The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Jonathan finally gave up. He stumbled to a stop, sucking in great gulps of air.

  “Doesn’t that feel better now?” Mr Goodfellow Senior said, digging a scrawny elbow into Jonathan’s broken ribs. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.

  “Ow! No. Not really.”

  “Come on, don’t sulk. It’s not like I didn’t bring a replacement. This sweet-natured mare, Dapple.”

  Sucking in a few more lungfuls of air, Jonathan found his manners. “Thanks, Dad. Now for one last trick, please could you tell me where I’m going to find my wagon? Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Can’t do that, son. Sorry.” Mr Goodfellow Senior grinned. He patted Jonathan on the back in a way that would have been a little more comforting without the wickedly unapologetic glint in his eye.

  “Of course you can,” said Jonathan, his suspicions rising. What if his father intended to travel with him? Capro might not have a horse for himself … but that didn’t mean much, the old boy had always gotten around pretty fast without one.

  “I’m afraid I am travelling with you,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said as if in reply to his unspoken question. “Things are just too dangerous. There is …” Mr Goodfellow Senior hesitated.

  “I can look after myself,” Jonathan said.

  “Hah.” Mr Goodfellow Senior laughed dryly. “Against men, perhaps, but against magic? I don’t think so. Can’t you feel it, son? There are great deeds afoot, and you are caught like a fly in amber. Free yourself? I don’t think so. Not at all.”

  Jonathan said nothing and smiled. His father was smug and unbearable now that he’d shown off a little of his precious magic, but there might be another way to give his old man the slip. It was a horrible thing to do, but it wouldn’t be for long and it just might work.

  Determined not to engage his unwanted companion in conversation, Jonathan turned back to follow the trail of Dothie and all the princess hunters. If he waited patiently, he would get his opportunity to be rid of his father at the next village. Then—and this should in all truthfulness be seen as a measure of the high esteem in which he held his father—he would sell the irritating old basket at the local slave market to the highest bidder.

  Now, if only they could get there before Mr Goodfellow Senior launched into his favourite monologue about the benefits of wizardry as a career.

  He was not so lucky.

  “You know, magic …” Mr Goodfellow Senior started, and he did not stop.

  Jonathan kept his sanity by ignoring everything that was said and resolutely contemplating the little surprise he’d planned.

  When they finally reached Northdale, Jonathan took his father to the local market with high hopes, and great expectations.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior didn’t argue, much. He stood around the auction floor with a blank expression. Hiding something. Amusement, most likely. No bars or chains would hold him for long. Jonathan’s only hope was that he’d have enough time to get away first.

  An hour dragged by with Capro Goodfellow Senior quietly mumbling stupid things like, “Witchbalm is best used for saltburn at midnight,” and “Remove the thorned deathadder leaves in spring.” Still there were no buyers. Not a single bidder.

  To Jonathan’s horror, the merchants seemed to have less respect for Mr Goodfellow than he did.

  “I’ll tell you what,” one of them jibed. “You pay us a silver piece and we’ll be taking him off your hands.” The man shook with laughter.

  It was his mirth that finally convinced Jonathan this wasn’t his day. He tipped his hat and bid the merchants farewell under his breath. Unfortunately, getting rid of his father might not be as easy as it had been in the past.

  While Jonathan mused over his disappointment, his old man had a weird kind of choking fit. “Thurgle brains!” he cackled.

  Jonathan tried to look amused, and managed fairly well compared to … No, actually, he didn’t look amused at all. But despite his selfishness and his other poor qualities, Jonathan was such a likeable fellow, it’s hard not to think the best of him, even when he’s being a cad.

  “You fool,” Mr Goodfellow Senior choked, gasping for air and holding his sides as though he might spill his guts if he wasn’t careful.

  “You son of a two-footed goat,” Jonathan swore. “Out with it!”

  Somehow, Mr Goodfellow Senior managed to calm his glee. It took a while.

  “You fool! If it can walk—it’s invaded this city. They have slaves coming out their ears. They have—” And at this point the horrible choking began again.

  “You’ve gone mad, father,” Jonathan muttered. “The problem is I valued you too highly, you’re nothing but a walking old bag of ancient bones.”

  “Son, you don’t value me highly enough,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said with all earnestness, and broke off to recite an old prophecy, “When the only path is sorrow, flee the tempest when it finds thee …[17]” The words tripped from Mr Goodfellow Senior’s tongue and stopped.

  He knew there were more. If only he could remember the rest! His sixteenth sense told him it was important to this endeavour. Although maybe a different prophecy would be better, magic was tricksy—and at a hundred and fifty, so was his memory.

  Jonathan laughed. “I’m only after my wagon. It isn’t like this is some grand Quest.”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior choked again—this time for real.

  Heroes and Quests

  Snuggled up to her sword, Sylvalla felt she was the luckiest princess in the world. A loyal retainer. Sky overhead. And money in her pocket. There was one thing missing. To be a hero, she needed a quest. After all, it’s a matter of recorded fact that a good quest is the only way to attain minor hero status, let alone the giddy adoration given a True Hero.

  The difficulty was finding a task that wasn’t completely laughable. The last thing she wanted was to end up like Pfeiffer Hamelin, who’d combated a plague of rats and never managed to live it down. To find a suitable challenge was a particularly tricky undertaking now that the last dragon ever recorded had, very unfortunately, been killed nearly twenty years ago by Dirk’s father. The man had been a paragon. Along with all his other praises and posthumous awards he was given the appellation, The Last True Hero.[18]

  A dragon was all she could think of. Almost everything else, from bears to giant gorillas, were decidedly second rate—B class, and if not as laughable as rats, then hardly worth the time of an actual hero when there were perfectly capable hunters in need of trophies.

  “Of course!” The idea hit her. “Dirk’s the son of a hero. He’ll know all about establishing a hero-worthy quest.” She conveniently managed to ignore the sad fact Dirk hadn’t managed to attain the rank of Minor Hero himself, or even find himself a half-decent quest to ensure any such engraving on his memorial.

  “Di-irk,” she whined in that tone that is usually reserved for truly spoilt little brats. “Di-irk, I really need a quest to prove I’m a hero.”

  After a considered silence, Dirk answered, his voice decidedly schoolmarmish, as if repeating something he’d heard too many times. “That’s not always so easy to do, Sylvalla. A hero is the right person, in the right place, at the right time, who, against the odds, manages to face their fears and selflessly help others.”

  “Nevertheless,” Sylvalla continued primly, “I wish to be a hero, and if that means facing my fears and selflessly helping others, then I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

  “If you can’t help me, I’ll find someone who does know of a Quest suitable for a princess.” She didn’t say anything about him facing up to his fears, she was too polite, and selflessly? Dirk? It was rumoured he wouldn’t even save his own mother if there wasn’t a reward involved.

  Of course, this was untrue—Dirk’s mother just wasn’t the type who needed or wanted saving. And she’d made it very clear she didn’t want Dirk taking on the whole noble cause thing like his father. Being a hero not only didn’t pay the bills, but worse than leaving your family
short of cash—it tended to leave your family short of you.

  For a long while, Sylvalla lay looking up at the stars, dreaming of what it would be like to be adored by the masses for her bravery. She opened her mouth a couple of times wanting to speak further, but there was nothing else to be said. Perhaps something would turn up tomorrow when they arrived at Scotch Mist? Sylvalla fervently hoped it would. Whatever happened, she would keep searching. She had to find an adventure. Anything else was unthinkable.

  Her head might have been in the clouds, but Sylvalla’s feet hit muddy earth whenever she stretched. Her bedding was decidedly mucky around the edges, because her groundsheet wasn’t large enough.

  Sylvalla sniffed the stinking cocktail of odours that went with dirt, mud and horses. It was enough to convince her that tomorrow she’d have to brave the chill water of a stream.

  It wouldn’t kill her to bathe like a commoner—and then she wondered if, in fact, it would. Her mother certainly seemed to think cold water perilous to the health. It will be an adventure, she convinced herself, allowing her thoughts to circle wearily until at last sleep snuck up and overcame her.

  She dreamt of bathing in glory, of being the admiration of adventurous princesses everywhere. She dreamt of the sweet smell of success, and she never dreamt about having to worry about who was taking first watch.

  Dirk did. He tended to worry very much about such things. As Sylvalla drifted off into deep slumber, he wondered if her lack of caution was due to the inexperience of youth, a fatal sense of invulnerability, or simply a death wish.

  Smoke

  Fergus caught up with Arrant and Dothie with no welcome and no fanfare. His big horse settled in beside theirs—the plodding silence was the most comfortable conversation they’d had yet. The air was pleasantly warm, with just enough breath in it to bring the acrid scent of smoke, but not so strong as to blow away the smell of new-found death.

  Too sensible to rest, they travelled into the night, vaguely aware they were on the right road—but only because of the large number of bodies strewn across it. Their horses picked their way less and less daintily through the carcasses and the slumberers, often without knowing which was which.

  Arrant’s eyes watered as he scanned the horizon. On one side of the road, fields of grass reflected a dim echo of the silver moonlight—and the red haze of a farmhouse burning in the distance. On the other side, waist-high brush sprawled blue-black in the darkness. And beyond that, a distant reddish haze shrouded by patches of absent stars. There was looting, pillaging and arson about tonight. The thought saddened him—he was missing out.

  Nevertheless, as he consoled himself and his fellow adventurers, the real prize would be the princess, and the more people who turned off her path, and onto the easier one of villainy, the fewer people they’d have to fight to claim their reward.

  Desperate Measures

  Jonathan cantered along on the back of the horse, hating every moment. He hated chasing after people he might never catch up to, and he hated the way his thighs were chafing. Most of all, he hated the way his father droned on. At least he’d had plenty of practice at zoning that out.

  All the beautiful scenery he was passing, and all the devastation, was unheeded as he spent his time wondering how vanishingly small his chances were of catching up with Dothie. Ignoring the princess, and her reward, for now—because that was obviously foolishness—what did that leave him with? His wagon was lost. It must have been sold back in Avondale, or possibly Northdale. He’d half a mind to go back to find it, except it was almost certainly too late for that. And as for the money, gold and jewels, his only hope of retrieving any of it was to find the man who’d stolen it.

  But one thing didn’t add up. If Dothie had Jonathan’s money, then why was he chasing after the comparatively pitiful reward for a princess?

  Even though nothing had changed, the idea made Jonathan feel that his situation had worsened. He was still on the trail with his father—behind an awful lot of people. The difference was, now he had to acknowledge he was so desperate to regain his money, and his lifestyle, that he was willing to clutch at straws. Willing to believe almost anything, even the old saw—a million to one chance is a sure thing.

  Perhaps if I built a boat … he thought wistfully before discarding the idea as too ridiculous. On second thought, so was the million to one thing. “There must be some other way to improve my chances. By Hades, if only I could think of it!” Jonathan hardly realised he’d vocalised the thought until his father answered.

  “Gee, boy,” croaked Goodfellow Senior, his voice shot through like Ye Grande Olde Canyon. “You got a plan yet?”

  After that, the dialogue deteriorated, as did Jonathan’s willingness to listen. Despite his best attempts to ignore his father, Jonathan managed to hear: “… shame my boy couldn’t devise a plan if it came up and bit him somewhere unpleasant.”

  Jonathan sighed. The man beside him, dubiously his father, (and let’s face it, at that moment, Mr Goodfellow Senior was having doubts of his own) was looking more and more like an old hermit escaped from the desert. His long white hair straggled over his shoulders, and his legs poked out of a dirty rag of a robe. It didn’t help that he was chuckling in that cracking-into-laughter way reserved for hermits of dubious sanity who’ve taken vows of silence. Right now, Jonathan would have given his right leg for a little vow of silence.

  “That’s the problem with you, boy. You don’t plan! Nothing up top. All do and daring, you. But do you ever stop to think? No! Now me, I can plan. My shop, my success, is all hard work, preparation, and dodging the taxman. Ain’t no taxman can run faster’n me, an’ that’s the truth. Although a little planning comes in handy there too. Lots of exits and plenty of carbohydrates. Nothing can beat me. Nothing.”

  “So, what are you doing here on some half-baked princess-hike thing, then?” Jonathan sneered. “I wouldn’t be seen dead on this loser’s caper if that dragon-blighted wizard hadn’t stolen my cart. What’s your excuse?”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior shook his head in a show of false innocence, and Jonathan knew he was being a fool. He’d missed something important. Like when he’d lost his first jewel, a one-carat diamond, at the King’s Road Toll. He’d been as raw as a carrot then, and that one carat had been the sum total of everything he owned. He’d learned a lot since, so he knew a I know something you don’t know act when he saw one. That kind of body-language could easily steal everything you owned and leave you for dead.

  Jonathan bit his tongue. He really wanted to know what the old wizard had up his sleeve, but he didn’t want to look stupid in front of his father. When he couldn’t bear not knowing any longer, he snapped, “Out with it, then, you cantankerous purveyor of rotten goods. What do you think you know that I don’t?”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior resisted for a few moments longer before blurting, “Princess Sylvalla thinks herself pretty handy with a sword.”

  Jonathan paced in embarrassed silence (or at least his horse did), trying to figure out this cryptic piece of advice. A princess. A sword. Bad guys. So what?

  By now the old coot was so keen to tell that he must have half bitten his tongue off waiting to be asked. Jonathan willed him to continue, but that was it. His father had uncharacteristically stopped talking. Oh Fu—! thought Jonathan, censoring his speech even in the unspoken word. He wants me to draw the information from him so I’ll look like a complete cretin.

  All day, try as he might, Jonathan couldn’t make the pieces fit. And to his credit, it wasn’t really his fault, as he didn’t have all the information. No. I lie, he did have all the information, but you might not—so you’ll have to listen to the old gaffer chortle, a little longer, just for the fun of it. “The girl wants more than fencing lessons, she wants to be famous. A hero. A swordswoman of repute. And to do that—”

  “She needs to go on a quest,” interjected Jonathan, feeling about as intelligent as the fruit fly he’d been not so long ago. “But there’s only one quest available
in these parts, and that’s only available because …” Jonathan looked about furtively and lowered his voice. “Dirk has a phobia about rodents.”

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said. “Riverdale, here we come. Let’s see if we can find that morpholag and scare it off, before you know—I just wish it was the giant rat everyone seems to think it is.”

  Jonathan wasn’t really listening. “Back up, Dad. Drunken Pass will be faster. If we avoid Scotch Mist altogether, it’ll cut almost a day off the trip.”

  The Three Fools

  Arrant rolled the grass stem to the side of his mouth and spat. “You know, I think the brat we’re following has a horse.”

  “Ya think?” Dothie’s grasp of sarcasm didn’t encompass subtle, it was more akin to the brick-bat approach to rat dissection. “I thought it was a small three-legged pony.”

  “Yeah, right,” Arrant replied. “I meant a horse. Not something that resembles a horse but is a couple of hands shorter and goes about as fast as Fergus’ draught horse.”

  “No, it is a pony,” Fergus said as if he’d been party to the conversation all along. “A good pony can be better than a horse. It will keep going. A larger horse might be faster, but it needs more rest.”

  “It’s a bit late to tell us that now.” Arrant exchanged glances with Dothie.

  They’d have happily ditched Fergus a thousand times over if he hadn’t proved himself so very useful at tracking and other less quantifiable things. Like keeping trouble at a distance.

  So, however annoying he was, Arrant didn’t want to lose him as an asset. Massive, muscled and threatening, Fergus was all three of these things with a side dish of impending fist. When trouble loomed, he loomed right back.

  Individuals who chose to amble along the roadside whistling nonchalantly, while sharpening their fingernails with oversized nail pares, usually couldn’t be seen for dust once the party was close enough to better see the big, and apparently fat, member of the group was in fact a thurgle—and not some over-ripe businessman with rich pickings and suspect retainers.