The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Sylvalla cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, “Help those people, or I will personally hunt you down!”

  One of the yobs turned back to help clear up the mess. Moments later one of his friends joined him.

  The howls of wolves resounded in the distance. Horses, still skittish from being too long underground, stamped their discomfort.

  The world was bleak and empty. Torri was dead. Her mother was dead. And they were not the only ones. After today, there wouldn’t be a person in the kingdom not grieving the loss of a loved one. All my people should mean as much to me as Torri and my mother. All my people have lost loved ones today.

  The howls of wolves came closer still.

  PART III

  SOMETHING LURKING IN THE SHADE

  Possession is Everything

  By the Seven, get thee hence—depart this body forever

  Amarinda woke several times in the night to tend to patients in her makeshift hospital. This time, it was an engineer with ragged breathing. The crushing-chest wound from a dropped chunker boulder was beyond Amarinda’s, or even the good doctor’s, scope. All they could do was hold the young woman’s hand while blood bubbled from her lips.

  “For Queen Sylvalla. For Avondale,” she said.

  Amarinda’s heart wanted to burst. Queen Sylvalla was on the run, and Avondale had fallen. Has the young woman died for nothing?

  Screaming and yelling and banging echoed outside, but with Fergus at the door she felt safe enough to doze again.

  Dreams of Torri and Sylvalla turned nightmares where her friends were crushed in the tunnel under the castle walls. Half asleep, she worried about them. Did they get away? Did any of my friends survive?

  Patients woke, groaning. After a round with a Granny’s Cure All potion from Scotch Mist, and a promise of breakfast, the makeshift hospital was quiet inside. But something was different. It wasn’t just that the drunk doctor was near-sober and counting through the rations…it was the silence outside.

  Amarinda put her ear to the door.

  A town crier’s bell rang in the distance. After the screams of last night, it was a relief.

  “I think we can open it,” she told Fergus.

  He lifted the door’s heavy bar and drew his sword. Together, they peered outside.

  We got away lightly. The buildings up and down the street had their doors barged in. Windows smashed. But now the enemy soldiers were no longer looting—instead they were lining the streets and standing to attention as if waiting for someone. But who?

  Amarinda crept out further, brave only because Fergus was with her.

  The town crier’s bell rang again. He was walking alongside a fancy carriage that trundled through the broken city gates, heading a small procession of cavalry and important people on horses. They were presumably on their way to the castle. Assuming there’s any castle left after all those explosions last night.

  “All hail the king!” the soldiers shouted in response to something the crier was saying.

  What king? Amarinda wondered. Arrant? Dothie? The thought was terrifying.

  More people crept from their houses. Maybe they want a king? If they’re still here, they can’t have trusted Sylvalla enough to seek shelter in the castle.

  “Good citizens of Avondale,” the crier shouted. “We return your king, King Tomas. All hail King Tomas of Avondale!”

  “All hail the king!” the soldiers echoed.

  Ragged cheering broke out. How can people be cheering after last night?

  The carriage trundled closer and the cheering intensified. Villyus, Queen Sylvalla’s traitorous advisor, walked alongside, a butterfly on his shoulder and a nasty glint in his eye.

  Villyus called out to the carriage driver, “There’s no hurry. Let them see the young King Tomas.”

  Is it really him?

  Amarinda remembered Tomas as a chubby, happy, if spoiled, child, adored by everyone at the castle. She stepped closer to see past the growing crowd surrounding the carriage. The most ardent followers were staring fixatedly at Villyus’ jewelled butterfly, their faces pictures of awe.

  “Tomas,” Amarinda whispered as she stared at the little boy in the carriage. He was older, and longer of limb than he’d been when his mother had stolen him away from the castle in the middle of the night—and he held himself strangely, like a hunched old man. And yet, she was certain it was him. The poor wee mite was staring at the road, the glimmering butterfly of no interest as his attention flitted from person to person—until he set his gaze on her.

  Amarinda ducked out of sight—but not before the lad nodded and put his finger to his lips, his mouth curved in a parody of a smile.

  The empty look in his eyes haunted Amarinda long after the carriage had driven by.

  I have to rescue him…somehow.

  §

  Sylvalla shivered, turning her face to the watery sun as they headed toward the Scotch Mist mountains. If only… ideas rattled around her head as useless as a ball gown in battle.

  The howl of wolves was closer now, but Thunderbolt barely whinnied in response. He was still tired from battle, and presumably from making life difficult for the stable-boy who’d taken him through the tunnels.

  “Strange,” Dirk said. “Wolves should not be chasing so many people.” He was right, and although they were making people nervous, progress was still slow.

  “We need to move faster,” Dirk said. “Or we’ll be trapped in the pass with wolves dogging our footsteps.”

  An old lady grinned up at Sylvalla, revealing blackened gums. “Feeling a bit tired, lass. Maybe we should stop for a wee sit down.”

  “Why has she no horse?” Sylvalla thought about putting her on a packhorse, but they were already piled high with belongings. Reluctantly, she jumped off Thunderbolt. The old lady took one look and stepped back. “Tha’s not fer the likes of me, missy,” she mumbled. Or it was something like that, her reedy voice hard to hear against the background chatter.

  Sylvalla helped the old lady up. The usually frisky Thunderbolt barely shook his head, and plodded off down the road.

  The howling, eerily close now, was beginning to frighten the young children, who cried and clung to their mothers. Sylvalla was avoiding the front, that’s where Estha was, her hands full with all the fake Tomases. The elder ones were riding two to a horse, while Esther juggled the two youngest ones. An even better reason not to move up to the front were the courtiers and advisors plaguing Francis.

  Still, Sylvalla knew she couldn’t avoid all her responsibilities. She gathered the royal chancellor, the Goodfellows, and the remaining captains. “Grimmo!” she said, thoroughly pleased to see his familiar face and trying not to think of all the people they’d lost. “I think we’re going to need doubled up the guards patrolling the outskirts. Those wolves are close.”

  “Don’t be silly. Wolves never come near people,” the royal chancellor declared.

  Screams erupted. The attack was paces away.

  Amarinda and Dirk ran around panicked people to get there in time, but it, whatever it had been, was already gone.

  “Anything?” Sylvalla asked, seeing nothing.

  Dirk checked for tracks. He followed the strange prints and spatters of blood in the snow, but then the tracks disappeared.

  “You think they’re hellhounds?” Grimmo asked.

  “No.” Dirk shook his head. “I’ve tracked hellhounds, and I’ve never seen tracks like these.”

  Sylvalla asked people who’d been nearby. At first no-one would speak, but then a young man admitted he’d seen two enormous wolf-like creatures mauling an old couple and spiriting them away.

  Grimmo ordered his soldiers to patrol with more vigilance.

  More screams.

  Sylvalla whipped around, again too slow. A body was on the ground nearby, his throat ripped out.

  “Queen Sylvalla. Thank the gods,” Grimmo said. “I thought I saw it headed your way.”

  “What was it?”

  “No ordi
nary wolf, my queen. I tell you it was a hellhound from the pits of hell.”

  “Hellhounds don’t leave tracks like this,” Dirk said. “And they don’t disappear into thin air.”

  Shortly after, Sylvalla caught a glimpse of grey fur. Two wolf-like creatures were coming toward her.

  She pulled her sword and rushed them, but the creatures slipped away, snatching up a goat before disappearing.

  Again, Dirk checked for tracks. “See here? See how far apart the strides are? They’re racing to attack Sylvalla. Here’s where they turn, grab the goat…see the blood. But here.” He shrugged. “They’re gone.”

  Sylvalla rallied her captains and advisors. “Whatever these wolf-creatures are, the soldier was right. They’re headed for me.”

  “Are you sure?” Grimmo frowned.

  The Goodfellows nodded.

  “Yes.” Sylvalla turned to Francis and the royal chancellor. “Get them to the safety of Scotch Mist. I’m going to draw away these wolf-creatures before they do more damage.”

  The royal chancellor coughed. “My Queen, that is…”

  “My command. So, of course you will obey it.” Sylvalla turned to the Goodfellows. “Stay with my people, too. Tell your fellow wizards that if anything happens to them, I’ll hold them responsible.”

  “Ah…” Jonathan said.

  “Very good,” Capro replied, leading Jonathan away for a quiet chat.

  Sylvalla turned to Dirk. “Coming?”

  “To almost certain death?” Dirk said. “Why not? Besides, running for our lives will be a nice change of pace after everything else we’ve been through.”

  §

  Dothie-Xem’s were-wizards sniffed the trail and howled. The queen had separated from all the easy food. They had no choice but to follow. “Kill Dirk. Catch the Witch Queen.” No matter how empty their stomachs, it was an order they couldn’t disobey.

  King Zed of Scotch Mist

  The bolts on Jonathan and Dalberth’s warehouse door rattled.

  Maey gasped. The crowd she and Dalberth had brought inside cringed.

  We’ve been saved, but for how long? Her stomach tightened in knots. The wooden bar holding the door groaned. Will they get in?

  There was a huge bang on the doors. The building shook but the doors stayed firmly shut.

  “I’ll come back for you later,” Zed yelled.

  Dalberth looked over to their wizard scribe. “Do you think he’s really gone?”

  “We need to get a message out,” the scribe said. “I could take you to find Jonathan, or even Potsie, and get help.”

  “First, we should see what’s Zed’s up to,” Dalberth said.

  “I’ll go,” Maey said. “He’ll recognise you. But he’ll never even notice me.”

  “The girl is right,” the scribe said. “She is the better choice.”

  Maey flashed a grin of triumph that her offer had been taken seriously, before realising exactly what it was she’d won. Fear hammered at her stomach again. Will Zed’s men be waiting?

  Together, Maey and the scribe listened at the side door that led into the alleyway. There was no sound.

  The scribe pushed it open and everybody held their collective breaths as Maey and the scribe scampered into the alley outside.

  The stamp of running feet startled Maey. She jumped back.

  The scribe grabbed her hand and they both ran, slipping away down the maze of cobbled alleys before any of the oncoming runners could arrive and block off their escape.

  Outside, in the town square, Zed was addressing the crowd, a jewelled butterfly fluttering on his shoulder. “The evil Witch Queen Sylvalla has been defeated. Avondale is ours. Soon, Scotch Mist will regain its former glory as the head of the Seven Kingdoms under my beneficent rule.”

  “Turncloaks,” the scribe hissed, pointing to a bunch of old men in red cloaks. “Dothie-Xem is behind this takeover. He might even be here. We have to hurry.”

  They sped away from the square. “Quick, follow me,” the scribe said. “If Avondale’s fallen, our best chance for help might be the university.”

  Maey gulped. She remembered escaping from Bairnsley University corridors with the Goodfellows, and how frightening it had been. Bravely, she sucked up her courage and nodded.

  The scribe opened a wizard’s path. Together, she and the scribe hurried along the strange contortion in spacetime toward the university.

  Maey turned back, expecting to see Scotch Mist disappearing into the distance, but instead she noticed wizards—red cloaks flying.

  “By the gods,” the scribe whispered. “What are they up to?”

  The Were-Wizards

  Sylvalla slipped and slid on the snowy wagon trail, trying not to think of the wolves padding along behind them on giant paws and howling at the winter sun.

  “Come on,” Dirk said, grinning. “Remember the old saying, I don’t have to run faster than the thing that is chasing me.”

  “I only have to run faster than you,” Sylvalla finished. She picked up her pace and ran until her legs were wobbly, and her lungs ached from breathing ice-cold air.

  A flash of red fur on one side of the path. Black on the other. The wolves were close.

  Dirk pointed to a cliff ahead. “I think we can defend that ledge.”

  Sylvalla nodded. There was no point running any longer. They’d done what they wanted to do, led the huge wolf-creatures away from the Avondale refugees.

  A flurry of activity, more a rush of wind than the pattering of feet, had Sylvalla’s heart racing. “They’re coming,” she yelled, putting on another burst of pace.

  A wolf-creature slammed into Dirk’s sword; one breath, all claws and teeth and hot fury, and the next keeled over in the snow.

  The nearest beasts howled.

  The others, wherever they were, didn’t reply.

  An ambush further up the road?

  Sylvalla ran a short distance toward the cliff, stumbled and sprawled face-first into the snow.

  Dirk, sword ready, dragged her up. “Almost there.”

  The rocky cliff rose above them, a grey edifice five or six people high, with tattered brush clinging to a craggy ledge half-way up its weather-beaten sides. A good place to defend, if I can climb it.

  Wolf-creatures streaked toward them.

  Sylvalla scrabbled up the near-vertical surface, her fingernails tearing.

  Dirk made it to the shelf, reached down and grabbed her hand.

  A wolf-creature leapt, snapping at Sylvalla’s heels as she was dragged to safety.

  Solid rock underfoot, she pulled her sword and slashed down at another jumping wolf-creature. Her blade bit into its chest. Yelping, the creature fell down the cliff, limped a short distance, and collapsed in the snow.

  The wolf-creatures regrouped, yapping and pacing below.

  Dirk stared down at them. “Whatever those things are, they’re fast.” It was not an admission he’d ever made before.

  “They look and sound like wolves, but they feel…” Sylvalla leaned back on the rough cliff overhanging the ledge, trying to gather her thoughts. “They feel unnatural, like the evil that lurked under the mountains of A’lganathrieal.”

  “Well, let’s hope they’re not that bad,” Dirk said, swishing his sword at one that got too close. The wolf-creature yelped, blood streaming from its nose.

  “By the gods, I didn’t even see that one,” Sylvalla said.

  The creature’s yelps turned into haunting laughter. It and its four fellows reared up—their legs lengthened and their jaws shrank. Wizard cloaks appeared, clutched in taloned hands.

  Were-wizards? How can such a creature exist?

  “Witch Queen!” a were-wizard yelled. “Destroyer of Magic, Death of Realms. We shall stop you.”

  “Is that another prophecy?” Sylvalla demanded. “Because I am done with prophecies.”

  “We are done with prophecies, too,” the were-wizard snapped back. “It’s time for action.” He raised his arms.

  A th
ousand squirming critters scrabbled out of the ground below the cliff. Swarming snakes, battalions of ants and other unnameable multi-legged horrors inexorably made their way up the cliff to Dirk and Sylvalla.

  “I don’t know if I can climb any higher,” Sylvalla said.

  “At least we’ll die outside,” Dirk said. “Better than dying in a stuffy castle with rats everywhere.”

  “Rats, you say?” A were-wizard laughed and waved his arms. Rats poured down the cliff face toward Sylvalla and Dirk.

  A large brown rodent dropped onto Dirk’s head. He screamed, nearly falling off the cliff as he shook the rat free.

  §

  Jonathan couldn’t listen to Dirk’s tortured screams. Whatever was happening to Dirk and Sylvalla up on that cliff must be too awful to contemplate. He surged forward to rescue them.

  Mr Goodfellow senior grabbed his arm.

  They glared at each other before Jonathan sighed. After trailing Dirk and Sylvalla and the were-wizards for so long, they should keep their one advantage—surprise—for when it was most needed.

  A wizard path opened. Dothie-Xem and Arrant stepped out.

  Toots, riding on Dothie-Xem’s shoulder, turned and stared right at Jonathan and Mr Goodfellow senior.

  §

  Sylvalla tried not to panic as Dirk screamed and swiped at the morass of rats and creepy crawlies seething and rippling over the shelf. Luckily, the snakes were more interested in eating rats than biting either Sylvalla or Dirk, or they’d be in real trouble.

  Determined to escape the seething horde, Sylvalla gritted her teeth and inched further along the rock face after Dirk. The hand-holds were few and far apart, the ledge now little more than a seam in the rock face. It curved higher and higher.

  Sylvalla looked down. Dothie-Xem was below, cloak swirling around him, a giant lizard creature on his shoulder, and Arrant by his side.

  Dragondung!

  Dothie-Xem leered at them all, the old wizard Xem’rial hiding balefully behind the younger wizard’s eyes, his presence a pale green aura that surrounded Dothie.

  Arrant also had a green aura, but his was patchy.