The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Two? By the great mother hen and all her—”

  Before Arrant could discuss the number of horses the thurgle might need, or remark on Dothie’s sheltered childhood and edify him on some far more shocking epithets, the party turned a corner and encountered five men sauntering casually toward them—their carefree attitude just shy of whistling.

  Arrant and Dothie looked to each other.

  These newcomers had the air of false innocence you only get from brutes pretending that they’re not really slimy bastards, and that being strung out in a line across the middle of the road is a natural thing to do, and moreover, that their hands were simply idly on their hips, and definitely not wavering nervously inches away from their sword hilts.

  Dothie turned his full attention back to the vagabonds, his features frozen in place while his horse plodded steadily on.

  Arrant glanced behind. There were just as many ruffians creeping out of the scrub. At least ten, altogether. He forced his startled brain into thinking through his options.

  Footsteps away now, the tension was palpable.

  They could stop and delay the inevitable.

  Or?

  Click. Four steps.

  They could leave the road—but the footing looked treacherous, and the scrub could be hiding traps.

  Or?

  Click. The hoof came down. Three steps away—it was too late for any decision other than—“CHARGE!”

  In Arrant’s defence, the tactic almost worked. Dothie and Fergus rose to his call and spurred their horses into the unsuspecting gang. Indeed, it would have been successful, if not for the bloody-mindedness (literally) of Fergus’ horse. The evil-tempered beast just had to find out if it could brain one of its attackers. Instead, all it managed to do was throw Fergus heavily to the ground and get itself caught.

  In moments like this, events seem to occur as if they’ve been dropped in syrup. In reality everything is moving too fast for true thought, and so the whole experience is of watching distantly from within an adrenaline-induced high.

  Arrant and Dothie heard the thud as Fergus hit the ground.

  They turned and saw the warhorse nicker sweetly before glancing malevolently at Fergus.

  Arrant analysed the situation. It was obvious Fergus was in trouble.

  Should I go back?

  He slowed slightly, and was quickly overtaken by Dothie, spurring his horse away from their would-be assailants.

  Arrant shrugged and heeled the flanks of his own horse, swearing profusely as he followed Dothie. Without help, Fergus was doomed. He knew it. Dothie knew it. It was far too late to go back. Too late to do anything but curse the mangy wizard and rue the loss of his thurgle.

  With Arrant and Dothie no more than dust in the distance, the poor warhorse realised an obvious fact. It was trapped with five—no, ten—humans and a giant. Statistically, it was worse off than before.

  Fergus didn’t believe in statistics, in fact maths of any kind was a little under his head[15]. This peculiar relationship with mathematics was only enhanced as Fergus lay motionless on the road, oblivious of numbers, overwhelming or otherwise.

  Two of the bandits sidled over to see whether the mound of flesh was breathing or not, whereupon Fergus reached up and smashed their heads together.

  Moving like silk, he grabbed a stone, rose to his feet and slipped Excalibur from its sheath.

  He meant to confront the man before him, except before he could swing his sword, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Almost negligently, he tossed the stone over his shoulder, smiling wickedly as it crashed into the man sneaking up on him.

  The odds by this stage had deteriorated somewhat for the humans, but if the horse was correct they were improve—“βριδλεσ ανδ βιτσ!!!” A translation of the animal’s epithet would be thankfully redundant, but as you can probably tell, the thurgle had indeed, by a gravitationally defying feat of gymnastics, somersaulted onto the horse’s back, landed heavily, and cut off the escape of the human with the same idea. He then proceeded to cut the man’s legs from underneath him, (yes, literally). After that there was no one left to impede the horse as it hobbled off with its enormous burden.

  Fergus whooped loudly (as that kind of thing is almost a requirement when a hero defeats ten valiant opponents, against the odds), and set off to join Dothie and Arrant.

  He didn’t have to…[16] But right now—nothing better was in the offing. And princess-hunting did sound rather fun.

  Hot on the Trail to Catch a Thief

  Of all the cities, in all the places he’d ever been, Jonathan hated his home city of Avondale most. And now, he returned in the heat of the day, amongst a smorgasbord of half-forgotten aromas—and the unforgettable stench of the sun beating on open sewers. He cursed the thieving wizard who’d brought his wagon here. Surely there were a few minor hells that were more pleasant?

  Determined to put on his best face, Jonathan clutched his aching ribs, smiled for all he was worth, and led his recently acquired horse over to a toothless old farmer guarding a small stand of withered apples. “Good day, sir, what lovely apples you have. A copper piece, neh? And by chance, I don’t suppose you’ve seen a wagon with a wizard perched atop it?”

  The man peered up, blinking earnestly. “A wagon, you say, sir?” he said with much scratching of his head and wrinkling of his brow before holding out his empty palm. “You don’t want to hear about the missing princess and the vast reward?”

  “No, just the wagon.” Jonathan gave up another coin, and the old guy pointed further down the road, where Jonathan found another like-minded, sharp-eyed vendor and went through the same routine. Except this time Jonathan pretended to have more of an interest in gossip about the princess and not the wagon—to keep the price down. Yes, tracking outside a city might require skills honed over a lifetime, along with eagle eyes and a sharp mind. Here, in the city, though, it boiled down to little more than the size of your purse.

  Jonathan felt almost smug as he easily followed the trail to the slave market, around a couple more bends, purchasing food all the way. Then, just as he thought he couldn’t eat another morsel, the trail twisted back on itself and stopped cold at a horse-yard.

  After that, no matter how careful his enquiries, or how careless his imprecations to the gods, the wagon stayed annoyingly and thoroughly missing. Sure he’d found the right place, he barged his way into the stables, checking every horse and peeking under every tarpaulin.

  Nothing. Unless you counted the very annoyed owner running out and threatening to call in the soldiers.

  Jonathan wanted to kill the git, certain he was hiding something. But there was no wagon, and no horse, so all too soon, he had to turn on his heel and consider alternatives.

  In loving remembrance of the vast stockpiles of wealth he’d cached within the wagon’s specially-built hidey-holes—he would go and find the pile of dung that took it in the first place. Maybe Dothie no longer had the wagon, but the man would be an utter fool if he hadn’t kept the money it contained. Besides, Jonathan was tired of searching Avondale’s reeking streets, tired of hearing about the princess and the ne’er-do-wells chasing after her, and nauseated by the city stench. Besides, he hardly needed to search when it was obvious where a no-good fragging wizard and his two thugs would have gone. Out on the trail, princess-hunting.

  That trail was easier to track than a herd of rhinoceros through a field of wheat. Why, even a child could follow it. (Indeed, many had.)

  Jonathan had only one slight doubt about his plan, due to the rumours Dirk had disappeared at about the same time as the princess. Still, he decided it was about time he stopped running from the past, gained back his fortune, and dispensed a little revenge. Then, maybe, a spot of princess rescuing might not be out of the questio—

  Movement caught Jonathan’s eye.

  His hand automatically gripped his sword—then he laughed. The city of Avondale had gone through a surprising metamorphosis; children were playing in the stre
et (the ones who were too young to take off after princesses), beggars no longer lined the walkways, women were singing, and the pubs were empty of drinkers. If the king had any sense, he’d bar the city gates and keep all the adventurers out.

  Jonathan choked with half-strangled laughter. The king with common sense! Avondale’s city walls anything other than decoration! The crumbling masonry wouldn’t stop a cripple.

  As Jonathan passed people on the street, they fell silent and watchful, as if weighing up what this stranger might be doing in town. The hair rose on the back of his neck at their unwarranted scrutiny. It was about time that he, too, was on his way. And where should he find himself but daydreaming outside an all-too-familiar butcher’s shop.

  He shook his head, reluctantly reached up and rang the bell for service. After their huge fight, this was a meeting he’d been planning to avoid for a while. Still, he needed some provisions for his journey, and if they both pretended not to know each other, it might work out all right.

  The door opened and the old man brushed off his wizard’s hat and tried to usher him inside.

  Jonathan stayed right where he was, preferring to dally on the street and let the shopkeeper bustle about. It was called service. Politely tipping his hat good day, he asked for fresh bread, meat, and cheese.

  “Course, son,” the butcher said, unable to keep a certain untrustworthy look from his eyes as he gazed appraisingly over Jonathan and his horse. Not much of a beast really, although quite good for a farmer’s nag. Guiltily, Jonathan recollected how sad the farmer had been to see it go, flapping his arms and chasing after Jonathan, yelling “Horse thief!” for near on a mile.

  In the end, Jonathan had tossed down a couple more coins to assuage his conscience, and the farmer had given up in disgust, but not without yelling “Horse thief!” again, and angrily waving his axe.

  The butcher turned away slowly.

  Jonathan sighed. He did that a lot. Why did everyone seem so slow when he was in a hurry? “Quickly, by the gods, and remember fresh meat—I find a single maggot and …”

  “Yes. Yes, so you said, son.” The wizened man sighed every bit as dramatically as Jonathan, and hurried back into his store while muttering about uncouth savages and the youth of today who couldn’t appreciate the quality of well-hung meat.

  Jonathan smiled and tapped his fingers on his saddle impatiently in reply. His father—he remembered kindly—never changed. He always kept the best and freshest cuts for himself. But that didn’t stop him prattling on about fashionable cities and their putrid meat. Well, if there is one thing that is true—it’s that you can’t fool everybody all of the time. Not family anyway.

  Time passed and Jonathan couldn’t help but worry about what the old man was up to.

  At last the door clattered open, breaking what had been a suspenseful calm. Sound and movement re-emerged along with Mr Goodfellow Senior. “There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Jonathan mused aloud, more nervous than he had a right to be. He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one, unless a non-committal grunt and a sulkily offered parcel could be construed as a reply.

  Jonathan inspected the parcel thoroughly and efficiently before tossing a few coins to his father and taking off for the Southern Gate. “And if you try to cheat me again, old man, you’ll be paid in dung.” Unfortunately—and this made Jonathan edgy—he hadn’t found anything wrong with the package yet. The meat, oats and bread were exactly as ordered, and well separated with greased cloth. The meat was better than expected, much better, and the bread smelled as if it were freshly baked. The packages were firm and not lumpy, so non-food additions seemed unlikely … and he had most definitely not been cheated on weight.

  “Something is wrong, dammit,” Jonathan said to himself. “Something is very wrong.” It was a point of honour. There would be a catch, but to dwell on such things would be stupid. The truth would out—probably when he sat down to eat. He didn’t have time to worry, not now that he was, at last, on the trail. And there was no better man for the job. Except maybe Dirk and ah … well, there were no better men—that weren’t on the trail already.

  A Jest in Truth

  As Jonathan left Avondale he realised he’d expected something more from his father. Some acknowledgement of his existence. Not positive. Never positive. Maybe a small jibe about the loss of his wagon, even a suggestion he’d gone down in the world. Then he could have asked for help to retrieve his belongings.

  Wizards were supposed to be good at finding things, weren’t they? Jonathan wasn’t sure. He’d deliberately paid very little attention whenever the word “magic” came up, which was of course the problem. Perhaps he was better off without his old man. He’d only spend hours telling Jonathan he was a waste of space, and that he never listened.

  Still, there had been a tiny hope, and now there was none.

  The terrible suspicion that things were about to get worse settled upon Jonathan like a shroud. And then he noticed someone was shadowing him.

  In his foreboding, he thought of another person, one he’d been reminded of all too recently—Dirk the Quirk.

  Jonathan shivered.

  Dirk had threatened to kill him. So had a lot of people. But Dirk was the type of person who kept that kind of promise. Anxiously, Jonathan glanced back down the trail. Sure enough, there was the silhouette of what looked to be a scarecrow trailing a horse behind him.

  Who else in their right mind would walk a horse?

  Jonathan kicked his mount to prompt it into a slow canter. It made no difference. The poor beast was too exhausted to go any faster. His heart thumped. “Dirk the Q—” he muttered aloud, freezing in fear. Any thoughts of bravery evaporating like sweat on a hot day.

  §

  He remembered when he was young and foolish and thought he could win any fight. Twice he’d challenged Dirk. And twice he’d failed. The second time he’d ambushed Dirk with an older friend, Dirk drew his sword and cut a red welt across Jonathan’s chest. Jonathan hadn’t felt the bite of steel until much later. His friend, slightly older than him, had lost blood too—never feeling the cut. Never feeling that, or anything else, ever again.

  “How old are you, boy? Come on, when do you turn fifteen?”

  “Tomorrow,” Jonathan’s mouth had said dryly around suddenly parched lips.

  “You’re a walking corpse, son. See you tomorrow.”

  In the end, Jonathan supposed it had been as good a time as any to start his career. And being a trader had the advantage that it had taken him out of Avondale for a good long while. Long enough so that with his horse and carriage, and a wide brimmed hat, Dirk never looked twice at him. It had been a good life, a good job and a good disguise, and now it was hard to believe it was almost over …

  §

  The figure gained steadily until Jonathan could see that it wasn’t Dirk. That had to be good luck, right? Only somehow his brain kept on telling him that it might not be good luck, and that perhaps he would rather it was Dirk, and not—he closed his eyes and groaned like a much younger version of himself.

  His father was on the trail?

  What could he possibly want now? If he was going to help, he could have said something earlier. No, this had to be far, far worse.

  Jonathan spurred the horse. For a moment, it seemed as if they were going to leave the old man behind, and then his horse slowed to a deliberate walk and refused to move any faster.

  “Good day, son, fancy meeting you on the road like this,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said, tossing a smooth rock from hand to hand.

  “Bugger off, Capro, you old goat, I’m doing this alone,” Jonathan replied.

  “Stuff that.”

  Now the pleasantries were over, Jonathan took a deep breath, but despite the large supply of curses he kept handy for such occasions, he found himself lost for words. On the other hand, he hardly needed to say anything as his father was talking enough for the two of them.

  “Are you a horse thief now, son?” Mr Goodfellow Se
nior spat the words as if they left a bitter taste on his tongue. “I didn’t raise you to steal horses like some kind of common bandit.”

  Jonathan refused to jump down from the beast. He’d grown rather fond of it. “I paid for it,” he retorted defensively, wondering how his father could possibly have known the horse wasn’t his. Maybe he’d managed to pick up on a bunch of subtle clues, but for the life of him, Jonathan couldn’t think what they might be.

  “You paid for it? I doubt the farmer would agree.” Mr Goodfellow shook his head. “My own flesh and blood. What will it be next time, eh? The farm? The man himself? Godsdammit! Trouble is coming, boy. Can’t you feel it?”

  Jonathan shifted his tongue in his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. His father was right. He should have sent the thing home well before he reached the city. The horse would almost certainly have made it home safe and sound. Being a sharp trader was one thing, but keeping the farmer’s horse, however much he’d paid for it, was wrong.

  “Come on, boy, give me the horse, eh? I’ll ward it and send it safely back to the farmer.”

  Staring at his father as though he’d just seen the man’s head fall off his shoulders, Jonathan tried to point out the obvious. “Dad, don’t be stupid. Someone will pinch it long before it gets half-way back to its rightful owner.”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior sighed and shrugged. “Boy, there’s so much you don’t know. How’s about starting to learn? Watch carefully, and listen.” He stroked the horse’s neck soothingly, ignoring the fact Jonathan had refused to jump down off the horse. Then he reached over, flicked the reins, and whispered, “Zuruckim, Sika Heim.”

  The horse reared.

  Its reins slipped from Jonathan’s hands. He tumbled to the ground, and the horse sped off.

  “Whoa, boy!” Jonathan scrambled to his feet, chasing after the rapidly disappearing beast. But however fast he ran, the horse ran faster.

  Behind him, Mr Goodfellow Senior tutted.