by Chris Ward
‘I have come to see that you have not lost your focus Skolar, how goes your search?’
The old man was clearly shaken by this unexpected turn of events, but managed to play his game without detection.
‘I have good news desire, for I have found the drawing; it was not far.’
‘Then let me see it Skolar. I can wait no longer for your lack of organisation.’ Zelfos was over-eager, which allayed the Skolar’s fears a little.
‘I have it here desire, if you please.’ The drawing was produced and grabbed quickly by Zelfos. He held it under the best light he could find, and examined it in detail. He smelt the parchment and felt it, and traced the lines of the drawing with the tip of an un-inked pen, as though to bring to life the object represented so cleverly before him.’ Finally he was done.
‘I agree with you,’ he said at last, ‘the Sacred Sceptre we have is exactly the same, unchanged. I am convinced. You have done well Skolar, and so I will not take your life from you this night, but you will stay here for a time. I may have need of you in the future. Please don’t try to leave for this would not be possible.’
‘Have no fear desire, for you already have taken my right leg, I can but hop, even with a crutch.’
Zelfos seemed to remember then, ‘Oh I had forgotten. Did I really take your leg?’ He took a moment and examined the old man standing before him who indeed was missing his leg below the knee.
‘Hmm, well that will indeed slow you down. And all those steps,’ Zelfos chuckled coldly.
And then he was gone, taking the drawing and the other parchment the Skolar had prepared, leaving the old man alone with his thoughts.
And what thoughts they were, for he lay on his rough wooden bed and in the dark he dreamed of life where the sun shone and his family lived in peace in a Revelyn where there was no Zelfos or Lord Petros; where people were free and untroubled by the creeping darkness which had infected the land.
‘One day perhaps I will see this, he muttered. ‘One day, let it be so.’
When the guard checked on him shortly after, he was snoring loudly, and smiling.
Chapter 7.
Rema Bowman gazed down on the mighty Luminos River from high on the bank where he stood. He was tired and anxious, and had the distinct feeling that although he had traveled fast, and used all his skills to avoid leaving any trace of his passing, there was something trailing him. On top of all that, he was not sure that he was doing the right thing. After Mentor had left him alone in the forest early that morning, his overwhelming desire was to make his way home to The Safeness, high up in the Central Highlands where he had grown up. He wanted to see his aging parents again, and be surrounded by what he knew best; tall mountains and cool mists, and people he could trust. However, several things prevented him from heading north and returning home. The greatest of these was the great disquiet he felt for his love Sylvion. The dying Wolver had breathed her name, and that could only mean she was in deadly peril. Rema knew that he could not rest until she was safe, whatever the cost, and however long it might take.
And, there was something else.
Rema knew he could not just walk away and leave his dear cousin Serenna. Just seeing her again had renewed in him the old feelings of friendship and love which had bound them so closely throughout many years of youth. Despite her disappearing, and the hurt she had caused her family and friends, he suspected that she was in danger, and being a Highlander would find few friends if things became hard; and he was certain that this was going to happen. The whole Kingdom of Revelyn felt as though it were on the edge of a chasm and it would take very little to bring it to a terrible end.
Rema had stood for several agonizing minutes on the hillside looking down into the clearing where he had shot the three Wolvers and in which only hours before he had seen the sinister presence of a creature far more deadly, until, having made up his mind, and against all his instincts and desires, he had turned south and west. He had decided to return to Ramos, back to the very heart of the enemy’s stronghold. It was a desperate choice.
Who knows what will be the outcome of this folly he had thought.
He had travelled as fast as he was able. His wound no longer troubled him, and the forest now seemed more open, the ground only gently undulating, so the leagues passed by quickly, although he could not rid himself of a sense that something was behind him, following quietly, stopping when he stopped, keeping out of sight and waiting for the darkness to return. He knew that to be caught out in the open after nightfall would be fatal. In desperation, he knew he must reach the river before dark; and he had done it, but only just.
*
The sun was low in the sky, about a span, perhaps a little more before sunset. The river shimmered peacefully, and a gentle breeze wafted upriver as it always did. Ducks and wild geese had begun to roost in the shallows and the reeds, and their haunting calls carried easily in the still air. As luck would have it, below him, tied up to the bank was a boat, some sort of a barge, or a ferry, but Rema cared little what it was, only that it offered sanctuary, perhaps a dry bunk and a warm meal. But more importantly it would mean not having to sleep alone in the forest where his fears might well be realised. He wrapped his bow and quiver in the cloak which Mentor had given him, and climbed cautiously down the scrubby bank towards the craft, grateful for the handholds which the stunted trees provided. It was a long boat, twenty good paces at least and about four in the beam, squat and tired-looking, and with what looked like a vegetable garden growing on the rear decking. An awning hanging dejectedly from poles lashed hard to the railings offered some protection to any who might wish to sit and steer from a wheel situated aft. In the deepening shadows, he did not immediately see the large man sitting like a statue smoking on a wooden chair in the middle of the strange vegetable patch. But the man had seen him the instant his head had appeared at the top of the bank, and had watched him carefully as he drew near.
‘Ho there stranger! What brings you by chance to this lonely shore? Fleeing from your missus maybe. Perhaps Lost? In search of treasure? Looking for adventure?’
It was a large voice, full of deep resonances and humour. Rema suddenly saw the man and realised that whilst his tone was somewhat amused, his demeanor was nothing of the sort. He sensed that the man was coiled like a spring, ready to defend himself and his ship. He probably had a weapon or two hidden by his feet, and the pipe he smoked was puffing out bluish clouds faster than a smithy’s forge. Their eyes met and immediately Rema knew he was safe. There was something about the lustre of them, which revealed a deep intelligence and a self-control, which looked to peace rather than violence. They were kind eyes too.
‘My name is Rema, Captain, if that is what I should call you? Rema Bowman, and I would be greatly in your debt if you allowed me a corner to sleep out of the weather tonight. I can offer little, but I bring no harm.’ He stood at one end of a long thin plank, which stretched from the bank to the boat, and waited for a reply. He sensed the captain relax, but nothing was said. The man was old, but far from infirm, in fact his shoulders were wide and his arms huge and powerful. A rough beard covered much of the man’s face. The pipe was made of whalebone and intricately carved, stained dark by the tobacco, but it rested easily at the side of a large and well-whiskered mouth. Finally, the captain removed it and spoke with a nod.
‘Come aboard friend. I can use a little help in return for a bunk. My name is Gymble. Gymble Barger. He stood then, and Rema realised he was tall as well. He walked easily up the plank and once aboard they shook hands, Rema meeting the powerful clasp with an equally firm grip, which seemed to please the Captain.
‘Welcome aboard, Rema Bowman, I like a man who can shake with purpose. None of that weak-fingered stuff for me. Don’t trust a man who cannot stand and shake.’ The eyes were smiling and Rema smiled back. It felt good to be around someone like this. Gymble showed Rema where he could stow his belongings down a narrow companionway in a tiny cabin below decks.
�
�Not much I know, but better than your alternative arrangements.’ Gymble smiled and indicated with a nod of his head towards the bank.
‘It’ll do just fine,’ said Rema, and meant it, glad to be out of the forest and in the company of another human.
‘Now before you get too comfortable,’ Gymble continued ‘I’ve a little job you can help me with. Always glad of another pair of hands.’ His eyes were sparkling and Rema suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Gymble led the way to a large heavy hatch on the foredeck, which he opened in an easy manner borne of much practice. The hold was full of farm produce of all types, but mostly tubs of vegetables and bags of grain. In the middle, directly below the hatch was pigsty full of the dirtiest noisiest pigs Rema had ever seen.
‘They get a bit jittery like: the pigs. Don’t like been shut up in there. Causes them to foul all over the place. Needs a clean twice a day. Pair of breeches over there, put ‘em on and clean it out. Just fill the tubs, I keep it all, use it on me vegetables see.’ He pointed rapidly in several directions at once, then left Rema to it.
‘I’ll cook up a nice tater pie for supper. You’ll need something by then.’
Rema distinctly heard a loud chuckling as Captain Gymble disappeared. Realising that he had little choice in the matter Rema slowly and carefully climbed down into the hold amongst the pigs. At this, they squealed even more noisily and ran in all directions bumping into him and almost sending him sprawling. With difficulty, he managed to put on the grimy breeches, which he suspected were never washed as much as they should have been. With a small rake and shovel, he began to clean up the mess, but his actions seemed to upset the pigs even more, causing them to charge about upsetting his bucket and venting their bowels in rapid succession. Rema could see that his job was only getting bigger, and in a flash of frustration had a good mind to skewer a few of the pigs right then and there. He found working in the rather fetid air made him increasingly nauseous and unsteady so that finally, after the largest of the pigs, an ugly old sow with only one ear cannoned into him, he fell headlong into the mess, ending up face to face with a terrified squealer which tried to bite his nose.
‘Not a sailor then!’ The voice of Captain Gymble Barger came disapprovingly from above. ‘I’d say there was more mess than when you started. Better leave it alone Rema Bowman, poor pigs’ll be dead of fright before they reach market.’ He laughed loudly, and Rema realised it must have looked a very funny sight.
‘Well Gymble,’ he said somewhat mournfully as he rose from the floor, ‘if you do this twice a day, and win against this lot, you’re a better man than I am.’ He removed the breeches and replaced the tools where he had found them and climbed out onto the deck, where Gymble eyed him carefully, then screwed up his nose.
‘Perhaps you’d better sleep with your friends tonight, you certainly smell like you belong down there.’ The captain chuckled loudly, but without any malice.
‘After all that down there I need to go myself,’ said Rema, ‘what do you do on board a ship like this?’
‘When moored for the night I always go ashore. There’s still a little light. You can wash up when you get back. Hope you like taters cause that’s what you’re getting. This way, don’t be long now. It’ll be dark soon.’ And so Gymble disappeared back below decks to finish his meal preparations, whilst Rema once more used the plank to go ashore where he walked a little distance along the bank to some bushes which provided a little privacy. The sun had just set, but the afterglow deepened the evening colours and set the tops of the trees a golden hue. It seemed so very peaceful, and when Rema finally stood up to adjust his grimy tunic he remained there facing westward across the silver river, still as a statue, enjoying the last moment of a very tiring day.
Suddenly he felt a deadly cold. A shiver of fear ran all the way up his spine, and his leg wound, healed so miraculously the night before, began to throb painfully. There was something out there, and it was very, very close. Rema froze; glad of the surrounding trees and the shadows, but deeply fearful, and wishing that he had not left the safety of the boat. He had walked downriver about a hundred paces, so he carefully turned his head and looked back towards the boat, now almost hidden by the tumbled growth of the riverbank. There was something moving upstream of the boat near the top of the bank. In an instant, he knew it was the creature, which had so malevolently stalked him in the clearing the night before. It was all shadow and darkness and he could not make out a shape which made any sense, but the eyes flashed a dull red as it moved. It seemed to sniff the night air and then melt away, only to appear closer to the boat. It was larger than a Wolver, much larger and more deadly, and suddenly Rema was glad of his putrid clothes and the foulness of the pigs which covered him, for he was sure that this creature, whatever it was, would be able to smell him out. His only hope was the covering of excrement. The creature became increasingly a part of the deepening shadows, until Rema was not sure if was waiting or had left.
Suddenly it was beside him.
He knew it, he sensed it, and the old wound pounded even more furiously in his leg. He could smell it too. Unlike anything, he had ever smelt, and beside which the pig’s foulness, which he wore, was like scented roses. The creature in the dark was formless, but Rema felt ice on his fingers and the bare parts of his legs. He knew that the creature was looking at him, and he knew that he would die, except for the faint hope that his smell would be a cover. How long he stood like that, frozen like a statue in the last light of day Rema did not know. He dared not turn around, he dared not move, in fact, he felt he could do nothing, so terrible was the power of this creature. Hardly breathing, he stood and looked westward across the darkening river and thought only of Sylvion, his love, and vowed silently that he would find her. It was the vision of her face that kept him safe in that moment. He heard the shadow creature sniffing, a foul and evil sound; then a pause and a deadly chill as it exhaled somewhere behind his neck.
And then, just as suddenly as it had materialised, it was gone. Not soundlessly, but almost so, like a rush of wind, which bent and rustled the trees with its passing, and with it the cold disappeared; but something of its presence lingered, like a mist of fear. Rema collapsed slowly to the ground where he sat for some time until the voice of Gymble Barger came faintly to him.
‘Rema, are you all right, can you hear me man? Rema?’
‘I’m just coming,’ he called out in a rather unsteady voice, ‘Be there in a moment.’ He stood shakily, and in less time than he imagined was back aboard the boat. The night fell, dark and uninterrupted, with no moon and no stars, and for some distance all around that humble craft, not a creature ventured out or made a sound, for the mist of fear was upon them all. Nothing stirred until the morning.
*
The barge, for that was what it was, moved grudgingly down river. It had a single mast upon which was lashed a simple lateen sail, enough to give the helmsman some control, for it was the current that took the vessel down stream; the wind would blow it back. For hundreds of years the Bargers of the Luminos River had plied their trade from the market villages a hundred leagues upstream to the royal city of Ramos and back. The barges of the Luminos River were long narrow craft, with a sensible beam allowing for the tricky maneuvering when berthing at the city wharves. The river current was constant, and the wind also, but in the opposite direction. Together they provided a free means of passage up and down the river to any who survived the long apprenticeship to be the master of a river barge. Apart from the tall mast and a range of sails, each barge was equipped with a long and heavy sculling oar set on a post right at the stern, but within easy reach of the wheel. The skillful barger was a master of steerage, sail handling and sculling, all at the same time, for only by the balancing of these three could a barge be made to go where it’s master desired.
Gymble Barger leant on the solid sculling oar, gently but powerfully keeping his vessel headed downstream, whilst using his bare feet to turn the ship’s wheel, as it was required
, to keep the sail full and pulling, whilst the current did the rest.
Rema sat in the warm mid-afternoon sun feeling safe, and finally relaxed, enjoying the fact that he was travelling in the direction he wanted to go, and with no effort. After an uneasy night in which his mind would not settle, jumping from one thought to the next, worried about Sylvion and what had become of her, fearful of the shadow creature which had so nearly overcome him only hours before, trying to understand his encounter with Mentor, and unsure of what he should be doing, meant he tossed and turned in the small cramped bunk until just before dawn. Finally exhausted, he fell into a fitful sleep, which only ended when the motion of the boat upon the river roused him well after sunrise. He came on deck to find Gymble at the helm, smoking and generally at peace with the world.
‘Ah Rema, it would seem that my tater pie worked its magic, you seemed to have slept well.’ Rema decided not to disagree, since the pie had actually been the best he had ever had, so he nodded politely and stretched in the sun, and changed the subject.
‘I have never seen a boat with a garden before,’ he said indicating the rear decking covered in plants. Gymble smiled.
‘Not uncommon on the river, but mine’s the best of course. I’ve got me taters, and garrots, beans over there and wild onions. Plenty of herbs, and the watermelon over here, which never goes without a good drink each day. Plenty of free fertilizer from the hold, and there you have it. Welcome to Gymble’s little pieces of paradise.’ He smiled broadly holding the pipe in his yellowing teeth, and gesturing with both hands as though to introduce some act upon a stage.
