Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  Within the house Captain Bach had waited impatiently all day. He was angry that the idiot Sleeman had killed the old woman. Not that he cared one bit for her, but that he could not question her and find out where the girl had gone. For all he knew she had fled and would not return, and that meant a failure which would affect the rest of his career. His orders had been clear. Capture the girl unharmed. He was angry that nothing of interest had happened, he was bored witless, and the girl had not returned; he was angry that there was no drink within the house that gave him any sort of enjoyment. He was just plain angry. He had positioned Soldier Moss in the stables and Sleeman he made sit by the old dead woman all day as punishment. The others were to tend the horses and patrol the boundary. Any sightings of the girl were to come to him, and he would direct the capture. He had done his best to ensure that the men had not been drinking, but they were a crafty crew and he could not be sure they had not secreted a flask of eldershot somewhere upon their greasy bodies. Short of a full body search which he had no interest in performing, that was beyond his control.

  He waited and watched in a sullen and pessimistic mood.

  Finally as he was about to order a return to their station, the girl had appeared upon her horse. Captain Bach smiled maliciously.

  ‘Got you my little one, come on now gently, gently, come to the Captain…’

  She dismounted.

  The captain bent down to fasten his boots more securely and when he straightened she was gone.

  ‘Damn it all!!’ he swore, ‘can’t she be like other girls; why is she so slippery?’ He had a bad feeling in his guts, and thinking about the calibre of his men knew he had every right to feel so.

  Sylvion peered through the open rear window of the stable. It seemed safe enough. She nimbly crept over the sill and landed gently on the sandy floor with hardly a sound. Soldier Moss had stationed himself in the hay loft and had snoozed the day away quite contentedly. By chance as Sylvion came through the rear window, he was awake and scratching himself happily in places which only his mother had ever seen. He took a sharp breath. There she was. The girl, the one who had humiliated Sleeman so beautifully just the day before; they had had some laughs about that last night. Soldier Moss opened his mouth to call for the Captain but shut it immediately. Here was his chance, his sword was ready, he was a man and this slip of girl was his for the taking, he would disarm her and present his captive to the captain who would reward him. The others would have to admire him then. And so with thoughts of grandeur and not of battle, soldier Moss leapt gracefully from the loft, sword ready and landed behind Sylvion with a thud. His right ankle shattered on impact and in searing pain he dropped his sword but managed to stand for a moment which was just enough to ensure his death.

  Sylvion swung quickly; crouching as she did to avoid a thrust from behind, and with her sword ran the man right through in one easy deft movement. Soldier Moss knew he was stabbed. He had a brief memory of how the old woman had looked that morning stuck on the end of Sleeman’s sword, and he realised that this was how it felt. He didn’t like it one bit. And then he slumped down dead.

  Sylvion withdrew her sword and wiped the blade on the dead soldier’s tunic. She recognised the man from her encounter the previous day. She knew he would not be alone and that the odious soldier Sleeman would be lurking close by. Her heart was pounding, but her nerve was calm and calculating. She feared for her kindma, but reasoned they would have her tied up in the house, she was no threat; they were after her.

  She peered carefully out over the stable half-door towards the house. There was no one about but a small bundle of clothing lay on the ground not far from the kitchen door. She froze. Suddenly she knew it was her kindma. A pair of frail old legs could be seen, lying crumpled as they had fallen. Sylvion could not breathe.

  How could they do this, what threat was that little old lady to anyone.

  An anger she had never felt before possessed Sylvion, it was cold and hard and unforgiving. She had no fear and she would have revenge. She boldly opened the stable door and walked toward her kindma, holding back her tears and grief, knowing that there would be time later for all of that. Too much time.

  How can I live without my kindma?

  Captain Bach saw her immediately and Soldier Sleeman too. He had moved out of the sun and was sitting in the shadow of the large woodpile. He got up with a leering look of triumph on his face.

  ‘Two in one day,’ he whispered evilly, ‘so who’s a hero now Oh mighty Captain Bach.’

  He stepped out to meet Sylvion, supremely confident in his size and strength despite the lesson she had given him the day before.

  He was totally unprepared for the attack he walked into. The girl had death in her eyes and moved like a cat. Her sword was faster than anything he had seen. His practice with the other soldiers was always in the safety of camp, and usually accompanied by drink and much showing off. Suddenly he realised that this was life and death.

  Her sword ripped his shirt open and clipped his cheek. He felt blood run freely down his face.

  My blood! realised the panicking soldier.

  He swung, she dodged and parried. He was stronger, but she was swifter than a sabrecat.

  Try as he might he could not get any stroke to land. He was vaguely aware of the captain calling to him.

  ‘Do not harm her Soldier Sleeman. She must be taken alive.’

  He thrust high, she went low, swiveled and struck him with a straight leg to his stomach. He doubled up. That’s unfair he thought, as though he was playing with his brother as he had years before. Winded, he tried to protect himself; the girl went for the kill, but in anger misjudged her lunge, and ironically only succeeded in slicing his belt once more, and in an instant he stood exposed again, pants around his ankles, but this time in deadly danger. She thrust again, he stepped back, but the pants prevented him going far and he fell backwards. In anger she slashed at him as he fell and cut him deeply across his chest. And then he was down, in pain, bleeding and whimpering.

  Sylvion was not finished. She knew he had been the one to kill her kindma and he must die. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and another soldier appeared. He was much taller than any in the Captain’s troop and he moved with a fluidity of motion far superior to a normal king’s guard.

  His sword moving faster than the eye, cut Sylvion lightly across the back, and as she straightened in pain and turned to meet him, with two quick and powerful cuts her sword went spinning off into the grass. He moved in before it had hardly left her hand and grabbed her by the neck. He threw her down and put his sword to her throat, and a foot on her chest. He smiled coldly in triumph, and hissed in a voice little more than an animal’s grunt.

  ‘So easy when you know how. Captain; your prisoner.’

  Sylvion was totally shocked. She lay winded and hurting. Looking up she saw a very tall and wiry man, with short cropped hair and lifeless eyes set close in a long angry face. He wore a close fitting tunic which allowed his incredibly long limbs to move with ease. He had a rough sown badge on his chest. It said one word.

  Wolver.

  And Sylvion knew she had no escape. She lay with a pounding heart as grief overtook her. She lay within an arms length of her dead kindma. She wondered what was happening. It had been such a perfect day.

  ‘Ah.’ said Captain Bach looking down at her, ‘The nightmare just begins my dear.’

  He turned to the Wolver, ‘Welcome. I was expecting you. But as always you have excelled yourself. My prisoner indeed. Soldier Sleeman will you please pull up your pants, and go and get cleaned up, you are bleeding all over the place. Then find Moss. He has some explaining to do’

  Lightfoot had seen her mistress fighting; she had whinnied in fear and paced back and forward in the orchard, unsure of what to do. She sensed the danger in the Wolver and kept back in fear. She saw her mistress fall and stood trembling and confused. Suddenly from somewhere behind her she heard a snorting and a call which only a horse would re
cognise. Thunder had followed and seen it all as well. He could not bring himself to leave the forest but had come out into the open a few paces, the first time he had ever done so. He called to Lightfoot in a language unknown to human ears.

  ‘Come now my friend, come with us, we can do nothing here.’

  And so Lightfoot turned and went to Thunder. They stood together, the great and powerful stallion carved in white and shining in the fading light, and the fearful grieving grey, beautiful at his side. They stood and took one last look, then disappeared into the wild forest, and were seen no more.

  Chapter 5.

  Sylvion woke with a start and remembered all that had been. Her heart was so full of grief she felt as though she might die from the pain of it. Never in her life had she experienced anything like this, a deep and raw emotion over which she had no control, twisting like a knife in her guts, nauseating, and at the same time, mind-numbing, as though her brain was full of syrup, preventing her from getting any sensible grip on things. And of course she knew there was no way to be rational or sensible about any of it. It was all completely mad. Like a leaf in a gale she must ride where it took her; but she feared where that might be.

  She guessed that dawn was slowly approaching, but cared little; to face another day meant having to deal with her enemies, and where was the appeal in that? Better the night; at least she was alone with her thoughts, however bleak and depressing they might be.

  Sylvion was tied to a solid wooden chair in the kitchen of her home; the very chair which her beloved kindpa had always called his own. She had sat here on his knee countless times in her childhood. He had laughed and teased and cuddled her in huge bear-like arms, and taught her of the world and Revelyn and so much more… it was Sontim who had first told her of the ancient legends of the Revelin, the first people in the land, and from his lips she had first listened, enthralled, as he spoke of the Equin, as mysterious as an enchanted fairy story, and one which she would ask for over and over again. He had drawn maps of Revelyn and explained to her the age old differences between the Lowlanders and the proud and independent people of the Highlands, and how the massive Central Upthrust was like a land within a land, ruled always by the Council of Elders. The Highland people were suspicious of kings and queens, and had never had a single ruler, preferring the wisdom of age and elected representatives. Sontim told her of ancient battles and heroes, and of the magic and sorcery which once was so powerful throughout all of Revelyn. It was Sontim who had taught her of the kings and queens of Revelyn who had ruled the Lowlands for hundreds of years, and the traditions which upheld the Kingdom. She had learnt of the source of the power and authority of the ruler which was held in the Sacred Sceptre, reserved only for the monarch, and without which none could rule. It was said to endow upon its bearer an almost invincible power to rule and a height of perception and insight beyond all human power; but it was feared by all who had any understanding of it, and in living memory the sceptre had been seen by only a chosen few. Sylvion had grown up understanding, as all Lowlanders did, that the Sacred Sceptre of Revelyn could only be held by a legitimate ruler. An imposter who seized the Sacred Sceptre would surely die.

  All these things and more, Sylvion had learnt in this very chair.

  She had dozed most of that ugly night; waking and falling back into a fitful slumber which could not last, such was the grief in her heart. She could not imagine life without her kindma, and to see the lovely old woman so coldly left as she had fallen like so much cast off rubbish at the hand of the evil soldier Sleeman, had brought upon her such competing and overwhelming emotions of anger and sadness, that there was no peace, no escape from her torment.

  Her feet and arms were bound firmly by leather thongs to the chair. They were expertly tied; tight enough to cause her great discomfort if she tried to move too much, and yet quite bearable if she were to sit quiet and motionless as her captors desired; and of course they prevented any possibility of escape.

  Apart from her grief there was a burning question. Why?

  Why had all this happened? What possible motive did these unknown soldiers have to invade her home, and in looking for her, kill a frail and innocent old woman who had never done any harm to anyone? More than three generations of Greyfelds had lived in Wildwood in this very house, and never had there been the slightest trouble with the authorities.

  Sylvion knew that the King, Lord Petros Luminos had become increasingly paranoid and his soldiers were acting more and more without accountability to any recognised authority, which had meant that many Lowland communities lived in fear. Wildwood was not the first. But of the pointless violence which had come to her house, surely there was some reason? Surely she would be told?

  Sylvion did not go back to sleep, and as the first rays of sun lit up the kitchen she was wide awake and angry.

  Captain Bach entered the room soon after and nodded politely to her.

  ‘Ah hope you rested well my dear, I certainly did. I used the big bed in the front room upstairs. (Kindma’s bed thought Sylvion). Can’t say as I remember such a comfortable bed. Army barracks are never up to much. Now I need something to eat. What do you suggest?’

  He wandered around the room opening cupboards and pulling out bread and cheese and fruit which he laid on the table in front of Sylvion rather disdainfully.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could direct me to a bit of eldershot, I’m sure there must be some here. Couldn’t find it yesterday although I looked hard enough?’ Sylvion realised that he was a man very much in love with himself, a man who had little regard for anyone else and who could turn charm to anger and back again all in one sentence. He clearly enjoyed the control he had over her and so was acting the kind and indulgent jailor.

  In her most subdued and broken voice she replied.

  ‘If you look in the cupboard by the fire, right at the back on the right you might find a small bottle.’ Captain Bach smiled smugly; he knew that the hard night would break the spirit of the girl; that and the death of her mother. She was trying to please now. No need to be too cruel, a little understanding of human nature was all that was required, something that brute Sleeman would never understand.

  ‘Cupboard by the fire… thank you kindly my dear.’ He bent down and opened the door and put his hand in. It was dark and he felt around. ‘On the right, that’s better, right almost there…’

  There was a sudden loud Snap! And then he screamed.’

  ‘Ahhh, my fingers oh , oh, oh ..’ He pulled his hand out and attached to his three right fingers was a huge old rat trap. The middle finger had snapped and the other two were bleeding badly where the serrated spring-loaded mechanism had cut into the flesh. Captain Bach did all he could not to scream further and tried with the other hand to get the trap off, but found it impossible and just made the pain worse. Summoning all his strength, he sat down quickly at the far end of the table and glowered at Sylvion, nestling the injured hand plus trap in his lap.

  ‘Sorry Captain, I guess it was on the left,’ she spoke demurely as though truly sorry, which they both knew was not the case. He was struck by the complete lack of fear in the girl, and contempt too.

  Taking a deep breath, he struggled to his feet and left the room. Sylvion heard some heated words a few moments later over by the stables, followed by another scream and a painful,

  ‘I told you do be careful, you idiot, you almost had my fingers off.’

  Sylvion smiled to herself. You deserved all that and more.

  Suddenly Sylvion realised that another soldier was in the room. The Wolver had entered without a sound. His head only just cleared the ceiling and he moved silently with such an easy fluid motion that Sylvion could not help but be coldly impressed by the man. He looked at her without any emotion and then sat at the table and by the time Captain Bach reappeared with a heavily strapped right hand, he had eaten almost all of the food which had been waiting.

  ‘Hey that was my food…’ The Captain started to assert himself, but the Wolve
r just looked at him without a word and continued to eat, and making the first wise decision of the morning the Captain decided that it would be better to keep on the good side of this new man, and went looking for more food. He was clearly embarrassed by what had happened to his hand and did not want to lose face before one of his men, so nothing was said. Sylvion knew that there would be some punishment though. It was only a matter of time.

  ‘I need to relieve myself,’ she said loudly.

  ‘You can pee in you pants as far as I concerned,’ hissed the Captain without looking at her. The Wolver looked at the Captain and then at Sylvion without blinking an eye and waited. He finished chewing on an apple then stood and came towards Sylvion who felt a real sense of fear for the first time. A wolver was deadly; she had no means to combat one such as he. The Captain and the others were stupid and inefficient, and she knew she could play with them, but not this deadly machine of a man. She held her breath.

  The Wolver whipped out a knife from some hidden pocket in his tunic and in an instant, faster than her eye could follow, all four thongs which had held her so tightly throughout the long night were lying on the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the Captain demanded immediately. He could not overlook this insubordination.

  ‘The lady needs to relieve herself,’ was all the wolver said in a low and gravelly voice.

  ‘She could escape,’ replied the Captain trying hard to give the man a sense that he made all the decisions.

  ‘Captain you insult me,’ said the Wolver without any emotion, ‘I am a Wolver.’ Sylvion realised that he was saying what they all knew. No one could escape from a Wolver. It was unimaginable.