But more in line with the human propensity for taking advantage of a situation were the surrounding tradespeople who fully recognized the opportunity for coin. Guild’s Anvil was instantly transformed into a center of increased commerce. Battles made for a healthy economy, although the irony might be lost on those who would have to die to keep it all so robust.
Then again, all of existence was much about death and decay, the very essence of what it took to feed new life in abundance.
The benefactors, should Devyn be victorious, saw war as an investment in their freedom and prosperity, and the weapons’ guild called it an opportunity to increase research and development of new weapons, a magnificent boon, and no matter which side was the winner both groups would most certainly prosper in some fashion.
Of course, both groups were quick to bow their heads and call upon the spiritual leaders of men and women to unite and find a peaceful solution. None seemed interested in any knowledge of what might have brought about the situation: lost prophecies, suppression, killings, torture; it had little to do with their everyday lives.
Perhaps the general populace understood as much about that as did the merchants of war, certainly nothing to do with the black jewels, the cats, the lost temple, or the secrets still to be uncovered.
Thus he gave little concern or attention to either side, other than to attempt to alleviate what fear he could as the fog of hostilities swirled closer and closer; a frightened dog could bite his master, and most certainly bite an outlier, such as himself.
Battle was simply what it was, an evil that had no attributes. Devyn had questioned his intentions, motives, resolve, and moral obligations. He even understood that to back down and allow Wallace to have his way might be a lesser evil than the one he was concocting. Wars were fought for the silliest of reasons, and the fires of those wars were most certainly fanned by the weapons’ masters and the wealthy bureaucrats who sat on the sidelines.
This was different. He was a flame in no one’s fire.
But he was not so naïve to believe that men before him had started wars without similar notions. He took what solace he could in believing that Brenna and his commanders were in agreement with him regarding what needed to be done.
The Desperate Lands, the Dry Wastes—certainly not places people wanted to farm, settle down on, or raise a family. That was where the battle would commence. Neither side wanted to own it or rule it; neither side wanted to even stray inside its borders. No matter which side won, they would depart as quickly as they had arrived.
It hit him keenly that maybe, just maybe, that’s where all battles should be fought.
“You appear deep in thought,” Brenna said.
“We’re back to the roots of our last journey. This time we bring with us a most auspicious wind of change.”
Brenna rubbed his back. “Well, it would appear some winds are blowing in your favor. Guild’s Anvil not only provided a cache of weapons, but a store of new recruits.”
Devyn nodded. “More come to join in the adventure of battle. I wonder how few know what they really fight for. Better still, I wonder if it matters. Is it enough that the leaders know the motives, and the soldiers bear the consequences?”
“Judging the necessity of war, that’s for the leaders; it’s a responsibility that cannot, that should not, be borne by everyone.”
Devyn bowed. “A soldier after war should be the foundation of a new beginning. What they give in battle must be what we stand upon to exact the change we look for. They must be taken care of and endorsed to judge the fruit of our efforts. It will be so, should we be the ones who prevail.”
“Your soldiers know that,” she said.
“We may be a little ahead of ourselves,” he added.
They had found this less than hospitable place below Cliffden, a land no one before had claimed, and perhaps with good reason: no permanent buildings here, only tents they had erected, fences easily constructed and adequate for their horses, dairy animals, and hens, as long as they were being guarded on a full-time basis.
There was no shortage of drinkable water, which was the area’s strongest attribute.
Pesky insects were everywhere and waited their turn to draw blood; rocks grew on top of rocks; stinging nettles offered a special swipe against unprotected skin; arid ground in one area could quickly turn into bog as downpours fought on a regular basis against the sun’s evaporation efforts.
“No new followers from the west,” Devyn said. “It looks like Wallace has laid down an impassable blockade.” His scouts had reported it impossible to reach West Haven, and even the Flat Lands were a perilous place to attempt to traverse.
“What does that mean?” Brenna asked.
Devyn knew this was the message he needed. They were as ready as they were going to be; the next big wind that blew across the Flat Lands would carry Wallace and his might.
“Wallace is on his way.”
He and Brenna had paid another visit to the store of ice this morning. He hoped that keeping their blood cold would preserve whatever influence it might give to their cause. It had been Simon’s idea to gather the ice from the Steel Mountains, a task accomplished before their departure from Highrest. That was also the time he and Brenna began having their blood withdrawn and stored in small vials, now kept cold in the ice packs.
How much blood each of them could afford to give was an unknown, as was the amount they needed. They settled on ensuring that neither he nor Brenna felt any exhaustion from the letting of the blood, and kept the timing to every few days—a cup of blood from him, a smaller portion from her, Simon assuming that the difference in size accounted for the difference in quantity to be taken.
As each new store of blood was accumulated, the cargo was dispatched to the coastline leading into the old city.
Not one of those convoys reported the sighting of the sisters, or any cats. There were casualties from other calamities that were the signature of the Desperate Lands, but as far as they could tell, all shipments had made their destination, and casualties were on the decline as each new convoy returned with intel on the safest way to travel, information that would also be of great value as Devyn’s main force made its way to Arapendia.
The bloodletting was coming to an end now. Simon decreed they had given their limit.
It was agreed that once there were imminent signs of the battle to come, everyone other than the soldiers and supply wagons would return to the garrison above Highrest. Whatever followed would come down to luck, cunning, and the culmination of events that even the best statistician would find impossible to calculate.
The heavy rains of the evening before had thankfully abated. A light breeze picked up a multitude of beckoning scents from the variety of shrubs, nettles, and the few patches of scattered wildflowers, temptations to come closer to what might well be a fatal poison, a price for the sweet scent they offered.
New riders approached and were escorted to Devyn. He met with them briefly and returned to Brenna and the other commanders.
“Our scouts have verified the imminent arrival of Wallace. He’s in the Flat Lands.” Devyn said.
The commanders gave the orders. The first of the wagons began heading north, those that would not be part of the fighting. When the last had gone from their sight, it hit Devyn—the smallness of his army.
Fewer to die.
No, none of that. “We’ll meet again at the garrison.”
“Yes, we will.” Brenna patted his back.
*****
Lord Wallace knew what he had to do next. Having put the entire cloister of clerics under rigorous scrutiny, having interrogated the astrometry fraternity and other scientific denizens of the observatories and university, he finally had an inkling of what had transpired. The cup had not been stolen as everyone, including himself, had assumed. It had gone back to the old temple. The how and why of the matter were queries for another place and time. He knew now that Gerrick and his pack of thieves were raising an army, pla
nning to retrieve the cup and bring his reign to an end.
He should have killed Simon. He was no doubt among Gerrick’s followers.
No matter. His army had soon controlled every road in and out of West Haven and a long ways into the Flat Lands. Gerrick and his little army would be nothing more than a one-legged rooster hunted by a hungry pack of wolves. But there could be no failure this time, and he would make sure that everyone along his path felt the pain; he would, of course, leave a few to tell the tale of his vengence.
He waited for the two moons to come full into the night, for when they set out there needed to be quick and constant movement. No messenger would give Gerrick warning. No thunder of drums would announce his arrival; no escaping person or animal would announce to Gerrick that his time on Kielara would soon end.
He knew the stories of the old temple. His father had told him those stories when he was a child. He was never sure if much of what his father had told him was conjured to feed a child’s imagination or held some substance of truth. His father had talked of the black jewels and the power they contained, but he’d never explained how that power could be harnessed. The jewels on his dagger were black jewels, and other than making the dagger indestructible, he had found no other use for them.
His father had talked about the protectors, and how a band of his soldiers had been destroyed in their attempt to reach the old temple. That too was a story Wallace accepted as a mix of fact and fiction. Until now.
The cup was special. It was not a creation of the people of Kielara. He was certain of that. Its messages were constant and had proven again and again to be concise. Some greater intelligence was at work. His world had come to accept this as some divinity set on ensuring their world survived, thrived, and continued to progress. And to that he gave his agreement, whether it be truth or fiction.
But something else was at work, and it was not the interference of some deity. The last prophecy made it clear that they, whomever they might be, were not able to reach them. That alone expressed that their communicators had limitations. Whatever was occurring with the cup was not some deity finding a petty way to communicate; it was most certainly a petty communicator, albeit one more evolved than themselves, who knew well they had limitations.
Reaching no conclusion, he could only formulate one plan. The cup gave them—and more importantly him—a hand up in evolving, one that might otherwise take his scientists forever to uncover, if at all.
And with that belief his plan was simple: get the cup at all costs. He would feed Gerrick and his pack of rebels to whatever snarl of teeth their dead bodies invited. Most animals were merely looking for a good meal. He would provide that and more.
*****
Devyn’s troops were set.
This was not a sound tactical place to fight a superior-sized army. But he needed to be sure Wallace would follow him to the old city. The dagger was their only hope of getting inside the jeweled room. What might be there still perplexed him, but he was confident the prophecy would not highlight its importance unless it was indeed so.
And the cats, he needed the cats.
This morning had begun with a soft breeze and lots of sun. As they approached midday, a thunder sounded in the distance, and dark, rolling clouds streamed in, covering the blue sky. The winds kicked against the flaps of their tents; racks spilled onto the ground, and the few flags that marked the barriers smacked the wind in relentless retribution.
Devyn stood peering off toward the west. Surely Wallace would not arrive during such a treacherous storm. Yes, it was what Devyn would do; but this storm was too fast for any such planning on Wallace’s part. It had arrived with the suddenness and fury of an avalanche. Still, he peered off into the distance.
Another strike of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, and after that more howling gusts of wind.
“It would appear you like to stand in the rain, caretaker.”
Devyn’s hand went to his sword. And then a voice from the other side. “You don’t seem frightened by the thunder.”
He turned again as a third voice sounded behind him. “You peer too deeply to ever see what is coming. Eyes and ears are a useful resource left to serve the fleeing prey. You might need something greater.”
“The sisters. Who else would conjure up such a natural setting for a visit? I should have known.”
Asrah slid in front of him. He had no other way to describe it. In one instant she was not there, and in the next she was staring into his eyes.
“It would seem your little army is well asleep, in their fear of the storm. Not one eye on us as we walked in; all obliged by fear or design to watch the storm and nothing else.”
“You three do not saunter into anywhere. My guess is the storm is your doing, and I would suppose that even without it you would have found your way to me without interference.”
That laugh again; it made the storm appear a slight breeze.
“We have felt the danger. It is coming,” Asrah said.
“We’ve known that for some time. But why are you here?”
“Not the great danger, something else. We think it is Lord Wallace on the move. It happened one day ago—”
“How could you get here in one day?”
“You need to listen, caretaker. Lord Wallace’s troops are on the move, and Lord Wallace is among them. But, there is more; there is a urgency beyond Lord Wallace, an urgency of grave importance, an urgency where speed is of the essence. It is no longer enough that you should get the dagger. It must be done in a timely fashion.”
Chapter 27
Strategy
Devyn had always figured there were three stages to fishing with a lightweight line when the goal was a large fish, a fish that could easily break the line and escape if given the opportunity.
First, have a light drag on the reel, so when the fish took the bait and ran, he would not break the line. Second, know where you were fishing and what obstacles would aid the fish and not your line. Any place the fish could take the line, knowingly or otherwise, would allow for a snag, and a lost fish. The third stage was the most precarious, with a fish on a hook when the line could not hold his weight. The trick was to make him tired, bring him near and then release, allow the struggle to continue until you knew the slack on the line was him giving in. Then reel him in; once tired, he would go where the pull took him.
It was perhaps not an honorable way to win a battle, but it provided a way for weakness to counter the superior strength of an opponent.
“Three battalions. This is it. We’re on the move,” Devyn muttered.
His army of men and women, no matter how austere in any portrayal of strength, was busy becoming a mobile unit. No goats to leave behind this time. His tent had already made its way to a wagon. The table where he sat held his men and women who would put their plan into action, Brenna among them.
“I know we’ve discussed this,” Devyn continued, “but I want to be sure. The archers must be protected. They will leave first. Aleena, you must depart with them. I need you in place and rested for when we arrive. I want to bring Wallace to you tired and exhausted as we will be, and you and your troops will rain down upon them.”
Aleena got up from the table. “We’ll be ready for your arrival.” She strode off, and Devyn and the others watched as they disappeared into the distance.
“Okay, Bren—”
“Wait, farmer. I ride with you. Is that what you’re going to say?”
Devyn leaned back and let out a bellow of a laugh. He leaned back in and patted her hand. “Ya, that’s exactly what I was about to say.”
She gave his hand a playful slap. “How much time do we have?”
“I wish we knew for sure. One, maybe two days. My guess is we’ll not know until he’s upon us. Even with all the precautions we’ve given our scouts, none have returned in the last few days. By the time our latest scouts get back to us after making a sighting, we’ll have only a short sliver of time to make our departure.”
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“Are you certain I should not wait?” Elian asked.
“I’m certain. You leave in the morning and position yourself to protect the archers. Wallace needs to believe this is the entire army. His scouts will find us before he does, and we need him to believe we’re the entire army he’s about to face. Any sign of trickery and he’ll take his time and proceed with a caution we do not want. We know we’ll take casualties, but there’s no other way to make him feel his victory is inevitable.”
Devyn got up from the table. Too late to make any changes. The winds were blowing strong in the direction of battle and death. Nothing could change that now.
The Last Prophecy Page 27
