by A. J. Ponder
If the wizard would just pick a side. “The wizard is right. I’m not the one starting a war.” Sylvalla turned to her advisors to find someone, anyone, who could help her build a coalition between the disparate groups. “Royal Chancellor?”
Predictably, the man hemmed and hawed. “Saving Francis would be very dangerous. We’re civilised people. We can’t go and invade a castle without evidence of treachery, and all we have are rumours and hearsay.”
I should have known he’d be useless. The royal chancellor’s only skill is finding the most influential person in the room and agreeing with whatever they say.
The rest of the advisors nodded along with him, proving they were no better.
“But,” Torri said, coming into the argument far too late. “The prince of Havondale is much loved by the people. What will they say if we let him die?”
Mr Goodfellow senior nodded. “If nobody else will go, I will. And I’ll see what the story is about these raids while I’m at it. Who will join me?”
“I will,” Dirk said.
“And me,” Sylvalla said. If I stay here much longer, I’ll lose my mind.
“No, definitely not,” the grizzled old knight blurted. Turning bright red, he continued, “Dirk, you are too well-known. And so are you, Princess Sylvalla. As you surely know, going into a kingdom and slaughtering half a castle will definitely provoke a war.”
“War is upon us,” Sylvalla said. “Or they wouldn’t have dared.”
“You’re needed back here to protect your people,” Mr Goodfellow said. “And so are Dirk and Jonathan. I’m looking for another experienced wizard on this mission. Now, who’ll help me?”
Nobody stepped forward.
Sylvalla set her jaw. They will not stop me.
There was a knock at the door. “Your Majesty, your mother Queen Tishke is dying. You must come now.”
“A moment,” Sylvalla said.
“You don’t have a moment,” the messenger said. “Queen Tishke is dying now.”
“She can’t be,” Sylvalla protested. “She’s—” as strong as an ox. Only Sylvalla could no longer convince herself of that lie. “I need to save Francis and Amarinda. I need to—” be a hero.
“Go,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “I’ll find them. Without anyone to slow me down, it’ll be much faster. I promise to do my best to save your friends.”
Sylvalla nodded and raced into her mother’s rooms, chased by Dirk and Torri, leaving the sound of arguing wizards behind.
Maybe this is a ruse for attention? I should be making sure someone goes after Francis and Amarinda. But what if it’s not? Sylvalla barely had time to take a breath before the guards ushered her in. “The doctor said just you.”
She nodded, the world spinning.
Tishke’s rasping breath echoed around the otherwise silent room.
The doctor looked up from wiping Tishke’s brow. “She wants to talk to you alone.” He stood unsteadily, then stumbled from the room, muttering something about running for his life.
Sylvalla inched closer. Her mother was barely a lump on the bed, a tiny figure buried under piles of white lace.
Tishke blinked, staring past Sylvalla’s shoulder. “Sylvalla, is that you?”
“Maybe I should call the doctor back in? There must be something he can do. Mother, you can fight this.”
“Daughter,” Tishke croaked. “Fighting isn’t always the answer. There are things I need to say. Things you should know before the end. It is you, isn’t it, Sylvalla? I…I held on because of you.”
“Yes, it is me.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Take my hands. Who else would have my hands?”
“Nobody, wretched fool daughter. You never listened, always play-fighting with a sword when you could have been so much more. Soon everybody will know…”
“Know what, Mother?”
“You are strong, stronger than I. I should have told you earlier, when you were young. Put a stop to all this…nonsense. But then…I did not want to risk it. Risk you. Risk it all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What is it your wizard always tells you? Be careful what you wish for? Would he bother saying that to just anyone? He knows. He knew.”
“Mother, what did Mr Goodfellow senior know?”
“And now, now I can see what I’ve been blinded to. You were the secret. The great warrior. Part of me must have remembered[100], even as I pretended to myself… I can see the prophecies were always meant to be. They were always about you. The demons rise, they are risen, and they will confront you, Queen of Hearts and Swords, anti-queen, saviour and destroyer of magic. The demons are here. They have your brother.”
“Demons? Tomas?” The idea was too awful to contemplate.
Tishke reached a clawed hand to grasp Sylvalla’s arm. “Save your brother.”
“How?” she whispered.
“If I knew, I’d have done it. The prophecies…” A hiss of breath, tears leaking from milky eyes.
Sylvalla grasped her hand. “Mother, it’s all right.”
“No…” Raspy breaths punctuated her words. It’s…not…all right…send…them…back…” A small rattle, little more than a gulp, shook the old queen as she slumped back onto the pillows.
“Mother? Mother, send the what, where?”
Tishke lay utterly motionless.
“Help! Doctor!” Sylvalla yelled. “Where’s the good doctor?” Sylvalla called. “He should be—”
Tishke’s eyes lit up.
Sylvalla’s throat caught as Tishke’s body rose as if someone, or something, was pulling her up on strings. Vertebrae crunching, her head swivelled, mouth stretched wide in a parody of terror.
Frozen in shock, Sylvalla stared, unable to react even as noisome-green vomit erupted from Tishke’s mouth. It sprayed Sylvalla, the bed, the wall.
Sputum dripping down her front, Sylvalla gripped her mother’s shoulders—hard. The green glow from Tishke’s eyes pulled at her, sucking at her will to look away. Sylvalla’s body grew rigid with terror.
“Your power is ours.” The voice was not Tishke’s; it rasped and squeaked before settling on a throaty purr. “Come to us.”
“No.”
“Oh, but you will. You will.”
“No. You are wrong. Go!” Sylvalla lay her mother’s body down on the bed. Her knees mushy, she staggered away. Shaking, her voice rang out. “By the Seven, get thee hence. Depart this body forever.”
“Thank you, we will. We will. We have.”
The glimmer changed. Tishke’s eyes dimmed, but the atmosphere of ineffable evil remained—and the feeling that she’d failed.
But I don’t even know what she’s talking about. Send what back where? Sylvalla leaned on the doorframe, using its solid presence to align time and space. “Dirk! Torri! Come quickly. Let no one else in.”
Dirk and Torri rushed in. Torri took only a handful of steps, and sank to her knees. “The gods grant us mercy.”
“Torri,” Dirk said, “there is no need to panic over this one death. There’s an army coming. And if the Goodfellows are right, so are Dothie and all the wizards he’s recruited.”
Sputum dripped down Sylvalla’s front. The death of her mother played over and over in her head. She was in no state to be worrying about what might be coming. I thought she’d live forever.
“Torri, I’m going to need fresh clothes. Something…”
Torri nodded, and hurried away.
“What am I going to do, Dirk? Maybe old Mr Goodfellow will know what to do.”
“Sorry, but he’s gone to rescue Francis—and Amarinda, too. The wizards were ordering him about. He said if they were going to be sticklers, he’d go by foot and damn them.”
“I didn’t notice.” Sylvalla’s throat squeezed. She looked across at the tiny figure buried in ruined lace, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
There is No Escape
The trick of surviving certain death,
&nb
sp; is to trade inevitable for evitable
Smoke drew Mr Goodfellow senior from his mission to rescue Francis and Amarinda. Marauders in Avondale uniforms were torching houses.
What I’m thinking of doing is reckless and stupid.
He crept closer. From here, it was clear their uniforms were ratty facsimiles of the real thing. Definitely Arrant’s men.
A harrowing scream rang out, reminding Capro that while he was hesitating, villagers were dying. I need to disperse the army posing as Sylvalla’s soldiers somehow, and without breaking my wizard vows or my conscience. There were some rules Capro was prepared to stretch, but murder by magic was not one of them. He needed a distraction. To that end, he reached into his wizard robes for his stash of fireworks.
Capro took a breath. Plans like this had a tendency to go horribly wrong. Using party fireworks to attack soldiers was foolish, stupid, ill-considered, ill-conceived, and a hundred other very unhealthy things—but all Capro’s reason couldn’t hope to compete with the harrowing screams of dying women and children. Oh well, here goes. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
He released the squibs. As they shot out of his hands toward the ragtag army, Capro remembered the shower of butterflies Jonathan had released not so long ago.
The thought of butterflies was all it took—the fireworks exploded into a shower of bright butterflies, fluttering in a burst of uncontrollable sparks that set thatching and other flammables on fire.
Damn. That’s what happens when you lose control.
Flames rose, eager to consume the dry thatch and wood.
Smoke tickling his throat, Mr Goodfellow senior took a deep breath and raised his arms, pulling storm clouds to battle the rapidly-spreading flames destroying the village.
The clouds gathered, heavily ominous, but as of yet, the oncoming thunderstorm wasn’t helping the villagers much.
Time to send a dragon their way. That should work.
He was feeling rather proud of himself as the firework dragon swooped toward the village, roaring and shooting sparks as it whooshed through the air.
The soldiers pointed in his direction and yelled.
Well, now I have their attention.
Lightning streaked down.
Drenched, the already terrified villagers screamed louder, before stopping in surprise and cheering as their attackers belted toward him.
Thunder boomed. Rain bucketed.
Not feeling quite as confident, Capro reached into his sleeves and grabbed more firecrackers, flinging them up in a hasty defence. Most of them fizzled in the rain. Time to run.
Control the panic. Not too fast. Slow enough to keep the soldiers interested and give the villagers time to get away.
Capro jogged northward, toward a patch of dense scrub, glancing back time and again to make sure he still had an army on his heels.
They were further away than he expected, and slowing by the second.
Capro slowed too, letting them get closer than he liked, close enough to hear their banter.
“Move it.”
“The old man’s slowing.”
“He’s a wizard.”
“I’m not frightened of a tired old man…”
Satisfied, Capro put on a burst of speed—and ran right into a green-clad Northdale soldier. The impact threw him to the muddy ground. Northdale soldiers appeared out of the scrub and surrounded him. Capro glanced back. The motley crew who’d been following him were slinking away, not to the village, but toward Scotch Mist. Which meant Jonathan was right again, blast it. If Arrant was operating from a base near Scotch Mist, that was a problem that would need sorting soon. But it was not nearly as pressing as the problem that was facing him right now—over a hundred soldiers whose attentions, and arrows, were aimed right at him.
Fight, flight, or submit?
Seeing his options weren’t as good as he’d like, Capro raised his arms to indicate defeat, but mostly to deflect missiles. “Er, gentlemen, so nice to see you. I think I’ll be on my way,” he said, lowering his arms and tipping an imaginary hat at them.
“I don’t think so,” their captain said, waving a jewel in Capro’s face. “So nice to see you. What a fantastic surprise. Arrant sends his greetings, and bids you visit.”
Capro’s vision swam. He blinked, opened his eyes again, and in a numb voice said, “Yes. What a wonderful idea.”
§
Amarinda didn’t return to the kitchen after she saw Francis and his men being dragged away. That was her first mistake.
Her second mistake was to not be far enough away when Evil Cook came looking for her. “Amda!” she yelled, charging down the corridor waving a wooden spoon.
Amarinda’s third mistake was to run.
Evil Cook yelled. Soldiers joined her, and the chase was on. “Traitor,” Evil Cook yelled.
Trapped
Take your chance and you might get another one
Mr Goodfellow senior didn’t want to tear his gaze away from the exquisite treasure fluttering before his eyes. It called to him in a way nothing ever had before. From deep within the unfathomable sparkling depths, he could see the power, the glory that could be his.
The whole world will understand my greatness. All I have to do is obey…
As if from very far away, a grey voice said, “Our very own wizard. I’ve been waiting so long.”
“Pillock spoilt our fun.” Again, the words were grey. They meant nothing compared to the shining jewel fluttering within Mr Goodfellow senior’s reach—a promise of new life. A promise of hope.
A fist flew toward Mr Goodfellow senior’s face.
Duck? Run? Counterattack? In that tiny fraction of a second, adrenaline flared and Capro flinched, the fight or flight reflex confused with sensory overload. Snapped out of his trance, he managed to stop himself from grinning as a counterblow laid his would-be attacker out on the ground.
The soldier fell heavily, clutching his solar plexus.
“I told you. These spells can be fragile,” Mr Goodfellow senior’s defender boomed. The man looked familiar. Slick and overly full of himself like a puffed-up magpie. “But not nearly as fragile as you will be after I’m done.”
The soldier moaned as he rocked himself into a sitting position. “Sorry, Villyus, sir.”
Villyus? Sylvalla’s old vizier? Capro tried not to blink. He didn’t want any of them to know how correct the very-annoying Villyus had been—so he tried to pretend he was still absolutely fascinated by the jewel while his eyes focussed on a spot in the distance.
A difficult feat and a dangerous venture, doomed to failure with the tiniest break in concentration—but, on the other hand, it looked like he was being marched into Northdale. And, at least this way, he’d be saved the time and bother of having to break in.
Thankfully, nobody watched Mr Goodfellow senior too closely, or they’d have noticed him flinch as he pinched himself. Look beyond the jewel. Go in, rescue Francis.
He was feeling quite heroic when they reached the city gates. He’d undertaken a quest, saved some villagers, defeated the lure of the jewel—if only just—and now all he had to do was stop the young upstart Arrant and save a few people. How hard could that be?
“By the gods of luck,” one of the gate guards said by way of greeting. “I’ve never seen the like. You’ve caught a wizard! And, if you hurry, you’ll be there in time to make the courtyard in time for the hangings of Francis the murderer and all the other Avondale filth—you lucky swine. Arrant will make you kings.”
What? Francis is about to be hanged? Mr Goodfellow senior’s confidence fled, his blood pressure rose, and still they kept prattling on when there was no time to waste.
Luckily, he wasn’t the only one in a hurry.
“Get on with it,” Villyus snapped.
The soldier at the gate sneered at Villyus. He wasn’t the kingpin here that he’d been in Avondale.
“Yeah, well,” the second soldier said. “I didn’t provoke Arrant and get put on duty for
a month now, did I?”
“Lucky you.”
Just as Mr Goodfellow began to worry that he’d either have to sit on the steps all day—or break in himself—the gate was ratcheted up and the whole party was hurried through.
Knowing Francis and his companions were about to be hanged, it was hard to pretend blissful unawareness of his surroundings. It became even more difficult when he was brought into the courtyard and saw bodies stacked up under the gallows.
Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit.
Arrant sidled up. “Well, well, well, the old Goodfellow himself. Didn’t I say the interfering old goat would turn up soon enough?”
Villyus nodded, looking askance at Mr Goodfellow and then back at Arrant.
Arrant smiled. “There’s no need to fuss, Villyus. By now, he will be fully under my control.”
§
Mac carefully chipped mortar away from around the steel prison bars with a tiny rasp, trying to ignore his bruised and bleeding knuckles. If I break this rasp, we’re all doomed.
“For crying out loud,” Grimmo said. “How much longer?”
“Not long now,” Mac said, worried the heavily-worn rasp might break at any moment. We’ll never make it.
Grimmo looked up through the heavy window bars to the courtyard. “Before, or after they drag us out of here? It’s bloody carnage out there.”
Breathe.
“Shut up. Shut up!” The young lad put his head in his hands. “You think I can’t see their legs kicking?”
Francis patted the lad on the back. “We’ll make it,” he said with ridiculous optimism. “We need Mac to hurry it along.”
I’m going as fast as I can. Mac banged his knuckles again, spattering blood over stone and metal. He swallowed a curse.
Francis didn’t seem to notice. “Just one bar should be enough for us to squeeze through.”
Hopefully. Mac’s hand slipped and crashed into stone. He gritted his teeth. “For the gods’ sake, let me focus. The most important thing is to—” He put his hand on the bar. It wriggled. “By the Seven! I’m almost through.”
He turned to crack a grin at his companions.
They grinned back. “You did it!” The young lad said. “We’re—”