Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  The First Chronicles of Revelyn

  When the last arrow falls

  By

  Chris Ward

  Dedicated to the great

  J.R.R. Tolkien

  ‘He opened up worlds and moved me first, long ago…’

  The First Chronicles of Revelyn

  ‘When the last arrow falls’

  Copyright © 2012 by Chris Ward.

  ISBN 978-0-9874471-1 -1

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information

  and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Acknowledgements:

  Cover Image

  By Kind Permission

  smashinghdwallpapers.com

  Graphic design, layout and Map

  Chris Ward

  Map of Revelyn

  Follows….

  Bear witness:

  This map has been copied by quill pen from the third copy of an earlier map. It was prepared by myself in the time of King Richardo, under his express order, and being in the tenth summer of his reign. All attempts have been made to accurately represent the land, but some small variations and errors have perhaps been made due to the poor quality of the original. Recent features have been added in accordance with law.

  Alfini {A}: of the Wisden and Official Mapmaker to the Royal House of Hendon.

  Note: By order of the Captain of the Night Guard, Commander of the King’s army I have included renditions of the same Map in two larger segments for ease of scrutiny and other requirements. No details have been changed in compliance with this order. {A}

  Table of Contents

  Maps of Revelyn

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Revelyn

  When the last arrow falls

  Chapter 1.

  He was running fast, but not as fast has he had been. He was tall and lithe, wiry almost, but with a breadth to his shoulders that spoke of great strength. As he ran he would pause every few minutes now to catch his breath and to listen, turning his head back and forward, straining to hear every sound. He knew his enemies were gaining on him; they were closer than the day before when the deadly pursuit had begun, at times now even in earshot. He thought there were two, possibly three, but it was not the number which scared him, it was who they were. What they were.

  They were Wolvers.

  He had glimpsed them once early the previous day just before he plunged into the forest in a desperate attempt to escape. It was rumoured that a Wolver was not quite human, bred for pursuit, able to track, and run all day, and then all of the next. Their training from early childhood, if childhood was what they had, removed all remorse or compassion and in their place was a space full of nothing but an empty coldness and a driven-ness which was legendary. Stories abounded throughout all of Revelyn of their cruelty and of their success. They never failed. Once they were given a quarry they would run it down. They would not stop until they had destroyed it. Wolvers were part of the king’s chosen elite guard, and the king of Revelyn’s Lowlanders was a dark and evil man.

  Taller than an average man by half an arm’s length, Wolvers had limbs which were completely fluid in motion, efficient and fast; so fast that when using a sword there was no contest. They could strike five times where a swordsman who had trained all his life to master his weapon could only manage a single thrust. They traveled with few weapons, a small lightwood shield covered in the thinnest reflecton, a magical metal which the royal alchemists had discovered in times past. It was costly beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest kings or merchants. They carried one sword, double sided, a cross between a rapier and a full war sword. They had need of nothing else. It was their speed and complete lack of fear which made them invincible.

  They would catch him. The man knew this surely; it would be before nightfall, and the sun now was already well past its zenith.

  The man ran well, he too was surefooted and nimble despite his height. He had kept ahead of his pursuers by sheer desperate willpower and several clever moves which had slowed them, throwing them into confusion and causing an irritation and anger. The forest was dense, of oak and elm, large trees some hundreds of years old; in places the thick oak branches brushed the ground. He had climbed onto one and by careful work had traveled some considerable distance from tree to tree before returning to the ground again. This had gained him some time just before nightfall the previous day. In the dimming dusk-light his trackers had trouble picking up his tracks. On the ground they had no trouble. For Wolvers, chasing a running man through a damp forest was like following a line on the ground. However it took them a long time, more than three span, to circle and backtrack before they picked up his path and once more with a cry of vicious triumph, took up the chase.

  The man had spent the night high up in a huge oak. It had been moonless and pitch dark, and even a Wolver could not continue without light.

  He had secured himself to the trunk with his leather belt, and straddling a large branch slept fitfully, cold and scared that he would sleep too long and be trapped like a possum trying to escape a sabrecat. Wolvers could climb better and faster than any man.

  He was tiring quickly now, his eyes glazing over from fatigue, and the wound on his right thigh where a sword had cut him two days before, was slowing him all the time. It was not a deep wound, he’d had worse, but it would not stop bleeding, and the muscle was tightening and cramping and the pain would shoot up his body and down to his toes. Every now and then he had to stop and stretch to ease the cramp, losing more time.

  He paused by a brook and took a drink. It was cold and refreshing, the water clear and life giving. He was careful not to drink too much or his stomach would cramp, and he knew if that happened, it would be the end of him. He stretched his wounded leg, easing the muscles back to life, and wiping the blood away with his loose tunic. It was then he heard them howl. Howling was a Wolver’s way of letting their quarry know that they were almost upon them, that the end was near. The sudden howl of a real wolf in a deep forest will cause the bravest man to flinch. A Wolver’s howl is far more malevolent, far more spine-chilling.

  A Wolver’s howl means only one thing; that life is measured in heartbeats.

  The man had some knowledge of the forest. He knew he was almost at its edge now, the northern boundary where the impossible thickness of the trees gave way to meadow and grasslands. He stood no chance amongst the trees. To die, he wanted at least to see his end, not be pounced upon from behind, or above or…or however a Wolver might decide to come upon him.

  With another howl behind him he ran on, his heart pumping and lungs gasping, around an oak, over a stream, across rocks and down the gentle slope toward the bottom of the valley. He could hear something moving fast off to his right side, and slightly behind, but the trees were thicker there, the going more difficult and so the sound faded a little. He was follo
wing the fastest path, not trying now to hide his tracks or use any other ploy. He was desperate to make the open ground. It was his only chance, if such a thing as chance were to smile upon him.

  And suddenly he broke free. The forest ended abruptly in a clearing. He paused briefly, dragging air into his burning lungs and planning his last desperate move. The land fell away for a stone’s throw then rose again, clear meadowland for several hundred paces to a lightly treed hill which rose high above him to his left. To his right the forest seemed to close in once more, but at least he had clear space before him. The sounds behind him were very close. His pursuers were confident now; they could hear him, no longer quiet and calculating, but running like a frightened rabbit, afraid and with no hope. This was their end game and they were enjoying it. A Wolver lives for such a moment; the kill.

  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 Wolver 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 Wolver 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 Wolver 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.