by A. J. Ponder
Cold and miserable, her once-white robes clutched in raw fingers, Sylvalla waited.
Meanwhile, the word was getting out that the city was safe. Small heads began popping up over the walls, although they usually disappeared just as fast, in a flurry of kicking and squealing and guttural cursing. “Nobody goes over de walls, kids. Dem’s orders, from de king hisself.”
It was a long, miserable wait for Sylvalla, and for the guards who’d been on duty since the riots and would have just about given their right arms for a nice cup of tea.
As the sun beat down, Sylvalla swore the next time Avondale wanted saving, they’d have to find somebody else stupid enough to do the job. It almost made her wish that the dragon had eaten her. Well, not herself, actually; perhaps the city instead, that would be better.
Happily Ever After
This is not one of those false happily ever after endings. Nobody lives happily ever after, although some stories might claim such libellous nonsense. I wish I could say that Sylvalla, the Goodfellows, and Dirk were fêted ’til the end of their days for their courage and bravery. The truth, however, is almost too sad for words. Nevertheless, I will attempt to recount as best I can the end of the story, in so much as any story really ends.
At first, the king made some attempt at celebrations for the sake of the population, and for the sake of looking benevolent and getting the most adoration possible from his subjects. After all, the people of Avondale would have taken it amiss if he hadn’t ordered a few banquets and a holiday while they danced around Sylvalla’s dragon-bonfire.
Mr Goodfellow Senior did not wait for the intense heat to cool before securing all of the diamond teeth scattered amongst the burning-hot coals and small mountains of black-and-grey soot. Hustling them away, he sorted through them in the secret forge where he’d cast Sylvalla’s sword. Carefully, he set five of the very best jewels aside—one for each of his companions, and one for himself.
He crafted Sylvalla’s onto a golden chain—the sparkling diamond held by four carefully detailed claws. Dirk’s and Jonathan’s were made into rings, and Francis’ became part of a very expensive and beautiful sword, but there will be more about that later. In the meantime, the celebrations and pageantry died down in a way that corresponded to the cooling of the fire itself.
Not long after, the accountants figured out the cost of the expenses generated by the event. According to them, Sylvalla had single-handedly lost a small fortune, and all for her own aggrandisement. After listening to the financial breakdown half a dozen times, Sylvalla realised why heroes never hung around after the event. Whatever she did, the aftermath was never going to be as pleasant as the immediate celebrations.
Life was going to find its own level of normalcy, however much she might wish otherwise.
Dirk
Dirk guarded the princess’ door, bored rigid and worried at the same time. He knew something Sylvalla didn’t. At least not yet.
The queen had plans for her daughter. Plans that would make the headstrong girl do more than cry. Marriage. Sylvalla’s expected reaction to such news was the only thing that kept him here. And, of course, that stupid oath.
To be fair, she had offered to release him from her service, but he still couldn’t go. How could he consider his oath fulfilled when he’d promised to keep her from harm? Even if—no, especially because she didn’t realise the danger. She was expendable now the queen was with child. It was a reality the girl might take a while to get used to.
He understood Sylvalla had some sense of duty also. To him. To her daily practice. (Albeit with a blade so minute it might as well be imaginary.) There was also her curious sense of obligation, or ethics, which prevented her from slaughtering the entire castle and escaping—Dirk had offered. Twice.
Francis
As things blew over, Francis began to wonder with increasing seriousness about disappearing and building a new life for himself. He’d gone as far as asking Mr Goodfellow Senior for help. That had been a mistake. He became certain of this when Mr Goodfellow Senior came to visit early one evening, chortling away in a manner that was quite disturbing. “Come with me, lad,” he said. “I have a job for you.”
Francis frowned at the old man. He started to argue, but found himself suspiciously tongue-tied.
Mr Goodfellow Senior chortled a little more. This was wizard’s work at its finest and most preposterous. “Come, Francis, people are waiting.”
So, it was that Francis was brought to the king’s audience hall as it was filled with people in their Sunday best.
“Sir Goodfellow,” the king intoned, although he hadn’t actually knighted the man. (It wouldn’t do for a mere commoner, a hedge-wizard, to hold so much influence over his court.) “You said you had found something of immense importance to the kingdom…?” Rufus let the words trail off into the kind of question that implies authority and threat.
“I have, oh great and munificent king.”
The crowd held its breath. This is what they’d been waiting for. Outside, twelve slaves could be seen sporting the traditional white loincloths, their backs a deep golden brown from many years of toil, unprotected from the sun. They stood, three to a rope, clutching four ropes that were attached to something very big.
“Heave!” called the front man, and they all began pulling.
Most of the crowd jostled for a better view, although this meant those in the front were pushed forward against their better judgement.
The slaves hauled, and slowly the something very big inched into view. It was a rock the size of a thurgle, sitting on top of a tiny trolley that groaned and screeched under the enormous rock’s weight.
People backed off. Nobody in his or her right mind would want to be too close when the overburdened trolley collapsed.
After the seventh Heave! the trolley rested in the very centre of the hall. There was a loud groan. Something cracked, and the trolley imploded.
People surged like a wave, at first backward and then forward, as a collective gasp rose.
Mr Goodfellow Senior smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done.
The slaves melted away, the dust settled, and now there was a rock in the king’s court. Only, sticking out of this particular rock, there was a foot of wickedly-sparkling diamond dragon’s tooth, topped with an ornate gold pommel.
Goodfellow cleared his throat. “This is the treasure I have found, O King. ’Tis truly a royal weapon from glorious ages past. The man who can pull this sword from the rock is indeed the lost Prince of the lost Kingdom of Havendale.”
The old man whispered to Francis, laying his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Not today and not tomorrow, but on the third day, you shall lift the sword from the stone.” Francis was bound within the spell, and for three days, time did not pass for him.
On the third day, he found himself striding toward the boulder that held the magnificent sword. “I am the man you seek!” he cried, thrusting his way through onlookers and lines of peasants who couldn’t resist testing their luck. (Some had tried on multiple occasions, hoping that with patience the sword would finally yield to their grip.)
Francis noticed wryly that he did not seem to be wearing his own clothes. He dashed an elegant hat off his head and bowed deeply—and hesitated. Suddenly he was in control of his actions and acutely aware of everybody watching him.
Feeling a little like a startled rabbit that’s been painted bright orange, and set free without a bolt-hole in sight, he kept going. It would be humiliating to back out now.
The other contestants gave way as he drew up to the stone.
Determined not to display his apprehension, he gripped the pommel and breathed deeply. Not that he could fail. It was rigged. Who else knew? Surely, somebody would realise he was an impostor and identify this as the mad hoax that it was.
Slippery with sweat, his hands began to pull the sword out of the stone, not as if the stone was made of butter—but more like the sword would not let go of his hand.
&
nbsp; There was an enormous crack! as the blade was freed, and the stone split asunder.
Silence followed, and then the former slaves, whose freedom had recently been bought (three days ago) by Mr Goodfellow Senior, began their second task as well-paid, adoring, and consequently extremely gullible, employees. “A prince. A prince. A prince for our princess.” Their cry was soon taken up by the rest of the gathering. And in the street outside.
The door guards were more than earning their pay, trying to keep more people from bursting into the crowded gallery.
“Hurry,” Mr Goodfellow Senior yelled to Francis. Something needed to happen, and soon, or people would die down there.
Francis was already moving as fast as he could, his sword helping him avoid the worst of the crush. When he reached Mr Goodfellow Senior, the old wizard wasted no time hoisting the young man’s arm aloft. “You are a prince among men,” he whispered into the boy’s ear.
Seeing something was happening, the din petered out.
Everybody present could hear Mr Goodfellow Senior as he said, at deafening volume, “Here stands a prince among men.”
“I don’t feel much like a prince,” Francis said, but nobody heard. The cries of approval were too riotous.
The king, a diplomat to the last, recognised the advantage of offering this man his daughter’s hand in marriage. Still, he felt a mild sense of disappointment. He’d planned to get rid of the girl and make a strong alliance in the process, but of course that was a dream. Any monarch who received his daughter for a bride would count it as no favour, and the current estimates of the necessary dowry would cripple the richest kingdom.
He sighed deeply. Unfortunately, this was for the best. So, in turn, the king raised his own hand for silence, and called Francis to him. Taking hold of the boy’s clammy hand, he thrust it into the air in a gesture of fellowship in much the same way as Mr Goodfellow Senior had. “Today, I find a husband for my daughter …”
He had meant to say more, a great and memorable speech, but nobody could hear anything, so he sat down again while the crowd cheered uproariously. This was, at last, a day they could recount to their grandkids. Their princess was to be married to a legend. And wasn’t there something about a dragon? It didn’t pay to be too clear on the details.
Enough time had elapsed that they were able to forget the stories they didn’t like. Surely, it was the valiant lad who’d rescued the princess and slain the awesome beast. Now that would make a much better story. The whole princess thing was a bit unbelievable. A prince, though …
§
Francis fumed. Capro Goodfellow was all very well and good, most of the time. And Francis had become fond of the old man, but sometimes he could see exactly where Jonathan was coming from. Right now, what he really wanted to do was give the crafty, gods-forsaken, old beggar a piece of his mind.
How could Capro even have thought about doing this to the two of them?
To make it worse, he was probably the only person who knew how Sylvalla felt. (Apart from Dirk, her mother and father, the Goodfellows, and anybody else who had half a brain, or had gone past her rooms that day and listened to her not-so-private tantrum about the proposed marriage.)
His anger mounting, Francis bowled up to the old man’s door with the full intention of telling him what he really thought about cheats and liars. He stood there, intending to compose something really scathing about meddlesome old men.
After a little thought, however, he slunk away. Being a prince might not be so bad. There were certain luxuries involved. Like shoes. And he was sure he could come to an arrangement with Sylvalla that would suit both of them quite well. Once she’d thought about it for a while.
Queen Tishke
The queen, for her part, cared little. Except that her daughter was alive, and would be married off to the only prince who’d have her. A prince whose supposed heritage might make Avondale very powerful indeed. Or might not.
Truth is, Tishke had enough to worry about, because, as if from nowhere, her prayers for a son and heir had been answered. It was no matter that the boy was adopted, because nobody else knew. It wasn’t as if the mother would talk—her illegitimate child would be king, and not a disgraceful accident to be farmed out to unwilling relatives.
Tishke was radiant. She had almost free reign over Avondale, but without the petty irritations that usually go with the position. Those jobs she could give to the king, and the foolish man would think them important. And best of all, she hadn’t had to pretend pregnancy for very long. “What a surprise!” “Indeed, it is a miracle … I swear I hardly realised I was pregnant, and out it popped.”
Her ladies were all jealous. Cooing madly over the baby and praising her for her miracle birth. In truth, her handmaiden had had a terrible pregnancy, vomiting most days. And a dreadful labour. For a while, the queen had worried she’d have to call a midwife, or even a priest, but it had all turned out for the best. Quite a cosy arrangement when all was said and done, especially as the girl was an excellent wet-nurse.
Sylvalla
Sylvalla gazed listlessly out of her window. She was in disgrace. Outside, the rain fell upon the windowpane. Inside, a quieter rain fell upon her cheeks. Neither helped remove the bitter taste of ash from her mouth—as she wondered if her life had gone up in smoke with the dragon.
Petulantly, Sylvalla threw herself on her bed with every intention of crumpling the silly dress she’d been forced to wear. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. Even before the feasting and celebrations were over, Sylvalla had seen how things stood. She didn’t fit the expected model. Her bedraggled state on finally entering the city had not helped either. In the minds of the court, dignity was more important than mere death. Sylvalla had forgotten that detail, unimportant as it should have been for a dragon-slaying hero.
Jonathan, Francis, Mr Goodfellow Senior and Dirk had acquired respect, as if they’d saved Avondale from the ravaging dragon. They smiled and bowed to toast after toast, award after award, and ovation after ovation.
A malicious thought snuck up on Sylvalla, unbidden. What if everyone is right? What if your victory was nothing more than a stroke of luck? Even so …
No. I am a hero. I fought both dragons.
But, as time passed, her role seemed to count less and less. Apparently, she was not a hero because it hadn’t been a fair fight. Of course it wasn’t a fair fight, the thing was many times her size, and breathed fire. There was nothing fair about it. Even the delusional voices she’d heard on that terrible night had agreed on that point.
What she hated most was the accusation that she’d acted in a way unbecoming for a princess. Apparently, as royalty, she should have given her life for the city … blah blah blah! The idiots acted like they’d have been happier if she’d died in some dramatic and ultimately futile gesture.
So, here I am—about to be married.
Sylvalla considered Dirk’s tempting offer of escape.
No, it was unthinkable, no matter how tempting.
Sylvalla morosely tapped her sword, reassuring herself with the sharp metallic noise it made when struck by a fingernail.
The words of the old wizard echoed in her ears: Keep it secret, keep it close.
I am dangerous, Sylvalla thought defiantly. They haven’t pulled my teeth. I am waiting. Just waiting …
The Goodfellows
The Goodfellows trudged down the dusty road. They felt guilty about leaving, and yet it was time. Both of them felt it. The elder Goodfellow was being called to teach, the younger to learn. Neither wished to go.
“You will enjoy it,” the old man fibbed.
“Don’t lie, old man. It is necessary, and that is all.”
“Yes, well, it is that.” Mr Goodfellow Senior was torn about his recall. Fifty years of sabbatical hardly seemed long enough. Jonathan, on the other hand, did need reining in. An untrained wizard could be a real liability. He felt a fluttering of pride; his boy was finally going to learn how to harness his talent.<
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Still, Mr Goodfellow Senior felt uneasy. As if he’d forgotten to put out a fire, or lock the house. Which was silly, he didn’t expect to be back for another fifty years or more, and by then everything would be completely different.
Mr Goodfellow Senior shook his head to try and clear his guilt. “We couldn’t have brought her. She does not have the gift.”
There was another pause before Jonathan said what was on both their minds.
“But—she killed the dragon.”
“Francis will be good for her. She will be safe.”
“Yes. She will hate that …”
The Bad Guys
Strangely enough, I can end this story on a bizarrely happy note.
At least somebody got everything that they wanted out of the quest. Yes, they failed to rescue the princess, but they were fortunate enough to leave Avondale before Sylvalla confessed to seeing them all in the king’s throne room. And doubly lucky, considering that if Dothie hadn’t turned Jonathan into a fruit fly, they might have rescued the princess. A feat that would have been a disaster for one of them—and left the other two dead.
Before they left, Arrant and Dothie found a goodly sum of money in the dead hands of a very wealthy man. The tavern they bought with the proceeds is now the most popular in Scotch Mist and makes them a wagon-load of money. They live in comfort, or, to be more accurate, in excess. Fergus is a terrific bouncer. Nobody runs out the door with monies owing. A few did try in the early days, but they simply bounced off the thurgle, and landed a few miles away in an informal cemetery.
Despite the respect Fergus enjoys within the community, he’s restless, telling himself that he is just waiting for his master to slip up (yet again) so that he can go home. Arrant, on the other hand, doesn’t dare to let the thurgle go, in case Dothie betrays him. And Dothie, for his part, constantly wonders why he should share his ill-gotten gains with people who, after all, are only mortal …