The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” drawled Bob, forcing his attention back from the incomprehensible squiggles on the paper to the job at hand—watching the dubious group of strangers outside the wall.

  In the meantime, Fred finally found the correct place in the book. “It says here, roy-al-tee requires an escort from the ranks of Avondale soldiers, um, commen-sure-rate to their honour guard. I’m afraid you will just have to wait until everything is in order. Next time, how’s about you send heralds first so that the proper preparations can be made before your arrival.”

  Dirk sighed.

  Sylvalla sighed.

  Bureaucracy never changed. The only way to beat it was to use diplomacy.

  Raising her sword with one hand and the dragon’s tooth with the other, Sylvalla said, “You have an hour while we take our repast.”[39]

  Maybe the tooth was not as impressive as that of an adult dragon, but nevertheless it sparkled like the diamond it was, and conveyed the message it was supposed to.

  Bob and Fred didn’t say anything, but Davie ran to comply with Sylvalla’s request anyway.

  “You don’t suppose there really was no news of our return?” Sylvalla muttered to Dirk. “I was expecting a somewhat grander entrance.”

  “Almost certainly, but news doesn’t always turn into orders. I’d prefer to kill first and ask questions later. Unfortunately, that’s not the best way for a hero returning in triumph to make an entrance.” Dirk clamped his jaw shut. Neither was this … fiasco. Being left to wait at the city gates like this was downright humiliating.

  Dirk walked around the perimeter of the wall. There was a gate on the other side, but he daren’t go and ask them to hurry things up—it would likely make matters worse. Damn them! They were supposed to be grateful for the safe return of the princess. Maybe I should bundle the girl under my arm and pretend I’ve dragged her all the way home.

  The problem was, it was far too late to rescue the princess now. Especially after that episode with King Croak. It would be far too dangerous to take all the blame for that little incident.

  They all waited. And waited. Sylvalla, Dirk and Francis wondered when they’d get into the city, and how one simple order could possibly be so difficult. Each secretly hoped that the city was making hurried plans for a grand entrance.

  Sylvalla did her best to peer in through the gates and found no sign of any such thing.

  Jonathan and his father wrestled with greater concerns. They stood a little apart from the others, quietly arguing about when exactly they should expect a certain fire-breathing beast. Or Jonathan’s wizard. And what needed to be done about it.

  §

  It took over an hour for their escort to arrive. Even then, it was hardly fit for a minor travelling dignitary, let alone a princess. There was no effort to impress, not even glitzy dress uniforms. The soldiers, nothing more than a handful of grunts, made it clear that their job was to deliver the wayward adventurers to the palace.

  Walking through streets that were clean and tidy, Jonathan, Sylvalla and Dirk marvelled at how much the city had changed. It was a miracle. But at what cost?

  A small boy cheered as they passed.

  Then another, and another. Small clusters of adolescents had come to see the adventurers return. So, although it was an effort, Sylvalla managed to wave joyfully, and soon there was a gaggle of children following them. The older children pointed and giggled almost as much as they cheered, while the younger admirers happily waved pretend swords in the air. It was small comfort, but at least it was something.

  As soon as the party arrived at the castle, all cheer dissipated, along with their gaggle of followers.

  Gravely, the adventurers were welcomed inside by a butler, of all things. The quiet, almost frosty dignity continued even as a banquet was laid out, presumably in their honour. The adventurers were introduced to the gathered courtiers by the brassy-voiced master of ceremonies as, “The Princess Sylvalla and her companions,” with no more fanfare than any other attending dignitary.

  No mention of dragon-slaying.

  Sylvalla’s parents ate in stony silence as the night wore on.

  The food was good, and there was plenty of wine, so it was not long before tongues started to wag freely. Even the icy glares of the king and queen could not stop the conversation turning to the currently risqué topic of dragon-slaying. It started with the palace youth bragging about how they could have slain the beast single-handed. (Courage is a fine thing, when your stomach is full and your head is empty.) The dispute escalated as their peers scoffed at the empty bragging, pointing out in all fairness that most of the wannabe dragon-slaying braggarts had never so much as left the safety of the Avondale walls. One even had the temerity to hold up his cup and say, “Let’s hear from the real dragon-slayers.”

  “Speech! Speech!” Sylvalla’s supporters cried, raising their cups in agreement.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior decided this was his job, and, much to Dirk, Sylvalla and Jonathan’s disgust, he stood up while they were politely demurring.

  “Dragons should never be taken lightly, they are the masters of deceit …” Mr Goodfellow Senior started solemnly, the grave tale unravelling into an adventure spellbinding in its magnificence, and humble not in the least. He was extraordinarily careful to mention the bravery and abilities of his companions—which somewhat mollified Sylvalla and Dirk. And just as careful to embellish his own part—which upset Jonathan—because Jonathan found nothing quite so upsetting as the mention of wizardry.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior continued, exaggerating shamelessly, not because he wanted the fame; he was older and wiser than to want anything so ephemeral. But because he was the only person there who knew the danger they were in. He’d seen it all before, or events very similar. And he needed to know how many of these pampered fools were actually prepared to fight, and how many were keen on words and wine and nothing more.

  Inevitably, when he got to the part about the dragon, he could feel the tide of enthusiasm slipping away, pulling the sand from under his feet.

  They were cowards. All. Bows and arrows and small birds were probably their idea of sport. It was not in their nature to fight something that had a chance of winning.

  Though some pretended bravery, chuckling to their friends and raising their glasses to salute acts of heroism, it was clear none of the pampered idiots were ready to stand and fight a dragon.

  Finding it difficult to rally a single heart to his cause, Mr Goodfellow Senior put some small magic into his words. (Technically, it was slightly more magic in his words than he’d already been using.) “Give us a squadron of soldiers and one hundred men who are handy with a crossbow, and we will destroy this terrible beast, so the name Avondale will live forever.” Mr Goodfellow Senior’s voice rose, carefully calculated so the word Avondale thundered around the hall.

  Still the thread of fear in his audience remained unbroken. He could have wept, because he knew then he should have held his tongue until he’d had the chance to speak to fighting men instead of these fops who had always been given everything.

  There was a smattering of applause, and a few cries of Hear, hear, and To Avondale. Not quite defeated, Mr Goodfellow Senior bowed, swishing his robes in a calculated show of wizardly decorum before retaking his seat.

  The old man sighed, suddenly feeling his preposterous age. He needed a plan. The dragon would promise some kind of deal, and these weaklings were unlikely to have the moral resolve to say no. And yet, unhappy as he was, the rest of the party was in good cheer.

  Singing and dancing and other such good-natured revelry broke out. Even Jonathan stopped scowling and hit the dance floor with the kind of aplomb that kept him in dance partners all evening.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior sat at the table, wishing he had somebody to confide in, but as he looked around to see the flushed faces of his fellow journeymen, he knew tonight was not the night. Tonight was their night. He would not spoil it with his foreboding. He laughed and nodded and smile
d and eventually the torment ended, and they were escorted to the guest rooms.

  Before he could say anything, he realised Sylvalla had been led away in the opposite direction.

  Falling Into Fire

  A few days after the celebrations, life for Sylvalla had already begun to slip back within the irresistible clutches of normality. At least Mr Goodfellow Senior seemed to be keeping his promise. He was crafting her a sword, and for that she was profoundly grateful.

  As the fuss died down, Sylvalla realised how few people really appreciated a warrior princess. Not her parents, that was for sure. She hadn’t expected them to be thrilled, exactly, but they hadn’t so much as looked at her since the banquet—except to tell her how unruly and disrespectful she was. So, no real change there.

  Sylvalla’s old attendants had disappeared, no questions asked—except for very discreet murmurs behind the back of courtiers’ hands. Now, instead of a malleable nanny to watch over her, Sylvalla had two burly guards standing sentinel outside her door. They sauntered along behind her every time she walked out of her rooms, scaring off anybody who might be remotely friendly. Worse, they had orders to keep her away from the section of the castle reserved for guests.

  Miserable and lonely, and pining not only for her friends, but her lost sword, Sylvalla was beginning to think Mr Goodfellow Senior was right. Not only was being a hero not what it was cracked up to be—being a heroic princess was even worse. When the fuss died down, she intended to run away again—for good.

  Just as Sylvalla thought things couldn’t get any worse, Asumgeld descended from the sky. He flew over the city, bellowing hard enough for everyone to hear, “I demand a private audience with your king.”

  Townspeople and castle dwellers alike ducked for cover, running all over the city in a desperate search for the deepest cellars they could find. The alarm spread like a contagion, until not a single person could be seen on the street.

  §

  Rufus, surprisingly, was not afraid. Calmly, he asked his scribe to find the most appropriate title to address a dragon. Although the beast was huge, so far it had not so much as scorched the walls of his city. And he had every confidence in his diplomatic skills.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior barred his way. “You must not treat with dragons.”

  “How dare you?” barked the king. “Stand aside.”

  “But, My King, Your Brave—”

  A herald shouted stertorously, “Stand aside for the king.”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior, who’d thought up a reply for every argument the king could possibly present, had no choice but to let the king and his entourage pass. (A private audience with King Rufus apparently demanded about fifty men; at least five chancellors; a handful of aides; the grand vizier (an oily crow of a man), and a small army for a bodyguard.

  Much to their disgust, it did not include Dirk, Sylvalla, either of the Goodfellows, or Francis.

  §

  “My Lord Dragon,” the herald said, “the king of Avondale.”

  The dragon yawned, eying all these people with a disdain that was palpable. In a voice so loud the words rang in their ears, he proclaimed, “If the Princess Sylvalla is within these walls,[40] hand her to me on the morrow. Or I will destroy this village!”

  Somehow, the king managed to choke back his rage. He turned to his chancellor in cold fury and hissed, “By the seven gods, Avondale’s a city, dammit.”

  “Oh wise king,” flattered a pudgy aide, eyeing the dragon. “You are right and noble to think of your city first.”

  The rest of his entourage made similar noises, showing they, too, could flatter, especially when they wanted their own way. The stories of how the dragon had destroyed almost everything in its wake had scared them enough that they were prepared to give their own grandmothers. (Of course, that is but a tiny lie—these men had sold their grandmothers a long time ago, with no better excuse than they cost too much to feed.) They weren’t going to stint on flattery, or the life of someone else’s daughter, if that was the price for which they might buy their own lives.

  Pointed beard firmly in hand, the senior chancellor managed to find his voice at last. “Your daughter is wayward, and your wife is with child. It will be a healthy boy, as was predicted. By losing Sylvalla, you shall lose little, and still be hailed as the saviour of Avondale.”

  The grand vizier caught on quickly. “Yes, My Lord, I can see it now, you’ll be idolised as the king who was willing to sacrifice his only daughter for his people. In all history, there shall be no greater king.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.” The senior chancellor nodded eagerly. “Yours has been a noble and glorious reign. Allow your people the benefit of your wisdom a little longer.”

  King Rufus sighed and put his head in his hands. This was a decision he’d normally ask his wife to make. Yet, if he was to save the city, and keep his royal personage safe, there was no choice. He nodded to his advisers and stood to make his proclamation.

  Puffing himself up, he peered over the top of the city wall and took a deep breath. Using his very best addressing-the-masses voice, he declared, “If you will but leave us in peace, it shall be as you wish. Oh Great One, King of Sky and Stone, we accept your judgement and your mercy.” Not bad, that King of Sky and Stone thing. The phrase had a nice ring to it.

  The dragon bowed his head to acknowledge the pact and took off into the air.

  §

  Sylvalla was sitting above the crowd, in the throne room’s gallery, trying not to wriggle in a particularly uncomfortable blue satin dress. Apparently, it matched the colour of her eyes. She’d rather be wearing almost anything else. The gaze of people on her, and no doubt they were wondering how a chit in a dress might have anything to do with dragons. She’d have chosen something more appropriate, but unfortunately her current wardrobe was conspicuously bare of sensible clothes.

  Below her, the courtiers vied for the best view at the foot of the royal stairs.

  Where is the king?

  Sylvalla turned to view the small door hidden behind the king’s opulent throne. She knew it was there, the seam almost invisible except as a tiny part of the gold tracery of the sun in splendour that dominated the entire wall. A flash of smoke and the king would appear as if from nowhere.

  He usually liked the spectacle.

  Not today.

  Sylvalla heard a cough and was surprised to see him sweep through the hall, and the masses of startled people, without so much as raising his gaze from the floor.

  Her stomach clenched. If her father was not grandstanding, the news must be dire indeed. He stood before his throne, cleared his throat and looked pointedly out into the audience.

  The hall waited in eerie silence until, at last, King Rufus cleared his throat and spoke. “The dragon will not destroy our kingdom.”

  A smattering of people erupted into cheers.

  The king raised his hands for silence. “But he asks a terrible price. The life of my daughter, Sylvalla.”

  Sylvalla, a cavern of rocks settling in her gut, pushed herself up from her seat, clenched her hands into fists, and shouted across the packed gallery. “Let me fight! I will avenge the city! I will avenge all the villages the dragon has destroyed, both now and in the past. This is an evil creature. Did you not hear us when we promised to slay it for you?”

  The crowd was not listening. They didn’t want to hear. They were far too—the many gods be cursed—frightened to hear, and they hid that fact badly, averting their eyes and making the circle to ward away evil, as if Sylvalla were already the walking dead.

  Staring in defiance at this audience who would prefer she laid down and died for them, Sylvalla tried a more moderate tone. “If you will let me fight, the dragon shall not lay our kingdom to waste, but shall be repelled by myself and my fellow adventurers, for we have destroyed one dragon, and will vanquish this beast as well.”

  Sylvalla looked about, and again noticed a stunning lack of support. How could she fight this … this madness? Nothin
g came to mind as the grand chancellor put their bleak expressions into words. “The dragon has asked for you, princess. You have unleashed his wrath and destruction on our kingdom. It is only fitting you should pay.”

  Her father and mother stood tight-lipped in their silence, providing a united front for their loyal subjects. Whatever they actually felt, they were unlikely to air it in public.

  Help was not forthcoming.

  Still not ready to lie down and die, Sylvalla tried one last time. “So, the dragon has promised to spare the city, but only if you rip out the fighting heart within it. Are you all the kind of cowards who would hide behind royal blood? Do you really think one small sip will quench a dragon’s thirst?

  “Give me a sword in my right arm, so that I might die the way I would wish to live!

  “Let me fight!”

  Sylvalla opened her mouth to speak further, to cajole. Before she could speak again, the king waved for silence. “My ruling is that you shall be given to the dragon’s mercy at dawn tomorrow.”

  An aide whispered loudly in the king’s ear. “She must not bear steel in the presence of the dragon, sire. We dare not risk the consequences.”

  Rufus nodded and turned to address that detail. “Of course, the proper forms must be followed, and they do not include swords or weapons of any kind.” A half smile, intending to take the bite out of his words, made Sylvalla fume all the more. “Still, your fighting words do us proud, and I’m sure that, at the last, your heroism will save us all.”

  The king, saddened though he obviously was, repeated his words silently, like he often did when he liked their sound, and wished to use them again, usually with a catchy word or phrase for his people to chant.

  Fool, if he thinks such a beast will be appeased by me alone, Sylvalla thought, casting about for support. Could no one be trusted? Excepting, of course, Francis. And Dirk. Perhaps. And maybe the Goodfellows. She searched for her friends in the audience and spotted three people she’d never thought to see again; a wizard (not Capro Goodfellow), a skinny boy (not Francis), and a thurgle. The three adversaries they’d fought in the caves.