Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  The Wolver descended to the water’s edge in a quick and silent flowing of well trained muscle and sinew. As Sylvion turned back to the bank, her mind far off, seeking solace in the memory of her dear kindma, he had in a flash taken the deadly blade from her hand and had sprung back out of reach onto a rock above her. Sylvion gasped, taken completely by surprise. For a brief moment the two stood and looked at each other soundlessly. Her immediate thought had been, I am dead, and so was greatly surprised as the Wolver examined the blade with a gentle care which reminded her of a father with a new born son. His words were a further shock.

  ‘My lady, this is a fearsome weapon and you wield it well. I cannot of course allow you to keep it. Now we should make our way back, for the journey must continue.’ No mention of Sleeman, and he had called her my lady. Sylvion was perplexed.

  ‘What do you mean Sleeman is dead?’ Captain Bach roared in disbelief. Small and Feebles were wide-eyed in amazement with the Wolver’s simple statement of the fact.

  ‘The woman killed him with this blade.’ The Wolver continued, and held the weapon out for inspection. Bach snatched it from him and angrily marched up to Sylvion. He held the blade to her throat, but she was not intimidated by the man anymore, and stood unflinching.

  ‘You cunning deceitful creature. I let you go wash and this is how I am rewarded...’ Sylvion had cut him off with words that flayed the air around him.

  ‘You idiot. You expect a reward? You call me deceptive and cunning when not days ago you sneak into my home and murder my kindma. You come without reason, and kill without mercy. All citizens of Revelyn have the right to defend their homes and their loved ones. Your soldier Sleeman came at me not moments ago. He got what he deserved. I have acted with honour; how dare you claim that I am deceptive, for it is you Captain Bach who stand as bearer of that title.’ She stared angrily at the Captain who was completely speechless. How dare she speak in such a manner to him? She was his prisoner. He had complete power over her, and yet this?

  ‘I will deal with you later,’ he had hissed, and stormed out, but not before the Wolver had relieved him of Sylvion’s blade. The deadly soldier calmly informed his captain that he would look after it, for clearly the Captain’s soldiers were not able to stay alive long enough to carry it, for he had lost two men already to the prisoner. Bach was seething with anger, and being in no mood to argue with the Wolver, and had let him keep it.

  They had ridden in silence all that third day and found shelter for the night in the remote village of Burdon. There was a soldier outpost there, and so Sylvion was placed securely in the one small cell which was used mostly for drunks, and then but rarely. In the morning she was led out to her new prison, for Captain Bach had commandeered a cart upon which was placed a common burial box, offered under duress by the local gravesman.

  ‘You are already dead, so here is your box.’ He had chuckled vindictively in empty triumph, but no one had joined him in his misplaced mirth. Before the eyes of a few bewildered townsfolk Sylvion had been made to lie within the box on a bed of straw. The lid was securely fastened upon her, and the only light which entered was from a hole the size of which she measured with her forefinger and thumb, for they made a circle larger than that opening. The hole was by good fortune positioned above her head so with one eye at a time she was able to see the sky above and breathe what fresh air made its way in to her. Like all folk, Sylvion had a fear of being buried alive and she found herself trembling for a long time after her confinement had begun and the cart, steered by soldier Small had left upon its sad journey towards the coast. That fourth day had been full of desperation, for the small space hardly allowed her any movement at all. With great difficulty she was able to squeeze one hand up to her face to scratch an itch, but all else was impossible. And so she had come the western bank of the Plenty River. They had camped the night there, she in her box, allowed out for a short time under supervision of the Wolver to toilet and to eat. Sylvion noticed that he wore her blade along with his war sword in a sheath he had procured by some means. At least that is not lost, she had thought upon spying it, and that knowledge gave her more comfort than she expected.

  And now she lay exhausted and quite frozen on the opposite bank, waiting for her inevitable return to the dark and cramped prison which drew slowly nearer upon the cart. Captain Bach enjoyed the power he had over his prisoner. She lay exhausted, wet and pathetic at his feet. How she had ever bested Sleeman was a mystery, although it been a sneak attack, a hidden weapon...

  ‘Dry yourself by the fire. You have a span, no more, prisoner,’ he snarled at her, from the intimidating height of his snorting steed. Sylvion staggered unsteadily to her feet and went and stood by the roaring fire. She ignored her captors and concentrated on making sure her tunic was as dry as possible, for to lie cramped all day in her burial box, in wet clothes, was not something she wanted to experience. The fire felt good and the smell of smoke in the crisp early morning air was comforting, but all too soon she was made to clamber up onto the cart and return to her dark and humiliating prison. Small seemed almost apologetic as he fastened the lid so close above her, but for some reason which she could not understand, it did not seem so oppressive. In fact after the first few leagues she was almost glad of her predicament, for it had started to rain, a cold heavy almost sleet-like wall of slow moving damp closed in around the tiny party and soaked them to the bone. Sylvion could hear the rain and it made her box tremble every now and then when it intensified. She was dry except for the very little which dripped in on her head through the tiny hole above her, but this too was not unwelcome for it was clean and she lay with open mouth and slaked her thirst. Once she thought she heard the chatter of soldier Small’s teeth, and the soggy squelching of the Captain’s horse in the mire, came quite clearly to her.

  After a while she found herself drifting off into a world full of wonderful memories in which her dear kindma and Sontim her kindpa seemed almost to be there with her in her impossibly small confinement. Sylvion talked to them, and described her deep love for them and her gratitude for the selflessness of their parenting. For a time she tried hard to remember just why it was that her kindpa had gone off so many years ago. He had said something to her way back then, but she had not paid any great attention for he was always off here and there on some adventure. But he always came back to fill their lives with wonderful stories of far places and interesting people, of death cheated, and fortunes won and lost. Except for the last time. They had waited patiently, she and her kindma, but there was no word, and by the time they tried to find him, the trail had long gone cold. Sylvion cried then. She sobbed and sobbed, and such was her grief for her lost Sontim, that the bewildered soldier Small thought to enquire after her, but was prevented by his Captain who happened to ride past at that moment and laughed loudly at his prisoner’s distress.

  ‘You will say not a word to the prisoner; do you hear me soldier, for she will be a broken woman ere the time we reach The Vault on Bald Cape. I want none of yer wasted words of comfort thrown her way. Do you hear me soldier?’

  ‘Aye sira, no words of comfort sira!’ and so the journey continued.

  And so it did, for Sylvion became increasingly lost in thoughts and recollections of times past and the people of her childhood; wonderful images of her friendships and life in and around Wildwood played like a dream vision before her, until she lost all sense of the present and her prison no longer existed as she drifted high and far off, renewing acquaintances, and relearning old lessons with new wisdoms. Once, with a single eye, she spied through the tiny hole in the lid, an eagle soaring effortlessly, far above in a blue sky, climbing and diving and answering to no one, free to live and embrace each moment. She thought it would soon be lost to her view but for reasons beyond her understanding the majestic bird kept with her, span after span until in the fading light of the evening it was suddenly no longer there, although the vision of it became woven so inextricably into her experience that she fancied she saw it
on many occasions after that, and indeed flew with it once or twice, free and able to look down upon a sad and sorry sight... a tiny cart upon which was laid a burial box, escorted by four horses travelling through an endless, friendless land. Sylvion had moved into a twilight realm where reality and visions meet, where truth seems cast from a different substance, and time’s fierce hold is greatly lessened, so that days can pass unnoticed.

  As the sombre party travelled ever closer to the Eastern Coast they passed through a cold and windswept land, where few were brave enough to face the challenge of farming or settling in any permanent fashion. The villages were few, with many leagues between, but those they encountered were intrigued by the passing of the burial box on its cart, and the woman who lay within it; for she was dead it was supposed, but stories spread that she was seen, at times released from her confinement, a pale and ethereal figure for whom no word or contact seemed able to draw her back from the realm in which she existed.

  It happened that in those parts of ancient Revelyn that there was held a whispered belief from times before time, that...

  When the one not dead, passes through the land,

  a new order is at hand, for things that were, will pass away

  and those things neglected, reinstated, old truths respected,

  and justice anticipated...

  This was a poem of sorts which the children knew, for their parents before them had learnt it from their parents around evening fires, and at humble meals, or simple festivals and rituals. It held no dark meaning but had long become a childhood chant, and the one of which it spoke had become no more than a phantom, a magical figure with a thousand manifestations.

  The people of the Far Lands as they were scornfully labeled in the royal city of Ramos way to the south, were deeply superstitious and so it was not long before word spread that things were afoot, that change was in the air, that something new and mysterious was about to happen and this strange woman, seen not dead by only a privileged few, was at the heart of it all... for did not the poem tell of it?

  For Sylvion, unaware that her passing was causing any interest at all, the days passed in a timeless succession whilst she moved between reality and dream as easily as one passes through a doorway. And so they arrived at the coast, at the little town of Fisher where she was released from her prison and was taken in chains aboard a small coastal cutter whose Captain answered to the name of Miser. He was a tough and heartless sailor who had agreed to take the party north and east across the Norz Gulf to the tiny settlement of Lockerby on Bald Cape. From there they would travel inland and climb up to the legendary fortress of Vault where Sylvion was to be imprisoned until her death.

  The passage to Lockerby revived Sylvion, for she was allowed some freedom to stand at the rail and breathe the fresh salty air unhindered by her chains or the confinement of the burial box which had remained on the jetty at Fisher. She was not a good sailor, and found no pleasure in the ever moving deck and fighting to keep balance exhausted her quickly, for the days in her prison had left her weak and ill-prepared for such a stormy crossing to Lockerby as it proved to be. The Wolver was close by at all times, and she wondered why, but was thankful for it, for Captain Bach was always eager to cause her some upset. He was a far worse sailor than she, and his embarrassment at this show of weakness found an evil outlet in tormenting others. Sylvion was an easy target, but the Wolver seemed to sense the stupidity of it, and by standing with her, or making a cutting comment was able to keep her from the worst of it.

  It was a two day journey, for the winds seemed against them and Miser had insisted on payment by the day, so what would have taken an honest sailor a single day, became twice that, to the benefit of none but the captain of the Norzman. They disembarked at Lockerby, tired but happy to once more stand on dry land; although it was hardly that, for the rain was constant and the muddy lanes of the small and miserable port were all awash, making any travel most uncomfortable. Sylvion, now more aware of her surroundings, was struck by the drabness of the town and even the country beyond it, for as she rode on the small horse provided for the journey to The Vault, she could see no colour, just greys and browns and sad faces peering from empty windows. Even her mount was a dirty grey, and all around was wet and cold. She shivered at the realisation that the place to which she had been sent lacked any joy or beauty, and when she thought of her life in Wildwood, so full of laughter and colour and happiness, she felt chilled to the bone and her heart lost hope.

  How in all goodness can I ever escape this place she thought? How can Rema come to me here and do anything other than die in the attempt?

  The thirty leagues they travelled uphill from Lockerby to The Vault was desperately miserable, devoid of forest or fresh pasture, it was a windswept struggle against the elements from the very outset, and Sylvion found herself craving the silent isolation of her wooden prison where her mind was free and her body warm.

  Her first sighting of the fortress of Vault caused her to almost lose all hope, for it was a monstrous place. It stood on the highest point of the cape and caught the howling winds from all directions, and the black volcanic rock hewn specially for it, gleamed evilly in the wet and icy air. She rode in silence toward a place she knew could never be stormed by a dozen armies, and in that moment she understood that she was alone, her life was in her hands and no rescue would ever be possible. Rema Bowman’s mighty love for her was not enough, for love itself was defeated by such a place. The party arrived wet and miserable at the outer entrance to the walled compound which surrounded the main Keep, a perfectly circular structure which climbed high into the sky. It was then that Sylvion realised that the fortress had fallen into disrepair, for the walls were broken down in several places and allowed easy access. Several of the many buildings and storehouses within the compound were in a similar state, unroofed and open to the weather. Weeds and mosses had formed a spongy creeping enemy to the very rock which formed the fortress. From a distance it appeared that only the giant Keep at the centre of the compound had remained untouched by the elements or human neglect.

  They were met by a large force. Inside the compound, all lined up in military order, such that Captain Bach was immediately impressed and responded in kind, sitting tall and haughty in the saddle of his bedraggled steed, was row upon row of soldiers, all turned out in uniforms which had been rigorously groomed and inspected. Buttons were polished and boots gleamed brightly, all metalwork gleamed dully in the fading light. They all stood at attention, for orders had been given. Sylvion estimated at least two hundred soldiers filled the rough compound before her. An officer at the front of the ranks saluted crisply.

  ‘Captain Piras Sleeman and the Vault Brigade at your service sira’.

  Captain Bach was at once enthralled by the company before him and suddenly uneasy, for this man who had so many men under his command was a captain, their ranks were the same. He felt immediately insecure, but the smart looking officer, still holding his salute set his mind at rest.

  ‘Your company now Captain Bach! I am ordered to hand over the brigade to you, and I will serve as Captain second in command!’ Bach immediately brightened. It was going to be alright, in fact from where he sat on his tired and dirty horse, it looked very much like his every dream had come true. A whole brigade, all mine, he thought, before smiling in the easy but rather affected manner which only he knew how. He returned the salute and gave his first command.

  ‘Set the men at ease Captain, and show me to my quarters. The horses need attention and my men as well. The prisoner must be secured.’ At this moment Sylvion felt the eyes of the brigade turned to gaze upon her, for she was the reason they had been sent to this forsaken place. She did her best to sit tall and proud but it was not easy to intimidate two hundred men all turned out for war, after the journey she had endured those last few days. She glared at them as best she could and let them decide upon the level of threat she amounted to.

  ‘A question Captain Bach?’ Captain Piras Sleeman
was still standing to attention as he spoke. Bach paused.

  ‘Of course Captain, what is it you wish to ask?’ Bach sounded a little irritated for he was wet and tired and wanted to be off his horse, dry and facing a hot meal.

  ‘I was led to believe from my orders that a certain Jonas Sleeman, er... my brother would be in your party. I do not see him, will he be following?’ A foreboding silence descended upon the whole company, for the assembled men, not yet dismissed, were now forced to listen to this private interlude. They were unaware of any events which might have involved the small and bedraggled party which had just ridden in before them, and so they waited patiently for their captains to resolve this small matter. Bach had sufficient wits to realise that he was now the bearer of bad news, but he had no understanding of the required sensitivity which dealing with such matters demanded; and so with only a small pause, in which he proudly surveyed his new brigade, and quite distracted by the impressiveness of it all, spoke in the rather bored manner of one who really wanted to be somewhere else.