Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (40 page)

‘You keep to yourself, and stay well back for I want privacy to wash, you hear me Sleeman’.  Her icy demand had been clear to all in the hut as they left. Sleeman just shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. She knew that he was going to enjoy himself at her expense.

There was rough track which wound downhill towards the hidden river. As she approached the water it became apparent that somewhere close by there was a waterfall, for a fine mist enveloped the vegetation and the noise from the river became deafening. She found a place by the river’s edge where some level rocks formed a platform allowing her to stand in shallow water. It was moving fast, and peering down the river, just before the next bend Sylvion caught sight of the cataract as it dropped from view in a rainbow cloud of spray. She washed as best she could without removing her tunic for she knew that Sleeman would be watching. The long blade  which still sat gummed weakly to her chest between her breasts had remained in place despite the many falls and difficult riding. It had however cut her low down just below her belly, and whilst a shallow wound, the pain was ever-present, and she was worried that it might become infected. With great care she washed her body beneath her tunic, worried that the blade might fall, and gasping at the shooting pains which ran through her body as she cleaned the cut. It was then Sylvion realised that Sleeman was standing close behind her.

She had remained calm, but her hand grasped the hilt of her weapon as she turned toward him. ‘Are you enjoying the view, you weasel?’ She taunted him angrily. ‘A woman bathing must be a real thrill for someone such as you. Do you really need to spy on me?’

Sleeman had found her fascinating. Whilst deeply upset that this woman had bested him before his troop, and caused him such pain as to make his every waking hour a living hell, he could not but be entranced by her feminine ways. Her wet skin and long hair lying gleaming on fresh clean skin...the way she moved, the way she looked, so curved and inviting. He had come up behind her slowly with no plan other than to be closer to her, perhaps... well who knows? She was a woman, he a man, she had desires like him surely. He’d known other women.

Her words brought back his anger, for she had spurned him. ‘You whore!’ He swore vehemently using the first words which came to him, for deep down he knew that all women could not to be trusted. She
knew
he was watching and had led him on. A whore she was and now... he took two quick steps into the water towards her, his fist raised to strike her pretty damned face.   Instead he watched spellbound as she pulled a blade from beneath her tunic, he caught a brief glimpse of her flesh, the lovely breasts, and then his eyes could not leave the blade, for it glowed, it drew him to it, and then it entered his body so easily, almost to the hilt. Sleeman felt a painful jolt, and then as he gazed with surprised wonderment into her beautiful eyes, he heard the last words of his life.

‘Go to your doom Sleeman, this is for my kindma.’ And then an awful pain as the blade was torn from him, opening his stomach so that he stood there trying desperately to hold his entrails inside his gaping body. The woman stepped nimbly around him, despite her shackled ankles.  He tried to turn but his feet would not respond. He felt her push, and he saw the water come toward him. The cold revived him for a moment, just long enough to see his insides explode out into the water and surround him in a fog of red. He was dead before the mighty cataract hurled his lifeless body down into the gorge and onto the rocks far below where he lay crushed and broken beyond recognition; food only for the wild bears.

 ‘You are avenged kindma,’ Sylvion whispered with tears flowing down her cheeks. She stood on the rock platform, the icy water of the Vigarn swirling around her feet; she held her blade aloft, where it gleamed in the early morning sunlight. ‘I swear I will return to bury you one day soon. I swear it on this blade.’

None of this had gone unnoticed, for the
Wolver
had followed the pair silently and had taken a position well back in the trees, higher up and out of sight. He remained there like a statue, watching, for he distrusted the soldier intensely. He only tensed slightly when he thought Sleeman might strike the prisoner, but showed no emotion when the soldier disappeared headfirst into the river in a cloud of red. The
Wolver
was similarly entranced by the blade which Sylvion wielded, and found his mind became puzzlingly slower for the moments in which it was used. He watched with interest, this woman, standing victorious in a blaze of sunshine, unafraid and undaunted by her predicament. And then something in his intelligent brain put together the pieces of a puzzle he was as yet unaware of, for suddenly he saw her for more than the prisoner she was. Trained to serve his monarch unto death, the realisation that this woman was indeed a rightful ruler pierced his tough battle shell and moved him to wonderment; for he had heard the fearsome Zelfos speak as he stood close by outside the room in which he had spoken to the woman. He had understood the message, but the words then had seemed unimportant. But now...? She deserved better respect than had been offered; and she was a warrior too. These thoughts drew a thoughtful frown across his visage, and his lean and wiry arm reached up to run a powerful hand through the short hair on his well defined scalp. He nodded to himself, but was unsure why.

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.