The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Water, he needed water, and as a modicum of clarity returned, he remembered the water pouch he had filled at the river before making his way here. He found it, drank what he needed, and poured some over his head and face, shaking his head of the excess.

  He took a few steps and tripped against his boots on the earthen floor. His housekeeping skills could use some improvement. He kicked the boots aside, along with the coat and other paraphernalia he had tossed to the ground on his arrival; he steadied himself against a barrel that in its time had contained water—now empty. When some sense of balance returned, he ventured cautiously outside to relieve himself.

  The gloom of early morning or late afternoon, he could not tell which. The sun was totally obscured by the low, dark cloud cover. He was unable to make out any point of light… not that it mattered; he was going nowhere in his present condition. His body told him that. He finished what he needed to do and headed back inside.

  There was no food inside his small cave. He wrestled with the idea of heading outside once more. He needed to find Brenna. Even that had to wait, he realized. Everything they had done was to ensure her escape. Had he put her in more danger?

  Another incredible impulse to go after her, arriving as a jolt to his aching body. He needed to learn what had become of her.

  He stumbled.

  It would have to be the cave until he regained some strength.

  All dead, what a price to pay. Dead clerics along with the guards, men and women at prayer, nothing more; he had dispensed with them as a precaution they not give alarm. The innocent go with the enemy in every such confrontation. Perhaps Brenna’s Ogmia would understand. He knew his gods would not; that talk with them would be for another time.

  Finding her would take some doing. They had agreed she would choose her path as she traveled. In case any of those who’d helped set her free were captured, none would have the answer to her whereabouts. He would need his wits and his strength to find her.

  His knees buckled, and his head throbbed against his attempts to stay upright. Finally the effort to stand gave into the commands of exhaustion.

  This time he slipped into a troubling dream, one that stayed with him as he regained consciousness, a dream that all his efforts had been for naught.

  The dream was dreadful and much too close to what had actually happened. All his men and women were dead; he was alone as he made it outside the iron gates and onto the bridge. Somehow Brenna had made it there before him; she now lay dead, halfway across the bridge. A hawk, perched by her side, screamed that all was lost. Devyn responded that a hawk could not talk, that the hawk was wrong. The hawk pecked at Brenna’s eyes. Devyn screamed at it to stop.

  The hawk responded. “How else can I make her see?”

  “No, no, stop—!”

  Devyn forced his eyes open and sat up abruptly, struggling desperately to separate the reality from the dream. He finally discerned his delirium was from being half-awake and still half in a dream state as his body demanded more rest and his brain insisted he go find Brenna.

  He drank some water. Any further rest was not forthcoming. He had to find her. But first he would have to go back to the garrison, even if it meant a confrontation with Wallace.

  First things first. He examined what he could with touch and movement. No bones broken, and his wounds were no longer bleeding profusely.

  There, all that medical treatment behind him.

  He pulled out a knapsack from a small trunk, stashed there so the rats would not make a new home before he had a chance to wear the clothing it contained.

  The only items left of his old outfit worth saving were the boots and the two leather straps that held his dagger and his sword.

  He had no time to give his blades the cleaning or sharpening they needed. Still, he took what time he could with the oilcloth and whetstone to wipe away the weeping of blood from the last encounters.

  The cellar had served its purpose. He closed the door, filled in the space in the ground with the brushes he had moved aside upon entering. A last look to ensure it was as hidden as possible, and he was away.

  A small river flowed to one side of where he was walking. He drenched his head in the cool water. He shook away the excess and scooped a few handfuls over his head.

  A couple pangs of pain shot through him as he stretched out his arms.

  He filled his water pouch, took a long drink, filled it again, and hooked the pouch to his belt.

  He continued down the riverbank, his footfalls careful, no sound, his ears and eyes alert for what else might be in the area, whether friendly or going about the work of Wallace. Where the river dipped into a small chasm, he veered off to the right and around a cropping of small hills. The path, if it could be called that, took him down a steep slope, barely passable with alders and birch, which together with the ferns, herbs, and small flowers presented a thick cover. Where the land leveled out again, it offered a clearing that backed up to the river; the falls where the water cascaded down at the north end formed an enclosure of sorts. To his right lay a small field, and beyond that was another row of cliffs.

  He moved to where a small stand of birch was acting as a partial corral, even as the river provided a place for Fury to get water as needed. Fury came trotting from the other side. Devyn let loose the ropes he had used to form the enclosure, greeting the stallion with rubs to his head and neck, and presenting a handful of oats he had carried along in his knapsack.

  He pulled the saddle from the branch of a tree where he had stashed it, and they were soon away.

  The retrieval of the chalice and subsequent escape had not gone exactly as he had envisioned. The small force that remained when they made it to the bridge did not allow for anything other than his leading the soldiers away from the bridge and hopefully away from the route that Brenna had taken. He had not even told Brenna of his intention to meet with Simon, nor had he told anyone of his troop. Not that it mattered now.

  He understood that prophecy was to be revealed at the time of the sunglow solstice, and only to a caretaker. Each turn of the season for as long as Devyn had been alive, and millennia before that, the chalice had told the people of some gift, some omen, some sign of things to come. It was not always good, nor was it predominantly bad. Some told of cures for ailments that had plagued them. Others gave plans for tools and equipment that might better their lives. A few warned of excessive warming or cooling trends to come. Some prophecies were never understood, or perhaps they unfolded in a way not understood because of people’s inability to do so.

  That had always been the way of life in the temple. And even those at the far reaches of civilization, perhaps out as far as the Desperate Lands, came to rely on what the cup told them, a necessary and expected part of their lives. The cup belonged to the people.

  He needed to learn everything that had transpired in the last three solstices. He owed it to Brenna to find out if the cup was killing the caretakers, or if it was merely the hand of Wallace. He owed that answer to all who had been killed to free Brenna and take the chalice, and all who’d had to leave their homes.

  Simon, the head cleric, had to be the best source of such information.

  Fury was well rested from the time down by the river. From the condition of his own wounds, Devyn estimated he had been asleep for an entire day and night and well into the next day, lots of time for Fury to graze and rest up.

  The feel of the saddle was a welcome change from his bloodstained cot.

  He had examined his horse for any injuries: a few nicks from the narrow trails they’d used for their escape that he would repair with plenty of oats and some deserved brush downs. The majority of the battle had been inside the city before he’d taken to his horse, and so Fury was spared the collateral damage that often came with the clash of people against people.

  He was a good distance from the garrison. Any soldiers who might have come looking for him were almost certainly gone. They would not linger to prepare an ambush. They wa
nted his head and the cup, and would assume he was far away. And it would be a sound assessment that whoever took the cup would not be heading back toward the city anytime soon. Or at least that’s what he hoped they would conclude.

  Still, he remained alert, and where he could he stuck to the trails that skirted the main roads.

  The weather pattern that had prevailed for the past few days had moved off to the east. A pleasant sun now bathed the day, the warmth helping to stretch out his aching muscles. Fury appeared to need some stretching of his own, and Devyn allowed him to break into a trot, and for a short distance a hearty gallop, before making him settle back into a steady walking pace that did not aggravate Devyn’s many wounds and bruises so much.

  Most likely the East and South River Bridges were being guarded, or more probably being secretly watched for any unusual travelers. He went south and west to a place where Fury could wade across the river. From there he veered even farther west. The winding paths took him to where he could take in the salty air of the Cohazen Ocean. He skirted around his farm and Riverbend, finally turning east and into the thick forest that went all the way to the banks of Bow Lake.

  He knew he was being watched, even at this distance from the farm, yet no one was in sight. Solick Homer was a cautious man; perhaps more so than himself. Devyn crossed the small wooden bridge over the tiny river and continued up toward the stables.

  “Well, well, if it’s not the Shadowed-One himself.” Solick walked out through one of the stable doors, a shovel in his hand. He had been mucking out the stalls, no doubt. To the left, a few horses and cows were busy sharing the grass in one of the many paddocks. A brood of hens strayed about the open courtyard, the ruling rooster already approaching to investigate the new visitor. An old dog lay in the shade next to the house, his eyes following what was taking place, otherwise unmoving, having already concluded the rooster’s investigation was sufficient.

  “The Shadowed-One indeed. I may have shaped myself to his path.” Devyn dismounted. “Sorry to come your way so unexpected.”

  “Not at all, I could do with the company. And I might have a liking for one particular Shadowed-One.” Solick stuck his shovel in the ground. “The rest of the family made their way to the garrison.” Solick spit the juice of his tobacco out the side of his mouth, approached Devyn, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you alive. There was some speculation you might no longer be among us.” He added a wink for good measure.

  “Well, can’t say I didn’t feel that way when I woke up yesterday.” He gave Solick a pat on the back. “Have you heard any news on Brenna?”

  Solick looked down. “All sorts of rumors. Even asked my wife and daughter they stay home today. The garrison’s on full alert, and folks at the top are a mite angry.” He made eye contact before continuing. “A lot of people died—”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You did what you thought right. All of reason would agree with you.”

  “Nothing on Brenna?”

  “No, nothing. Devyn… there’s more—”

  Devyn waited.

  “They rounded up all of Brenna’s family, the ones who remained behind, and many of your friends that did not flee. All were killed yesterday, and there is a bounty on your heads.”

  This time it was Devyn who bowed his head. “I should have taken Brenna and left the damn cup. What was I thinking? I gave Brenna’s sister the animals thinking she was safe.

  “The same thing would have happened. Lord Wallace is not one to forgive anyone upsetting his plans, let alone stealing from him.”

  Fury nudged his back. Devyn turned and rubbed his neck. “Ya, you’re right.”

  “I would leave too, but you know my folks are too old to travel.”

  Devyn touched Solick’s arm. “I know.”

  “Where…?”

  “Where what?” Devyn asked.

  “I was going to ask where you were going next, then realized you’re better off with my not knowing.”

  “I need to get back into the garrison.”

  “You can’t go back there; your life will be forfeit.”

  The light wind picked up the dust in the center of the courtyard and sent a tiny twister across to where it came to rest in front of the old dog. The dog got up stiffly and moved to a new place out of the sun, where perhaps there would be no further interruptions.

  Devyn pushed his hair back. “I should not be here. You need to think of your family.”

  “You’re welcome here for as long as you desire.”

  “We took the cup, and I’m hoping Brenna made a clean escape. But I need to learn why the cup and the prophecies have gone silent. Maybe it’s killing the caretakers. I can’t have that cup kill Brenna after doing all this for her escape.”

  “You believe that?” Solick asked.

  “Don’t know what to believe. But I’m going to get some answers or die trying.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help. Tell me what you need.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to leave Fury with you. If I get back out, I’ll pick him up and be out of your hair for good.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “You and I know that getting back into the garrison is best done with a minimum of involvement. Take care of Fury for me. That will aid me most. “

  “Rest assured your horse will be well cared for.”

  Devyn passed over the reins. The big stallion shook his head as if in resignation. Devyn took his knapsack from the saddle hitch and tossed it over his shoulder. He gave Fury a few rubs—no need for further words to man or horse.

  Devyn headed east toward the banks of Bow Lake. The silence of his passage insisted he listen to the sad murmur of all the lives he had helped forfeit. He had realized the cost of his resolve to free her—he’d known there would be casualties—but he had judged poorly how heavy the grief would now weigh upon his soul. These people were not enemies. Brenna’s friends were real and much a part of his life, and now they were expended. How could he ever pay the price?

  He had saved his goats but not the people who made up Brenna’s life. And now he was off trying to prevent something else that might mess up her life.

  As with his visit to Solick he kept to the back roads, skirting away from any farms where dogs might pick up his scent.

  There was no way he would make it over either of the bridges—they’d most certainly be guarded, and the fast-moving current of the river would make any swim with clothes, weapons, and provisions an arduous if not impossible task.

  His plan was to go well upriver and wait until nightfall. With a small raft to hold what he needed to get across, he would allow the current to take him downriver as he pushed toward the shore of the garrison.

  The sun settled down behind the forest to the west, and darkness rolled over the land. Two quarter-moons and a skyful of stars thwarted his wish for a wholly obscure night. Light when you needed darkness; the gods drank to his folly. It was all the cover he was going to get. He knew every inch of the garrison, every street, every road, every bank of either river, the best places to fish on those banks, and the best places to not be discovered. He knew all of that was useless if he gave up one glimpse to a guard.

  The raft would be simple: a few small logs tied together. The logs he helped himself to as he traveled along a woods road and came upon what he needed, neatly stacked and covered against the rains, and dry enough to float the minimal gear he needed to take across.

  He tied all that he possessed to the raft, and the raft to himself. Should he lose it, he would be a sorry sight on the other side without clothes or weapons. He stepped into the water, his eyes searching everywhere for anything that moved. The tug of the two big rivers already vied to pull him and his raft downstream; too far downstream and a majestic but killer waterfall would prevent any second chance at success.

  Torchlights, surrounding the temple high above the city, twinkled far to the south.

  He pushed off from the shallow water
s and began kicking his way across as the current swept him to the south.

  He hoped he had not underestimated how fast this current was moving. He had tossed a few pieces of wood into the river earlier. But there was no science to his estimate of how fast he could travel across versus how fast the current would take him downstream. He knew one thing for sure: had his estimate been seriously off, the current would give him a quick answer. He passed the strip of land that separated the South River from the East River.

  To further serve the entertainment of the gods, his speed downstream was not at all what he had anticipated, and he kicked with more urgency when he realized the current as he moved farther out was moving faster than it had at the shore. Water slapped over the small raft, and a steady push of white water at the stern fought his every move to navigate toward the other shore. He was no longer concerned about being discovered; all his efforts went to the moment—move even a few paces toward the other side for every pace downstream.