The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  There was no ignoring the hubbub any longer. Mr Goodfellow senior was too insistent. “Northdale is coming. Queen Sylvalla, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m in mourning. Five days. Francis is back, he can look after the kingdom.”

  When will the tears come?

  “Um,” Francis whispered. “I’m not a ruler. I’m a pig-boy. A stable-boy at best.”

  “And who am I?” Sylvalla asked. “You are the chosen one, the Lost Prince of Havendale: The boy who took the sword from the stone.”

  “What do I know of governing cities? Or war? And war is coming. You are the Warrior Queen. They will follow you.”

  “Three days then? Three days to mourn?”

  “We do not have three hours, maybe not even three minutes,” Jonathan said, arriving red-faced and dripping sweat. “There’s too much to do.” He looked like he’d run for miles, which wizards might do occasionally—but they were never so much as winded afterwards. It was strange.

  “Yes, we have work to do,” they said. “A city to secure. The public will be well warded if we can distribute enough of your charms.”

  A messenger burst into the courtyard. “People are at the gate. Warriors. They insist on talking to Queen Sylvalla. Alone.”

  “Impossible,” Capro said.

  Jonathan was right, she did not have three minutes.

  “All right, I’ll talk to them,” Sylvalla said, suddenly sure this is what her mother would have wanted. For her to take her responsibilities seriously and protect Avondale to the last.

  She looked to the burning pyre. “For you, Mother.”

  Dirk hefted his sword. “Good, it’s about time I got out and about again.”

  “There are hundreds,” the messenger said. “Even with Dirk, they’ll surely kill you both.”

  “Then, like my mother, I shall have my dying wish—they’ll regret that.”

  Smoke curled into the sky, tiny flakes of swirling ash slowly thickening. Sylvalla turned away. Mourning would have to come later; she had a city to save.

  An Army at the Door

  Exhausted as he was from running all the way back from Northdale only to arrive at a funeral, Francis decided he should really go with Dirk and Sylvalla to assess this new threat. He might only be Queen Sylvalla’s husband in name, but if Northdale had made it to Avondale’s gates, he needed to be there.

  “Wait!” Amarinda also hurried to catch up to Sylvalla before they made it to the stables. “Whoever it is, isn’t tearing down the walls yet, and the queen shouldn’t go out covered in soot like that.”

  Sylvalla stopped, her jaw firmed as if about to protest.

  Francis expected a flat refusal, but Sylvalla nodded. “You too, Francis,” she insisted.

  Francis sighed. Typical—if Sylvalla had to suffer, so did everyone else. He rushed to his rooms and pulled out an embroidered tunic and trousers. They were a little musty. He shook them and add a touch of rosewater. It would have to do. The lovely Amarinda hadn’t even looked at him twice since they’d got back. And so she shouldn’t. He didn’t know why he was so disappointed. Before he’d become a prince, nobody had looked at him twice, and now he had to deal with more attention than he wanted. But today, against his better judgement, he desperately wanted this one girl to look his way.

  Distracted, and thinking he’d missed the party, Francis rushed to the stables, found the closest horse, and rushed through the city to find no Sylvalla, just a fractious crowd chanting outside the city gates. Horses carrying soldiers in the uniforms of five of the kingdoms were mixed in with those carrying children, belongings, and small families. And beyond that, a sea of people on foot—soldiers, families and other travellers were strung out into the distance.

  What if they’re not attackers? What if they’re refugees?

  Two bumbling guards were at the gate, glancing around nervously. One was leafing through a small book. Whatever he hoped to see in the pages didn’t seem to be there.

  “Please, open the gates. I am—was—the Avondale ambassador to Riverdale. Queen Sylvalla must know what’s happening.”

  “It doesn’t say anything about amber-basadors in here,” one said, clearly stalling for time.

  Maybe they’re right, I should wait for Sylvalla, but what should I advise? Then he glimpsed the children. Some were playing, others were nestled up to their mothers, or riding on goats and sheep. How can we turn them away…and how can putting on a dress take so long?

  Queen Sylvalla arrived, surrounded by a throng of advisors. A warrior queen, the bodice of her gold-embroidered cream satin dress near hidden under a new leather cuirass and embroidered with the Avondale sun in splendour. Francis couldn’t feel less of a king. Even Dirk in his leather loincloth and red cloak looks more impressive than me. At least Amarinda isn’t here to see how shabby I look.

  Sylvalla didn’t waste time. She rode right up to the gates and yelled up at the guards. “Bob and Fred, isn’t it?”

  The two guards put down their official rulebook and bobbed their heads.

  “Good to see you. Please tell the crowd to back off. Once they have, you can let us through.”

  They saluted crisply. “Clear the gates!” they yelled. “Clear the gates for Queen Sylvalla—Queen Sylvalla Willetta Orlanda Roseblossom Dalrella!”

  The crowd pulled back a few steps.

  “That will do,” Sylvalla said. Francis and Dirk joined her and she rode out the barely-open gates as if she were going out for a picnic, swishing her sword from side to side and grinning. She was positively glowing.

  Madness.

  The grin didn’t last long. There were no challengers, no fight to be had here at all.

  Sylvalla’s smile turned into a frown as the burly soldiers backed off to be replaced by curious children. “Didn’t someone say they were attacking?” she whispered to Dirk. “Do you think I could challenge someone?”

  Dirk shook his head.

  Even the royal chancellor screwed up his courage enough to ride out, presumably to give his advice, whether Sylvalla wanted it or not.

  A grizzled old man in ill-fitting leather armour stepped forward, empty hands raised. “Queen Sylvalla, I beg you to let us inside the gates! An army like nobody has ever seen before is coming, and they’ll kill us all.”

  He nodded at a large family group carrying a battered metal tub. “My precious family,” he said. “I would give my life to save them.” He knelt.

  “There’s no need for that,” Sylvalla said. “Stand and tell me, do you know which kingdoms we’re facing, and how far away their armies are?”

  “There are people here from Northdale, Higher Dale, Riverdale, Westmisery, and Lower Dale. Some of them are deserters. A couple rode their horses to death just to get in front of their armies. They say their friends are not the same, that they follow orders like puppets.”

  All five armies. A massive attack that Avondale could not hope to defend. And they’re coming after me.

  Francis sighed. If I hadn’t tipped Arrant’s hand, perhaps Sylvalla would have had more time.

  There was only one hope—well, maybe two: Torri’s clever devices, and the wizard’s magic.

  “So, Queen Sylvalla,” the grizzled old man said, doffing an imaginary hat. “Heart of our hearts, enemy of our enemy, will you let us in?”

  “Do not,” the royal chancellor whispered.

  It was the sensible decision, if not the brave one. Francis sweated, expecting the crowd to turn ugly when they heard the rejection…

  “Let them in,” Sylvalla shouted up to Bob and Fred. “Tell the Avondale soldiers to be on guard. From now on we are at war. Curfew is when the sun goes down, and if anyone is caught breaking any laws, then the gods have mercy on your souls, because there will be none from me.”

  “You’ll be letting in murderers and traitors,” the royal chancellor said.

  “Like we don’t have enough in the city already?” Dirk replied.

  Francis hid a grin.

  Sylvalla
smiled at them all, unperturbed by the banter. “There’s a battle. The wizards told me about it a long time ago. I just had to figure out what I was fighting for. Like you said, Dirk, when we first went adventuring, ‘A hero is the right person, in the right place, at the right time, who, against the odds, manages to face their fears and selflessly help others.’”

  Dirk rolled his eyes.

  The royal chancellor waggled his head. “That queen will be the death of all of us. Mark my words, you can’t spell treacherous without hero.”

  Francis didn’t understand either of them. This was the Sylvalla he wanted to follow, the generous girl who’d fight everybody and everything to help someone she didn’t even know.

  Maey and Dalberth in Scotch Mist

  “Don’t run too far ahead,” Dalberth’s wife called after Maey and her two boys. Maey slowed, bug-eyed in wonder; she’d never seen so many people out and about, and all in their holiday best. The only person who didn’t seem to care was the scribe, who barely looked up from his writing.

  A cheer rose as the infantry marched by—Scotch Mist and Avondale soldiers, shoulder to shoulder. Then the cavalry—their horses a little less shiny than in the summer, but frisky and happy to be out.

  “So, Grehaum finally has the troops ready,” Dalberth said. “They should have been gone days ago. Jonathan will be apoplectic. All he talks about is Avondale falling.”

  “Avondale will fall,” Maey agreed.

  The scribe scrawled down the information, like he had a hundred times before. Maey tried to ignore him. She’d come out to enjoy the cheering crowd. The moment of happiness, before…she did not want to think about what was about to happen. It spoiled the fun of being part of the crowd of Scotch Mist citizens throwing dried rose petals and tiny flecks of lavender into the air above their brave soldiers.

  The ladies of the new engineers’ corps strode by looking magnificent in their Scotch Mist red with yellow-gold eagles and piping. Not everyone cheered them, but Maey did. Some of their other fans were so enthusiastic they were practically covered in herbs and petals by the time they walked past.

  Maey smiled. The weather was cold, but her mittens and coat were cosy and warm, as was the atmosphere of the cheering throng.

  Dalberth clapped his hands together in his thick mittens as the last of the parade filed out the gate. “We should get going. Lots of work to do today, I have an order. A…um…something that needs attending to.”

  Trumpets blared and the gates closed.

  The soldiers were gone to combat the evil Maey had but tasted. She wished them all the best. Even as the city turned back from the celebration, many with tears in their eyes, as the fear of losing loved ones in battle weighed heavy.

  But something else was in the air.

  Not celebration, and not the sadness of goodbyes.

  Confusion. Excitement. Fear.

  A soldier in blue Avondale trousers and a red Scotch Mist jacket slunk up to the gates—was he late? Had he slept in?

  More crept up behind him. They were running toward someone holding a sparkling jewel—it fluttered like a butterfly. A jewelled butterfly!

  “We need to hide,” Maey said.

  The scribe wrote down her words.

  “No, seriously.” Dalberth knocked the scribe’s pen from his hand. “We need to hide now!”

  Maey hesitated. There were people here she could save. I’m here for a reason, Maey thought. Jonathan said we would know what to do.

  Dalberth pulled his youngest child into his arms and grabbed Maey’s hand. “We have to go. Now!”

  Maey snatched her hand from his, and turned to a little girl carrying a doll and a bouquet of dried lavender. “Run!” Maey yelled.

  The call echoed as others saw the danger. Soldiers rushed to the gates to keep people inside them.

  “Run! Run! RUN!”

  The streets emptied quickly, the fear contagious as Zed’s magically-enhanced voice boomed down the street. “Scotch Mist now belongs to Scotch Mist again. The Two Kings have promised to keep it safe and prosperous, forever.” The despotic rulers Ian Malcolm studied and prophesied would return in his epic work, The True Nature of Chaos.

  Maey, Dalberth’s family, and near a hundred people ran to the warehouse on the border. The one the torturer, Zed, had tried to take. If they could make it inside and lock and bar the door it might be safe—for a while.

  Countdown: Day 2 of the Timelock

  48 hours and counting

  We were still trapped inside that invisible wall of Dothies’ panicking about what to do next.

  All beard and no brain Mynyn muttered, “We must do something,” over and over, as though all his neurons had been squeezed out during his short sojourn as a fruit fly.

  He wasn’t the only one in low spirits. One of the younger wizards rounded on Potsie. “What are we going to do now?”

  Potsie pushed his glasses onto his nose and blinked. “There’s no use asking me again and again,” he snapped. “If there’s a way around this—a prophecy or any kind of hint, I don’t remember it, and fish will speak in rhymes before I manage to break the riddle. But we must do something.”

  A querulous voice rose above the others. “I tell you, we must send a strongly worded letter of approbation to this Dothie fellow.”

  “We could send missives to Fairly University and St Terry’s Free University,” Mynyn added. “This is a bit of a crisis.”

  Witch Queen

  Sylvalla entered Avondale kitchen to the reassuring smell of herbs and fresh baking. And was deeply disappointed to find little actual food.

  “Is there something to eat around here?” Dirk asked.

  Cook scowled up from over a board of raw pasties. “No. Can’t you see half me staff is gone?”

  “Never mind that,” Sylvalla said. “I need the kitchens to make meals for around five hundred more people. The soldiers’ facilities are stretched to breaking point.”

  “I have to what? Feed ’alf the kingdom, and a thurgle, plus all these newcomers? It’s impossible. Torri’s stolen half my staff, and all the good ones at that. At least give me Amarinda back.”

  “Give you Amarinda? You’re the one who sent her away. Besides, she’s helping the good doctor set up an infirmary near the main gates.”

  “I need experienced staff to create—”

  “We’re on a war footing. I can eat army food.” Sylvalla looked forlornly at the pasties. Tragically, they were the last treats she’d be seeing for a while. “And so can everyone else.”

  “But—”

  “And I’ll find you more staff.” Goodness knows where.

  “Yes, my Queen. Very good. Never mind me as I work me fingers to the bone. Jus’ go an’ see Torri, I believe she wants a word in ’er new high-falutin’ workshop or whatever, so’s she can save the kingdom.”

  “You’re saving the kingdom, too,” Sylvalla said, turning to go. “Nobody can fight on an empty tum.”

  “True, that,” Cook said. “But don’ think ya c’n sweet talk me that easily.”

  As they left, Dirk handed Sylvalla some chewy bread. Definitely not up to the usual standard. More was the pity.

  Sylvalla found Torri’s workshop by following the relentless hammering and thumping. It was filled with women, a few younger men who hadn’t been conscripted yet, and grizzled old soldiers with fancy peg-legs and clamp-like replacement hands.

  Torri hung up her hammer, strode over to Sylvalla and Dirk, and without preamble got down to business. “We’re making some progress. We’ll be ready to set up this last chunker by the gates soon.”

  Dirk eyed the half-completed siege engine. “It looks a bit different to last time.”

  “Yes, we designed them to be disassembled fast and set on fire in the moats to give us cover. At least, that’s the idea.”

  “So the cannons have failed?”

  “Not failed… They’re too dangerous. Though working with hexplosives has given me ideas. I’ve decided to go through with J
onathan’s plan.”

  “What? The plan to blow up half the city and evacuate? Didn’t I—”

  “It’s not half the city. It’s the main square.”

  “And the rest,” Sylvalla said.

  “Maybe a couple of key points. If we can entice a good part of their army into a central trap, the hexplosives part will be simple. It may even fulfil the prophecy of Avondale falling.”

  “And the evacuation?” Dirk asked.

  “In case we need it,” Sylvalla added.

  “It’s sorted. The secret tunnel’s been cleared. We think we can get everyone out, and the horses, too, should it come to that. I’ll blow it up behind us as we go.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Sylvalla said.

  “Everything’s dangerous, miss. Queen. We all gotta go sometime. You just have to pick your poison, is all. That’s what my old grandma used to say.”

  “And what happens when Arrant’s spies find out about this escape plan?” Dirk said. “Someone is sure to talk.”

  “We don’t have to tell people any more than they already know. They need to run to the castle for shelter when the warning bell rings.”

  Heavy knocking rocked the solid door.

  Sylvalla sighed. “Come in.”

  The royal chancellor threw open the door. “Hurry! There’s an army arriving. Several armies. And the refugees have made themselves comfortable in the great hall. They’re asking for a parley.” He didn’t say the words, but his tone was clear: How could you let these people come here?

  “Stall them. They’ll be all right for a bit longer.”

  “Until when? We’re about to be attacked. And that reminds me, Torri. Your other chunker teams are asking for you. They said to hurry because Grehaum’s lieutenant was being…problematic.”

  “I’ll be there soon.” Torri sighed. “Looks like the trap’s about to close.” She shoved a pouch at Sylvalla. “You’d better take these. Careful, they’re hexplosives.”