The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  His head hummed, vibrating along with the sword with the nervous energy he held, and the world slowed.

  The Deshmahne looked past Jakob, narrowed eyes noting the fallen Deshmahne. “Perhaps I have underestimated you. Perhaps.”

  The words came out thick and harsh, as if unnatural for his mouth to form them. The light cast strange shadows upon his face, and the tattoos stretched and moved in an unsettling manner.

  “The Highest warned me you would provide an interesting challenge.” With the words, a small smile played at the man’s thin lips, dark and promising pain. “He placed a high reward on your capture.”

  The Deshmahne paused a moment, tilting his tattooed head in thought. “Perhaps I will not return you to him as he demanded,” he said. “You have strength, enough that I can nearly see it. I shall have it.”

  The Deshmahne pushed a new wall of emotion at him, a tightening of his eyes all the notice Jakob had to steel his defenses.

  The priest radiated hopelessness. It was mixed with fear and despair and came at him in an unrelenting rush. Jakob staggered back, feebly swinging Neamiin against it, but still, it came.

  “Lower the sword.”

  The words were spoken almost within him, a command he could not resist, and he felt his grip on his sword faltering as he lowered it.

  Another part of his mind cried out, fighting against the command. But his body did not comply. He was helpless before the power of this Deshmahne priest, and it did no good to resist. His vision darkened, and he staggered again before righting himself and shaking his head.

  His mind cleared for a moment, and he slashed his sword before him, hoping to disrupt the flood of emotion coming at him, but it did little.

  The Deshmahne pushed forward, harder, the look of intense concentration on his face mingled with a widening smile. He seemed to know Jakob could not withstand much more.

  Who could? Why should he fight? It was useless. There was nothing more for him to fight for. He was nothing, had been nothing, deluding himself that he could do this, that he could face the might of the Deshmahne. He could not.

  I will give myself to him.

  With the thought, his sword arm fell.

  At that moment, two things happened. There came a small cry of victory from the large Deshmahne as Jakob sensed the man moving toward him. At the same time, a wave of peace, of reassurance and calm swept through him and cleared his mind.

  His head began to pulse, vibrating with the power of the ahmaean as it cleared.

  Jakob pulled upon the ahmaean, and time slowed to a crawl.

  The Deshmahne looked at him with a moment of surprise before pressing through it, swinging his great sword in an arc at Jakob’s head.

  He saw the movement moments before it happened—whether he had anticipated it or had truly seen it, he did not know.

  Jakob ducked and spun, knowing where the Deshmahne sword would be and simply moving so that he would not be there as well.

  He thrust his sword quickly, sensing where the Deshmahne would move next, and caught the man in the stomach.

  The Deshmahne stepped back, looking down at his wound a moment before gripping his sword with both hands and raising it once again. Bleeding slowed, and the wound began to close.

  “Who are you?” the Deshmahne demanded, his words now a bit breathless.

  “I don’t know.”

  There came a flicker of motion, and Jakob felt the Deshmahne’s dark ahmaean streak toward him. The Deshmahne came behind it.

  Jakob pulled on ahmaean, taking everything he could from the sword, from the pulsing within him, almost from the trees around him. He pulled all the energy he sensed into himself.

  His head split, shattering into fragments.

  He screamed and time froze.

  Neamiin flashed with nearly a mind of its own, striking through the Deshmahne’s neck, beheading the priest before he could push through whatever it was that Jakob had done.

  Jakob screamed again, and time pushed forward as he released the ahmaean he had siphoned.

  There was a solid thunk as the Deshmahne priest’s head hit the ground. Jakob turned so he did not have to look.

  Facing the tree Anda had climbed, he panted, slowing his breathing and holding his injured arm to his head. Pain lanced through his mind. Whatever had happened seemed to have split his skull, and it ached in a way he had never known. His eyes watered, blurring his vision, and he wiped them slowly in his exhaustion.

  There was a stir of motion near him, and he turned quickly, raising his sword, only to see Anda standing before him.

  “That was you, wasn’t it? You freed me from his influence,” he said weakly.

  She tilted her head in answer. “As you helped me.” She purposefully kept her eyes fixed forward, avoiding the forest floor where the dead Deshmahne lay. Instead, she looked toward the clearing, toward Brohmin.

  Jakob shook the pain from his throbbing head before also looking toward Brohmin. Jakob had taken down nearly half of the lesser Deshmahne but had left Brohmin badly outnumbered. He was not sure what he would do if he needed to fight to finish the remainder, unsure if his throbbing head would allow the necessary concentration.

  Salindra stood next to Brohmin, supporting him. He bled from a dozen wounds, several on his arms, chest, and a large wound across his forehead. The Mage stood with a hand overtop the worst of them, a gaping hole in his stomach, and mumbled something that Jakob could not hear at his distance.

  Around them, lying motionless and maimed, were the lesser Deshmahne. One still moved, his chest slowly rising and falling, and Brohmin had the tip of his sword held uneasily against the man’s throat, his arm quivering as if the effort strained him. In his wounded state, it probably did. The others were scattered, bodies and limbs littering the ground of the clearing, mixing bloody remains in a rotten stench.

  Jakob joined them and looked down at the Deshmahne under Brohmin’s sword point.

  The man was dying, a fatal wound to his belly lay open, and the stench of his bowels hung in the air. In spite of this, his eyes were narrowed upon Brohmin’s sword, and bloody spittle moved in his mouth with each breath. Tattoos covered what was visible of his arms, neck, and face. Only his shaved head remained unmarked. A powerful Deshmahne.

  “Why does he want me?” Jakob asked, surprising himself with the question.

  The man’s mouth turned in a small smile. “You are nothing before him,” the Deshmahne rasped. “It is not for you to question.”

  Brohmin pressed a little with the sword, and the Deshmahne tried pulling back, but little strength was left in him. “You will answer,” Brohmin said, his voice soft with a quiet rage. “And tell us what he wants with Alyta.”

  Defiance flashed across the Deshmahne’s eyes. “Your gods have failed you, Hunter. Only the will of the Deshmahne will save you.” He spat at Brohmin’s feet, a glob of bloody phlegm, and thrust his head forward, impaling his own throat with Brohmin’s sword with the motion. A look of triumph froze on his face as he died.

  Brohmin stared at the dead Deshmahne for long moments before lifting his head and turning to Jakob. “How?” he asked, eyes flickering to where the large Deshmahne lay.

  Jakob looked back before facing Brohmin again. “I don’t know. I got lucky.”

  Brohmin seemed to be watching it all again in his mind’s eye. “I saw you at the end. I saw how you moved. That was more than luck.” He turned back to Jakob. “How did you do that?”

  Jakob sighed, exhaustion and frustration overwhelming him. He didn’t know how he had beaten the Deshmahne—didn’t think he should have been able to have beaten him. “It’s the sword, I think.”

  That didn’t feel entirely right, but it wasn’t the time to discuss it. He knew it had to be more than the sword. Something was happening to him, something that gave him abilities he should not have. He had noticed it even before the Cala maah, before Neamiin had awakened.

  But what then? What was he?

  Anda rested a
hand on his shoulder, seeming to steady him. A wave of peace and relaxation washed through him, and he suddenly breathed easier. “Neamiin is a sword of much power,” she said. “Much was given to its making. Jakob was meant to wield it.”

  Brohmin glanced to Anda before turning back to Jakob and nodding. “Perhaps that is all,” he agreed.

  Salindra frowned and said nothing. She lifted her hands from Brohmin’s stomach. His wounds had closed and the bleeding stopped. Color had not yet returned to his blood-spattered face, but as Jakob watched, the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Upon opening them, a resolve seemed to settle through him, and most of his customary strength returned. After a brief coughing spell, he pulled himself upright and looked at the fallen Deshmahne.

  “We should hurry, then,” Brohmin finally said. “If Alyta is in the Tower, there is far to travel, and we must go on foot unless Anda can guide us as she did across the Valley.”

  Anda frowned as she stared at Jakob for a long moment, finally shaking her head. “I think that would prove too challenging now.”

  “Then we walk,” Brohmin said. He, too, stared at Jakob strangely as he spoke before turning and leading them away from the clearing.

  “You need to rest, Brohmin,” Salindra admonished.

  Brohmin staggered and nearly fell. “Fine. Rest, but not here, not near them.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “There is a place…”

  They stopped in the heart of the Great Forest. Jakob couldn’t shake the idea that it wasn’t nearly as impressive as it once had been, not since spending time on the other side of the Great Valley. The forest of the daneamiin was much more impressive. But this still had much power. The ahmaean he saw flowing around the trees had saved him, he knew.

  He was tired, and he fell to the ground near the collection of massive boulders. Anda touched his shoulder, and a wave of relaxation flooded into him as he fell into a deep sleep.

  Only, he didn’t sleep completely, not really, and not in this place.

  It was powerful.

  The dream came, but this time, he knew it was nothing more than a dream. A vision, much like what he’d had in the Cala maah.

  Chapter Nine

  The dark corridor of the Tower rarely seemed alive on the best of days. Always cool, with pale stone walls unadorned, little about the Tower was welcoming. Still, there was usually comfort in the massive walls, a sense of reassurance and purpose Aimielen always felt in the solid and immovable stone.

  Aimielen? I’ve heard that name before…

  The thought was distant like it came from the back of her mind.

  Something felt different today.

  She sighed, and her breath disappeared down the corridor, wafting away on the breeze that moved through the Tower. Sconces inset into the walls glowed softly, the pure light unnecessary for her eyes but welcomed. Aimielen fingered the golden hem of her otherwise solid green shirt, disturbing thoughts distracting her.

  “Some think it would be better if the children simply did not exist.” Though Shoren spoke the words quietly, they seemed to echo along the hall.

  Shoren. The god. I saw him in the Great Forest.

  Aimielen blinked, careful to keep her pace steady, fearful of unseen eyes. “How can they—” she started, cutting off as she saw a hint of sadness edging Shoren’s otherwise stoic face.

  “They have named them,” Shoren continued, his words slow, each measured. Always cautious. His face resumed his normal flat expression, but she saw irritation bubbling under the surface.

  “What have they named them?” she asked, frowning.

  “Den’eamiin,” he said, using the language of their ancestors.

  Aimielen’s steps faltered as frustration flashed through her. She was careful to keep her face composed and knew that Shoren did the same, but it was difficult. The name was an insult.

  Anda is daneamiin. What does it mean?

  A scurry of bare feet suddenly pounded along the stone toward them, seeming to flicker from lamplight to lamplight, bypassing the shadows. Aimielen inhaled deeply, the cool Tower air filling her lungs and clearing her mind. Somehow, even the children did not liven the Tower today. For that, she felt a brief surge of anger.

  Aimielen shot Shoren a look that promised to resume the discussion later, then turned to the children. The hall behind her remained empty, though the sense of watching eyes did not depart. Aimielen pushed away the sensation. There was little guaranteeing their privacy anywhere within the Tower.

  “Great Mother!” Inrii cried as he neared. His bright yellow and red shirt hung loosely on him, the yellow nearly matching his eyes. His wide face pulled into a smile before glancing past her. “Great Father,” he said more calmly, nodding to Shoren as well.

  The children were all more deferential with Shoren. Most adults deferred to him as well. Narsa, younger and shier and dressed only slightly more subdued in pale purple and blue, pulled up next to her brother and hid behind him.

  “Children,” Shoren acknowledged.

  His face was neutral, though a smile hid under the indifferent expression. Only Aimielen saw the way the corners of his mouth tugged ever so slightly, the irritation from moments ago little more than a memory. Few knew how much the children pleased him. It was safer that way.

  Aimielen, on the other hand, needed no such reserve. She did not hold the same position as Shoren, though still understood showing some restraint. Kneeling, she pulled the children into a tight hug, only releasing them when Inrii began squirming. He pulled away, and she stood, patting his smooth head. Narsa stepped away reluctantly.

  “Now. Where is your mother?” she asked.

  Inrii glanced quickly at Shoren and waited for his slight nod before answering. Aimielen waited for the day that the children learned just how little he cared for such formalities. Perhaps it was better that they didn’t know. For now.

  “Mother is in her chambers. She is expecting you.”

  Aimielen smiled. “Of course she is,” she said. “And your father?”

  Inrii shook his head once. “Father told us that he had some work to attend to.”

  “Oh?” Aimielen said. The look on Inrii’s face told differently.

  The boy smiled and shrugged. “He does not care to enter the Tower. We are not supposed to know.”

  Am I in the Tower of the Gods?

  Be silent, Aimielen forced, pushing the intrusion to the back of her mind as she heard the softest of sounds from Shoren, one only she would recognize as a slight snort of annoyance. Not with the children or their father. At least, she thought not. As far as she knew, Terran had done nothing to earn Shoren’s irritation. She again rubbed a hand across Inrii’s head affectionately, and he smiled, almost as if reading her thoughts.

  They started toward the rooms at the end of the hall when Aimielen felt the shifting.

  She paused, turning slowly, and saw that Shoren had done the same. In the hall, empty only moments ago, now stood Drasol. He looked at Shoren expectantly, his hands clutching the long brown robe he wore. Shoren nodded slowly, acknowledging the newcomer.

  “Shoren. Aimielen,” Drasol said, nodding to each. He was below Shoren but above Aimielen in the standings. Aimielen had to wait for his nod before she replied in kind. “I must apologize for the intrusion.”

  Shoren’s mouth tightened. Aimielen saw the annoyance on his face but knew that Drasol would not. Today was to have been spent with the children. He said nothing for a moment, only tilting his head slightly to the side as if thinking. “Some on the council wish to meet,” he finally said.

  Drasol frowned before nodding, probably wondering how Shoren knew. Few understood the fibers the way that Shoren did. Few bothered to try.

  “A concern has been brought before the council.”

  “The entire council must meet for a single concern?” Aimielen asked.

  Drasol turned and considered her for a moment. The deepening at the corners of his eyes told her everything she needed
to know about how he felt. Aimielen held back a smile, knowing her occasional lapse with protocol bothered some.

  “The entire council has been called,” he answered, speaking to Shoren, implying that the majority would be present.

  Though she also sat on the council, the intent to dismiss Aimielen was clear. She was nearly the lowest of the councilors, and in many eyes, only sat upon the council by the strength of her husband. In that, they were wrong. Shoren followed tradition almost to a fault. Inwardly she smiled, preferring to be underestimated.

  “When the council meets, we will be there,” Shoren answered. His voice was hard but unthreatening. He turned from Drasol and started back down the hall.

  Aimielen hesitated, watching Drasol’s face as Shoren walked away from him nudging the children ahead of him. A flicker of emotion crossed his eyes—annoyance, she wondered—but it passed. With another shifting, Drasol disappeared, leaving the hall empty once more. The sense of watching eyes never left.

  Aimielen turned and quickly caught up with Shoren. “He did not even look at the children,” she whispered, knowing she needn’t have bothered. They either heard or sensed what she said anyway.

  “Some prefer to pretend they do not exist,” he said, reaching out and touching Inrii then Narsa on the shoulder. The gesture was nearly a hug from Shoren.

  The children looked back, and their faces split into similar smiles. Aimielen could not help but smile back. “When will the council meet?” she asked as they neared Enila’s room.

  “Soon,” Shoren said.

  “And the concern that has been raised?” she questioned. Aimielen thought she knew but wanted Shoren to confirm it.

  Shoren glanced at her and nodded once.

  “If the council is involved, it is time to warn—” she cut off, pausing outside their daughter Enila’s door. Narsa pushed it open and rushed inside while Inrii waited with them. She sensed a hesitation to him and wondered how much he understood.

  “Den’eamiin,” Shoren said, again using the language of their ancestors.

  Inrii’s wide eyes looked from Shoren to her, a question plain on his face. Aimielen did not know if he knew the ancestral language—they had made sure Enila knew it—but wasn’t sure that it mattered with the children.