“Huh.”
Morwena ground her teeth, staring at Yadazel, who stood hunched over the ancient scroll. “Huh? Huh what?”
“It’s nothing,” the wizard said, glancing over at her. “This is just a lot more straightforward than I thought it would be.”
Morwena rested her hand on the handle of her axe, and said nothing. Her glare spoke volumes.
“You see,” Yadazel said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, “these prophecies are usually much more cryptic. But this one seems quite clear.”
“Seems?”
Yadazel let out a disgruntled sigh. “Yes, seems. This particular dialect has been out of use for centuries, so the best anyone can do in translating it is ‘seems.’” He glared at her, then the paper.
“If I have to ask you one more time what the damn thing says, you’ll need magic to find all the bits of your body,” she said, grinding her teeth.
“No need to be so testy,” Yadazel cried, taking a step back.
Morwena hefted her axe, pointing it toward the flap of the tent. “I have a whole army out there, ready to take back our land, our home, from that tyrant. We’ve been waiting years for this, to know when to strike, how to win. We found you, half-starved and raving about this bit of parchment. We fed you, clothed you, and let you do your work in peace. Well,” she said, her eyes glinting. “It’s time you earned your keep.”
Yadazel was pale, and the hand that picked up the scroll was shaking. “I’m sorry, Morwena. General,” he corrected, glancing back at her. “You are right. I’ll… yes, I’ll tell you.” He cleared his throat. “As I said, this is an ancient scroll, in an old language, that predicted the rise of… well, you know. And it says here, that the one who is to defeat, well, her, is a man in years, but child of experience. Not quite sure what that means. It also says that he will, let’s see, be of noble blood but humble origin. They liked their riddles, didn’t they?”
“I thought you said it was straightforward?”
“I did, didn’t I?” he muttered, wiping his forehead again. “Well, I suppose by straightforward, I meant not as poetic. No born as the moon gave birth and the river flowed, comes the king of light and love, or some such nonsense. I guess these prophets were a bit more pragmatic.”
Morwena sighed.
Yadazel understood, and hurried on. “Yes, well. It also says he will be… hmm, of double sight? That is odd. Maybe I don’t have the translation quite right.”
Morwena walked over to the table, making Yadazel jump at her sudden proximity. “And this is the one who will overthrow the tyrant? Who will return peace to these lands?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, pointing to a section toward the end of the scroll. “See, right here. ‘He shall be the bearer of light,’ see, they can’t resist a good light comment, ‘bearer of light, and peace shall be restored under-‘ hang on, I don’t know if I am conjugating this right. It’s either ‘his’ rule or ‘their’ rule, I can’t tell.”
Morwena stared at the scroll, deep in thought. Finally, she pointed toward a blob near the bottom of the page. “And this?”
“Apparently this man will be marked, but I can’t figure out what the symbol is.” Yadazel sighed, scratching his chin. “I’ve been tussling with this for weeks, but still can’t work it out.”
“I know what it is,” Morwena said, dismissively.
“You? How could you know? Clearly, this is all very complicated, magical knowledge. I am a high level wizard, and even I don’t understand it. Someone like you, with no magical training-”
“I do have a smidgen of common sense, Yadazel,” Morwena said, turning to leave the tent. “And I happen to have information you don’t.”
She ignored the sputtering wizard, and ducked under the tent flap, before striding across the little courtyard they had set up. She barely glanced around as she walked, knowing what she would see. Her people would be industrious, ducking in and out of the tents they set up in a central location – healing, leadership, prison. Everything else was scattered further out, as a defensive measure. If a fire was started in the central area, for example, it wouldn’t spread to the food stores or bunks. If there was an attack, they would work their way in to a better defended area. They had learned the hard way, but they had learned.
Morwena nodded to Chek and Trill, who stood guard outside the prison tent. It used to be a secondary healer’s tent, but a year or so back they picked up a few troublemakers, and the need for a holding place became apparent.
She entered the tent, her eyes quickly adjusting from the bright sunlight outside. She stared at the man slumped on the cot, fast asleep. She shook her head slightly. Only a sick or wounded animal was dumb enough to sleep during the day, if it wasn’t part of their natural rhythm. Or like this one, she thought, just stupid.
Morwena kicked a leg of the cot, jerking the man out of his slumber.
“Wha- who- waz happenin’?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and staring balefully up at her. “I was sleeping.”
“So I could see,” she said, trying to keep any disdain from her voice.
The man was awake now, and glaring at her. “So, do you finally believe me and are here to release me from this prison? I am Marrick, son of Suns, heir to great fame and great fortune, turned out by that evil woman.” He stood, crossing to stand across from Morwena. “I may have been in hiding for the last seventeen years, stuck in that stupid monastery, but I know-”
“How old are you?”
Marrick blinked at her. “I- what?”
“How old?”
He glared at her. “Twenty-seven, but I don’t see how that matters.”
“So, well into adulthood, but stunted by years shut away.”
“I wouldn’t say stunted,” he pouted. “I learned a lot from those old monks…”
“But not much experience of the world.” She spoke over him. “And, as you have repeatedly told me, you are a son of Suns, noble by blood but not raised as such.”
“Oh, if you could have only seen my childhood home-”
“Of course, if you say so. But truly, that was a small part of your life. Your origins themselves, how you came to be here, are humble.”
He stared at her mutely.
A smile curved across her lips. “And clearly,” she said, staring into his eyes. One blue, one brown, both scared. “You are double sighted.” She eyed the mark on his chest, left exposed by his rumpled shirt, but said nothing.
“What?”
“You wanted to get out of here?” Morwena said, gesturing to the tent.
“Yes, of course! It’s about time…” He trailed off, unsettled by her expression. “What?”
“I have a use for you. But,” she said, eyes flashing. “You aren’t going to like it.”
Inspired by a writing prompt from Writing Prompt Generator.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020