The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Oran also made it known that Devyn should be addressed as “lord.” If his people would not recognize him as lord, then how could they expect the outsiders to respect him as one?

  Devyn was well aware that every time someone called him “lord,” Oran laughed within, all the more as he knew how much it disturbed Devyn.

  *****

  Devyn avoided every outside meeting he could, sticking to what he knew best—fighting.

  None of his troops were given steel in their training. The mock fighting was rigorous and driven, in that each man and woman’s strength was tested and forged into expertise with each encounter of the wooden swords and daggers.

  Archers, mostly women, were using real arrows, as the target did not need to be human. The archers still performed all the other basic training, even some hand-to-hand combat as a matter of defense.

  While the sword might require fast movement, it was still strength that made the blade most effective. Devyn thought differently about archers. Whether man or woman, he had surmised that speed and accuracy provided by a keen eye offset any advantage strength had at close quarters. He found that women possessed those traits to a much greater degree than any muscle-bound man.

  Devyn’s art of war was all about staying alive. He had explained to his troops that there was no honor in killing or being killed. It was one skill against another, with a measure given to chance and circumstance. The honor was in staying alive and using every tactic at your disposal to ensure you did so. Yes, troops needed to follow orders, for stealth and tactics were an essential part of survival and killing. The longer you kept yourself alive, and your comrades alive, the better the likelihood of victory.

  To claim victory, all available tactics were on the table. Victory was the goal. And that was all anyone could hope for from such altercations. In battle, ignore the blood, ignore the noise, and react to what was in your proximity, including your comrade’s back.

  There would be plenty of time after the battle to relive the carnage and the glory.

  Devyn insisted his men and women get to know each other: share meals, evening celebration, stories of who they were, and form bonds.

  The gatherings, when evening fell, where the troops would gather, sing, dance, and share an ale, became less frequent as the grueling days swept by. The bonding was now being transferred to the battlefield, as it should be.

  Even so, Devyn would be first on the training ground in the morning and the last to leave when evening fell.

  And in the silence of the night, the men and women knew it was his footsteps that sounded outside their tent as he performed his last inspection of the day. A guard or two could be heard to whisper, “Lord Gerrick.”

  All others were hard asleep.

  *****

  This morning demanded steel not wood. Devyn waited with his usual mug of coffee as the troops gathered. Once his commanders had arrived, he moved inside. “It’s time to test this little army of ours. We’ve had twenty turns of the sun for training, and they are fat on bravado and ale. Let’s see what they’re really made of.”

  Oran raised his hand. “Whoa! There’s no need to test what doesn’t need testing. Our men and women are all on your side. Our coffers have some coin, and those who want to follow you increase each day. Soon the number will give us a reason to celebrate.”

  “Numbers matter only with the possibility of a logjam on a river. The caliber of victory is best measured by preparation and planning, not only by numbers. I’m afraid we’re attracting runaways and strays. Can any of them fight?”

  “Lord Gerrick?” Elian Kanterbury all but jumped from his seat. “Great lord, all of our troops have passed a strenuous and well-planned training where as many as twenty percent have been removed from the main troops because they were not ready. You… you must understand that we had to do much in a short time, but we understand the force that will come to confront us, and we’re ready.”

  Devyn allowed himself a broad smile. Yes, Oran had bristled at his rebuke of the troops, and Elian was on his feet and defensive. The memory of his sword fight with the young recruit— when he had entered the city looking for the cleric— played through his mind. Was this all they had? “Can any of them confront me and inflict a wound?”

  “No, no, my lord, they would never attack you,” Elian answered.

  Oran regained his composure. He was about to speak, but Devyn stopped him with a show of his hand. Well, Oran had caught on to the game. Well done, my battle-ready friend. He winked at Oran.

  “That was not my question, Elian Kanterbury. I’m but a farmer who has made the poor decision to invest in death as opposed to what a farmer should choose. Could any of your men or women best me?”

  Elian rubbed his hands together, his breathing much more accentuated than with a mere need for air. “My lord, if I’ve offended you, I would ask your forgiveness. My lord should not be the sword in what is to happen. He should be the recipient of the followers who fight for him.”

  Devyn walked up to Elian and clasped his shoulder. “In some greater governance, you should be its leader. Here we are men and woman looking to survive. Find me your five best men and women, and we’ll test them. First we burn the wooden swords and pass out the steel. After that there’s no going back. And Elian, you picked your fear of me over the defense of your forces. Where you look will always decide your focus. Your forces depend on you for leadership.”

  “Yes, my lord. A mistake I will not make twice. I may have over-weighed the influence of your leadership against the command I owe my troops.”

  Devyn smiled. “Hence why you are worth the lesson.”

  *****

  “Have the men and women been told to not inflict a wound upon me?” Devyn asked.

  “No, yes… no, my lord. This cannot be a fair fight,” Elian said.

  “Ah, then let’s watch how I change the odds of inspiration versus perspiration.” Devyn withdrew his sword from its sheath. He pointed it at a tall recruit standing at the front of his small squad, his hands on his hips, clearly focused on his abilities rather than attempting to gauge what was about to transpire. Devyn walked up and pulled the young soldier’s sword from its scabbard, and then stepped back.

  “You appear ill-dressed for fighting. Did you forget something?” Devyn taunted.

  “You have my sword, my lord.”

  “It would appear I have two. That puts you at a disadvantage, don’t you think?”

  The followers erupted in laughter. Devyn raised his sword to the sky and they stopped. “You laugh, but each of you would have fallen for the same tactic. And there’s some logic in allowing it to happen, as it was totally unexpected, a mere silly prank; but on the battlefield, never assume anything. There, such a prank will get you killed. Use your wits, your cunning, your instincts, your training. Everything else is distraction.”

  Devyn moved to the second recruit, returning the first recruit’s sword as he passed him by. “Let’s see that sword of yours, soldier. It’s not one of ours. What’s your name?”

  “Bedan, Bedan Soubour, my lord. My father made it. He’s a blacksmith.”

  “Not a very good one, it would seem!” Devyn shouted. “Maybe he made the sword to match the ability of his son.” Devyn watched as the young man’s eyes flashed with anger. He noted the soldier’s hand was but an instant from slashing out. Devyn smashed at the sword, and it flew from the soldier’s grasp.

  The soldier stepped back with his head down.

  Devyn picked up the sword and wiped it clean with his cloth before returning it to the soldier.

  “I won two battles here by conniving foolery. You expected honor and fair play, especially from your leader. Should I duel you and win, then I have lost a soldier. Should I duel and lose, then you have lost a leader, or at least any respect for one. I have watched the training, and I know to a man and woman you are good soldiers, ready for the fight. So I wanted to show you something else. The enemy will not play fair. In hand-to-hand combat, your op
ponent will say anything, tell you about how he has enjoyed himself with your mother, your sister, your brother; your enemy will use any tactic to make you blink, lose your concentration, and that is what you’ll take to your grave.”

  Devyn embraced the two young soldiers. “These two young men came to fight with an expectation of how it should be done. You all would have reacted the same. When you meet the enemy, know he has nothing to tell you of importance. Give him your sword. Tell your comrades how his words were met with resolve.” He patted them both on the back. “These two will be given a rise in rank for the lesson they have given you.”

  The gathered cheered as the two soldiers were surrounded by their comrades.

  When the salutations died down, Devyn approached the first young soldier, Bedan Soubour. The young man grasped his hilt. Devyn backed away. “It’s okay, Bedan, the training is over. But let me show you something.” Devyn pulled his own sword and presented it to Bedan.

  The gathered looked on in silence.

  Bedan took the sword and held it horizontally in his outstretched hands as if enacting some ceremony and inspected both swords.

  “Look at the hilt,” Devyn ordered.

  “Both these swords were made by my father, but… but…” Bedan muttered.

  Devyn took back his sword. “Your father is the finest swordsmith in the lands. This one holds a special power, but it was his hand that carved it into being. I picked your sword knowing well my tactic would be a lie. The proof is in the sword I swear by.”

  The gathered erupted once again.

  “Go and enjoy the day. From now forward, you are soldiers. Wear your swords, carry your bows as true soldiers would. You have earned it.”

  The soldiers cheered.

  Devyn, Elian, and Oran returned to the command tent.

  Oran plopped himself down. “So, our leader offers words.”

  “Sometimes the training offered by the enemy comes too late. I knew you and Elian had given our troops all they needed for the use of the bow and the sword, the dagger and the fist. I merely offered something else the enemy might bring.”

  Chapter 16

  Commanders

  Elian took the pot of coffee sitting on one of the many grates in use for cooking and poured a mugful; the stone firepits sat along the dirt floor of the massive tent that served as headquarters, whose lofty contoured roof featured an opening at the top for the smoke to rise.

  He offered the steaming mug to Devyn. “No change of plans, my lord?”

  Devyn shook his head. He did not miss the smile that appeared on Aleena’s face as he cringed at the honorific. It appeared his commanders were in awe of his awkwardness at wearing the cloak of nobility.

  Aleena, the younger sister of Solick, had been a student at the university and had wanted to set up shop as a bowyer. Solick had insisted she leave the garrison, knowing that what might come his way would snare her too.

  She now lived with the loss of that part of her family.

  No arrow to his back yet. Maybe she would gift him a more painful death.

  That damn dog; he could still see him.

  Brenna had told him about Aleena. Aleena had wanted to be a craftswoman, making crossbows that had a special capability; when cocked, they held in place without effort until released. The crossbow was her favorite weapon, and her research had enabled her to uncover another feature: send it high and allow the pull of the ground to carry out the hard work—death.

  She could judge the wind and the movement of her prey with the precision of a hummingbird’s wings toward a flower full of nectar. That precision she was now teaching her recruits.

  He would get her killed, no doubt.

  Devyn moved outside and looked at the sky. He took a gulp of coffee. “Ah, beans with some taste… Men and women ready?”

  “The beans are directly from Movais, my lord,” Elian answered. “And as ordered, my lord, the troops are with the horses.”

  Damn, we’re talking about coffee beans while people prepare for battle. But then what should you talk about when you have arranged to get people killed?

  “Good… looks like a nice day for a ride.” He tossed the remainder of his coffee.

  He had left Brenna busy getting them ready for another journey should this one be a success. She had insisted he return in one piece. He had assured her their journey together was not yet over.

  The light was breaking in the east. It would be a sunny day to start, but a storm was forming far off to the west; the weather would come from there later.

  “Let’s get down to the horses.”

  He walked down the small incline and followed the path along the river to where new stables had been erected. Word went quickly that Lord Gerrick was approaching; he could see it as the men and women came to attention.

  “Everyone, as you were… and from here on in, we’re comrades fighting. Forget the lord crap; it’s a word that can, at best, get me killed. Let’s get the job done.”

  He approached Fury and rubbed his neck; the horse was still busy with his morning hay, so Devyn waved off the young woman who was approaching with Fury’s saddle.

  “And those of you who haven’t eaten, get up there now; we move out within the time it takes for my horse to finish his oats and hay.”

  The stables emptied out. He gave Fury a handful of oats and then led him down to the river for a drink. He patted him down and did a walk around to ensure he was ready and able for a long ride.

  A few of the residents had come to see them off. They came with whispers of acceptance; a few had even approached him to offer hope for the challenges ahead. It was not the rousing send-off troops protecting their garrison might prefer, but it was a step-up from the rebuke of the initial meeting. He thanked them, doing so for Brenna and her difficult work.

  So different with his troops; his small army saluted and cheered his every move. Yet he understood that the two were the same in many ways. They each had their agenda of purpose. He was their pawn, no matter that he had chosen the fight. Once on board he was nothing more than the next move in what needed to be done.

  The troops were compelled to bow to their leader because of the coin and discipline they had received; he could only hope there was more. But he had done nothing to earn their respect—a few parlor tricks.

  The troops moved out with Devyn and Elian at the lead. Their scouts had Wallace’s men, a small force of one hundred, two hundred at most, close enough to arrive by that afternoon. Best they could tell, Wallace was not among them, nor had they expected him to be. Devyn and his troops would be outnumbered; they would need some luck to go along with their careful planning. Devyn guessed Wallace’s troops would aim to camp for the evening before reaching the foothills, taking no chance on being seen, and then make their march to the foothills with midmorning approaching, then on through Highrest with the midday, and finally attack his garrison with the evening sun at their backs.

  He hoped to interrupt those plans.

  They were down out of the mountains before midmorning and were in position before the arrival of Wallace’s men and women. They rested their horses, giving them a few flakes of hay and a small amount of water, nothing to indicate to the horses they were stopping for the day. The approaching troops would have been on the move since dawn. With the marching men in tow, the horses would not be winded but a little tired from less than a half-day hike.

  Two riders came racing up to them. “They are less than a few measures behind us.”

  Devyn nodded. “Okay, fall in with the rest of the men.”

  He took a look at the sky and glanced over at Elian as Elian rose into the saddle.

  Devyn pointed. “Those heavier clouds will join us within a short time; perhaps the gods have taken a shine to us, after all. The timing might favor us yet. Let’s send the first group out.”

  Elian was about to give a salute but stopped. “I’ll see it is done, my lo— sir.” With that he turned and moved to where his men waited for him. Aleen
a followed at his heels.

  Devyn chuckled. See, Elian, even a seasoned warrior like yourself might easily meet the consequence of giving folly to a deadly game. Lord, indeed.

  A few seconds later, Elian and Aleena’s soldiers set off to the south at a gallop, halting a short ways along and taking their planned formation.

  Devyn turned to his remaining soldiers. “At the ready.”

  They mounted.

  Devyn peered far up the trail and saw the dust kicked up by the enemy’s arrival; he could hear the rumble of the movement, the din of the horses’ hooves moving along, mixing in with the thud of the men on the march, and the supply wagons creaking along behind.

  The sounds were like a parade in the making. It was meant to create a sense of size and power, to tell the enemy hell was approaching. He had told his men and women to wait for the silence. For what would come next would bring silence to all of this noise, as bloodshed took over the sounds. Sounds had only to do with what ears could sustain; those sounds abated when the focus turned to killing, one on one; then, the flow of blood, the slash of swords, and the dismembered bodies penetrated the soul and stayed there.