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

  Jakob looked over to the valley and marveled at the sight. Once, it had been full of water? Now it was little more than a boundary between nations with an uneasy peace. He looked one last time before the road turned away from the valley.

  As he did, he heard something up ahead, shouting, screaming.

  He moved to stand in the stirrups, hoping for a better view, and sat back as quickly as he had stood when he saw signs of attack.

  Novan glanced at him. “What did you see?” It was a question Novan often asked as he tried to train Jakob to be a better observer, to record what he saw in his mind so that he could later write it down.

  The Ur in front of them had heard the same and unsheathed their swords. One man had a bow, with an arrow was nocked, and turned side to side looking for their attackers.

  “Archers above,” he told Novan, thinking of what he had only glimpsed briefly. What else had he seen? He had seen it fleetingly, fear driving him back into the saddle. “There’s a small clearing below. I saw soldiers there.”

  “How many?” Novan asked. “How were they dressed?”

  Jakob leaned forward, starting to stand again, but Novan restrained him. One of the soldiers in front of them suddenly went down, an arrow lodged in his neck in a spray of blood.

  Jakob pulled back in horror. Novan yanked him from the saddle, and they ducked down under the horses. There was a grim smile upon Novan’s face as they moved for better cover.

  “How many?” Novan asked again. His voice was strangely serene.

  Jakob tried to clear the sounds of the battle from his head but could not. He heard screaming and shouts far too close for his comfort. How could he remember anything with what was going on around them?

  “Visualize what you saw, Jakob.”

  Closing his eyes, he tried to envision what he saw. “I don’t know, maybe thirty. Dressed in brown and black.”

  “Good,” Novan said. “The brown and black signifies raiders, not the Denraen. And there were nearly forty by my count. Your observations continue to improve.”

  Jakob looked at him, surprise and irritation coursing through him. Even now, Novan pushed him.

  The historian led him forward, crouching beneath the nervous horses before moving to hug the dusty rock wall and creep along the craggy trees growing there. It was not much cover. They passed several more Ur with arrows through them, though none who Jakob recognized, and for that he was thankful. There was a coppery stink of blood about everything. The remaining soldiers had already moved forward, leaving them isolated.

  Novan pulled at his sleeve. “You have a sword?”

  Jakob nodded. He had forgotten about the sword until Novan had reminded him. He pulled it free, the old leather wrappings along the hilt dry and cracking. The blade, too, was covered in leather wrappings, and he recognized his folly. It was a ceremonial sword, he realized with surprise. It would do them no good.

  Novan looked at it, and a tight smirk curled his thin lips. Jakob wondered what the man thought about him now. How was he to know he had grabbed a ceremonial sword? He held it out just the same, hoping it would offer some protection.

  Novan led them down the slope. Jakob never questioned why they didn’t return to safety, though he should have. He thought of what his father—or his brother—would have told him had they known how foolish he was.

  As they moved from trees to rock cluster, the sound of battle rang in front of them. He heard screaming and shouting and the clang of metal on metal.

  Braden was down there.

  Novan slipped on the rocks, and a spray of dust and gravel went sliding down the path.

  Jakob grabbed him. As he did, a man jumped down in front of him holding a gleaming sword at the ready. He was dressed in all black, breaches and shirt the color of a moonless night. There was a new tattoo on his sword arm with dried blood and a welt raised around it.

  The man growled when he saw them, swinging his sword at Jakob.

  Instinct took over, and he ducked, barely missing the sharp edge as it whistled through the air near where he had been. The man grunted and swung again. Jakob scrambled backward, pushing Novan as he did. He raised the leather-wrapped sword before him, and the man laughed.

  Jakob’s arm quivered as he held the sword in front of him.

  This is it, he realized, squeezing the hilt of the sword. Was this what his mother had felt when she was about to die?

  The thought passed him fleetingly. He rarely thought of his mother anymore. She’d been gone for nearly three years, and his father’s refusal to speak of her had worn off on him. But now, as he sensed his own death, he thought of her again as memories flashed through his mind with bright clarity.

  The man swung his sword down, and Jakob managed to move his sword to block it. As their swords met, the raider’s sword shattered. A shock shot up Jakob’s arm and into his skull, and he shook his head, trying to clear it.

  The man looked at the stump of his sword before shouting and rushing at Jakob.

  Jakob kicked at the man but managed only to kick his own sword.

  It bounced up, and the only part of the blade not wrapped in thin leather—the exposed tip—caught the raider in the stomach. He fell forward and impaled himself upon it in a spray of warmth, landing nearly atop Jakob. He thrashed, kicking his legs, before twitching and falling still.

  Jakob watched the man’s death throes with a morbid sense of fascination. A wave of nausea set upon him as he smelled the coppery scent of the man’s blood, the stink of dirt and sweat that lay upon him, and something else, something worse, underlying it all. Blood pooled from the wound, before running in a thick stream down the rock valley toward him.

  He struggled as he suppressed the urge to vomit and scooted himself to the side, away from the blood.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and Jakob jerked around, dislodging the sword from the raider as he did. Novan kneeled near him, his thin fingers resting on Jakob’s shoulder. A look of concern lined his face, and a bead of sweat dripped down his temple.

  “Are you hurt?” Novan asked.

  Jakob checked himself over. He didn’t think he’d been hit. Both his hand and the leather-wrapped blade were now maroon stained. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him again, and he swallowed to settle the bile rising in his throat, licking his lips with a too dry tongue, shivering. Loose strands of his brown hair hung in front of his face, forcing him to shake them away. “I don’t think so.”

  “An ambush,” Novan said, shaking his head.

  “The Ur?” Jakob asked of their soldiers, wondering if they survived.

  Novan nodded down the slope where a strangely dressed soldier approached. Clad in solid gray, heavy mail overtop it, the man’s hair was shorn short like Novan’s. Unlike the historian, a long sword was held easily in his hand, and a dented shield slung on his other forearm. His face was streaked with dirt and blood and pulled tight in concentration. He saw them and stalked up the slope toward them.

  Jakob looked over to Novan. “Is that—” The man neared before he could finish.

  “Denraen,” Novan finished, nodding.

  The soldier stood over them. “Historian?” Novan nodded. “Are you injured?”

  Novan looked over at Jakob again, rechecking that he was unharmed, before shaking his head. The historian stood slowly and dusted himself off. Jakob did the same, though moved more slowly. He wiped the stained leather blade on the dead raider before sheathing it, wondering if he defiled the dead by doing so. With the thought, he shivered again.

  The Denraen looked at him carefully before turning to the raider, flipping him over, and looking at the man. He inspected the injury carefully and then turned his attention to the man’s tattooed arms as Novan joined him. “This is—”

  “It is,” Novan answered curtly, looking back to Jakob briefly before returning his attention to the dead raider. “The others?”

  “No markings,” he answered. “Raiders only.”

  Novan grunted. “This is unexpected.�
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  “What’s unexpected?”

  The question came from another man, squat and heavily muscled. He carried an air of authority about him. He was dressed the same as the other Denraen, though carried no shield and his sword was sheathed. The Ur captain followed him. He wore a strange look on his bloodstained face that Jakob could not read, and walked stiffly behind the large Denraen.

  Novan nodded to the dead raider, and the Denraen moved to kneel next to the man briefly before standing. “I must speak to the general.”

  “Endric is among you?” Novan asked.

  The large Denraen eyed Novan a moment before nodding. “He sends his greetings, historian.”

  Novan laughed. It was barely more than a cough and did not carry. “I am sure he does. I would like to see him.”

  The large Denraen nodded. “We escort Magi to the city. They’re to meet the Council. He can meet you after.”

  “Magi? How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Who has come?”

  The Denraen smiled. “I suppose it does no harm telling you as you’ll learn soon enough. Elder Haerlin and an apprentice, an interesting Mage named Roelle.”

  Without giving Novan a chance to react, the large Denraen signaled to the other, and both men turned and strode down the road.

  The Ur captain turned back to the body. “Damn raiders. Killed ten of my men. If not for the Denraen, we’d all be dead.”

  “More than raiders,” Novan muttered. Jakob wondered if Novan meant for it to be heard.

  The Ur captain frowned at Novan. “More than raiders? What do you know, historian? What is the importance of this man?”

  Novan closed his eyes and shook his head, speaking low and to himself. Jakob still managed to hear. “Magi and now this. Endric, what else do you know?”

  Jakob and the captain shared a glance, but Novan turned from them both and offered no answers.

  Chapter Two

  Roelle hurried alongside Elder Haerlin through the large stone building in the city of Chrysia, still trembling from the attack. The remainder of the trip into the city had been unremarkable, but she still struggled with seeing battle—a real battle—for the first time. All the time that she’d spent learning to use the sword, practicing with the Denraen, and she still hadn’t been able to do anything to help. But then, as a Mage, she was not allowed to help.

  She still couldn’t believe they’d encountered the Deshmahne during their journey to the city. Her uncle had mentioned the rumors of movement from the dark priests, the very name of the religion a mockery of everything the Urmahne stood for. During their journey to Chrysia, she’d heard the Denraen speak about how the Deshmahne had pressed the attack from the south, slowly moving toward Thealon, but seeing it firsthand was different from hearing rumors. Then again, that was the reason for their travels—they were meant to find a way to stem the growing tide of the warrior priests and secure peace—but she hadn’t expected to witness it. That they had dared to attack in Thealon... She still struggled with what that meant.

  Her mind raced as they walked, led by the Denraen. Roelle doubted they needed protection now, though even outside the city, she had thought herself safe in spite of the warnings her uncle had given her when she’d asked to come along.

  It was one thing to know about such violence, and another to see it. The Elders preached that peace was essential. It was one of the first lessons the Magi learned. The nameless gods granted the Magi strength and abilities so that they could maintain peace in their absence. They were gifted with their abilities so that others would not have to suffer.

  If that peace failed, they risked angering the gods. Though it had been many years since any had claimed to have seen the gods, none of the Magi denied their existence, just as none of the Magi denied the need for peace. And what the Magi demanded, the priests of the Urmahne religion carried forward.

  Or had. For the first time in decades, the Magi had chosen to intervene. Roelle still didn’t understand all of what they were here to do, but as she glanced over at Haerlin, the Mage Elder, noting his intense expression, she had the distinct sense that he hadn’t been pleased to leave Vasha. When he’d realized that she intended to continue her studies with the sword—something the Council had barely allowed while in the city—it had only increased his displeasure. And then the attack... she thought that was the final insult to him, almost enough to send him racing back to the city.

  “You don’t have to observe this,” Haerlin said. “You can run off and practice with the soldiers if that’s your preference.”

  Roelle suppressed a smile as she glanced at the Denraen shadowing them. Few of the Elders approved of the apprentice Magi working with the soldiers. It had been a game at first, one that had come as a distraction from their daily lessons, and one that only she and her oldest friend Selton had tried. Over time more and more joined them.

  “Uncle asked me to observe.” Perhaps it was best to remind him of Alriyn and her connection to him. It was better to do that now than to wait and let him get increasingly frustrated with her. She hoped Haerlin didn’t discover that Alriyn had so much as sent her to observe, but allowed her to come, and then only after much begging. It had been worth it to leave the city. “You haven’t said much about the Deshmahne attack.”

  Haerlin squeezed his hands together and let out a long sigh. He’d been unharmed, but she hadn’t actually considered the effects of the attack on him. She suspected that he, as someone gifted with prophecy, regretted the fact that he hadn’t anticipated it.

  “We should not have seen them this far north. The dark priests have been confined to the southlands.”

  “I thought that was the reason we were coming here. Choosing the delegates so that we could reestablish the peace.”

  “We choose the delegates to begin exerting our influence once more,” Haerlin said. “They will be better received than Magi advisors. That is why we are here.” He continued for a few paces before glancing over at her. “I’m sure the Second Eldest told you how most of the south has been lost to the Deshmahne. We can’t allow the north to fall as well. If we do, then peace fails. The Council cannot allow that to happen.”

  Her uncle had told her about the Deshmahne but hadn’t explained much about what she should expect. Had he known what they would find when they left the city? He’d disappeared for a while, and she suspected that he’d left the city himself, though couldn’t prove it. Alriyn could be strange that way, disappearing for long stretches of time, and always buried in his studies.

  Roelle thought back to the attack. When the attack came, she hadn’t been certain how she would react. Practice was one thing, but implementation of those learned techniques during an attack... That was something else entirely.

  When the raiders and the Deshmahne attacked, she had been unable to move from her horse. It wasn’t so much that she was frozen in place, but that she struggled with the brutality of the attack, the bloodshed. She had been trained her whole life to work toward peace. That was the central tenet of the Magi teaching.

  She wasn’t sure if she would have been able to do anything anyway. Seeing the Deshmahne soldier fight, seeing how quickly he moved, she wasn’t sure if she would have been able to slow that attack.

  Haerlin stopped at the wide double door and glanced back at the two Denraen soldiers accompanying them. One of them was Pendin, General Endric’s second-in-command. He was a scarred man, one with a stern continence, and he was nearly as skilled as Endric when it came to fighting. She had seen firsthand how he had brought down three raiders and then worked with Endric to stop the two Deshmahne as well. There had been a third dark priest, but he’d died strangely, and she hadn’t learned how.

  Haerlin sighed one more time. “This is a mistake.” He said the words softly, and almost to himself.

  “Elder?”

  Haerlin squeezed his eyes closed before opening them again. “Perhaps we should have listened to your uncle.”

  “What did my uncl
e say?”

  “The Second Eldest was not a fan of choosing these delegates. He didn’t think that it went far enough.”

  “What did Alriyn want to do instead?”

  Haerlin sighed again. “If nothing else, he thinks the Council should force our way back into the roles we once had, the one we still do in a few places.”

  “Advisors?”

  Haerlin nodded. “Rondalin still has a Magi advisor. Thealon as well. If we can influence the south, perhaps there would be no need to follow the warrior priests.”

  Roelle heard a note of fear in Haerlin’s voice. “Have you seen something?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to push back a painful memory. “A dangerous vision. One that your uncle thinks means an ancient prophecy has been triggered. The Eldest does not share this belief.”

  It was the first Roelle had heard of this. “A prophecy?”

  “I’ve said too much. I think the attack has affected me more than I realize.”

  “But if Alriyn thought—”

  “Your uncle is wrong in this. What he believes is something that has not been done in over two hundred years. Something that the Council has failed to achieve during our previous attempts.” He pushed the door open and stood for a moment, looking at Roelle before drawing his back upright. “Forget what I’ve told you. Let’s see if there’s anything Chrysia can do to change the growing unrest.”

  As they started into the room, Roelle couldn’t shake what he’d told her, or what it might mean. Alriyn was a renowned scholar, and if there was something he feared, then why wouldn’t the Council act on it?

  And why did Haerlin seem so unsettled?

  Jakob knocked firmly on his father’s door. There was no answer. His father often didn’t answer if he was engrossed in his work, so he opened it and stepped inside, finding the office empty.

  The room was small and simply decorated. There was a desk stained with ink and stacked with parchment, several travel chests, and a prayer pad. Incense hung heavy in the air, the after effect of the noon prayer, and on one of the desks, he saw a small, carved wooden bowl filled with ash. A carving of a trefoil leaf hung on one wall. Other than that, there were no other decorations. Simple, like his father.