by Chris Ward
Sylvion stared at the evil smirking creature before her. As he spoke, it seemed that he was changing, becoming less human; he seemed to speak more to himself, outlining a deeper plan.
‘There will be great bloodshed and evil coming which the king and all his Wisden cannot foresee. And that will suit my purposes very well.’ He clapped his hands together triumphantly, then suddenly realised that he had revealed a little more than he wanted.
‘So now you know. It will cause you much anxiety and grief before you die. How wonderful for you… Captain Bach.’
Captain Bach appeared immediately. Sylvion guessed that he had been listening.
‘Yes sire.’ The Captain stood to attention. He was clearly out of his class, and knew it.
‘This prisoner is to be transported to a secure place. You will take the road east, skirt the Wildwood forest and cross the Plenty river. Travel on to the town of Fisher on the coast. A fast craft is waiting for you. The Captain’s name is Miser. You will be taken across the Norz Gulf to Bald Cape. There is a prison compound at Vault twenty leagues inland. There you will ensure that the prisoner is well guarded. The troop of soldiers waiting for you will be under your command.’
Sylvion could see the Captain swell with pride. ‘Yes sire, a privilege sire.’
‘Don’t be too hasty Captain Bach.’ Zelfos smiled evilly. ‘There is a catch, or perhaps we should call it a rather large incentive for you to succeed in this task.’ He paused and smiled at Sylvion in such a way that she shivered violently. ‘Captain, if anyone attempts to rescue the prisoner, they will be destroyed. No mercy. Killed. Do you understand, Captain Bach?’
‘Perfectly sire. Might I ask what happens to the prisoner after any rescuers have been dealt with?’
‘That Captain, I will leave to your discretion. However the only condition is that she not be allowed to leave Vault alive.’ Sylvion tried hard to stare angrily at the evil face that leered at her, but she found it impossible, and realised that she was crying soundlessly at the futility of her position.
‘I will be leaving immediately for Ramos,’ said Zelfos. ‘I suggest that you let the townsfolk know that the prisoner is being held for treason, and perhaps a few careful comments about the whereabouts of her captivity cast about would be helpful to your cause. I assume that your heard all that I said so I need not explain further.’ He turned and gave Captain Bach such a stare that the soldier began to shake.’
Zelfos laughed loudly. ‘I love that effect I have on people.’ Then he turned and was at the door. ‘I have left the Wolver with you. He is your salvation if I can use such a term. I will send word of my progress. Do your job Captain.’ He was just disappearing when the Captain summoned all of his remaining courage and asked.
‘Excuse me sira. You mentioned an incentive just now. Perhaps you would allow me to know what this might be?’
Sylvion’s last view of Zelfos was his evil smile as he spoke.
‘The incentive Captain, is this. If you fail in the task, you will die. Slowly, and with lots of noise.’ Then, with a soulless laugh and toss of his beautiful cloak, he was gone. Captain Bach sat down quickly at the table, looking white and ill. Suddenly he was not so enthusiastic.
There was a beautifully hand carved sand timer on the shelf over the fireplace in the kitchen. Sylvion had marked her life by its movement. The sand would flow silently from one end to another through a small neck between the two glass chambers. It could then be turned upside down, and the process reversed. It would measure up to four spans, where a span was the measure of the sun’s travel across the distance of one finger width of sky, when an arm was extended. There were gradations on the glass so that fractions of a span could be accounted for. It was how all of Revelyn, Lowlander and Highlander marked their days.
Two spans after Zelfos had left, the soldiers and their prisoner followed.
Soldier Sleeman had charge of Sylvion. He rode a large black horse. She walked in his dust. Her hands were tied behind her, and a rope from her belt was attached to Sleeman’s saddle. He had wanted it around her neck, but the captain had refused. If the horse bolted, then Sylvion could easily break her neck and he knew one thing; his prisoner must stay alive. For the time being, his life depended on it. The Captain led the way on his mount, followed by Sleeman and Sylvion on foot. She was also gagged to prevent her calling out as they passed through the town. Small and Feebles rode together behind Sylvion, and the Wolver rode wherever he wanted, which for the start of the journey, was at the rear. He was leading a spare mount for Sylvion, to be used once the spectacle in the town was over. Sleeman had suggested to the captain that she should walk the whole way, but they all knew that would be impossible. It was over two hundred leagues to the seaport of Fisher.
Sylvion had asked to ride her mount Lightfoot, assuming that her beloved horse would have been grazing nearby, but soldier Feebles had informed them that he had seen the large grey disappearing into the forest the evening before with a huge white stallion.
‘Biggest horse I ever seen,’ he said. ‘White like marble it was, shining in the sun. It looked wild though. It reared up and snorted fearfully, taller than a house it was…’ To which Sleeman had replied.
‘You is an idiot Feebles. Ain’t no such horse.’
Sylvion had felt elated. Her horse had joined the Equin, and Thunder had followed her to the edge of the forest. He knew something was wrong. It was a pleasantly comforting thought, but not one which lifted her spirits much as she walked humiliatingly behind Sleeman’s horse into Wildwood, the town of her childhood, to be displayed before her own community like some wretched dog on a lead. A criminal, marching to her death.
Before she had been tied up, she had managed to obtain two things, which gave her a very little hope. She had been allowed to gather a few simple belongings in a leather saddlebag which was now strapped to the Captain’s horse. Apart from a few personal items of clothing she had taken along the small horn which she had used the day before in the forest to let the Equin know she was looking for them. Small and Feebles had escorted her to where she had dropped her saddle bags the day before, and had been allowed to put them in the stables. The Captain had sniffed at her choice of child’s toy, the horn, to take with her, but could see no harm in it and so that was now safely stowed with her other few things.
The other item was more dangerous, but she now had the long sharp blade from the toilet beam stuck to her chest with tree gum, whilst a thin cord about her upper body further secured it. It was uncomfortable and hard to conceal, but lying as it did close between her breasts and down to past her navel, it was hidden as best it could be. Covered by her outer garment it was safe for the present, but Sylvion knew that she would need to find a better place to hide it at the earliest possible opportunity. She knew that the Wolver watched her carefully; whilst the others felt she was so completely their prisoner that they almost ignored her.
As the sad procession slowly made its way out the front gate of the old Greyfeld estate, tears poured down her face and fell to the ground, for behind her the house was ablaze. Soldier Sleeman had suggested it as a warning to others, and the Captain had let him do it, perhaps to give him some revenge for the injuries she had caused him, perhaps because he too enjoyed the spectacle and sense of power. So many memories had been formed in that house, so much of her life, now just a bonfire of evil, and her dear kindma tossed into a hole behind the stables. What utter evil madness was sweeping the land?
She was cold and shivering and crying as she walked through the town, watched fearfully by those who knew her, but who did nothing. Her life was over, her kindma murdered; Rema too was in deadly danger; maybe he was already dead. Lightfoot had survived, it was a small consolation.
‘Live well dear friend,’ she whispered tearfully into the air, ‘I will not forget you.’
And then with her tears mixing with the cold rain, and under a thunderous sky, Sylvion stumbled out of her childhood forever.
She felt utterly cru
shed by the mountain of despair which had fallen on her.
‘Hurry up there,’ called soldier Sleeman maliciously, as he tugged on the rope. She almost fell, and in that moment wished she did, so that the dagger between her breasts would pierce her heart and end it all.
Chapter 6.
Helgas was nervous. She used to enjoy her simple chores serving the king, the mighty Lord Petros Luminos. King of all the Lowlands of Revelyn.
But she no longer felt the same.
At eighteen, she was stunningly beautiful, blond with sparkling blues eyes, and a figure that even the master in charge of the kitchen, the ever-grumpy Vellion, had said might cause men to go to war.
She put down her wooden tray and smoothed her apron, taking several deep breaths to calm herself. The early morning was the worst. Lord Petros never slept well, and had taken to yelling at her no matter how quietly she entered his chamber with his early breakfast. He refused to eat in the main hall anymore, preferring to eat alone high up in his bedchamber or on the stone balcony overlooking the castle and the town itself. She checked for the tenth time that all his dishes were as he liked, and the drink was cool, the fruit unblemished; even the smallest bruise in an apple might cause him to throw the whole tray back at her, and demand another, with a curse.
Helgas had been hand chosen by the king’s servant provider, who knew exactly what the king liked in a personal servant. Her parents had been greatly honoured that their beautiful daughter was to spend her life in service at court. It would mean a secure income which could provide for them in old age, and Helgas herself was excited beyond words when news came that she had been accepted. Many of her friends and other hopeful girls from the villages around her home, had stood in line for inspection by the travelling Servier who had asked simple, gentle questions of them all, and looked searchingly at each of them as they walked around his large tent set up on the common ground by the King’s Inn. She had come to court at sixteen with dreams of grandeur and hopes of love and a gentle life, where good food and a warm bed was never uncertain.
The first time she had served the king she had nearly fainted with anxiety, but he had smiled at her and enquired of her name and family. He had accepted her without further comment, but she knew that he watched her. This gave her a sense of excitement beyond anything she had ever felt. The mighty Lord Petros found her attractive. Imagine!
Vellion had told her to remember who she was, and not assume that one so mighty would ever have time for anyone so lowly born. She had resented his tone and determined to show the old master that he was wrong. However, over recent months, Helgas had leant that Vellion had been right.
She knocked on the solid oak door of the king’s bedchamber. It was guarded on each side by a huge soldier in gleaming armour, with battle swords drawn and held vertically before them in a two handed grip They would stand like statues, unmoved by anything, but she knew that they would give their life to defend their king, and that they watched all things. The king’s night-guards were legendary, and always hand picked from those called nephil or giants. Helgas still shivered every time she passed them by.
There was no answer to her knocking. There never was. She entered quietly and took the heavy tray to a table in the room by the doors to the balcony. She did not look at the bed itself; this was forbidden, but steadfastly focused on setting the table exactly as the king wished. She carried a damp hot cloth that she used to wipe the tabletop clean. She carried another cloth which was to dry the table. Helgas knew that the king would watch her. He was fastidious about cleanliness and increasingly feared the catching of any disease. To fail to present the table less than shining and smooth and scented with the rose petal water, might mean a terrible outcome, which did not bear thinking on.
‘Have you washed girl?’ The king spoke harshly from behind her. ‘Are you clean?’
Helgas sensed that he was disturbed, and kept working; knowing that to turn and answer him would be taken as impudence.
‘I have washed three times Lord, and my clothes are fresh.’ She placed the dish of fruit in the centre of the table. By experience, she had learnt where this was, and had marked it by a dark knot in the timber. The fruit bowl had to be exactly in the centre before the king’s seat.
‘Where is my physician?’ demanded the king, ‘I have a headache which will not leave me. I need his services. Do you know where he is?’
‘The Lord Zelfos has returned…’ Helgas began.
‘He is not Lord Zelfos.’ The king screamed at her. Helgas swallowed quickly thinking of what she should say.
‘I am sorry…’
‘There is one Lord and that is me, do you understand girl. Do you insult me, do you challenge me and put another up to equal me?’ Helgas had not heard such a tone of anger from the king before.’ She remained turned away and stood meekly holding her hands in front of her.
‘I have spoken unwisely Lord, forgive me. There is only one Lord.’ Her heart was thumping against her chest and her mouth felt dry.
‘Forgiveness. I like this idea. I can forgive or not forgive. You have asked for forgiveness. As you should girl. I will decide. But first, my question was, do you know where my Physician is? My head is falling off. I need him.’ Helgas sensed then that the king was not on his bed but was standing by a window for she caught the briefest movement from the corner of her downcast eyes.
‘Lord, I believe Zelfos your physician returned to the castle last evening. I will call him for you if you wish.’ She turned to obey.
‘I do not wish. I command.’ The king spoke tersely. ‘Don’t leave.’ Helgas stopped, frozen to the spot. ‘What news of the sickness in the north by Merchant’s Gate?’ She sensed that he was in pain and risked a glance. He was standing looking out the window, not at her. He held his hands to the side of his head, and was massaging his temples with rigid fingers in a vain attempt to alleviate his pain.
‘I believe that it is getting worse Lord. Many have died.’
‘Are they lepers?’ Helgas knew that the King was terrified of the disease of leprosy.
‘I do not think so, Lord’
‘Look at me girl.’ He commanded her more gently. She turned a little and lifted her eyes slightly. She knew that her cheeks were wet with tears of fear and anxiety.
‘Have I scared you girl?’ She nodded. Through a film of tears, she could see that he was wearing long bed-wear, but was naked from the waist up. He was tall and hairy, but even in the short time she had been serving him, Helgas knew that he was a man in his prime; strong and rugged and a fighter who had proved himself on the battlefield in the service of the previous ruler, King Frederic.
‘I have made you cry.’ She nodded again. ‘Then I will forgive you, you seem suitably sorry for your insolence.’
‘Thank you Lord.’
‘Now send me my Physician, and also the chief of the guards. I must do something about this plague or whatever it is.’
‘Yes my Lord.’ He turned from her, and she knew she was dismissed. Helgas hurried to do her lord’s bidding confused and frightened, and not a little relieved.
Zelfos entered the king’s chambers without knocking. Lord Petros was standing on the balcony surveying his kingdom that stretched in every direction for as far as he could see, and far further in reality, to the shores of the Great Southern Ocean, and north to the vast forests beyond the Wildwoods, and where the ancient Ravelin were rumoured to still live. Westwards his lands crossed deserts and rugged mountain ranges which were continually changing, as monumental forces from below pushed them skywards or devoured them in no apparent order, until another, stranger and bewitched sea was reached, one which continually boiled and stirred in great whirlpools. In living memory, few had crossed that sea.
Zelfos did not announce himself but went and stood beside his king.
‘I hear that you require my services, desire.’ He spoke softly, in seeming deference to his Lord, but his face spoke otherwise. Lord Petros jumped.
‘I wish yo
u would not do that. Can you not give warning of your coming? You startled me.’
‘What, startle the mighty Lord Petros, who faced and fought the mighty Edenwhood. Tell me you jest desire!’ It was boldly sarcastic, but the king did not realise, such was his discomfort.
‘My head is split asunder, you must help me or I fear I will die.’ There was a pleading in his voice and Zelfos became quite gentle in his tone and movements.
‘Come and sit on the stool by your bed. I will remedy you.’
The king moved with his eyes half closed, and obeyed without further comment, sitting in pain uneasily on the simple wooden stool. Zelfos stood behind him and placed one hand on the top of the king’s head and the other beneath his chin. With a quick simple twist, he manipulated the royal head left then right several times, until a loud click suddenly broke the silence. Zelfos stepped back smiling smugly.
‘There desire, I believe you will be much better now.’
The king stood and swiveled his head around. His eyes were now clear and he moved freely.
‘By the gods! The pain has gone, my head is restored. I can see clearly. You have done well Zelfos. Your sorcery is welcome here. I thank you.’ He grasped Zelfos’s right hand gratefully and shook it profusely, before suddenly realising that such physical contact might allow for some contagion. Zelfos flinched every so slightly, but allowed the touch, for a moment, before pulling away.
‘I am glad to be of service.’
The king started to dress in the attire left out the previous evening by his steward, whilst Zelfos stood on the balcony and looked coldly at the kingdom arrayed in part before and below him. He nodded slowly as though some inner knowledge came to mind, and without knowing it, he rubbed his hands together in a simple washing motion, which, had it been observed, might have been taken for satisfaction.
