thought himself safe.

  Reaching an intersection of sorts, he paused to get his bearings and saw that he’d come almost half way around the city. Catching his breath, he took in the streets around him. Suddenly, he saw two men running toward him dressed in simple shirts with heavily tattooed arms exposed. Each carried a long, curved sword.

  Deshmahne.

  Could he face two? Jakob wasn’t sure. He’d barely survived the last two times he faced the Deshmahne. Now he was exhausted and starved.

  Jakob adjusted his sword and ran. The pulsing in his head hummed and became a steady throbbing. He looked across the street, then back to his left. If he went straight, the street narrowed so that it would slow him. Being slower risked being caught. If he went left, he’d be forced away from the city.

  He ran left.

  He pushed past people as he ran, shouting a warning as he could, but not daring to slow. At one of the intersections stood a beggar woman. She was a big woman, and a few coarse whiskers poked out along her face. A dark scarf covered her head. She pointed a crooked finger at him, and reflections of all the small fires danced about in her dark eyes. He had seen eyes like that before.

  She shouted at him, cursing, and as he passed, the beggar woman somehow transformed into the shape of the High Priest.

  Fear and anger emanated from him, and that sense of hopelessness pushed upon him again. Jakob’s head pulsed harder, and a tingling spreading throughout his body, and the hopeless feeling dissipated. Suddenly, chaos took charge.

  The houses lining either side of the street fell inward, toward the street. The High Priest cackled with laughter. A dark smoke emanated from him, and the stench of rot and filth flowed with it. Flames suddenly licked the tops of houses as they fell. People all about the street screamed and ran.

  He froze. He was trapped.

  Climbing out and over the mess of houses would take too long. The Deshmahne would be upon him before he made it ten feet, if he even made it that far in his weakened state. The High Priest started toward him with eyes of fire flashing anger.

  He needed to do something, needed some way to stop the fall of the houses so he could get through and keep the trunk away from the High Priest.

  Desperation flooded through him, and he threw his hands up in the air, frantic and scared.

  With the thought and the gesture, his head split in agony. A tearing within his skull that was the same torture he remembered from his last encounter with the Deshmahne. It was blinding in its intensity, and he could think of nothing but the pain. The pulsing reverberated through his mind, his ears, and his body.

  He shook with it, and he screamed, wondering what the High Priest was doing to him.

  Then time seemed to stop.

  Not time completely. Everything seemed to freeze as it was. Except for him.

  The night went silent. Where wood and fabric had been falling toward the street, it was now frozen. Houses hung in mid-air and flames leaping from falling houses no longer danced. People all along the street were frozen as they stood, with expressions of fear upon their faces and mouths open in screams of terror. One or two lay trampled along the street where others had been careless and pushed them down in their fear. Silence enveloped everything.

  The Deshmahne with swords had arms half raised as they neared him and had prepared to attack. The High Priest had his arm raised, mouth open. Darkness flowed from the man’s tattoos. Jakob saw something else about him. His eyes still moved and followed his motions. The reflected fire within them still danced about almost angrily, the only other motion in the night.

  He ran, holding tightly to his unsheathed sword, uncertain that he could even wield it in his tired and weakened state.

  Once past the houses frozen in their fall, the pain in his head receded. Everything jumped forward again. Screams filled the night as frightened people ran. A loud clatter covered the screams as the houses finally hit the street behind him. Flames crackled, slowly consuming the falling houses. The smell of the smoke was thick in his nose. The fires would consume much this night.

  Reaching the edge of the city, he hazarded a look back. What he saw struck terror in his heart. Where the houses had fallen, where the fires ate at the downed structures, a path flung itself open. The fallen wood and flames almost threw themselves to either side of the street.

  The path stretched toward him, and the High Priest stepped from the mouth of the fiery path into the now cleared street. Jakob turned quickly and ran, sheathing his sword as he did.

  A steep hill led up to the edge of the forest, and he grabbed at grass to give him better grip as h
e climbed. He slipped, dropping to one knee and stopping, and as he did, something whistled by his head. He dared not look back, and his panic urged him faster.

  Jakob grabbed faster at the grass, trying to regain his speed. The grass was wet with the night’s dew, and he slipped again. As he struggled to get up, something hit his leg. He screamed as pain shot up his thigh, spreading through his body. Heat came with the pain, fire burning with it, but he could not slow, and crawled forward, slowly climbing.

  Shouts echoed behind him, then a few more arrows whizzed past. None missed by much.

  Finally, he reached the top of the hill, gasping for breath. His lungs burned from the smoke in the air and the stench from the city.

  Jakob staggered toward the trees. He didn’t know if he would be safe there, if he would be able to hide, but he needed to try.

  He couldn’t stop. The Denraen must know of this. The general must know. The trunk must find Avaneam. It was the key to stopping the Deshmahne.

  Behind him came panting as the men chasing him made it to the top of the hill. It would not be long now. The pain in his leg was nearly unbearable, and he wouldn’t be able to go on much longer.

  Suddenly, two arms grabbed him around the waist, constraining his arms against his body. He screamed, tried to kick, but was too weak.

  “Quiet!” he heard whispered in his ear.

  He looked up, and the person nodded toward his pursuers. They ran toward the tree line, but as they did, an arrow suddenly caught one man in the stomach, and he fell. Another arrow followed, catching the other man in the throat in a spray of blood.

  “We’re here to help.” The voice was soft and high. It did little to ease his fear.

  Jakob looked at the woman, suddenly worried.

  Black eyes stared back at him.

  He jerked back, but the hands around him held firm. Then he saw brown hair, shorn short around the tall woman’s head. A Mage?

  “Quiet,” she said again.

  He nodded. As he did, a man emerged from another part of the forest, bow in hand. A Denraen? Hope flared before he realized it could not be. No soldier traveled alone.

  “Deshmahne,” Jakob found himself saying. “Where are they?” He jerked his head around in a panic as he tried to find them.

  The man crept back toward the hillside, quiet as the night. The Mage turned a questioning look toward the man, and he nodded. The Mage looked to him again, a look of surprise to her eyes. Almost disappointment.

  He wondered at their relationship. The Mage seemed to defer to the man. No Mage ever deferred except to her own.

  “They do not follow. Yet.” The man looked around quickly, checking out the hill where the men had fallen. “And we need to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The hall twisted and turned until at last coming to the wide entrance to the first of three equal towers that framed the palace. Roelle passed through and traced the steps along the familiar stairway to the eighth level. The hall opened wide on this floor, and she rushed to a door partway down the hallway. She rapped on the wood and heard a faint reply. Relief flooded through her that Alriyn was finally in his room.

  “Open.”

  She twisted the door handle and pushed. In a corner, sitting at a table, was the lean figure of her uncle. Long, gray hair was pulled into a tight knot behind his head, and a white robe draped to the floor into a pool of silken cloth. An aged and wrinkled hand curled around the quill of a pen, the tip dark with ink, and his back hunched over a manuscript. He didn’t turn around at the sound of his door opening, merely waved his free hand toward a chair in one of the other corners.

  Roelle followed her uncle’s instructions. She knew from experience that when Alriyn was involved with his writings, she should practice patience. The chair was all too familiar to her. She had sat upon it often during lessons—and punishments. Smooth and hardened from years of use, the original staining was worn in places, so the pale creaminess of natural wood shone through. Roelle leaned back to wait.

  She looked around the room. It was a large study and the table her uncle worked upon lined the entirety of the back wall. Papers were scattered everywhere, almost haphazardly, about its surface, but she suspected Alriyn knew exactly where to find everything. A large bookshelf lined the opposite wall, and leather-bound books leaned randomly against anything from piles of papers to other books. She had often wondered at the texts her uncle read. Growing up, she’d seen more than a few written in tongues she didn’t recognize.

  Several chairs formed a circle in the corner opposite of where she now sat, as if her uncle had recently met with others in the room, and to her left, a doorway led to Alriyn’s personal chambers. Roelle knew a huge comfortable bed took up much space within. Other strange items, carvings and sculptures among others, littered the remaining shelf space and the floor.

  Finally, her uncle looked up. His face was stained with a blob of ink and wore no expression. Roelle grinned and pointed toward her own face, motioning her uncle where to wipe off ink. Alriyn’s hand moved halfheartedly to his face and attempted to wipe away the stain. It only smeared further, and Roelle chuckled. Alriyn’s dark eyes turned serious, and she stopped grinning.

  “You returned safely?” He scratched a quick note on his pages while waiting for Roelle to answer.

  “I returned,” she answered.

  Alriyn carefully set his pen down. “I spoke to Haerlin.”

  Roelle bowed her head. She had worried about this moment, afraid most of all to tell Alriyn. Her uncle had been a father to her. She’d been sent to the city as little more than a child and knew only her uncle as family. Her parents had been Teachers, representatives of the Magi, though not Mageborn. Leaving her under her great-uncle’s care, they’d traveled the south, visiting rarely but writing often until one day even that stopped. It was not until much later that she learned they’d died.

  Roelle took a deep breath. There was nothing she could do but face the consequences of her decision. “I violated Magi tradition. I faced the Deshmahne with force, and men died at my hand.”

  Alriyn met her eyes and held her gaze. A silence, thick with years of expectation and education, hung heavy in the air. “The Deshmahne attacked the Magi. I fear it will not be the last time, Roelle,” he said, his tone solemn.

  Roelle frowned. It wasn’t the expected answer.

  “We face a dangerous time, Roelle. I fear there are few among us prepared to handle the tasks placed upon us. The Deshmahne are threat enough. That they would attack the Magi, even under the guise of being raiders, is surprising, but not unprecedented,” he said. “Theirs is usually an indirect attack, pushing the Urmahne into arguments, rarely open battle.”

  “The High Priest was among them. And Endric thinks they entered the city.”

  Alriyn looked at her carefully before nodding. “That is what Haerlin states as well.” He paused, scratching at his face and smearing the ink further. “How is it that the High Priest was seen? He’s never seen, always a hidden menace. Why show himself now?”

  Roelle shook her head, not knowing the answer to the last question. “There was one among us, the historian’s apprentice, who’d seen him before.”

  “This is what I am told.”

  Roelle sat back. She’d thought on Jakob occasionally since she’d returned to the capital. The man was interesting, an amazing swordsman, one who even Endric thought of highly. It said much about him that he held Endric’s regard. When the Denraen had divided into separate traveling parties, Endric taking the Magi and the historian with his group, there had been little chance for farewell as she and Jakob went separate ways. For someone not Mageborn, he had a definite appeal, but they hadn’t the chance to get to know each other long enough to matter.

  “All we have is the word of the historian,” Alriyn started.

  Roelle frowned. “You dislike him?”

  “None among the Council get along well with Novan,” Alriyn answered quietly. He did not elaborate. “Where d
id Endric send the other group?”

  Roelle shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Alriyn stood and began pacing in front of his desk, pausing occasionally, but saying nothing. Roelle could only guess at his thoughts When he finally spoke, all he said was, “North, always the north.” A long finger scratched his chin, leaving another dark streak of ink behind. He glanced down at his desk, shuffling a few pages before stopping and reading for a long moment.

  “What is it, Uncle? What’s in the north? There were rumors, stories, but Endric would never reveal what he knew.”

  Alriyn stopped and looked at Roelle. “I don’t know for certain. When I traveled the north, I discovered something dark and worse than the Deshmahne. Rumors,” Alriyn continued. “Stories mostly, but too frequent to be dismissed. Towns are empty. The people simply gone. Some have gone south. Others... I don’t know.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw nothing.” Alriyn looked up him with a pained expression to his face, a decision made. “There is something ancient, something... evil,” he started before turning and pointing to the books on his desk. “Something barely described in the old texts. An ancient threat. But I can find little that helps me understand. It wasn’t why I traveled north, but when I saw the desertion…”

  Roelle waited for more, watching her uncle seeing what she could not, but nothing more came. “What can we do?”

  “We need to know more, and I think the historian and Endric might know something. You’ve grown closer to Endric?” When she nodded, he took a breath. “Good. Seek out Endric. Find what he knows.”

  If Alriyn was concerned, there was reason for worry. There was something her uncle wasn’t telling her, something more. Roelle knew that it must be significant for her uncle to push this much. She was not yet sure what it meant.