Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (20 page)

‘Wait on, he’s been wounded.’ Bolt spoke again and then they all saw his bloodied hand and realised that much of the anger of their companion hid a bitter pain.

Sadis tethered his horse and was quickly by Venim’s side. The wounded man backed away fearfully, falling once more before realising that he had been found by his Captain. He then sat still waiting to be released from his tiny prison. His pride quietened him, and once the bag was removed he blinked furiously to regain his vision in the bright sunlight. Suddenly a passion came upon him, and he was on his feet, and despite the calls of the other soldiers raced along the riverbank looking out into the blue mist, which still hung heavy upon the waters, and swirled amongst the trees and the reeds by the water’s edge.  Venim called out to an unseen craft and its occupants.

‘I’ll find you, do you hear me? I’ll destroy you. You will not escape Venim, you hear me. Until I die I will not rest until I have my revenge.’

But there was no answer, and finally exhausted with pain and humiliation, he stopped his mad aggression and let his Captain treat his wound. The other soldiers murmured sympathetically for they knew that Venim would never again wield a sword as he had in the past, and that in his disfigured hand, he would always bear the reminder of his loss.

Just before they all mounted and made off under the orders of their Captain, Sadis presented Venim with the arrow which had so recently come into his possession.

‘Find the owner of this arrow Soldier Venim and you will have your man,’ said Sadis gravely, ‘but take care, for I fear that his skills with the bow are more than equal to your hand on the blade.’

Venim looked long and hard at the strange arrow before swearing a private oath, fearful and strong, that he would find its owner and take his revenge. He then placed it in his saddlebag and followed his Captain back to duty, but there was an evil darkness in his heart, which from that time on, kept him distant from all others, until his life became lonely and bitter and he was feared by all who served with him.

And the deadly arrow became his closest companion.

*

As soon as they had returned to the barge, Gymble cast off and gave orders with a quick conviction which spoke of the deadly danger they we all in. They had attacked one of the king’s men, and no matter how just the cause, they faced the direst retribution. Gymble knew that other soldiers would likely be close by, and knew that the river promised safety only if they could disappear without a trace.

With great sculling strokes on the oar, he forced his unwieldy barge out into the current and in moments, the bank was lost in the mist. The boy sat shivering on the deck, forgotten in the haste to put as great a distance as possible between themselves and any pursuit.

‘Ready the sail Rema,’ Gymble spoke in a horse whisper, knowing how easily sound would travel across still waters. ‘We need to get far out into the river. It is wider here, and there will be other bargers about, we are not far from the city. Our only hope is to join them.’

And so with the sail set they maneuvered the vessel across the current until by the time the mid morning sun had burnt the mist away, they were far distant from the bank and well downstream in the company of several other similar vessels. For now, they were safe.

Rema had by this time thrown a blanket around the boy, reassured him that he was safe, and would be protected; but he realised that the lad was in deep shock and would need special care. Care which he had no time to give. The three travelers did not speak about the events which had taken place until just after midday when Gymble suddenly lifted the massive sculling oar from the water and went and lowered the sail. At the mercy of the current the barge travelled slowly downstream but in no danger; for the Luminos River was almost two leagues wide at this point, and they were in the middle, far from the banks.  Whilst other barges could be seen heading for the city of Ramos, they were all some distance away, and since they all travelled with the current there was no danger of anything happening quickly.

‘Time to talk,’ said Gymble gently. ‘Much to say, answers to find.’

Rema nodded and the boy looked from the old barger to the archer with an expression which almost broke Rema’s heart.

Gymble brought some food and drink and they ate, not caring for it, but grateful that their hands were occupied, for their emotions were not easily hidden.

‘What’s your name boy, and where is your home?’ Gymble spoke ever so gently, sitting next to him in his old chair. He was packing his pipe, and soon was sucking happily and blowing clouds of sweet smelling smoke over the side where the wind whisked it away up river.

The boy hesitated as if considering the question, as though by giving his name he would be revealing too much of who he was, but he replied in a small and distant voice.

‘My name is Nemul.’ Rema was startled, and glanced quickly at the old skipper, but Gymble seemed not to notice.

‘I have no home,’ he continued, and Rema knew that Nemul’s village was the one he had seen that morning, a smoking ruin. The two older men nodded and allowed the boy time to go on. Nemul struggled with his words, and blinking back tears unsuccessfully, he told his story.

‘They burnt my village last night. The people were driven off into the night. They hung my father. I was made to watch.’ He sobbed uncontrollably then, and Gymble, with an ease which belied his age and profession, reached out and held Nemul’s hand.

‘Why your father?’ Rema could not help ask the dreadful question.

‘He won the prize. They promised everything and then they betrayed him.’ Nemul’s voice hardened in anger. ‘Like others he entered the king’s competition, but he won. It was a trap. I can see that now.’

‘What competition, what trap?’ Rema could not help himself.

The distraught boy looked at him. ‘The king is afraid of anyone who is skilled with the bow. He declared a competition, promising riches for those who win. My father was the best archer in these parts south of the Luminos, but we are poor and he thought he could make us rich. He went to
Raine
and beat all the others from all around. He came home happy and with the promise that the riches would follow. The King, Lord Petros Luminos had promised.’ Nemul broke off as the pain of his tale became too much for him.

‘And so the soldiers came and destroyed your village and hung your father as a warning to anyone who might take up arms.’ Gymble finished the boy’s story. Nemul nodded and sobbed quietly, rocking gently as if to comfort himself. ‘I have heard of this several times,’ Gymble continued. The king is mad.’ The old man sucked on his pipe for a time, his eyes moist with emotion.

‘They would have killed me too, so I ran away, but a soldier chased me. I saw him cut many people last night, for he used his sword continually.’ Nemul spoke once more.

‘He was the one who wanted to take you from me this morning?’ Gymble spoke quietly.

Nemul nodded.

‘Well we have Rema here to thank for preventing that. A good shot Rema. I’m sure the king would like to hear of you.’ Nemul then looked at Rema and nodded.

‘You will be hunted down sira, it would have been better to kill that man. They will not offer you the same mercy, for they know not how to give it.’

Rema considered this for a time. ‘You may be right young Nemul, but I was not seen, and I hold more fears for Gymble here, and you, for you both will be spoken of.’

‘Fear not for me Rema,’ said Gymble fiercely, ‘for the river makes it hard to catch a man, and the barges all look alike. I have learnt a few tricks which will keep me safe. But the boy?’ Gymble looked hard at Nemul. ‘Do you have relatives, anyone who you can go to?’ Nemul just shook his head.

‘I have no one.’ And that was all he would say.

‘How old are you lad?’ Gymble asked softly.

‘I turned sixteen, two days ago,’ Nemul replied, ‘but now I am on my own.’

Rema saw a sudden discernment in Gymble’s eyes and they shared a look, which told a deeper story. Rema knew in that moment, that Gymble had realised that this boy who had so suddenly chanced upon him, was the exact same age that his own lost son would have been, and by some fate his very name was a
reflective
, his son’s name in reverse, and all Revelyn understood this to be a powerful omen. And here he was an orphan, and Gymble a father whose lost loves still cried out for some assuaging.

All this acknowledged in the briefest of looks., and they shared a simple, knowing smile.

‘No lad, you are welcome here aboard my boat. You are not alone,’ said Gymble, master Barger of the mighty Luminos River, and once more the big old man took Nemul’s hand and held it, and the lad did not refuse his grip, and sat there, taking comfort from such a gentle giant.

Rema realised then that the
Revel-Hare
was still tied to his belt, forgotten in the madness which had overtaken them.

‘Tonight I will cook for us all Gymble. A special dish of my own.’

Gymble smiled happily, and his soft reply came from far away.  ‘I look forward to your offering Rema Bowman, but I think there will be nothing that can match my
tater
pie.’

Chapter 8.

Rema stood in the shadows and listened. With eyes shut, he simultaneously heard and felt the muffled conversations which came to him for some distance around. With the deep sense which had grown in him from childhood, he sifted the sounds and the mood. He heard nothing clearly, faint arguments, a woman sobbing, a husband demanding, children playing, vendors selling. It was a loosely woven carpet of sombre, undulating sound which told him one thing only.

Ramos was a city of fear.

Only the very youngest children seemed able to rise above it.

Innocent, and yet so vulnerable,
thought Rema, and then opened his eyes.

He stood in a narrow alleyway not far from the rear of Serenna’s large home. From where he stood he could see the window high up, just below the tiled roof, which he had used to escape, only a few days past. Not far from where he watched, further down the alley, was the place he had been wounded in the leg by a soldier who had lain in wait. The trap had almost succeeded. It had been a close thing. The memory of that moment caused Rema to shiver involuntarily, but he continued to watch, standing as motionless as a statue, his every sense alert and waiting.

He had farewelled Gymble and the boy Nemul in the early morning. The barge had arrived at the Port of Ramos just after sunrise in the company of many others, and Rema had marvelled at the skill of the bargers as they half sculled, half sailed their unwieldy vessels, fighting currents and fickle winds, cursing each other and their craft until, almost against all reason, they were securely tied up to one of the many wooden wharves which reached out untidily into the river. Gymble had been anxious to unload his cargo and leave, worried that a report of recent events might have reached the city. Rema understood his fear and offered to help with the unloading, but Gymble would have none of it.

‘Last time you were in the hold Rema Bowman…what a mess! the pigs fouled everywhere. You go. The boy and I will do it well enough.’ His gruff voice hid a deeper emotion, and Rema noticed the way he gently laid a big hand on Nemul’s shoulder. The two had become close so quickly.

Rema grasped the older man’s hand firmly. ‘I could not have fallen in with a braver or kinder man. I wish you well Gymble Barger. I will not forget you, nor your story, for it has moved me deeply. The boy is in good hands. May your future redeem your past.’   They stood for a moment acknowledging their deep bond before the older man softened and spoke.

‘I cannot let you off this barge wandering the streets of Ramos without a proper hat, for you will be considered a foreigner indeed, unless I remedy the situation.’ And without ceremony he took his own battered hat and placed it upon Rema’s head.

‘That’s better,’ he said with a smile, ‘now at least you will not be so easily spotted.’

With a brief farewell to the boy, and wearing his new hat, and the cloak which Mentor had given him, Rema sprung lightly onto the wharf and into a milling crowd already busy with the day’s demands. He turned once from a higher place before he lost himself in the streets of Ramos, and waved to Gymble, and uttered a gentle oath. ‘I swear old man that I will one day see you again, for your story shall not end here.’ And then he turned from the river and disappeared into the crowd.

It had taken him many hours to arrive where he now stood, watching his cousin’s house. Although he knew the way, for he had searched for several days before finding her place on his last visit, he had wanted to wander the streets of Ramos and listen, to try and understand something of how it went with the people.  Everywhere he found fear. He saw bullying soldiers on the streets, treating the citizens as of little worth, demanding favours, cursing frequently, and laughing in contempt. He saw suspicion and downcast eyes, anxious glances and feeble handshakes. Insults and coarse words filled the air. Of beauty he saw none. He heard angry whispers about a recent cruelty in another part of the city in which many homes and business were confiscated by the King, under the pretence of preventing the spread of disease. Dozens had disappeared, and soldiers now lived in the houses. There was talk of violence and rebellion, but Rema knew that the people had no heart for it. He had sat quietly in a dark tavern, eating a rudimentary meal of goat cheese and bread, contemplating his next move, and for the first time in a long time, allowing himself to think of Sylvion. This however, had only confused and upset him, knowing that she was beyond his help; but he longed to hold her again and smell her hair, and run his fingers over the smooth skin of her wonderful face, and lose himself in her eyes, so deep and intelligent.

‘I will find you Sylvion, I will come for you.’ He had sworn this to himself over and over, and then, realising that his face was wet with tears, and the publican was staring a little too often in his direction, forced himself to leave, and had again walked the streets of the mighty city of Ramos, once so proud and happy, but now on the edge of despair. He walked until he had found the darkened alleyway, and there he had started his vigil.