The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Villyus said, inching away from the edge.

  Arrant couldn’t blame him. It stank of sulphur and dead things, and looked just like what it was—the bloody pits of hell.

  The boy cried, snatching at the cloth over his eyes.

  Emz’rial ignored the fuss. He pushed Villyus and Tomas in, and, before Arrant could countermand his own body, he jumped in after.

  Arrant’s stomach lurched. Was the ancient wizard trying to kill him?

  His plummet slowed. Barely lit by the yellow-green glow of slime and the ghost-like flickers of light that swarmed around them, the jagged sides turned into smooth tunnel walls streaked with the rotten red-orange of the underworld.

  Arrant landed softly, whispers fluttering around his ears. It was like Emz’rial’s voice—but not. What are you doing here in the underworld? You are not dead…and very dead. Emz’rial, have you come back?

  Their cold seared through Arrant. He desperately needed to get out. Run. Scream. Hide. Escape. But if he slipped away from Emz’rial he might be trapped here forever. Or worse yet, caught by the monster even Emz’rial was wary of. Tears leaked from Arrant’s eyes. He felt a tug.

  The wizard Emz’rial had re-exerted control. It was for the best. The chill of the greenish lights no longer bothered him.

  “Whiners and complainers, all of you,” Emz’rial said. “You fail to understand the opportunities my brother and I have given you.”

  It didn’t help. The Rieal were, if anything, incensed, roiling around them like stinging-flies. Villyus and the child were sniffling like babies.

  “Shut up,” Emz’rial hissed. “Our mission is to take over the Seven Kingdoms. I mean to reunite them and have you two rule Scotch Mist and Avondale. But first, I need to convince five of those kingdoms to fight as one. So toughen up.”

  The child cried louder, if anything, but Villyus clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled Tomas into his arms. All the better to move swiftly. Calling five kingdoms out to war in one day was a big ask, but with his goal at his fingertips, neither Arrant nor Emz’rial were about to let go.

  §

  Tears blurring his vision, Francis glanced back to where Grimmo had made his stand.

  Grimmo? It was a desperate hope, but the brave soldier had already disappeared from sight. The Northdale cavalry had overwhelmed him. They made a terrifying sight, mud flying from their hooves, archers sighting their arrows over the rider’s shoulders.

  An arrow landed just short of Francis and Amarinda. It wouldn’t be long now.

  One small band against an army. We should split up, give them more people to chase. But, somehow, he couldn’t give the order.

  “Keep running! Fast as you can,” Mac yelled, his voice breathy and raw. “Mourn later.”

  He was right. Grimmo’s sacrifice had to be worthwhile. Somehow Francis had to pull himself together and give Grimmo’s men the hope they needed. “We’ll make it,” he said, despite being half-dead. “Old Capro,” he called. “I mean, Mr Goodfellow senior. You won’t let us all die out here, will you?”

  There was no answer from the wizard.

  Francis put his arm around Amarinda, determined not to let her fall behind. Mac took her other arm and together they staggered along a little faster. The rest of the soldiers ran ahead.

  “No,” Amarinda puffed. “Save yourselves. I won’t slow you down.”

  The whoosh of an arrow startled them. The party lurched forward, stumbling along in desperation.

  More arrows thudded at their feet.

  “I will help.” Fergus ran back. Without another word, he picked up the exhausted Amarinda, threw her over his shoulder, and continued running alongside Francis.

  “Ow! Put me down, right now—or I’ll never make you poppy seed cakes again,” Amarinda threatened.

  Fergus pretended he didn’t hear.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk. The arrows flew wider than before…but that kind of luck couldn’t last forever.

  “We cannot slow,” the thurgle said. “I do not want you to die. You said you would talk to the wizard for me.” And with that, Francis found himself bumping along, slung over the thurgle’s other shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “Old wizard,” Francis called. “Mr Goodfellow. Save us.” His stomach hurt, his ribs were aching, and he couldn’t even say “ow” because Amarinda was stoically suffering with only the odd “oof!” as they were jolted about.

  “I’m trying,” Capro Goodfellow said, so close Francis could hear his breath rasping through those ancient wizard lungs. And it wasn’t just Capro who’d appeared as if from nowhere, Grimmo was running alongside him.

  Mac broke step and stumbled. “Grimmo?”

  Exhausted Avondale soldiers turned back in wonder and cheered.

  Francis also managed a small cheer, before a jolt winded him. He was not sure what was worse, the indignity of dangling from the thurgle’s shoulder, or the sharp pain in his ribs.

  “Don’t know how he did it, sir,” Grimmo said, glancing back at the horses. “Might not last long, either.”

  “Hush it down, will you?” Mr Goodfellow senior snapped. “You’re all making my job more difficult than it needs to be.”

  Francis grinned. Any minute, he would be able to stand on the ground, and breathe whenever he wanted, and not just mid-footstep. “Mr Goodfellow…oof…you’re a wonder. Have you…oof…got another miracle…for us? We need to…oof…get out of here fast.”

  “You’re not dead yet, and that’s more than a miracle, don’t you think?”

  “What about the…oof…Bairnsley paths?” Francis said.

  “What about the what?” Capro said, feigning ignorance. Or deafness. The man was a paragon of not hearing what he didn’t want to hear.

  “I’m not stupid. I’ve heard about wizard tricks, and the way you can travel quickly—when you want to.”

  “Great. And now those wizards will say that it’s my fault I broke their little rule,” Mr Goodfellow senior snapped. “It seems most things are my fault, why should this be any different?”

  “Huh?” Francis wondered if being jolted around on the giant’s back was affecting his hearing.

  “What?” Grimmo and Mac said, as confused as Francis.

  “Let’s not panic,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “Those people chasing us will probably stop soon, because they don’t care enough. Besides, it would be mean-spirited of us to leave Fergus behind and there’s no magic I can do that will bring the thurgle with us.”

  Fergus nodded. “Yes, thurgles are immune to magic.”

  The pursuing horses didn’t appear to be slowing—but they were moving weirdly—no, it wasn’t that at all—they were going the wrong way. In front of the horses, clear as day, Francis could see mirror images of himself and his men, and a whole lot of dust. Wizards and their tricks. Regrettably, the magical decoys couldn’t last, sooner or later someone would notice the arrows were passing right through them.

  Since the wizard was here, Francis had another nagging question. “Why isn’t Arrant chasing us? Why would he let us get back to Avondale to give Sylvalla the news?”

  “With me long-gone, he’ll believe Sylvalla has the news already, which means his best option now is to organise his armies and come at us fast with everything he has. At least, that’s what he’ll think. He’d never imagine me coming back for you.”

  “Northdale? Take Avondale?” Mac said. “I don’t think so. Avondale’s walls have been newly rebuilt. And we have Torri’s machines. We’ll easily defeat Northdale.”

  “Arrant’s a wizard. He’ll rouse each and every kingdom under his thrall in hours, and within days we’ll have half the known world on our doorstep. And so, yet again, my know-it-all son is right. Avondale will fall. We cannot help it. We cannot save it. All is lost, unless I have a miracle tucked up my sleeve, but I cannot think of one. I faced Arrant and failed, and I’m unlikely to fare any better in Avondale, let alone in his puppet master’s tower of streng
th, Scotch Mist.”

  “Fall back to Scotch Mist? Are you crazy?” Mac sputtered.

  Behind them, the Northdale riders milled around, then spurred their horses toward Francis’ party.

  “Damnation!” Mr Goodfellow senior said, clapping his hands together. “I thought that would last a little longer. Maybe a path isn’t such a bad idea. Thurgle, I’m sorry, you’ll have to catch up to us in Avondale. Still, without those two weighing you down, I’m sure you’ll be fast enough to escape.”

  Francis and Amarinda slid down, groaning. “Ow! My spine’s half broken,” Amarinda said, her eyes twinkling.

  “So’s mine,” Francis said, grinning back. “And I swear my ribs are broken, too.”

  Capro ignored them and strode over to a tree—no, a path. Francis glimpsed it the moment before the wizard stepped up to it and bounced off, falling backward in a dead faint.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not meant to happen,” Mac said.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re right.” Francis looked back. Even from this distance, he could see their pursuers’ horses were flecked with white. They’re tiring, which gives us a chance. “The wizard?” he said, too scared to directly ask Fergus.

  Fortunately, Fergus volunteered anyway, by scooping up the wizard. Then, ignoring Amarinda’s complaints, he scooped her up onto his other shoulder.

  If only I was as strong as the thurgle, we’d be out of here by now, Francis thought as they picked up pace. Still, strength wasn’t good for everything. Sometimes, you just had to notice what other people wanted. “Fergus, I think Amarinda will be happier if you let her down.”

  Fergus obliged. He really wasn’t as bad as Francis had thought. A little strange, yes, but a decent fellow in a pinch.

  “Thank you,” Amarinda said. She snatched the wizard’s shoes off his feet and put them on. “What’re we waiting for?” she asked, tossing her ruined shoes aside and sprinting ahead. “Let’s go.”

  I’m the slowest runner, Francis thought, as the cavalry spurred toward them.

  §

  This was not going as planned. Although Arrant had used much the same tricks as he had at Northdale, Westmisery had been far more difficult to rouse. The reveal of a snivelling child was hardly the impression they needed and, for too many, it had been enough to break their compulsion to obey.

  Arrant scowled at Villyus. “Your job is to look after the boy. A sobbing, snotty mess is not the image we need for the king-in-waiting.”

  Villyus scowled back, gripping the boy’s arm even tighter. “I’m doing my best. The boy’s too soft.”

  Annoyed, Emz’rial stopped Villyus from applying the blindfold when he opened the paths to hell. Instead, he called out to his fellow Rieal.

  “Boy, watch the butterfly as we fall.”

  The boy opened his eyes. He stopped bawling and words tumbled out of his lips. “That which is seen and remains unseen… The sun burns bright—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard it before,” Emz’rial said. “But if you want everything I can give you, you will do as I say.”

  “And, what”—the boy’s voice growled and hissed as the A'Rieal inside Tomas fought to control his voice—“can you give me?”

  “Life eternal as one of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms? Yes,” Emz’rial assured his fellow spirit.

  The boy nodded, green light flickering behind his eyes.

  Villyus turned away rather than meet its gaze. “That…that could have been me.”

  And I thought the boy was soft. Villyus positively stinks of fear. “Don’t be a fool, Villyus, you were never in any danger. You were protected back when we collected the butterflies,” Emz’rial muttered.

  With the boy playing his part, the last three kingdoms fell easily, their enchanted kings staring at their butterflies and nodding along while the warriors called to the people to protect their families from the Witch Queen.

  With the might of all five armies at his disposal, Arrant would easily gain the power he craved. The only question was, had his brother, Xem’rial, taken control of the wizards, or would they become a problem later?

  Messages across the Void

  Blue robes are for the Maiden,

  Green for the Mother

  Red for War and Black for Death,

  The Harvester’s are Gold.

  Brown robes are for Pestilence,

  And Yellow for Disease.

  Children, do remember

  The seven gods so bold,

  And forget the hidden shadows

  Whose names are never told.

  Sylvalla turned away from her mother’s pyre to the pools of fire burning red and blue atop their marble daises. Unlike her father’s funeral, the courtyard was sparsely occupied, with more blue guards than black-clad mourners. Even the contingent of wizards muttering spells and sprinkling holy water couldn’t fill the space.

  Sylvalla’s attention returned and she stepped forward, ready to light Tishke’s pyre. The representative for the God of Death took this as his cue to speak, and for once, the wizards and advisors were silent. The rainbow of priests’ cloaks did not seem so much colourful as garish when compared to Tishke’s creamy-white lace. The Harvester’s gold cloak especially so.

  Sylvalla let his words flow over her until he broke his ceremonial staff to release the sparks. Then she lit the cherry-wood. Alone.

  No Francis. Dirk was there—as a bodyguard—anything else would have been scandalous. And yet there were so many other things to worry about.

  Sylvalla’s thoughts were hazy and chaotic as the fire engulfed Tishke. Grief, pity, and even guilt couldn’t overcome the feeling that something was loose. Something malevolent. Cold chills pricked her spine, more than just goosebumps, but tiny reminders of A’Rieal, the spirits that infested A’lganathrieal.

  In the corner of her eye, Sylvalla saw something in the flames. A leering face. The vision was chased away by another—her dead mother. Sylvalla clapped a hand over her mouth, determined not to scream.

  “You are not who you think you are, Secret Child, Queen of Hearts and Swords. I told you, the demons come!”

  Tishke’s image vanished.

  Greenish shadows flickered in the flames. The fire swelled and crackled.

  “Move, Sylvalla!” Dirk yelled, pulling her backward.

  A wall of fire blasted where she’d been standing.

  “Did you see?” Sylvalla asked urgently, trying not to crash into the wizards racing forward to yell and throw tiny vials of water at the flames.

  “See what? Who? What?”

  “Tishke,” Sylvalla whispered, her voice lost amongst the wizards’ outcry and the hiss of water on flame.

  A group of tattered soldiers rushed into the courtyard. Not just any soldiers. Francis and Mac. They were leading an exhausted ragtag group toward Sylvalla. And they had Capro! The old wizard was being propped up by Grimmo—and a thurgle! Not any thurgle, Fergus. And next to him was a ragged young lady—

  “Amarinda—”

  “Forget the introductions,” Capro yelled. “Who has holy water?”

  “We’ve used it all already!” one of the wizards yelled back. “Quick! Give us a hand.”

  “Bit tired,” Capro said.

  “Yeah, the paths are closed.”

  “Not all of them,” Capro muttered. “The paths of Hel are open. The Rieal are loose, and worse besides.”

  The last words her mother had said rang in Sylvalla’s ears. “…the demons come…”

  “How?” Sylvalla spluttered. “A’lganathrieal is sealed.”

  “I don’t know, just that it’s up to you to defeat them,” Mr Goodfellow senior replied.

  Everyone turned to Sylvalla.

  Sylvalla clutched her sword. It was her weapon of choice, but it was not much use against spirits.

  “Nice sword. Is this a duel?” Fergus said, reminding everyone that he was here. At a funeral. Even the bickering wizards turned to see what would happen next.

  A wizard backed away fro
m the party, eyes wide, and stared at Fergus as if the sight of a thurgle was somehow more frightening than the underworld being open.

  “Is this a duel?” Fergus asked again, his brow wrinkled.

  Amarinda pulled the thurgle aside and whispered, “Like I said, it’s probably best to assume people don’t want to duel you.”

  Fergus shrugged and whispered something about kitchens and cakes.

  The wizards turned back to their argument. “If Hel is open, then the nameless ones are loose! The Rieal are loose.”

  One of the many white-bearded wizards glared at Capro. “This is your doing!”

  Capro bristled and yelled back, “No, I warned you. If you’d just listened—” The argument took over everything. The fire burned on.

  People dropped to the ground, writhing. Some were yelling prophecies.

  Sylvalla rushed to help. “Stay back,” a wizard said. All around, the wizards had stepped up, giving the fallen charms and potions to scare away the demons that had invaded them.

  Amarinda put her arm around Sylvalla. “I’m so sorry about your mother, m’lady. Are you all right?”

  “I guess, I have to be.” Sylvalla managed a smile. “You tamed a thurgle?”

  “Not exactly, m’lady. I just treated him like a person.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, m’lady, Arrant is readying an attack. His cavalry chased us for a bit, and turned back, but Arrant’s stirred up too much death. They’re going to come after us with everything they’ve got.”

  Sylvalla shook her head. “I…I…need some time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Amarinda said. “I’ll talk to Torri. We’ll fill you in later.”

  Francis wandered over. “Arrant controls the kings with—”

  “I know. Talk to Amarinda and Torri,” Sylvalla told him. “Whoever you need to. Let me…let me have a moment longer.”

  Sylvalla turned back to watch the flames. “Send…them…back…” her mother had said. If only hitting them with a sword would do the trick. “How, Mother? I’m no witch or wizard, why leave it to me?”

  The gods’ representatives did their best to ignore the kerfuffle, and remain enigmatic. To Sylvalla they were nothing more than symbols of an age long gone. She’d lost her respect for them during her father Rufus’ funeral—a huge affair that had rung hollow and false—but at least it had been respectful. People hadn’t been babbling at her.