The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  White-knuckled and pale-faced, Phetero’s remaining soldiers paused, too frightened to move.

  Dirk leapt at the survivors, his sword slicing the air.

  The young men scurried back. It was obvious they desperately wanted to surrender. But, unsure of the correct protocol, they cowered against the wall, swords raised in fear.

  Fortunately for them, Francis obliged by saying the right thing. “Surrender or die!”

  Given their best fighters had already taken the latter option, the remaining Scotch Mist soldiers tossed their swords faster than Dirk could decide which one to attack.

  Dirk scowled. “Sit on the floor.”

  Hearing the disappointment in his tone, Phetero’s soldiers didn’t tarry.

  “You know, it’s not right to kill a man after he’s surrendered,” Dirk griped, pulling out his climbing rope and assaulting the nearest man with its coils. “Which is a damned shame. Killing these idiots would have been much easier. You any good at tying knots, boy?”

  “Oi!” Cook interjected. “That rope’s too thick, it’ll slip.” She shook her head at Dirk’s incompetence. Within moments she’d rustled up enough corded gut to ensure every enemy soldier was uncomfortably secure. When she thought anybody might be listening, she’d mutter, “They’re only lads.” Or maybe it was when she thought nobody was listening. Cook didn’t like to be seen as soft.

  Francis grunted, Dirk frowned, and the intact kitchen hands nodded wisely, shook their heads wisely and followed her instructions. No doubt, this was also very wise.

  Dirk, seeing things were under control, sidled up to Francis. “Now what are we going to do? We can’t just barge around the castle with all the kitchen staff and the prisoners.”

  Francis looked over the trussed hostages as if they might provide clues as to what might be done with them. Unfortunately, they didn’t.[59]

  Wryly, Dirk looked at the pie-stained floor, thinking his plans had gone similarly awry. After a moment’s reflection, he helped himself to one of the remaining pies. And then another.

  Although his stomach was not so sure about this plan, it was a great delaying tactic. Cook spotted him and flicked out her arm to clip him about the ear before she remembered who he was. She gulped and snatched her hand back. “Er, what’s the plan for rescuing the rest of the prisoners?”

  “We were just discussing that,” Dirk said, looking pointedly at Francis. He didn’t want Francis to disabuse any notions she might have that they were part of a bigger, well-armed, rescuing party.

  Francis took the hint, and nodded sagely.

  “Alright then, ma’am,” Dirk said, getting the facts straight in his head. “We’re the princess rescuing contingent. We’ve come in first, to er, to make sure that she’s safe, before the…um…full invasion. So, where would she be then?”

  “Sylvalla?”

  Dirk wondered briefly if there was another princess in the vicinity that needed rescuing.

  “Yes, the princess Sylvalla,” Francis interjected.

  “We don’ know. Most of the others are in the main banquet hall, and the Queen’s in her rooms. But, Sylvalla? Maybe she’s escaped, or she’s hidden or...” Cook shook her head. “Anyway, it don’ matter, ‘cause Ai’ve b’n thinkin’ before ye showed yer ugly mug in ‘ere and wrecked me kitchens, an Ai reckon, we can rescue the ’ostages, and retake the castle and we don’t need no contigenny-what’s-its.”

  She raised an eyebrow and Dirk raised one right back.

  “Now listen,” Cook said. “We figure as the guards will rotate in about ‘alf an hour. So we deal with the replacements, and walk out in the ‘ostages uniforms. Weapons will be a problem—we’ve only a handful of enemy swords.” She sighed. “Still, now you two are here, we’ve should have enough. We can get the best fighters to put on their togs.” She spat a big glob of greenish phlegm on the floor near the trussed up soldiers. “And so by the time that lot know anythin’s happened, we’ll ’ave replaced ’alf their guards and the rest will be movin’ out the doors faster’n rats outiva sinking ship.”

  “But the princess...” Dirk objected, blown away by Cook’s tirade of military acumen and empty-headed foolishness. “Where do you think she might be, again?”

  “Hardly matters, now, does it?” Cook waved her wooden spoon. “There’s others to get to first, an’ that little bra...princess, will ’ave to look after ’erself fer a little whiles longer.”

  “And, there are, how many guards out in the far hall?” Francis asked, not happy about this sudden change of plans, or his princess having to look after ’erself for a little whiles longer, whatever the hells that was supposed to mean.

  “Only ’bout five or six,” Cook said cheerfully. “Should be easy as pie.”

  Dirk frowned. In his opinion the princess-rescuing profession should work thus: Go in. Rescue the princess. Get out. Dammit. This plan was more elaborate than it needed to be. And involved a lot more rescuing random people, and not nearly enough rescuing of actual princesses.

  The Goodfellows

  NAME:Jonathan Goodfellow.

  CLASS:Middle.

  SPECIALTY:Talking the tail of donkeys—if you consider tails to be money, and donkeys to be people with too much of it.

  RÉSUMÉ: Due to an unwarranted obsession with old textbooks and pictures of the long-extinct giant flies he calls D. melanogaster, Jonathan has been slow to progress at Bairnsley University. There is also the small matter of his disgusting (and profitable) habit of remaining sober. He should be careful about using this advantage when betting against some of the older wizards. Some of them hold grudges.

  The only things he has ever refused to sell are his sword, and a dragon tooth his father miniaturised and forged into a necklace. To the untrained eye the tooth appears to be merely a sharp diamond, but treated like this dragons teeth have proven to be indestructible, and can be used in a multitude of spells to create swords and other items of power.

  PASSED: No major exams. And that includes the entry test. Although, admittedly this is his first year[60]

  §

  Capro Goodfellow slunk out of Bairnsley University, sure nobody had seen him. He made it onto the Fairly University path and jumped back. “Jonathan?”

  Jonathan stood up in the middle of the road. He hefted his pack. “Don’t think you’re leaving me behind, old man.”

  “I’m not going anywhere special.”

  “Save it for somebody without truth-training, old man. Oh yeah, and without this.” Jonathan took a rather large book out of his voluminous wizardous robe and handed it to his father. Capro Goodfellow recognised it as a book of Maretta prophecies. Then, to the old wizard’s surprise, Jonathan stripped himself of his wizard robe.

  “Gods, that feels better.” Jonathan couldn’t keep the grin from his face as he stretched. “Don’t worry,” he said to Capro Goodfellow’s frown. “I’ll put the robe in my pack, just in case. Might be useful if it rains.”

  Capro swallowed. “Wizards don’t carry packs; everything they need is tucked away in a sleeve.”

  Jonathan shrugged, and began walking down the road. After a while he asked: “So, are you going to open a portal to Avondale? That’s what you did last time you were in a hurry.”

  The most secret of all the secrets[61] held by the Bairnsley Magicians and Jonathan spoke as if the spell was no more important than breakfast.

  “Oh, very well.” Capro sighed. “You know, you could be the one who dies if you come on this fools’ outing.”

  “Well, I guessed it might be somebody, but frankly, I’m hoping it’s a bad guy; it’s about time the bad guys got what’s coming to them.”

  Capro, not willing to crush his son’s adolescent fantasies of good triumphing over evil, murmured, “Let’s hope you’re right, son.”

  The acrid tang of banned magic assaulted Capro’s wards. White-faced, he turned and stared south.

  “We’ve just got to—” Jonathan stopped. “What’s the matter?” he asked, uncharitably wonder
ing if his old man was up to the journey.

  “I’m…not entirely sure,” Capro Goodfellow said. “I heard...something.” The old wizard shook his beard. “We’d better hurry, lad. There’s no time to waste.”

  Capro flicked his fingers to create a portal.

  Jonathan sped through in case Capro changed his mind.

  “Good.” Capro sped ahead. “Let’s get moving shall we?”

  “Just as fast as I can.” Jonathan ran as fast as he could, but he was still falling behind. Mr Goodfellow Senior might have been in his dotage, but nobody had bothered to explain the concept to his old man. Still, even at this punishing speed, Jonathan figured it would take at least two hours to get to the castle. If only there was a faster way.

  “Do not even think about such things,” Capro murmured.

  A Child King

  Are you ready?

  King Phetero looked up to see his men shuffling into his chamber.

  Their expressions told him everything he needed to know. They still lacked an infant.

  Yes, he had the girl, and that was good, but his plans would come to nothing without the official prince and heir. Still, all was not lost, the child had to be inside the castle somewhere. Phetero was sure of it. He hadn’t even let a washerwoman out the gates for fear the prince might escape in the laundry, or some other fool trick.

  King Phetero waved the commander to silence so he could think in peace. Where could the young prince be? Had someone hidden him in a basket? Under a bed? Was there a wardrobe, or hidey hole he hadn’t searched?

  Phetero swore. He needed a plan, but all this thinking was already giving him a headache—he rubbed his temples.

  Queen Tishke had stonewalled him long enough. It was time to torture her and see if she was as stubborn as she thought. As stubborn as the hostages he’d tortured already. One lady, laughing hysterically, had died after choking out her final words, “You’ll never find him you pig—and that’s a shame, because you’d be better off marrying the boy.” Whatever in the Seven Realms that was supposed to mean—he hadn’t even said anything about his plan to marry Sylvalla, secure her inheritance and kill her off.

  The only thing standing in the way of this perfect plan was the heir apparent. An obvious threat, he had to die. Not today—but in the fullness of time the prince could suffer one of the many dangers of childhood—a fall while horse riding, a terrible case of blunt-force chicken pox, or a nice healthy dose of lead paint.

  “I’ll find you, you little bastard,” King Phetero roared. “I’ll find you!” He knuckled his fists into his temples. “It seems I sent all my best men to knock off Rufus, Dirk and that other fake prince. You layabouts are so incompetent you can’t even find a baby! Now get out!”

  His men flinched, and scurried out.

  There was nothing else for it, he had to get this over with, but right this moment he needed to take a breath—his head ached as if demons from the pits of hell were tearing their way into his skull.

  §

  As soon as he closed the door, Phetero’s officer muttered, “We invaded a castle. All those guys had to do was go on a turkey shoot.”

  “Yeah, how difficult could it be to kill King Rufus out in the open in a sneak attack?”

  “What about Francis and Dirk?” another soldiers muttered. “I heard they’re dragon slayers.”

  “Francis, paugh.” A tall soldier spat. “Even if Dirk is as good as people say he is, he can’t stop an arrow in the back. So here we are, the conquerors of Avondale. We should be celebrating and enjoying some of the loot. But no, we’re the whipping boys.”

  “Don’t worry, lads.” The officer said with forced cheeriness. “It’ll all turn around when we find the brat. Then we’ll be toting rum and having a fine old time. Just you wait and see.”

  Truth and Dare

  Queen Tishke shivered under the blankets. Waiting for the axe to fall was unbearable. Even if it was a metaphorical axe—like, for example, a sword.

  Other queens had faced equally horrible fates with straight spines and proudly tilted chins. Tishke didn’t feel she was up to such equanimity—she dared not move lest the fear she cradled in her gut should hatch.

  The tramp of boots and clank of mailed armour out in the corridor echoed hauntingly, growing louder until the soldiers were right outside her door.

  As it stopped, her shaking intensified—chest tight with breath she hardly realised she was holding.

  The door rattled and Phetero entered, his purple cloak billowing, sweat pearling on his brow.

  The fear turned into a billowing rage. Rising to her feet, Tishke wondered at her sudden calm. Had those other queens found this solid wall of rage with which to cloak their fear?

  Phetero stared at her.

  Tishke stared back.

  “This is your last chance,” Phetero barked. “Where is the boy?”

  “What boy? I have no boy,” The queen answered with the facts. Cold and hard and true. Truer than she might have wished. Each word a blow.

  “You know which boy.” Phetero pulled himself closer, hunching threateningly over her.

  Tishke stepped backward. “The stable boys? The kitchen drudges?” She clutched her arms around her and laughed, a sound best described as sanity grating against the edge of reason.

  “You know which boy,” he repeated, finger jabbing at her shoulder.

  Tishke shrank back.

  Phetero’s lips twitched upward without conviction. His voice mellowed. “Tell me, and all this unpleasantness will disappear. Where is he?”

  Tishke’s answer was an involuntary shake of the head. Even that was a tell in this game of power. With a hand like this, a few shreds of information—like who the father was—could mean so much.

  Count your cards. The Bastard’s wild.

  Ah, how she’d have liked to spit that out. But she wasn’t so far gone. Yet.

  Tishke looked up. Phetero had been speaking, but she hadn’t heard him above the clamour of her own thoughts. She’d only enough time to register shock as the back of Phetero’s hand slammed across her cheek.

  Tishke lifted her own hand as if to touch the wound, and let it fall. Blood dripped down her face, and off Phetero’s heavy rings.

  “No more games,” Phetero shrieked.

  Tishke twisted her lips into a grin. “I say, if this is a game, it is most unpleasant.” She sat down, and arranged her besmirched clothes as if she were about to have her portrait painted. It pained her to think Sylvalla might be right—that she should have faced the world with a sword in her hand. However, as she’d armed herself with little more than lace, she needed to arrange her forces with ultimate care.

  “Very well,” Phetero sneered. “If you will not talk to me, I have a friend for you to confide in. His name is Zed.”

  Phetero opened the door.

  The guards paled, shifting slightly in their stances as an immaculate man with dark hair and a face so pale, green veins showed through his translucent skin. “Zed,” the man said. Without any other pre-amble he hefted a black leather case with silver clasps onto Tishke’s dresser. “Delighted to meet you, Tishke. I do so think human skin makes the best leather, don’t you?” he murmured,

  Fascinated, horrified, Queen Tishke watched as he caressed the fine black leather.

  He snapped open its silver butterfly clasps to reveal a velvet-lined interior holding silver torture implements, all shaped to echo the butterfly theme of the clasps.

  Beauty and danger. Life and death and transformation.

  Tishke’s head buzzed. The stakes had been raised. A part of her wished to touch the part that was not quite sane, and ride that insanity so hard Phetero and his men would regret this day for as long as they lived.

  Focus. The pale-faced torturer was describing a disembowelling with disembodied precision.

  The buzzing in Tishke’s ears intensified—and another noise—was that footsteps?

  There was a sharp knocking at the door.

  A so
ldier entered and beckoned Phetero over.

  Something was happening. Tishke crossed her fingers.

  Zed looked up. Hiding his annoyance with the falsest of smiles, he spread his arms wide in a conciliatory gesture. “It would be such a pity, my lord, if we should rush my...art.”

  Tishke shivered, and resolved to fight—but not yet. It would be best to wait, at least until Phetero and his guards were out of sight.

  “Fall back. You!” Phetero turned to his officers. “Take her and prepare the study for the master torturer, go!”

  Is Phetero under attack? Has someone come to rescue me?

  Tishke found herself being dragged down the corridor, her heart dizzy with the slim return of hope.

  Synchronicity

  Timing is everything

  Dirk rolled his eyes, marshalled his patience and tried again. “Count. Come on you lot, ‘... seven, eight, nine, ten.’ Get it right. Go.”

  “One, two...”

  The kitchen staff counted again and again, in their effort to be synchronous.

  “That’s enough,” Cook snapped. “Now Dirk, and you, er, Francis. You need to get going. Don’ take too long. And don’ leave my boys to die in the corridor by racing off after that princess. Get to the western end of the castle, gather who you can, and attack on a count of 300, understand? My staff will do their bit and we’ll flush the Scotch Mist Scum right outa here.”

  Dirk looked at Francis. “What about the prisoners, are you going to be okay when we’re all gone?”

  “This lot?” Cook said. “Leave ’em to me. They can go in the pantry. The next shift’ll join ‘em, easy as pie.”

  “Are you going to be...?” Francis stopped.

  Cook glared at him. “Course Ah’ll be alright. No sense in worryin’ yerselves about me. Yer’ve got bigger fish to fry. ’Sides, Torri ’ere knows how ter set traps, don’ yer Torri?”

  “I never set none fer people, miss.”

  “Ah lass, but yer a quick one, ’n’ mark me words, I hain’t always been a cook.”