The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  He would let the gargoyles watch over his herd. Thinking of the gargoyles brought a fleeting smile. His father had added the gargoyles as a gift to mark his son’s assumption of leadership. His father had said that even in daylight they would offer to those who gazed upon them the fear of what the night might bring.

  His father had been a formidable man who had done much for his son’s quick rise to become the Lord of the Lands. His father had also had the good sense to hand over power before it was taken. Before he could be trampled into oblivion, his father had known enough to back away into the shadows, his parting words not exactly a loving tribute to the new leadership:

  “A rabid dog would annihilate his own.”

  He and his father had laughed at those words. He recognized now that back then only his father had known them to be true.

  What to do about the problem? He couldn’t round up all the caretakers, though he might have to if events continued to encourage an ungrateful and troublesome populace.

  He registered the new sounds behind him: a servant was adding more logs to the fires. He would remain on the balcony. Not dark enough yet, not late enough. The moons were all but shrouded by the clouds now, less and less light from the city below. His subjects were retiring.

  Some caretakers would have already gone into hiding. He would have to ensure this turn of the seasons’ caretaker was put in place with ample time ahead of schedule. He knew, of course, where each caretaker was located, and his minions kept a record of every pertinent detail on the abilities of caretakers to properly serve the ritual—mental maturity being a serious consideration, as he needed someone who would have the forbearance to deliver what was needed. Yes, there were still plenty of caretakers in his grasp without having to look outside West Haven, though it still made for prudent planning to ensure he had one in place in advance of the solstice. Nor was that the main problem; it was merely a simple exercise his guards could easily take care of.

  The main problem was he already knew the outcome of the next sunglow solstice.

  Kielara, his world, all of it. A notion swept through his mind as he continued to mull over his situation, why this end of his kingdom was known as West Haven Sanctuary. The name had been chosen long before his rise to power; the west was where people ran to get away from the rigorous bustle of life that the Eastern Seaboard towns and cities required. That time was no more. He had thought of changing the name. This part of Kielara was now a melting pot for everyone and every group that wanted power. Even the clerics could not be trusted—celibate bastards looking to hide behind Ogmia, hiding from their own cowardice toward life. After all, there were no life forms who truly believed in compassion and civility; it was only their fear that made them act as such, a fear that forced them to accept they were merely weak and could easily be devoured by the many that were much stronger than them, and so they pretended to be something else.

  He detested their posturing, their attempted use of intellect against force, and more so, their arrogance in defending their position; as long as their defense was lip service and nothing to do with what might involve physical harm to themselves, they were as aggressive as a kitten on a ball of wool. Still, he surmised, their words were like animal fertilizer on the field; it served its purpose to feed the masses what they craved most: dung to fertilize hope and possibility, dung to make promises of better times to come.

  From the Flat Lands to the Steel Mountains, out to the Eastern Seaboard, he utilized his specially trained men and women, informers, who reported back to him on the state of his world and what trouble might be coming his way. Here in West Haven Sanctuary, he kept a group of such disciples in every corner. He wanted no surprises. No, this place was nothing resembling sanctuary, unless irony should be the purpose of its name.

  Nor was this the reason for his presence on his lofty balcony.

  The night continued to roll in.

  He controlled it all, though the word control was such an inappropriate one—a silly contrivance that the power to instill order could conquer chaos, a belief most people accepted as being true, especially the scholars and the teachers. He knew better. He was no novice to the finer points of slavery, the real intent, the ultimate controlling force. Yes, he accepted that the obvious forms of slavery were far too susceptible to degradation, force against resistance, master against servant, a precarious situation made to crumble as the slaves realized their predicament, especially when the less-prosperous intellectuals began wailing for equality as an antidote to their failure to achieve anything. The key to successful slavery was to have the masses blame themselves for their misfortune, whether that be through a lack of defense, poor planning, or the disfavor of the gods.

  He smiled. And again he recalled his father’s wisdom. His father had thought that the irony of slavery, and the iron-clasp manacle of control, was to make men and women enslave themselves. That took craftiness and a touch of cynicism toward the human race, and little else.

  He knew how to make a crop fail, have an infestation of insects wipe out a farm laden with trees ripe with fruit, start a wildfire and bring a village to ashes, have an uprising get a much-too-powerful noble hanged, release simple bands of thieves to strike in the night and leave everyone in fear; each incidence, with his guidance, could wreak havoc on a town or farmstead, each a little too caught up in its own good fortune. If all else failed, invent a foe and have an all-out war.

  His minions informed him where prosperity and dissent might break out, and his other minions were quick to blink it out. He would then sweep in as their savior—at a price, of course, a price assumed to be proper by those saved, the least they could do for his generosity.

  Yes, keeping the populace enslaved was a simple process, essentially keeping them focused on staying alive and fed. Keep them living from harvest to harvest.

  No, he had no worries about obtaining a caretaker. It was the other issue. None of that news was good. His people were troubled; more accurately, they were becoming trouble for him.

  The damn prophecies. He had considered inventing prophecies but realized that it would still come down to killing the caretakers and the clerics who would need to be part of the deception. That did not bother him as much as the idea that it represented a short-term solution to what might be a long-term problem.

  It had to be the fault of the caretakers that no prophecies had been forthcoming. Why was nothing working? Could it really be the chalice itself? Of course it was. But until he found a solution, he would blame the caretakers and the clerics.

  It was time. No need to wait any longer. There was a hum to the darkness, the stillness. They would be asleep and rattled by his summons.

  He moved inside. Three fireplaces crackled, pulling at the air, biting at the logs, each fire barking against the other, as if in a contest to prove which might best heat the huge room, even as the towering doors and windows lay open to the cool night air. The massive stone walls, guards of what would be kept in or out in their own right, cradled the lamps, the flames flickering, puffs of smoke rising off to the lofty ceilings, the cooler air sifting along the floor waiting to be caught in the vortex, the dance of the fireplaces and lamps mixing to produce obscure patterns, undulating currents of air lapping at everything, like wild dogs on a warm carcass. The ornate tapestries on each of the walls had been aptly chosen to match the colors of the rugs scattered about the deep-red marble floor. It reminded him of blood, heated blood from a fresh kill.

  Nothing in this room suggested guests were welcome; every piece of furniture, the smallest of ornaments, including the snakes with the dark eyes to match the jewels of his dagger, were all in readiness for any business that needed doing.

  Most of his city was in slumber by now, a time for repose for those who worked the day. Not here. Here the yellow light cast by the lamps and the fires spread throughout the entire room; nighttime was when fear reached its pinnacle, no harm in maximizing his position. The crackle of the fires, the dancing of the shadows, candle
s dripping their oily essence as they gave themselves over to the lord’s purpose, this was most certainly not a room to rest in.

  Business needed doing.

  “Get me Simon. Tell him to bring along two of his clerics.”

  There was no need to look at anyone in particular. Someone would move to do his bidding. One of the fireplaces spit its red-hot embers at a guard adding more wood; even when being fed this place would give no ground. Another of his guards saluted and went to do his master’s bidding; one of the many mirrors told Wallace what was happening.

  Blood. Was more blood the answer? Something was going terribly wrong, and he had no idea why. The prophecies were no longer happening. He had blamed the caretakers at first, thinking they were not truly born on the solstice, or were merely grossly inept at relaying what was being told them. But the last one he had verified down to the very moment of her birth, the vintage of her intellect, and the tenacity of her will. Still, she had been a failure. Then he knew: the symbol, the chalice, the cup, was more than a symbol.

  Not that that mattered, for a bigger problem loomed, one for which he blamed the clerics. Who else could he blame? His men had scoured the temple with no results. Torture provided no answers. His scientists were fools. All the gold spent on technology and all they could see was a bigger picture of stars that were still nothing more than specks of light, and as a special feature they gave up a passing comet every few turns of the seasons. They could give no meaning to the last prophecy, the prophecy left before the last three caretakers-of-the-cup. Of course, that was less their fault than that of the inept clerics.

  It was the fault of both, he had concluded.

  He stepped back onto the balcony. Looking out to where he had seen the sea, he now saw only blackness; the clouds had obscured the moons.

  Down inside his city, the only bright light emanated from the marketplace where the cleaners performed their duties. To those people he scarcely gave a glance—necessary but inconsequential creatures.

  But the buildings—the black stone, gray stone, red stone scattered in patterns, designs that had taken masons centuries to perfect and builders generations to fit together—gave his city its strength, its magnificence. Even in the darkness he knew its splendor. He scarcely used that word, though it was what he felt about the grandeur of his city; nothing else in any other land came close. Everything he ever required was here, a garrison that could not be penetrated. From sustenance to imbibement, cerebral entertainment to bodily fulfillments, it was all within his grasp—pleasures to serve his every whim.

  But that difficulty, easy to stray from, even as he was becoming consumed by it, was a most serious problem, and it was time to do something about it.

  He was too tolerant. People moving about like they were free to think and do what they wanted. That was all right until a balance was tipped. That balance had all to do with his will, his pleasure. Fools! They were nothing more than animals being amply fed and permitted to ramble about until he had a need. They knew nothing; their only purpose was to serve him. They had no idea of what was in the Desperate Lands. They had no idea what he protected them from. They would not be here except for him. Of course, none of them could solve the real problem. But he could not allow rebellion. Fear causes rebellion. He would give them a greater fear—the fear of him. That fear would prevent rebellion, along with his economic policies on prosperity.

  Movement.

  He did not turn around. “Simon. Let’s go back inside lest you catch your death from the cold.”

  Simon backed into the room, and Lord Wallace stepped inside.

  The two other clerics bowed. “We are honored to be in your presence, Great Lord,” they said in unison.

  “Enough…”

  Such posturing served its purpose when results could be expected. That was not at all necessary here.

  Lord Wallace moved away from the opened door. The two young men stepped back. Simon kept his place. Lord Wallace stared deep into his eyes, to where most men would cringe with the coldness staring into their very soul. Simon never so much as blinked.

  Simon was becoming an increasing liability, it would seem.

  “I requested you bring two clerics with you because I have a problem… Do you know what that problem is, Simon?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Of course you don’t. You don’t know which moon is rising and which is fading, do you?” He glared at the old cleric, not really expecting an answer.

  “My lord surely knows what I know and what I do not know.” Simon bowed ever so slightly.

  “Here’s what I think. You clerics have done nothing to resolve our situation. You posture and you pretend to be something positive. You move about as if you have some special connection to our universe, some superior connection to the divine. But you know nothing; you do nothing. You’re no more than the pests who sit atop the back of the great elk and eat the insects from its fur. You have no real purpose. But the people assume you do, and so I allow you your symbiotic relationship with the prophecies.” Lord Wallace turned back to the window.

  Simon motioned his two clerics to move back.

  Lord Wallace watched with no small amount of amusement at the reflections in the small mirror hanging on the wall. His own father had shrunk away from him. Even his father knew there could only be one power. His father never had this much power. That’s what Seaton Wallace had feared about his son. That’s why he left. These fools have no idea.

  His mother had given herself up to fire. She had been burned alive. She’d refused to open her door and save herself. She’d accepted the death from fire even more than she could her abusive husband. For that, Straten Wallace had made an enemy of fire itself. He would invite it to burn him, and then he would repel it with as little effort as a flick on the nose turns away a foal. Fire was now his way to deal out the reprimand his mother might have craved for his father. Who might deserve it was irrelevant; all was at his discretion. Fear? It was necessary.

  The reflections in the mirror grew still, and so he turned around.

  Left or right? It mattered not. Perhaps it was a matter of his being right-handed. He reached out with his left and sent a stream of energy to the young man on the right side of Simon. The young cleric screamed as he fell to his knees.

  Perhaps it had to do with who was closest to Simon; he pushed a second round of energy into the cleric. The screams echoed against the walls, muffled at last when the young cleric’s face hit the stone floor. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air, a saturating, sickening aroma of life being extinguished in a most deplorable manner.

  The other young cleric covered his face with his hands and stepped back. He would tell the story to the others.

  Simon did not move.

  That was why Lord Wallace had requested the three: one to suffer and die, one to retell the story of what had transpired, his deep fear still real inside his very soul, an incredible display of evil power, and lastly Simon, a voice of reason that the event had indeed happened.

  Chapter 5

  The Caretaker’s Duty

  Brenna looked out to where Devyn was working the field. He had scarcely spoken since his last visit with Oran. No, that was not the truth. He talked to her all the time, telling her how much he loved her, and this she knew, and she liked hearing it.

  She also knew he had a great need to get her away from here. That he would not talk about.

  He had even admitted to talking to her other family members. On learning that, she had gone to visit them, and they’d agreed with Devyn’s assessment that something needed to be done. She had taken him to task on his having talked to them without her knowledge—another wedge in their open, honest communication of late.

  He admitted to little else, so whatever he was plotting he was keeping close to himself.

  She surmised he was sharing with Oran; worse still, the two of them were neck deep in some plan that would get them all killed.

  It was readily apparent that
the field and planting season were getting a minimum of attention, and it was equally doubtful that the unusual number of people who came to talk with him there were doing so for advice on crops or anything remotely similar. She had pressed him on what he was planning. He had assured her it was all for their well-being. When she pressed that further, he would storm off.

  Never in their relationship had he been so secretive, so intent on doing what he felt he had to. Arguing that she had the right to make her own decisions only exacerbated the problem.

  She was no fool. What he was doing had its merit. But more to her objection, what he was doing would at best save her and get other members of her family and many of her friends directly in the unfavorable eye of Lord Wallace. That did not seem to concern him.

  She would not allow herself to be swept away from danger while all she believed in was left in jeopardy.