Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (41 page)

As the sombre party travelled ever closer to the Eastern Coast they passed through a cold and windswept land, where few were brave enough to face the challenge of farming or settling in any permanent fashion. The villages were few, with many leagues between, but those they encountered were intrigued by the passing of the burial box on its cart, and the woman who lay within it; for she was dead it was supposed, but stories spread that she was seen, at times released from her confinement, a pale and ethereal figure for whom no word or contact seemed able to draw her back from the realm in which she existed.

It happened that in those parts of ancient Revelyn that there was held a whispered belief from times before time, that...

When the one not dead, passes through the land,

a new order is at hand, for things that were, will pass away

and those things neglected, reinstated, old truths respected,

and justice anticipated
...

This was a poem of sorts which the children knew, for their parents before them had learnt it from their parents around evening fires, and at humble meals, or simple festivals and rituals. It held no dark meaning but had long become a childhood chant, and the one of which it spoke had become no more than a phantom, a magical figure with a thousand manifestations.

The people of the
Far Lands
as they were scornfully labeled in the royal city of Ramos way to the south, were deeply superstitious and so it was not long before word spread that things were afoot, that change was in the air, that something new and mysterious was about to happen and this strange woman, seen
not dead
by only a privileged few, was at the heart of it all...
for did not the poem tell of it?

For Sylvion, unaware that her passing was causing any interest at all, the days passed in a timeless succession whilst she moved between reality and dream as easily as one passes through a doorway. And so they arrived at the coast, at the little town of
Fisher
where she was released from her prison and was taken in chains aboard a small coastal cutter whose Captain answered to the name of Miser. He was a tough and heartless sailor who had agreed to take the party north and east across the Norz Gulf to the tiny settlement of
Lockerby
on Bald Cape. From there they would travel inland and climb up to the legendary fortress of Vault where Sylvion was to be imprisoned until her death.

The passage to
Lockerby
revived Sylvion, for she was allowed some freedom to stand at the rail and breathe the fresh salty air unhindered by her chains or the confinement of the burial box which had remained on the jetty at
Fisher
. She was not a good sailor, and found no pleasure in the ever moving deck and fighting to keep balance exhausted her quickly, for the days in her prison had left her weak and ill-prepared for such a stormy crossing to
Lockerby
as it proved to be. The
Wolver
was close by at all times, and she wondered why, but was thankful for it, for Captain Bach was always eager to cause her some upset.  He was a far worse sailor than she, and his embarrassment at this show of weakness found an evil outlet in tormenting others. Sylvion was an easy target, but the
Wolver
seemed to sense the stupidity of it, and by standing with her, or making a cutting comment was able to keep her from the worst of it.

It was a two day journey, for the winds seemed against them and Miser had insisted on payment by the day, so what would have taken an honest sailor a single day, became twice that, to the benefit of none but the captain of the
Norzman.
 They disembarked at
Lockerby
, tired but happy to once more stand on dry land; although it was hardly that, for the rain was constant and the muddy lanes of the small and miserable port were all awash, making any travel most uncomfortable. Sylvion, now more aware of her surroundings, was struck by the drabness of the town and even the country beyond it, for as she rode on the small horse provided for the journey to
The Vault
, she could see no colour, just greys and browns and sad faces peering from empty windows. Even her mount was a dirty grey, and all around was wet and cold. She shivered at the realisation that the place to which she had been sent lacked any joy or beauty, and when she thought of her life in
Wildwood,
so full of laughter and colour and happiness, she felt chilled to the bone and her heart lost hope.

How in all goodness can I ever escape this place
she thought?
How can Rema come to me here and do anything other than die in the attempt?

The thirty leagues they travelled uphill from
Lockerby
to
The
Vault
was desperately miserable, devoid of forest or fresh pasture, it was a windswept struggle against the elements from the very outset, and Sylvion found herself craving the silent isolation of her wooden prison where her mind was free and her body warm.

Her first sighting of the fortress of Vault caused her to almost lose all hope, for it was a monstrous place. It stood on the highest point of the cape and caught the howling winds from all directions, and the black volcanic rock hewn specially for it, gleamed evilly in the wet and icy air. She rode in silence toward a place she knew could never be stormed by a dozen armies, and in that moment she understood that she was alone, her life was in her hands and no rescue would ever be possible. Rema Bowman’s mighty love for her was not enough, for love itself was defeated by such a place. The party arrived wet and miserable at the outer entrance to the walled compound which surrounded the main Keep, a perfectly circular structure which climbed high into the sky. It was then that Sylvion realised that the fortress had fallen into disrepair, for the walls were broken down in several places and allowed easy access. Several of the many buildings and storehouses within the compound were in a similar state, unroofed and open to the weather. Weeds and mosses had formed a spongy creeping enemy to the very rock which formed the fortress. From a distance it appeared that only the giant Keep at the centre of the compound had remained untouched by the elements or human neglect.

They were met by a large force. Inside the compound, all lined up in military order, such that Captain Bach was immediately impressed and responded in kind, sitting tall and haughty in the saddle of his bedraggled steed, was row upon row of soldiers, all turned out in uniforms which had been rigorously groomed and inspected. Buttons were polished and boots gleamed brightly, all metalwork gleamed dully in the fading light. They all stood at attention, for orders had been given. Sylvion estimated at least two hundred soldiers filled the rough compound before her. An officer at the front of the ranks saluted crisply.

‘Captain Piras Sleeman and the Vault Brigade at your service sira’.

Captain Bach was at once enthralled by the company before him and suddenly uneasy, for this man who had so many men under his command was a captain, their ranks were the same. He felt immediately insecure, but the smart looking officer, still holding his salute set his mind at rest.

‘Your company now Captain Bach! I am ordered to hand over the brigade to you, and I will serve as Captain second in command!’ Bach immediately brightened. It was going to be alright, in fact from where he sat on his tired and dirty horse, it looked very much like his every dream had come true.
A whole brigade, all mine
, he thought, before smiling in the easy but rather affected manner which only he knew how. He returned the salute and gave his first command.

‘Set the men at ease Captain, and show me to my quarters. The horses need attention and my men as well. The prisoner must be secured.’ At this moment Sylvion felt the eyes of the brigade turned to gaze upon her, for she was the reason they had been sent to this forsaken place. She did her best to sit tall and proud but it was not easy to intimidate two hundred men all turned out for war, after the journey she had endured those last few days. She glared at them as best she could and let them decide upon the level of threat she amounted to.

‘A question Captain Bach?’ Captain Piras Sleeman was still standing to attention as he spoke. Bach paused.

‘Of course Captain, what is it you wish to ask?’ Bach sounded a little irritated for he was wet and tired and wanted to be off his horse, dry and facing a hot meal.

‘I was led to believe from my orders that a certain Jonas Sleeman, er... my brother would be in your party. I do not see him, will he be following?’ A foreboding silence descended upon the whole company, for the assembled men, not yet dismissed, were now forced to listen to this private interlude. They were unaware of any events which might have involved the small and bedraggled party which had just ridden in before them, and so they waited patiently for their captains to resolve this small matter.  Bach had sufficient wits to realise that he was now the bearer of bad news, but he had no understanding of the required sensitivity which dealing with such matters demanded; and so with only a small pause, in which he proudly surveyed his new brigade, and quite distracted by the impressiveness of it all, spoke in the rather bored manner of one who really wanted to be somewhere else.

‘Soldier Sleeman
was
with the party. Your brother you say... Unfortunately he’s dead. She killed him.’ Bach jerked his head toward Sylvion, and once more she felt the eyes of the brigade settle upon her, this time in a far colder manner, whilst the shocked Captain Piras Sleeman, now without a brother stood speechless, both at the news, and the manner in which it was delivered. Sylvion’s heart sunk even further, for she understood the situation, that in an instant, the whole brigade now had reason to hate her, for she had killed one of their own.

It took Captain Bach of the Vault Brigade several days to decide upon the best method in which to hold his prisoner captive, such that she was could not be rescued under any circumstances.  He had become quite paranoid that he might fail in this task and the possibility that he might have to face the terrifying Zelfos and explain why, left him sleeping poorly at night and irritable by day. Any advice his second in command, the now brooding captain Piras Sleeman was willing to offer was ignored, for Bach had decided that
he
was in charge and
he
would show the men that
he
alone had what it takes. A careful inspection of the compound and its scattering of buildings had left him dismayed, for whilst the many structures were strong in themselves, they were not easily defended, for the many fallen walls and battlements afforded an attacking force too much shelter and opportunity. The only place in which a prisoner might have once been secured was an underground dungeon, and in itself was a reasonably good prison, but there were tunnels everywhere, built over centuries and no one knew where they led or how to secure them. Bach was shrewd enough to realise that he would need more than two hundred soldiers to ensure that the prisoner was held, and any attacking forces repelled. He had not been instructed on the size of the force which might come against him so he wisely assumed it to be far large than his own. This left him with one option. The Keep.

To the great annoyance of the whole Brigade, who to a man were very comfortably encamped within the huge Keep, Bach ordered them out to find what shelter they could amongst the ruins and tunnels of the compound. From a military point of view it may well have been the right decision, for this encouraged the force to reconstruct many of the battlements and improve the buildings for habitation. However it caused many a threat of mutiny and a seething resentment that the prisoner, a women and the slayer of a fellow soldier was given the huge Vaulted Keep for herself and her only jailer, the
Wolver
. Captain Bach however was unmoved and left his second in command to deal with the complaints, for which he earned no respect at all.

The Keep itself was enormous. It was built on two main levels. A huge set of iron doors led off a flight of steps from the compound into the first level which held numerous service rooms, a kitchen and the like. A single set of wide stone steps led up to the second level. These were protected by an internal portcullis arrangement and another set of iron doors. When these were both shut and fastened it would take a determined force several days to cut their way through, for almost the entire supporting structure would require dismantling. The second level consisted of one huge vault. It was circular, taking up the full width of the building, about eighty cubits across, and almost the same in height. Around the walls a single set of narrow stone steps wove around and around until they gave access to the roof which stood as the highest point on the Cape, and from which on a good day the Norz Gulf to the west and the Faero Sea to the east could be seen. No force could approach the Vault unseen. It was indeed an impregnable fortress and one which had never been taken in conflict in the four hundred and thirty two years since its construction. All this detail was supplied to Sylvion by the cranky old caretaker who had lived all his life in the Keep. He went by the name of Grundig, and he spoke in a guttural tongue which reminded Sylvion of a pig constantly choking on a cob of corn, for he always seemed to be wanting to get rid of some obstruction in his throat. He was a small and wiry man nearing the end of a long and hard life of constant work and servitude, which had left him with a humped back and a gait which was half human half crab. He lived on the first level and organised the small staff to cook and clean and generally keep the fortress from falling into complete disrepair. He was the last of a many generations of caretakers and he bemoaned the fact that his beloved
Vault
was rapidly becoming a ruin. Once, after several days confinement in the huge Hall, Grundig began to lecture Sylvion whenever he got the chance about the wonderful days when
The Vault
was a place in which there was more than just cold draughts and tumbling stonework.