The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  “How so?” Alriyn asked, turning briefly to the parchment in front of him and scribbling again. One ear was cocked to listen, though, so Roelle didn’t wait.

  “He tells me of nightmares and suggests I learn of the Founders,” Roelle answered.

  Alriyn stopped writing and looked up. “Whose?”

  “Ours.”

  Alriyn set his pen down. He sighed, and it seemed a weight pressed down on him, his proud shoulders sagging briefly before he caught himself. Roelle had seen it though. Alriyn had a great burden upon him.

  “Endric suggested you learn of the Founders?”

  Roelle nodded.

  “And have you?” Alriyn asked.

  “I thought I knew of our Founding. We’re taught about the Great Mother and her role in our Founding, nothing more. Endric dismissed that, instructing me to search out the Founders.”

  “There is more. Few know it.”

  Roelle and Selton glanced at each other. They hadn’t been sure if they should believe the historian. His version seemed too fantastical. But now would Alriyn confirm it?

  Alriyn stood and pulled himself to his full height. “There were thirteen, all told,” he began, his tone implying a lesson. “The Great Mother but one of them. She gathered them together, the few remaining who shared a gift, the ability given to them by the gods, and they founded the city.”

  “I know the story, uncle.”

  “You know what the Council has taught.”

  “Then who were they?” Roelle asked.

  “Theirs was a time of war—the time of the destruction—and they were warriors, special somehow, gifted in ways others were not.” Alriyn paused. “Truth be told, we know little of them. Many have tried. I have spent much of my working life studying the Founding and know little more than what is taught.”

  Alriyn looked around the contents of his room before fixing his gaze upon Roelle. “We know that they alone fought a war that others could not. A countless many were sent forth to save mankind, and those thirteen were all that survived.”

  “What did they fight?” Roelle asked.

  “There are no surviving descriptions. Fragments and less all that remain. A nightmare is perhaps as good an explanation as any.” He paused again, looking briefly to the stacks of paper on his desk. “Years of searching has yielded little more than these barest remnants. What I have found refers to a darkness and an attack so foul that men cannot stand before them. The attack came in such numbers, as if in waves, never seen before and never seen since. And our ancestors...”

  “How did they defeat such a thing?” Selton asked, surprise at Alriyn’s answer etched in his hard features.

  “I’m not sure they did. From what I can tell, hundreds, perhaps thousands, were sent forth to fight. Only thirteen survived to forge this city. To these thirteen, we owe our existence.”

  “Then how was it stopped?” Roelle asked. “Novan claims we’ve been protected from this for a thousand years. What has changed?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the Founders saved us, perhaps something else. So little is known of that time.” Alriyn looked over to them again, seeming to consider them. “What I am about to tell you, few know. There is one thing that survived from that time. A document known only to the council. I have read and reread it so many times that I could recite it in my sleep.”

  “What does it say?” Roelle asked, intrigued.

  Alriyn smiled tightly. “A prophecy. And perhaps the first.”

  Roelle sat back, stunned. She was well aware that prophecy was a rare gift among the Magi, with Haerlin the only one to have shown even the slightest ability in hundreds of years. Most among the Magi could count the Mage prophets on their hands, could name them as easily as they named their families. The first prophet, Lureen, lived two hundred years after the Founding. There had been four great prophets since Lureen and seven minor prophets, including Haerlin.

  Roelle leaned forward. “What does it say?”

  Alriyn closed his eyes. “The prophecy is complex, but translated, it says ‘I have seen that there will come a time when we must rise again, seek the nemah, and restore the balance. One will come to lead the way. I fear we will grow complacent so heed this warning: they will come again. This I have seen.’”

  “Who was the prophet?” Roelle asked.

  Alriyn rubbed his chin. “There was no name attached.”

  “How old is it?” Selton asked.

  Alriyn tapped his head. “That truly is the question, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” Roelle asked, looking from her uncle to Selton.

  “To answer that, we must first establish who the prophets were,” Alriyn said.

  “Lureen, Davrum, Isan, Penalia, Stuvin were the great prophets,” Roelle began, naming them as she had once been taught. The first lessons had come right here in her uncle’s office. “Then there are the seven minor prophets—.”

  Alriyn waved her away. “The true prophets are all that concern me. Their visions, few though they were, the only reliable ones we have.”

  The minor prophets didn’t have visions the same way the great prophets did, and some referred to the great prophets as true prophets. Roelle hadn’t known her uncle to be one of them. Little was understood about prophecy, even those with it could not explain it well. It manifested differently than the other Magi abilities, and typically in Magi with weaker abilities.

  “Lureen, the first, came two hundred years after the Great Mother and the Founding,” Alriyn said. “This prophecy was written in a language that predated Lureen.”

  Roelle finally understood. A sixth great prophet and a prophecy written in the ancient language. Alriyn had taught her that there was a power to the ancient language and she had learned some of it from him over the years. She knew that a prophecy written in the ancient language would likely hold a different meaning from one in today’s common tongue.

  “How do you know this is prophecy?” Selton asked.

  Alriyn frowned, his forehead wrinkling as he did. “Because it has been studied for centuries. It is a part of a greater work, one that guides the Council.” Alriyn scratched his head before shaking the thought away.

  “And you think this comes from a great prophet?” Selton asked.

  Alriyn nodded. The implications were less if it came from a minor prophet. Their visions were cloudy, typically uncertain, and as oft as not did not come true. They saw possibilities. What the great prophets saw always came to pass.

  “This is why you don’t fear the Deshmahne,” Roelle said.

  “For all their skill, the Deshmahne can still be seen. They can be stopped. It’s what has not been seen that strikes fear through me. And I fear the balance has been lost.” Alriyn sat back, frowning as he pulled at the collar of his robe in irritation. “What I’ve shared with you has not been shared with any outside the Council. The prophecy—and much more—is found in an ancient text that forms the basis of the Urmahne, given to us by the Founders.”

  He paused as his gaze settled heavily upon them both and seemed to take measure of them. Roelle rarely felt awed by the Second Eldest—she’d known him too long and too intimately for that—but she felt it now.

  “What I’ve shared with you must not leave this room.” Alriyn waited until they both nodded. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. “This text is called the mahne.”

  Of all the words in the ancient language, Roelle knew that one had many translations. Her mind raced, but she forced it to slow, and listen to her uncle.

  “This ancient text has guided our people for one thousand years. Written in words of power, it has allowed these lands to know peace unlike any other time in its history. It’s the reason we practice peace. Of the many things learned from the mahne, there is one tenet central to it and consistent throughout. It has become the core of the Urmahne, and rightfully so.” Alriyn let the words sink in before continuing. “There is a critical balance we must maintain through peace. The mahne is clear on this, not only through the pro
phecy.”

  “Is this what Novan and Endric think the High Priest seeks?” Roelle asked. Roelle wasn’t surprised Endric would know of such a text, but how would Novan?

  Alriyn eyed her a moment before agreeing with the barest of nods. “It is possible. There are other artifacts, but they would not be nearly as valuable.”

  “What will he gain by accessing it?”

  “Its guidance has helped secure peace for a thousand years. The Deshmahne seek destruction. He must not acquire it.”

  “Why keep this to the Council?” Roelle asked.

  “There are some things found within the mahne that should only be known by those prepared for them—the Council.” He looked from Roelle to Selton. “I don’t disagree with this practice. Neither of you is prepared for everything within the mahne.”

  “Then why tell us?” Roelle asked.

  “You must know the balance is at stake. I fear a convergence, too much disruption all at one time. I worry what this might mean.”

  “What can be done?” Selton asked.

  Roelle stared at her uncle as understanding swept through her. “You think we’re the only ones capable of doing anything. That’s why Endric told me to understand the Founders.” Alriyn didn’t say anything. “And now you’re sharing this because you want us to learn what our Founders accomplished, what they faced because we must fight. But what has kept us safe from it for the last thousand years?”

  Selton sat back and didn’t say anything. The Urmahne training ran deep. Lessons of peace and harmony were at the core of who they were as a people.

  Alriyn sighed. “I don’t know. I think we’ll soon learn what has been lost for centuries. Magi training has always focused on the mental aspects of our abilities. We have long ignored the physical. I fear it is too late to change. We may not be strong enough to face the foe our Founders faced, but you can be strong enough to stop the Deshmahne.” Alriyn stared at Roelle. “We must stop them before they reach the mahne.”

  “You want us to fight the Deshmahne?” Roelle asked.

  Alriyn sighed. “I know there are many who have followed your lead. I fear the Denraen will not be enough, not if the rumors we’ve heard of the Deshmahne are true. This will require the Magi to take a greater role.”

  Roelle frowned, unable to believe that her uncle asked this of her, but knowing that he was right. The Deshmahne had nearly overwhelmed the Denraen. Without the Magi intervening, would there be any sort of peace to restore?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jakob’s eyes were gummed closed. He ached all over from his throbbing head to his legs, bruises he didn’t remember earning. He tried to reach up and rub his eyes, but his arms were locked behind him, and it was long moments before he realized they were bound. Thick rope ate into the flesh of his wrists, and he felt the same around his ankles.

  He was captured.

  Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. His vision was blurry, but he made out the small fire crackling nearby. He smelled his captors before he saw them, a light stench of sweat and rot mixed together familiarly. It came to him before long that he knew where he had smelled it before.

  Deshmahne.

  With the thought, he was fully awake. He counted five men but didn’t know if they were all Deshmahne or only one. It didn’t matter—he could do nothing in his current state.

  Conversation drifted to him, and he strained to hear it. His throbbing head made it difficult, different from the slow vibration he’d lately had when using his sword. Jakob vaguely remembered the blow that had caused it.

  “He wasn’t alone,” one of the men said.

  “It does not matter,” a deep voice replied. There was something to the voice, something familiar. “It matters only that he is ours. The Highest will be pleased.”

  Jakob had the chilling certainty that tattoos would cover the man’s arms, face, and head. He’d seen the Deshmahne before and somehow escaped.

  Not this time though.

  “Where is the object?” the Deshmahne asked.

  “There was nothing with him other than his sword.”

  “There should have been a case,” the Deshmahne said. “He had it strapped to him when he escaped me. That is what the Highest seeks.”

  Jakob heard shuffling and sensed someone drawing near, so he feigned sleep. The man reached out and ran a hand along Jakob’s back and arms, before standing and kicking at his legs and walking away.

  He stifled a grunt and a struggled not to cry out.

  “He has nothing,” the man said.

  “The Highest will not be pleased.” There was a note of concern in his deep voice as he said it. “You will go back for it.”

  “As you command,” a different voice spoke.

  He struggled against his bindings again, hoping to loosen them enough to free his hands. With his hands free, he could find out if his sword was still strapped to his side or not. Likely the men would have removed it when they first captured him. The bindings held, and the more he struggled, the tighter they seemed. Finally, he gave up.

  Jakob held back a sigh and felt a wave of fear pass through him. What would they do with the trunk if they retrieved it? Did they know what it held? Probably, just as they probably knew why the trunk was key to stopping the Deshmahne.

  “What of him?” a man asked. “What of the reward?”

  A dark laugh erupted from the Deshmahne, and Jakob could almost feel something radiate from him. Power. Strength. Darkness.

  “I claim the reward,” the Deshmahne said.

  “But the gold clips,” one of the men said.

  “You may keep them. I seek a different reward.” He sniffed the air abruptly. “He’s awake.”

  How long had the Deshmahne known he was awake? A rough hand grabbed him and sat him up. Three men sat around the fire. One was the Deshmahne he’d heard. He stared at Jakob, dark eyes unreadable, the light from the fire flickering strangely around him, illuminating the tattoos that covered his face and arms.

  Jakob shivered, unable to suppress it.

  The man who had grabbed him was dressed in simple brown pants and shirt, dirtied, but more raider than Deshmahne. Jakob glanced to the man’s uncovered arms and saw no tattoos. The man saw his flicker of eye movement and laughed.

  “Not yet, boy, but my time is coming,” he said harshly as he knelt near Jakob’s feet. He remained kneeling there, waiting.

  The other man, dressed similarly in brown pants, remained at the fire. Silent. His face was filthy and contorted strangely. Jakob suspected it anxiety.

  “What are you?” the Deshmahne asked.

  Jakob shook his head at the bizarre question. “I’m nobody.” His voice was thick, and he coughed as he said the words.

  The Deshmahne smiled, revealing pale, white teeth that contrasted with his dark, red lips. “Perhaps,” he said and slowly stood. His long, dark robe barely brushed the ground and did not move as he walked over toward Jakob. “Perhaps not.”

  The Deshmahne stared again, looking deeply into Jakob’s eyes.

  Jakob found it difficult to look away. Hopelessness began to seep into him.

  I’m nothing. Nothing compared to this man. He is powerful before the gods while I am weak.

  Waves of despair rolled through him, and he sank, unable to support himself upright any longer.

  I disappoint the gods with my weakness. The Deshmahne honor them with their strength.

  Slowly, Jakob shook his head. This last thought was not his, and he knew it.

  The Deshmahne do not honor the gods.

  This thought was his own. With it, he felt his mind clearing. Despair still rolled through him, but he was able to pull himself up and sit with his back straight, briefly struggling with the binding around his wrists as he did.

  The Deshmahne frowned before his tattooed face flattened. “Do you know me?”

  Jakob shook his head.

  “But you know my master,” the Deshmahne stated.

  “The High Priest.”

/>   The Deshmahne smiled. “The Highest, yes. You are the one he seeks. You will go to him.”

  “If I don’t?” Jakob struggled to summon defiance, but he didn’t intend to go easily.

  The Deshmahne flashed his pale smile again. “That is not an option.”

  Too late, he heard a whistling sound and felt a sharp blow to his head as he was knocked unconscious again.

  The horse’s steady steps slowly roused Jakob, and he blinked to open his eyes. He was tied to a saddle, his arms bound now in front of him and hands tied to the pommel of the saddle. It was dark, and they moved swiftly without any light to see. He smelled the Deshmahne leading them, his sweat mixed with the undercurrent of rot. Jakob wondered where he was being taken, but his aching mind slowly reminded him that he already knew.

  The High Priest.

  “What happened to the others?”

  The question was whispered nearby, and he could vaguely see the dark shape of one of the raiders riding alongside him.

  “They haven’t returned,” the other said.

  “Why didn’t we wait?”

  “I don’t ask.”

  The other man chuckled. “You think he would tell us?”

  “No.”

  “Quiet,” the Deshmahne commanded.

  The men fell silent, and they rode on. Jakob felt the rope around his wrist cut deeply and was beginning to lose sensation in his fingers, but still, he struggled at it. The alternative was to give up. He was not yet prepared for that.

  Would it be so bad?

  The question drifted from a distant part of his mind, and he wondered, briefly, if it mattered, if he mattered. He struggled to push the thought away.

  At the sound of pounding hooves approaching, the men looked back. Jakob craned his neck but was unable to see anything other than the dark. His head hurt too badly for much more. Two riders approached and quickly rode up alongside the Deshmahne.

  “Just them,” one of the raiders said.

  “Think they got it?” the other whispered.

  “Hope so. Otherwise, he’ll be angry.”

  They fell silent as the riders fell into line. The scent of sweat and rot intensified.