The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  He glanced back to gauge their numbers and distance; ten was his best estimate, and they hadn’t gained. It would appear Fury was one of a kind. Devyn found a small slice of humor in having to wait for his followers to keep up.

  They made it down to where the castle was no longer in sight, should someone be looking. There he took a road south, another north, and then again south. At best his followers could only conclude he was merely trying to outrun them.

  He finally made the decision that Fury had done more than his duty, and that Brenna had had her best chance to escape. One last kick to Fury’s sides and they sped away, leaving their followers far behind. He hoped the drops of blood that spilled from his many wounds proved insufficient for any trackers.

  Chapter 7

  Reaction

  That chalice was his fortune and his bane. Of course, he was the prime recipient of any new information regarding technology and improvement that came with the prophecies, and he was Lord Wallace, Lord of the Lands. Yes, all got to hear the prophecies, but he had the advantage of resources that gave him a lead on all others who might wish to prosper from what was foretold.

  His stores of wealth grew with each new prophecy.

  The fools who had taken the chalice didn’t realize the terrible disaster they had unleashed. That last prophecy had been kept from the people, and with good reason. It was madness; surely the incompetent clerics who had transcribed the caretaker’s babbling had somehow missed or mixed up the real message. No prophecies in his time before had been so obscure. There had been no prophecies since.

  And the chalice. The chalice was a whole different matter.

  He had met with the next caretaker-of-the-cup. Not to give her guidance, merely to insist she do her duty. In another time he might find her special. In this time he dismissed her as quickly as she was brought before him.

  Now this madman, Devyn Gerrick, a farmer, had carried out the unthinkable.

  The temple was in the center of the city, well protected with guards, and filled with clerics and their servants. No one other than a crazed farmer steeped in bravado and a wish for death would dare attack such a facility. That it had worked said much about dumb luck being capable of outwitting a much superior force.

  It was equally perplexing to comprehend how one man with a handful of men and women had escaped with the cup and his caretaker-of-the-cup without a word ever reaching his ears that such a coup was being planned.

  It was apparent that the coin he paid for spies and informants was a waste.

  Those spies had paid the price for their lack of attention, the rope being too good for their incompetence; he made them face the same fate as the remaining family members of that caretaker. She was most certainly a part of Gerrick’s insurrection.

  He talked with the one sister of Brenna who had remained behind, before he sent them all over the falls. He told her that his caretaker-of-the-cup had been the reason for this; he smirked when he informed her she was about to become broken bits of meat and bones upon the rocks below the falls.

  What to do next? Retrieving the chalice was a priority, yet a useless endeavor. But it was essential he let the people know he always got back what was his.

  He had sent out messengers to every corner of the lands declaring Devyn Gerrick and Brenna Gerrick personae non gratae, on pain of death to anyone protecting them. Every major city was being instructed to search for the fugitives; the chalice had to be found and returned—the reward being offered was enough for anyone to live a wealthy long life.

  A few of the clerics had been killed during the battle; his soldiers were questioning those that remained. Caretakers were being rounded up and held for their “protection,” a thin veil of a lie until he figured what best to do with them.

  “My lord, General Utaru is here to see you.”

  Lord Wallace nodded.

  The clerk backed away and returned with the general. The general was careful to leave his sword outside, no clink of metal as he entered; not that it was any match against the magic that Wallace could wield. Wait for the footsteps to stop.

  Then there was silence; he continued looking into the fireplace. When sufficient time had elapsed, he turned and nodded.

  “What brings you here, General? Have you run out of people to escape your grasp?”

  “My lord, we have found two more men. They helped the other people escape the morning before the assault. One died before we could bring him back for questioning; the other is in the holding pen, awaiting your orders. He blurted out a concern for his sister before refusing to give up anything further.”

  “What about Gerrick and the caretaker?”

  The general bent his head. “We have not found them, my lord—”

  “Of course you haven’t.” He all but spit the words at the general.

  “Yes, my lord. Will that be all?”

  “Dismissed.”

  Straten Wallace turned his back before the general could even take a step. “You would be prudent to bring me better news, and soon.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The general took his exit, closing the door behind him.

  Lord Wallace placed his hand over the candle sitting next to the small bell on the desk. He watched as the flame took in the air from the room and sucked it along the wick in its dance to be fire. He willed it to cease its breathing, even as he prevented the flame from burning him. He pushed his hand out flat, palm down against the fire, the one touching the other. He willed the flame to recede, willed that it should have no air. The flame snuffed out.

  He rubbed his hands together in a celebration of victory; the small victories gave form and capability to greater victories.

  He rang the bell. The door opened, and his clerk entered.

  “Fetch me Utaru’s prisoner.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Wallace looked at his hands. Nothing would touch him that he did not invite. The only way to ensure that was to have absolute rule over everything.

  His father knew that to have absolute rule, there must be absolute power. There should be no measure for a discussion of who was in charge, because then the focus became who wielded the ability to make change—the more people involved, the more likely the power struggle went on forever, and the more likely nothing got done.

  His way was better. One man.

  It was an absurd notion that the consensus of the many was any more accurate than the voice of the one, especially one like himself who knew all about how people should be guided.

  A tap on the door before it opened.

  His clerk entered first. Behind him came the prisoner: shackled, his clothes tattered, his head down. Behind the prisoner, two guards gripped his arms.

  Lord Wallace approached the prisoner. He took the man’s hair in his hand. “Do you not bow before your lord?” He pushed the man to his knees.

  “The rest of you may leave.”

  The clerk attempted to speak. “My lord—”

  “Out, all of you.” He waited for the door to close.

  “What’s your name?”

  The prisoner did not answer.

  “Very well. You may not be aware of my expectations. I will promise you two things. One, you’ll tell me all that I need to know, and second, you’ll die in this chamber. The amount and degree of suffering depends on you; the final matter of your death is not at issue. Now, let’s try again. Tell me your name.”

  The prisoner remained mute.

  “Well, well. Your sister would be so proud of you.” The prisoner’s head came up. Lord Wallace continued. “You assumed she escaped?”

  “All my family got away. Do with me what you wish.”

  “By all means, I will. But first, I’ll have you consider something. She got away, but she didn’t get far. Let me fetch her, and maybe she’ll tell me where the rest of your family has gone.”

  “No, no, she did what she was told. She had no choice in any of this.”

  Lord Wallace went behind the prisoner. “Oh, I should menti
on that if I bring her here I must offer her the same future as you. She’ll tell me all she knows, and she will die in this chamber.”

  “No. No. How do I know you’ll not kill her anyway?”

  Lord Wallace pulled the prisoner’s head back to where the prisoner’s eyes looked up at the ceiling. “This isn’t a bargaining session. Does she join you, or will you talk?”

  “Please, please. She’s only a child.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Martin… Martin Breen.”

  “See, Martin, how easy that was? Now let’s get into some detail.”

  The interrogation continued. Each time the prisoner faltered, Lord Wallace reminded him of his sister. Each time Lord Wallace suspected a lie, he dealt out sufficient punishment to ensure the man’s screams were loud enough to echo about the walls.

  After each scream, Lord Wallace would back away from the prisoner and wait for any remaining clarity to return.

  The interrogation continued for some time.

  Not much blood, maybe a few broken bones. The fingernails were a wonderful place to inflict pain—just a prick under the nail. Never take a fingernail off, as the resulting pain would assert itself over all others, spoiling any new surprise.

  As with all of life’s little pleasures, however, it had to come to an end.

  He had gleaned all there was to uncover.

  “Do you even know Devyn Gerrick?”

  Martin shook his head.

  Lord Wallace swung the cane and stopped it just short of the prisoner’s eyes—another wonderful place to inflict pain, but he wanted his prisoner to see the master.

  “It would appear we’re finished here. You have nothing more to add than did the ten helpings of fish food I flushed over the falls yesterday.”

  The prisoner gasped. “My sis—. My sister.”

  “No, I will not hang her yet. But from what you tell me, most of the scum who ran off to follow Gerrick are heading for the Steel Mountains. When I find her, I’ll tell her how her brother gave her up, and then I’ll hang her.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Now, now, that’s no way to talk to your executioner.”

  Martin attempted to spit at Lord Wallace. Instead Lord Wallace stuffed the cane in the prisoner’s mouth and screwed it halfway down his throat.

  The prisoner fell back on the stone floor, convulsing, blood pouring around where the cane extended from his mouth. Lord Wallace stood and observed as the man tried in vain to pull the cane from his mouth, his hands incapable of making contact, his legs kicking out against nothing, muffled sounds of a horrible slow death.

  “I was going to kill you quickly, should you have had anything worthwhile to tell me. Alas, you failed that test.”

  When it was over he rang the bell.

  His clerk entered in seconds, two guards behind him.

  “Clean up the mess.”

  Lord Wallace removed his leather gloves and coat, both stained with blood. He tossed them into the fire, went and poured himself his favorite distilled elixir—an elixir that felt as scorching to the palate as it was to the mind; it gave off the flavor of apricot as the burning dissipated, demanding that another sip be taken. He smiled a broad smile. Even he obeyed some orders, especially should they involve his pleasure.

  Devyn Gerrick would pay. And the caretaker? He would ensure Gerrick watched every moment of her torture.

  Another sip.

  Yes, apricots.

  This matter was delicate if not preposterous. He could not send an army to beat down this matter. It would make him look like an elephant standing on a high stool to take on a mouse. No, there had to be another way.

  Any damage to his reputation was a most irritating blemish.

  Some ingrate had decided that being a fugitive, living off scavenging and sleeping in filth, and seeing that life end in merciless death, was somehow a better journey than the world Lord Wallace had given him.

  Best to wait, though; there was no need for a quick retaliation. Best to let it simmer, and strike like a swatter at a fly when the time was right.

  He left the meeting room and moved down to where Raven waited.

  *****

  “My lord, you’ve returned early,” she said.

  “Dear Raven. Nonetheless, you are here to greet my arrival. Is there wine? I enjoyed a sip of apricot brandy in the meeting room in celebration of bringing a small matter to an end; the taste lingers such that now I want to explore more subtle tastes.”

  “And I suppose that to be a red wine, the blood of the red grape skin that best suits your sensibilities, or so you have told me on a number of occasions.”

  “Many people look on what I do as opulence. No doubt it is. But it also tells the populace what they need to pursue. The sheep could never make it to the safe pasture without the aid of a good shepherd. I am less direct. I do not move them by nipping at their behinds; that is the job of my sheepdogs. I wish the populace to follow by imitating what I do.”

  Raven poured him a glass of red wine and handed it to him. “I doubt they have the time, resources, or ability to imitate what you do. And surely you mean not your power, but rather your relish for life.”

  “Power is a much misunderstood word. An ocean has power, and while it might be seen as turbulent and unpredictable, few would agree that its power is a negative attribute. There can be but few oceans, for they must be expansive to serve their purpose. Each ocean must serve as the place where all waters run, where a multitude of creatures who serve the lands might find food, even as they send their waste into its depths. The ocean is where the great storms form, the ocean’s mechanism, together with the wind, to bring the water back to the lands; without that water the land would be a dry pile of lifeless dirt.

  “The ocean’s vastness can take anything the lands bring to bear.

  “So no, the people cannot have the power I have, for I am the ocean; my subjects can be rivers and streams, lakes and ponds, people of substance and purpose. I allow them that. Oceans are dark, unfathomable. The ocean is a force that cannot be stopped. It is the way it should be. What it gives back to the land is well beyond what the land gives to the ocean.”

  “My lord is deep this evening.”

  “Nothing more than the final pieces of the ponderings I’ve been forced to stir around due to our changing circumstances.”

  “Are you in a mood for dancing, dining, and a handful or two of guests hanging onto your very word?”

  “When you make such statements, I can never be sure if you are laughing at me or my guests, or both.” He knew she would not answer, as it was understood between the two of them that she could say or not say as she wished until he said otherwise. “No, this evening I prefer it be you and I, and lots more wine, and perhaps other things.”

  She didn’t even look him in the eye. “Maybe a delectable dinner to accompany the red wine would give you better things to reflect upon.”

  “And you have some special dish in mind.”

  “My lord, you read my mind. Would you like to dine on one of the goats from Gerrick’s litter?

  Wallace smiled. “Your skills get better and better. Grilled goat meat it is.”

  Chapter 8

  The Awakening

  It was most unusual that Devyn slept without knowing how long he had done so. The rumbling in his stomach gave him some hint, and the pounding in his head said he was yet to enter the initial stage of any mending from his injuries.

  A greater urgency pervaded his thinking—Brenna and the old cleric, and not for the same reason. He had hoped that getting Brenna away quickly would allow for the completion of another task, but that opportunity had not presented itself. Stealing the cup had been an afterthought of sorts. Having done so had added a new dimension, one he had not fully considered. Was his wife now in greater danger from the cup than she was from Wallace? He needed an answer to that, and the best person to ask was the old cleric, if he was still alive.

  He sat up and spread his
fingers; spurts of pain told him he was not in good shape. He stood, struggling to keep his balance; the rest of his body pulsed from the many wounds and bruises waiting their turn to be healed, if the totality of their onslaught did not kill him first.

  He lit the lamp that sat on the box next to the cot. With his next step, he kicked against his bloodstained clothes that had been tossed on the floor. He avoided another stumble with the help of the wall of earth he slammed his hand against. A thick, pleasing aroma of decaying cedar told him he was safe. He was in the old cellar he had hollowed out many turns of the season before.