by A. J. Ponder
Jonathan glanced behind. The First Wizard was twitching on the ground. He appeared to be trying to say something. Wizards gathered around him, trying to figure out what it was they were meant to be doing.
Unfortunately, Dothie wasn’t incapacitated. He gathered flame in his fist and fired it at the doorway.
Mr Goodfellow senior raised a rainbow-coloured bubble-shield to protect the fleeing wizards, and the fireball fizzled to nothing.
Dothie threw a few more fireballs.
“Help Dalberth, and run!” Capro shouted, countering spell after spell.
Jonathan, terrified as he was, grabbed Dalberth with one hand, his father with the other, and ran for the door. Hoping against hope that they’d make it through the hall while Capro’s shield still held.
Behind them, a crack like thunder rang out. “The foundation stone!” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “The nameless one, Xem’rial, has been released.”
“Nameless,” Jonathan said. “Seems like he has a name to me.”
“And I wish you’d stop saying it,” Dalberth said. “That demon’s powerful enough without you wizards making things worse.”
§
As the nominated court-scribe for the session[96], I scrabbled to reorder my notes, fallen into disarray. Putting my thoughts in order took even longer. What should I note first? The judge was barely coherent, the defendant had been throwing fireballs, and the First Wizard was finally gaining some control of his overactive limbs. He seemed in shock, his mouth hanging open as the other wizards emerged from cover.
“Did you see that?”
“What happened?”
“No, really? A demon? Are you sure?”
“Couldn’t have been.”
The ripple of confusion was becoming a wave when an explosion rocked the room.
The foundation stone cracked[97].
“Freddy, Freddy?” Old Lambe called. “Get up.”
My face mashed against the floor, alarm bells ringing up and down the halls, I tried to move. Head still ringing, I tried to rouse some of the others.
The horror in the room was palpable. The foundation stone was a sacred part of the university, and now it had been destroyed. The only question was who had destroyed it—the Goodfellows, Dothie, or the pestilent evil that had infected Dothie?
The First Wizard, spittle coating his lips, ranted, “They must not escape. Let no one escape.” Then the world turned sideways once more as another blast echoed around the chamber.
This time, when I woke, Old Lambe was lying next to me, dead eyes staring at my face.
I got up, reeling. “Lambe! Lambe!”
There was no response. And Lambe was not the only wizard failing to rise. Other wizards were also unmoving. I hoped they were alive.
The euphoria of living was a stark contrast to the sense of grief and shock. That this should happen here, in this hallowed institution, was worse still. We wizards are a tight-knit bunch, rule-abiding, civil…where had it all gone wrong?
Other wizards were rising, too. Grey-faced, holding their heads. Several were sitting next to friends, crying. Some were applying Cure All and magic to wounds—even to dead wizards, in the hope they might magically spring alive. I found a young wizard cradling a broken arm and did my bit.
The First Wizard leapt to his feet, blustering. “Check the great doors are properly closed. Shut down the paths. The university must remain a bastion amongst…It must remain…” He trailed off. “And I want every last remaining wizard back here in this room. By the gods, we need to sort out this corruption once and for all!”
The First Wizard’s ranting seemed to do the trick. Shocked wizards jumped to follow his orders, gathering wizards, removing bodies, and making sure the injured were made as comfortable as possible.
Shortly, every last soul who remained in the university buildings was wrangled into the court. Not all of them came willingly—many were muttering loudly over ruined projects and rare materials wasted.
The First Wizard shared a glance with Dothie. I jumped.
There was something about that shared gaze that was deeply wrong. It wasn’t just that I’d forgotten Dothie was here, because he’d been so quiet since the university’s foundation stone had broken—it was the first moment I suspected the First Wizard was not himself.
The First Wizard waved his arms. Strange—normally he coughs for attention. “I have called you all here because it seems we are cursed with interesting times—”
Am I being paranoid? He still sounds the same. But in my heart, I knew a change had happened. That neither man was the same. Dothie had become Dothie-Xem, a powerful old wizard in a young wizard’s body.
§
Sylvalla’s eyes itched.
The royal chancellor was struggling to control his nervous horse, pulling too tightly on his reins and hunched over its back like a bird laying an egg. To be fair, the soldiers Mac and Grimmo were hardly doing any better. Grimmo rolled his heavily muscled shoulders in an effort to relax, and Mac, his tightly-curled dark hair framing an intense face Mahrawyn would have swooned over, was talking to his horse under his breath while it skittered to and fro.
Thunderbolt nickered. Sylvalla patted him. What’s wrong with the horses?
“Fire!” Dirk yelled, running toward the hazy horizon and the village near-obscured in the gloom.
“Be careful, we don’t know who or what we’re going to find,” Sylvalla warned. Maybe, this time, they’d catch the marauders.
Sylvalla’s heart hammered. It made her feel alive. At last, she might make a difference.
They galloped to the village only to find it near burned to the ground—the only person in sight, a small boy crying under a wagon.
As soon as he realised he’d been spotted, the boy tried to run, but Dirk quickly caught him and pulled him back.
“You killed them, you killed them all,” the boy yelled at Sylvalla. “Avdale Misty murderers.”
“What?” Mac said. “We saw the smoke and came running to help. Where’s the rest of your village?”
“They took them away. Are you taking me away, too?”
“He might still have family hiding out,” Dirk said. “And no, those people were not Avondale, they were most likely raiders or—”
“Those thieves’ guild soldiers you and Torri talked about?” Grimmo asked.
“Possibly. This far into the border territories, raiders aren’t unusual,” the advisor said.
“But the boy said Avondale. We’re being set up,” Dirk said.
Sylvalla could only agree. If only she’d sent soldiers out to the borderlands earlier.
§
Heart racing, Mr Goodfellow senior breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow they’d made it to the paths safely, even Dalberth and the child. “What were you thinking?” he demanded, breaking away from Jonathan’s grip. “That didn’t exactly go well now, did it?”
“On the contrary, old man. It went better than expected.”
“What on earth do you mean? Dothie is loose in the university and he’s more powerful than I could ever have imagined.”
“Well, yes, there is that.” Jonathan pushed his father toward the closest gate. “But we’re alive. And for a moment there…”
“Enough said, lad,” Capro muttered. “I don’t suppose there’s any hope things are going to get better in the near future?”
“I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. “If anything, things are about to get worse.”
Capro slapped Jonathan on the back. “That’s great, son. At least you’re not a mealy-mouthed liar, like half that lot. There’s nothing like an honest word or two on the road to help keep everyone’s spirits high.”
Urgent News
Wise men seldom speak
A log on the campfire collapsed into a shower of sparks. Dirk jumped, but death was not imminent, so he went back to glaring at the royal chancellor sitting next to Sylvalla. This trip to Northdale would be so much more pleasant without the entourage slowing them down.
“It’s so lovely to be out under the stars,” Sylvalla whispered.
Dirk nodded, even if he didn’t entirely agree. Silvery and pale in the moonlight, the bush contained shadows that could have hidden an army—and for all Dirk knew, they did.
“We need to look professional when we enter the other kingdoms,” the royal chancellor said.
Dirk moved away to steal a little sleep. Rumours of raiding soldiers was nothing new, and the Avondale soldiers he’d picked for the journey had guarded their queen with an attention to detail even Dirk couldn’t fault. They would not disgrace themselves, either way. And still, he couldn’t sleep. So he did something any hero would surely be warned against, if they only lived in books. He looked out into the night. In the real world, peering into the distance is done often, and unremarked, whereas in books it must seem that every time they look into the shadows, they see something deep within them. Something terrifying. This was no exception.
Movement caught Dirk’s eye.
Beyond the campfire, deep in the shadowy bush, something was approaching.
Dirk thought about yelling a warning back to Sylvalla, but what use would she be? So close to the fire, her eyes were surely night-blinded, her ears deafened by its crackle and the sharpening of her blade.
An inhuman shriek echoed in the distance. Behind him the rest of the party slumped.
Asleep? Dead? Cold sweat dripped from Dirk’s forehead. Whatever was out there in the darkness did not move as men would move, their silvery eyes reflecting moonlight and flames.
Nudging one of the men lying on the ground nearby, Dirk was relieved to see he was still breathing, a smile playing on his lips.
Dirk gripped his sword for its protection against magic, as much as its ability to chop off heads. Breathing slowly, he waited for the perfect moment to attack.
Branches snapped under the tramp of approaching feet.
Dirk almost jumped out of his skin.
They were close now. A small army—albeit they weren’t dressed as your usual type of army. They were bearded and cloaked, and standing, their arms raised in terrifying magical poses as if dredged up from his worst nightmare.
Sylvalla rushed past Dirk, her prepared double-handed attack forgotten as she dropped her sword. “Jonathan?”
“Hi,” Jonathan said. He stood in front of the other wizards, and waved.
Sylvalla half-waved back, before adding crossly. “You put me and my men to sleep!” Sheepishly, she retrieved Dragontooth. “Hey, why are they still sleeping, and I’m not? Oh. It’s the sword, isn’t it? I must have touched it when I fell.”
Jonathan nodded.
Dirk was unimpressed. “What in all hells are you two Goodfellows doing?” Dirk said. Given that in his profession surprises were usually deadly, he thought he was taking the situation quite well.
“Ah, Sylvalla, Dirk, there’s something…” Jonathan started.
“Not now,” Sylvalla commanded. Picking up her blade and pointedly ignoring the new arrivals, she turned back to the encampment, making her way around the sleeping bodies of her enspelled army. Finding her bed, she curled back up on her oilskin and pretended to fall asleep. A feat made pretty difficult by Jonathan, still desperately trying to get her attention.
“We have urgent news…” Jonathan said.
Sylvalla snored a very fake snore, to emphasise her point.
“Er, I guess we could wait until morning,” Mr Goodfellow senior said.
There are two sides to every coin.
Never flip a bad penny against a betting man
My head was hurting so much it was hard to focus on writing, and yet, I had to try. The First Wizard, near unscathed, was orating, throwing his arms about with a conviction that was mesmerising as he addressed us all: “The Goodfellows and many others have been infected with these so-called Sylvalla prophecies. Let me be clear, prophecies are dangerous things, and easily corrupt the corruptible. That is why we must take such great care with them. But now”—his glare jerked around the room—“since Jonathan defiled the site of the prophetess Maretta, the scourge of false prophecy has infected more and more people. Now, they are no longer just a threat to the outside world, but a threat to us, to our very way of life. To magic itself.”
“Prove it!” a brave soul yelled from the back.
Dothie-Xem slumped a little. He put his head in his hands in a way that obscured his mouth.
At first, I thought he was hiding an expression of mirth. Then the terrible truth dawned. The First Wizard and Dothie-Xem’s mouths are moving at the same time!
I looked about at my fellow wizards. Surely I wasn’t the only one to notice the tiny movements of Dothie-Xem’s face matched exactly the words the First Wizard was saying? I could not know how much the malevolent entity that hovered over Dothie-Xem controlled him—but it was clear the First Wizard was now just a shell as he raised his arms. “Be strong as I recite the original prophecy.”
“But haven’t the prophecies been corrupted?” a smart-mouth interjected.
“Where’s Potsie?” someone asked. “This is his area of expertise.”
“Hmmph. I’m the expert here.” The First Wizard launched into one of the more familiar Sylvalla prophecies:
“There will be a battle
While the world sleeps
Feather deep in dreams
Of old forgotten tomes,
And laughter.
While the pleasant light of day runs through flickering lids.
One must
Awaken to the night,
Where the shadow land lies twisted,
And evil stalks.
In this battle,
Words lie
Twisted upon themselves,
Open to the void,
Open to the chasm,
To be sucked into the seeping, gurgling,
Noisome pits of hell.
The crowded courtroom erupted. They knew the prophecy was bad, but none could agree on how it should be interpreted.
“See.” The First Wizard’s lips moved with a parody of their old life. “It is clear the girl Sylvalla shall destroy Bairnsley University and magic if she is allowed the chance. In case you doubt this, let me ask the seers if it is true. As First Wizard, I can but suspect—but what I suspect puts us all in grave danger.”
A seer stepped forward, eyes white, as was the tradition. It was not blindness, like a century ago, just the stage trick of looking into one’s own head. Still, it leant an air of expertise to a field of magic known for its charlatans.
The vision the man shared was that of Sylvalla striding through Bairnsley University as it crumbled to dust.
The vision cut to Denowe—a trusted magician—clutching his uncharacteristically messy beard and shouting, “She destroys magic and our way of life.”
“This must never happen,” a seer yelled, sending the whole university into an uproar.
“No, no, not at all,” Potsie said, but the panic had already set in and nobody was listening. “You don’t understand how this works.”
“What can we do?”
“When will this happen?”
“The gods save us.”
“The gods help us all.”
The First Wizard raised his hand for silence. “There is only one thing we can do. We must go to Avondale and demand they hand over the girl.”
“But she’s their queen. What makes you think they’ll hand her over to us?” Denowe asked, patting his trim beard.
“I do not think anything of the sort. I said demand, and I meant demand. We have no other choice, my fellow wizards. We must either fight or die.”
“But how can we be sure these visions are true?”
Dothie-Xem fixed that particular questioner with a baleful glare. His fingers even itched, but this was not the time or the place to be turning men into fruit flies—not yet, but his fingers itched with the possibility. It had been so long since he’d cast that spell on his enemies to make them disappear. Soon. Af
ter all his time in captivity, Toots was thoroughly sick of ordinary flies—he mouthed them with distaste, almost spitting them out with every bite.
“Soon, my friend, soon,” Dothie-Xem whispered.
Silence.
The First Wizard hurried to add, “In the meantime, I suggest we all prepare for the worst.”
§
“Sylvalla, Sylvalla, stop screaming.”
“Go away,” Sylvalla said, head buried in her arms. Not quite awake, she screamed again. So much for catching a little sleep. Her nightmares had been horrifying. A’Rieal had escaped A’lganathrieal—and the little demons were animating corpses to kill her.
“Sylvalla, by the gods, stop screaming,” Jonathan pleaded.
“Oh, no, not you again. Go away, and leave me to my nightmares. They’re better than waking up to you,” Sylvalla muttered. “You’ve ruined everything.”
She’d thought to escape her responsibilities on her quest to find Amarinda and discover, hopefully, that everyone was over-reacting about the butterflies. Yes, it would involve some diplomacy, talking to idiot kings, but that was a small price to pay to escape the castle walls for a few days. Worse still, the Goodfellows had found her. Which meant they had dire news. It was this sure knowledge that had given her nightmares. If only she’d been brave enough to face it.
Can’t I have a little peace?
Stubbornly, she fell asleep one last time. Another mistake. Mahrawyn made it to the top of her pit—and this time she whispered one word, “Tomassss,” before Sylvalla was woken by someone shaking her arm. Jonathan.
Sylvalla reached for her sword. Slowly, Jonathan let her go; cat-nervous, as if death were a real possibility.
“For crying out loud,” Sylvalla hissed. “What has you living so dangerously? Do you have more of your delightful prophecies for me to fulfil?”
“Ha.” Jonathan’s fake laugh was as dry as old leaves. “Prophecies are merely warnings. The warnings have failed. Evil has been released, and omens are everywhere. Do you understand?”
“No,” Sylvalla said. “Not at all.”