Quest: Book 1 of the The Sylvalla Chronicles by F Fraderghast

by A. J. Ponder

  On the other hand, Dirk couldn’t help hoping, in his hidden heart of hearts, that the adventure she’d mentioned would turn up. Surely, his luck had to change. He hadn’t actually done anything heroic for a long time now, and he was beginning to feel a little out of practice. Perhaps an excursion might not be such a bad thing. Lately he’d been relying on his reputation a bit too heavily. If the worst came to the worst and nothing turned up, he could always make up some fantastic tale about rescuing the girl from thurgles or giants. And who would say otherwise? Better still, after wandering about in the wilderness, the princess would become desperate for the comforts of palace life and all too happy to corroborate any wild tale of Dirk’s heroics, just to keep them both out of trouble.

  Jonathan Goodfellow

  NAME:Jonathan Goodfellow.

  CLASS:Middle.

  SPECIALTY:Charming the socks off maidens.

  RÉSUMÉ: Looks good in practically anything, and even better in absolutely nothing. Is exceptionally strong and can wield a sword better than most so-called experts. Jonathan could talk the tail off a donkey, hence his successful career in sales. An all-round nice guy except for his disgusting (and profitable) habit of remaining sober, and his notoriously dubious morals when it comes to making money.

  PASSED:A life of hard knocks with very little reward, although the very little reward part is a recent development. Not that long ago, he had large quantities of jewels and other easily transportable wealth secreted in hidden compartments all through his wagon.

  To say Jonathan was surprised to find himself transmogrified into a winged insect is an understatement in the extreme. He was so gobsmackingly dumbfounded that for the first hour he kept flying into birds—a dangerous habit for a fruit fly, even if it is larger than most, and goes by the fancy title of Drosophila melanogaster.

  Not being stupid, Jonathan quickly realised the air was not a safe place to be. The ground however, was worse. There were too many ways to die. Especially as he didn’t like the idea of being caught by a spider, poisoned, and then drained of his life-fluids whilst still conscious. To avoid this dreadful fate, he took up residence in the tail of a passing deer. It turned out to be an excellent safe haven. Although he had to keep a sharp eye out for the fleas crawling around on the deer like armour-plated tanks! Not that they could hurt him—but he didn’t know that.

  Night fell, and Jonathan became increasingly drowsy. He worried if he’d ever turn back into a man. Did spells have a limited lifespan? He wasn’t sure. He’d always made a concerted effort to ignore anything about magic—by sticking his fingers in his ears and refusing to listen.

  Dozing in the darkness, Jonathan was worrying if he’d last another hour in this fragile form, let alone another day—when he was kicked in the ribs by a very startled deer. The deer, despite having a human appear out of the thin air above her, retained enough presence of mind to ensure the kick really counted, before bounding off.

  Jonathan consoled himself with the adage, nothing broken, so no harm done.

  He stood up, winced, and amended the saying to, nothing serious broken, so no harm done. Moaning, he lay back on the hard ground with the intention of sleeping it off. Not the soundest of strategies with stones and tree roots digging into broken ribs—but he retained a glimmer of hope that this whole fruit fly thing was a dream and he’d wake up safely asleep on his wagon. If this is a dream, he promised himself, I’ll never listen to sailors and their hare-brained accounts ever again.

  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Of course this was a dream. Sailors really had no idea what a wizard was capable of. Fruit flies indeed! A bit of wind, maybe a storm or two, but anything else was an exaggeration fit for only for bards, and not serious people with professional professions. Jonathan was serious. And professional. He prided himself on having a clear grasp on reality, or as he liked to call it, the real world …

  §

  When Jonathan woke, he was not on his beautiful blue, red and yellow wagon. That was long gone. Instead, he found himself, including his sword and the clothes he’d been wearing (isn’t it funny how magic works like that?) lying under some scrub, and completely soaked with dew.

  Walking along the centre of the wagon ruts, Jonathan became more and more furious. Hidden in his wagon, behind his trading stock, were expensive goods for many of his well-established clients, and behind even that, secreted in secret-secret compartments within the secret compartments, was a king’s ransom in valuables. Riches that were supposed to be his backstop for lean times, and the foundation of his much-anticipated ROYALTY[8] funds.

  He would have happily killed the wizard just for the satisfaction, and the change of clothes in the wagon’s front compartment. In fact, right now, with not a fruit tree or a vegetable garden in sight, not even a bramble, he would kill the wizard for an apple. If only this gods’ forsaken road wasn’t an epicurean desert. As he kept plodding, his rumbling stomach was a constant reminder of his loss, feeding a growing lust for revenge.

  “As long as that stinking gods-blighted sewer-rat doesn’t find my funds before I find him,” Jonathan cursed impressively. Or it would have been impressive cursing, if he hadn’t weakened it by adding the age-old platitude, “Stealing merchandise from honest traders! The man deserves to be hung, drawn and quartered.” Such righteous indignation was absurd given Jonathan was not, and had not at any time in his career, been an honest trader. To his knowledge, honest traders were as rare as hen’s teeth—and he hadn’t discovered any of those in his lifetime, either.[9]

  Jonathan was pondering how to regain his fortune as he trudged down the muddy lane. Luckily, he still had a little money in his pockets, as well as in his shoes, the top of his hat, and one or two other hiding places. He’d be able to buy food. Though, given his drastically changed circumstances, he wasn’t keen on spending money on anything. Maybe someone would feel sorry for him, or maybe it would be better to find a free lunch at a conveniently unoccupied farmstead.

  Unfortunately, when he did come across a farmhouse it was disappointingly occupied. On the other hand, the building was wafting some irresistibly delectable smells in his direction—including the smoky fat-filled heaven that is bacon sizzling in a pan.

  The distracting aroma nearly caused him to lose his head—as he stumbled up the front porch, the farmer burst out of his door wielding a wickedly sharp axe. “You thievin’ varmit! Ah’ll git you this time!” the red-faced farmer hollered, gut heaving.

  Jonathan sidestepped, and the axe whistled past his ear. “Pardun moi, squire,” Jonathan said, ignoring the axe as it returned to a threatening chest height. “Ia have a lettle money with which to pay my way until Ia finish my Pilgrimayge to the Place She Finds Moast Holye.” Jonathan smiled charmingly. He was particularly proud of his command of his vast repertoire of accents. That he wasn’t very good at any of them was a secret most people who met him kept to themselves, partly because his dimpled smile was every bit as charming and persuasive as he believed.

  The man hesitated, and then shrugged broadly. “You’re not from round here, are you, son?”

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “Ah. Well, then, good day to you, pilgrim. What would you be wantin’ from an honest farmer?”

  In a twist of irony, given Jonathan’s passing acquaintance with honesty, alarm bells began to ring (quite loudly) in his head. The last time Jonathan made a deal with somebody who’d described themselves as honest, he’d been robbed, strangled, and left for dead.

  “A lettle breekfast for a hungry traveller.”

  Oops. Jonathan realised the word hungry was a mistake the instant it left his lips.

  “Well, come in, come in,” the farmer said with a disconcerting twitch of his shoulders, and, incidentally, the axe.

  Jonathan took a small step backward. “Ah’m terribly soree, but Ah may not enter any dwelling until Ia reach The Place She Finds Most Holye.”

  “Well, that is sad,” said the farmer, pretending not to n
otice the change of accent, and cursing the loss of what looked to be a very expensive sword. “At any rate, I can provide you with breakfast fit for a king, for the modest price of one silver piece.”

  “Ah am indeed a modest man, as ye say, with simple needs. A loaf of bread, some milk, and seven or eight rashers of bacon will suffice. For this, I’m prepared to pay ye the princely sum of one new minted copper piece,” Jonathan said, finally giving up on the accent—but not his coin.

  “Pah and hog swaddle!” The farmer countered with the bonhomie of a man who thinks he’s winning an argument. “The breakfast you’re wanting is worth three copper pieces, or I came down in the last shower of rain!”

  “Three! You seek to swindle me and leave me without means to complete my journey? Yet, if, as you say, your fare is of a high standard, I will be willing to pay two copper pieces, for the extra quality.”

  The farmer moaned and wrung his hands, fussing about how he and his family would starve and freeze to death in the winter, although he didn’t put much effort into it, well aware that he’d been bested by a pro and should have started at a more reasonable five copper pieces and come down to three. On the other hand, it was a fair deal, and, in a small way, profitable, so he called to his wife to hand over the food while keeping an eye on the unexpected visitor.

  Jonathan watched the farmer watching him, content in the knowledge his belly would soon be stuffed to bursting. And now that problem was solved, his thoughts strayed to his other little aches and pains, most especially his sore feet. What he needed now was transport.

  He grinned.

  The farmer couldn’t help but grin back, oblivious Jonathan was looking at his riding trousers and thinking, this farmer has a horse I can borrow …

  Partners in Crime

  Arrant

  NAME: Arrant.

  CLASS: Village Idiot.

  SPECIALTY: Whistling and Daydreaming.

  RÉSUMÉ:Has failed to do anything interesting in his entire life. Except for being good at all sorts of Avoidance; that’s getting out of work as well as out of the way of accurately thrown objects, failing to face up to the truth about anything, and shrinking from using any intelligence he might have. He very strictly follows the village idiot dress code, badly patched and mismatched clothing, breeches always back to front, and is never seen without a stem of grass dangling from the corner of his lips.

  PASSED:Nothing.

  According to Arrant, Arrant wasn’t stupid. But, while most village idiots might say this, in Arrant’s case it was true. Arrant’s problem was sheer laziness. At a very young age, he’d figured out that if he pretended not to understand instructions, he wouldn’t have to do any work. This particular insight had always stood him in good stead—until now. Now there was a problem. Arrant, having become interested in girls, was beginning to understand that no girl in her right mind would look twice at such a wastrel.

  There was nothing for it but to leave the village and find a new life for himself. Nothing too obvious, mind. If things went badly, he had a reputation to come back to, one that fed him three meals a day without asking for anything in return. So there could be no asking at every caravan if they needed a strong man—and anyway he wouldn’t be hired, he was far too scrawny. The only option was to stow away on a stranger’s caravan, wagon or even a hay cart.

  After months of procrastinating and planning—or more accurately, daydreaming—Arrant found a suitable candidate, a wagon driven by an odd man with long hair, short-focused eyes, and an extremely ungainly way of driving his wagon (all elbows and badly administered whip). Although he was dressed like a trader, he was missing a hat, and there was something suspicious about him that lingered long after first glance. He had a crooked shoulder, and some of his gestures were odd … wizardly. That’s it, Arrant decided. The man’s a failed wizard. It made perfect sense, from the disappointed scowl to the way he peered down his nose at everybody.

  Arrant didn’t much like the look of him, but he wasn’t frightened of wizards. Pathetic creatures. And he did like the look of the wagon, the tarpaulin stretched over three upside-down U frames, freshly painted in bright, cheery colours. The whole vehicle looked fresh and full of prospects, if not actual money.

  Discreetly, Arrant followed the carriage into town. Discreetly, he hid in the long grass by the wayside, and discreetly, he kept his distance as the wizard wandered back and forth between the pub and his wagon.

  Eventually, Arrant fell asleep on the roadside, grass-seed dangling from his mouth. When he woke, a full moon glowered palely over the landscape, giving the night an unexpectedly sinister quality. Arrant shivered, partly due to the cold night air, but mostly from anticipation. His heart beat rapidly. He felt more alive than ever before. A quick glance.

  There was nobody about.

  Arrant slunk into the caravan, hid behind the numerous wares and provisions—and waited.

  He realised he must have fallen asleep again when the caravan lurched violently. The wheels rattled over cobbles, shaking him so that he could hardly sit upright. All the noise—the whinnies from the horse, the sound of a whip being plied too enthusiastically, cursing from the driver, and angry shouting—was enough for Arrant to realise the wagoneer was taking off with monies and goods still owing.

  He peeked out.

  A couple of people near the front of the wagon disappeared into thin air and the remaining villagers swarmed the rear of the caravan. They attempted to jump on board.

  Holding on tight, Arrant rushed to tread on any over-enthusiastic fingers. Soon the followers dropped away, screaming about witchcraft, and threatening to kill them if they ever came back.

  The commotion over, the rhythm of the horses became monotonous. With the excitement miles behind, Arrant fell asleep again—to be woken by the uncomfortable touch of cold steel.

  “Give me one reason why I should let you live,” hissed the crook-backed trader who was probably a wizard.

  “Because you need me,” Arrant answered levelly, trying not to blink in surprise as a lizard’s face emerged from a fold in the man’s cloak. What he’d originally thought was a malformation was actually some kind of familiar.

  So, this man is definitely a wizard. Maybe a proper one.

  Knowing a little flattery always goes a long way, Arrant smiled and said, “You’re a man who could hold the world in his hands.” A quick look at Dothie’s smug face confirmed this was indeed the right track.

  Arrant paused deliberately, before adding, “But you need my brains.”

  “Pah!” Dothie spat into the dirt. “I don’t need the brains of a village idiot.”

  Arrant, aside from a brief thought about changing his dressing habits, decided the remark was worth ignoring. “You know, trader, you’re thinking small. You steal rags from paupers. Don’t you ever wonder if you could get more for your efforts?” The lust in Arrant’s eyes was unmistakable. Dothie appreciated it. He began to believe in his small and greedy heart that the boy must know of opportunities he didn’t. This was a strange land, after all. And very far from home. And so Arrant escaped with his life. Temporarily, at least.

  After some negotiation, the two men decided on a mutually agreeable oath. Of course, it had to be a Blood Oath,[10] only the wording needed hammering out. In the end, they decided on; “By my blood, I, Dothie (or Arrant as the case may be), will never kill you, Arrant (Dothie), in your sleep.”

  “Anyway,” each man thought deviously to himself, “I can wake him up, and then kill him.”

  §

  Later that morning, Dothie and Arrant watched each other suspiciously over the glowing embers of a fire. They had a problem. Dothie had no map and no compass, and Arrant had no tangible knowledge of anywhere outside his village. This left them with no plan except to follow the road and hope the next village wasn’t too far away.

  Arrant decided to go on the offence early, so as not to get saddled with the blame for this fiasco. “You’re a fool, wizard. By the Seventh Realm, I thought you�
��d at least know where you were going.”

  Dothie grunted and threw a handy stone at the miserable runt. Arrant ducked, considered retaliating, then thought better of it. Dothie was a lot stronger than him.

  “It’d be all right,” continued Arrant, “if all we wanted was to ransack a few villages, but we could do so much better. I’ve heard the real wealth is in the cities.”

  Not entirely convinced, Dothie shrugged—a movement that convinced his strange familiar to sink its claws even deeper into his shoulder. He grimaced and kicked at the dying embers. “We’re off. No point letting any persistent beggars from your village catch up.”

  They broke camp, bickering and grouching with unfriendly ease. The morning was fresh and grey at first, but the grey never seemed to lift, and although the horse began the journey in an overworked shuffle, it soon began to snort and shy off the road, nostrils flaring.

  Arrant shook his head. The man had no technique. “Can’t you keep your horse under control?”

  Dothie pulled at the horse’s bit.

  The animal whinnied and shied, jolting the carriage as it twisted from one side to the other.

  Arrant took a deep breath to further insult Dothie, but the dryness at the back of his throat alerted him something was wrong, and not just with the driver. He sniffed and looked to the horizon. “Smoke!”

  “Where?” Dothie demanded.

  “There,” Arrant pointed. “You stop the carriage and I’ll take a better look.”

  “Don’t wet your breeches, boy,” Dothie said, making no move to stop the horse, not so much because he hadn’t seen the plume, but because he had.