The Last Prophecy

by Russell Loyola Sullivan

  Those damn dice.

  Please, not Brenna.

  *****

  Brenna knew what he was thinking.

  Her thoughts turned to the sisters. What was their real reason for participation in a confrontation in which neither side was really a concern of theirs? The chalice meant little to them. They were looking for something else and had made little effort to hide their disdain for the conflicts to come; yet they had some greater concern. Could it really be they feared Lord Wallace was such a threat? No, he was part of it, but they were concealing a secret. That was certain.

  “I’m going to brush down Starmaid.” She kissed Devyn on the cheek and strode away. He wants to ensure if anyone dies in this battle, it’s him. He greatly underestimates his work as a leader. Even if he hates the idea of being a Lord Gerrick, his followers need that image, and they have accepted it. How to make him believe in his own importance; that was a task she had not found an answer to.

  “Ah, Starmaid. Look at you, rolling in the dirt, I see. Well, let me give you a good rubdown. It might be a while before you get another.” She picked up the brush and began combing the dust from Starmaid’s neck.

  Amaris was on the rise, but it was still early for the sun to give up the day. It would be a full-moon evening, and all the signs said it would be a clear one, if a bit cool, as the wind glided in from the north on a whisper. One night left, for certain, if the information from their earlier scouts could still be relied upon. Well then, perhaps it was time for one last celebration. They could not celebrate victory. They could celebrate one thing, however.

  “Thank you, Starmaid. I should have known that brushing you down would give me the answer.”

  Two brushes now, one in each hand. Starmaid put her head down against her neck, her ears full forward. When Brenna finally stopped brushing, Starmaid scratched the earth with her left hoof. It was clear she did not want it to be over. Brenna gave her a handful of oats, a flake of lightsgift’s hay, and a full bucket of water. She added another handful of oats for good measure. “You’ll wear this off in the days to come. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Brenna headed back. The last few tents were moved together now. They looked more like a large hunting party than any battle-ready group. She hoped Devyn had not dressed the prey to give too easy a victory to Lord Wallace.

  She found Oran and Jeremy. “It’s time to celebrate Devyn Gerrick being a lord.” She stepped back to let her words sink in. “I know it, you know it, but he doesn’t know it. It’s bad for an alpha wolf to believe he’s an outlier, or worse still, one of the sheep. And yes, I’m well aware he hates the idea of ‘alpha’ anything, and certainly not wolves. But Devyn is most assuredly not accustomed to being the prey, though I fear his need to no longer hurt anyone due to his many past decisions might well cause the opposite of his intent.”

  She had known when she found him that he’d wanted nothing more than to escape all the tragedy he had caused. He could not, or would not, separate necessity from culpability. He would not look at the greater good he might accomplish. And so she had provided, where she could, what she hoped might return him to a sense of belonging and accomplishment.

  This evening called for a most auspicious exhibition of what he was made of, and she would make sure he went into battle knowing how great he was.

  “When the sun turns red, let the drums begin. We’ll sit on the rise above that small riverbank and wait for his arrival. If he doesn’t come, I’ll find a way.” She walked up to the rise. “Is everything else in order?”

  That part she had planned as a surprise some days before, if only to help uplift his spirits. She now would make sure that music and celebration gave the evening a much greater import for Devyn, rather than that one surprise she had planned.

  Elian pointed. “In that small enclosure. They’re ready.”

  “Well then, time for music. Look, the sun turns orange as she sets. Let our drummers sound in the rise of the moons and our battle to come.”

  Oran gave the signal, and the resounding of the drums spread out across the camp. A few drums, and then more, and then the fiddlers joined in. Fires sprang up on the perimeters as the sun sank out of sight. The evening commenced to take over, and the stars one by one commenced to adorn the approaching night sky. Soldiers moved about in a preordained fashion. Circles within circles, more campfires, more music, now pipers, and on the breeze the sweet aromas of food being prepared.

  “Where is he?” Oran asked.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll come.” Brenna pulled out a fiddle from the bag she had carried to where they gathered.

  Time to bring her wolf to his celebration.

  She put aside the long forest-green cloak that hung from her shoulders. The vest she wore was the best she could find to match a gift from Devyn on their second wedding anniversary. The remainder of her outfit could match nothing of that favorite outfit she had left behind, but she knew the colors would be to his liking.

  Her fiddle against her neck now, a signal for the drums to grow silent; the other fiddlers stopped to rosin their bows; the pipers took their cue, and the night grew silent.

  Brenna plucked the strings to ensure her melody would be in tune, the bow tucked under her arm. Satisfied, she swept her hair back and touched her bow to the strings with the softness of a swan’s sail upon the water; she pulled the bow back, so nimble still, as if one might hear better the sound of a firefly’s light igniting.

  Her bow had been made with the tail hair of horses from the far northern reaches, where the cold of frostbite made the hair thick and strong, and the resulting bow a unique implement to raise the musical notes from the strings.

  Too soft to attract Devyn’s attention, this was merely a prelude. She needed to get lost in the rhythm of the song, become one with the performance. One drum joined in; the drummer sat next to her, his job to adopt the pace she had chosen and keep it constant. Her fiddle added but little more volume, while the drum remained a mere expectation of a rumble.

  She caught the scent of evening, the cooling upon the land, and she pressed the bow with more urgency. It was not enough that someone special be invited; he must feel drawn by a need that made the invitation a contrivance of his own choosing, his own connection with the source, a deep desire to be there.

  Thusly the invitation must be special: the magic of music mixed with recognition. It was Devyn’s favorite tune, “The Night Dance of the Animals.” He loved the tune, and he believed that when humans went to sleep, the animals, should they be a happy lot, would celebrate their existence in dances with the moons. For that reason, in warmer weather he would leave the farm animals outside, and he believed his goats would protect all the others. She had never found a reason to doubt his conjectures, and he never varied from his resolve.

  “The moons are rising

  It’s a dance with life and time

  You know you have to be here

  Follow me awhile

  Step lightly on the night grass

  Tell the evening what to do

  All your chores have gone to slumber

  This time it is for you.”

  There were many verses to the song, but Devyn liked best the one about the goats.

  “The kids all roam the pastures

  Bucks and nannies at their side

  Guards from what the shadows might bring

  To the others who roam the moors

  Hoofs steady, nimble, and sure

  No need to fear the night

  There’s living to be done

  Goats live the better side of might.”

  It was time. She increased the tempo of her fiddle from a trot to a gallop; the shrill of her strings swept over the beat of the drum, and another drummer joined in. She turned and let the breeze dance on her face, her eyes closed, her fingers moving up and down the neck, the bow now glued to the strings, a mist of rosin on the breeze. No voices anywhere, a hint of the hold she had on all those assembled. The invitation, by now, had reached De
vyn, she hoped.

  And then the smell of goats came in on the gentle breeze, the new scent taking over from the rosin. They were to be let loose when Devyn arrived, and so it was clear that he had arrived.

  Two other fiddlers joined her, pipers in the distance adding a haunting if majestic hum to the music’s capture of all the sound that the evening might next produce. Still, she kept her eyes closed; one of many fiddles now, she felt submerged in the ocean of sound as much as she was that ocean’s soul.

  Time for the singers: “The moons are rising…”

  He was with her. A touch on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes. The music continued, the singers bellowing out “The Night Dance of the Animals.”

  He leaned in close to her ear. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you?”

  She turned to answer in his ear. “You must acknowledge, Lord Gerrick, that you have become more than my farmer. Look, even goats come to visit you; but be aware, these people who have gathered expect you to be their shepherd, as well.”

  “I’m none of that. I’ll get the job done and return to our farm, the goats included.”

  Brenna could not help but smile. “Lord Gerrick, even these goats know you can never go back to our farm. Would you allow them to know more than you?”

  “They always did.”

  The music continued for some time, and a feast ensued, followed by dancing and more music. Lord Gerrick was enjoined to sit with his wife on a stone throne so assembled for the occasion. Nothing Devyn did to try and douse the fire of the evening, and make it not about him, met with any success. He was the lord of the celebration.

  As the evening rode the cadence of the musicians into night, she turned and asked him if he understood his place in what was to come. His eyes met hers, and he took her hand.

  “This was not my calling. And I know they were not my goats; still, any goats should not have to travel to this hell to meet with a farmer. I guess the times call for what must be. If you’ll stand by my side, I’ll do what has to be done, even if it means being a lord.”

  Chapter 28

  What Has to Happen?

  A rider approached, gasping with the need to relate information. It would not be easy to tell who was in greater distress, horse or rider. “They’re coming.” The rider was ushered to where the leaders gathered.

  “How far behind?” Devyn asked.

  “They were on the march at first light. Here before midday, my lord.”

  “Any idea of what size army we can expect?”

  “No, my lord. I watched from a rise, well away from where they marched. The roll of dust covered the entire plains. Stayed as long I could. Even as I left to bring you the news, there was no end to what was heading our way.”

  Devyn stood and clapped the rider on the back. “You’ve done well. Rest up. We move as soon as they gain our sight.”

  The rider bowed and headed down to where other soldiers were gathered.

  “Well then, it’s time to ready ourselves with what’s to come.”

  The remaining supply wagons were packed and on their way in quick fashion. The horses had already been fed and watered. Weapons were cleaned and at the ready. The sun would be in their eyes when they retreated but at their backs as they made what turns they could to snap at the approaching army’s flanks.

  They were on alert, looking to the west in anticipation of Wallace’s arrival. Before noon they heard the thunder of hooves. They looked keenly to the west, though their ears told them differently, and as battle might commence with some element of surprise that the best-laid plan had not envisioned, so it was with Wallace’s troops. They were upon Devyn and his waiting soldiers. Not from the west but from the east they came, and not one of Devyn’s lookouts had signaled the attack. The cries of surprise collided with the shouts of Wallace’s troops coming in from the east.

  It was not the opening volley Devyn and his commanders had envisioned. Horses bolted, and soldiers gave chase to catch their mounts.

  “We need to get you out of here,” Oran yelled above the din of the approaching battle.

  Devyn pointed to the north. “Wallace’s entire army could not have made it behind us. This is nothing more than a ruse to have us turn our backs while the real foe attacks from the west. They want us to go north or south, and they have gambled we will go north; it’s the obvious way. We’ll do neither. Mount up; we head east into the onslaught.”

  Orders were passed down the line. The few archers they had kept behind sent a quick cloud of arrows into the rising sun; the lancers moved out next, and another cloud of arrows sailed over their heads. Swordsmen and swordswomen followed close behind. Brenna and Devyn took opposite sides of the charge. She had convinced him that it was best to plan that both of them would not be trapped at the same time. It was not a plan he embraced, though it was one she’d insisted upon, and so they took a last glance at each other before the troops and dust sent them from each other’s sight.

  The two opposing forces clashed. It was one for one; a Wallace soldier went down, and with the next swing of a sword a Gerrick soldier pounded the earth with their lifeless body. These were not odds that would bring Devyn’s army victory.

  He bade Fury move with the speed of lightning. No time for stealth, no time for what might be an obstacle in his path, no time to contemplate what he might next encounter. He rode into battle at full gallop, and his men and women followed him with the same urgency. They passed what remained of the fallen, a scanty few still alive, blood everywhere, people screaming or moaning from the pain—men and women from both sides.

  This was not the time to take care of the wounded; war demanded killing. Healing was for the aftermath. There was no other way with an army on the run.

  Devyn looked to either side. He was now at the lead, a position he relished. If someone was to die, let it be him first.

  The first sword swung his way, a glint of the morning sun reflecting on its blade. It was cowardly, aimed at his horse rather than him. First he deflected the sword and, with a thrust that even the strongest wind might not measure up to, he sent the blade through the soldier’s chest. Devyn’s sword would not gleam with the sun today—blood was meager in the light it reflected.

  More swings of his sword, more screams of death, more blood on the ground, until he finally found no one in front of him. He turned to where his comrades still engaged in battle. The picture of the carnage might well have been the fall of a bloodred winter’s snow meant to cover every corner of the land. He shook aside the smell of iron—that rusty smell of blood; he pushed away the cries of the dying and charged back into what was left of the enemy. No victory here; this was nothing more than a skirmish meant to slow him down, yet many of his men and women lay dead or dying.

  The way to the east was at last clear, but at a much greater price than he had anticipated. The opening salvo of his clash with Wallace had clearly fallen on the side of Wallace.

  He could only hope that Brenna had made her way through. He could not stop to find her any more than he could stop for the wounded. He could only hope the honor of the other side would allow all wounded to be taken care of, though it was not something he expected. He knew the mercy of Wallace was like asking the bottom of the ocean to give breath to a drowning man, and so he bade those who remained mobile to ride away and take the wounded who could ride with them; the rest must bear an even greater consequence than what they had already suffered.

  What did this decision make Lord Gerrick? That Wallace would leave behind the dead, the wounded, said much of what an evil leader would do. Was he not doing the same?

  Brenna, please be safe.

  Yet he knew it imperative they had to hold their numbers should there be any hope of achieving the goal of retrieving the dagger. There might be glory in stopping to care for a fallen comrade, but when the enemy was upon you, and any such effort would merely mean another dead soldier, such an endeavor would only invite defeat, the direct result of a failure to focus on the primary and m
ost important goal. Such was the evil of war. There was nothing but nonsense to the idea of never leaving behind a fallen comrade; that was for the fables of war.

  There was little time to regroup. He recast their initial plan as best he could, hoped Brenna and his other leaders had done the same, and remounted his horse even as Wallace’s troops came charging from the northwest.

  He had at least been right about that. Wallace had been waiting in the north to ambush them.

  By this time Devyn’s wagons, service people, and animals were well on their way, though nowhere near distant enough should Wallace’s forces prove unstoppable. Well, unstoppable was not the expectation. Slow them down, take at least soldier for soldier if not more, make Wallace reconsider an all-out onslaught, at least for now.