The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

Over the ruckus of screaming and crying infants, all the women loudly insisted that they were indeed holding the royal heir in their arms.

  Whatever I do, I must not look weak, not even for a moment.

  But to hum and haw over a load of babes in arms was weakness personified...she glanced about to see the smarmy Vizier smiling much too broadly at her discomfit.

  Sylvalla smiled back at him, the solution suddenly clear. The lack of a male heir might be a problem of state, but finding him again was her mother’s responsibility. She called a guard over. “Get those children out of my court and into the parlour where you will instruct my mother, Her Royal Highness, that they request an audience.”

  The guard bowed himself out, and Sylvalla, with no small relief, watched the conniving women leave, smiles poorly hidden.

  “My trusted advisors...” Sylvalla lied, wondering what platitude she could say to keep them from causing trouble.

  The great doors flew open once again. This time the Goodfellows strode in.

  “Why are you two still here?” Sylvalla asked, too aware of the hushed crowd hanging on her every word.

  “We need to speak about prophecy,” Jonathan blurted with his typical bluntness. She might love such honesty, except that it was so unsuited to treating with a queen.

  “Can you not see I have affairs of state, um, I mean public pronouncements?” Sylvalla waved her hand imperiously. “Important public pronouncements. I have no time for prophecy, I must defend Avondale.”

  “May I have a quiet word?” Capro approached the throne. “You look so small, and see so little,” he whispered, meaning all the insults that implied. “Grant me three wishes. Look further, listen harder, and be careful what you wish for.”

  “And that includes vows,” Jonathan muttered.

  Sylvalla almost jumped out of her seat remembering her vow of just days ago. By the gods, I will avenge you, my father, or I will die trying.

  “It is time you left.”

  “Talk later tonight?”

  Sylvalla shook her head. This was not a good time to be seen consorting with wizards. Not unless things got a lot better...or a lot worse.

  Capro nodded wearily, suddenly older. “We must go back now, but we will return again. I pray it will not be too late.”

  “Good. Now if someone would inform my military advisors, I have decided I will meet them in the study.”

  After that, it was hard to rouse the enthusiasm to shout, “Avondale!” But Sylvalla did.

  To her relief, the crowd cheered. They continued cheering for Avondale until long after she’d disappeared.

  Waiting

  Patience is a virtue...

  This is doubly so for killers. Hands to bows, or swords, or lethal magic, they must wait. Sooner or later their victim will reach the killing grounds—completely unaware that in one short moment their fragile life will depend, not on their own wits, but on the skill of their assassin.

  Dothie smiled, after days of waiting, he was watching Sylvalla from his carefully chosen vantage point, hidden amongst well-wishers and low walls. He’d wait, just a little longer, for the perfect moment.

  Dothie licked his lips with anticipation. On his shoulder, his reptilian companion licked his eyes.

  Soon, so soon now, Sylvalla’s life would be in his hands.

  Pomp and Ceremony

  A throne is gained with pageantry

  and kept with steel

  Politics, Sylvalla thought, trying not to look at Francis in his ridiculous blue and gold outfit, or itch the places where the gold thread from her coronation gown scratched her neck. To hide her discomfort, she smiled harder and waved at the crowd from her carriage, teeth grating in determination. Vile politics. Whose idea had it been to ride through half the city just to put a stupid crown on a person’s head?

  To make it worse, the procession was hardly moving as the crowd encroached, their hands reaching to touch her and Francis, their voices raised in blessings. The public wished for nothing more than to bathe in the reflected glory of this singular day.

  Expecting danger from under every floral bonnet, Dirk gripped his sword and surveyed the crowd, muttering words Sylvalla’s royal attendants professed not to hear. Mostly lambasting the recklessness of the young Avondale soldiers who were goose-stepping with chests thrust out like prize birds at a turkey shoot. Some even waved cheerily to the crowd despite the glares from their commanding officers. Today everybody wanted to be a part of the spectacle, to see the new queen crowned and the happy couple wed. Everybody except Sylvalla and Dirk. And maybe Francis.

  Sylvalla, her wrist sore from waving, her face aching from the false smile planted upon it, gritted her teeth. “Can’t we go any faster?”

  There was no reply.

  “Dirk?”

  Someone shoved her sideways. Francis. “Get down.” He leapt out of the carriage, drawing his sword.

  “What’s—” An arrow whizzed overhead.

  Dirk’s voice thundered over screams from the crowd. “Find that archer. Bring him here.”

  Half a dozen guards peeled off, swords drawn. The rest stayed. Somewhere in that mass of people, the archer could have accomplices.

  Sylvalla, annoyed to be pushed out of the action, got back up to see what was happening.

  An arrow thumped into her arm. She toppled off the seat and onto the floor.

  As blood poured down her sleeve, Sylvalla’s first thought was that the damned coronation dress was ruined; her second thought was how useless the damned dress was. As the hem was made from gold lamé, it wouldn’t even make a good tourniquet. Somehow, through the red haze of pain, Sylvalla remembered the dressmaker had forced her into half a dozen petticoats. She tore off a strip between bouts of blasphemy involving the Maiden, Death and War in various unheard of conjugations and attempted to tie a tourniquet one-handed.

  More of her personal guard rushed into the crowd. She wasn’t sure if they were keen to hunt down her attackers, or simply wanted out of the line of fire.

  By now, the arrow was more than an inconvenience. It hurt. Gritting her teeth she tied the tourniquet as she’d been trained. Gods, she was fortunate her old sword-fighting tutor had not only considered basic field medicine a part of any swordsman’s education, but a convenient blind spot when it came to identifying and throwing out young princesses. Remembering all the times he’d protested his innocence, Sylvalla croaked a half-strangled laugh, and tried not to cry with the pain. Who’d have thought she’d need the skills he’d taught while acting out her stately obligations?

  The next step was to snap the arrow shaft.

  Breathing slowly, Sylvalla tried to grasp it one handed.

  Red pain washed over her.

  Her stomach turned.

  It wasn’t going to work, blood had made the wood slick and difficult to grip. She tried again.

  Her hand slipped again.

  Pain rushed through her, and she threw up onto the carriage floor. Fortunately there was little enough in her stomach.

  Dirk looked into the carriage, blood dripping from his sword.

  Dammit. The assassin should have been taken alive. Unfortunately, that wasn’t her main priority right now. “Snap the shaft,” she rasped.

  Dirk looked around, his head swivelling in all directions before focussing back on Sylvalla. “My lady,” he said, his wiry hands finding the shaft and snapping it before Sylvalla could brace herself.

  Pain engulfed her in a sickening rush and was quickly replaced with anger. I will show them I’m not so easy to kill. Sylvalla sat back up on her seat.

  “Keep down!” Dirk hissed between clenched teeth, his eyes flicking from side to side.

  Sylvalla shook her head with determination gathered from pure rage. “I will not cower like a kicked dog. Avondale must know I am strong.”

  With as much of a smile as she could muster, Sylvalla began waving again with her good arm, and joking to anyone close enough to hear, “’tis only a scratch.”

  The cr
owd began cheering with even more gusto than before, marvelling at their brave queen, who, even with her coronation dress sprayed with blood and half an arrow in her arm, continued to do right by her people.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Dirk’s words buzzed in her ear.

  “No.” Sylvalla replied, her mouth dry. “But I can’t stop now. I don’t think I could bear going to the seamstress for yet another dress.”

  If I’m to rule, I’ll be stuck in dresses like this forever.

  “Francis, is there a drink around here?”

  “Here.” Francis passed her his hip flask. Water flowed like nectar over her thickened tongue.

  “You know, this ruling Avondale was a terrible idea. Why didn’t you talk me out of it?”

  Francis nodded, and carefully put his arm around her. “Dirk is right, we should go back—”

  “See, mother,” Sylvalla whispered, despite her mother being patently unable to hear, as she following in a separate carriage. “Ruling is far more dangerous than being a hero after all. You really wouldn’t like it.”

  But if I rule, I can do what I like. An evil thought. And a lie.

  “We’re here,” Francis whispered.

  Sylvalla pulled at the blood-sticky dress so it didn’t cling quite so uncomfortably to her arm. Trying to conceal her light-headedness, she took the hand Francis was offering and stepped down.

  Slowly, she walked up the dais’ steps alone. That way, the crown would still be hers after her marriage.

  One, two, three... Sylvalla counted each step as they ascended, more graceful now than at any moment of her life—the slightest jolt sending agonising pain lancing through her arm.

  ...nine, ten. She reached the top.

  Representatives of the gods were there to greet her. Their colours blurred under her addled vision. Only the brown and yellow of pestilence and disease were missing—as they should be for a wedding.

  All the remaining god’s representatives were speaking in a kind of drone. Sylvalla couldn’t really hear them. They seemed so far away. Still, they raised their arms, and blessed her rule. That was her cue, wasn’t it?

  Gracefully, Sylvalla turned. Gracefully, because every twitch sent pain lancing up her neck, through her jaw, and pounding into her skull with the brutality of a sledgehammer.

  The priests laid the crown on her head. It was damned heavy.

  Sylvalla blinked. Despite her blurred vision, she thought she could see Dothie. She blinked again. Unbelievably, just as plain as day, he stood no more than two yards away, smiling right at her.

  Sylvalla opened her mouth and began to raise her hand, intending to shout, there he is, even as The Harvester and The Maiden tried to place the great purple cloak on her shoulders...

  ...the crown tumbled...

  ...the royal-blue mantle dropped from nerveless fingers…

  ...the crowd gasped; a sharp intake of breath.

  Tongues were stilled to terrified silence—before picking up from where they left off, and making up for lost time. For, if the first attack was not an evil omen, then this assuredly was—their Queen had disappeared.

  Trouble

  Beware…

  Dothie grinned. King Phetero should be most appreciative. Fortunately, Sylvalla hadn’t turned back after her injury—or that idiot Scotch Mist archer would have ruined everything. Now, even if she survived her transformation into a fruit fly, her reputation would be in tatters.

  “Now Toots, where’s Dirk?” Dothie murmured. He stifled a chuckle as Dirk conveniently leapt up the steps. Phetero would be even more appreciative when that knave fell. His disappearance was the signal for Phetero’s remaining soldiers to come out of hiding and strike a severe blow to the very heart of Avondale.

  Stretching out his hand, Dothie cast his favourite spell again, this time on Sylvalla’s protector.

  Nothing happened.

  The annoying git just stood there, large as life and five times more annoying. Dothie tried his spell again.

  Nothing.

  Well, not quite. Dirk’s sword was glowing red-white, as though it was burning hot. What? It was damned unsettling to find someone was immune to magic, but a sword with magical immunity? Damned rude!

  Up on the dais, Dirk spread his skinny arms wide protecting the ground where Sylvalla had stood. He searched inch by inch with exaggerated care before carefully scooping something into his hand. “Jonathan’s Wizard!” he yelled, “You will pay for this.”

  And Dothie quailed. But only for an instant.

  Dirk turned to look in completely the wrong direction—to where old Queen Tishke was being held up by her lady’s maids as she gibbered:

  “Ruler’s robes in the dust

  Crown upon the ground.

  Heed the death of a country...”

  Her fingers clawed wildly. Her eyes widened. Yellow rings highlighted her bloodshot eyes as she turned and stared directly at Dothie—

  “Beware the ruler that will tread

  Down dark alleyways

  Of dread

  To seek salvation

  And find only death

  Death

  DEATH!”

  Dothie shivered and cursed. By the gods, it was eerie the way Tishke was looking at him. His hand snaked out. One more fruit fly? No. Tishke I will leave. She’ll do more damage like this.

  A moment later and there was no time—bearing down on Dothie was a dangerous man with a very sharp sword. Dirk. His blade fairly hummed with joy as it slipped through the molecules that made up the air around him. The unmistakeable smell of ozone wafted nearer with every step.

  Celebrations having turned so quickly to disaster, the crowd melted away faster than summer snow. Dothie followed their example. Down the streets he ran, Dirk chasing him.

  Dirk had raw speed, while Dothie had wizardly tricks of speed and misdirection. He used all of them.

  Still Dirk followed, unerringly finding the wizard’s trail time and time again.

  Dothie, his breath coming in ragged gasps, blood soaking into the cloth on his shoulder where Toot’s claws dug in, looked about wildly. He’d trapped himself in an alley with no exit. He turned to face the inevitable. And then he saw it. An open doorway. With a burst of speed, he cast a false image of himself and slipped through the door, quietly bolting it behind him. That will slow Dirk down.

  Dashing through another door, he barged into a hectic bakery. He plunged through the kitchen, sending pasties flying. Choking with flour-dust, he sidestepped the blasting heat coming from the ovens, and barely ducked a rolling pin as it hurtled toward his head.

  Face wobbling in red fury under his white hat, the rolling pin wielding assailant cried, “Catch that thief!”

  Two bakers, quicker than the rest, hurtled toward him. Avoiding them, Dothie jumped over the counter scattering pastries and other delicacies behind him.

  Prophecy

  Words lie

  They are the darkest shadows of all.

  “Ah…?” Francis said as Queen Tishke finished with the prophecy and screamed, “On wings of death! Sylvalla! You’ve doomed us all. The prophecies! They’re true...”

  Sylvalla had disappeared! He had enough to worry about, but Queen Tishke was creating a scene. He had to do something—but what?

  As Francis stood near Tishe’s carriage, unsure of what to do next, Dirk ran up and thrust a royal-blue cushion into Francis’ hands.

  What—?

  Dirk was already racing off. Francis’ question of who he could possibly be after was answered when he saw that sitting on the royal-blue velvet was a large fruit fly with an injured wing. Dothie.

  A small pocket of fighting erupted, as men wearing purple armbands attacked Dirk en masse. It barely slowed him down.

  Tishke’s retinue tightened around the queen, babbling at her.

  She screamed back at them, telling them to take their sweet nothings and just listen for once.

  None dared get too close. And none had the slightest idea what
was going on.

  “Sweet Jelly Babies,” Francis swore as it became clear that despite all the people descending on Tishke, he was the only person who could do anything to calm her. She was royalty—and thanks to the Goodfellows, so was he. He wrapped one arm protectively about the cushion holding what was hopefully Sylvalla, and walked over to put a hand on Tishke’s elbow. “Your Highness, do you think it would be safer back at the castle?” She nodded.

  That was all the excuse he needed to order the carriages to turn around.

  “I had it wrong,” Tishke cried. “It is we who are doomed! Doomed!” Tishke’s words were a hollow, despairing shriek.

  Awkwardly, Francis patted her shoulder.

  Queen Tishke curled in upon herself, gasping in great sobs of air. But on the bright side, Francis still had his head on his shoulders, and she was no longer screaming prophecies.

  “Francis!” The Master of Arm’s rushed up to the turning carriage, his voice booming out over the general furore. “I’ve got men here, but they don’t even know what this Jonathan’s Wizard looks like.”

  “Coming!” Francis called, staying only long enough to ensure Tishke was suitably distracted by one of her more imposing ladies in waiting.

  Moments later, the commander and new Master of Arms—Greybeard—was breathing down Francis’ neck. “Well?” he asked.

  “Uh?” Francis said. Still clutching the cushion, he found himself surrounded by at least a dozen beefy soldiers. “Er, you’re looking for a wizard called Dothie. He’s got dark hair, a hooked nose. And, um, a strange reptile on his shoulder. Oh, and he’s tall, and kind of ... oily.”

  “Great.” Greybeard said. “You heard him. Now scramble, and whatever happens, don’t let this shmuck out the city gates, or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  The men scrambled.

  “He’s long gone,” Francis mumbled to Greybeard.

  “Yeah, most like. Never mind, son. Tell you what. Take my bodyguard and get rid of all these damned aristocrats, before more of Phetero’s men decide to attack.” Greybeard shook his head. “Godsdammit, we have a queen for half a second, and then she goes and disappears.”