by Chris Ward
‘You fool commander,’ Zelfos hissed, but quietly, for all strength had left his voice. ‘This is what we feared; this is the power of the prophecy which we have tried so hard to prevent. This is what those words you think are so harmless can bring to pass. We are at war soldier and our lives are under threat. The King’s rule is this moment opposed as it has never been. We will march tomorrow at first light.’
Once more the king was moved to anger at his advisor’s usurping of his authority.
‘Commander we will march when I say we shall march, and not before. This news is hard to believe and may yet prove unreliable.’ With great composure he forced his panic back under control. ‘What news from other areas, your spies to the north? Your search for the archer Rema Bowman and the woman Serrena Menin?’
‘Desire I have word that two days ago a force of fifty well armed men on horses left the Highlands below Farview headed east. I have no news on where they have reached. The search for the two you mention has revealed nothing. They have disappeared my Lord.’
The king sat impassively whilst Zelfos strode the royal platform in deep anger and frustration.
‘We must assume that we face a foe which is gathering to oppose us. We cannot ignore the prophecy, but as you have said Commander, we are six thousand, trained and armed and ready to fight. I cannot see how any can defeat us. We march tomorrow at first light. North and east, and if there is a foe we will flush them out and crush them completely. Give the orders Captain Leander.’ The King took command with a fierce resolve that he would defend his right to the crown come what may.
‘Aye desire, we leave at first light.’ The Commander obeyed instinctively but he was deeply perplexed about the fool’s errand they were to embark upon, for never had an army left for war in such a manner in the history of Revelyn. He saluted quickly and left for there was much to do before the next dawn.
Zelfos said nothing for a time, but deep beneath his conscious concern for what had developed, there rose a fear unnamed, which caused him to tremble mightily. ‘This is not the start I wanted,’ he muttered inaudibly to himself, ‘but I will prevail, for mere words cannot defeat me, no matter what becomes of the king.’ And he suddenly he strode from the royal presence without notice, and went to make his preparations for what was to come.
Some days later as Helgas travelled west with others diseased and banished to the fearful Leper Island, she pulled a small parchment out from under her dirty cloak and read the words which the now dead scribe Spiel had given her. The words of the prophecy seemed strangely to lift her spirits, and some around noticed her face was bright with new hope. She shared her story slowly and others read the words. They too felt a new power come amongst them, and despite their dreadful fate, looked to each other for support with a promise that they would share the words with others so that some hope would help them bear what was to come.
At the same time around Ramos, copies of the prophecy were painted on walls and windows and copies slipped under doors by some whom Spiel had enlisted to assist in a determined quest to stand against his mad king. And every copy carried the request that the reader would be greatly benefited by passing on the words to others.
And by this time, four carriaves, released the day before Spiel died deep below the White Palace, were well away upon their journeys to other parts of Revelyn. He had sent them first, knowing his days were numbered, to trusted scribes and friends, with the charge that they were to copy and pass on to others, in ways that seem fitting, the Prophecy of the King.
*
Sylvion rode swiftly through the forest. She had made good progress since leaving her companions on the coast road, for the trees were well spread and the ground covered in little more than fallen leaves. Huge oaks and elder, tall spruce and stream willows abounded all around, and the air was full of the chatter of birds, and everywhere lay the spoor of rabbit and hare, fox and lynx cat. At one place where she paused to drink at a clear stream, she came upon the large paw prints of the fabled sabrecat which many claimed had long since passed from the land. Shortly after, she found beside her path the remains of a large forest stag, its head crushed and broken, and the carcass half eaten. She knew with a tremble that the large predator was close by for it would not leave such a meal unfinished. Her mount snorted nervously, perhaps sensing a presence, and so she was quickly on her way.
The sun reached gently in long bright shafts through the canopy and Sylvion found herself at peace for the first time in many long days. Her love of the forest, and the creatures it sheltered had been her first great love since she had ventured as a child deep into the tangles of Wildwood Forest. She slept the first night in a cave which was large enough to shelter many travellers, and indeed she discovered strange drawings high on the walls in many places and a pile of ancient bones heaped tidily against the furthest wall. She built a large fire at the cave mouth and tied her horse by its reins to a tree root which over the years had found a way down through the earth from the hillside above. She slept well but found fresh tracks in the morning outside the entrance in the dew, and knew that the sabrecat had tracked her during the night, repelled by the fire which she had wisely kept well fuelled.
She joined the road west before midday, and felt an anger deep within her, for it was along this very path which she had been forced to bear a heavy load, trapped within a burial box and lost to all, a prisoner of a madness which sought to destroy all that was good and beautiful in her land. In her mind this road led to one place only now, and that was her home to where her poor dear kindma lay dead and dishonoured in some hastily dug hole, tossed aside like some useless piece of rubbish. With a grim determination she road swiftly on.
‘I am coming home kindma,’ she whispered, ‘I promised you I would.’
Sylvion forded the Plenty River early in the afternoon, and remembered her previous crossing and the odious Captain Bach riding high above her as she struggled in the cold and rapidly flowing current, fearful of being swept away to her death. This time it was she who was mounted, and the water seemed less of a threat from the saddle. That day she encountered few other travellers, and there was little contact, apart from a smile and a warm but mostly wary greeting. She rode hard till the sun was low and the air chilled quickly, but reached the pretty forest village of Burdon before sunset, and took lodging at the Traveller’s Inn, for there was only one.
The proprietor was a large and friendly man with a wife even larger, who laughed constantly and with such force that she made the jugs and plates stacked on the huge dresser behind the broad serving bench shake and tinkle. The roaring fire was inviting to any traveller, and a group of men sat close by warming themselves and drinking ale. Several eyebrows were raised when Sylvion joined them, for they were mostly solitary types who viewed women with suspicion, and did not readily embrace the presence of a single female at their fireside without invitation. Sylvion sensed this but cared little for the shallowness of such precepts. She too sipped a large ale and stretched her toes to the heat, ignoring the men, and relaxing after so many hours in the saddle.
‘You travel alone?’ The voice was emotionless and cold, and came from a rather ugly looking fellow sitting on the far side of the small group. Sylvion knew the question was directed at her, but since it was asked without any warmth she ignored it, for in truth it could have been asked of any of the others.
‘I said, are you travelling alone woman?’ The irritation in the voice was clear, and Sylvion knew immediately that this man was well used to having his women respond on command. She looked across at him and gave him a long hard unsettling look, delaying her response so that he became almost agitated at her perceived rudeness.
‘What of you sira, how do you travel?’ She turned the question back upon her inquirer. He was immediately annoyed, but aware that he did not know the company and so was constrained to a greater care than he might otherwise employ.
‘That is none of your business,’ he retorted indignantly and realised immediately as
they all did, the stupidity of his reply.
‘Then why inquire of me, what you will not give of yourself?’ Sylvion spoke tersely and turned back to the fire, for she was in no mood to bandy words with tiresome men.
‘Well spoken friend, for he has spoken rudely.’ The speaker was a solid man, neither tall nor short, but rugged and well worn in outward appearance. He was sucking contentedly on a long stemmed pipe; clearly at peace with himself. ‘There are many who prefer a woman to be at home waiting for their drunken return,’ he continued, staring into the fire and letting his words land as they might on other’s ears. ‘They find it hard to see the beauty in a woman who can speak her mind and travel as she wishes, for they like to control the woman in their lives.’ He paused as the group sat somewhat stunned by his pronouncement. ‘They are women poorly served,’ he concluded as he looked over at Sylvion and gave a polite nod and a smile.
Sylvion smiled back, and the man who had inquired so rudely of her, stood and walked angrily off to sit at the serving bench and entertain his ale with dark thoughts on his own.
Nothing else was said for quite some time, but much was thought upon, for the smoker’s words had made an impact on several in the small company.
‘This forest was all one in times past.’ The man spoke once more, and as though he believed the audience wished him to do so on whatever subject he chose. Sylvion smiled at his confidence and quiet strength, for he spoke without any airs or graces. ‘Wildwood forest stretched all the way from the Svern’s southern turn to the Eastern Upthrust where the Edenwhood are believed to live, and south some way onto the Plains of Amrosi.’ He paused then and such was his strength of character that no one spoke, and indeed there was an expectation in the air that he would continue his simple lecture.
‘The woodcutters have thinned it a little,’ he went on, after several enjoyable puffs on his pipe which filled the air with the sweet fragrance so common to an evening around a welcoming fire. ‘One wonders how long it will be before they take it all.’
Sylvion was intrigued by his simple words and wondered if there was some deeper message the man wanted to convey.
‘There are more trees in these forests than can ever be cut by human hands my friend.’ A large man spoke now, he sat at the edge of the group and Sylvion could see by his large hands and powerful build that he was a woodsman who perhaps made his living from burning charcoal or timber cutting. He had taken no offence at the smoker’s words, for he too seemed a confident man having no need to defend himself and his work before any other.
‘Perhaps you are right sira.’ The smoker gave a gentle reply, and nodded at the other. ‘Indeed I hope you are, for we owe the trees a great debt, but I have seen much felling hereabouts in recent times.’
Sylvion listened as the conversation grew and others joined in, each with something to contribute, and slowly other subjects were added and it seemed that acquaintances became friends, if just for the night. Only the man at the serving bench drank alone, and no one knew the malevolence which lived in his heart.
She slept well and rode late out of Burdon and its surrounding forests into more open plains and scattered wooded remnants which reminded her of the words the smoker had offered to the company by the fireside, and she too realised that many trees had been felled and her beloved Wildwood forest was once much greater in times past. She realised that such things needed to be watched or else great damage could be done unnoticed.
As the sun approached the noon she rode once more into deeper forest and enjoyed the shade and life which chattered all around her. Suddenly around a bend in the path she came across a band of mounted men, and before she had any chance to spur her horse through and away, she was surrounded on every side by a group of the most wretched looking fellows she had ever seen, for they were clearly bandits who lived in the forest, preying on travellers or thieving from isolated farms. Her mount was immediately nervous and she remembered that the poor creature had once before been accosted on the road and stolen by thieves, its master murdered.
‘Well well, the lady travels alone!’ She suddenly recognised the leader, for he was none other than the ugly man whom she had offended the previous night by the fireside, and in a flash of understanding she realised that most likely he took to visiting the Inn so that he could gather information on who was travelling through the forest, and whether or not they would make easy prey.
Sylvion felt such an anger rise in her that it gave no room for fear.
‘Step back you thieves,’ she called loud and clear. ‘I have right of way on this road and you will not prevent my passing!’
The men were surprised at her boldness, for perhaps they expected a weaker, more fearful response, and they stepped their mounts back a little, but she was encircled none the less.
‘This road is mine to take tribute as I wish, woman!’ The ugly brute hissed at her. ‘Take care of your words woman or else you will meet the fate of your friend.’ Sylvion did not immediately understand his meaning, but with the wave of his hand the leader indicated that his troop move back on one side, and there lying dead and crumpled by the road side was the gentle smoker who had so prompted the conversation and her thoughts the night before.
Sylvion was aghast at such evil, and for a moment froze in horror as the group of men leered triumphantly at her response. And then as if possessed by a strength which took hold of her every fibre and sinew, Sylvion reacted. She reared her horse and in a flash held her blade high before the thieves.
‘I am Sylvion Greyfeld, heir to the throne of Revelyn and you here today have accomplished an evil thing. I will not let you pass on from this place without retribution for this man’s murder!’ A consuming anger suddenly burned in her heart.
The thieves were suddenly shocked, but just as quickly gathered themselves from her bold retort, but then before their astonished eyes her blade began to burn with a light which engulfed it. A flash of lightning rose high into the sky and suddenly to a man they found they could hardly move, for it seemed that wild honey had been poured over every limb. Sylvion moved with a speed which to them was beyond response, for they could not tear their desperate eyes from her gleaming blade such was the power which it held in that moment. She ran the ugly leader through the heart and he died in the saddle with his mouth half open in a cry, and as he slowly toppled to the ground she spurred her mount passed all the others and with the flat of the awesome blade cracked their skulls a resounding blow so that every last one fell unconscious to the ground. It was all over before the dead man hit the ground.
Sylvion sat on her steed with her gleaming blade held high and cried her final words.
‘I swear that Revelyn shall be set free from such evil as this day has seen.’
And then in the same measure as her anger subsided, the blade cooled and became as before. She sprang easily down and wiped it clean upon the grass.
‘This is indeed a fearful weapon,’ Sylvion whispered as she inspected it closely, for she was greatly shocked by what had come about. ‘Where have you come from, and how is it that I now hold you? How is it that you possess such power?’
She realised then that she was speaking as if to another creature and with a bewildered frown returned it to the silver sheath which hung at her waist.
The unconscious men were beyond her ability to deal with, but she was able to take one of their swords and dig a shallow grave in the soft earth for her dead friend. She heaped the earth upon him and left him there surrounded by the thieves who she had tied firmly together with ropes from their horses. Sylvion knew that they would be able to free themselves in time, and only hoped that their experience might dissuade them from further evil. She left the dead thief, their leader, as he had fallen, and then having gathered the horses together, and roped them behind her, she rode off once more toward her home.
But Sylvion knew she was different, for the blade had changed her, and her fate was now confirmed on a path she would never have dreamed of not long before. And
for the first time she feared for herself and Rema Bowman, and wondered what would come to pass when they met once more.
And now possessed with a great inner strength Sylvion rode on through the evening and into the night, until as day broke she found herself on the outskirts of her beloved Wildwood and her heart filled with both joy and bitterness, for it was a homecoming full of sadness and things lost, which could never be the same again.
She halted by a stream and washed her face and hair, before sitting in the warm morning sun for a time whilst it dried. She had considered travelling by a back path to her home but knew that the time for boldness was upon her, and Wildwood needed to see her as she now was. She gathered herself and with the dozen horses which were tethered behind she rode her beautiful black steed into the town as the shops and markets were coming to life. People pointed and stared, for Sylvion made an impressive figure for she bore herself proudly as she walked her horse slowly down the main street. A few called out her name but she ignored them all, until a small crowd had gathered to follow her in amazement. She tried hard to stifle the anger which rose within, for not one had lifted so much as a cry of indignation as she had been marched away in humiliation not long ago, and she sensed an embarrassment in the demeanour of these folk who had known her so well, and whom she had called her friends, for all her life.
She halted finally before the Pierman’s store which she had visited so often in her childhood, and turned in her saddle and addressed the crowd. As she spoke others joined the throng and word spread that Sylvion Greyfeld had returned.
‘My friends,’ she said with quiet authority, ‘I am returned, but not as I was before. You have known me from my childhood as Sylvion Greyfeld of Wildwood. You saw me led away as prisoner of the King, Lord Petros. No one here gave me any encouragement or word of comfort and I have been sorely tested these past days. You will know that my kindma was murdered and my home destroyed. For this I hold none to blame but the King.’