The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  How come I’ve never seen that before?

  Dothie smirked and replied to her thought. Because you weren’t looking.

  Dammit. Get out of my head! Sylvalla thought at him as hard as she could. Bad enough the Goodfellows played that little trick of listening to her thoughts.

  Toots, the lizard creature, was no longer on Dothie’s shoulder; it was munching on the huge multi-legged insects still swarming the ground.

  “Toots!” Dothie-Xem exclaimed.

  Toots continued munching on the mass of creepy crawlies, apparently determined to eat as many as possible.

  “Well done, were-wizards,” Arrant said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dothie-Xem shouted. “The were-wizards are mine, and she’s mine, too. Finally, I’m going to crush her.”

  Arrant turned to Dothie-Xem, his face unreadable. “I’ll hold a trial, and by the end the people of the Seven Kingdoms will hate her more than the wizards hate you.”

  Toots turned away from the fast-disappearing bugs, and eyed the jewelled moth on Arrant’s shoulder. Dothie-Xem and Arrant were still yelling at each other, face to face.

  Somehow, I’ve got to get out of here. Sylvalla tried to block the thought so Dothie couldn’t hear it. But he smirked, anyway.

  Toots climbed up Dothie-Xem, opened their mouth, shot out a tongue and gathered the very expensive ornament that sparkled with trapped green glowing aura into their mouth.

  Arrant gasped as his precious creation was crunched, freeing a silvery trace of magic, and glowing green Rieal.

  “Toots!” Dothie-Xem dropped the creature, and it fluttered to the ground, the butterfly wings on either side of its jaws struggling to fly.

  Toots continued to munch, jewels tumbling down its front.

  Arrant turned on Dothie-Xem. “I told you, you should have killed that thing. Now look what it’s done. I could control the kings for miles away, pick up on what they were thinking and what they were seeing. Now it’s like I’m blind.”

  “Enough,” Dothie-Xem yelled. “Were-wizards, I only need the girl. Take her to Bairnsley and I’ll deal with her there. Go!”

  The were-wizards climbed fast, scrambling up the rock.

  “Hurry, this way!” Dirk had spotted a way up the slope and back onto the wagon trail that wound higher and higher up the mountain.

  Clinging on with fingers and toes, Sylvalla followed. Finally, arms aching from the workout, Sylvalla made it to the top and ran for the road after Dirk.

  The hot breath of a were-wizard on her neck again.

  “Dirk!”

  Sword ready, Dirk glanced back.

  The were-wizard grabbed Sylvalla in his claws, dragging her kicking and screaming onto a wizard path.

  “No,” Dirk yelled.

  “Dirk!” Sylvalla yelled again, but he’d already disappeared.

  Somehow, the abomination had opened a wizard path. Sylvalla yelled and screamed.

  As if it was a living thing, the path shimmered and writhed in response.

  §

  Jonathan held back a laugh as Toots snatched Arrant’s moth jewel, chomping down on the jewels and absorbing its magic.

  “Enough,” Dothie-Xem yelled, pointing to Dirk and Sylvalla. “Were-wizards, I only need the girl.” Anger flashing in his green eyes, he turned to Toots. “What are you doing? Come here.”

  Mr Goodfellow senior elbowed Jonathan. They needed to get moving, but Jonathan hesitated, engrossed by the strange behaviour of Dothie-Xem’s familiar.

  “I am not yours. Not anymore,” the creature said, flexing something on its back—it couldn’t be—newly-formed wings.

  Whatever had just happened was strong magic, indeed.

  “We’ll see about that!” Dothie-Xem hissed. “You traitorous reptile.” He threw a bag of holding over the creature, and bundled it inside the thaumaturgic dimensions therein.

  §

  “Sylvalla!” Dirk yelled, unable to reach her, and then unable to see her as she was whipped away on a wizard path.

  Two were-wizards were closing in.

  “Sorry.” A voice came from nowhere.

  Jonathan? Dirk looked back. The were-wizards were gone. “Jonathan, is that you?”

  “Yup, sorry,” Jonathan said. Suddenly, it was obvious he and his father had been there, trailing them, all along. Dirk thought it weird that he hadn’t noticed.[106]

  “I thought this sword made me immune to magic,” Dirk said.

  “Direct attacks, yes. I think that’s how it works,” Jonathan replied.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “Sylvalla’s been taken. We’re not sure where, quite yet. I don’t suppose—?”

  “Bairnsley University,” Dirk said.

  Jonathan looked back at his father. “The last time we were at Bairnsley University we had to run for our lives.”

  “I remember,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “I was there. But maybe we should ask the wizards who stayed with the Avondale refugees to give us a hand?”

  “There’s no time,” Dirk said.

  Jonathan nodded. “We save Sylvalla now, or we might not save her at all.”

  §

  “Dirk!” Sylvalla yelled. But even if he could see her, Dirk was too far away to reach her.

  “Let me go,” Sylvalla yelled at the were-wizard as the world flew past them. He grasped Sylvalla tight, pinning her arms against her body so she couldn’t free them or wield her sword.

  “Death is too good for you,” the were-wizard growled.

  An imposing stone building loomed as they wrestled for control of Dragontooth. Sylvalla stomped her foot onto his and elbowed him in the face.

  He bit at her, tearing flesh from her shoulder as she wriggled free.

  Sylvalla turned and flicked her sword through his throat.

  Stepping away from the gore, she saw spirits rising from the body. A grey-green one tugged to the ground, the other rose, wordlessly thanking her as it disappeared.

  Shaken, Sylvalla stood and watched it go. Did my friends’ spirits leave like this? Did I not see them?

  The path bucked under her feet snapping her out of her reverie. Torri was gone, among one of the many deaths on her conscience, and Dirk…Dirk wasn’t here. She was trapped on a wizard’s path alone. It tossed her about like a poorly mannered pony. She needed an anchor, a sign. She ran along the roiling path until she came to an intersection that spread off in eight directions.

  Wizards, this is your fault.

  One of the paths appeared brighter. Hurrying back the way she’d come, she saw the stone building again. Was it Scotch Mist? No. Scotch Mist didn’t have a smoking lake—or any kind of lake. It was a place she thought she could only dream of—Jonathan’s university. She was sure of it—not because of the tumble-down castle, or even the smouldering lake, but because the name Bairnsley University was clearly printed on a sign pointing in the castle’s direction.

  Sylvalla wished it was closer. The paths unformed and reformed around her. Suddenly, she was on the cobble path in front of the formal stone entrance.

  Wizards were everywhere. They were fighting in the gardens and in the halls. Fireballs and lightning bolts were flying everywhere.

  “Stop this,” she yelled. “What are you fighting for?”

  Red-cloaked and black-cloaked wizards turned and stared, mouths open. A fireball fizzled in the thrower’s hand. “A woman? At the university? Who did this?”

  Dothie-Xem appeared on the cobble path behind Sylvalla, surrounded by were-wizards and turncloaks. “Give her to me,” Dothie-Xem ordered, his arms spread dramatically, “and I will let the university stand.”

  I have to escape, but how?

  Sylvalla ran into the unfamiliar building, past half a dozen wizards too surprised to do anything but gawp. The sword in her hand was her only friend in this dusty old castle lined with dark panelling and crumbling magic relics.

  “Witch!” Dothie-Xem yelled.

 
Were-wizards and turncloaks took up the chant. “Witch. Witch. Witch.” Others yelled back louder about the fine points of Bairnsley law. No one stopped her.

  It dawned on Sylvalla, too late, that running into Bairnsley University was like running into a trap.

  §

  Maey looked out the Bairnsley University window. They’d crept through the secret UN D’Ground pathways to Potsie’s hideout for help—and it was empty. Outside, the university grounds were a warzone. Red cloaks against black. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Dragondung,” the scribe muttered, his pretence at nonchalance crumbling. Fingernails digging into his palms, he scanned the papers scattered over the table. “With Avondale fallen, the Goodfellows could be anywhere, but Potsie, he’s a canny old fox. He’s here, somewhere.”

  A girl, blood spattered down her front, her cream and leather cuirassed dress worse for wear, stumbled into the garden clutching her sword and covered in scratches and blood.

  “Look,” Maey exclaimed. “Sylvalla!” She was near-hanging out the window in excitement. The famous Sylvalla. It has to be.

  The scribe ran to the window in time to see the fighting stop, and the wizards turning to glare at Sylvalla.

  They don’t seem happy to see her, but will they help her? Maey wasn’t sure they’d help anyone.

  Dothie-Xem and Arrant appeared on the path where Sylvalla had stumbled into the university, surrounded by red-cloaked wizards.

  “We have to get to her before….” Maey said, unsure how to finish—shying away even from the memory of her visions. The death, the destruction, the tyranny under the Two Kings as the Seven Kingdoms were turned into a wasteland. “If anyone can save Scotch Mist, it’s Queen Sylvalla.”

  “Yes, yes…but where’s Dirk?” the scribe asked, and then his mouth dropped open. “I thought witches couldn’t walk the paths? How could Sylvalla manage such strong wizard magic? Even I need this token for safety.” He pulled out a bright yellow piece of wood with a pointed end and covered in incomprehensible black writing.

  Potsie stepped from the crowd, squaring up before Dothie-Xem and Arrant, effectively stopping him from chasing after Sylvalla.

  “So that’s where Potsie is,” the scribe said, unnecessarily.

  “Were-wizards!” Potsie hissed.

  “Were-wizards?” the crowd said. Even the red cloaks looked to each other uncertainly.

  Arrant slowly backed away.

  Even from here, Maey could feel Potsie’s incandescent rage as he stood up to two of the most dangerous wizards of all time. “It’s all or nothing,” Potsie yelled to the crowd. “If they win, they’ll destroy all that is good in this world and create abominations like these creatures.” He waved his hand at some of the more stooped wizards.

  “But it’ll be a world for wizards!” a turncoat shouted back. “Why is that not good?”

  “For wizards? What kind of wizard does this?” Postie waved his arms at the destroyed gardens, and the grizzled and hunched were-wizards. “This is not the future I want.”

  Maey had seen enough. Determined to save Scotch Mist, she ran down the stairs.

  Halfway down, she collided with the famous warrior queen.

  “Stop!” Maey said, her cheeks burning.

  But Sylvalla didn’t stop. She still had wizards chasing after her, screaming, “Witch!”

  §

  Furious, Dothie-Xem called his turncloaks and were-wizards together, still clutching the bag of holding that was barely managing to contain Toots. Now he’d have to leave the university with his job of taking it over wholly undone.

  How dare Arrant run away from the fight? How dare Emz’rial let him?

  Dothie-Xem couldn’t help but think Emz’rial was probably still sulking over the trinket Toots had eaten.

  Good. He should have made one for me in the first place.

  Now there was little choice but to open a path back to Avondale. Running from the pathetic Potsie really stuck in his throat, but an open attack against the well-loved Potsie would have backfired.

  Who’d have thought the endlessly argumentative old men would be so difficult to control? Not that it really matters, the Bairnsley University wizards hate witches as much as I hate Sylvalla. They’re sure to do the dirty work for me, which gives Emz’rial and me more time to complete the takeover of Avondale and the Seven Kingdoms.

  Toots wriggled again.

  By death’s realm, Dothie, that lizard of yours is powerful. What have you failed to tell me about it?

  Do you even know what Toots is? Emz’rial asked.

  It took all Dothie-Xem’s wizard-strength to keep the creature contained as he hauled the struggling Toots into Avondale castle, the bag of holding threatening to burst. He stomped down to the dungeons and opened the drawstring to dump Toots into the cell.

  Jewels glinting in the torchlight, Toots emerged: Head…shoulders…belly…tail.

  The creature’s almost as large as Dothie. No, larger! When did this happen? How? And how have you been able to carry it on your shoulder without noticing?

  The reptile snarled and backed up to the wall. Its tattered wings flapping. Wings! Dothie, what do you know about this?

  At last, Dothie spoke. “I wanted a tuatara because I thought it was the next best thing to a dragon.”

  It’s no dragon, Emz’rial replied. At least, not one I’ve ever seen before.

  Discovery

  “I’m going to rescue little Tomas,” Amarinda whispered to the good doctor. “You should have seen the poor lad. Someone needs to do it, and I know where everything is in the palace.”

  “Stay and help look after our patients,” the good doctor argued. “It will be safer.”

  “I can’t,” Amarinda said. “I can’t leave him with Villyus and Arrant. Besides, we’ll need supplies. If I can rescue the young prince, and get Zed’s butterfly off him, we could use the prince to rally the Avondale people, like Arrant has.”

  “Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe we’ll all be dead tomorrow.” The good doctor went to take a swig of alcohol and stopped himself. “Better save this for the patients.”

  “I’m coming to the castle with you,” Fergus said. “There might be poppy seeds.”

  “And there might not,” Amarinda said. “Are you sure you want to risk fighting Arrant for a few poppy seeds?”

  “Risk fun?” Fergus said, grinning and patting his sword. “I like to fight.”

  “Hmm. We do need supplies,” Amarinda said. “But on a secret mission fighting means we’ve lost.”

  “I will be the distraction,” Fergus said. “And fight my way to the kitchen. Save your Cook. She makes the best poppy seed cakes. Even better than yours.” He grinned.

  “Okay, let’s go. Just don’t go making a fuss unless you hear I’ve been caught.”

  Fergus nodded, and Amarinda breathed a sigh of relief. Having Fergus around made her feel safe.

  They made their way through the crowds around the broken gates. The stables were ruined, but the castle itself was mostly intact, with only a couple of small falls of decorative stone.

  “Delivery for the young prince,” Fergus said, holding Amarinda’s arm in an overly-firm grip.

  Amarinda glared at him. “I hope this is not your idea of a joke.”

  “No joke,” Fergus whispered far too loudly. “New plan. This is best way. We go together.”

  §

  Sylvalla belted up a staircase, Bairnsley University wizards right behind her, and collided into a young girl accompanied by a young wizard clutching an oversize pen.

  “Stop!” the girl said.

  It wasn’t exactly Sylvalla’s plan, not with so many people chasing after her yelling, “Witch!”

  The girl ran after her. “Sylvalla, please stop. I’ve seen you in my visions. We have to save Scotch Mist from Zed.”

  Sylvalla tried to run faster, but her legs ached and burned in equal measure, and her lungs were still raw from running in the icy mountain air.

 
; A particularly old wizard ran up behind them peering owlishly out from behind extra thick lenses. Without any apparent hurry, he reached out his arms and gathered Maey and Sylvalla in a protective embrace. “Ah, Maey, Sylvalla, so lovely to meet you.”

  Sylvalla struggled, trying to wriggle free. My sword? She put her hand on Dragontooth and found she had no desire to wield it. Likely the old wizard’s saved my life. Still, that’s not much use if I’m to be trapped here.

  “Don’t panic,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I’m on your side.” He turned back to the amassed wizards, raising his voice so it carried over the racket of accusations behind them. “You know the rules. We have two new wizards who can walk the paths. It’s past time we trained them.”

  “Girls? We can’t train girls!” someone shouted.

  Potsie shrugged. “The rules say—”

  “Potsie, what are you doing?” Mr Goodfellow senior yelled.

  What’s Mr Goodfellow senior doing here? Dirk and I left him and his wizards behind to help Francis and the people of Avondale. And where’s Jonathan?

  Potsie continued walking, pulling Sylvalla and Maey along with him. Maey’s companion, the young wizard with the pen, had disappeared and Mr Goodfellow senior had taken his place. After a few raised eyebrows and wiggling of ears and beards, it seemed old Potsie and Mr Goodfellow senior had called a truce.

  Maybe I can run ahead—get out somehow?

  “I wouldn’t advise you do that,” Potsie said, adjusting his glasses again. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  “Speak for yourself, Potsie, old man,” a wizard with a huge beard snapped. “She’s going to destroy magic. You need to hand them both over to be tried for witchcraft.”

  “Witchcraft!” Potsie snapped. “Mynyn, do you even remember when I saved you from being hanged for wizardry?”

  “That’s different—”

  “Is it?” Potsie snapped. “Now get out of my way, we can go through due process later.”

  Mynyn disappeared, but others took his place. “She’s a witch! Burn her!”

  Cries of, burn her, burn her, rang out.

  Fear boiled. Sylvalla could smell it. And anger. The fighting hadn’t restarted since she’d arrived, but it was simmering under the surface. She wanted to yell and shout like the rest of them, but instead she bit her tongue and left the talking to Mr Goodfellow and Potsie.