The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Banned from the practice room for a fortnight—again. Worst of all, it had been for such a trivial offence. Wearing a sword to a banquet. Sylvalla couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The men were allowed to wear swords whenever they liked. Why shouldn’t she also carry her sword all the time?

  Sylvalla blamed her mother. About a month ago, the queen had taken to dishing out punishments for the slightest thing. It was a worrying sign. Instead of being her usual easy-going self—she had become far too interested in what her daughter was up to, and worse still, in making sure that whatever Sylvalla was up to was stopped immediately.

  It rained for the entire first week of her imprisonment, so all Sylvalla could do was invent invectives with which to curse the torrent. She wouldn’t mind so much, but horses (Sylvalla thought of her pony as a horse) tend to have poor footing in boggy ground. She couldn’t risk it. Not after last time. Swift had suffered terribly as a team of horse-grooms dragged her pony out of the mire with slings and ropes. Sylvalla’s pride had also suffered. Everybody who wasn’t pulling had gathered around to watch the muddy princess and laugh their heads off.

  “Not again. Never again,” Sylvalla vowed for perhaps the hundredth time that day. Seething, she wondered what she should do now that her life was so unbearable.

  In contrast, Sylvalla’s parents had been unusually happy. The queen chinked her glass against the king’s. “To a disciplined daughter,” she said.

  “To an orderly household,” sighed her father happily. Drinking his wine with infinite satisfaction because he truly believed they had finally devised a punishment with the appropriate effect. This was obviously not the case, and the academic debate still rages—was this an indication of a lack of intelligence? Or a reflection of a lack of imagination?

  Either way, they were both discreetly mocked as fools by the rest of the court. (On pain of death, even courtiers can be discreet.) For everybody, everybody, everybody knew (except apparently, her parents) that a bored Sylvalla utilised areas of her brain best left dormant.

  The dignitaries, the staff, and even the stones themselves seemed to hold their breath with the knowledge that she would come up with something worse than fencing lessons. Or swords at table. Something big. Something that spelt TROUBLE in capital letters and then forgot the punctuation

  Dothie’s Getaway

  It all began one moonlit summer night when an unfortunate cat brushed against Dothie’s legs—no, it began far earlier than that—maybe it was when he gained his familiar and his hatred of cats became an obsession—or earlier still, when his mother dumped him at Fairly University and did not look back.

  Dothie despised everything about FU, the wrought iron gates, the endless boiled cabbage, and most especially the school motto, “Education takes a lifetime.” Yet that was nothing compared to his antipathy toward the school charter.

  §

  The Fairly University Charter:

  To discipline the mind, to understand magic, to fulfil duty, for the good of all.

  §

  He wasn’t the only one who wondered why the charter even bothered mentioning magic, given that magic wasn’t exactly encouraged. Even so, the doctrine of Discipline, Understanding and Duty was hammered home every morning and evening.

  The message wasn’t always taken in, not in the brainwashing way intended. Late at night, rebel students would whisper that what the university wanted was duds incapable of higher magic—and that would be for the good of all. The perverse, the troubled, and those students who were simply trouble, worked all the harder to unlock their gifts. Dothie was one of these—he had no interest in being the kind of ordinary wizard the school churned out. He didn’t want an ordinary familiar. He found toads and owls, and most especially, cats, revolting. Besides, Dothie wanted something altogether new and interesting. A creature nobody else could possibly have.

  Enigmatic, mysterious and alien, when a photographic drawing of a tuatara[1] stared back at him with a cold sharp intelligence, Dothie knew he wanted this magical creature as a familiar. Feeding it might be difficult, but the illustration clearly showed it eating some kind of winged insect.

  Dothie took the old tome, wiped the record of its existence from the library, and … eventually … read the words written underneath, the words so fatefully heard by Mr Goodfellow Senior in his vision.

  Dothie

  NAME:Dothie, E.R.

  CLASS:Wizard

  FAMILIAR:Toots (Lizard)

  SPECIALTY:Transmogrification

  RÉSUMÉ:Dothie has access to old world knowledge. The manuscript in his possession is known to contain pictures of a magical type of fly called Drosophila melanogaster. Repeated experiments to give these animals “+” shaped eyes, as indicated in the book, have failed. He is disliked by his peers, and his irrational outbursts and dangerous mistakes would have been taken more seriously, except that the general consensus was that he was a terrible student and an erratic wizard, who should know better than to cast spells willy-nilly.

  PASSED:His Wizard Finals—after he transformed a member of the Panel of Directors into one of his Drosophila melanogaster flies and refused to reverse the spell until he was promoted. “Any hesitation,” he threatened, “and you will all end up as tasty treats for my familiar.”

  Even after this incident, Dothie didn’t command the respect he felt he deserved. He tried to leave the university to find his own way in the world. When the Chancellor said no, he secretly killed the Chancellor’s familiar. Soon killing poor defenceless animals became a habit. In a roundabout way, it was this gruesome habit that helped him escape.

  §

  The escape began one moonlit summer night, when an unfortunate cat brushed up against Dothie’s legs.

  Dothie recoiled. Not because he disliked cats. Not at all. The emotion was far stronger than that, and his unreasoning hatred soon led to him being discovered red-handed (as in dripping with tomato sauce look-alike) with the very dead cat.

  And in that poorly-planned and executed moment, when his fellow students burst in on him, angry and shouting, Dothie understood there would be no weaselling out of this one. So, he ran.

  The tuatara dug sharp claws into Dothie’s shoulder as he burst out the doors and scrambled down the stairs, closely followed by a growing horde of angry students.

  Soon, he reached the border fence.

  He forced himself to clamber up the wrought iron, ignoring the barbs that sank into his hands, and kicking out at his fellow students who clutched at his robes. The less-than-subtle magic of the fence enhanced the throbbing agony of the wounds. His shoulder stung. His grip weakened. Just as he thought he was going to fall into the hands of the people pulling him back, there was a ripping sound. Cries of frustration echoed as pieces of his robe tore away.

  A lighter Dothie climbed over the fence and down the other side, where he stood doubled-over and puffing heavily. He used the time to take stock of his good fortune. He still had the clothes on his back, including the tattered remnants of his wizard’s cloak fluttering limply in the breeze, and his familiar. The creature gripped tight to his left shoulder, its long claws impaling ripped flesh and kneading the gashes so they oozed thick red blood in a steady stream. Even so, Dothie was glad to have the exceedingly put-out reptile. It was his one friend and companion in all the world.

  On the other side of the fence, the revelry began.[2]

  Seeing their jubilation, Dothie became angrier, but he had no time for revenge. Some of the students were climbing the fence after him, their expressions all too clear through the bars.

  Dothie ran downhill, parallel to the road where the supply wagon regularly trundled. And as he ran through the tall grass and scrub, he counted his blessings once more, just to be sure he had some. One, he was not dead. Two, he wouldn’t have to run far before reaching the city (although this was not so much luck as a case of economics). And three, there was a thriving port with plenty of ships for him to choose from to make good his escape.

&nb
sp; Sure of his destiny, his luck, and his entitlement to both, Dothie approached each boat, working his way steadily to the other end of the docks.

  Time and again he was refused passage.

  Five mages appeared.

  It was past time he was gone. He ducked around sailors unloading casks and saw a foreign ship, The Trusty Maiden.

  The sailors on board beckoned over another small group of wizards. Three of the university’s least able lecturers. What were they saying? Dothie tried to bend the sound of their voices so he could hear their conversation, but the mages had moved on—chased by jeers and catcalls from some of the local urchins.

  As soon as the wizards were out of sight, Dothie hailed the ship, heart in mouth. Had the ship been warned, or was the university trying to keep his escape a secret?

  He sidled closer, trying to gather up courage to say something, when the boat hailed him.

  “Wizard. You looking for a job?”

  “Ah—”

  “We need a weather mage.”

  Dothie nodded sagely. At least he hoped it was sagely. “Indeed?” he prompted, trying not to show his surprise. “A weather mage.”

  He hardly had to say anything more, as the captain offered a generous fee, food and safe passage. And all for nothing more than keeping the weather in check.

  Dothie accepted the offer and bounded on board the moment he heard they were about to set sail.

  The captain shook his still-tender hand with gusto.

  Dothie tried not to wince.

  In another port, the sailors might have been more thorough and discovered Dothie’s knowledge of boats was non-existent, but here wizards were so despised that it was proving impossible to find any—except the hacks who’d asked them to report any wizards without the proper local documents. Wizards weren’t exactly popular anywhere, but they did make sailing an old tub like The Trusty Maiden that little bit safer. Besides, they rationalised, a wizard who managed to turn up at these docks by himself in full wizard’s regalia, and so fashionably tatty, must be very powerful indeed.

  The whole crew was delighted at first. Especially after Dothie told them he was ready and able to hold off the bad weather that was threatening. He didn’t want them expecting too much given he could barely turn a mild breeze, let alone a storm.

  Sleight of hand, and other wizardly tricks, impressed the crew for a while. And if anyone happened to mention the wind hadn’t blown in the right direction for the entire journey, Dothie would counter by saying he was holding off that storm.

  The ploy lasted until a storm arrived.

  Woken by the urgent calls of the cabin boy, Dothie bounded up the rickety stairs and stared with dismay at the black clouds skidding overhead.

  The swell rose with stomach-clutching urgency as the storm swept toward them with almost preternatural haste.

  Runaway

  Sylvalla sighed. For days she’d been bored. Now, everything was about to happen.

  For as far back as she could remember, she’d fantasised about escaping the mundane life of a princess to become a heroic knight. Now, her lack of diversions had focused those efforts, but she’d had to compromise. Unable to find armour that would fit, she’d decided to become a heroic warrior—on horse. It didn’t sound quite the same … but Dirk didn’t wear armour, or have a horse, and all sorts of kings called him a hero, and hired him for his skill with a sword. (Mostly, he was paid not to use it. A detail Sylvalla chose to ignore.)

  Sylvalla was headstrong enough to ignore the jibes and push through all the obstacles in her path. The most difficult one was getting a suitable sword made. The blacksmith hadn’t been at all obliging—not until Sylvalla had dropped a few unsubtle hints about the delicate matter of his dalliance with the delicate handmaiden. And the holiday he’d planned for her, which no one was supposed to know about.

  After that, he’d grudgingly made a sword that hadn’t been fit for a beggar. Sylvalla had rudely told him so—as well as being ever so indelicate about the delicate matter.

  The less said about the second and third blade the better, not because they’d been bad swords, but because they’d not been that good either, and Sylvalla was not about to be fobbed off with a bit of gilt on a blade that didn’t cleanly pierce armour.

  The fourth blade was flawless. Sylvalla had turned it over in her hands, feeling its grip and weight. It was nicely balanced to compensate for her slightly shorter reach and any lack of strength. She’d bound the hilt and honed the edge until it was sharp enough to cut the hairs on the back of her hand.

  Now she was merely waiting, using these last few hours to admire her handiwork and re-appraise her planning. The sword might have been the riskiest and most time-consuming of her enterprises, but there were other items that could lead to questions, should she be caught with them. Food and male clothing, for example, and what did a princess want with scissors? Tapestry scissors, perhaps, but shears? Her gaolers would quake to the seams of their pretty lace underwear.

  The rest of her supplies were already hiding in nondescript saddlebags under a pile of rusty old junk behind the stables. The thought of these precious items being stolen and having to do this all again near made her sick, so she tried to think of something else. Anything else.

  Sylvalla was dying to cut her hair, but it would be best to wait until everyone was thoroughly out of the way, particularly Nurse. There was always a good chance the old dear would pop in to say good night, or in other words check up on her troublesome charge. Looking about, Sylvalla noticed the writing paper her mother had given her. Writing letters was a pursuit appropriate for a young lady in the queen’s eyes. Maybe that was why the paper lay unused on the dresser with a pen and ink planted in artful vicinity. Well, it might console her mother, and Sylvalla needed something to occupy her thoughts for the hour or so before the staff began stealing off to bed.

  An hour later, Sylvalla had managed to write:

  Dear Mother and Father,

  Goodbye.

  She’d meant to say something meaningful, proclaiming her sincere dream of becoming a famous warrior, but the thought of all the courtiers laughing behind her back was too much. After another hour or so of fretting she decided her overabundance of time had run short and simply closed the letter with:

  Best Wishes,

  Sylvalla

  P.S. Maybe someday I will return.

  Again, Sylvalla considered adding something about her Quest[3] to become a famous Hero, but the truth was, it was kinder not to.

  “They are lucky I wrote anything.” She placed the letter under a pillow, where it would surely be discovered, but not until morning.

  Stomach aflutter with excitement, she quadruple-checked her sword was well-hidden under her bed and squirmed under the covers.

  Forcing herself to lie still, she listened for footsteps. Some she didn’t recognise, but many she did. Her parents, some of the ladies-in-waiting, and, at last, Nurse. But tonight, Nurse didn’t pop her head around the door to check on her wayward charge. Instead, her footsteps were accompanied by another’s. Muted laughter echoed softly as they rustled by.

  §

  Dirk

  NAME:Dirk (often referred to as Dirk the Quirk, but never in his vicinity).

  CLASS:Fighter.

  SPECIALTY:Fighting.

  RÉSUMÉ:Doer of Greate ande Noble Deedes. (In other words Dirk has killed an AWFUL LOT OF PEOPLE.)

  PASSED:Fighting, Hand to Hand Combat & Sword Fighting.

  Dirk liked to think of himself as a dashingly strong and handsome figure. A warrior, a fighter, a hero. But although he was strong, he didn’t look like your average fighter. Scrawny as a freshly plucked chicken, and obnoxiously proud of every jutting bone, Dirk could run a marathon without tiring, and wield a sword long after your average bravo’s arms would have dropped off and walked away in disgust. There were other things that made Dirk different from your average sell-sword, but he easily found respect and employment wherever he went due to his professional
expertise. He currently had a contract with the Kingdom of Avondale due to a prudent move on the king’s behalf by one of the king’s closest advisers. After seeing Dirk’s sword rather too close to his own neck, the advisor decided Dirk’s skills would be invaluable to the realm. It was a cosy little agreement where everybody (except the odd marauder) kept their heads on their shoulders.

  §

  Dirk had barely set off on his morning constitutional, a routine that began with a five-mile run, when he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves behind him. Now, he thought to himself, those are the hooves of a pony, so at this time of day (about four a.m.) the person riding it will either be a villain attempting to avoid the consequences of his or her actions, or a princess trying to escape the tyranny of her father.

  It was lucky for Sylvalla that Dirk thought in this peculiar way, or her blood, and other important bits of her, would surely have been spread like jam all over the paving stones. As it was, Dirk merely attempted to block her path, a gesture Sylvalla’s horsemanship easily put to shame.

  §

  Health Warning—Aside!

  Not only are the following pages an aside, but they are also littered with footnotes and other pointless babble. As a scholar, F. Fraderghast insisted they stay. As a sane human being, I suggest you skip ahead to the next section, or better still, put down the entire book lest you be corrupted, not only by the writing, but the dubious subject matter, and go and clean your room like you promised.

  §

  Sylvalla urged her mount (she didn’t like thinking of her chocolate brown stallion as a pony) on to greater speed. She’d recognised Dirk in passing. (It was hard not to, who else would show that much skin on such a chilly morning?) And who could help but fear his reputation?

  Some said Dirk’s sword had removed people’s heads so cleanly that, on occasion, his victims had walked around for hours—until their heads simply slipped off their shoulders. Sylvalla gingerly raised a hand to her own head to ensure it was firmly attached, and smiled. Such stories might not be completely true, but they were well earned. So much so that Sylvalla’s father often joked that if Dirk’s reputation didn’t precede him, the number of corpses in his wake multiplied by a factor of three.