The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “What?” Sylvalla peeked inside. Four metal spheres were packed in lamb’s wool.

  “Make them count,” Torri said. “And whatever you do, don’t drop them. If they start making a ticking sound—like a clock—throw them away from you as fast as you can.”

  “What about me?” Dirk said. “I could take them.”

  Torri smiled. “I think Amarinda will have something to say about that.”

  “What?” Sylvalla and Dirk chorused.

  “This is Amarinda’s plan, and I think it’s brilliant.”

  “But it’s too dangerous,” Dirk said. “It should be me.”

  “Dangerous?” Torri laughed. “Compared to the other dangers of battle this is nothing. Besides, Dirk, you’ll do more damage with that sword.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Sylvalla cradled the package like a mother with a newborn babe. Why would Amarinda want me to have explosives? She did seem to like Francis; maybe she thinks she can marry him if I’m gone.

  §

  Sylvalla and Dirk rushed to the great hall, with the royal chancellor trying to catch their attention. “Please,” the royal chancellor whispered. “Look around. How many spies and enemy soldiers do you think we’re harbouring?”

  Sylvalla brushed past the uniformed guards to talk to the refugees inside, only to find half the people packed into the great hall were Avondale citizens. They all picked at Sylvalla’s sleeves, interrupting each other in their desperation to be heard.

  “Queen Sylvalla, we need your help—”

  “Queen Sylvalla, the foreigners are—”

  “Queen Sylvalla, this gods-forsaken place is not fit—”

  Sylvalla didn’t answer, but glared around at the different factions. Handled the wrong way, this crowd was more dangerous than one of Torri’s bombs.

  I need people ready to fight for Avondale, not scrapping in here. Diplomacy? What would a diplomat do? That’s right, not let them in and watch them die. Bravery might do the trick…

  “Who here today was not welcomed into Avondale?”

  Silence. Thank the gods, they’d hardly been welcomed. But since they’re here, it’s time to roll out the whole mince pie. “Good. Then you’re all Avondale citizens, and as citizens you must swear yourself to me, your queen. Kneel.”

  The audience kneeled, a flurry of movement, very few remaining on their feet.

  “Anyone who will not kneel can leave now. I’ll have the guards escort you to the gates.”

  “I’m from Avondale.”

  “Good, then you’ll know how this goes.” Sylvalla smiled tightly, waiting.

  A family refused, and were swept away by guards.

  “Let them pick up their belongings before you send them away.”

  The guards nodded.

  Sylvalla turned back. She didn’t need a prompt—the pledge was seared into her brain. “Now repeat after me: Queen of Avondale, by my blood I serve you.”

  “Queen of Avondale, by my blood I serve you,” they echoed, hands on hearts.

  “By my blood, I will follow and obey your every command,” Sylvalla completed.

  “By my blood, I will follow and obey your every command.”

  “For Avondale! For Queen Sylvalla,” the royal chancellor shouted. Sylvalla nodded her approval as the crowd quickly took up the chant.

  Sylvalla looked around for the wizards. She could have sworn she’d seen some in the crowd earlier, but they were gone.

  She raised a hand to stop the shouting. “Congratulations, my good citizens of Avondale.” She looked about, nodding and smiling with what she hoped was dignity fit for a queen.

  Regretting that there was no more time for celebration, Sylvalla threw on her haughtiest scowl. “Now, what are you all doing here?” she demanded. “Are you part of Avondale, or are you traitors? There’s an army at the gate.” The locals whisked themselves away, but with nowhere to go, the refugees milled around in confusion. “Torri has jobs for engineers.” She pointed at a group of women without children. “You’ve all heard about them, haven’t you? And my lieutenant”—actually Grehaum’s Lieutenant, but there was no way Sylvalla was going to admit not remembering his name—“has more than enough positions for the men.”

  Nobody moved.

  “The pay is good, and so is the food. Guards, please help anyone who may be lost.”

  Within moments, the hall held half the number of people it had, mostly women with children.

  Trumpets wailed. The bugle was all the warning she needed. If she and Dirk were going to ride out in the initial assault, it had to be soon.

  Sylvalla turned back to address the room. “Before I go, can we have some volunteers for kitchen duties?”

  Hands flew up. Sylvalla mostly chose adults…but three bony children caught her eye. “You three go, too.”

  The children clapped their hands in excitement. Cook would not likely thank her, but she would feed the waifs.

  A messenger arrived, Amarinda running alongside with a large flame-red bundle in her arms.

  “I know,” Sylvalla told the messenger before he could open his mouth. “They’re almost here.”

  The messenger bowed and ran, presumably to notify others.

  Amarinda stayed. No wonder Torri hadn’t wanted to say anything—the package in Amarinda’s hands looked scarily like fancy clothing. What was she thinking?

  “Quick,” Amarinda said. “Torri told me about her bombs—but she’s only got four to spare, and I said they might do the trick, but it needs a bit more theatre.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, they’re calling you the Witch Queen—so I thought we’d give them a proper Witch Queen,” Amarinda said, triumphantly holding up a ridiculously showy red dress and cloak.

  Worse and worse. Not another dress. I think I preferred it when I thought she was trying to kill me with the explosives.

  Toots

  NAME:Toots

  CLASS:Squamata: with the family and species being Sphenodon Agamidae or Pogona pseudosphenodon depending on the expert consulted.

  FAMILIAR:Yes

  SPECIALTY:Eating.

  RÉSUMÉ:As a young lizard, Toots was transmogrified by Dothie into a tuatara, a creature of some power. Their essential role appeared to be as a familiar that magnified Dothie’s magical power. The two had been inseparable until Dothie was released from his prison. Now they were often seen apart. Speculation on the falling out ran the gamut between Toots increasing size and Xem’rial’s disdain of the creature.

  PASSED: Nothing. Wizards are secretive about their familiar’s powers. Besides, most familiars aren’t much use for anything other than company, catching mice, providing a little extra heat, and the generation of negative ions.[104].

  It should be noted that Toots is capable of certain limited types of spellcasting, and for a long time managed to hide the majority of their bulk in a pocket dimension the size of a small person.

  Toots was angry.

  If Dothie had listened to him and not Xem’rial, he’d never have been trapped in the time bubble. And now here he was, aware of the time passing outside the bubble and starving hungry. The wizard had had a future, and now he was little more than a shell for Xem’rial.

  Given they were barely able to move, Toots had plenty of time to think and make plans for the future. Plenty of time to rage about Dothie-Xem failing to keep any of Dothie’s promises. And despite making plenty of tasty fruit flies, he barely bothered to feed Toots the gobsmackingly nutritious treats.

  If Toots wanted to take the next step, it was clear they’d have to make it alone.

  The question was how?

  How am I going to grow into the creature I was always meant to be?

  Battle Charge

  Cornered rats can run,

  or they can fight

  Sylvalla’s heart was thumping, making Thunderbolt skittish—his hooves drumming a staccato tattoo on the stable floor.

  Focus. She adjusted the red satin skirt of her dres
s so none of it caught against the saddle, and fussed with Torri’s bag of bombs so the drawstring around her waist was secure, but easily undone with a single pull.

  Thunderbolt whinnied. Smoke in the air and the hundreds of men and horses filing into the courtyard made him even more skittish.

  Dirk sat astride a charger, looking about as comfortable and competent as a sack of spuds. “You sure you want to wear that outfit?” he asked Sylvalla. “What if you fall off?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sylvalla said. The flaming red dress and cloak were a risk, but Amarinda knew how to make a statement. M’lady, you’ll strike fear into your enemy’s hearts.

  “You might as well ride out to battle with a target on your back,” Dirk said.

  “It’s about fear. You ready?”

  Dirk nodded. “No sign of Greyhaum?”

  “No sign.” She glanced over to the gate, in the impossible hope of seeing him and his army riding in to help.

  Grehaum’s lieutenant rode up, trailed by Mac and Grimmo. He saluted crisply. “Queen Sylvalla, we cannot ride out with so many people banging on the gates of Avondale and demanding to enter. We need to clear the area.”

  “Take a hundred of your finest to escort them through the city and send them on their way to Scotch Mist—unless they have young children. We should have enough room in the Great Hall for families.”

  Grehaum’s lieutenant muttered something about spies and why didn’t she ever listen.

  “I’m sorry,” Sylvalla said. “Spies, you say? Who would have guessed?” She hated people pointing out the obvious.

  “My Queen.” The lieutenant bowed in the saddle and turned to Grimmo. “You heard your queen. Don’t tarry, we might need your men for back-up.”

  At least, he and his men can follow orders.

  “My Queen,’ Grehaum’s lieutenant said, officious as always. “We need to go, or they’ll have arrived before we set out. Is there anything you want to say?”

  Great, he’s leaving the rousing speech to me. Sylvalla raised her sword and tried to channel the anticipation and determination she felt to her nervous troops. “We’re going out to defend our families, or city, our world from evil, ah, tyrants…”

  The horses, as restless as the riders, stomped and frisked like poorly-trained colts. If only she could pull together a more stirring speech. If only she didn’t feel so empty.

  Mother, you would be so angry. And you’d be right. Avondale’s about to go and attack five armies with nothing more than two units of cavalry and a bag of explosives.

  I should have been better prepared for this. Grehaum, where the hell are you? You should be here already with the other half of my army.

  “Let’s not stand around here all day,” Dirk said. “Let’s go and kill them.” He raised his sword and the cavalry cheered. Maybe he had the right idea. Short and sweet. She thrust her sword skyward. “For Avondale!”

  “For Avondale!” they yelled back.

  “For Avondale!” she repeated.

  “For Avondale!” The rallying cry echoed around the walls.

  “Try to keep up!” Sylvalla shouted, and she was off, trotting past the last of the hurrying farmers and the soldiers babysitting them. Outside the gates an army of archers and infantrymen stood at attention under four towering trebuchets. So long as they were ready to lock shields and stick out spears when the action came, then all was well.

  Sylvalla saluted them briskly before raising her sword. “For Avondale,” she yelled.

  “For Avondale!” they yelled back, better and stronger than the cavalry. The cheer was deafening.

  Sylvalla leaned forward in the saddle, and Thunderbolt, sensing her enthusiasm, broke out of the trot and into a gallop. With the brisk winter wind on her face, the stamp and roar of the cavalry rumbling across the plain, and her hair whipping behind her, Sylvalla felt alive.

  The enemy—Westmist and Northdale in grey and green uniforms—lay ahead. And from the right—blue!

  Grehaum? Will he rescue us? Or has he betrayed us?

  But it wasn’t Avondale blue, it was Riverdale blue, with green, white and gold striped across the pennant.

  Sylvalla shook her head. Stop looking for Grehaum. Focus.

  Thunderbolt was living up to his name, feet flying as they passed the spot where she’d pulled down the trees to make the pyre for the dragon Asumgeld.

  She had a decision. Sword…or bombs?

  Save the bombs for Arrant. Taking him out would push his coalition into disarray. Hopefully.

  The enemy were wheeling to face them. Westmisery-grey and Northdale-green shields in formation, readying for the inevitable attack. But that wasn’t the case further down the line.

  Sylvalla wheeled away to attack the enemy lines from the side before they could form up. Dirk and around fifty other horses followed.

  Trumpets rang out.

  Westmisery horses reared as they were spun to face Sylvalla and her companions, leaving infantry and archers to scramble to their defences.

  Arrows fell.

  “Attack!” Sylvalla yelled, charging a break in the line, her sword flashing. She hoped the others would follow. Thunderbolt smashed past the first few fighters—horses wheeled, bodies fell.

  The smell of fear and horse-sweat permeated the air as the Westmisery soldiers battled on, their faces cold and hard and implacable.

  Enemy trumpets sounded, their calls urgent.

  Letting Thunderbolt do the work of breaking the enemy line, Sylvalla focussed on tidy strokes and keeping Thunderbolt and herself alive amongst the chaos. More Westmisery fighters were cut down, and then she was through. Behind her, the cavalry cut a larger swathe, sending the enemy into disarray.

  Dirk? Where’s Dirk? I shouldn’t have brought him, he’s no horseman. Where is he?

  Mac was there, making a good showing of himself. Dirk should be close by, but she couldn’t see him buried in the boil of other riders. Still, this was a battle, and he wouldn’t thank her for losing this advantage. They’d have to retreat as soon as Arrant’s armies got organised.

  The bombs Torri had given her were still unused. She rode further up the line looking for another good place to attack, the hope that she’d find Arrant starting to fade. Throw the bombs and ride away. Your plan is to create havoc, terrify their soldiers and make Arrant regret calling you Witch Queen. And still she couldn’t let it go, smashing past attackers again and again to try and get to Arrant.

  Trumpets rang out, Avondale ones, with the call to return.

  Her troops behind her, Sylvalla looked across the enemy lines and saw a jewelled butterfly—and Arrant! He was buried in amongst a knot of Northdale troops at the front of the Westmisery and Northdale armies, arms out like a wizard. Is he trying to cast a spell?

  She nudged Thunderbolt toward him.

  Hooves shredding the boggy turf, her unit pushed their horses as hard as they could, but Arrant was already slipping behind his soldiers’ shields.

  Sylvalla wasn’t about to retreat. The cavalry near her bunched and slowed, wheeling to take the enemy by the flank as Northdale pikes were deployed and shields went up.

  Sylvalla spotted Arrant. This time. Aiming for his head, she lobbed one of Torri’s bombs over the blockade. The bomb fell in front of Arrant.

  She flinched, but there was no explosion.

  Arrant laughed, sending soldiers out to meet her and rallying the Northdale forces while next to him while an oblivious King Norvid of Northdale drooled and watched a butterfly.

  Hopefully, the anti-magic powder in the army rations would protect against the butterflies as well as wizardry. Distracted, Sylvalla failed to notice Northdale riders cutting off her escape.

  Thunderbolt skittered and reared. Sylvalla, nearly tipped from the saddle, scrabbled to stand in the stirrups and grab a bit of mane with her off hand. She freed her sword but was unable to get past the defenders.

  Dirk was there. Surrounded by a skirmish of Avondale and Northdale soldiers. He was pushing
his way toward Arrant on foot.

  Sylvalla tried to call him away from the expected blast.

  Still no explosion. Was the bomb I threw broken somehow? Will any of Torri’s bombs work?

  She threw another after Arrant. This time her aim was short and it missed by a long way.

  Ker-bang! Two explosions ripped through the Northdale soldiers. Some retreated, but others surged forward to attack Sylvalla.

  “For Northdale!” a warrior shouted, muscles bunching as he drew a bastard sword. A worthy foe. Sylvalla encouraged Thunderbolt to stand his ground.

  Dirk yelled something incomprehensible. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew what they were—they’d both agreed to the strategy. Don’t stand and fight. Create chaos and move on.

  And he was right. The trumpets continued to sound their call for retreat.

  But I have two explosives left. I need to use them.

  Enemy archers rushed forward, ready to fire. Time was running out.

  A flash of gold drew her attention. It was King Reginald of Westmisery in gold armour, carrying one of those garish butterflies and leading a column of his men. With his reputation for austerity, it’s weird that he’d go to war with all that glitz. Even stranger that he’d be with the vanguard of his fighters, riding hard and fast toward Avondale city in an effort to cut off Sylvalla’s cavalry. Still, it was a chance not to be missed. Sylvalla might not be able to get Arrant, but a blow against one of the kings might damage Arrant’s coalition.

  Faster than fury, her fellow riders belting after her, Sylvalla pushed Thunderbolt to catch up with the king. The horses’ hooves tore across the wet, wintery sod, splattering mud onto Dirk running behind them.

  This time the king didn’t order his guards to protect him but sent them out to attack Sylvalla.

  By the gods, I can’t throw Torri’s bombs that far, but if I swing them like one of Torri’s slings, they might reach.

  She slowed Thunderbolt and sheathed her sword. Clutching Torri’s bag of bombs, she tore at the drawstring to free it from her waist. Taking a deep breath, she held the ends of the drawstrings and swung the bag so it whirred around above her head.