The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Exhausted, he let the raft drift past him. Yes, that was what he needed to do, and instead of pushing directly across he let the momentum downstream take precedence over his push to the other side. He sped up considerably, but his push toward the other side required less effort, and he was able to sustain his pace.

  Finally he estimated he was at the center, although much farther downstream than he would have liked. What little energy he had saved he was now in great need of. He kicked harder; it was a battle against the currents. His legs and arms ached from the continuous exertion. His struggle for a breath took in water and air alike, causing him to cough and struggle even more.

  At last he could hear where the current met the shore; the water crashed against rocks and low-hanging branches. His feet touched bottom.

  Instead of arriving north of the city, he was a short distance from where the river offered up its huge pool and the garrison’s waterfront, a pool awash in light and people, especially guards.

  Not the landing he had hoped for.

  Chapter 9

  The Cleric

  Devyn pulled the makeshift raft to the shore. Had he floated even a short ways farther, his chances of being seen, even this late into evening, would have increased a hundredfold.

  He had landed near the central part of the city, which bulged with people, commerce, and activity, though less so at night, when those cleaning up from the day before or preparing for the day ahead were the only ones remaining in any number.

  The last ebb of loading and unloading activity was still in progress. A naked swimmer would most certainly have drawn attention.

  After this drenching, he wouldn’t need a bath for a season or so. He put on his clothes and tucked his dagger inside his boot. He untied the small logs that made up the raft and let them, one at a time, drift off with the current. No need to leave even the smallest clue that someone might have tried to enter the city by any means other than a bridge.

  He skirted the river, north a way. Soon the din of the central city gave way to silence, except for a few owls on the hunt. Where he needed to go would take him some time, and not without stealth and a bit more luck than he had gotten in the river crossing. There were a couple of ways up the mountain to the temple area. He could scale the one side with no buildings at its summit; that would expose him and most likely get him killed. Another possibility was to hide in someone’s cart and sneak up; that would mean trusting someone to keep him safe and know beforehand where they were going and how likely the cart was to be searched. Neither of those ideas gave him a feeling of success. He would go with the one that made absolutely no sense at all. He would walk there.

  But first he needed to let some time pass. He concluded it was best to go wait in that part of the city where no one was likely to recognize him; he could not afford even a casual acquaintance to see him. The Central Harbor, as the East River’s expanse was referred to, held the slower currents and was where the freight barges arrived with cargo and sent back cargo for bartering and selling to the lands on the other side of the Muirin Sea. Those big barges operated on a series of pulleys driven by large wheels that were dropped into the current as passage was needed. That system employed a large band of shoremen whose job it was to run the barges, loading and unloading from early in the morning until dusk. They were men and women who kept to themselves, and after their arduous workday many of them would be found in the lively taverns and inns strung along Water Road, a cobbled road aptly named for its location. The farther north and east you went along Water Road, the farther into anonymity you traveled, and the less likely anyone was to care about who you were or where you came from. The price of an ale would get you a friend for the evening, and a few coin more might find you the smiling face of a barmaid or a barlad who would serve up your ale and your food in the correct order of cool and hot.

  It was also a meeting place for mercenaries, but he guessed it likely that anyone planning to collect the bounty on his head was well away across the rivers rather than expecting to find him at some tavern or inn inside the garrison.

  He kept the hood over his head; no need to over-advertise what he might be about. In keeping with the nature of everyone who frequented here, it made good sense to keep your head down, hidden if need be, and leave everyone else’s business alone.

  He stepped into the road as two men, their boisterous exchange well underway, pushed and pulled each other from the tavern that featured a black stallion on a sign sporting the words Barman’s Rest. He doubted any bartender inside was getting much rest. The two men screamed obscenities at each other, most other words incomprehensible, something about who should have paid for the last drink—an argument that would doubtless go on until they sat down, or fell down, or fell asleep.

  Devyn surveyed the road—no soldiers, and nor would any be likely so far from the docks if such reasoning still held check given the current circumstances. He pushed the hood from his head and went inside, the smell of stale ale, food, and tobacco mixing with the odor of men long overdue a bath.

  A few women gathered in groups. These were not the type of women who needed a man to buy them a drink while swatting their behind. One of them let out a boisterous laugh, drank the last of her ale, and yelled to the barlad for another.

  Thankfully the heat of the day had given up to a breeze over the East River, not exactly a remedy for the crusty perfume of the inn, but luckily his nose would adjust and block it all out in a few minutes; it was his eyes and ears he would keep on alert.

  He took a seat close to the door, his back against the wall. No one even acknowledged his presence—a good sign. A young man finally appeared in front of him, and he ordered an ale. The waiter returned in short time, the ale frothing from having just been poured. He sat it down, a slight shake and a small spill.

  The young man looked like a lone mouse at a cat party.

  “What’s your name?

  “Name? Oh, Will.”

  “Can I eat the food here without getting poisoned, Will?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean… it’s not poisoned.”

  “Well then, Will. What do you recommend?”

  “The sheep stew is what we’re serving. Lots of folks have tried it.” The young man looked around before continuing. He added a smile. “None have died… yet.”

  He wasn’t really hungry, but best he play the part of a hungry patron. “Stew it’ll be. And keep an eye on my ale, that it doesn’t get too empty.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will smiled again and skipped away to where his name was being called.

  Devyn sipped his ale slowly. He had no place to go just yet, and no one was expecting him home.

  He could scarcely think of home. He had destroyed all that.

  When he first met Brenna, he’d known at once she was his equal in every way. The green of her eyes told him she was a fierce warrior, even as her red hair said she was very much an alluring woman.

  He had not intended to settle down; his life as a mercenary had been rewarding albeit replete with a few injuries that should have left him for dead—

  He jolted back to the present, a twinge of change, a slight shiver to his soul. Not the fear he felt for Brenna, yet danger of some sort.

  The door opened and two men entered; both wore gloves, daggers in their boots, swords at their sides, and hoods that covered most of their heads. It was clear this was not their usual haunt.

  The gods were not on his side; he had known that, but inside a tavern before his ale was finished? These two were mercenaries, if ever he had met one. They would not take him, but he would not be able to keep his planned appointment with the old cleric.

  How had they tracked him here? He took the dagger from his boot and slipped it up his sleeve.

  They went straight to the tavern keeper. The keeper passed them a purse, and they left as quickly as they had arrived.

  Devyn transferred the dagger back to boot.

  Had the dagger glowed? Not possible.

  It would appear t
he gods were merely ensuring he was fully awake.

  He had only learned he had the use of magic well into his sword-for-hire exploits; he’d received his present sword from an old monastery—a sacred place of sorts, he now understood—a monastery some ways outside Guild’s Anvil. He had been there on a mission to return a group of girls captured by a band of lunatics who would have used them in sacrifice. He had been offered no coin for the work. Two senior ladies in strange garb had sat near the fire at an inn he used to frequent. The innkeeper informed him on his arrival that they had been sitting there for better than three turns of the sun, waiting for him to show up.

  He took the job for no other reason than they assumed he would; it was not something he was ever able to explain, even to himself. He freed all but one girl. She had been used in a most gruesome manner, and what was left of her…

  He and the freed girls made their way back to the old monastery where he was given healing for his wounds and promised a stream of prayers to Ogmia. The good ladies explained that the girls were orphans, and that in the capture five of their order had been killed and all the girls taken.

  They offered him what was clearly the last coin they had. He refused all, asking only that his soul might be met with their best wishes.

  The Reverend Mother, as they referred to her, presented him with the sword. She told him it would unleash his magic, but he was to be careful not to let it capture his soul. She went on to explain that using the sword for darkness would turn him evil, while using it for good would add to his soul’s value.

  He little believed her story, yet the sword was extremely well forged by a master of swords, a vast improvement on what he carried. Sometime later, after returning the girls, he was set upon by road thieves looking to make any coin he might have theirs. Four men on black stallions. He drew his sword as one of the four sent a dagger his way. Four against one, and still they would not fight fair. His rage had heightened, and as it did, something akin to blue lightning raced down the blade—he felt the energy crackle in his hands.

  The first two men met him sword against sword, his weapon slicing the first sword in half and taking the arm and the blade of the second man. The air hissed with the power arcing from his sword into theirs; it was over in mere moments, his memory of the event as remarkable now as it was amazing when it happened.

  On another occasion he had done the same with the dagger. He’d always assumed it was the power of the sword transferring to the dagger.

  That notion now required some other explanation as his sword was nowhere near, and the Reverend Mother had not given him this dagger.

  Late evening pressed into late night, and the tavern quieted as patrons went off to gather some sleep before their morning shift. Devyn ate little of the stew, no matter that it was well-cooked, a possibility he would have bet heavily against.

  Another ale to his table. “Thank you, Will. Are you new here?”

  “Ya, I guess it’s easy to tell. Sorry.”

  “No, you’re doing fine. You merely appear like you have not quite fit in yet.”

  “I’m a student at the university. I need this job to help pay for some of my expenses.”

  “So, new to university, new to serving tables, a big change for you.”

  “No, it’s my second term at university. But yes to the job. My family has little coin, and learning to be a healer is expensive, with the supplies and all. And you… you should be going soon; the soldiers stop everyone moving about after the taverns close, ever since the cup was stolen.”

  “Cup stolen? I’m sorry, I just arrived from down south. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Yes, a few days ago the city was under siege. They say a mercenary and a band of traitors stormed the temple, stole the caretaker and the cup, and killed many of the clerics and many innocent citizens.”

  “That’s an incredible story. Have they been captured?”

  “Well, sir…” Will lowered his voice to a whisper. “The truth be told, many citizens don’t believe everything. For one, they say the mercenary was a citizen, a brave man, one who would not kill without reason.”

  Devyn kept his voice low to match Will’s. “So, you know him—”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Will moved back a few steps. “I’m only repeating what I heard.”

  “It’s okay. I think you can tell I’m no soldier, and I’m no spy.”

  He took the coin purse from his pocket and laid down enough coin to pay for his meal and drinks and an ample tip. “Thank you, Will, for your good service, and thank you for all the information, dire as it might be. Good luck with your university, and good luck with your new job.”

  Devyn got up to leave as Will took the coin from the table. “Oh, one more thing, you say all the clerics were killed?”

  “Oh, no, sir, not all. The ones that survived have been taken out of the temple and are being kept for their safety in the hospice center at the university.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that some survived. They are holy and devout people. Will, you have taken care of me beyond my expectations. You’ll do well here, and good luck as a healer—they’re much in need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Devyn pulled the hood up over his head, gave a nod, and moved outside.

  No movement on this end of Water Road.

  The late closers of inns, taverns, and shops were finally tucking in for the night.

  He moved into the shadows. Will had served him well in another way; his plan had been to find the old cleric at the temple and see what information he could gather, even if a little persuasion was in order. The temple would have been a mistake.

  He stayed in the shadows until the last of the taverns closed down. He had picked, with purpose, a tavern rather than an inn. Taverns vacated for the night, while inns did not. The Barman’s Rest had been one of the first, and he watched as at last the bartender and then the owner made his exit, the latter pressing a key to lock the door.

  Devyn made his way around back of the tavern and gave the window a shove. It opened with ease, and he slipped inside.

  He made himself as comfortable as he could on the floor, using his hooded jacket as a makeshift pillow and, with considerable effort, drifted off to sleep.

  *****

  The dim light of early morning greeted his awakening. It was a fairly good guess that the owner would be here later than sooner. Still, it was time to get on his way. He moved back down Water Road, the bustle of a busy day already evident. The shops that served breakfast had their lights lit, and the smells of morning food drifted on the light breeze still blowing in over the river.

  He found a place with a few patrons already in place, with ones and twos making their way there. He requested a mug of coffee; it hit him that he had yet to visit the town where the beans were grown. Movais was one of the few places that he had actually wanted to visit. It was far from the reach of Wallace, and the seasons passed in grand warm resemblance one to another, or so he had been told. Maybe he should take Brenna and head there.

  He included a request for a fried bread, more to have a reason to sit and wait for the crowds than any need for food.

  The place filled up quickly, and he was soon surrounded by patrons. By the time he’d finished, the day had fully begun for the dockworkers, and he was merely one more person involved in its unveiling. He pulled his hood over his head and headed toward the university, which was nearer the docks than the temple, a welcome change in plans. He smiled at how he had cheated the gods of some of their folly.

  The closer he came to the university the more guards patrolled the area, as he’d anticipated, but not in the numbers he had expected to find at the temple.

  Thankfully the area was busy with students, teachers, and workers, all milling about. Many carried swords; some wore hoods—would-be soldiers, guards, mercenaries, both men and women, here to sharpen their skills in the military college, an adjunct to the university.

  He fit in perfectly. Will had told him the clerics were b
eing housed in the hospice center, which perchance was adjacent to the military college—planned that way, for obvious reasons.

  No guards appeared on the university grounds, perhaps an oversight in the assumption that the students presented no threat and that no one would threaten them.

  He took a seat near the Proving Grounds and watched a few pairs sparring. The clunk of wood against wood did not quite stir his recollection of combat. The hospice center was off to his left; not much activity. The familiar robes of the clerics would make his search rather easy, or so he hoped. One or two passed in and out of the center. He had yet to catch sight of the old man. It would be a mistake to just walk into the center as it was apparent the clerics were here for their protection, and thus he best be on his guard.