The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  She took her bedroll, placed her dagger by her side, and slumbered down for what sleep she could.

  *****

  Devyn did not chance visiting his own farm. Forfeiting their homestead had been an assumed outcome. Once they’d learned that Brenna’s sister would not leave, they’d had her take all the livestock.

  Nor could he take more time to discern who had lived and who had died. Solick’s brother had visited upon him an unholy scorn, unspoken but fixed in his eyes, and Devyn let that hang on his shoulders as he traveled along.

  He had given the brother all the possessions he had found in Solick’s farmstead, including the old dog. Solick’s brother had called the dog when it tried to follow Devyn as he left the farm. “Get back here, Brandy.”

  Devyn had looked back as the old dog turned around and returned to Solick’s brother. Of course, Solick’s favorite drink: brandy.

  *****

  The days on the trail searching for Brenna were beginning to add up. He took roads less traveled, looking for clues; when none were found, he headed back to a main stretch of road and continued east, hoping he had guessed correctly her choice of direction. As the ride stretched into the familiar terrain of his past exploits, he sanctioned something other than the drum of guilt and disaster to enter his mind.

  He gave some thought to the small scroll that contained the last prophecy. None of it made any sense to him. Perhaps he had overreacted; perhaps the age of prophecy had ended, and he had committed some dreadful treachery, getting his comrades and friends killed, not to mention the innocent people who made up Brenna’s extended family. Yes, back to that. Not a time to forget, it would seem.

  What had been a noble gesture now felt like a misguided adventure into mayhem. But as misguided as it all appeared, it was imperative he find Brenna. He needed to fixate on that. Not only was it imperative, but it also presented something over which he had some choice and control.

  He knew she had gone south, from watching her leave the bridge, and from there she most likely had made a choice to head east. But would she continue east or head south once more? She knew the south country as they had traveled there on a few occasions, both for trade and pleasure.

  He recalled how she had once mentioned Midwatch, to the north, the Seven Rivers Lake on one side and the Muirin Sea on the other. A good place to get away from the world for a while, she had opined. But Midwatch was in close contact with the garrison and Wallace. No, she would not go there.

  It was more likely she would go where she had the best chance of staying away from soldiers, but without having to contend with totally new territory. She would also leave clues that only he would understand. It was a whole other matter as to where he might find such clues. Of course, there would be no tracking her horse; even if he picked up those tracks, the heavy rains that now pelted down would soon obliterate any trace. She was many days ahead of him.

  He looked about as best he could in the all-encompassing gloom. A storm like this was a good place to hide. If someone wanted to attack you, they would have to come face-to-face, with only sound to give them guidance.

  And in the midst of that storm, what he had done came to play with his soul, a pendulum that let him escape as he pushed the thoughts away and then rattled through his senses as they once again forced their way into his consciousness. More death. Death like he had not seen since… No, this was worse. He had caused this. Brenna would never forgive him, if he ever found her. Of course he would find her. Did she even want to be found after she had figured out what he had done? And there was no mistaking that she would figure it out.

  Fury snorted. The storm was intensifying.

  Devyn patted his neck, the water splattering over his hand and into the mud below. “Just a bit further and I’ll find you a place to dry off.”

  Fury snorted again. It was clear he was not enjoying any of this.

  The long dark cloak covered him and the mid portion of his horse, which was far less than what Fury might have wished for. The cloak was keeping neither of them anywhere near dry. They were being pelted with savage rains, rains whipped by gales that made the grass and the bushes lay flat against the ground as each new gust claimed its passage; tops of trees bent to where they could peer down at their own roots should they have eyes, and as if in defiance, the trees snapped back up against the wind, giving up limbs and leaves in payment for their having made the choice to stand straight.

  His poor horse was walking in more water than a marsh drake trying to attract a female to his elaborate nest.

  The endless wind and rain required a slow and cautious ride, and offered plenty of time to deliberate on recent events; the latter was not necessarily something he was in need of. He could barely discern whether his remorse or his rage ruled that pondering. His very soul willed that he might encounter someone, or someones, who would allow him to vent his anger.

  What was the quickest and surest way to find her? His logic had told him to take the less-traveled roads and travel at night. His urgency insisted he plod on straight ahead, come what may. He guessed that somewhere in there lay the answer to the question he had posed himself.

  His life before Brenna had held much darkness, though something inside his gut insisted his choices helped those with some measure of right on their side, no matter how much the coin added to his own survival. He was no fool; his deeds were dark, deeds that not many would undertake, even assuming that ability was a given. And he knew he had adopted the idea of his actions being righteous if only to live with what he had done.

  Maybe it was the way of things. He had traveled enough to learn that the righteous could do more damage with their tongue than any warrior could do with the sharpest sword. All a man could do was choose which side to take, and then let his soul register the successes and failures, the good and the bad, the darkness and the light. He would not care to weigh which side had the better of him; he knew it had to suffice that his decisions were predicated on good intentions and were of his own choosing.

  The cup and the prophecies that came with the cup were a fixed part of his world. Living near Great Temple Reach had enhanced that connection, and having a wife who was a caretaker furthered the connection to where it was personal. He longed to accept that what came with Brenna was now his, and that required his concern and his actions.

  At length the rains subsided. He came across an old lean-to within visual range of the secluded trail he was taking back to the main stretch of road. It had long ago been abandoned, a good place to rest Fury. He went inside, doled out the small flake of hay he had taken along from their last stop, and hung his outer garments to let some of the water run off. He brushed Fury down some but stopped when he realized his horse was more interested in the hay.

  He had begun inquiring at inns only a few days ago, betting Brenna would not have stopped at one in her first few days of flight. So far none had provided any information that anyone even resembling her had made a stop.

  If there was any reprieve from his concerns, it was that he had less fear of meeting up with soldiers. Knowing what he now knew about the cup also told him that any forces Wallace had sent to find who’d stolen the fake cup would quickly trickle off, even as the pretense of concern continued; it infuriated him that he had in fact done Wallace a favor, as now Wallace could concentrate on searching for the real cup on the pretense that Devyn had stolen it.

  He felt that pang of guilt as he thought of Brenna dodging shadows and protecting a relic of no value.

  The lean-to offered him no rest other than to see that Fury appreciated the shelter from the lingering rains and wind. The light of day told him to be on his way, even if Fury showed some signs of not being in agreement with that decision.

  The weather, if anything, had reintensified. Branches cracked down from trees, and loose brush and debris blew about at odd angles. Anything that touched Fury’s legs spooked him, requiring some reassurance from Devyn; on a few occasions they would have to stop, and Devyn would have
to convince Fury that the attack upon him had dissipated.

  The afternoon turned dark, thunder resounded overhead, and flashes of lightning zigzagged through trees. Fury’s ears were pinned back, his head high; Devyn used everything he knew about horses to keep the stallion from bolting into disaster.

  Finally they reached a clearing, but what seemed like a blessing quickly deteriorated into nightmare. They came upon a bridge, water smashing against its posts. Fury bucked and moved back a few paces. No matter what Devyn did or said, the stallion refused to cross. It became a game of approach and retreat. Every time Fury went a few paces closer, Devyn would let go of the reins and allow the stallion the rest and back off a little. In time, patience and concern for his horse paid off, and they made it across the bridge and on their way.

  Devyn knew the stress his horse was under, no matter how gentle or reassuring he was. His horse needed shelter from this never-ending storm and some time to rest.

  Damn the storm. Damn himself for doing this to his horse.

  A few miles farther, amid the relentless slashing of the storm as they continued down the road, he came upon an inn. He decided both of them could use a rest. He handed over Fury to the stable hand with a request for a rubdown and an extra ration of oats, handing out a coin. The young man refused at first, but on Devyn’s insistence nodded and thanked him, adding a big smile that told Devyn his horse would be well taken care of.

  He went inside the inn and laid his wet clothes on a few chairs against the fire. He moved to a corner table near the window and placed his sword across the tabletop.

  The innkeeper soon arrived to greet him. Devyn pointed to the fire. “I hope you don’t mind. I have made myself at home in your fine establishment.”

  The innkeeper glanced around at the few other patrons, who were clearly intent on giving Devyn all the space he needed. The innkeeper rubbed his hands together, perhaps in anticipation of trouble he dearly did not wish for. “Welcome, sir. Can I get you something to drink?”

  The ale, good food, and conversation with a guest or two were a welcome change to the dreariness of the long trail, a trail that was taking him to nowhere, it seemed. He bought a round for the few who’d ventured to the inn in such a storm, and the camaraderie was contagious; even the innkeeper joined them and offered a round of his own.

  He exchanged stories of his long-ago exploits, being careful not to give away what he had become, and as the last of the patrons made their way to bed, the innkeeper bade Devyn stay a spell. He informed Devyn of how a beautiful woman had given him a few coin to look out for a man who owns the space he walks, and to let that man know she had been there.

  One who owns the space he walks in. He smiled as he remembered those words. She had used those words for the first time when they’d celebrated their union in the Steel Mountains city of Highrest, a most beautiful place nestled in a small valley completely surrounded by majestic mountains.

  Yes, he now knew with certainty where she was headed.

  Chapter 12

  Highrest

  The dawn arrived with another toss and a turn. He had scarcely closed his eyes before the need to be away and find Brenna grappled with every fiber of his being.

  They had not planned to leave any clues like the one he had received from the innkeeper. Apparently, she had decided her own agenda. She had not been so trusting of the innkeeper to tell him where she was going, but she had given Devyn good reason to continue on the way he was heading. It hit him there would be hell to pay when they met up, a hell he would relish.

  It also hit him that Oran had taken all the other people to the mountains; whether that be coincidence or more deliberate folly from the gods he could not discern.

  He fed Fury his morning oats and filled the bucket with water, the stable hand having not yet arrived. Fury went from the oats to dunking mouthfuls of hay into the bucket of water, well on his way to being ready for the day ahead. Devyn loved his horse for a good reason; that horse might have his own demons, but he always stepped up when adventure and travel beckoned.

  The stable hand came rushing down as Devyn exited the stable. He flipped the young lad a few coins and continued on his way. The sun poked his head above the horizon and he continued into the Flat Lands, toward the two rivers that helped drain the Seven Rivers Lake. The lake was well to the north as they set up camp at the river’s edge.

  Up before sunrise on the next day, Fury maintained a steady, continuous pace—no galloping, and only the occasional brisk trot when Fury showed his need to stretch his legs, then back down to a walk; Devyn needed him to last the distance.

  A couple of days’ ride took him through the Flat Lands and into the Northern Reaches without incident, no further clues from Brenna in any place he stopped for food and made an inquiry.

  Devyn caught the faint smell of salt air, no doubt from the Muirin Sea as it dipped south in its long stretch from the west to the eastern coast of Kielara. Soon he would be with Brenna. He prayed to Ogmia she had made it safely. Yes, he needed to stick with Ogmia on this one; if any of the gods would give favor to Brenna it would be her own.

  He pressed on into another evening and only stopped when he sensed Fury was in need of a rest.

  She had to be there.

  He even dared to make a fire.

  Fury chewed on his flake of hay and oats while Devyn enjoyed some dried fruit he had purchased when he had stopped to procure some oats for Fury. He settled down by the small stream for what sleep the urgency of travel would allow, making certain the fire was out before he closed his eyes; no need to be overly trustful.

  He was up before the sun, the early morning chirping of the birds still to commence; a drink of water for both of them, and they were on their way, and by midday he began meeting other travelers on the main road they had joined some time before, a sign they were once again approaching towns and cities.

  He permitted his guard to drop further; the garrison was far away. The folks out here might heed the prophecies, but they were not devout followers of Wallace. They paid what taxes were due and tolerated the presence of the few soldiers who made the rounds making such collections. These people had their own magistrate and their own sheriff, their own idea of honor and justice. They bowed to the Lord of the Lands when made to, but only then.

  The lowlands he had traveled through all morning now gave way to the foothills, hills much lower than the misty gray mountains that stood far in the background. The climb was arduous but not extremely so, as switchbacks carved out centuries before granted the capability of a gradual climb.

  His time with the tribe had taken him to this area often, Highrest being a major city that sat in the shadow of the Steel Mountains. The members of his tribe were not lost to the abundance of coin that changed hands here, nor were they lacking in how to exchange wares for such coin.

  The city represented a settling point of sorts, a place where businesswomen and men who traded goods and services in Great Temple Reach, Midwatch, Guild’s Anvil, Shadefair, Movais, and a few other larger settlements would meet to settle accounts. While any actual goods that changed hands here were minimal, there was plenty of negotiation and coin, as merchants, business folk, and purveyors of the arts—healing, magic, and alchemy—all converged to bargain, even as they enjoyed the festive nature of the city and the opulent food and accommodations available.

  He allowed himself a smile, as he recalled how much Brenna loved Highrest. They had celebrated their marriage there. The last day she had all but refused to get out of bed, not wanting to end their celebration.

  It was logical she would go there. More than logical—she had to be here.

  There were a smattering of small inns and shops situated near the roadside where he and Fury climbed toward Highrest, none so near that they spoiled the majesty of the surroundings, sufficiently spaced to provide a rest or a meal to those in need, a prelude to the welcome of a most special city.

  Devyn found no reason to stop, however; even Fury se
nsed the change, perhaps discerning an aura of happiness—much too rare in the many days prior—and he appeared as eager as Devyn to move along.

  It was late afternoon when he made it to the main gates of Highrest. Two guards asked the business of those entering, more as a courtesy to orient those travelers new to the city. When Devyn answered he was meeting his wife for a reaffirmation of their wedding vows, the two guards exchanged knowing looks and bade he not keep her waiting.

  The Silk Bedding Inn. Who could forget such a name? He made his way to the stable and requested a walk for Fury, and a long rubdown. Inside he requested a room; only two remained… a popular place. He did not want to inquire of his wife. In all probability she would have used an assumed name, as he did now. It would not be prudent to let his guard down completely.