Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (7 page)

He was bewildered but only interested in getting safely away. Three days later he had arrived on the edge of the great Southern Forest where the mighty Luminos emerged from it, to begin its slower meandering down to
Ramos
and the ocean beyond.  He had rested in a logger’s camp but had by chance seen a cohort of the King’s men arrive, clearly in pursuit of someone. Catching sight of the three
Wolvers
convinced him that he was their target and he had taken to the forest immediately trusting his ability to run and use his simple map to get way and lose them in the impossible terrain and tangledness of the ancient trees.

Rema lay in the cot having gone over it all, in as much detail as he could remember It was all vivid but lacking reason. He felt concern for Serenna, but it seemed that she was beyond his help. He felt sad that he had had only a few hours to begin to rebuild a broken friendship and that it not been possible. He never believed for a moment that she had wanted him harmed, but that she had been manipulated by others; he was at a lost to know why.

He knew that he had escaped death only by the intervention of the strangest and most wonderful person he had ever encountered. Mentor of Revelyn. He could not begin to understand the magical powers of this man and suspected he was a wizard like those the legends spoke of in old Revelin when the first people of the land had settled in the far north. There were many rumours that a remnant still lived in the great Forest of Ravilin which stretched for many hundreds of  leagues across the north of Revelyn almost from sea to sea. The old legends spoke of powerful magic and wizards who could change the lives of men and even the course of history. But Rema realised that this was all just a hopeless guess. In truth he had no idea.

And then he thought about his name. He had tried to put everything in order and now he had arrived at a point which made him feel so very peculiar. As far back as he could remember he had known his name to be Rema Bowman, living in the
Safeness,
high in the Mighty Mountains, his parents the loving Riga and Sooth Bowman who farmed goats and grew a few crops and made the best bows in all the Highlands. They lived the simplest and noblest life he knew, a life he had always loved. But Mentor had suggested there was another truth and it scared him. It made no sense at all.

Finally, tired out, Rema fell asleep and dreamt of strange and frightening things. There was fire and burning houses and people lying, dying; a frightened young man who held his hand but lost him and of parents who were cut down by sword and spears. He saw himself sitting in the dirt as a small child and then being grabbed by a large mountain of a man, and then a ship, thin and fast and rough seas, the smell of salt and drums and chanting and being sick and so very scared.

Rema sat up in a sweat, crying like a child. Like Remy Cantira cried when he lost his parents and was taken by the invaders. Rema remembered, and from that moment on it changed everything.

In the morning Mentor served Rema a hearty breakfast but made no comment or inquiry about anything that had been spoken of the previous day. He showed genuine concern though when Rema mentioned the strange creature he had seen the in the valley clearing during the night. He asked several questions and walked back and forth with a deeply furrowed brow.

‘Not good, not good at all,’ he muttered, ‘things have progressed more quickly than I have realised. No, Rema I cannot tell you what it is, for you have nothing to compare it with. All I can say is that it makes those three
Wolvers
you killed seem almost friendly. I need to look into this; this is not a good development.’

‘What am I supposed to do if it comes upon me?’ Rema asked now greatly disturbed. A creature more deadly than a
Wolver
!

‘There is no advice I can give you. Stay out of its path at all costs.’

‘That’s all?’ said Rema astounded.

‘I’m sorry Rema, that is all. Now I have a surprise for you,’ Mentor left the room and returned a moment later with his bow and quiver of arrows. ‘This should save a trip back to that sad little town of
Efilon.’ 
Rema thanked him sincerely. He had feared he would never see his weapon again and would have to start all over. He noticed that the quiver was now full of arrows all identical to the ones he had used to kill the
Wolvers,
but he was not greatly surprised considering the events of the past few days.

‘Now,’ said Mentor, ‘the journey must begin, there is much to do, come.’ Rema picked up his few things including a small leather bag which contained some food and drink which Mentor had provided. They went outside together and stood in the bright morning sunshine watching the mist lift off the forest below, a forest which was alive with birds and small creatures scurrying about completely unconcerned.

So different from last night
thought Rema.

Taking a deep breath he turned to Mentor and spoke boldly. ‘Are you a wizard, I really would like to know something about you?’

Mentor frowned as though wondering just how to reply. Finally he stood before Rema and placed strong hands on either shoulder and looked deeply into the young man’s face.

‘Rema the time of magic and sorcery is almost at an end in this land. This will be a good thing for it does not sit well with human understanding and actions. Remember that. But no, I am no wizard, I am beyond all wizards. And that is enough for now. Remember all I have told you, think upon those things.  I am sure you will do what you must.’ Rema had an uneasy feeling then but Mentor distracted him by offering a gift.

‘Take this cloak, it is white to remind you of humility, and it has some properties which you will discover in time that will be of some assistance. Wear it confidently; there is no harmful pride in that.’

Rema saw that it was a most beautiful garment and put it on immediately. It flowed and surrounded him without inhibiting his movements; it even had a hood which fitted him perfectly. It seemed warm and strangely protective and he turned to thank Mentor and was stunned. He had vanished. He was standing alone on the grassy hillside. There was no door or window to a home in the earth, not a single indication that it had ever existed. No evidence that Mentor had ever been; except for the cloak it might all have been a dream.

The birds sang and the sun shone, but he was alone.

‘Thank you Mentor,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you, whoever you are, wherever you are, I will do what I must do. I will do your bidding.’

And with that Rema Bowman began a journey, the likes of which he could never have possibly dreamed of.

Chapter 4.

Sylvion Greyfeld cantered her mount Lightfoot gently along the well worn road towards
Wildwood.
 She loved this part of her journey, one which she had made on countless occasions. The smell of the lavender growing wild by the road, familiar faces and the re-acquaintance with old friends; conversations about children and produce, and of course the weather. She loved the anticipation of her homecoming, and for days before would wake in excitement at the sheer joy of what lay ahead.

Sylvion had left
Farview
two days after Rema but by the only other route which led to the Lowlands, the one which most were forced to take. The basket lowered down the sheer cliff was never meant to handle the large volume of people and livestock and general merchandise which a thriving town like
Farview
needed in its daily life. Of all the towns of the Central Upthrust
Farview
had the most connections with the people and commerce of the Lowlands. A road had been laboriously cut down the massive escarpment well to the north of
Farview
where the mighty Vigarn Gorge had cut its way over millennia back into the highland plateau. It was a steep path allowing a single dray or cart to travel in safety, but the Council by law had prevented it being any wider fearing an organized assault from the Lowlands. The Farview Road as it was called, was the only way that any serious volume of traffic could gain access to the Highlands and so it was carefully controlled, with armed garrisons at regular intervals and several clever means of cutting the road completely in any emergency. There were other ways all around the Upthrust of getting up the sheer cliffs but none as open and accessible as the road from
Farview
to
Wildwood
. A good rider on a fast horse could cover the hundred and two score leagues in five days but this included a complete day for the descent of the escarpment, such was the traffic and the need for control of movement in either direction.

Sylvion traveled alone, which was unusual for a woman, but she had ridden since the time she could walk, and her skills with a sword were unequalled by any other of her sex, and even Goodman Cantor, expert that he was, was often bested by her at times when they practiced together for sport. Sylvion had a royal bearing which was often the comment of those whom she passed on the road. She rode like a man, astride the horse and in control, and liked nothing better than to feel the wind in her hair at full gallop and the beast with its ears pricked forward and blowing hard, pulling eagerly at the reins. Lightfoot, her beloved grey mare had been hers since its birth eight years ago in the fallow field behind her
kindma’s
house, on the forest side of
Wildwood.
She had watched its birth in wonder and amazement, and the two had been together ever since. Apart from Rema with whom she had fallen so deeply in love, and of course her
kindma,
Lightfoot was the most precious of all her possessions.

She had traveled quickly; stopping at night in roadside inns and sleeping soundly despite the rough hard beds. Now in the warm sunshine with the journey behind her, Sylvion drew her steed back to a trot and then a gentle walk as she entered
Wildwood
once more. She stopped and dismounted outside Pierman’s Store, still her favourite shop, and one of her childhood’s great pleasures, full of trinkets and treasures and lollies and sweets.  She always purchased some small present to give her
kindma
, it was a simple ritual but one which had become an important part of her coming home.

She was surprised to find the door locked and the old carved wooden window shutters closed. There was a simple notice on the door.

Reduced hours due to illness. Open after noon.

Sylvion was perplexed, never in all her life had Pierman’s Store been shut whilst the sun was up. She looked around and realised that this was not the only shop to be closed. The main street of
Wildwood
was quiet at a time when it was usually crowded. People were about, but they hurried quickly, heads down avoiding eye contact. She could see several closed doors and attached to each was a notice. Sylvion knocked on the door of Pierman’s Store and waited but there was no answer. She began to feel anxious, her town was in trouble, and in living memory it always been a happy bustling place full of laughter and children, stray dogs and livestock. Today in the bright sunlight it was a mere shadow of what it should be.

Suddenly she caught sight of someone she knew.

‘Ma Gingham,’ she called and waved. Ma Gingham stopped dead, as though by command and then, seeing who had hailed her, relaxed, and smiled weakly, with one hand on her heaving bosom.

‘Oh Sylvion, welcome home dear, give my love to your
kindma,
got to go,’ and she was gone, leaving Sylvion standing stunned.

What is going on
she thought,
this is not the Wildwood I know.

She remounted Lightfoot, and walked her slowly up the main street. A few people smiled and waved at her, but no one wanted to stop and talk. It was not a long street; Wildwood was not a large town, but in the past it would take her an hour to make the short way from one end to the other. There were always old friends to greet, and many things to discuss since her last visit. She swiveled in her saddle and looked back. The street was almost empty; there was a feeling of sadness and fear which lingered and Sylvion felt her heart almost break. She had come home but it felt like somewhere else.

She dug her heels into Lightfoot’s girth very gently, and with a soft ‘Git-on,’ they walked sadly on.

At the very top of the street, just before she would usually turn off right and find her way through the rather disorganized collection of dwellings along the north track which led out to Wildwood forest and her family home, Sylvion realised that a new building had been constructed, right on the junction of Main street and Wildwood track. Old Jeem’s salt store had been demolished and in its place was a freshly whitewashed guard station with a smart verandah out front, and a timber shingle roof with stables behind. Five beautiful black geldings were tethered ready-saddled to a rail, and as she drew level, the conversation of their riders became clearer as they sat on the verandah talking loudly in the soft afternoon sun.

‘Well lookee here,’ said one, noticing Sylvion approach, ‘Now there’s a fine sight lads, don’t think we’ve seen this beauty before.’

‘Ride’s like a man,’ said another, ‘perhaps she wants to be a soldier; hey lass come on over we’ll teach you all you need to know!’

They all laughed and clapped each other on the back. Sylvion had a bad feeling about what might happen next, but she was not scared, her steed was the equal of any in the north and she was mounted and they looked like they would take some time to get organised. She stopped Lightfoot in the middle of the road and looked over at the untidy bunch.

Not the elite of the king’s guard that’s for sure,
she thought. 

‘Looks promising men,’ said the largest of the squad, a solid man with a heavy face and eyes which spoke of a slow mind. ‘Don’t be scared miss, we don’t bite.’ He chuckled at his wit.

Sylvion turned Lightfoot towards them and moved several paces in their direction, then halted. She was facing them now and knew that they could see her well. She was not falsely modest. She knew that at twenty years of age her body was firm and shapely, the soft leather riding breeches she had fashioned herself followed her figure and her hair was long and free. Without any overt display Sylvion knew that the soldiers, so far from home would take a good look at her.