The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Novan turned to the section of wall and triggered it closed. It was more of a mechanical trigger from the side, not one that required strength and power in the manehlin, but Novan’s familiarity with how to close the wall troubled Alriyn.

  What was happening here? He had come thinking to protect the mahne, bringing Endric for his own safety, and Novan because he doubted the historian would've allowed him to go without him, but he was left with questions he hadn't expected. There was no way that Endric should have been able to open that wall. Yet he had.

  “For you to have been able to do that would mean you have some ability with the manehlin.”

  Endric stood in front of the mahne, eyes fixed on the book. Alriyn could feel the barrier pressing out from it, the section that he'd added contributing to it. This would be the first time in centuries that the mahne would be removed from this chamber. He still didn't know what he would do with it once they removed it. Yet Alriyn felt confident that it needed to be removed, that he needed to protect it from whatever Jostephon intended for it, and there was little doubt that he intended to do something with the mahne. It was the key to everything they were.

  A troubling thought came to him. What if the Deshmahne wanted to disrupt the choice of the Uniter?

  He shook it away and turned to Endric. “Are you going to answer?”

  Endric grunted, his preferred way of speaking. The long scar along his cheek twitched, pulling his face tight. Not for the first time, Alriyn wondered what happened to give him that scar. How had he earned something so violent?

  “As I said, one thing I have observed in all my years in Vasha is how the Magi believe they are the only ones with any ability.” As he finished, he reached his hands through the barrier and grabbed the mahne.

  Endric should not have been able to open the door to the chamber, but he absolutely should not have been able to reach through the barrier. Endric grabbed the book as if it were nothing.

  No, that wasn't quite right.

  Alriyn noted the tight expression on Endric's face. There was a strain to the man. He had an effort to what he did, one that was belied by the way he passed through the barrier. When Endric withdrew the mahne, he handed it to Alriyn.

  “This is what we came for. Now we have to keep it safe,” Endric said. “If you intend to find the nemah, then you will need its guidance.”

  Endric knew. And Novan didn’t seem surprised.

  What more did the Council not know?

  Alriyn held the book in his hands, staring at the cover, transfixed as he usually was by the symbol that had been made all those years ago. The barrier the Magi had placed around the mahne had been partially for protection, and partially to preserve it. A book this old needed to be preserved, and had they done nothing, without the barrier, the pages would dry, crack, and fade. Already, there had been much damage to the book, likely even before it came into the Magi's possession. If they could repair that damage, he could learn the secrets long lost in those pages—he could find the answers he had long sought, like those who preceded him had sought, even Jostephon had sought.

  Glancing from Endric to Novan, he wondered—had he discovered an answer to what was on those missing pages?

  “I'm beginning to think that it has never been protected,” Alriyn said.

  “It's been safe enough here,” Endric began. “Now… Now it's time for us to take the mahne somewhere else. The secrets of the past must be preserved.”

  “Jostephon once told me this only represented words on a page,” Alriyn said, thinking back to the conversation.

  Novan eyed the book with an almost hungry expression. “Is that what you believe? Do you believe this to be simply words on a page?”

  “They are written in the ancient language. There is power in those words, a power that most barely understand,” Alriyn said. “Beyond that, this is a call for peace. This book—the mahne—demands that we strive for peace. It has never been clear exactly why. Only that the gods asked this of us.”

  “And why do you think the gods cared for peace?” Novan asked.

  Alriyn squeezed the mahne in his hands. Could Jostephon be right? Could it be nothing more than words? He had gained significant power listening to the Deshmahne. Was that what he'd intended for Alriyn to learn?

  No. Even the goddesses wanted him to protect the mahne. She had instructed him to watch for evidence of the Deshmahne influence within the city. Alriyn knew the gods and goddesses were real. He had seen her.

  “What do you know, historian? What is it about peace?”

  Novan smiled, almost sadly. “It has always been about more than what the mahne has explained. The gods… There is something they protect, much as there is something you protect. That's the reason for peace, the reason the mahne is so important.”

  Endric tensed and hurried to the door. He tipped his head to the side as if listening. After a moment, he looked back at them. “We need to get moving.”

  Alriyn frowned. “Why? What is it that you detect?”

  Endric nodded to the door. “You wondered whether the Deshmahne cared about the mahne? I think we’re about to get the answer.”

  Alriyn stuffed the book into the large pocket of his robe. He took a deep breath, drawing power into the open portion of his mind, feeling the way the manehlin filled it, noting how much vaster it seemed than it ever had before. Then he nodded.

  As he did, he wondered: why was he able to see power swirling around Endric and Novan?

  Chapter Eight

  Having left the daneamiin city, the return to the Great Forest should have led Jakob to find Alyta, the last of the race of beings most knew as gods. Instead, they had arrived in the forest and faced the Deshmahne. Faint light filtered through the trees, and the air was still, almost heavy. An odor clung to it, one Jakob recognized from the Deshmahne.

  The dark priest that stood in front of Jakob, power radiating from him, was the same man who had trapped him in the forest long ago. Had Brohmin not come for him, Jakob didn’t know what would have happened to him. Would they have forced him to convert? Would they have killed him?

  There wasn’t time for those questions—or the answers. Another question needed answering first.

  “Alyta still lives?” Brohmin asked, his quiet voice heavy in the silence around them.

  Jakob hazarded a glance at the man and saw that he stood casually, a dark fury to his pale eyes and a firm tilt to his jaw. Salindra stood next to him, her posture now slouched as she withdrew from the dark priests arrayed before them, yet her face flashed anger and defiance. Anda had slid far behind them all, nearly to the tree line, and she blended into the background. Jakob knew she would not fight.

  “For now,” the Deshmahne answered. “It matters little. She will be gone soon, and her power will be passed on to the Highest.”

  Jakob heard the quiet ring of metal as Brohmin unsheathed his sword, and he laid a hand on Neamiin, pulling it quickly and holding it loosely before him. A humming came from the sword, shooting up his arm and into his head, dizzying him briefly as it did. Always the vibration had come from him first, but now, the sword buzzed with its own energy.

  Since visiting the Cala maah, his sword Neamiin had awakened.

  “Not passed. Taken,” Brohmin said heatedly.

  The large Deshmahne barely shrugged. “A minor difference.”

  Brohmin laughed, and there was an edge to it. “Not minor. Not at all.” His jaw muscles flexed in anger. “You will never understand.”

  Jakob stepped into a ready stance but swooned.

  A low laugh came from one of the Deshmahne as Jakob righted himself, but he ignored it as he struggled to ignore the waves of emotion pushed upon him by the Deshmahne.

  Hopelessness. Fear. Self-doubt.

  All came at him in a torrent.

  It was stronger than the last time he had felt it, nearly an ocean of weight to the emotions that rolled over him, but he remembered the sense all too well. When they’d captured him, he’d experien
ced horrid memories that he’d moved past, yet the sense of hopelessness and disappointment to the gods had stayed with him. When he’d faced the Deshmahne before, he didn’t have the same control of the ahmaean as he did now.

  It would be different this time.

  Jakob glanced at his sword and saw Neamiin radiating, its ahmaean flowing from the bright side of the blade back into the muted black edge that buzzed with the same sense that burned up his arm.

  He took a deep breath and somehow pulled some of the ahmaean of his sword into himself, clearing his head as he did. For some reason, the Deshmahne waited… unless there had been something like what he’d experienced before, the sensation that time had stopped.

  Full of his sword’s ahmaean, he studied the Deshmahne.

  A sense of darkness hung about the men, a thick haze that he now recognized. It hovered over the ground like an early morning fog, small tendrils stretching away from the Deshmahne and fading as they did. Where the haze came into contact with the large rocks scattered about the clearing, it simply vanished.

  The Deshmahne glared at him a moment, and Jakob felt the heat of the emotion flung at Brohmin. It was a heavy wave of sorrow and fear, and Brohmin staggered a moment before pulling back his shoulders and standing upright again. A determined expression crossed his face, and he flared his nostrils as he steadied himself again.

  “So be it,” the large Deshmahne said, and made a small movement with his hand, barely more than a flicker. The lesser Deshmahne behind him started forward. The dark haze, their dark ahmaean, moved with them, oozing forward with their motion.

  “It is upon us to save her,” Brohmin said.

  The words were directed at Jakob, and he turned his head briefly. Brohmin did not look at him, his eyes watching the movement of the Deshmahne as they advanced upon them. The large Deshmahne stood motionless, watching as the other priests surrounded them. There was a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, a dark smirk, and his eyes glittered with malice. As Jakob watched, small fingers of ahmaean—tendrils of it—stretched from the large priest to the other Deshmahne, and a rush of understanding came to him.

  “Does he direct them?” he asked Brohmin.

  “I think so,” Brohmin said without taking his eyes off the Deshmahne.

  “If he is gone?” Salindra asked as she moved nearer to Brohmin for protection.

  “It will be easier. Not easy.”

  Jakob looked briefly to Brohmin and Salindra before glancing back at Anda. She stood at the edge of the forest, one hand upon a large tree, and her face twisted with what could only be fear. Seeing that look on Anda’s peaceful face triggered something within him. A surge of anger flooded through him. Anger that the Deshmahne would direct their violence against the daneamiin, a peaceful people. Anger at what they had taken from him, had done to him. His father. Novan. His capture.

  Constant fear.

  Jakob steeled himself. It was too much. They would do this to him no longer.

  They will not have Anda, he thought.

  Neamiin came up before him as if sensing his thoughts. The ahmaean flowed around him, twining down his arm and through him before stretching back into the sword. He practically hummed with the sword.

  Jakob pulled on the ahmaean and everything about him slowed. “I’ll take on the lead Deshmahne.”

  Brohmin did look at him then. “No, Jakob! I’m not sure that even I can take him. We need to retreat to safety, or Alyta will never be saved!”

  The large Deshmahne answered. “There will be no retreat; there will be no safety.” And he lunged forward, leaping inside the circle of lesser Deshmahne toward Brohmin, a long sword held in both hands sweeping down toward the man.

  Brohmin did not have a chance.

  Jakob acted without thinking and pulled upon the ahmaean as he leaped forward.

  Neamiin met the Deshmahne sword in a clang of sparks, and a sharp jolt went up Jakob’s arms with the impact. The Deshmahne turned toward Jakob and stepped slightly back, just out of reach, and paused while he circled.

  “Do you think you’re ready for me, boy? You were so helpless when we had you captured. So very afraid.” The dark priest smiled. “You remember, don’t you? I’ve grown stronger since then, while you have been hiding.”

  Another wave of emotion came at Jakob, a heavy buffeting of hopelessness, fear, and self-doubt.

  He slashed his sword at the invisible assault, and it quickly died with a hiss. The Deshmahne frowned, and Jakob knew a moment of hope. “Not hiding. And you will not win this time,” he answered.

  The Deshmahne laughed then, and it was a dark sound, hoarse and thick. It echoed around them. “You think one such as you can stand before the might of the Deshmahne? I have absorbed dozens of Magi!” He gestured toward Salindra, and she cowed in response, not looking at the man’s gaze. “Surrender now, and I will add your strength to my own.”

  “I am no Mage.” Jakob darted forward in a quick attack, pulling on the ahmaean and feeling time slow again. He knew he was a blur, yet somehow the Deshmahne blocked him easily before stepping back once more. He didn’t know what he was becoming, but it was not a Mage.

  “And I have absorbed more than simple Magi,” the Deshmahne said softly, his eyes darting to the tree line.

  The attack was almost faster than Jakob could see. If his head had not been buzzing with the ahmaean, he was not sure he would have seen it at all. As it was, he barely ducked in time to dodge the great sword as it whistled past his head. His sword came up late and was nearly knocked from his hands as the Deshmahne spun past him, past the circle of soldiers, and toward where Anda stood hiding.

  The other Deshmahne surged inward. Each man held out his sword, flashing heavily tattooed arms, as they advanced quickly, a testament to the speed the Deshmahne markings had granted them. The haze surrounding the Deshmahne flooded toward Jakob and the others with dark intent. What would happen if the Deshmahne ahmaean touched his own bright ahmaean?

  “Anda!” Jakob yelled in warning.

  “Go to her,” Brohmin said. “She won’t protect herself!”

  He threw himself against the barrier of lesser Deshmahne, knowing a moment of worry about whether he would survive to get to Anda in time. He would need to force through the line to get to her, to get to the large Deshmahne, and even then, he wasn’t certain he could stop the man.

  Neamiin flashed bright, even in the light of the day, and he pulled at the energy of the sword, wrapping himself within it. His movements became light, quick.

  The first Deshmahne fell before him quickly. His sword sliced through the man’s throat, nearly taking his head off in a gush of blood. Then Jakob was surrounded, separated from Brohmin and Salindra. The fear of failure almost overwhelmed him.

  But if he was to fall, he would take down as many as he could to protect Anda.

  Time practically slowed, allowing him to see each movement more easily, yet it still was barely enough. There were five Deshmahne around him now, and they attacked as a group, barely giving him time to block each assault.

  Dark laughter echoed again across the clearing, its horrid sound penetrating the chaos and clang of the swords. A soft cry came from the tree, and his heart caught.

  Anda was in danger.

  He pulled again on the ahmaean, holding it in him instead of letting it run through and around him. Everything slowed once more. Time did not freeze as he had hoped, but it was as if the Deshmahne moved through water in their attack, the air itself thickening around them.

  Two Deshmahne fell before the others somehow managed to push through. Jakob felt the sting of something along his arm but ignored it, pulling hard on the ahmaean within the sword, hoping briefly that he would not destroy it by using it this way.

  The Deshmahne were slowed further, their attacks jerking forward, slow but spastic as they struggled against what he had done.

  How am I able to do this?

  It must be his sword, the power Neamiin held within it, yet a twinge
of worry and doubt hit him as he remembered what had happened before the sword had been awakened.

  If not the sword, then how?

  Jakob didn’t let the question linger. He struck at the Deshmahne, and they provided little more resistance, falling bloodily to the ground. The air stank from the metallic odor, and it was mixed with something else, something foul and rotting. Jakob breathed through his mouth to ignore it and could nearly taste it, gagging him and filling his mouth with filth.

  As the last fell, Jakob let the ahmaean he held within him flow out and saw it rush back into the sword, floating around to the dark side of the blade. The sword still hummed, and he felt relief knowing he had not damaged it.

  Could it even be damaged?

  The question faded as his sense of time jerked forward again and a sharp pain shot through his left arm. He’d been cut, fairly deeply, and it oozed blood.

  There was a small sound, one of sadness touched with fear, up in the trees at the edge of the clearing. Jakob pushed the pain from his mind and moved toward it. Anda was hiding. She would stand little chance if she would not fight.

  He rushed forward, toward the lead Deshmahne. He harbored no false hope of defeating him, not if he was as powerful as his ahmaean appeared. Yet he could buy Anda time, give her a chance for escape.

  When he reached the dark priest, he saw Anda atop a branch high within the tree, her dark cloak blended with the still-green leaves making her difficult to see.

  There was a strained expression on her face, and it took him a moment to notice why. The Deshmahne was pushing his ahmaean toward her, and she struggled against it, her own ahmaean pushing back.

  Jakob saw the effort it cost her. Every moment that passed, the dark ahmaean of the Deshmahne pressed closer. He shuddered to think what would happen when it reached her.

  Without thinking, he raised his sword, stepped forward, and slashed at the hazy energy pressing toward the daneamiin. There was a sigh of relief high above him and a soft, angry growl from the priest.

  Jakob spun, pulling upon the ahmaean, taking and holding it within himself.