Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (2 page)

The man ran on once more, out into the open ground, through knee-high grass, down a slope and then up the other side into the warm and welcoming sunlight, until he reached a small flat rocky patch amongst the stalks, a hundred paces from the forest edge, and somewhat higher.

 And there he turned, and made his stand.

Throughout the chase the man had carried his bow. It was his only real weapon. At his side was a small but long-bladed knife in a leather scabbard, but it was no sword, a laughable toothpick against any real length of hardened steel. The bow he had made himself, and it was unlike any in the land, and had caused mirth and criticism in equal amounts. A true bow of Revelyn was tall, higher than a man, a simple curve of yew wood, which only a very strong man could bend and send an arrow a full league into battle. It was not an accurate weapon but deadly when used with skill, and teamed with others. Nor was it was a good hunting weapon, being too unwieldy in a forest, and hard to conceal, but tradition had determined that a bow was made a certain way, and so it had been for as long as memory could recall.

The man’s bow was smaller, curved once in the centre like all bows should, but then it curved again, back on itself at each end. It was laminated, built up from several alternating layers of wood cut laboriously from the iron wood trees of the far northern forests of Revelyn, and a wood from the rarest of all trees, the soft wooded elder which had a property of elasticity which no other wood possessed. When glued together in the special recurving shape that the man had created, it formed a bow which no normal man alive could bend, but when that skill was mastered, had five times the power of the best of any other bows. It had taken him a year to build it and another to develop the strength in his arms and shoulders to use it. From sunrise to noon each day for almost a year he had striven to bend the bow, with a string of woven snow-lynx gut until, as if with each effort, the bow had learnt to do its job, and he had learnt to guide it, and it had finally became a weapon.

In his quiver were three arrows. These too were unusual. A normal arrow was guided in flight by three feathers attached to the shaft at an angle and which spin the arrow making it more accurate and deadly.

The man’s arrows had no feathers. Instead along the length of the ironwood shafts were cut three shallow grooves, encircling the length of the arrow in what looked at first glance to be mere adornment. In reality the specially shaped grooves caught the air in flight and spun the arrow faster than any feathered arrow, and without feathers the arrow left the bow faster and straighter, since all feathered arrows are affected by passing the bow at release.  At the tip of each shaft was a small but fearfully sharp tip, not of iron which was commonly used, but of the far harder and rare
depletium
, an element found only in the mountain mines of the Central Upthrust which was where the man had been born and had grown up, and learnt to be a man.
Depletium
had no equal in holding an edge or in cutting, even through light armour.

A small bow and three arrows in the hands of an exhausted man facing the deadliest of all of Revelyn’s warriors. A
Wolver.

He stood quietly calming his breathing. He had placed two arrows, upright, tip first in the soft soil before him, in easy reach; he did not want to be fumbling in his quiver when the time came.  He held the bow with the remaining arrow ready but loosely by his side. He was turned so that his left side was towards the forest, and which still hid his pursuers. It was his best stance using his right hand to draw the string, but he could fire from either side, using either hand, a very rare skill which only few had mastered. The sun streamed over his shoulder and being low in the sky gave him some advantage. His attackers would have it in their faces as they approached. But he also knew that no human had ever escaped even a single
Wolver
. At least he would give a good account of himself.

For the briefest of moments his fingers lingered on a small leather pouch he carried on his belt at his waist. The contents of this pouch were magical in the extreme, or so he had been told. Several years before a Wiseman, a wizard some said, upon whom he had chanced one day on a high road in the Mighty Mountains had given it to him with the strictest of instructions. It was never to be opened until the final battle. It had seemed more of a curio at the time, but the giver was so earnest that it had seemed right to carry it with him for a time. He had planned to get rid of it in private, but no matter how he tried since that time, something prevented him from doing so. He had carried it now almost as a good luck charm and he had never opened it. But now he was tempted, this surely was his final battle. But he had no time and so he let it be.

And then the deadly creatures were there. Two suddenly appeared together, where he himself had emerged from the suffocating forest, and then another, a moment later, twenty or so paces to their left. Three
Wolvers
. They were tall and rangy, and apparently unaffected by the twenty four hour chase, tracking through the dense forest and tangled undergrowth. They moved easily, and they had seen him instantly. They were wearing their shields strapped to their backs for faster and easier traveling through the trees. Confident now that their chase was at an end, their quarry run to ground, they took a moment to prepare themselves, taking their shields in a preferred hand and removing swords from scabbards. The polished steel blades glinted brightly in the sunlight. One
Wolve
r was older and clearly the leader, and with only a simple word of command he arranged them in a V-shaped formation. He was at the centre, and further back, the other two five paces ahead and on either side. They were ready.

For a brief moment all time stood still. The three
Wolvers
faced the man, grinning in expectation of an easy kill. The man stood like a statue, only a hundred paces of open ground between them, contemplating his end. The wind held its breath, and not a bird or animal moved. Everything was waiting.

But unseen and high on the hill behind the man, two eyes watched. They were as strong as an eagle’s, and far wiser. Hooded by a worn cloak, the face could not be seen, but the eyes glowed brightly, seeing all things. Neither the man, nor the
wolvers
facing each other with such deadly intent, had any inclination of this new presence.

The
Wolvers
charged. The man was immediately alarmed by their speed, but kept his nerve. He had only moments, a hundred paces to a
Wolver
was no distance at all. He raised his bow, bending it in the same easy movement he had practiced countless times, the arrow to his cheek; he sighted towards the furthest Wolver, the captain of the three. An instant to steady, then release. In slow motion he watched the arrow leave his bow; it took two heart beats, no more, to cover the distance. The
Wolver
leader
,
flushed in anticipation of the attack, and used to avoiding slower feathered arrows never saw it coming. The arrow went straight through the Captain’s throat severing the spinal cord, and the man, ignoring the now tumbling
Wolver
,  watched carefully as the arrow continued on only slightly diminished in flight, till it struck an oak tree at the forest’s edge. He made a mental note as he reached for his second arrow.

He aimed at the
Wolver
on his left who was faster and now only fifty paces away, but he could not get a clear shot, the
Wolver’s
shield and sword reflected the sunlight and blinded him. He swung right to the other Wolver, but his shield was in a better protective position, and he was running crouched, lower in the grass. He swung back to the other, only forty paces now, and fired low getting a quick sight of the Wolver’s right thigh. The arrow smashed through flesh and bone completely severing the femur and the femoral artery, and a bright spray of red went skywards, as the Wolver pitched forward, not dead, but unable to run, and mortally wounded. The man notched his last arrow and swung right drawing the string to his cheek, and aiming at the remaining
Wolver
. This one was clever in its approach, lower and better shielded and only thirty paces away and coming so fast. As it closed it rose from the grass and almost too late the man loosed the final arrow, taking a huge risk, right at the centre of the shield. The
reflecton
covering a
Wolver’s
shield could withstand great damage but not even its magical qualities could stop such an arrow from such a bow at only a handful of paces. The arrow went right through the shield, and pinned it back to the Wolver’s chest puncturing the heart. The Wolver stood for a moment, halted by the sheer energy of the arrow, and then without a sound beyond a quiet sigh and a smile of disbelief, fell forward, dead, right at the feet of the exhausted archer, who stood surveying the scene before him.

High above and behind the man, unseen and unsensed, the eyes watched.

‘Twenty heart beats for three
Wolvers
, exceptional by any measure,’ whispered a soft voice from under the cowl.  But the creature made no move and with eagle eyes continued to watch with interest.

The man knew it was not finished. He rolled the
Wolve
r at his feet over until he could grasp the arrow in its chest. He pulled it out through the shield with difficulty, the body twitching, the last remaining life force within it fighting a slowing battle until, with eyes open the
Wolve
r finally lay motionless. He wiped the arrow on the dead creature’s tunic, and notched it to his bow. So armed, he walked slowly and warily towards the
Wolver
lying in the grass to his left. It was in pain, making grunting noises and trying hard to stem the bleeding from its destroyed right leg. It was only half conscious, and no longer a threat, so he left it and walked back towards the forest. The Captain of the
Wolvers
was lying on his back, ugly in death. He paused for a moment and went through the dead creature’s tunic, hoping to find some useful information, written orders or directions which would reveal why he was being chased to the death by such an elite group. Whilst he has some vague suspicion, all he knew was that a
Wolver
was sent on a mission only in the most extreme circumstances to ensure a kill.

Finding nothing, he left the dead creature and located the tree in which the arrow which had slain it was imbedded, and spent a frustrating half span removing it, carefully, so that it could be reused. It took a week to make such an arrow and its loss would have been great.

When he returned to the injured
Wolver
he stood uphill with the sun behind him watching it die. He could shoot it, which would have been merciful, but he had never liked the idea of killing a defenseless creature no matter how deadly it might have been. The Wolver was weak and knew the end was near. It had managed to get a band of sorts aground its upper leg using a leather belt and this had almost stopped the bleeding, but it was clearly too late, and it finally lay back, breathing hard, exhausted and prepared for the end.

The man put an arrow to his bow and walked closer making sure that he kicked away the creature’s sword so that he could not be harmed. He put a foot in the centre of the
Wolver’s
chest and the loaded arrow as a threat he aimed at its heart.

‘Why were you pursuing me?’ he asked quietly, almost as one would inquire of another’s health on first meeting them.

The
Wolver
, trained never to speak to any enemy just smiled derisively, but then realising that its training was of no further use, hissed.

‘Shoot me now.’

The man repeated his question, a deep but controlled anger in his voice.

‘Why were you pursuing me?’

Frustrated that it would not answer him, he thought then about standing on the
Wolver’s
broken leg, forcing a reply, but only for the briefest of moments. The creature was only doing what it was trained to do. Taken as a child from an isolated and dying race, a warrior class who lived far to the south of the Luminos River and then taught from infancy only the skills of death and enduring pursuit, it had arrived where it was by another’s hand.  He would not become a torturer.

But then as the creature died, with him standing over it like, that with bow drawn, bloodied himself and tired out from the chase and all the death, it spoke one last word, taunting him.

‘Sylvion.’

A shiver ran through him. It was the name of the one he loved the most, the one to whom in just a few months he would be married. No Lowlander knew of his relationship to the beautiful Sylvion Greyfeld of
Wildwood
, nor could they know of his journey. How could this loathsome creature breathe her name? He felt suddenly icy cold despite the warm afternoon sun.

What was happening?

And in the instant that he asked himself that silent terrifying question, two things happened.

He realised that events were far, far more serious than he could ever have imagined, and the last
Wolver
died.

Chapter 2.

Wearily the man returned to the small flat patch of rock amongst the grasses where he had made his stand. There he sank slowly to the ground and took a small vial of stream water from his tunic pocket. He drank it all and then found a last small piece of old and common
revel
bread in another pocket. This too he consumed eagerly, but it was finished long before he could be satisfied. The chase had taken a huge toll upon him. Now that the immediate threat had been removed he felt feverish and so very, very tired. His right thigh was swelling and tightening and as he wiped it clean for the hundredth time, he realised that it was becoming infected. All of a sudden he knew that his injury could prove more dangerous than an army of
Wolvers.

The sun was still three span from setting but he knew he would not easily survive another night in the open. And there were real wolves, even bears about who would quickly find the smell of death in the clearing and by morning not much would be left. It had crossed his mind that he should bury his foes, but even as he entertained that thought he dismissed it immediately. Such an outlay of effort would surely cost him his life, and for no gain. Why not let the wolves eat the
Wolvers
? There was a solemn justice in that. Their weapons were another matter. The King’s elite guards were equipped with the best forged swords in all of Revelyn. No ordinary man could ever hope to afford such a thing, but he knew that to be seen with a
Wolver’s
sword would raise immediate suspicion. No commoner was allowed, on pain of death, to own a weapon of the king, although many coveted such a thing. He was a long way from the safety of his home in the Mighty Mountains of the Central Upthrust, and he had little money, having left his few possessions behind on the other side of the forest in his hurry to escape from the
Wolvers.
It was tempting to take the swords and discretely sell them to someone willing to take the risk of owning such beautiful weapons. It was rumoured that many a Lowlander was known to keep a secret store of weapons in the hope that one day they might rise and defeat their evil king, Lord Petros Luminos; or as he heralded to all in his captive realm; Lord Peter of Light.