The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Yes, a little introspection was called for.

  He could see that Brenna was deep within her own thoughts.

  The Desperate Lands lay behind them, and they soon left the Lower Dry Wastes; still to come was Gloomspell; they would catch a glimpse of it to their east, should the weather allow, as they continued to move north. Midday took them to Mirror Lake, and far to the west of that lake was Shadefair, the sprawling city—a favorite place to visit during sunglow, as it was said that even Amaris and Balac would take pause to swim in the expansive lake beside which the city nestled. He wished they were heading there now, rather than what was to come.

  They continued north along the river that fed Mirror Lake and west of all that, soon to view the ghostly shade of the Steel Mountains rising into the heavens, telling them Highrest was near.

  He had been a mercenary but never a soldier. There had been no wars in his time. Wallace and Wallace’s father before him had squelched every uprising with the swiftness of a swatter dispatching a fly. He felt a little like one of those flies now. Yes, Wallace wanted the cup, and he would do just about anything to get it. He would bring his army this time, no doubt.

  Three sisters, a herd of cats, the whole of it impossible; what were they thinking? More people would die, and in the end Wallace would get his chalice. And yet what if he did? Wallace had had control of it for all the seasons before, and their lives had been fine.

  That damn last prophecy. Did it really have a sure view of the danger that Wallace posed? It was all so vague. The sisters were adamant that a great danger was rising to obliterate everything. Apparently, they had come to that conclusion independently from those who communicated through the prophecies. And the cats, oh yes, and the flaming hawk—it was clear this was no ordinary unfolding of the seasons. Maybe it was true: there was something in the old temple that Wallace should not get his hands on, and of course, the irony was that Wallace with his dagger was probably the only way into that room.

  “There’s no way back to our old life, is there?”

  Brenna stopped her horse. She was clearly surprised by his question as he had surprised himself in the asking.

  “I was thinking about our wedding.”

  “Good or bad thoughts?”

  “Very funny, farmer. I had not known until then you were also a musician. What was the name of that song you sang? I remember some of the words…

  ‘I have found the road at last

  Where I was meant to be

  Not a lonely road to travel on

  For you now walk with me.’”

  “‘The Lucky Traveler.’ It was a song I learned back with the tribe. I found a lute in an abandoned wagon during one of our migrations, and our minstreal named Kasman taught me how to play a little, along with that song.”

  “It was a big surprise, and I had never seen you smile so broadly—”

  “That wasn’t a smile; it was a grimace. I was scared you would cancel the wedding.”

  “Kasman, what an odd name.”

  “I learned it was a substitute of sorts for his true name and what he was: a man truly in charge of what he was about.”

  “Well I’m pleased you had the good fortune to allow some of his talent to wash off on you. I loved the song and your singing. I was thinking how vulnerable you were. I caught a glimpse of that vulnerability once again when you were trying to convince the sisters how you were so unfit to lead a battle against Wallace.”

  “No, no, it was more—”

  “It was that big heart of yours. You show it with your goats. I believe the sisters. I accept the prophecy. Lord Wallace will not only take back the cup, he’ll take whatever else is in the old temple and hunt us all down to the last man and woman.”

  “I won’t allow him to do that.”

  “I know you’ll do all you can to ensure it does not happen. And I don’t need to tell you the price you’ll have to pay. I hope you’ll sing that song to me again. It seems like so long since I last heard you play and sing.”

  “I put the lute away when I figured you were to be the next cleric. I felt it in my bones. Maybe I could have done something—”

  “Something else? No, the warrior did what he felt compelled to do. You used your polished abilities to accomplish what needed to be done. Each of us must work with the tools we have at our disposal.”

  Devyn leaned across and kissed her. “I’ll do what I have to do. And yes, you’ll be by my side.”

  “Okay, now we’ve gotten the touchy-feely stuff out of the way, can we take it up to Wallace level?”

  “Now look who’s becoming the warrior?” He couldn’t help but smile, no matter the gravity of the situation. “Oran will have his boots on from the rise of the sun to the full light from the moons, attempting to turn this small army of followers into a formidable military machine. Elian and Aleena will of course offer their leadership and their abilities…”

  He had to hold back the deeply unsettling reality that, no matter how he looked at what was to come, he was the one pushing people to their death. “I’m aware of a few others who know their way around the sharp edge of a sword. It all comes down to time. The more time we have to prepare, the better our chances of success. Wallace is not likely to allow us that time. His superior troop was decimated by a group of ill-equipped escapees. He made a mistake, a mistake he’ll not repeat. I believe we have very little time before all of Wallace’s strength comes crashing down upon us.”

  Brenna laughed; her horse gave a startled kick. “I assume that’s the good news. Any thoughts on what the bad news might be?”

  “Do you believe in connections that are preordained?”

  “Do you mean me finding you when you were all but dead, and us becoming partners?”

  “Ya. That, sort of.” He knew he was dwelving into her world, where there was order and purpose to it all, a cornacopia of knowledge to pull from, a universe with a record of everything that had ever happened, where one merely needed to open their soul in order to be filled with enlightenment. Well, perhaps she might not believe in such a simplistic view of her beliefs, but it was there that any debate of the matter could commence.

  Brenna rubbed her horse’s neck. “I believe that you and I having met had more to do with necessity than chance. The cycles of our world, while perplexing and impossible to predict, still allow for the turn of the seasons, still allow for daytime to turn into night, warm into cold, darkness into light. Why should we be any different? Yes, I believe that you and I came together for a purpose.”

  It was the answer he was expecting, and while he could not say if his soul shared the same belief, it gave him a measure of belonging and a much-needed connection to Brenna.

  He would hold onto that connection. “What happens next must be about the world we want to live in. Should we fail against Wallace, you know well the consequences. Should we win, the consequences might even be greater.”

  “Yes, farmer, I know what you’re saying, but I would rather follow what might only be a slight chance for the good than accept the certainty of any atrocity that would take away our freedom.”

  “Even it means we’ll be different people?” Devyn looked into her eyes. “Sometimes great journeys, even in success, separate the very people that have traveled the road together. You would expect that being on the same path would give each the same life experience. Yet I have witnessed just the opposite. Intense encounters, unlikely tomorrows, storms, sickness, all touch each of us differently and make us different people, people who might no longer have a connection. I don’t want to lose what we have.”

  “I promise you this, farmer. When I see you on the other side of this, I’ll be all the more in love with the man I married, and you don’t need to tell me where you’ll be. You are there already. And we might be different people from all that transpires, but one thing is certain for me, I will be your partner.”

  “Then we’ll make our preparations in the Steel Mountains and plant the seeds that will bring Wal
lace our way. My guess is he’s already decided to send a much bigger force. But we need him and his dagger. That will take some special doing.”

  Chapter 24

  The Purpose of War

  Silence was a most explosive expression of power if utilized proficiently. In the midst of a litany of admonishments, argument, and debate, there was an expectation of continuity.

  Should the purveyor of the verbal attacks be Lord Wallace, and should he at once become totally silent, then surely what must come next could only signal the end of their world.

  And thus Lord Wallace let the pause ring out whatever they might wish to conjure up. Even the crackle of the fire was a whisper. There was no breeze, and the air was stiff and heated, the fire and the lord himself sucking the very air from the room, or so he wanted them to imagine. He wanted the silence to ignite their fear and burn inside their heads a resolve to never fail him again.

  It had taken carefully planted propaganda to expel the idea that a troop of his men and women had met their demise at the hands of a common farmer. Such an event could not be simply dispersed by the lips of a gaggle of town criers shouting a much different story to the unsuspecting masses.

  The reality, of course, was that indeed only one man had returned, yet within a precious short time Lord Wallace had staged a gathering for a heroic group of men and women who had been ambushed by Gerrick in a most scurrilous fashion—a farmer using children as bait. Lord Wallace’s small troop had lost many attempting to rescue the children and had prevailed in killing almost all of Gerrick’s savages; even more incredibly, Lord Wallace had informed those gathered, the child-utilizing usurper of the lands had not even attended the very infanticide he’d initiated.

  The gathered called for Gerrick’s head and that of his wife. Lord Wallace promised there would be no mercy for the two, and that they would hang. The band of returning troops, the ones assumed to be victorious, were soon ushered away, and the celebration continued without them.

  That had been many moons ago. The celebrating was now long done with. A return to order. Still, whispers were exchanged in taverns and eating halls, shops and schoolrooms, dark alleys and back roads. None of those whispers made it back to Lord Wallace, but he knew well that it was happening.

  And the silence continued. Lord Uric had promised there would be no failure this time, and Lord Wallace had asked what Lord Uric could give to ensure that his orders were carried out completely. Lord Uric had promised his very life, which Lord Wallace had deemed a worthless insurance. His next words were, “This is what I will do…” And then he offered nothing but the silence.

  He turned back to look directly at his commanders; they all looked him in the eye, none showing weakness, though they knew their very lives were at stake. He permitted himself a slight pulse of success, admiration for what he had accomplished: a small group of commanders who knew they might be snuffed out at any time yet would give their very lives to serve him. And he knew the reason for this and had planned for the possibility that, one day, a greater impetus would be needed to accentuate the gravity of failure from his commanders.

  Seven men, five women, all a part of his elite force, all leaders of other men and women, well trained, young and fit, yet old enough to know that having someone else do your fighting while you gave the orders was a more suitable arrangement than leading the troops from the front and engaging the enemy. They were not fat and sloppy, but they lived well enough to want to go on living. None of them had been in an actual war, but all were, in one way or another, experts in squelching rebellions and proving the catalyst in any diversion their Lord Wallace might deem necessary.

  No, not one looked down. They were not at attention, but they very much gave him their attention. And no, it was not their training or their long service that he had to rely upon. For good reason he had rebuked General Uric’s offer to give up his life. No greater gift could be asked of a soldier than to give up his life, so the lore of war went.

  Lord Wallace knew better.

  It had always amazed him that books and stories of war and uprisings sang again and again about torture and its benefits. He could tell a tall tale from any accurate account of war; he understood that by how captured soldiers reacted. Yes, his clerics and scholars broke before the torture began, but a true soldier would know his life was over before the torture began. This was the condition of his commanders. They knew whose pocket they belonged in and the little value they would have should they fail. It was the price they paid for the position.

  The timing for his special catalyst to success had not yet presented itself. So their breathing, the crackle of fire, and the only other sound—the thunder of the silence—continued.

  He had found from the teachings of his father, from reading, from observation and experimentation, that the best soldiers were better if brainwashed regarding the attributes of battle—about their comrades, about the intense importance of the task at hand, and about the rationale for the battle itself. Better still, if the personality of the soldier masked the disposition of a man or woman who cared about no one, for whom killing was a mere choice of activity—no more, no less than taking a piss—then the greater the soldier. Those were few and hard to find, and the greatest training could not produce the pure product; such brilliant and perfect personae had to be a product of breeding; nurturing could only do so much.

  Soldiers were one thing; commanders were a whole other caged bird. Those must have ego and reason, connection and compassion, the opposite of what one might expect from those who would propel others into battle and death. The reasoning for that had to do with assets. There were only so many soldiers. The better commander was the one wise enough to use their assets wisely. They were the ones who got the most done with the least loss. Yes, commanders were people with conscience; they needed to be. So that was part one of his special plan—make his commanders men and women of compassion. Perhaps not of pure compassion, but they cared about consequences.

  All of his commanders were well compensated for their efforts. They were given special privileges in the towns and cities they rode through. During the intense training season that began with the onset of frostbite, they were required to stay with their troops for four out of seven days at a time, and then they could spend their time on their expansive estates. His commanders lived the life of kings and queens in their own right, with servants and workers, craftspeople and chefs, teachers and performers, to provide all that would keep the commanders served and content.

  That was part two of his special plan. But it was part three that made it so special and gave it the impetus to compel his commanders to get done what he needed doing.

  Time to break the silence.

  “What I want is victory. What I want is the chalice returned to the temple. I want Gerrick and all of his kind eradicated from Kielara. I want no more failure. I want what is in the old temple. I have been patient and waiting, but I know that time has run out. There can be no more waiting. The assault must be swift and complete. And what I want from you, what I will demand of you…”

  He could see they still did not comprehend the reason for his silence. He had broken that silence to allow them to revisit what he had demanded at the last four war room meetings. He had demanded a way forward. He had explained the stakes. He had explained that only a fool would hide in the Steel Mountains, that Gerrick was no fool. No, the Desperate Lands would be where the battle was fought. They must not fail.

  Silence was a friend to many, a time to sit and contemplate the past and the future, a time to reflect on what was and what was to come. But this silence was a tool of control. It said who could and who could not talk, and when they could talk. He knew they knew that all the words to come would be—must be—from him and him alone.

  He returned to the silence.

  Connections. Even the soldiers made connections. They did not do it to give some joyful experience to the killing, the blood, the loss. They did it to link to what humanity they could in l
ight of the incredible carnage to come. Even in times of peace, soldiers felt the possibility of violence and death. Commanders knew the spark of disaster, a place on fire with people in fear and lashing out, a misguided group thinking the world and all its riches were theirs, a small army of dissenters hoping to make a fast fortune; such events were not war as such but were explosive and deadly in purpose and outcome if not squelched.

  Lord Wallace had a prerequisite for each of his commanders: they must be family men and women. Each of the vast estates owned by his commanders was also an estate containing husbands and wives, children, parents, and grandparents, compounds that told each commander there was another side to his or her lineage, one connected to those to whom he or she belonged, a precious reason for it all.

  This was the third and most important part of his special plan. It was what held the stones together on the great wall of impossible penetration. It’s what made his commanders totally unaccepting, invincible, and impervious to failure. Yet even they did not know the special attribute he had planted inside them.