Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (10 page)

And yet more entrancing still…the
Equin
could dance.

The horses rolled in the lush grass and played, kicking up their heels and galloping suddenly, moving like a coiled spring released. Sylvion spoke to Thunder who gently lowered himself to the ground, bending his powerful front legs and then hindquarter until he sat majestically on the ground. His massive face was still as high as the woman full standing, and he allowed her to stroke his neck and scratch his ears. In times past she had found that he particularly liked to have the right ear rubbed, and although he could do this against any tree, she could do it far better, and as if by habit when she talked too long and he tired of her words he would push her over with a simple butt of his head and snort until she once more fulfilled his simple craving for human contact and an ear well rubbed.

‘There is a great evil in land,’ Sylvion spoke to Thunder, and several other steeds that had gathered to listen to her talk. They sat in a circle around her. Lightfoot was allowed to graze on the edge of the group. Sylvion knew her horse wanted to come closer and was always hugely excited at their meeting, but the
Equin
prevented her coming too close, and she had never understood why. It was just their law, and to be respected; but Lightfoot, a big and impressive horse by any standard never gave up hope of being accepted.

‘The king is mad and getting madder. There are soldiers everywhere and the Council fear an assault on the Highlands. I am to be married soon. Rema Bowman is his name, I would love you to meet him, he is brave and funny and kind and gentle…’

She did not see a number of the
Equin
around her flinch at the name, for ‘bowman’ had a dangerous association for them. They feared the arrow, and although silver headed arrows were not common, in ages past they had been used by men of valour, and any mention made them feel unsettled. The great horses could not speak but she knew they understood, and Thunder never missed a word of what she had to say. Others of the
Equin
would come and go, listen for a time then move off to play or graze with others. She recognised Moonlight, and Longface, the gentle Lacewing, and the impetuous Rush. She had named many of them and they knew her, but Thunder was her favourite. He seemed interested in all that she had to say and there was deep gravity to his manner, as though he waited for a change, a release perhaps from the spell if that were possible which bound  him to the forest.

After a time she lay back against Thunder’s massive flank and dozed happily whilst he sat quietly, watching over his companions, only the gentle flaring of his nostril as he breathed and the occasional blink of an eye gave any clue that he was not carved from polished marble.

When she awoke the
Equin
were dancing.

For such large and powerful beasts they were graced with an ability to prance and move together in a harmony which never failed to take Sylvion’s breath away. The amazing manner in which they danced around each other, and with each other, mimicking, gently touching, brushing flanks and feinting and dodging, and so many all at once, was proof enough of a deeper mystery. And as they danced there was no thunder, just the gentlest rustling of the grass. Sylvion wept with joy, and when they finished, after almost at a finger span of the sun’s traverse, and all in unison, she clapped and clapped, and as she did all the
Equin
turned toward her and snorted their acknowledgement.

‘I must go now Thunder,’ she said stretching in pleasure. ‘I will return as soon as I can, and perhaps I could bring my Rema?’ She looked intently at the impassive horse, who shook his massive head and snorting loudly, stood quickly, and walked a little to loosen his legs from so long being bent beneath him.

‘I understand,’ said Sylvion, ‘He knows nothing of you, but think upon it, he is no threat and I love him with my life.’ And then, acting on an impulse, reached up upon her toes, and still a way beneath the favourite right ear whispered something. Thunder paused and looked hard at her, and then at Lightfoot standing patiently in the distance. Thunder whinnied once and trotted over to the grey, whose ears pricked up and Sylvion could see her flanks quivering in expectation. The mighty
Equin,
leader of the thunderous and mystical, went up and nuzzled Lightfoot in a gentle friendly way as if to say, ‘You are a friend and welcome.’

And then he reared and all the
Equin
with him, and suddenly the valley was empty but the thunder rolled for ages as the mighty horses galloped away into the depths of the ancient forest to places Sylvion could only dream of, and where even she was afraid to go.

She mounted Lightfoot happily and together they trotted slowly homeward. The sun was an hour or two from setting and she knew she would be home for a warm dinner of roast duckling and potatoes and that tasty gravy only her
kindma
knew how to make. It had been a perfect day. Unbeknown to Sylvion, Thunder had not galloped much beyond the valley where they had spent the day. He let the rest charge on, for he knew where they were heading for the night, and worried about his friend, if worry could describe the emotion of such a beast, he followed at a distance, sniffing the air and sensing the fear which traveled on the wind from beyond the forest limit.

Sylvion first became alarmed as her horse broke out of the trees and she saw her house in the warm evening sunshine. There was no smoke from the chimney. Her
kindma
prided herself on never letting the fire go out. It had burned continuously for years, carefully stoked and tended; in the morning there were always glowing coals to light the dry new wood from the neat woodpile kept by the kitchen door. Sylvion sensed a coldness about the place which made her immediately fearful, and she remembered then the sharp pain she had felt earlier in the day.

‘
Kindma
,’ she spoke quietly to herself, ‘what has happened here?’

She dismounted and took the saddle and other bags from Lightfoot and let him loose in the orchard, thinking that she would return him to the stables when she felt it safer. She drew her sword and disappeared from view behind a hedgerow that led to the stables; crouching, she moved quickly and silently until she could stand once more, hidden behind the stone of the rear wall.

Within the house Captain Bach had waited impatiently all day. He was angry that the idiot Sleeman had killed the old woman. Not that he cared one bit for her, but that he could not question her and find out where the girl had gone. For all he knew she had fled and would not return, and that meant a failure which would affect the rest of his career. His orders had been clear.
Capture the girl unharmed
. He was angry that nothing of interest had happened, he was bored witless, and the girl had not returned; he was angry that there was no drink within the house that gave him any sort of enjoyment. He was just plain angry. He had positioned Soldier Moss in the stables and Sleeman he made sit by the old dead woman all day as punishment. The others were to tend the horses and patrol the boundary. Any sightings of the girl were to come to him, and he would direct the capture. He had done his best to ensure that the men had not been drinking, but they were a crafty crew and he could not be sure they had not secreted a flask of eldershot somewhere upon their greasy bodies. Short of a full body search which he had no interest in performing, that was beyond his control.

He waited and watched in a sullen and pessimistic mood.

Finally as he was about to order a return to their station, the girl had appeared upon her horse. Captain Bach smiled maliciously.

‘Got you my little one, come on now gently, gently, come to the Captain…’

She dismounted.

The captain bent down to fasten his boots more securely and when he straightened she was gone.

‘Damn it all!!’ he swore, ‘can’t she be like other girls; why is she so slippery?’ He had a bad feeling in his guts, and thinking about the calibre of his men knew he had every right to feel so.

Sylvion peered through the open rear window of the stable. It seemed safe enough. She nimbly crept over the sill and landed gently on the sandy floor with hardly a sound. Soldier Moss had stationed himself in the hay loft and had snoozed the day away quite contentedly. By chance as Sylvion came through the rear window, he was awake and scratching himself happily in places which only his mother had ever seen. He took a sharp breath. There she was. The girl, the one who had humiliated Sleeman so beautifully just the day before; they had had some laughs about that last night. Soldier Moss opened his mouth to call for the Captain but shut it immediately. Here was his chance, his sword was ready, he was a man and this slip of girl was his for the taking, he would disarm her and present his captive to the captain who would reward him. The others would have to admire him then. And so with thoughts of grandeur and not of battle, soldier Moss leapt gracefully from the loft, sword ready and landed behind Sylvion with a thud. His right ankle shattered on impact and in searing pain he dropped his sword but managed to stand for a moment which was just enough to ensure his death.

Sylvion swung quickly; crouching as she did to avoid a thrust from behind, and with her sword ran the man right through in one easy deft movement. Soldier Moss knew he was stabbed. He had a brief memory of how the old woman had looked that morning stuck on the end of Sleeman’s sword, and he realised that this was how it felt. He didn’t like it one bit. And then he slumped down dead.

Sylvion withdrew her sword and wiped the blade on the dead soldier’s tunic. She recognised the man from her encounter the previous day. She knew he would not be alone and that the odious soldier Sleeman would be lurking close by. Her heart was pounding, but her nerve was calm and calculating. She feared for her
kindma
, but reasoned they would have her tied up in the house, she was no threat; they were after her.

She peered carefully out over the stable half-door towards the house. There was no one about but a small bundle of clothing lay on the ground not far from the kitchen door. She froze. Suddenly she knew it was her
kindma.
A pair of frail old legs could be seen, lying crumpled as they had fallen. Sylvion could not breathe.

How could they do this, what threat was that little old lady to anyone
.

An anger she had never felt before possessed Sylvion, it was cold and hard and unforgiving. She had no fear and she would have revenge. She boldly opened the stable door and walked toward her
kindma
, holding back her tears and grief, knowing that there would be time later for all of that. Too much time.

 
How can I live without my kindma?

Captain Bach saw her immediately and Soldier Sleeman too. He had moved out of the sun and was sitting in the shadow of the large woodpile. He got up with a leering look of triumph on his face.

‘Two in one day,’ he whispered evilly, ‘so who’s a hero now Oh mighty Captain Bach.’

He stepped out to meet Sylvion, supremely confident in his size and strength despite the lesson she had given him the day before.

He was totally unprepared for the attack he walked into. The girl had death in her eyes and moved like a cat. Her sword was faster than anything he had seen. His practice with the other soldiers was always in the safety of camp, and usually accompanied by drink and much showing off. Suddenly he realised that this was life and death.

Her sword ripped his shirt open and clipped his cheek. He felt blood run freely down his face.

My blood!
realised the panicking soldier.

He swung, she dodged and parried. He was stronger, but she was swifter than a sabrecat.

Try as he might he could not get any stroke to land. He was vaguely aware of the captain calling to him.

‘Do not harm her Soldier Sleeman. She must be taken alive.’

He thrust high, she went low, swiveled and struck him with a straight leg to his stomach. He doubled up.
That’s unfair he thought
, as though he was playing with his brother as he had years before. Winded, he tried to protect himself; the girl went for the kill, but in anger misjudged her lunge, and ironically only succeeded in slicing his belt once more, and in an instant he stood exposed again, pants around his ankles, but this time in deadly danger. She thrust again, he stepped back, but the pants prevented him going far and he fell backwards. In anger she slashed at him as he fell and cut him deeply across his chest. And then he was down, in pain, bleeding and whimpering.

Sylvion was not finished. She knew he had been the one to kill her
kindma
and he must die. Suddenly there was a blur of movement and another soldier appeared. He was much taller than any in the Captain’s troop and he moved with a fluidity of motion far superior to a normal king’s guard.

His sword moving faster than the eye, cut Sylvion lightly across the back, and as she straightened in pain and turned to meet him, with two quick and powerful cuts her sword went spinning off into the grass. He moved in before it had hardly left her hand and grabbed her by the neck. He threw her down and put his sword to her throat, and a foot on her chest. He smiled coldly in triumph, and hissed in a voice little more than an animal’s grunt.

‘So easy when you know how. Captain; your prisoner.’

Sylvion was totally shocked. She lay winded and hurting. Looking up she saw a very tall and wiry man, with short cropped hair and lifeless eyes set close in a long angry face. He wore a close fitting tunic which allowed his incredibly long limbs to move with ease. He had a rough sown badge on his chest. It said one word.

Wolver.

And Sylvion knew she had no escape. She lay with a pounding heart as grief overtook her. She lay within an arms length of her dead
kindma.
She wondered what was happening. It had been such a perfect day.

‘Ah.’ said Captain Bach looking down at her, ‘The nightmare just begins my dear.’