A Prophecy Forgotten
Chapter Nine: Zephor Gets His Wish

Zephor rushed to the Command Chamber, muttering in disgust about Elysia calling him away from a Morvenian raid on one of the larger villages to the southwest—a raid he had almost contained.

“This had better be an emergency and not one of Salla’s silly policy discussions,” he mumbled as he flew through the Command Chamber’s doors. Inside, Octirius and Salla were engaged in a bitter argument with the Prime Minister, a bald, round cherubian whose best days of battle lay far behind him. Crumbs from the Prime Minister’s earlier lunch still mingled with his beard and speckled his robes—the finest silver robes Zephor had ever seen—and the blood vessels that decorated his cheeks and nose seemed redder than normal.

Zephor silently saluted, perched next to Octirius, and listened to them bicker.

“I will not authorize you to send any more troops down to the Mossengard Forest, Octirius,” the Prime Minister said. “It will cost too much, and we already have enough troops down there as it is.”

“Sir, you are correct when you say we have troops down there, but you are not correct when you say that we have enough. We’ve only just taken the territory. The mornachts want it back, and if we don’t fortify it with new troops, they’ll take it again. We’ll lose even more troops trying to retake the territory than we will if we send additional troops now to hold it.”

“And just how am I supposed to explain this move to the Senate and the people of Elysia?”

“You could tell them that we’re doing it to keep them from dying in Morvenian raids,” said Zephor.

The Prime Minister’s entire face turned red. “Don’t take that tone with me, Zephor!”

“Your honor, if you let us send the troops down there now, then I won’t have to take more troops in to help squash the Morvenian raids that will predictably occur after they retake the territory, which is what I’m doing right now in the Syla valley.”

“Are you’re suggesting that these raids are my fault, Zephor?”

“I’m simply saying that they are raiding the Syla valley because we haven’t fortified it sufficiently, your honor—and if we don’t fortify Mossengard, the same thing will happen there.”

The Prime Minister’s red face turned scarlet. “No! No, you will not send the troops, and that’s final!” He jumped off his perch and stormed out of the Command Chamber.

“What would you say if you found out we’ve been sending RSOs into Morvenia itself?” Salla muttered. “What would you say then?”

“He’d say it was a better idea than spending money to pay the gnomes to risk their necks and spy it out for us,” said Zephor.

“He won’t say anything because he won’t find out because Salla knows these walls are only made of crystal, and he won’t yell,” said Octirius. “Seraphs, should we adjourn to the canaf meeting room, or can I trust you to keep any arguments you may have with each other down?”

“We haven’t even started yet, sir,” said Salla. “Give us some leeway.”

“Seraph, I hate to interrupt, but may I ask what this is all about?” said Zephor. “I left three Morvenian raids unattended to get here.”

“You look weary, Zephor,” said Octirius.

“I am weary, sir. Three Morvenian raids in a week are too much.”

“It’s not just the raids, is it Zephor?”

“I’m tired of the war, sir.”

“So am I,” Octirius said with a frown. “You’ll be happy to know that this meeting is important.” He told Zephor about Gabriella’s incident.

“I don’t understand how that could happen,” Zephor said. “She was fine when I delivered the message.”

“She was fine until she managed to hit her head,” said Salla. “Don’t you think you could have told her to be less clumsy?”

“It’s Gabriella we’re talking about, Salla. Telling her to be less clumsy is like telling a sprite to slow down. Earth is lucky she hasn’t destroyed any major factories, yet! Besides, aren’t you the one who insisted she stay on Tommy? Things would be a lot better if—!”

Octirius cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Seraphs, for just once, give me five minutes without any personal jibes at each other.”

Both arch-seraphs gritted their teeth, crossed their arms, and sent silent, seething messages across the table with their eyes.

“Personal jibes including those unspoken,” said Octirius. “Now, back to business at hand. We have an unguarded human on Earth—an unguarded human who happens to be the child of the prophecy. Little Tommy is in dire need of a guard, and not just any will do. Tommy needs the best. I want your recommendations.”

“I recommend Captain Picante,” said Salla. “He made the Hover Run in five minutes, fifty-six seconds, and he’s in the best shape anyone could ask for.”

Octirius nodded and stroked his beard. “Duly noted, good suggestion. Zephor, your thoughts?”

“If we want the best, we want Major Davian, sir.”

Salla scowled at Zephor. “Of course! Your little protégé! You RSOs always think you’re the only ones qualified—”

“Five minutes!” roared Octirius.

Zephor refrained from saying, That’s because we are the only ones qualified, and instead turned to Octirius. “Davian knows enemy tactics. He knows battle. He knows guarding. Guarding a seven-year-old boy in a non-war-torn country will be sprites’ play to him.”

“Davian is currently in the heart of Morvenia on one of those secret missions we’re not supposed to tell the Prime Minister about,” said Salla. “By the time a herald brought a message to him—assuming he made it alive and assuming he could find Davian—the boy could die.”

“Davian has the light crystal. I can summon him right now, and he’ll be here in a couple of days.”

“The boy might not have a couple of days! He needs a guard, now!”

Zephor turned to Octirius. “Sir, you said you wanted the best. Major Davian is the best. He can second-guess the opposition better than any soldier in all of Elysia, and that includes the three of us. And you know I’d have made him a brigadier-seraph eight years ago if he hadn’t put up such a fight about it and insisted on staying in battle. Salla’s just jealous because Davian’s already racked up more medals and awards than he ever did at his age!” He turned to Salla. “You would just hate it if Davian earned another Medal of Courage and Valor, wouldn’t you, Salla?”

“Your five minutes are not up, yet, Zephor!” said Octirius. He sighed. “One of you wants Picante; the other wants Davian. Picante is available; Davian is out of the country on a mission.” He rested his chin in his hands and weighed both options silently. “Assign Picante to the boy for now and summon Davian,” he finally said. He smiled. “Both of you are scowling. That means it’s a good decision.”

“Do we inform them of the boy’s importance?” asked Zephor.

“Inform no one.”

Salla snickered.

“What is it Salla?” said Zephor.

“Gentlemen, Davian is an egotistical, battle-hardened major—”

“Leave him alone, Salla!”

“Who, mind you, is next in line to succeed both of us. We’re about to ask him to leave the heart of Morvenia to guard a little seven-year-old boy. If we don’t tell him what’s going on, he’ll think we’ve demoted him.”

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Copyright © 2006 M. B. Weston. All rights reserved.
Revised: 02/06/09