by A. J. Ponder
Dothie ignored the impossible few hundred—the limitations of his power were not something he liked to discuss. Besides, he had other priorities. “But King Phetero, Oh Great and Mighty King Phetero, my work—”
“You can do it from the wall as easily as anywhere else. Get that slovenly disaster you call a servant to do some of the running about.”
Seething, Dothie turned to glare at Arrant. The idiot boy was staring slack-jawed at a gilt carving that had caught his eye.
“He can’t read, can he?” Phetero enquired. “Some of those documents you are working on are rather ... sensitive.”
“Arrant?” Dothie replied. “No.”
“Good.” Phetero dismissed them with a wave.
Dothie left, fists clenched by his sides. The temptation to tear up Phetero’s books and feed them down the megalomaniac’s throat was almost overwhelming, but he swallowed his rage and called his two servants to him.
“We have things to do,” Dothie informed them coldly. “And you, Arrant, don’t think I haven’t noticed you spending all your time looking over my shoulder. Up until now I have been lenient, but that is about to change.” He hauled Arrant up by his shirt collar. “If I catch you so much as peeking at any of the correspondence I won’t kill you—I’ll leave that job to the king.” Dothie looked closely into the youth’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
Arrant nodded, his skinny little face bobbing up and down earnestly. Stupidly.
Dothie grimaced. When he’d first taken this boy on, he’d thought he’d seen some glimpse of intelligence. After this display, he knew his retainer was simply slack-witted.
§
Arrant hid a smile. He was learning so very much here. And not just the books, sometimes the shadows in the walls spoke to him.
Hard Work and Sacrifice
“Pa pum, pa puuuuum,” The Avondale army announced itself before they even came in sight of the Scotch Mist castle walls. They’d been on the road for a few days now, their progress made slow by wagons and Torri’s half-completed Chunkers.
“Sylvalla!” Dirk said, scanning the horizon. “I don’t understand why you insist on all this—posturing. Why tell the enemy where you are and give them time to prepare?”
“I know how you feel, son,” Capro said, his hand patting the thin air where Dirk’s shoulder had been. “But the more noble we are, the more Phetero loses face in the eyes of his army. And anyway, I was thinking if we’re about to put our heads inside the lion’s mouth, then it is time we doled out the cure for halitosis. Jonathan, where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The anti-magic powder.”
“Oh.” Jonathan rummaged around in his pack, and pulled out a large bag full of little twisted paper sachets. “I hope there’ll be enough.”
“Better be,” Capro grunted and started handing out the sachets. “Don’t lose it, take a pinch just before battle.”
Not every soldier took a twist of paper. Some even dropped the sachets onto the ground. Or flashed discreet, and less discreet, wards against evil.
Sylvalla turned to Amarinda and Torri. “You too, I don’t want to lose you.” She laughed. “My mother would have kittens. Imagine the scandal, the Queen of Avondale without an entourage.”
Dirk waved his antidote away. “I have the only magic I need. My sword. Its edge contains as much magic as I ever want to see.”
Jonathan looked at Dirk. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten. Well, that’s everyone. Are we ready?”
“Not yet,” Greybeard snapped. “I have to talk to the men.” He pulled himself onto his horse. “Listen up, boys. This is where things get interesting. We’ve got a war to fight and I’m not dragging home any more corpses than I have to. So you’d all damned well better do what I say—when I say it. You hear me?”
“Sir.”
“Louder.”
“Sir! Yes Sir.”
“That’s better. Now, you talk when I say talk—otherwise you keep those traps shut. Hear me?”
“Sir! Yes sir!”
He lowered his voice. “Company Three and Four peel off now, scout this area, then make it look like you’re re-joining us at Scotch Mist, but set up camp behind that bit of hill. Separately. Short quarters. If somebody sees where you are, they don’t need to know how many men you’ve got. If that same someone gets close, and you aren’t all over them—I’ll kill you myself. Got that? Company two go with them, and make a lot of dust coming back, understand?”
“Sir. Yes Sir.”
“Good,” Greybeard shouted loud enough for his voice to carry to any nearby spies. “Hurry then. Scout the area and come back to base.”
§
Thunderbolt skittered and tossed his head as the Avondale army halted, just out of arrowshot, of the gates of Scotch Mist.
The gate creaked open, and from behind the intricate twists of iron a herald emerged with a white flag of peace fluttering limply in his half-raised hand. He was joined by several others, they jerked their heads from side to side like prairie dogs as they made their way toward Sylvalla and her army.
Greybeard, his face carefully impassive, turned to Sylvalla. “These negotiations, my lady, will be most tedious.”
“I look forward to every moment,” Sylvalla replied, staring back at him with widened eyes. In truth, Sylvalla thought the only thing worse than going to these negotiations would be not going to them. It wasn’t like she was about to ruin anything with her lack of diplomacy, a quick and peaceful resolution was about as likely as a bird flying backward—or trees that walked.
“Watch out. They’re spying,” Greybeard said to Sylvalla.
“There’s not a shower of rain I could have come down in recently,” Sylvalla muttered. “How about you get our soldiers to surround them. The closer we get, the less they’ll see. Besides, I dare say those archers on top of the Scotch Mist walls have a better view.”
Surrounded, the herald waved his flag and squeaked, “Surrender now or King Phetero will destroy you and your kingdom—until nothing remains but dust.”
Greybeard clapped his hands together.
The herald and his contingent of soldiers jumped.
“Surrender now,” Greybeard boomed, “and our terms will be most generous. For Avondale is not ruled by a madman.”
“At least he is a man,” said the idiot clutching the white flag.
Sylvalla stepped in close. “Where is he, then?”
The Avondale soldiers, who’d been bristling, burst into laughter.
“Fools,” the herald muttered turning on his heel. More whispering and the Scotch Mist party turned on their heels.
The preliminary talks were over.
They spent the next two weeks setting up the Avondale fortifications. Greybeard and his generals crowded around large maps in a smog of alcohol and tobacco, and pontificated at length. It all boiled down to the same thing. Wait and see. Avondale’s best chance was to be well fortified and to come up with a better strategy than attacking the Scotch Mist walls with boulders.
At the end of the two weeks, little had changed. Torri’s Chunkers had multiplied, and Amarinda had resorted to wearing practical clothes, although every so often she did look into her cases and ooh over her new wardrobe.
Every day, Scotch Mist soldiers tried to slip past their defences, and were questioned at length, even though they knew nothing. Then they were bundled back to Avondale or hanged, depending on whether their superiors had sent them in uniform or out of it. The first were scouts, and the second were spies.
“Pieces of cloth—such a small distinction to hang a life on,” Sylvalla complained to Dirk. “None of this is getting us any closer to victory—not the endless hours of planning or the cold-blooded killing. It’s a game. A little boy’s game, with pieces on the board that barely move.” She had to get out. Maybe go and find Jonathan and Capro. The two wizards were undoubtedly somewhere, taking care of their self-appointed task of keeping two sets of eyes out for a certain fru
it-fly obsessed wizard whose head popped above the wall occasionally.
Jonathan’s enthusiasm for this task seemed endless—he had yet to land a spell on Dothie, but his enthusiasm always had the wizard ducking for cover before he did any real damage.
Still, nobody swatted flies anymore. And more and more people took the Goodfellow’s potion.
The crisp mountain air brought the words of a small group of soldiers to Sylvalla’s ears. She moved closer to listen to some old men delivering their wisdom as they leaned on their shovels and ordered the younger soldiers around.
According to her old sword-master—A commander should know what his men are thinking. And Sylvalla couldn’t help but wonder if some of these old hands knew something her command staff did not.
From the trench one of the lads said, “We should just go in–and get the buggers, and not stand around here—digging like worms in muck.”
“Nah. Starve ’em out,” an old man said, rubbing grizzled patches of beard and nodding wisely to his companions. “Better that, believe me, boys. And you, laddie, scratch a bit more out of that ditch there, can’t be wide enough, nor deep enough for me. You’ll be pleased I made ’ee when the Mist Devils come to take ’ee into the underworld.”
“Ain’t no devil comin’ fer me, old man. I’m young an’ I’m tough an’ them devils’ll die before ever they lay hands on me.”
“That may be so, but I’m old an’ I’ve lived, an’ I want to live a whiles longer yet. So get them stakes nice’n sharp. Even heroes die, son.”
Almost, Sylvalla reminded them they faced fighting men. She would have, but for the nagging question—will they be happier facing devils, or men across the battlefield? Instead, she passed by with a small cough and a salute. They bowed and worked harder, tongues stilled for the moment.
Further along, another group chattered, happily unaware of her presence. Their section of the defences was good and wide with plenty of long sharp stakes protruding from the black depths.
Reflexively, she stepped back from the edge, a small thud of terror echoing in her chest as she remembered her of her dream of Mahrawyn in the abyss.
One of the oldsters looked straight at her, and gestured grandly at the trebuchets. “Death, death, it comes to us all. But hopefully them first, eh? Just look at ’em towers rising into the sky, Milady.” He pointed to Torri’s Chunkers.
His friend chucked him in the ribs, gently, careful not to spill a drop from the small cup nursed in his hands. “’Tis good, neh, lassie? Not even the famous Scotch Mists can save ’em now. They’ll fall on our defences like rats, and like rats they’ll die.”
“While brave[70] men like yourself stand true, no one will defeat Avondale,” Sylvalla replied, making every effort to give her tone ringing conviction.
Turning back to the command tents, she spied Greybeard.
Sylvalla ducked away. Pretending not to see him might buy a few more minutes peace.
It would be nice to go riding, like the horsemen circling the Scotch Mist walls. Being in command meant someone always wanted a piece of your time.
Were those horses a bit close to the walls?
A round of arrows whistled from the battlements, falling close enough to spook a horse. It whinnied and threw its rider to the ground.
He lay still.
Encouraged, more arrows flew from the Scotch Mist battlements, worrying the riders who’d returned for their fallen comrade.
“Enough of this!” Sylvalla shouted across to the rapidly approaching Greybeard. “Enough. I’m not here to play games, I am here for justice. Arrange a parlay with Phetero at noon tomorrow, I have a proposal for him.”
Living on the edge of battle had given her less appetite for bloodshed. It had also shattered her nerves—when Dirk appeared from the shadows she almost jumped out of her skin.
“But Sylvalla, we almost have enough of Torri’s Chunkin’ machines completed to hurl down their walls. Do not balk now. We shall be victorious.”
“I do not seek victory, I seek justice,” Sylvalla replied, turning away.
“What are you are planning, Sylvalla?” Greybeard pressed, grabbing her arm.
“I do what I must, now unhand me before someone realises what you’re doing.”
Greybeard’s hands dropped as though they’d been stung.
“Sylvalla?” Dirk demanded.
“Just arrange the parlay,” she snapped, and stalked back to her tent.
§
That night, Sylvalla slept erratically, her dreams plagued by dragons the size of mountains laying waste to villages as a thousand lifeless eyes stared up at her and bejewelled insects sucked away her soul.
§
Sylvalla woke well before the sun began to rise, a sick knot in her stomach. Try as she might, she could not sleep again, or shake the feeling that she was caught in a nightmare.
As soon as she could hear movement, Sylvalla dressed in a formal riding dress.
“You’re up to something,” Amarinda said, following Sylvalla out of the tent. “Whatever it is, don’t do it.”
Greybeard half-sauntered, half-rushed toward them, his shirt fluttering in the morning breeze. “I thought I’d stop by, and we’d go over those plans you mentioned last night.” His wayward bristles and unbuttoned shirt made a lie to his nonchalance.
Sylvalla tried to walk past.
“Queen Sylvalla,” he grabbed at her hands before thinking better of the manoeuvre.
“Not now,” Sylvalla said brusquely. “I need to sort out one or two things. You know, you should go and organise everybody for the parley. I think it would be best if we were all on horseback. In fact you should organise it personally.” She strode on.
“Out with it,” Amarinda said, matching her step for step. “Your mother said she’d personally kill me if anything happened to you.”
“And if I do nothing, and all my soldiers die? You have family here. Torri does. Would you trade their lives for yours?”
“Only if I was sure it would work.”
Sylvalla laughed. Certainty was not something she was able to give.
Not that the other people that intercepted her were any less curious. Every few steps somebody enquired as to her plans—as if they were in her confidence more than Dirk or Amarinda—or the great long chain of people who’d already asked. Each time she replied. “They are my plans, and you will hear about them just as soon as you should.”
Carefully looking down in order not to catch anybody’s eye, Sylvalla made her way to where the horses were tethered. Thunderbolt’s glossy coat shone in the morning sun as he pawed the muddy ground, and released a noxious torrent of dung.
Sylvalla clucked over him, and demanded a curry-comb and brush from the harried groom who just stared at her, open mouthed. She snatched the body brush from him and began grooming. Quietly working out the few specks of mud, she ignored further demands until everyone was ready to set off, white flag fluttering, to the parley.
It was a long wait in no man’s land. A wait in which Sylvalla came to severely regret her lack of breakfast. And then, lunch. But she couldn’t complain, not with Amarinda sitting nearby looking unflappable, and more like royalty than she did.
At last, a white-flagged party sallied from the city gates. A glance confirmed Phetero was indeed among the embassy, as was his wizard—and, it seemed, most of his army.
Treachery?
The thought flickered through Sylvalla’s mind. But she doubted Phetero was brave enough for such an act.
Two horns blew, neither of them managing anything remotely approximating a note, as the resplendent royal party approached, their horses lifting their hooves high as if they were on some damned parade ground. In comparison, Sylvalla felt her party was rather drab. Thunderbolt tried to make up for their lack of style by arching his neck this way and that, and frisking in the sunshine. His hooves’ staccato-shuffle on the ground was almost comforting. At least it gave her something else to think about.
Greybe
ard opened his mouth, intending that this conversation should not be hijacked by Sylvalla—only he was too late—
Sylvalla hurled her voice high and clear toward her enemy. He might be all hemmed in with horses and warriors, but they could not save him from the sting of her words. “King Phetero, I challenge you to a duel. Honour for honour.” Her eyes flicked toward Dirk. Everyone would expect her to use him as her champion, but that would give Phetero too many ways to wriggle out—besides, this fight was hers. “Unless you are too cowardly to fight a woman.”
“Pah! A girl,” Phetero snorted, just loud enough to ensure everybody could hear his disgust.
Sylvalla smiled. “You’re far too willing to brandish words, and yet I see no evidence of any manhood.” Oops. Damn. Cursed vile tongue. It should stay firmly stilled. My blade alone should do the cutting.
Phetero whispered snidely to a companion. Sylvalla did not strain to hear the words. The man had not changed. His words would be crudely witty. She did not wish to hear them; instead she spake[71] the terms of her challenge. “Tomorrow, first light, the arena will be prepared. There we shall fight—until only one of us remains standing. May the God of Death be merciful and just.”
A reverent murmuring rose from those assembled—even the Scotch Mist contingent. “May all the gods be merciful and just.”
And that was it.
The party was silent on the short trek back to camp, Greybeard’s face turning various colours until they were nearly back. “By the Mother Hen! This—this is utter stupidity. You cannot expect to win.”
Sylvalla shrugged. “This is my vendetta. My war. How many have died already so my family and I can find justice?”
“On the contrary, Your Majesty, it is to the shame of Avondale and all your soldiers that we have not...”
“Enough,” she snapped. She dismounted and took care of her horse while Greybeard stood there and bit his tongue. He did not seem to relish the taste. And he wasn’t the only one grumbling.
“Everyone go.” Sylvalla ignored further protests. There were certain advantages to being the Queen of Avondale, after all. Even a temporary queen.