Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (54 page)

‘What of you sira, how do you travel?’ She turned the question back upon her inquirer. He was immediately annoyed, but aware that he did not know the company and so was constrained to a greater care than he might otherwise employ.

‘That is none of your business,’ he retorted indignantly and realised immediately as they all did, the stupidity of his reply.

‘Then why inquire of me, what you will not give of yourself?’ Sylvion spoke tersely and turned back to the fire, for she was in no mood to bandy words with tiresome men.

‘Well spoken friend, for he has spoken rudely.’ The speaker was a solid man, neither tall nor short, but rugged and well worn in outward appearance. He was sucking contentedly on a long stemmed pipe; clearly at peace with himself.  ‘There are many who prefer a woman to be at home waiting for their drunken return,’ he continued, staring into the fire and letting his words land as they might on other’s ears. ‘They find it hard to see the beauty in a woman who can speak her mind and travel as she wishes, for they like to control the woman in their lives.’  He paused as the group sat somewhat stunned by his pronouncement.  ‘They are women poorly served,’ he concluded as he looked over at Sylvion and gave a polite nod and a smile.

Sylvion smiled back, and the man who had inquired so rudely of her, stood and walked angrily off to sit at the serving bench and entertain his ale with dark thoughts on his own.

Nothing else was said for quite some time, but much was thought upon, for the smoker’s words had made an impact on several in the small company.

‘This forest was all one in times past.’ The man spoke once more, and as though he believed the audience wished him to do so on whatever subject he chose. Sylvion smiled at his confidence and quiet strength, for he spoke without any airs or graces. ‘Wildwood forest stretched all the way from the Svern’s southern turn to the Eastern Upthrust where the
Edenwhood
are believed to live, and south some way onto the Plains of Amrosi.’ He paused then and such was his strength of character that no one spoke, and indeed there was an expectation in the air that he would continue his simple lecture.

‘The woodcutters have thinned it a little,’ he went on, after several enjoyable puffs on his pipe which filled the air with the sweet fragrance so common to an evening around a welcoming fire.  ‘One wonders how long it will be before they take it all.’

Sylvion was intrigued by his simple words and wondered if there was some deeper message the man wanted to convey.

‘There are more trees in these forests than can ever be cut by human hands my friend.’ A large man spoke now, he sat at the edge of the group and Sylvion could see by his large hands and powerful build that he was a woodsman who perhaps made his living from burning charcoal or timber cutting. He had taken no offence at the smoker’s words, for he too seemed a confident man having no need to defend himself and his work before any other.

‘Perhaps you are right sira.’ The smoker gave a gentle reply, and nodded at the other. ‘Indeed I hope you are, for we owe the trees a great debt, but I have seen much felling hereabouts in recent times.’

Sylvion listened as the conversation grew and others joined in, each with something to contribute, and slowly other subjects were added and it seemed that acquaintances became friends, if just for the night. Only the man at the serving bench drank alone, and no one knew the malevolence which lived in his heart.

She slept well and rode late out of Burdon and its surrounding forests into more open plains and scattered wooded remnants which reminded her of the words the smoker had offered to the company by the fireside, and she too realised that many trees had been felled and her beloved
Wildwood
forest was once much greater in times past. She realised that such things needed to be watched or else great damage could be done unnoticed.

As the sun approached the noon she rode once more into deeper forest and enjoyed the shade and life which chattered all around her. Suddenly around a bend in the path she came across a band of mounted men, and before she had any chance to spur her horse through and away, she was surrounded on every side by a group of the most wretched looking fellows she had ever seen, for they were clearly bandits who lived in the forest, preying on travellers or thieving from isolated farms. Her mount was immediately nervous and she remembered that the poor creature had once before been accosted on the road and stolen by thieves, its master murdered.

‘Well well, the lady travels alone!’ She suddenly recognised the leader, for he was none other than the ugly man whom she had offended the previous night by the fireside, and in a flash of understanding she realised that most likely he took to visiting the Inn so that he could gather information on who was travelling through the forest, and whether or not they would make easy prey.

Sylvion felt such an anger rise in her that it gave no room for fear.

‘Step back you thieves,’ she called loud and clear. ‘I have right of way on this road and you will not prevent my passing!’

The men were surprised at her boldness, for perhaps they expected a weaker, more fearful response, and they stepped their mounts back a little, but she was encircled none the less.

‘This road is mine to take tribute as I wish, woman!’ The ugly brute hissed at her. ‘Take care of your words woman or else you will meet the fate of your friend.’ Sylvion did not immediately understand his meaning, but with the wave of his hand the leader indicated that his troop move back on one side, and there lying dead and crumpled by the road side was the gentle smoker who had so prompted the conversation and her thoughts the night before.

Sylvion was aghast at such evil, and for a moment froze in horror as the group of men leered triumphantly at her response. And then as if possessed by a strength which took hold of her every fibre and sinew, Sylvion reacted. She reared her horse and in a flash held her blade high before the thieves.

‘I am Sylvion Greyfeld, heir to the throne of Revelyn and you here today have accomplished an evil thing. I will not let you pass on from this place without retribution for this man’s murder!’  A consuming anger suddenly burned in her heart.

The thieves were suddenly shocked, but just as quickly gathered themselves from her bold retort, but then before their astonished eyes her blade began to burn with a light which engulfed it. A flash of lightning rose high into the sky and suddenly to a man they found they could hardly move, for it seemed that wild honey had been poured over every limb. Sylvion moved with a speed which to them was beyond response, for they could not tear their desperate eyes from her gleaming blade such was the power which it held in that moment. She ran the ugly leader through the heart and he died in the saddle with his mouth half open in a cry, and as he slowly toppled to the ground she spurred her mount passed all the others and with the flat of the awesome blade cracked their skulls a resounding blow so that every last one fell unconscious to the ground. It was all over before the dead man hit the ground.

Sylvion sat on her steed with her gleaming blade held high and cried her final words.

‘I swear that Revelyn shall be set free from such evil as this day has seen.’

And then in the same measure as her anger subsided, the blade cooled and became as before. She sprang easily down and wiped it clean upon the grass.

‘This is indeed a fearful weapon,’ Sylvion whispered as she inspected it closely, for she was greatly shocked by what had come about. ‘Where have you come from, and how is it that I now hold you? How is it that you possess such power?’

She realised then that she was speaking as if to another creature and with a bewildered frown returned it to the silver sheath which hung at her waist.

The unconscious men were beyond her ability to deal with, but she was able to take one of their swords and dig a shallow grave in the soft earth for her dead friend. She heaped the earth upon him and left him there surrounded by the thieves who she had tied firmly together with ropes from their horses. Sylvion knew that they would be able to free themselves in time, and only hoped that their experience might dissuade them from further evil. She left the dead thief, their leader, as he had fallen, and then having gathered the horses together, and roped them behind her, she rode off once more toward her home.

But Sylvion knew she was different, for the blade had changed her, and her fate was now confirmed on a path she would never have dreamed of not long before. And for the first time she feared for herself and Rema Bowman, and wondered what would come to pass when they met once more.

And now possessed with a great inner strength Sylvion rode on through the evening and into the night, until as day broke she found herself on the outskirts of her beloved
Wildwood
and her heart filled with both joy and bitterness, for it was a homecoming full of sadness and things lost, which could never be the same again.

She halted by a stream and washed her face and hair, before sitting in the warm morning sun for a time whilst it dried. She had considered travelling by a back path to her home but knew that the time for boldness was upon her, and
Wildwood
needed to see her as she now was. She gathered herself and with the dozen horses which were tethered behind she rode her beautiful black steed into the town as the shops and markets were coming to life. People pointed and stared, for Sylvion made an impressive figure for she bore herself proudly as she walked her horse slowly down the main street. A few called out her name but she ignored them all, until a small crowd had gathered to follow her in amazement. She tried hard to stifle the anger which rose within, for not one had lifted so much as a cry of indignation as she had been marched away in humiliation not long ago, and she sensed an embarrassment in the demeanour of these folk who had known her so well, and whom she had called her friends, for all her life.

She halted finally before the Pierman’s store which she had visited so often in her childhood, and turned in her saddle and addressed the crowd. As she spoke others joined the throng and word spread that Sylvion Greyfeld had returned.

‘My friends,’ she said with quiet authority, ‘I am returned, but not as I was before. You have known me from my childhood as Sylvion Greyfeld of
Wildwood.
You saw me led away as prisoner of the King, Lord Petros. No one here gave me any encouragement or word of comfort and I have been sorely tested these past days. You will know that my kindma was murdered and my home destroyed. For this I hold none to blame but the King.’

A few gasps from the crowd came audibly to her and Sylvion knew that her boldness would not go unnoticed or unreported.

‘I inform you now that the child you knew is before you not a prisoner returned, but far more, for I am Sylvion Greyfeld, daughter of Sontim, son of Sentor, and a cousin to the dead King Frederic by Raven Hendon, Sentor’s wife and my kinkindma, a woman many here will remember well.  I am the rightful heir to the throne of Revelyn and I declare to you all this day that I claim that throne. You will decide what you will, but as for me I will no longer see Revelyn suffer under the tyrant who calls himself Lord of Light, for he is nothing of the kind.’

She paused to let her words sink in.

‘I would like to think that my town has such men and women of character that they will stand with me in this. I will speak with you all again, but now I go to bury my murdered kindma. You know where to find me, but understand people of
Wildwood
, what has been, is over, this place cannot go on as it has. You all will need to chose carefully, for great consequences will flow from your decisions this day.’

She spurred her horse on, and as she left them behind the crowd burst into great discord for never had such words been spoken and with such authority in the town. Surely this is just young Sylvion Greyfeld, how can it be that what she claims is true? But if it is? By the gods there will be war? What are we to do?

She heard the questions fade and did not look back for not far ahead lay the soldier’s barracks and alone she must face them, but within her heart she had no doubt as to the outcome.

Some time later Sylvion stood in tears before her home. She felt so alone, and longed for Rema’s strength and gentle embrace, but it was not to be. The building was a burnt shell, and although in truth there was more standing than she expected, it was no longer the home of her delight. The roof had fallen in, and most below had burnt; but the stone walls were straight and true and Sylvion knew it could be rebuilt, but it would be many long days before that dream might come true, for other needs demanded her attention. She found a single room at the rear next to the demolished kitchen that would afford her some shelter, and after letting the horses roam free in the orchard where feed was plentiful, Sylvion made a small fire against one stone wall and found some dry straw for a bed. There was food in a cellar which the fire had not reached, and her heart was lifted in spirits to realise that none had come to steal what was left.

Having delayed the moment as long as possible, Sylvion walked slowly around to the rear of the stables, and there was the pile of earth now growing fresh grass below which lay her precious kindma. Her emotions overcame her then for it was moment she both longed for and dreaded; this awful homecoming.

‘I am here kindma,’ she wept on her knees before the simple grave, ‘I am sorry for what they did. Please forgive me my part in all of this.’ And she collapsed onto the grave and let her emotions take her where they would, for she was then a little child lost, without her dearest, her kindma, her protector and friend. Her grief was deep and dark and angry, but sweet in the fulfilling, for she finally became calmer and was able to sit and talk to her kindma about many things. That sharing was a precious memory.

Suddenly a man stood there, silhouetted by the sun and she jumped at his appearing until a familiar voice came clearly to her.

‘Ah Sylvion my child, I knew you would come back to us. I have waited for you, for I would not bury your kindma without you being present.’