The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Read online

  “Then what?” Tian asked.

  Rit shook his head. “I don’t know. But I fear we may find out. And if what the general says is true, what we carry may be the only way to stop what’s coming.”

  Jakob shivered at what he heard. What had he gotten himself into?

  His fear deepened as they rode northward, unease mixing with the strange sensation sitting in the back of his mind. Not the madness. It couldn’t be coming on him now. The air smelled of horse sweat and dust, but there was a hint of something else. Rot? He shook the thought from him and tried to push it from his mind.

  If these Denraen were concerned about the north, what chance did he have? Turning around wouldn’t get him anywhere. Where would he go? What could he do? He had no skills, no other training. His life was this now.

  A thought came to him, and he wondered if it was the lack of sleep or delirium that brought it. Would Jarren Gildeun feel afraid?

  He is nothing but a story. This is real. My life is real. This danger is real.

  The scenery changed little as they rode. Small copses of trees dotted the countryside, and long grasses were brown with late fall and fell before their horses. They stayed out of the trees, heading straight north, cutting through the grass. There were occasional streams that meandered before them, and they often paused to give the horses a drink, but it was never long.

  Jakob was exhausted. He had struggled to stay upright in the saddle before, now it was a force of will alone that kept him alert. The men around him were growing equally weary, and Rit seemed to sense it, leading them at a slower pace. Jakob wondered how long they would ride before resting, wondered how much longer the horses could maintain their pace. His eyes drifted closed.

  Dreams of creatures and places from Novan’s books taunted him with words he did not understand, though comprehension drifted just at the edge of his mind. He felt fear, could smell it, and could almost see walls surrounding him stretching up and up. There was a flash, and he suddenly saw mountains in the distance, strange hairless creatures crawling along the mountain passes, and storm clouds rolling toward him. He felt himself surrounded, though couldn’t see who stood nearby. He sensed the others around him, but looking around saw nothing but fog and smoke. Jakob smelled neither. Peacefulness radiated from the smoke and fog, and he felt at ease.

  Turning his head, he was now in the mountains, something pulling him forward. Pale gray rock around him stretched high into the sky, and he saw snow-covered peaks in the distance. The dark clouds were now overhead, and he could feel the oncoming storm deep within. Alone, he could not see the invisible force that pulled him forward. There was something here he needed, could feel its importance, and he knew his mission necessary. The sense of peace was gone, replaced by fear and emptiness. Jakob had known this feeling before, knew the source…

  Suddenly startled, he looked around, fearful of what might have awoken him. He had been dreaming, but the dream was unlike any he had known. His dreams had been so vivid lately, a depth to them that was nearly real, and he had attributed it to his fatigue. This was different, almost a vision.

  It became more and more difficult to deny what was happening to him. It had to be the madness.

  Turning back to address his men, Rit said, “We will rest atop this rise—” He froze.

  His hard eyes scanned behind them in the early dawn, and what they found was not to his liking.

  “To the trees!” he hollered, steering the men to a nearby grove.

  The horses leaped forward, slower than they had been earlier in the day yet still responsive. Jakob glanced back, wondering what Rit had seen and felt the sudden heavy weight of fear grow in his stomach.

  They were followed.

  The raiders who chased them were close. How long had they been following, and how they had managed to get so close without being spotted? There were at least two dozen men bearing down on them quickly. He looked ahead to where Rit led them. The small copse would not hide them, but Jakob quickly realized that was not Rit’s intent. Their horses were too tired to run far or fast. The men were nearly as tired, yet Rit obviously intended to fight.

  They reached the trees that were not particularly large, with trunks only a foot or so wide, but Rit intended to use them to aid their defense. Rit quickly dismounted, and several other Denraen did the same. Rit held onto the general’s trunk in one hand and held his sword in another. He shouted a rough order that Jakob didn’t catch, and suddenly, three Denraen still mounted on their horses, raced forward, swords out and ready. They reached the advancing raiders and tore through the first several men who had been caught unprepared, dropping them quickly from their saddles before turning hard and riding back toward the trees.

  A crossbow bolt dropped one of the retreating Denraen from behind, and he yelled out as he fell. The other men hunched low on their horses as they rode.

  “Dismount!” Rit yelled. Jakob hesitated, and Rit stalked over.

  “The historian—”

  “We are outnumbered. You will fight with us, or we all die.”

  Novan had told him to observe only, but Novan had also wanted him to survive.

  Jakob unsheathed his sword, feeling its heavy weight as it nearly vibrated in his hand. He’d never fought with a real sword. Would he be able? The question mattered little, he knew. There was only one option.

  The distraction had worked, buying them some extra time. The Denraen were arranged deep enough in the woods that the raiders would have to come at them without their mounts. Jakob wondered if that gave them an advantage. The raiders rode toward them, outnumbering them nearly two to one. Suddenly, several of them went down, and Jakob looked over to see Tian and several archers preparing another volley. They didn’t have time.

  The raiders were upon them.

  Jakob remained toward the back, watching. The Denraen fought well, but the numbers were against them, and there were screams as several men went down. The clang of steel reverberated through him, and his head pounded with it, mixing with the cries of men injured or dying. And then there was a raider in front of him, his face splattered with blood.

  The raider brought his sword around in a hard arc, and Jakob reacted, blocking the blow.

  The sharp sound of metal on metal was different from the clack of the wooden practice staves, and his sword moved differently than the practice staves. It was heavier, almost awkward, and he nearly lost an arm blocking the man’s second swing.

  Something was familiar, though. The slow vibrating, the pulsing at the back of his head was there. It beckoned him. Another barely blocked blow came, and Jakob reached for the vibration as he had only one or two times before, and felt it course through him.

  With it, his vision was crisper. His sword felt lighter, more natural, and it felt as if he was suddenly released.

  Jakob let his mind go blank, and he danced with the man, stepping through a quick defensive catah before jumping in attack. A few quick strokes, and he cleaved off the man’s sword arm and he went down.

  Jakob faltered, and it seemed as if everything lurched forward. The sounds of the battle were chaos around him, and the air was heavy with the stink of blood. He shook that from his mind and looked at the raider.

  Was this what his father would have wanted for him? Was this what he was meant to become? A killer?

  The battle was going poorly for the Denraen. Only about five men still stood, and he counted nearly a dozen raiders moving among them. As he watched, three of the Denraen went down, and it was only Rit and Tian still standing, and both were severely injured. Blood from countless cuts on both men soaked their uniforms. Tian nearly collapsed before Rit pulled him up, and they used a large tree near the center of the grove for cover. The raiders were slowly circling, and it was only a matter of time before they would be taken.

  Something propelled Jakob forward.

  His sword whistled, one side blazing bright with light reflected off the early morning sun and the other side black as night. The vibrating in h
is head was nearly audible, and it sent waves washing through him, waves he welcomed.

  And then he was among the raiders. He flowed through the catahs, his body and mind working seamlessly, his sword knowing where to go. It was as if he was too fast for the men, and he dropped two raiders before they knew he was there.

  Jakob didn’t hesitate. His sword hummed with his head, almost knowing what he wanted of it. Three men turned to face him, and he didn’t hesitate.

  There was a clarity to his thoughts that he’d only known while holding a sword, an awareness he couldn’t explain. It allowed him to see where the men were moving. They attacked together, and Jakob stepped through a careful dance, his sword blocking the men’s slower movements. He twisted, his body flowing with the waves pounding through him, and as his sword met resistance, he pushed through it to move on to the next wave.

  The men facing him fell, and he turned, looking to Rit and Tian. He was too late. Tian was down, and as he watched, Rit was dropped as a sword took him in the side. There were still five raiders left, and it was only he left standing.

  The raiders all turned to face him.

  Two men jumped forward, and Jakob was ready. He flowed through a catah, his body nearly vibrating, and the men fell. Again, his sword had known where to go. Two more men jumped forward. He brushed through one, taking him harshly across the chest, and turned to the other man when something made him pause.

  Recognition.

  “Tolsin?” he whispered.

  The clarity faded, and his mind seemed to suddenly slow. What was Tolsin doing with the raiders? He was Denraen, having joined them during The Choosing in Chrysia. Yet dark markings were etched along his arm, twisting their way from his wrist to his elbow.

  Tolsin was Deshmahne.

  The Denraen had been infiltrated.

  Had Braden known? Was this why Braden had come to him?

  “Jakob?” Tolsin asked. He looked back at the remaining raider. “I can’t do this. He’s a friend!”

  The remaining raider laughed. Jakob saw that both of the man’s arms were covered in thick tattoos. Several worked their way up his neck. Another Deshmahne. Jakob had seen the Deshmahne attack Endric, had seen how even the general had struggled with the Deshmahne warrior.

  A chill went through him.

  “Use him to show the gods your power,” the man growled.

  Jakob looked back as Tolsin hesitated. “Don’t do this, Tolsin. You’re Denraen!”

  Tolsin shook his head slowly. “I was never Denraen. I’ve been Deshmahne for nearly a year. This was my assignment.” He raised his sword, readying for attack.

  “How?” Shock that filled him was slowly replaced by the low humming in his head, a vibration that warned caution.

  Tolsin shook his head again. “You can’t know the pain I have been through for this. Braden would understand. I offered him the chance to be more but—”

  “Braden is a soldier and Urmahne. Always both.” Jakob squeezed his sword, and the vibration intensified, and with it, his alertness perked. There was a flicker of motion, and Jakob spun.

  The Deshmahne raider was behind him. A stench emanated from him, and Jakob jumped back, keeping Tolsin and the Deshmahne in his sight. The Deshmahne flashed forward, his long sword a blur, and Jakob reacted, swinging his blade in defense.

  The Deshmahne moved quickly, his sword almost invisible as it whistled through the air, nearly taking off Jakob’s head.

  Without his heightened alertness, he would already be dead.

  Yet, the heightened awareness was still not enough. The Deshmahne’s sword sliced across his back, and he felt the blood ooze out. There was another sharp pain, this from his leg, and he staggered.

  He sensed his own death. The gods would curse his entire family.

  His mind began to swim and his vision blurred. Somehow, he reached for the vibration, pulled at the source of it deep in his head, and felt as if something tore.

  He cried out, his head splitting with pain. A slow worry overcame him as he wondered if his head had been struck. He was dying.

  He saw the Deshmahne clearly. The pain in his head helped him ignore his injuries, and he focused on this, pulling upon it.

  The sensation spread through him, down through his arms, down his body to his toes. It seemed as if time slowed.

  He attacked.

  The Deshmahne was still fast and defended his blows, but Jakob kept up. He didn’t know how long he would manage.

  He desperately pulled on the buzzing again. Time moved to a crawl.

  Jakob flashed through a catah, hoping to end this before he passed out, but the man blocked him. He attacked again and again before finally catching the Deshmahne through his leg. The man stumbled.

  “What are you?” the man demanded.

  Jakob looked at the Deshmahne and then to where Tolsin was frozen with a look of horror on his face. Tolsin turned and ran from the grove. Jakob didn’t have a chance to see where he went.

  The Deshmahne had seen Tolsin leave as well. “I’ll take care of him next.”

  Jakob heard the words distantly. His head was buzzing, and he was beginning to have a difficult time seeing. Everything seemed as if a fog surrounded it, and he felt drunk. The Deshmahne attacked again. It took all of Jakob’s skill and concentration to slow him.

  And then he slipped. Something on the ground caught his foot and he fell. The Deshmahne moved to stand overtop him and laughed. “The gods will see my power now,” the man said, his voice harsh, menacing.

  Looking into the face of the man who would take his life, Jakob’s thoughts were a mix of regret and loss. He regretted that he wouldn’t be able to help carry the general’s box north. And he had a sense of loss that filled him, and he wondered at it. Did he mourn himself?

  A terrifying roar suddenly echoed through the trees, and he snapped his eyes open briefly. A huge animal, a blur of reddish fur with a body near the size of a horse, leaped over him and grabbed the Deshmahne powerfully, tearing his head from his body. The man dropped limply to the ground.

  The creature stalked over to him, staring at him with golden eyes that seemed to see through him. Then blackness overtook him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The attack came quickly.

  Roelle sat atop her mount, staring quietly at the stars overhead, wondering where Endric sent his Denraen and why Jakob had traveled with them. What purpose did the general have splitting his troops? Endric didn’t act without planning. There was more to this mission than the general was letting on, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Something important, she suspected. The Denraen would need all the men they had if the raiders attacked.

  A quick cry of warning suddenly silenced was followed by the sound of swords unsheathed by the Denraen. The horses stopped, and the Denraen on the perimeter shouted orders that were passed back. Near her, Haerlin turned his head nervously about, looking out into the dark and straining to see anything that might be hiding. Still, nothing moved.

  It was the historian who saw it first. “To the north,” he whispered, stretching his arm out in warning.

  Roelle looked in the direction the man pointed and barely saw a blurring of darkness. The night was nearly a complete black; heavy clouds had rolled in and covered the half-moon that had been guiding them earlier in the night. The raiders had waited and chosen the perfect time for an attack. She wondered briefly how the historian could have seen it before she had but shook off the thought as a strange new cry split the night.

  The shadows morphed into the clear shapes of the raiders, and they were soon upon them. One jumped straight toward Haerlin, dark tattoos twining down his arms seemed to swirl independent of the man’s movements.

  Roelle had her sword in hand before she knew it.

  It was instinctive; the motion of grabbing her hilt and unsheathing the sword happening more quickly than she could think. There had been many times she had wondered how she would react if faced with a real battle. Would her Urmahne ins
tincts trump her sword training? And now it was upon her and she had reacted.

  The man moved quickly, and Roelle barely stopped his blade from decapitating the Mage Elder. Haerlin’s face contorted in a look of shock and fear at the attack, yet the Elder said nothing.

  Roelle took a quick breath, slowing her thoughts as she’d been taught, and parried the man as she leaped from her saddle.

  On the ground, she stepped easily through familiar forms, blocking the Deshmahne attack. This was different from practice with Endric. The stakes were higher. She could easily die. Possibly worse, though, was that she could kill.

  Her hesitation was enough for the man to flicker an attack at her, a quick feint followed by a thrust at her stomach to disembowel her. The sword sliced the fabric of her tunic as she slid to the side, and the Deshmahne smiled as he stepped back for another attack.

  A sudden wave of hopelessness and fear hit her, almost a physical attack and unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  In spite of what Haerlin believed about the Deshmahne and their abilities, the rumors were true. Even knowing what they might be able to do, it was one thing to be warned about such a possibility, knowing the Deshmahne capable of a strange emotional attack, and quite another to be faced with it.

  Still, when Roelle was chosen to accompany Haerlin on this journey, her uncle Alriyn had seen to it that her training had included defense against something like this. Had he known what she might face?

  The Deshmahne was not attempting subtlety, else he may have had more success. It was a surge of emotion that slammed into her, relentless, and pressing upon her and into her. It had an oily, slick feeling, a dark current of fear, and its presence made her stomach roil with nausea. She felt despair, pain, and terror come from it, and she shivered. It was like nothing Roelle had ever felt, and she wanted it away from her.

  She honed her concentration as her uncle had taught, forcing her will against that which pressed upon her and pushed. There was a long sense of resistance as the emotions tried to slip past her concentration, but Roelle focused harder and felt the emotions slide away. She staggered back as the pressure left her.