Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls Read Free

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