Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (3 page)

In the end the man took only one sword and scabbard and hoped that he would be able to use it to barter or sell for a goodly sum. Without money he would not get home, and the way he was beginning to feel he knew he could not travel far till his leg recovered, and that it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. He knew enough of wounds to be sure of that.

He took out a small and roughly drawn map and studied it carefully before folding it gently and tucking it safely away in his tunic. He reckoned that to the north and east a little, maybe a league or two at most there was a small town or hamlet, surviving on charcoal burning or some simple mining of tin for the king. He was nervous of encountering other Lowlanders so soon after such a deadly chase, but there was little choice, that night he must sleep indoors with a clean wound and a full stomach.

He removed a cloak from the closest
Wolver
and carefully wrapped his bow and quiver of two arrows in it. This he strapped to his back with the
Wolver’s
leather belt, and then limping noticeably, he moved uphill to the far side of the clearing where he came upon what he assumed  was a rough woodcutter’s track and began a weary march a little north, but mostly east.

High above, the watcher with the eagle eyes remained unmoving until the man had left the clearing and disappeared into the scattered trees growing along the path. Only then did the man in the hooded robe begin to follow, descending carefully from tree to tree until he too reached the simple path. As he moved, keeping a good distance between himself and the other man, his footfalls in the dusty pathway made no sound, which was not unusual for one wearing such soft leather boots, but had one observed more closely, and of course there was no one to do so, but if there was, they would have seen that as he walked, he left no footprints to mark his passing.

It was almost dark when the wounded man reached the edge of the darkest dingiest hamlet he had ever chanced to encounter. Not by choice would anyone visit such a place and he sensed this immediately. The man was gifted with extraordinary hearing, able to hear conversations quite clearly from improbable distances. When he was young this had seemed completely normal and he had assumed that all people could hear as well. He soon learnt however, that no one could do so, and that he was able to judge the mood of a crowd, even of a small village by the tone of the conversation which reached his ears from some distance away. This night was no different. In the gloom he came upon a rough and untidy sign stating that the village of
Efilon
lay beyond. A dull murmur reached his ears; the sounds of argument and unhappiness, of discontent and cutting comments. Drawing closer he could more clearly distinguish the sounds of drunken revelry, and approaching as he did, tired and wounded, in the early night when colour had fled away, it struck him that this was not a happy place, this
Efilon.
But that being as it may, the man could go no further and so he stumbled into what was a short main street of unpainted wooden shacks which gave way to several larger two storey buildings, an Inn and storehouse and then several more sheds and shanties, a couple of canvas tents and handful of mangy dogs which barked at him and everything else, and each other. It was a soulless place to be.

He had arrived uneasy and increasingly desperate. All the way he had trudged, limping with his right leg causing more pain and discomfort, and with the distinct feeling that he was being followed. Many times he stopped and waited, peering back into the gloom. He feared that one of the
Wolvers
had recovered and was on his trail once more. He knew this could not be true, but exhausted as he was with his thoughts tending to flights of fancy, he sensed he was not traveling alone.

Just before he entered the small unwelcoming hamlet he took his bow and quiver and hid them in a hollow tree trunk off to one side of the path, marking the place in his mind so that he could return for them when he left. As an afterthought he boldly wrapped the
Wolver’s
cloak about him and attached the sword and scabbard to his belt, thinking that if he appeared to be in the King’s service it would be an acceptable cover, at least initially. Of course it could also get him killed, by one of the many enemies of the royal despot.

He had grimaced at that thought;
how ironic that would be
.

As he stood in the centre of the township a soft and misty rain began to fall and the temperature dropped quickly. There was no one about outdoors, and he paused, thinking hard about what his next move would be. It was clear that the only building offering any hope of a bed for the night was the rundown two-storey Inn from which the sullen sounds of gloomy conversation and bawdy behaviour emanated and which he recognised as the sounds of a lifeless, dispirited people who found little beauty in their themselves or each other. Lanterns stood in the windows casting long shadows which danced eerily on the dusty roadway on which he stood; but of drunken men and stupid women he was not scared, or so he told himself.

I’ve killed three Wolver’s today, why should I worry about a bunch of drunken villagers?

But in his heart he knew that the outcome of deceit and evil in any human could easily match the ruthless predictability of a
Wolver
.

Gathering all his remaining strength and assuming an attitude of smug superiority which his attire suggested, he opened the Inn door and boldly entered a largish, room with a ceiling so low he realised immediately that its usual occupants were not very tall people at all. Indeed they weren’t. Without exception the room was full of noisy, boisterous dwarfs. As he entered, all conversation ceased and as he walked to the serving bench, stiffly and unable to hide his injury, all eyes were upon him. The crowd parted and allowed him through. He realised they were somewhat in shock. It was not often that a stranger visited
Efilon
especially unannounced and at night, not unless something was wrong. Apprehension filled the air.

He leant against the bench, looked straight ahead and in a voice of some authority he spoke.

‘I’d like to speak to the Innkeeper or better still the owner. I’m on King’s business so hurry about it.’

‘That would be me sira,’ said a hesitant and slightly fearful voice. It belonged to a small but powerfully built dwarf from the far end of the serving bench, who trundled up, not wanting to seem too obsequious, but unsure what the request from such a stranger could mean.

‘Name’s Jolly, a welcome to ye, I be the owner and the innkeeper. It’s unusual for visitors, especially in the king’s service without notice. There is some problem maybe?’

The wounded man looked down at the dwarf and realised that he would not easily be scared, in fact he looked more intelligent than any dwarf he’d ever met, neither drunk nor dirty, but civil and with a pleasant open face, and an easy smile hiding not far behind a concerned brow.

The man smiled, and spoke kindly affecting a slight accent.

‘There is no problem, for you or your town Mr. Jolly. I have had a slight accident as you can see by my leg which is not what it should be. I need a room for the night, a good warm bath and a hot meal. Could you be helping me out Mr. Jolly?’ 

It was a good ploy. The crowded room realised that there was to be no immediate confrontation or unreasonable demands and a few turned back to their own business, cards or drinking, leaving the innkeeper Jolly to deal with the newcomer, strange though he seemed. There were a few whispered comments about the sword which hung at the man’s waist, some in open admiration, and a few dark looks possibly from those who had suffered at the hands of the king’s men. The kingdom was full of such. An uneasy calm returned, but not a few listened intently wanting to know just what this stranger’s sudden appearing might mean.

‘I can do you a room if you like,’ said Jolly, ‘take a few minutes to sort it out; we rarely hire out a room you know, so far from the highways as we are. More of a drinking Inn we are, not that there is anything wrong in that you understand. Would you like a drink then will I go fix you up? He waited with a warm smile on his broad face. The man was impressed by this Jolly and smiled back.

‘I’ll have an ale, and wait here, I’d appreciate a hot tub and anything hot to eat.’ He tried hard to seem casual and relaxed but maintain some sense of authority. The King’s men were never easy to deal with.  Jolly continued on, reassured that his livelihood was not under any immediate threat.

‘There is a bath in the room down the passage. Mabel!’ he called loudly, ‘Mabel, warm water for our visitor, and tell cook to cut a roast and some vegetables. Would you like to eat here or in your room Mr.. er..’ he waited politely.

The wounded man smiled but avoided the request, ‘That would be fine, I’ll eat in my room, have a bath and a good rest. I’ll be on my way first thing in the morning.’

‘Your horse will need a stable and some food,’ Jolly was trying hard to anticipate his visitor’s needs.

‘No horse I’m afraid,’ replied the man thinking quickly. ‘An unlucky event, skittish creature, jumps at shadows it does, threw me when I was not on guard, cut my leg, and the stupid creature bolted. Haven’t seen it again.’ He shook his head as though chastising himself, then turned to the room and spoke loudly.

‘Black stallion, fifteen hands, a good reward to any who returns it. I’ll be back in a week or so. I’ll pay for any care it requires. I’m sure I can trust you good folk should you chance upon it?’

It was arrogant enough. An expectation that the towns folk would automatically be assumed to look after one of the king’s men. He turned back to the bench and accepted the large ale which was offered by another more timid dwarf who did not speak but nodded politely and moved away wiping his hands carefully on a rather dirty looking apron. No one approached him further and he spent the next several minutes while sipping his lukewarm ale listening to muffled conversations all over the room concerning his sudden appearance and bearing, his tunic and sword, and from two rather shabby looking older dwarfs in a corner some short cutting comments about who he really was and what he might be trying to do.

He clearly heard one say, ‘If he’s a King’s man I’m no dwarf. Likely he’s killed someone and stolen his goods. Way out here in the night, no horse, limping like he’s had one foot in a bear trap. Don’t believe him.’ The other dwarf nodded darkly.

The man was concerned, but at that moment a female dwarf of enormous proportions in all directions whom he guessed to be Mabel loudly announced from a doorway to his left.

‘Bath’s ready, this way if you’re ready sira.’ There was no malice in it, but no hint of respect either.

The man finished his ale and left the room, following the ample Mabel, who being a dwarf to begin with reminded him of a large ball. Once out of the drinking room he immediately picked up the sounds of loud conversation, dark and dangerous mixed with sarcasm and excitement. The voice of Mr. Jolly could be heard over it all encouraging calm and orderly behaviour, and as he entered his dark and damp room he felt the mood was contained but it had not gone well, which after all, was what he had expected at the outset. He knew he could do nothing more. Tired out and in increasing pain, all he wanted was food and a bath and a very, very long sleep.

The food was passable, the bath tepid, and the bed hard and unyielding. By the time he was lying on the thin mattress under a blanket which had seen better days he was feeling very feverish and hot, and he knew that his position was increasingly precarious. If he fell seriously ill he would be at the mercy of the townsfolk. Jolly seemed trustworthy but there were others not so charmed by his show of civility. There would be many on the lookout for some easy money and in day or so when the realisation that three
Wolver’s
had not returned from a hunt, the news would spread like fire. It would not take the dwarfs of
Efilon
long to report his presence if a reward was offered, which it would be. These thoughts filled his mind, but his tiredness was so deep that he soon fell into a troubled sleep. He dreamt of
Wolver’s
and running; running until he was hot, so hot. He woke in the early morning with a raging fever, and a leg which throbbed endlessly. He knew then that without help he would not survive. Either the infection would spread and kill him, or he would be caught by other
Wolver’s
sent to finish what the first had failed to do. He fell back into a fitful sleep tossing and turning. He dreamt of Sylvion, and the wonderful times he had spent with her, until a darkness came and blocked her from view. Try as he might it would not lift and he found himself in a deep panic, unable to remember her face. He sat up dripping with sweat and there was Mr. Jolly holding a wet cloth and trying to cool him; he drifted off again and woke several times more, on his own, or with Mr. Jolly, or some large fat female dwarf who hushed him tersely. It came and went in a blur till the morning when the smell of burnt bacon aroused him with a start.

He slowly sat up on the edge of his bed, and stared weakly and in horror at his leg. It was twice its normal size and oozing a black pus which smelt of poison and death. He felt ill and hot and unable to stand. Mr. Jolly entered immediately looking worried and very agitated, his demeanor quite different to the night before.

‘You can’t stay. I’m sorry, but word is out that you are no king’s man and that our town will pay dearly for harbouring a criminal. I don’t know what ye done sira but I cannot be responsible for what will happen. I’m no lover of the king but this place is all I’ve got. You’ll have to leave.’

The man tried to speak but no words came and he fell back on the bed, completely weak and unable to help himself. He could hear all that was going on almost to the point of pain but could not open his mouth to utter a single word. He realised that all was lost, but felt too ill to care.

Almost.

Deep within, a fire burned for the woman he loved, Sylvion of
Wildwood
. He could not let her go, he could not give up what he valued above all things, and remembering the supreme effort he had made the previous day he rose unsteadily and without speaking, gathered his few belongings. Mr. Jolly watched anxiously as the man picked up the
Wolver’s
sword and scabbard. He was astonished when the man offered them to him with a soft and hardly audible whisper.