Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (11 page)

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 recognise. 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
Wolver
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.

‘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.