Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (50 page)

The gods once more had smiled upon them.

‘Quick now Ljotr,’ the taller one spoke, ‘for the monster is asleep, perhaps we can take it alive.’

‘I tell you Mord, ‘the other replied as they ran, ‘it is no monster.’

‘Then what is it that we saw? We have never seen such a thing, breathing fire and flying like a seabird.’

Ljotr was strong and squat with a face which had been damaged at birth, for it was misshapen as though two mighty hands had grasp it and squeezed hard, the result remaining for all time. Despite this deformity he could run and climb and was not stupid as others always too easily assumed. Mord was taller, and took much pride that unlike his companion, he was well formed, and some had even called him handsome, but his deformity was one of the mind, for he was dull witted and superstitious and lacked any conscience, which to his small credit, even the ugly Ljotr had in some measure.

‘Careful Ljotr,’ Mord held back fearfully as they approached the fallen canopy. A gust of wind lifted it suddenly and Mord screamed. ‘Look out man it is waking!’ Ljotr, well used to the panics of his more comely companion ignored his weakness and strode up. He fell on his knees by the wonderful cloth and held it in his hands. ‘Come over Mord, it is but cloth and far more wonderful than any I have ever seen.’ Mord realised that his fears were perhaps excessive and approached cautiously, for he could not reconcile the fearful flying creature with this now lifeless sack of woven colour.

‘You are right once again Ljotr.’ Mord spoke sullenly for he hated being reminded of his many weaknesses.

They marvelled together at the huge and lifeless canopy, and knew it was worth a small fortune cut up and sold in pieces to the wealthy. They began to cut away the many tangled ropes with a swiftness and skill developed over many years of thieving, for they were men in thrall to the base desire of acquisition; for whenever they saw something new, or pretty, bright and shiny, no matter its use or worth, they were quick to find a means by which it soon became theirs to do with as they pleased.

The two scavengers soon had the huge canopy rolled and tightly bound, ready for the short journey back to their cave high in the cliffs which had been their home for many years.

‘Look Mord, this great vessel will sit well in our cave for we can use it for holding the fire. It will heat easily and looks fine as well.’ They rolled the cauldron upright and walked around admiring it for it was indeed a huge and impressive thing.

‘It will be the devil’s work to get it up to the cave,’ Mord spoke morosely for he knew the weight and size of it would be a problem. ‘It will take a day or more.’

‘Indeed it will.’ Ljotr was not so easily dissuaded, and could already picture it in the cave, full of fire and life, ‘But we can use the horses, it can be done. We cannot leave it here for...’ Ljotr’s voice suddenly trailed off and he stood speechless for he had spied the figure of a woman lying senseless upon the sands. Mord noticed his gaze and quickly saw the woman. He too stood frozen for a moment in the realisation that the gods had offered still more for them that day.

‘She is alive, although her wound needs attention.’ Ljotr, kneeling beside Sylvion, spoke with little concern but the careful assessment of one who might inspect a useful horse.

‘She is a beautiful woman.’ Mord spoke in awe that one so lovely could have come into their possession, for the beach offered up many things, but this was beyond all his dreams. ‘

‘She will make a good companion for Drifa,’ Ljotr commented.

‘And not just Drifa, Ljotr.’ Mord’s voice had gone a little hoarse, and there was no mistaking his intent. ‘For now we will have a woman each. This is a good day for us Ljotr, we are being blessed by the gods.’

Ljotr looked up at his dull witted companion. ‘We have enough trouble with one woman, so I can’t imagine this addition will make things any better; still they will have the company of each other, which might make it easier. Two women to do the work will be better than one I’ll wager, but they are strange creatures Mord. Do not be fooled by their loveliness, for all is not held by such things.’ As he spoke Ljotr unconsciously stroked his own misshapen face, as if to reinforce this small wisdom.

They carried Sylvion along the beach and up a small and narrow path high into the rugged cliffs which lay no more than a half league south of where her wonderful craft had finally come to rest. Their cave was a huge cavern accessed by a small opening hidden by a clever rock door which Ljotr had devised. It swung inwards on a hidden hinge and mount of massive iron, and when shut would fool any but the most inquisitive explorer. In all the score years they had lived within, no one had ever found their hideout, and not for want of trying, for they were legends in those parts, feared and shunned by most, hunted by local authority, and held in regard by none except a few living relations who still held that blood was blood, and over-weighed all else; no matter the evil.  Their cave was a warm and safe redoubt, and it held still more mysteries deep within.

They placed Sylvion, still unconscious in a bed of straw in a small side chamber lit by a single oil lamp. Ljotr cleaned her wound and called for Drifa. A slender woman appeared immediately and stood waiting instructions. She was shackled at one ankle by a long chain which disappeared back deeper into the cave. She did not speak. There was defiance in her stance, but a submissive manner in the haste with which she had appeared.

‘Drifa you are no longer alone, for we have brought you a companion.’ Mord spoke with childish excitement as though he fully expected the slave to appear thankful. When no response was forthcoming he became quickly angry. ‘What is wrong with you woman, for this will be a great boon to you, will it not?’

‘I told you Mord, they are creatures not to be easily understood. What seems obvious to you and I, passes them by.’ Ljotr made a simple gesture with his hand as though a flying thing had passed close above his head. ‘Drifa see that this woman has food and drink when she awakes. Mord and I have other things to attend to.’ He did not look at Drifa who barely nodded, but clearly would obey for she seemed conditioned to do so.

‘Mord, make yourself useful and chain her, for we do not want her running away before we return and welcome her more fully!’ Ljotr chuckled hollowly, and went off to do some other task. Mord obeyed his leader, and duly placed a simple chain around Sylvion’s ankle and padlocked it fast. He also secured the other end to her bed. The chain was but several cubits long, so she would not be able to move far.

‘Come Mord, we have work to do!’ Ljotr called and Mord left, hissing an order to Drifa.

‘Stay by her woman and welcome her as best you are able, for we want her happy on our return.’ And the two men left to return to the beach and secure their other treasures.

Sylvion woke slowly and became aware of a pleasant warmth. Her head ached and she first thought she was back in
The Vault
once more, and this distressed her so that she sat up too quickly and then fainted away. She recovered within a few moments and lay for a time looking around the chamber and trying to remember when she had come to it. A figure suddenly appeared by her side and gently placed a hand upon her arm. The woman was strikingly blonde and seemed kind enough, although her blue eyes were full of a deep sadness.

‘Where am I?’ Sylvion managed to ask despite the pounding in her head. The woman said nothing but smiled weakly and shook her head. Sylvion did not understand why. After a time Sylvion was able to sit up and discovered her chained ankle. She furiously struggled with the shackle and padlock, but realised that once more she was a prisoner.

‘Why am I like this?’ she demanded, ‘you must set me free this instant, woman. Why will you not speak with me?’ Sylvion turned angrily to Drifa who shook her head once more and said nothing, but lifted her own chain revealing that she too was a captive. Sylvion quickly realised that her freedom was not in the hands of her new companion, and forced her anger under control.

‘You too I see; I am sorry for my anger but I have much to achieve and I cannot stay like this. Who has done this thing?’ Drifa just shook her head again and sadly hung it in shame.

‘Look, do you have a name; will you not tell me your name?’ Drifa said nothing.

‘What is wrong with you?’Sylvion almost exploded in frustration. Have you lost your tongue?’ And in that moment she regretted her harsh words, for Drifa nodded and shed a tear which ran down her plain face and dripped onto the sandy floor. Sylvion gasped.

‘Oh no! I am so sorry. They have taken your tongue! Who are these monsters?’ Drifa stood and left her then, but returned shortly after with some warm broth and a cool drink of cordial. Sylvion gratefully received this offering for she was ravenously hungry and had not drunk much for quite some time. Drifa stayed with her for a while but left when Sylvion lay back and shut her eyes, trying to remember all that had happened. She sobbed uncontrollably when she recalled the brave and noble Reigin falling to his death by choice so that she could survive and fulfil some destiny which right then seemed so distant as to be pure fantasy. A deep anger built in her heart then, for she had come so far and risked so much.

Whoever has done this thing will pay dearly for their stupidity
she vowed quietly, and realised that of late she had vowed much, and delivered little. Rema was lost to her, and Reigin dead. Her claim to the throne seemed ridiculous for here she was, a prisoner once more, and lost to the world, for chained deep in some cave there was no way for any to know where she might be. At least in
The Vault
she was known to be held there. She cried long and hard as a bitter frustration overwhelmed her. Drifa returned shortly after with a parchment and a simple charcoal point. She sat by Sylvion and wrote in a careful script which revealed that she was an able scribe.

I am a slave here these three years. I will tell more when it is safe. My name is Drifa. I am twenty two years old. They cut out my tongue for I would not cease from pleading with them for my release. Do not upset them for they will take your tongue as well. It is a nightmare. I cannot release you for I have no means to do so.

Sylvion read her word with sadness and nodded in sympathy when she finished. Drifa took the parchment back and made signs that she needed to destroy it immediately, and left to do so. Sylvion lay back and forced her mind to think as clearly as she could.

I have escaped the Vault and two hundred men. I have built an amazing machine and it flew me to freedom. I can escape again. I will escape again.

She closed her eyes and repeated this over and over to herself until she realised that two strange men stood before her.

‘Ah our guest awakes.’ Ljotr smiled lopsidedly down at Sylvion in her cot. Mord hung back a little so that any evil magic would be directed at Ljotr first, for he was wary of their prize.

‘You must tell me how your craft did fly so well woman, ‘Ljotr seemed to be making a genuine attempt to engage with her. ‘We have it all here except for the cauldron which will take us all of tomorrow to bring here. ‘You are not perhaps a witch?’ He said this in jest for he himself did not believe in witches, but Mord stepped back alarmed, for the very mention of such a creature brought a deep fear to his loins.

Sylvion sat up slowly and spoke as evenly as she was able.

‘My name is Sylvion Greyfeld, heir to the throne of Revelyn. You have no right to hold me like this. I demand that you release me this instant and that poor woman Drifa as well, for she is being held against her wishes.’

Her obvious confidence took the two thieves by surprise for they had become used to Drifa’s simple submission. It was Ljotr who laughed first and then Mord followed.

‘We have a princess Mord,’ Ljotr cried, tears suddenly rolling down his face. ‘Imagine that, not only do we find a most beautiful flying craft, but it has brought us a real princess.’ They laughed heartily in genuine amusement and clear disbelief. Ljotr finally managed to get himself under control.

‘I have heard some good lies in my time woman, but this is the best by some leagues to be sure. Well your majesty, we will see that you receive the deference a good liar deserves.’ He suddenly turned quietly angry.

‘Woman you are our captive now. Drifa has been with us three years, and has served us well...’

‘Especially since we took out her tongue,’ Mord cut in quickly as though desperate to be included in this opening speech. ‘It worked well on the nagging wench.’ The manner in which he stood and wrung his hands as he spoke unnerved Sylvion greatly.

‘Quiet Mord,’ Ljotr hissed, ‘for we do not want her terrified, at least not so soon. We must give her time to adjust.’  He suddenly put his face in Sylvion’s and spoke with a deep and threatening manner. ‘He is right though woman, so do not test us beyond a point, for else you will likely live the rest of your life not just in slavery but without the sound of your lovely voice.’ With a sudden movement the two men left her alone, and she found herself trembling violently for the thought of having her tongue cut out was beyond her darkest imaginings.

The day passed slowly although she had no sense of time. The two thieves came and went and only Drifa paid her any attention, and this was small enough, for it seemed she had other tasks to do, although just what Sylvion could not be sure. The cave was dry and warm and after a time she found herself almost back to full strength although her head continued to pound remorselessly. Her chain was replaced with a longer one which allowed her to move about more freely, and when the evening meal was served she was commanded by Mord to enter the main chamber and sit on the cave floor by the fire with Drifa, whilst the two thieves sat at a wonderfully polished oak table all set with silver and many chairs, and which Sylvion knew had never been used for their lair was not the place to which any was invited.

‘Woman, bring me the broth.’ Ljotr commanded and Sylvion felt immediately sorry for the rough order which Drifa received, until she realised that it was directed at her. She bristled angrily.