Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  ‘Soldier Sleeman was with the party. Your brother you say... Unfortunately he’s dead. She killed him.’ Bach jerked his head toward Sylvion, and once more she felt the eyes of the brigade settle upon her, this time in a far colder manner, whilst the shocked Captain Piras Sleeman, now without a brother stood speechless, both at the news, and the manner in which it was delivered. Sylvion’s heart sunk even further, for she understood the situation, that in an instant, the whole brigade now had reason to hate her, for she had killed one of their own.

  It took Captain Bach of the Vault Brigade several days to decide upon the best method in which to hold his prisoner captive, such that she was could not be rescued under any circumstances. He had become quite paranoid that he might fail in this task and the possibility that he might have to face the terrifying Zelfos and explain why, left him sleeping poorly at night and irritable by day. Any advice his second in command, the now brooding captain Piras Sleeman was willing to offer was ignored, for Bach had decided that he was in charge and he would show the men that he alone had what it takes. A careful inspection of the compound and its scattering of buildings had left him dismayed, for whilst the many structures were strong in themselves, they were not easily defended, for the many fallen walls and battlements afforded an attacking force too much shelter and opportunity. The only place in which a prisoner might have once been secured was an underground dungeon, and in itself was a reasonably good prison, but there were tunnels everywhere, built over centuries and no one knew where they led or how to secure them. Bach was shrewd enough to realise that he would need more than two hundred soldiers to ensure that the prisoner was held, and any attacking forces repelled. He had not been instructed on the size of the force which might come against him so he wisely assumed it to be far large than his own. This left him with one option. The Keep.

  To the great annoyance of the whole Brigade, who to a man were very comfortably encamped within the huge Keep, Bach ordered them out to find what shelter they could amongst the ruins and tunnels of the compound. From a military point of view it may well have been the right decision, for this encouraged the force to reconstruct many of the battlements and improve the buildings for habitation. However it caused many a threat of mutiny and a seething resentment that the prisoner, a women and the slayer of a fellow soldier was given the huge Vaulted Keep for herself and her only jailer, the Wolver. Captain Bach however was unmoved and left his second in command to deal with the complaints, for which he earned no respect at all.

  The Keep itself was enormous. It was built on two main levels. A huge set of iron doors led off a flight of steps from the compound into the first level which held numerous service rooms, a kitchen and the like. A single set of wide stone steps led up to the second level. These were protected by an internal portcullis arrangement and another set of iron doors. When these were both shut and fastened it would take a determined force several days to cut their way through, for almost the entire supporting structure would require dismantling. The second level consisted of one huge vault. It was circular, taking up the full width of the building, about eighty cubits across, and almost the same in height. Around the walls a single set of narrow stone steps wove around and around until they gave access to the roof which stood as the highest point on the Cape, and from which on a good day the Norz Gulf to the west and the Faero Sea to the east could be seen. No force could approach the Vault unseen. It was indeed an impregnable fortress and one which had never been taken in conflict in the four hundred and thirty two years since its construction. All this detail was supplied to Sylvion by the cranky old caretaker who had lived all his life in the Keep. He went by the name of Grundig, and he spoke in a guttural tongue which reminded Sylvion of a pig constantly choking on a cob of corn, for he always seemed to be wanting to get rid of some obstruction in his throat. He was a small and wiry man nearing the end of a long and hard life of constant work and servitude, which had left him with a humped back and a gait which was half human half crab. He lived on the first level and organised the small staff to cook and clean and generally keep the fortress from falling into complete disrepair. He was the last of a many generations of caretakers and he bemoaned the fact that his beloved Vault was rapidly becoming a ruin. Once, after several days confinement in the huge Hall, Grundig began to lecture Sylvion whenever he got the chance about the wonderful days when The Vault was a place in which there was more than just cold draughts and tumbling stonework.

  ‘For more than three hundred years this fortress was lived in by men who knew how to fight and live life to the full. Ah the feasts that were held, the festivities the songs and dancing and music that went until morning. They could drink too those great warriors of the Iridin. They were never defeated in battle and there were many. They built the Wall of Iridin-Rune, right across the cape to the north and kept out the old enemies, the ancient Ravelin and later the Men of the Forest.’ He spoke without pause and in such an enlivened manner that despite his impossible speech he was almost entertaining, and so Sylvion indulged him whenever she could.

  Once, when he felt able, Grundig brought her his most precious possession, the history of the Vault written on old and yellowed parchment, kept in several volumes bound between heavily embossed leather covers. Sylvion knew that her kindpa, Sontim would have dearly loved to have seen such a record, and to have spent days and weeks immersed in the ancient stories and legends which such a record offered the diligent scholar.

  But her initial response to her prison, well before she had begun to be on speaking terms with the caretaker Grundig, was one of intrigue and awe. Intrigue, for she had expected to be chained in some dungeon, and instead, for reasons she could not understand, Bach had removed the whole brigade and confined her to the Keep’s great Hall with none but the Wolver as her jailer. She was chained, ankle to ankle so her movements were noisy and slow, but she was able to move around with little restriction. She was awestruck by the huge hall of the Keep which was her prison, for it was decorated in the most amazing manner. From the centre of the ceiling high above hung mighty banners depicting battles and feasts and animals and peoples and stories and legends. These were woven on the finest cloth, a fine flaxen thread which shimmered in the firelight and held colours like no other cloth which Sylvion had ever seen. These banners were stitched together so that they formed a giant canopy over the centre of the hall, and down the walls so that the circular stone steps to the roof were hidden behind them. This transformed what was in reality a cold and ugly structure, into a cave full of wonder and beauty. In the centre of the hall was a huge copper cauldron in which the main fire was lit, and so placed, it warmed the whole hall, for the hot air was trapped by the canopy above, causing it to dance and move, bringing to life the many scenes from the past in an almost overwhelming spectacle. The copper cauldron was suspended by four chains from a frame which seemed to take its weight, and yet the greater part of it was sunk into the floor which was made of solid oak planks. The rim of the fire cauldron stood about a cubit proud of the floor and was surrounded by heavy flagstones to prevent any coals that might fall from the fire from setting the floor alight. Sylvion examined all this with great interest, for she had little else to do, and she soon realised that having the fire in the centre of the huge vaulted hall made the heating of it so much easier, and did away with the enormous cost of constructing a huge chimney which would have taken most of the heat away in any case.

  She was allowed to sleep on one of the many oak tables which had been used by the soldiers before her. At night she was chained to whichever she chose, by the Wolver who guarded her closely and had command over the four brigade soldiers rostered to stand watch at the huge iron doors from the lower level. As this was the only way in or out, Sylvion was effectively sealed off from the outside world unless she visited the roof, and from there, escape was impossible unless one had wings. Whilst warm and reasonably comfortable, Sylvion knew she was completely and securely imprisoned, for any attempt at her rescue would not
only be seen from leagues off, it could be easily repulsed until she was dead, which would take no time at all for she had inquired of the Wolver.

  ‘What happens to me if there is an attack?’ She had tried to sound offhand and detached but her voice was not convincing.

  ‘I am to kill you if anyone reaches the Keep.’ He spoke without emotion, as though it was simple fact and did not require any further investment of himself than the mere conveying of the answer. Sylvion had persisted with him, for it was her first conversation with the deadly soldier.

  ‘And how would you kill me Wolver?’ This time she had an angry indignant edge to her voice. They were sitting by the fire in the evening, on opposite sides of the great copper cauldron which carried the remnant of an impressive fire now reduced to a huge pile of glowing coals. The Wolver had his feet up on the flagstone edging and was leaning back comfortably against one of the oak tables. Sylvion thought he looked able to be comfortable wherever he rested, for his long and wiry body seemed to easily take the shape of whatever it rested upon. He took a deep breath and then scratched his neck theatrically as though giving the matter great thought, when in reality they both knew he needed none, for when it came to death he worked instinctively. He smiled, and Sylvion thought it made him look much softer.

  ‘My lady, I would use the blade you used on Sleeman. Not that you are like him mind, for he was a worthless fool and you did well to rid us of him. I would use it, for it is a blade well made and would cause you little pain.’ He took the blade from where it lay close by him and held it up in the warm firelight, eying it as only as professional soldier can. He nodded. ‘Yes indeed this is as fine a blade as I have ever seen. It would do the job.’ He laid it down again and returned to watching the dancing fire and the coals in the cauldron, whilst high above them the canopy of many colours and scenes moved ceaselessly in the hot air which rose quickly to it.

  Sylvion absorbed this information with a look of deep concentration. She was silent for a while before continuing.

  ‘And why would you kill me Wolver?’ She looked straight at him, and he saw that she was angry and this interested him. He held her gaze whilst he rubbed an imaginary speck of dust from the corner of his right eye, used the same finger and a thumb to unconsciously pinch his nose and then rather coldly, he replied.

  ‘Those are my orders my lady.’ It was simple and as coldly efficient as that. Sylvion shivered for she knew that he would. She did not speak again for a long time, and the Wolver seemed content with the arrangement, for he sat like a statue, unmoved and unmoving. Finally as the fire grew dimmer and the canopy above grew quiet she whispered a final question.

  ‘So why do you call me your lady?’ They were simple words and seemed to take the Wolver by surprise. She watched him consider the question; she watched him struggle with the forming of an answer. She watched him fail and sit quietly, once more a statue. The words which came to her lips seemed perfectly weighted, as though they had been waiting a lifetime to be released and cut the air with their presence. She could not upon reflection, even remember thinking of what to say, but into the fertile air between them she spoke for a final time that evening.

  ‘I am Sylvion Greyfeld, rightful heir to the throne of Revelyn, perhaps this is why you call me your lady; consider your actions Wolver, for doing what is right is far more than obeying an order from a madman.’ She sat back and rested, her face in shadow. The Wolver was like a statue still, although Sylvion, who was watching closely thought he nodded, just the merest nod of ascent, but it was hardly noticeable. And then he stood, effortlessly, and Sylvion thought so gracefully, for his movements were so fluid; he too spoke his last words.

  ‘Good night my lady.’ Without a sound he was lost to the shadows.

  Sylvion stayed sitting by the fire for a long time afterwards. She was chained to the heavy oak table against which she rested and so after many thoughts had passed through her troubled mind, she too eventually lay down upon it, pulled a simple blanket across her body and went to sleep wondering at what the future held; for that night she had claimed the throne of Revelyn. Only the Wolver knew it, but nonetheless she had made the claim, and she knew that it made a difference. A huge difference.

  For both of them.

  Chapter 13

  It was a bitter wind which sought to find some way through Sylvion’s cloak. She held the thin cloth fast around her body in a vain attempt to keep some warmth, but the wind never let up. It was full of ice from the north and the smell of a vast ocean and places unknown. This dreadful cold was the price she knew she must pay, this utter cold, to stand on the parapet of the great Vault and watch. It had become a habit over the days she had spent in her vast and strange prison, looking out over the barren land and hoping for better times. She would imagine Rema arriving with a vast army and taking the Vault by force before even the Wolver had a chance to carry out his orders and kill her. She had worked out a simple plan to barricade herself on the parapet, by jamming the solid oak door which provided the only access from below. It would take some time to cut the door down and perhaps this would allow her rescue. She had planned it in the night when her mind would not rest, and over a few days had made the necessary preparations. She was allowed to move around within the vaulted chamber and even up to the parapet for there was no means of escape except by the heavily guarded doors and portcullis which led to the lower floors. She was shackled, ankle to ankle during the day and this greatly reduced her ability to move quickly, and it was impossible to do so quietly. The Wolver was always close by, and even now he stood not far off on the far side of the parapet, silently looking out to the east. Sylvion knew her plan would never work, but it gave her some hope that she had this at least to fall back on.

  She looked down from her great height onto the ramshackle compound of the castle. She had watched bemused as Captain Bach had taken control of his force and like a child with a new toy had set about amusing himself with his new authority. To his credit Sylvion had seen him have the soldiers set about repairing the two storey barracks by the gateway and it had been given a newly thatched roof and smoke now poured continuously from all four chimneys, a sign that the men at least had some warmth to cheer them when they were allowed to rest. Which was not often. Bach paraded his men twice a day, once just after sun up and then again just before sunset. They were arrayed impressively in full battle uniform, and standing at attention the feisty captain would address them for almost a full two spans. She could not hear what he said but sitting on his horse and riding endlessly from one end of their lines to the other, the faint drone of his voice could be heard as he lectured them.

  In between parades the men worked hard on the battlements and the compound itself. Some repairs to the walls had commenced, and the weeds and creepers which had threatened to cover much of the stonework and open ground had been pulled up and burnt in an enormous fire which still smouldered by one blackened wall, and which was added to with rubbish on a regular basis. Sylvion noted that the same men had taken to standing for extended periods pretending to tend this blaze, whilst obviously trying to keep warm. She felt sorry for them in a way for the bitter cold did not make building stone walls and battlements a welcoming task. Captain Bach had become so absorbed with his new command that he paid Sylvion little regard. She had surmised that he felt that she was beyond any rescue; and with the Wolver as her constant jailer, a heavy guard on the only possible entrance, and her prison being the most unlikely of choices, she knew that he was right. After all they were only looking for the pretext to kill her. The outcome of any battle was immaterial as long as she died at its outset. Still, he checked upon her twice a day for the briefest of time; he spoke curtly with the Wolver and then left, always anxious to be back with his men, supervising and giving orders. She ignored him completely. He was emboldened now, and spoke more harshly than was wise to the Wolver who Sylvion knew was increasingly irritated by his manner. On his most recent visit early that morning, just after his first parade, h
e had criticized the Wolver for her seeming freedom and lack of occupation.

  ‘Wolver the prisoner is roaming freely. Do you not have more control of her? Surely she could be cleaning or remain chained in one place. This would be easier for you to watch her?’ He had not commanded, but his desire was clear enough. The Wolver had replied evenly.

  ‘Captain, you have charged her guarding to me. You forget once more my ability. She is unable to escape. I have no intention of sitting in one place all day and watching her do nothing. As to her lack of occupation, you yourself might try to order her to do something, but I would not be expecting her to listen too closely.’ He had smiled somewhat superiorly, and the Captain had stormed off.

  ‘Just remember your job Wolver!’ The words had hit the Wolver hard, for Sylvion had noted a dark and angry shadow cross his face, a face which was normally quite detached, and she knew he had taken these parting words as a deep insult.

  Sylvion stood, frozen, but her mind alert. She watched the men below working at their various jobs and Captain Bach striding endlessly about harassing them. She knew they watched her too, for they would often point up at her and talk of her as they did so. A few of the more uncouth ones made rude and angry gestures, but she did not react. All they could see was a distant, shrouded and mysterious figure who watched them constantly. She wondered what their conversations of her were about as they sought warmth before their fires each night. She shivered and fought the desire to go down the long steps and sit before the wonderful warm cauldron and ease her body back to life, for she needed the fresh air no matter the cold, for deep within she knew that her days were numbered in this place. She would escape or die here, for there would be no rescue.