The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob suspected these new men were Deshmahne, as well. It was a smell he had come to know and detest, and it filled his nostrils so that he breathed through his mouth, though it was little better.

  “Do you have it?” the Deshmahne asked of the newcomers. His large build loomed over the other two.

  “We do.” The man’s voice resembled the coarse sound of wood splintering.

  All the effort that had gone toward protecting the trunk, all that had been lost, and still the Deshmahne had it. A sense of helplessness sagged him in the saddle. They had failed the Denraen. He had failed Endric. The key to stopping the Deshmahne was lost.

  “The others with him?” the large Deshmahne asked.

  “There was a woman. We left her.”

  “You left her?” His dissatisfaction was evident in the tone of his voice.

  “There was a pursuit,” the other said. His voice was a deep rumble. “The case was our priority.”

  “Yes. It is.” He paused, filling the night with silence. Finally, “Did you see who followed?”

  “It was him. The Hunter.”

  “The Highest will not be pleased to know that he still lives,” the Deshmahne said before falling silent once more. The others did not disturb the silence.

  They rode onward through the darkness of the night. Their pace slowed as the trees thickened, and Jakob could occasionally make out the moon overhead. As he was beginning to think they would ride the remainder of the night, the large Deshmahne led them to a small clearing and a stop.

  The raiders went to work quickly setting up a brief camp. Pulling Jakob roughly from the saddle, they left his hands bound and pushed him out of the way while they started a small fire in the center of the clearing. The three Deshmahne stood off to the side of the clearing, examining something intently. The trunk?

  After long moments, they appeared to give up, and the three returned to the center of the camp. One of the other Deshmahne grabbed Jakob and pushed him to sit by the fire where the large Deshmahne came and placed the dark trunk in front of him. The firelight reflected from the closed clasp, flickering as if alive, and he was thankful that it was not yet open.

  One of the raiders came over to him and pushed a strip of hard bread into his mouth. It was bitter tasting and dry, and he quickly spit it out. The man drew back to strike him, but the Deshmahne who’d just pushed Jakob to the ground intervened. He grabbed the raider’s wrist before he could hit him and tossed the man away from the fire.

  The large Deshmahne approached. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice commanding.

  He radiated nearly the same sensation of power as Jakob had felt from the High Priest. “I’m nobody.” His mouth was dry, more so now that he had spit out the bread, and his head pounded, making it difficult to think clearly.

  “What is your name?” the Deshmahne demanded again.

  His deep voice echoed into Jakob, and he could not help himself as he looked up at the large man looming over him and answered, “Jakob Nialsen.”

  The Deshmahne paused, staring deeply into Jakob’s eyes before nodding. “Good. How have you come by the case?”

  The words commanded Jakob to answer. He struggled to fight, but with his pounding head, there was little fight left in him. “General Endric sent it with the Denraen.” It was difficult to limit his answer, but somehow, he managed.

  “Denraen? How did you come to join the Denraen?”

  “They were in Chrysia,” Jakob said, unable to help himself.

  “Chrysia? Isn’t that where you destroyed the temple?” asked one of the raiders.

  Jakob glared at the Deshmahne as he walked over to stand near the other two Deshmahne.

  “It is,” one of the lesser Deshmahne answered, turning his dark eyes on Jakob.

  The sense of bleak hopelessness returned. “You destroyed the temple?” he managed to ask, glaring at the large Deshmahne, his voice stronger than he thought it could be.

  “The only path to the gods is through the Deshmahne.” The man spoke with a deep voice and said the word Deshmahne with a slight accent that was almost familiar.

  The Deshmahne destroyed the temple?

  The question sat with him for a moment, the hopeless feeling slowing his thoughts as he struggled to make sense of what they had just told him. Slowly, the truth settled into him.

  The Deshmahne killed my father.

  The hopelessness faded and was replaced by a flash of anger.

  “My father was in the temple,” Jakob said, seething. He fingered the dark ring, the last memento from him, and a sudden pain returned to his head. It was a slow pounding that pressed upon his temples, and he ignored it.

  One of the raiders laughed. “D’ you hear that? You killed his father!” The other raider joined him, and they both laughed. The Deshmahne did not stop them.

  “What of your ma?” the other raider asked. “Was she in the temple too?”

  His rage almost blinding him, he glared at them and shook his head, frustrated that his answers were compelled so.

  The raiders laughed anew until the large Deshmahne turned and fixed a stare on them, and they quieted quickly. Turning his attention back to Jakob, he said, “The gods have abandoned you because you are weak. You could have been strong. Now...”

  The words mirrored a thought Jakob had known but had never spoken aloud. His mother had been taken from him years before, her death little more than an accident, a terrible fall down the steps of the temple and a broken neck. Quick, at the least, and he had always been thankful of that. His father had never been the same after his mother’s death. The Urmahne had always been a source of comfort to their family, their faith a blanket, but since her death, his father had used his faith and the Urmahne as a shield.

  And then the madness had claimed Scottan. It was random, the healers all agreed, but when it claimed someone, it took them quickly and entirely. None were ever the same, and few had lasted more than a year; it had been two since Scottan had succumbed. There was no explanation for the madness, no reason.

  His father had been all Jakob had left. He and his father had disagreed on many things, Jakob’s faith most of all, yet he was still his father. When he had died, Jakob felt that loss the hardest. And Scottan, the empty shell of his brother, was now just a horrible reminder of the family he’d lost.

  The gods had abandoned him.

  The Deshmahne had helped.

  He lifted his head and met the large Deshmahne’s gaze and said nothing. One of the other two carried a long metal rod with a flat piece on one end. He walked over to the fire and stuck the flat end into the flames, leaving it there until it became red hot, before returning to stand near the others.

  It brought back memories of what he had seen scouting with the Denraen. He knew some of what the Deshmahne were capable of and shivered uncontrollably.

  “Convert,” the Deshmahne said.

  Jakob could not be sure which man had spoken. The three standing side by side overpowered him with strange emotions, and he felt himself being washed aside, a sense of despair filling him. Yet not for one moment did he consider conversion. He felt a pressure, a presence, radiating from the dark tattoos covering each of the men, almost a cloud pressing on him, and he knew a sense of weakness compared to these men.

  Still, he shook his head, slowly, defiantly.

  The Deshmahne with the rod, now glowing brightly, approached. Jakob felt the heat of it as he neared. Strange characters smoldered on the flat piece, and he knew he didn’t want it to touch him. The Deshmahne swirled it in the air threateningly, and it was suddenly pressed toward him; he scrambled back and away from the rod.

  The large Deshmahne stood over him and looked down. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jakob could see the rod nearby, waving in the dark night. There was something to the rod, something wrong, and he cowered away from it.

  “You will convert. The Highest will see to that.” His dark eyes tore through Jakob. “When he opens the case, you will see the streng
th of the Deshmahne and will ask for conversion.”

  The man touched a thick finger to Jakob’s forehead and pushed him down. Jakob felt it throb in response and fell backward into sudden sleep.

  Jakob awoke to thin light streaming through the trees and realized he was once again tied to the saddle. It was daylight, and the trees were taller and grew closer together than the day before. The Deshmahne still led them steadily, sitting tall atop their horses, their dark cloaks barely moving as they rode.

  He had a headache, though it was different and yet similar to other headaches he had been having. There was an ache where he had been hit, a swelling pulsing in his forehead, and a strange tingling where the Deshmahne had touched him. Overtop it all was the slow pulsing deep within his head—that familiar vibration—and the clarity that always accompanied it.

  Staring at the large Deshmahne, there was a pattern to the tattoos on the man’s bare head and neck. A slight haziness floated around them. Jakob sniffed and could smell the rot he’d come to associate with the Deshmahne. It came stronger from the large Deshmahne, but some of the odor came from the other two as well. He wasn’t sure how he knew but was certain of it just the same.

  The raiders rode behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know. He could hear their steady movements and could smell their sweat. Occasionally, one of the men would grunt or say something to the other, but it was rare. It was a quiet ride, and the forest had fallen silent around them.

  With his head beginning to clear, Jakob had time to think about his situation. He suspected they were riding to Rondalin and the High Priest. The Deshmahne had the trunk, and Endric did not yet know this. Would he still travel to Avaneam? Would Novan go looking for Jakob when he did not appear?

  With the trunk in their possession, why did the Deshmahne need him? He knew little of use to them, little that would explain more than he had said already. Endric had been given the trunk and a mission to take it north to Avaneam.

  I’ve told them of Endric but not of the woman and not of Avaneam.

  They would not learn it from him.

  Jakob looked around, hoping to see something he might recognize from his first ride through the forest, and thought he saw familiar trees. A slow itch at the back of his mind built as they moved steadily onward, and he struggled to keep his gaze straight ahead of him as the feeling of being watched built. Brohmin had said there were merahl in the woods, though he had not said what merahl were. Could this be all he felt? Maybe he wasn’t going mad.

  That thought gave him little solace.

  “Something’s not right,” one of the raiders muttered as the light through the trees started to fade.

  “What is it?” the other asked.

  “Don’t know, just... something.”

  The large Deshmahne looked back. The tattoos on his face deepened with the growing darkness, and the shadows were prominent. He said nothing, but there was an expression of curiosity and irritation to his dark eyes and the slight squint to them.

  As the light faded to near darkness, Jakob’s sensation of being watched was still there, a gnawing sensation and quiet irritation in the back of his mind. Still, his head throbbed and pulsed.

  Their pace had slowed considerably as the day had progressed, working their way carefully through and around the trees, forging a path through the underbrush. It was tedious work, and Jakob sensed frustration from the Deshmahne in their quiet conversation and the harsh glares they passed around.

  Finally, they halted. The raiders hastily made camp, their conversation terse and hushed as they started a small fire and tied off the horses. One of the men pulled Jakob from his horse and threw him down away from the fire—and its warmth—where he landed face down, tasting leaves and dirt while they rebound his feet. As he spit out the debris from his mouth, his head was jerked back.

  “What is this?” an angry voice asked.

  It was one of the lesser Deshmahne. He had come to identify them that way in his head, unwilling to ask what they should be called. The man’s face was touched by thin tattoos, though his arms were covered in dark ink that spread up his neck. Jakob could almost see a pattern but lost it as his eyes watered when the Deshmahne pulled again at his hair, whipping his neck back.

  The large Deshmahne knelt in front of him. Jakob had not even heard his movements, but now he felt him as much as he saw him. “What are you?” the Deshmahne asked.

  “I’m Jakob,” he answered quickly.

  This was not a man to speak carelessly around, but he didn’t know what else to say. I’m nothing. Barely a historian and soon to be dead.

  “Circles!” the lesser Deshmahne grabbing his hair said. “We’ve been traveling in circles. And now we’re deeper in the forest than ever before.”

  The large Deshmahne nodded once, and the other released him, allowing Jakob to roll onto his back. He looked up at the large Deshmahne and felt the hopelessness wailing against him as he struggled to ignore it.

  “There is little that surprises me, but you have done that,” he said. His voice was slow and heavy, and echoed in the dense woods. “Only one with much power could lead us as you have.” He reached out and tapped Jakob on the forehead before smiling tightly. It pulled the lines of his dark tattoos, distorting them. “You will bring me much favor with the Highest.”

  The Deshmahne moved in sync around the fire, their steps precise. The large Deshmahne loomed over the flames, and the smoke and shadows reflected from him in uncomfortable flickers of movement. The raiders had disappeared, cowering near the horses, and were silent. Fear and awe crossed their faces in alternating waves. The lesser Deshmahne began chanting, stepping quietly around the fire, seeming to snap from one position to the next. The large Deshmahne stood still, only his head swaying front and back.

  Jakob sensed movement around him but saw nothing. The lesser Deshmahne continued their strange dance, a slow unintelligible chant murmuring into the night, gradually rising and falling, mirroring their movements. The large Deshmahne raised his arms slowly and let his dark robe fall from him. He wore only breeches, and his naked chest and back were covered completely in dark markings that started to crawl and circle as he swayed. One hand held the large metal rod from the night before, held carefully outward and bobbing up and down with him in rhythmic movements.

  The fire stretched up and up, fed by nothing but air and yet climbed anyway until it reached the iron rod. The flames licked at the flat end piece, heating it until it glowed white-hot and hissed quietly, the sound joining with the chanting of the Deshmahne and the slow crackling of the fire. The large Deshmahne held it as the flames heated it, the rod itself becoming red with heat, yet he didn’t flinch.

  The large Deshmahne slowly turned until he faced Jakob where he sat away from the fire. The man’s eyes still reflected the flames, a flickering dance that reminded him of the High Priest, and he couldn’t look away. His lips moved, though no sound came from them. There was only the chanting and crackle of the fire. A step, deliberate, timed with the jerking movements of the lesser Deshmahne and their strange chanting, and he moved closer. His arms raised higher, the hot piece of metal still swaying up and down but now also moving in slow arcs, tracing a pattern in the darkness that Jakob could not follow.

  Arms raised higher still, revealing the dark tattoos under his arms, down his sides, leaving no flesh untouched. The markings seemed alive now, swirling and twisting in time with the chanting, a haze gradually obscuring them. The rod circled wider still in slow revolutions in a pattern only known by the Deshmahne. The large Deshmahne’s mouth still moved, and now audible words came forth, joining with the chanting behind him, the language strange and foreign.

  Jakob couldn’t make out what they said, but felt the effects. Despair and hopelessness pounded against him, and the slow pulsing in his head pushed back in answer, a throbbing that beat out of time with the chanting, almost as if working against it. Something pulled at him, and his bound arms rose up with a life of their own, and as
much as he pushed against it, he could not lower them back down. The bindings of his wrists fell away, leaving red burn markings as a reminder, and his freed arms flew out and up.

  The rod swung down, quickly, the heat of it whistling in the night, hissing in unison with the chanting and the dancing of the lesser Deshmahne. Their voice rose up, higher and higher, reaching crescendo in a piercing cry, as the metal rod stopped, inches from the exposed flesh of Jakob’s arm. His head hummed, the pulsing intensifying to nearly a vibration, and he suppressed a scream. He saw the effort the large Deshmahne put forth in trying to force the branding onto him, saw how the man’s face tightened in deep lines of concentration, his muscles taut with the strain, yet still something pushed back.

  And suddenly there was a cry. The raiders yelled out quickly in alarm before being silenced.

  Jakob looked over, finally able to turn his gaze from the Deshmahne. A figure stalked toward him with a sword exposed. He moved smoothly, quietly, and almost faded into the darkness of the night, outlined only by the pale light of the fire.

  Brohmin.

  He strode over to Jakob and sliced the rope tying his hands, then forced something into his hands. It took a long moment before he realized what it was.

  His sword.

  The smooth worn texture of the wrappings was familiar, and he quickly pulled it from its scabbard, slicing himself free of the ropes that bound his feet, before standing.

  Jakob shook his head, clearing the strange chanting that had fallen silent and trying to make sense of what was suddenly happening around him. Brohmin circled the large Deshmahne in a dangerous dance as the Deshmahne held him off with nothing other than the metal branding rod. Brohmin twisted and thrust, spinning through quick movements, yet the Deshmahne was quicker, holding him off easily. A smile had come to his face.

  He saw movement and realized that the two lesser Deshmahne had stopped their dancing and were grabbing their weapons, moving to flank the large Deshmahne.

  Jakob hesitated long enough to sense the pulsing in his head, to wrap himself in it, and welcome the strange vibration throughout his entire body and the way time seemed to slow. His sword hummed, and he felt it vibrating in sync with this mind.