Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  ‘Follow me,’ said the Wolver to Sylvion, and she did. It was wonderful to be free of the leather thongs. She massaged her arms and wrists, which had become numb. The Wolver allowed her to use the outside toilet, a simple room that had a smooth bench seat over a deep hole beneath an opening in the centre. An ingenious bucket and earth and water arrangement devised by Sontim years ago allowed the toilet to function free from the rank odours which were common in most toilets throughout the land. However, that was the least of Sylvion’s concerns. She knew her father had always kept a weapon hidden in the small room. She spent a few moments searching for it and quickly located a long sharp blade tied to a roof beam just above the door. She knew she could not easily conceal it on herself, but felt that it gave her some hope, particularly in the dark. She reluctantly left it there and returned with the Wolver to the kitchen.

  By this time the other two soldiers had arrived, hungry and looking for breakfast. Soldiers Small and Feebles had spent the night in the stables after removing the body of Moss who was now lying in a canvas bag by the front gate waiting to be transported back to his hometown, somewhere in the south. Small and Feebles were happiest when dealing with the horses. They were farm boys who had only turned to soldiering because their father’s holdings were too small to divide further, and realising that an inheritance was not coming their way, had joined the king’s men at a simple recruiting station in the small town of Sheldon on the southern plains. It had not turned out to be a good experience, but they had managed to stay together and did their best to look out for each other. They were both scared witless by their Captain, who knew, and did all he could to keep them that way.

  On Captain’s orders they had buried the body of the old lady behind the barn. They felt sorry for the girl. She should have been able to see her own mother buried, but the Captain had refused her request, something about breaking her spirit he had said. Soldier Sleeman had gone to bed in one of the upstairs rooms, in pain and swearing constantly that he would get the girl one day. Small and Feebles hoped it would be the other way around.

  Sylvion was made to sit in the chair once more and was given a little food and drink. The Captain allowed her to get some ale from a cellar cask and scowled at her when she offered him some. The Wolver watched their interaction, seemingly without a care. However, he took it all in. Sylvion was sure that he missed nothing. He sat himself in a comfortable chair by a window, put his feet on a stool and watched, like a statue.

  Sylvion could not help looking at the Wolver. She had heard so much about these deadly soldiers. In the Highlands where she lived much of the time, their status was legendary. No one had actually seen one, but stories of their feats were regularly repeated and exaggerated in all the drinking houses and on the streets, by small boys and men who should have known better. To her they were like a mythical creature of deadly intent, which she had always fully intended to give a wide berth. Until yesterday.

  He sat with his long arms reaching the floor. His tunic was cutaway at the shoulders revealing the incredible definition of his wiry muscle all the way to his fingers which were long and strong. Around each upper arm was a distinctive bluish tattoo of a thorn bush and below on the right arm was depicted a sword, the blade red with blood. His face was long and narrow with eyes close together, but they were bright and intelligent. It would be a mistake Sylvion thought to think this man was slow or stupid. He watched without registering any emotion, and she thought his heart would not easily find a place for remorse. She knew something of their training from the many stories she had heard, and despite an evil reputation, she found herself somehow impressed by his bearing.

  Clearly, he was afraid of no one. Given a job, he would do it, with utter efficiency, as she had found the previous evening. He had spared her life only because those were his orders. Otherwise, she would be dead.

  Her thoughts returned to her mother. She was dead. Sleeman would pay for that one day. She hoped his wounds would become infected, and that his suffering was long and terrible. She should have been allowed to bury her dear kindma but the captain had refused.

  She was angry again.

  One day she thought I will give you a proper burial kindma. One day. And her eyes filled with tears.

  And the Wolver, who saw all things, watched her, and wondered why.

  About mid morning there was a loud knocking at the door. The Captain jumped nervously and ordered Small and Feebles outside to await further orders, then went to answer the hammering. The Wolver sat impassively. Sylvion wondered who it could be. She hoped it was not a neighbour; who knew what the Captain would do with an unwelcome visitor.

  There were footsteps in the hall and suddenly the Wolver stood, and took a pose of respect as a strange man entered the room. He was tall, but not like a Wolver, and he wore a hooded cloak made of the most expensive woven cloth. There was a faint pattern in the material that Sylvion could not immediately make out; in any event she had no time, for once he looked at her she found she could do nothing but pay attention. She knew instinctively that this man was utterly dangerous, not in the violently predictable ways of a Wolver but in a far deeper manner; she knew instinctively that he walked a path where magic and evil met, and where forces beyond all human understanding ruled the darkness.

  He sat abruptly at the far end of the table and dismissed the Captain and the Wolver who obeyed without question. They left quickly. It was clear to all just who was in charge. Sylvion felt her heart begin to race uncomfortably and tried desperately to keep calm, but despite summoning all her strength, she began to shake, a trembling that forced her to grip the arms of the chair in an effort to keep control. It was as though her body had been given commands which overruled her will. The shaking increased until the man spoke. Suddenly she was back in control.

  ‘Peace child.’ The voice was warm but the eyes spoke differently. ‘I am impressed; I have seen the strongest men shake and tremble and wail when I first meet them. You have surpassed my expectations.’ His face was gaunt and strong; the eyes sunk into a skull which was hard and bony. Sylvion thought it strange but he had no hair, no stubble, and no wrinkles despite his apparent age, which she guessed was old; but how old escaped her. He could have been forty. He could have been two hundred. Perhaps older.

  ‘You have no idea what is going on, do you?’ He spoke gently but coldly. Sylvion shook her head; it was all she could do in response.

  ‘My name is Zelfos. I serve the king; that is I advise the king, and being a wise king, he listens to my voice.’ There was an unmistakable tone of superiority in his voice, and he spoke slowly as though explaining the simplest of concepts to a child.

  ‘Your name is Sylvion Greyfeld, daughter of Sontim, son of Sentor, on so on and so forth…’ He gestured with his right hand.

  ‘I knew that.’ Sylvion tried to assert herself.

  ‘Ah, I’m sure you did; but not much more, for if you did, you would know why I am here and why your life has suddenly come to an end.’ He said it so calmly. Sylvion jumped. They were going to kill her, and it was true; she had no idea what was happening.

  ‘Tell me Sylvion Greyfeld, what do you know about the king?’ He sat back a little, crossed his long legs and folded his hands on his knees, and paused, waiting for her answer. Sylvion knew that to talk about the king was dangerous. In recent times, people had lost homes and family, even their life because of an idle comment. She also realised then that she had nothing to lose. They would do what they would, whoever they were. She only hoped that Rema would be all right.

  ‘I know that the King is mad,’ she said replied boldly, ‘Lord Petros Luminos, is mad. Anyone, King or not who calls themselves a Lord of Light and allows innocent people to be destroyed and enslaved is no Lord of Light. He is destroying the Lowlands; his soldiers are out of control. I know that he came to power under strange circumstances, that King Frederic allowed him special privileges. He was the king’s favorite when Frederic died with no heir, so he took the thrown unopposed,
but I was only ten, so my father told me, but all of Revelyn know these things.’ She stuck her jaw out defiantly.

  ‘He has held the Sacred Sceptre.’ Zelfos hissed the statement, taken back by her boldness.

  ‘So they say,’ said Sylvion. ‘Without that he could not have become king,’ she paused for a moment, then added, ‘but he is still mad.’

  Zelfos smiled coldly. ‘A king can do as he pleases. This is not madness. The king is concerned that there are some would like to take his throne even though he has held the Sacred Sceptre and survived. His authority is established.’

  Sylvion wondered why kings and queens always became so fearful of others. They would rule for a decade and then would listen to drunken gossip or stupid whispers and suddenly there was a plan conspiring to take their throne by force. She knew it was one reason that the Highlands were ruled by a Council. No one held supreme power, and no one served more than two terms, no matter how popular they were. She realised that Zelfos was still talking.

  ‘…so you know that King Frederic died tragically and Lord Petros assumed the throne with his blessing.’ Sylvion said nothing. Zelfos watched her carefully. He was building up to some sort of significant point, but Sylvion had not the slightest idea what it could be.

  ‘It is true,’ he said after a pause in which he scrutinised her face, ‘You really don’t know.’ He seemed to be somewhat amazed.

  ‘What I know,’ said Sylvion angrily, taking the cloaked man by surprise, ‘Is that without warning my home had been invaded by the king’s men, my kindma had been murdered, and I have been held hostage, and for some unknown reason, which only further confirms in my mind that the king is mad!’

  ‘Silence girl!’ It was a command which sliced through her. She felt herself shaking uncontrollably once more, and only by gritting her teeth, and clasping the chair tightly could she prevent herself from falling on the floor before him. He allowed her to continue this way for a few moments, totally in control, than released her. Sylvion felt nauseated and fearful once more. He was playing with her; he could kill her at will, and not with a sword like a Wolver, but with deep sorcery. She sat breathing hard before him and waited. Zelfos continued.

  ‘King Frederic is descended through the royal line of Hendon. His father Richardo who ruled before him had a brother, Albert who is dead, and a sister, also dead.’ He paused as though waiting for any sign that Sylvion knew what he was unraveling. Seeing nothing he went on.

  ‘The sister’s name was Raven. Raven Hendon. She was a wild child and not suited to life at court. She ran away, disappeared when she was eighteen, in love with a romantic. She was not spoken of ever again, although her mother Queen Pethera grieved for her until she died. So, I’m sure you can follow that Raven Hendon was King Frederic’s, aunt.’ Sylvion nodded, but could still not see any connection with her. Zelfos waited, allowing those simple facts to sink in, knowing that he held the knowledge, and she was but a pawn in his hand.

  ‘And the name of that romantic whom she married, a poet and a singer…’ something suddenly made a connection in Sylvion’s mind she gasped…. ‘ was Sentor Greyfeld.’

  Sylvion put her hands to her face and whispered.

  ‘Sentor Greyfeld was my kinkindpa…’

  ‘And Sontim, his son your kindpa,’ Zelfos said, ‘which, if you follow, makes you a cousin one removed from the late King Frederic. Perhaps now you are beginning to see a connection.’

  Sylvion was astounded. Her Kinkindma had never used the name Raven, but had always called herself Nevar. Nevar Greyfeld. Then it dawned on her. It was so simple; Nevar backwards was Raven. She had never known, never thought to play that simple trick, and had she done so, it would have been no more than that, a childish game, for it carried no deeper meaning. She suddenly remembered what her kindma had said at breakfast the day before, about telling her some things which she and her husband Sontim had kept from her. This must have been it. She was descended from the royal Hendon line. The Hendon line had ruled Revelyn for hundreds of years. It was a huge revelation. She sat bewildered. Zelfos waited, smiling. He had enjoyed playing it out until the last moment. Now his prisoner would begin to see her difficulty.

  Finally Sylvion spoke.

  ‘So why are you here, why have I been captured, why has my kindma been murdered, why?!’ she almost screamed it, feeling such intense frustration. Her world had been turned upside down, and she was not who she thought she was.

  ‘It’s really quite simple,’ said Zelfos smugly, ‘Lord Petros is not of the line of Hendon, the rightful royal line, and there are no living relatives since King Frederic’s death, may he rest in peace, except you, Sylvion Greyfeld.’ There was a silence as they both thought about such a profound statement.

  ‘But I don’t want the throne, I don’t even want to live in the Lowlands, I am to marry a highlander and…’ she tailed off not knowing what else to say.

  ‘I know all this, and accept your sentiments entirely,’ said Zelfos with an oily smile, ‘but the king is not able to think as clearly as me or you. He knows he is unpopular and wants to ensure that no legitimate contender to the throne remains. That means my dear, that you cannot be allowed to live.’ He smiled so happily that Sylvion shivered.

  ‘But why? I am happy to declare that I have no interest in the throne, now or at anytime in the future. I am no threat, I have no means to take the throne even if I wanted, surely he can be assured of my intentions?’ To Sylvion it all seemed so logical. Why was there any problem at all?

  Zelfos looked at her condescendingly.

  ‘Such simple good intentions; you are a child. Firstly, others would raise an army if needed, and put you on the throne. This is what history consists of. A royal is always half owned by the people.’

  Sylvion could not answer that.

  ‘And then,’ said Zelfos evilly, leaning forward with both elbows on the table between them, and fixing her with an icy stare, ‘and then there is the prophecy.’

  ‘Prophecy? What prophecy?’ Sylvion was completely confused.

  ‘Ah you northerners know so little about your kingdom.’ Zelfos hissed contemptuously. ‘There is a book. The Ancient Book of Words some call it, but it has been known by other names. All the Kings and Queens of Revelyn have used it to rule. In it are many strange and wonderful teachings, wisdoms which, with the Power given by the Sacred Sceptre allow the possessor to understand and make decisions which ensure… well, let us say what is best for all.’ Sylvion had the distinct impression that Zelfos had a completely different view on what would be best for all.

  ‘History has proved that the book has been very useful when interpreted with wisdom. It can of course be used for good or evil. But that depends on what is good and what is evil.’ He smirked.

  ‘I will not bore you with a history lesson but I can tell you that in the book are many prophecies, most of which have come to pass. The book is kept guarded in the depths of the White Palace in Ramos, and is studied continually by the Wisden, who have always studied it, generation by generation. They are mostly fools, but every now and then one comes along who can interpret the deeper sayings of the book.’

  He stood for the first time and paced eagerly back and forth at the end of the table, hands clasped firmly behind him, his long robe flowing and shimmering in the midday light. He spoke with a new intensity.

  ‘There is a prophecy which mentions a Lord Petros. There are mentioned battles and a final battle in which the Lord is overthrown against all expectation. This of course has caused the king much anxiety.’ Zelfos smiled evilly, and Sylvion knew immediately that he cared little for the king. She realised that he had deeper and more sinister purposes which could only be guessed at.

  ‘The Prophecy is short, really no more than a poem. However, it has taken the Wisden long hours of meditation and discussion to understand it. And it would seem, if they are right that the king’s rule will turn upon the skills of one man, in a final battle and this man is skilled with the bow. He is an a
rcher of extraordinary ability, such that Revelyn has never seen before.’

  He sat down and stared at Sylvion with such intensity that she shivered uncontrollably once more. The he relaxed.

  ‘The king, being quite anxious that this prophecy not come to pass, has begun a search for any skilled archers through all of Revelyn, and that includes the Highlands.

  Sylvion felt suddenly very weak. She knew that Rema was the most skilled archer in the Highlands, even though he was not well known. His skills he kept to himself and the regular Highland soldiers laughed at his weapon. But she had seen him shoot, she knew what he could do. If it became known what he could do with bow and arrow, surely the king would search for him. She must warn him, but how, she was a prisoner and her life had fallen apart. She was not sure if she would live beyond that day.

  ‘Too late for your Rema I am afraid.’ Zelfos spoke triumphantly.

  Sylvion gasped. ‘How do you know his name? What has happened to him?’ She felt sick.

  ‘Think about what we spoken.’ Zelfos hissed impatiently, ‘for I have no more time for you now. You are the only living claimant to the throne of Revelyn. You are to be married to Rema Bowman, a man of great skill as an archer, as my spies have reported to me. We cannot be sure, but the Wisden, after much coercion agree that the prophecy is best interpreted by this. The two of you are Lord Petros’ major threat. The princess and the archer, and you love each other.’ Sylvion noticed that he had great trouble saying the word love. His jaw clenched and one side of his face seemed to spasm momentarily.

  He stood and placed both hands on the table and leaned forward towards her.

  ‘You have been captured as bait. Somehow, if we cannot kill Rema Bowman first, he will be lured to you. Love is a most stupid weakness. He will try to rescue you. However, at this very moment, he is on his way to Ramos to assist his troublesome cousin Serenna, married to the wonderfully loyal acolyte of the king, a merchant by the name of Jycob Menin. It has been too easy. Perhaps it is destiny. Anyhow my dear we will probably not need you, in which case you will end your life quite soon. In the event that he eludes us in Ramos you will be our guarantee of success. He will come for you, and he will die, and the prophecy will be thwarted. It can be done.’