The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Those damn clerics, Simon especially.

  Not long before, the dungeon had been filled with people deemed connected to Brenna and Devyn Gerrick. His men had spent many turns of the sun torturing people, all of whom spilled out useless information as they begged to be spared, insisting they were telling everything they knew, and in the end none of them provided even a crumb of worthwhile information.

  For that he had to allow one thing: Gerrick had operated under a veil of absolute secrecy, something he admired. And Lord Wallace expressed such admiration by telling the people he had tortured and brutalized that his pleasure and their pain came from the arrogance of Devyn Gerrick, the man who’d left them behind to die.

  Only a few remained from those his guards had rounded up. He had used the most suitable ones up first—those he discerned might or might not talk, but they knew how to scream, and scream they did, until their last breath, tortured with the same loving care that might ensure the wing of a captured butterfly be torn off in one piece.

  Today he’d come to speak with one of the scholars. That scholar was on the rack, naked, bloodied, in pain, and primed for his questioning. It would not take long; scholars were not known for their capacity to endure pain, as their nimble minds often conjured up torments that even he might not have considered, and so broke in anticipation.

  The man saw him approach. “My lord… My lord, I’ll tell you everything I know… everything.”

  “I agree you will. But in case there is a misunderstanding about everything, should I sense hesitation or deceit, the consequences will make this dungeon shake with your shrieks.”

  The scholar’s head was strapped back against the slab, and only his eyes could move. Wallace placed his fingers on the man’s chest and let out a burst of energy. The man screamed. Wallace continued until the scholar was about to pass out. He waited a few moments and did it again, the man protesting in incoherent gibberish, drool flying from his mouth.

  “Throw some water on him.” Wallace stepped back while the man was revived.

  The scholar gasped for air and screamed in pain as the saltwater washed down over his many wounds.

  “Now then, let’s have that talk, shall we? Tell me who made the request?”

  “The sisters.”

  “The sisters. Who are the sisters?” Wallace raised his hand to inflict more pain.

  “No, please, please let me explain.”

  The man talked on about the sisters and the messenger. The messenger said the sisters needed the astronomers to visit them. They said they had vital information on the black jewels.

  They must have gotten the prophecy, somehow.

  A knock on his door. “Come. General Utaru, by the look on your face, you have more depressing news for me.”

  “Yes, my lord. And it comes all the way from Highrest. Word has come that Devyn Gerrick is holed up there.”

  “Well, that, General Utaru, is good news. Send your men to get him.”

  “There is more. We’re told he’s building an army.”

  “Yes, a man on the run for a mere handful of turns of the suns is capable of amassing an army. Who is telling you these stories, General?”

  “A number of people who arrived today from Highrest.”

  “Bring them to me. In the meantime, put together a force of your best men; quadruple the number if you desire. A hundred men should easily enter Highrest and bring back a man suffering from delusion. Don’t fail me, General?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “On second thought, you remain here. I don’t want the people thinking I need a general to break up a tavern fight.”

  The general bowed and backed away.

  At last it would appear there was good news. Perhaps the scholar should be part of his celebration.

  “Release him.” The guards immediately did as ordered, and the scholar was dragged to his feet, greatly needing the assistance to remain there.

  “Thank… thank you, Lord Wallace.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nicholas.”

  “Well, Nicholas, the information I have received while in your presence has insisted you be the person to spread the good news. Tell your comrades that Devyn and Brenna Gerrick have been found and will be hunted down and returned for punishment, along with the chalice that belongs to the people.”

  He might as well get what leverage he could from their ultimate capture. No matter it was not the real chalice; it would give him time to ponder the whereabouts of the real one.

  *****

  “Tonight there should be celebration.”

  She touched a finger to her lips and then his cheek. “Am I to be your celebration, my lord?” she asked.

  “Raven, love, there’s no need to call me ‘my lord’ when no others are about.”

  Raven turned her head to meet his eyes. “Then I guess it is me who will be your celebration.”

  “I might be drawn to you because of your beauty, but I also keep you by my side because of your abilities. I’ll not deny that the first is a precursor to the second, any more than you would deny that my power has more allure than my physical attributes.”

  She rubbed her finger along the rim of her wineglass. “It would seem we give each other what we need. Would you prefer to trade my position for yours?”

  He smiled. “You know you hate violence, and I hate having to look pretty.”

  Now she smiled. “Yet we both understand and demand those traits in the other. The irony must be what best amuses the design of universe. But enough of symbiotic relationships; what’s this celebration you allude to?”

  “You know I guide my people for the very reason that sheep need protection from the wolves.”

  “My love, you are the shepherd and the wolf.”

  He could not detect if that was meant as humor or an assertion of what she truly believed. Either way, she had made a poignant statement. “Animals need only the shepherd, but humankind needs both; for to care for humans in any capacity, you cannot have one without the other. A shepherd of animals is safe to sit beneath the tree and tend to any sheep that needs attention with little chance of interference, coo and sing to the lambs, as the wolves are nowhere near, and he has far superior weapons than those of the wolves, should he need to fend them off.

  “That is far from the way of humans. Any such shepherd of humans would be bludgeoned down beneath the tree where he sat, long before he got to sing. The shepherd of humans must be a wolf as well, a wolf with all the armor and weapons that the greatest of killers might bring into play, and though you might have spoken in jest, yes, only he is capable of being the shepherd of humans.”

  He filled his cup with wine and refilled hers.

  “And when does that power and control turn people into real sheep?”

  He did not answer immediately. She would realize she had overstepped some limit. He took a sip of his wine. “Your intellect, it would appear, has taken over your beauty. Let us look to celebration: the grand hall, as Balac takes over from the sun; dancing, dining, the finest wines from this turn of the season’s vintage from the Vineyards Expanse, lamb from the Flat Lands, fish from the Eastern Seaboard, and from the Steel Mountains let us have entertainment.”

  “My love, if you’re in a celebratory mood, I’ll pluck your servers from their roost, and I’ll instill the need to grace your presence with the most wonderful of festivities.”

  Yes, she knew her worth, and her place.

  There came an aloneness that swept inside his consciousness. Not loneliness; no, he would not allow that. It was the price of such power; for power to be absolute there could be no possibility of an interloper inserting the nonsense of their own weaknesses.

  Jesters and kings before him had permitted the mirror to reflect the meaning of the words and the outcomes. But the mighty kings had fallen, prey to the words of the jester, the conscience, the pull to be like one of the sheep. No
, Raven was no jester; she knew when to stop. And he was no puppet king.

  He pulled her close. “Let nothing diminish what you are, nor the power you too have at your disposal.” Her perfume was as intoxicating as the dress she wore, which was given all the greater allure by the sculpted body it adorned.

  “The big hall, or the Atrium?”

  He allowed her scent to awaken yet another beast. “Balac would prefer the Atrium, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure even Balac would bow to the wisdom of your choice. So the Atrium it is.”

  *****

  Balac moved into the night sky, the glow from the sun upon his face shimmering in the cool evening air, the glass dome a transparent canvas for the stars against the darkness. The fires burned on all sides of the Atrium, windows were open, drapes in colors depicting the coat of lightsgift swayed in the breeze, and music spilled out over the castle grounds.

  “Are you pleased, my lord?”

  “I’m always pleased with you. Yes, yes, I know that is not what you meant.” She had outdone herself, as usual. Even he had to admit that the level of pageantry was well in excess of his expectations. Still, no need for her to become lax in the future, so he gave a less than effusive response. “You have done well, given such short notice of my needs.”

  He could see the rejection in her eyes. And as quickly he noted her recovery. “My lord, any endeavor must by the nature of your greatness be less than what you deserve. And for that I bow for your understanding.” She bowed ever so slowly.

  He took her hand. “Come, dance with me.”

  They danced into the evening. The music continued, the laughter spread out into the night, food and wine were consumed, and lords and ladies came to bow before Lord Wallace and his lady, though none stayed too long.

  He found the right time to announce that the Gerricks had been found, and that order would be restored to the lands, and that during their next celebration the traitors would hang outside the gates so not even their souls would have a place to rest inside the garrison.

  The gathered clapped their hands, and he bade the music commence once again.

  Even the universe could not take exception with what he had created—a civil world where people could gather and enjoy life. What more could a populace ask for? He knew the answer to that, even as he watched the sheep dance around his garden: they would ask for nothing more.

  Chapter 15

  Power

  The mercenary and the farmer; was that how he defined himself now, one or the other, like some quick change from a hanging rat to a flying bat? He was being pushed; the opening accords were of his choosing, albeit demanded by other actions; the consequences of his decisions were a whole other matter—much about circumstance.

  He recognized that the greater part of transition to becoming a mercenary again had happened on the bridge when Selina fell… all of them had fallen for his purpose, but she the last, that last memory a gate which could not be closed, nor would he wish it. It was no doubt a memory which Oran now shared as well.

  He and Oran had spent most of the past few days throwing things across the room and slamming their fists on the meeting table.

  All the dust that had gathered on the dilapidated table for so many turns of the seasons before had now sailed off to safer quarters.

  He held firm against Oran’s proposals. Maybe it was because even the mercenary knew his limitations, and that something more than a mercenary-turned-farmer-turned-mercenary was needed for what must be accomplished next. Leadership was not something he had ever desired. Leadership meant responsibility for the many who would serve and die, yet more blood on his shoulders. Nor could he reconcile his life being forfeit to serve some global purpose. He wanted to be a farmer, a husband to Brenna, nothing more.

  Oran insisted it was their only course; every man should finish what he started, especially when one’s soul was already bent to the winds of war. Oran never explained why that was so with Devyn, nor did Devyn care to ask.

  His initial meeting with those who had followed them here had not gone well. Brenna had spoken first, and the gathered listened in silence when she asked they give her husband a chance to explain his actions and let him inform them of what they should do next. When he got up to speak, they had all moved away. Maybe he should have chosen his opening remarks more carefully. As he welcomed them to their new home, they turned their backs on him.

  Damn children they were, all of them. Okay, wounded children. And yes, he had caused the damage, and yes, they were merely expecting him to have done more.

  Goats were better than people. He had abandoned his animals as well; he would never witness their rebuke, however. Animals never got a chance to claim their rights for what had been done to them. It was not a stretch to question which might have the greater claim.

  Of course the people should walk away. He would have done the same.

  Brenna took charge of fostering some measure of reconciliation following his less than stellar first meeting with the followers. It became a task of one-on-one, each day a meeting, a conversation with someone who had lost everything. Even then it took all of his resolve to not explode from the scene and let them all take care of themselves. Brenna’s presence and her determination to protect those who had followed them here made him continue to strive to bring one more person into accepting what needed to be done.

  He was a man looking out from the edge of a cliff with a stiff wind at his back, and no matter where he moved it was but another cliff and another stiff wind that wanted to blow him away.

  There were no victories. Every little move forward in their acceptance came with a massive move backward: food, lodging, medical supplies, clothes, a myriad of things needed; it all pelted like hail on a glass roof as the struggling camp recoiled from what they had left behind, a continuous hailstorm threatening to break the fragile canopy of hope they might still harbor.

  Oran hounded Devyn’s every waking moment with the need to build an army. Building even a small force of men and women would require resources. His followers had brought little more than themselves, and the generosity of their neighbors was becoming stretched to the limit. Oran persisted in his attempts to keep Devyn focused on building some defense, insisting the rest would sort itself out.

  As luck would allow chance to have its moment, a young man by the name of Jeremy Danver, a man who made his living lending and collecting coin, made his way to their camp. Jeremy’s wife was a relative of Oran’s, and the two had seen fit to leave the garrison for exactly the reason many friends and relatives of Devyn and Brenna had thought it wise to do.

  Jeremy explained to Devyn and Oran that the riches of Kielara were very much in the possession of folks who made their home in and about the Steel Mountains, and more specifically, Highrest was their favorite place to nest. It was Jeremy’s summation that those who had accumulated wealth and now called Highrest their home did so with good reason. They feared the greed of Lord Wallace might separate them from what their own greed, hard work, and good fortune had gotten them.

  Oran and Jeremy concocted the idea of presenting Devyn as a lord in his own right, a man whose family had been stripped of its prestige and power and obliterated by Lord Wallace, Devyn being the only survivor.

  As rumor and planted story moved through the finer establishments of Highrest, and with Jeremy’s banker instincts in evidence, coin soon began to flow their way, even as each and every lord demanded their donation be kept secret: their hope for anyone standing up to Lord Wallace being welcomed; that their name should be attached to the effort not at all a plausible event.

  Days at the new garrison stretched into thirty or more turns of Kielara, and the word spread farther, men and women arriving ready to serve for the right amount of coin, and coin came with whispers that Lord Gerrick should have his revenge.

  That, in turn, required more resources, living units, and training grounds, not to mention horses and a multitude of livestock, and more meetings where
Devyn played the part of a rising force thanks to the generosity of his growing number of secret benefactors.

  It had fast become a role he hated. Thankfully, Oran and Jeremy did most of the persuading while he made an early escape, claiming that the training of his men and women was where he was needed—not a lie, by any stretch.

  More and more problems required an increasing number of people to provide solutions before such problems were exacerbated by new problems, until a managing group of followers was soon organized and appointed as Council of the Followers. What was once a small community of escapees was now a somewhat protected garrison in its own right, the council led by Lord Devyn Gerrick, though Oran took on the task of meeting leader.