by A. J. Ponder
Sylvalla took a tinder box and lit three garish purple candles that had been stuffed into a three-headed brass candlestick.
While Sylvalla was busy, Dirk gestured for the king to sit.
The king obliged, sitting so heavily on the chair closest to the bed that it creaked.
Dirk kicked the only other chair so that it slid to the far wall, where he’d have the best view of King Phibiam and the Door. (In his mind, they were all equally important.) He sat, sword held at the ready.
Sylvalla, horrified that all other options had already been taken, did her best to sit primly on the bed—directly opposite King What’s His Name? If only she could remember, she might be able to defuse the tension.
Glances were exchanged.
Nobody uttered a syllable, but you didn’t need to be a surgeon to cut the air with a knife, or for that matter, guess what everybody was thinking.
Ye gods, let me get out of this alive.
Sylvalla, unlike her companions, was still young and foolish enough to harbour notions of honour. Ideas her two companions had long since abandoned as juvenile fancies, a fraud designed to fool people less wise than themselves. For them, honour wasn’t a matter of actions, but of price. They would simply buy it back if they survived.
Not so for Sylvalla. In addition to preserving her own life, she worried about escaping the situation without further dishonouring her name.
All in all, this had been the worst possible start to her Quest. A quest was supposed to be nothing but glory. But, so far, Sylvalla’s had been wall-to-wall mud. Mud, as everybody knows, sticks, and unless she had some real success, and soon, she’d never be able to wash her hands of this whole fiasco.
Still, she should try to make the most of the situation. Perhaps now she could finally discover a Quest suitable for an aspiring hero. She opened her mouth.
Dirk’s reflexes were fast, and his glares cutting—he quashed any thought of dialogue with a stare sharper and faster than a stroke of Sylvalla’s sword.
So that was it. The conversation ended without a sound. There was nothing for Sylvalla to do but cross her fingers and wait until the fog lifted.
Dirk took first watch—because once again, Sylvalla found herself asleep before the matter was even raised.
She was soon dreaming of tutors, and slates, and frogs in gowns with gold crowns. They were twisted in the shape of a name. Phibiam Phetero.
Of Wishes and Wings
Jonathan, and Mr Goodfellow Senior, hiked along the little-used Drunken Pass. For no visible reason, the road weaved and twisted for as far as the eye could see.
“Not much of a bloody path,” Mr Goodfellow Senior grumped as they wended another unnecessary corner.
“No blood at all,” Jonathan replied, wondering what had gotten into his father.
“Drunken is about right,” Jonathan’s father continued, seeking a crack in his son’s conversational armour. “It has the advantage that you could fall off the edge without breaking anything other than your pride.” All he needed was a small conversational preamble to give him the excuse to fulsomely explore the benefits of wizardry.
No luck. Jonathan harrumphed, and lapsed back into silence.
The two men, and Dapple the horse, followed the path.
It was so downright uneventful and uncomfortable that Jonathan got to wondering if something, anything, would happen to alleviate the tension. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like his father was planning to fall flat on his face for light comedic relief. Nor, on the other hand, was there any hope of stunning repartee.
So, Jonathan did something profoundly dangerous. Overwhelmingly dangerous, in the way a combination harvester is dangerous to a single sheaf of wheat.
He wished for something to happen.
Something.
Anything …
Now, wishes are powerful things. They hold a certain amount of magic in any realm. They are the conduits by which we fulfil our lives. Be careful what you wish for …
Jonathan wasn’t careful.
He looked up to see nothing had changed. Nothing on the ground, and nothing in the air. But he felt a sinking in his chest.
Too late, Jonathan tried to take his wish back, but the wish had flown. Delicate as a butterfly, it disturbed the dreams of something much larger than itself, never landing, but churning the unconscious into chaos.
§
A talon whipped out and skewered the butterfly.
After a while, as nothing seemed to happen, Jonathan told himself to get over his irrational foreboding. In his mind’s eye he might imagine butterflies impaled on large claws—and even larger white and pearlies bared at him—but such fears were for wizards, and not honest salesmen.
After a while, his fear not quite dispersing, but pretending it had, Jonathan continued to walk along, sub-vocalising, “Anything, something, anything …” in a kind of marching dirge.
The few people they passed looked at him strangely, but what did he care? They seemed solid respectable types without a copper to scratch between them, and goods hardly worth carrying. There was no excitement to be had bartering with any of them, and certainly no profit.
Sadly, Jonathan mused, I have about as much to trade as they do.
Victims of the Mists
Arrant whooped with joy as, out of the drab countryside of tussock, scrub, and rock, the equally drab stone walls of Scotch Mist hove into view. Comfort at last. But before Arrant could articulate his dream of finding a cosy room inside an inn with genteel company, it was shattered. Mist curled up and around the stone walls and flowed across the ground in a thin blanket. Then the gates crashed down, shutting them, and a handful of other travellers and bounty hunters, on the outside, in the no-man’s land between the open countryside and the city wall.
Arrant, Dothie, and Fergus set up a small grass fire a safe distance from other travellers, resting their backs against the relative safety of the cold stone wall as they ate blackened bits of meat, bread, and wizened liquorice roots. Fergus assured them the roots were edible, but they didn’t taste that way—even char-grilled over the campfire.
As the night wore on, so did the conversation until civility was stretched past breaking point. Abuse was flying. Spittle was also flying. (The majority of the invectives used are hardly printable lest they scorch the paper.)
All in all, it was an average night for the three. Pertinent to the important task of finding the princess was this snippet of conversation from Arrant. “You, gods-cursed, dragon-blighted excuse for a wizard, what in the seven realms were you thinking?” he spat. “We almost had them. We were so close.”
“Now we’ll have to move even faster to catch up,” Dothie said.
“Slower,” Fergus said. “It is a city. The trail will be confused.”
Dothie sighed. “What? By the time we’ve figured out which way they’ve gone, I’ll be old and grey.”
The other two glared at him, as if he was to blame. What did they want him to do, magic? Probably. Arrant and Fergus talked as though he’d created the mist himself, or the whole city for that matter, just to annoy them.
Dothie glared back at them, privately imagining the joy of throwing them both down a very deep pit. “By the seventh god of stupidity, use your heads, you half-witted mules. Son of a (highly contagious fungal disease), all we have to do is ask which way the princess went. You know, girl with good horse—” One look at Fergus, and Dothie stopped and corrected himself, “Okay, pony. And a man with a sword bigger than he is, but without a horse of any kind. Can’t be too common now, can it?”
As the mist wore on, so did the less-than-eloquent conversation, until all three were sprawled under the grey mists, snoring like warthogs. They all dreamed of seizing the princess, and most especially the royal reward. In their hearts, hope had been rekindled. They had a plan.
And so they slept, but lightly. Not only to keep an eye on their fellow bounty hunters, but also each other. Still, with all the local looters enjoying the far richer
pickings inside the city, it was a relatively quiet night. Eventually things settled down enough for them all to doze between screams.
Protestations and Prophecy
It was dark when Sylvalla was startled awake by a sharp nudge.
Was that snoring? Sylvalla blinked and looked around. It didn’t help that the candles were so wreathed in mist they were near useless.
“Your watch,” Dirk rasped. “Don’t stare at the light, and keep an eye on our guest, will you?”
The king was little more than a shadow slumped in his chair, snoring gently.
“I’d stay awake if I were you,” Dirk murmured helpfully. “You’re pretty enough not to need a second smile.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Oh, and by the way, if the king took acting lessons, snoring wasn’t something he ever mastered.”
Sylvalla listened more carefully. It still sounded like snoring. “I can take my watch,” she told Dirk. “Or do you think scary stories will help me stay awake?”
Catching a false note in the snoring, Sylvalla tensed. She hoped it was too dark for Dirk to see her reaction. At least she knew now. If she’d done the sensible thing and kept quiet, she might have been lulled into a false sense of security.
Dirk nodded, his suspicions confirmed. Still, it was a good sign. The girl might be foolish and headstrong, but she wasn’t a complete fool—she sat up and took notice when it counted.
Sleeping was a risk, but tomorrow promised battle, and so, like a true warrior, Dirk was snoring almost before his head hit the pillow.
Sylvalla’s eyelids flickered, and closed, when she knew they shouldn’t. Staying awake was proving to be tricky, so reluctantly Sylvalla called up the services of her brain.
It was reeling from the earlier trauma of accidentally kidnapping a king. But even in her shocked state, several questions posed themselves to Sylvalla. They, and the answers they generated, were disturbing, and no end of help in keeping her wide awake.
§
As a king, how difficult would it be to remove two corpses and any attendant evidence?
Answer: Easy. He wouldn’t have to say a word. It would be done.
How do you explain the disappearance of an adventurer and an adventurous princess?
Answer: Also (distressingly) easy. You don’t.
§
Sylvalla’s heart beat rapidly, and a thin film of sweat clung to her brow in an un-princess-like way. Now she was too wide awake, and thirsty to boot. Thanks to the lack of room service, there was nothing to drink. Sylvalla burned hot and cold, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth like sandpaper.
It was clear she needed a less traumatic tactic in the staying awake front—as thinking was definitely out. She settled on pinching herself religiously and counting the time, so that she could face the night in smaller pieces.
When she reached sixty for the tenth time, King Phibiam began speaking, his voice pitched low and soft as a purring cat.
Sylvalla almost screamed. Action, she’d expected, but not words—busy as she was trying to keep all images, especially those involving a small, princess-shaped corpse, out of her head.
Dirk, on the other hand, expected anything and everything, and most especially treachery. He woke at Phibiam’s first words—but he did not let on.
“Foolish child,” the king murmured.
Sylvalla strained to hear, so low was his voice.
“You do not need to lose face. Nor lose everything you have—including your life, because of this … misunderstanding. I could bravely rescue you from Dirk, your kidnapper.”
He paused.
Sylvalla said nothing.
Taking her silence as encouragement, he continued. “Princess, you would be blameless and free. Just give me your word, and I will ensure you your freedom and your reputation.”
Dirk gripped his sword tighter. How could she refuse? Silently, he congratulated himself on his ability to wake at the slightest cue. It might save his life again. Ready for action, he held his breath, waiting for Sylvalla’s inevitable answer.
“Oh, wise King Phetero,” she said.
Dirk wondered if he should let her continue, or just kill both of them and run.
Just a moment longer, he thought.
Sylvalla continued. “Your words indeed have the mantle of truth draped loosely upon them, albeit inside-out. However, I’m afraid my reputation is what I have made it. I cannot, I will not return home whilst it remains soft iron—it must be forged. For I am no court flower. I am a sword in the night, and unforged steel will not awe a kingdom.”
The king coughed. “Speak not of steel, you are a rose—”
“I do not think so,” Sylvalla replied. “And I would not wish to be. You see, a rose may take a man’s breath for a moment, but a sword will keep that same man’s breath—forever.”
She longed to add—so I would not waste my breath if I were you, Phibiam. Savour it whilst you can.
That intemperance was cast aside as a tiny beam from the lamp escaped the roils of mist and illuminated Phibiam’s face. The drawn brow, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth, told her that what she’d said was threat enough.
Sylvalla hesitated, bit her tongue and allowed a small space for tempers to cool, and yet as Phibiam began to choke out a disingenuous, “Dear Princess,” she couldn’t resist examining the fiery embers of his impotent rage. “Do you wish to test me? Please, I would have silence, unless you have what I need.”
She’d have liked to add something about tempering her sword in his blood, but again thought better of it. Riling King Phetero further wouldn’t help in the long run.
His hand fluttered like a nervous courtier’s. “Princess, what would you have from me?”
“A suitably noble Quest,” Sylvalla answered, quick as lightning.
Dirk jerked in a way that informed everybody else in the room that he was awake, and likely had been for some time.
He hadn’t intended to give himself away, but something needed to be done about the direction this conversation was headed. So, he’d lost all hope of spiriting the girl back to her parents in a hurry, but that didn’t mean he wanted this man to send her on a foolish quest after that dratted morpholag. Dirk had no intention of going anywhere near it. Not for this girl. Not for anyone.
Not because he was frightened—of course not. It was because he strongly believed it was beneath his dignity to kill rodents of any size. At least, that’s what he told himself. He was also telling himself that it wasn’t the thought of the rodent’s beady eyes, and sharp teeth, that were giving him the shivers.
“My lady.” Dirk interrupted the royal personages again, intending to derail the conversation.
“Dirk, how lovely to find you awake,” Sylvalla murmured. “I was just asking our host if he knew of any quests. After all, I would think the King of Scotch Mist is in a position to obtain such information, and I’m sure he won’t mind telling us. We are all here anyway, and there is so little else to do.”
Dirk frowned. “I’m sure King Phetero doesn’t want to be bothered about such trifles—”
“I’m sure I don’t mind.” Phetero cut off Dirk’s protestation. “And as I am the king, I’m sure I don’t need you to tell me what I will and won’t be bothered about. For a start, I would gladly inform our young heroine here of the adventures to be had under my—”
“I do believe,” Sylvalla said conversationally, as if she were talking to her sword, “I have heard those, and similar, lines before. However, unless you wish for it to be cut in twain by my sword, it really isn’t the adventure I’m seeking.”[28]
“Indeed,” the king answered carefully, changing tack and tact, and reaching for his skills in diplomacy. “Then you may indeed be the one the old prophecy speaks of. Seek ye the Piebald Morpholag,[29] and destroy it. Only beware, and the Prophecy does become a bit unclear at this point, but it does mention something like, from your victory will come ashes, and the ashes hold the sword.”
Dirk’s stomach cra
mped. It seemed to him that too many of the people he met wanted to die—not that he wasn’t perfectly happy to oblige them, as long as they didn’t put his own life at risk in the process. “Really, this is all just—” he started to say.
Phibiam simply turned on a pompous orator’s voice and talked over the top of him. “I believe that’s how the translation runs. There’s a sword and lots of ashes. All doom and disaster if you ask me, but it does sound like one of those questy things. I think you’ll find it will fit your purpose very nicely, even if the foretellers are stumped as to the meaning of it all.” Phibiam smiled. The more he remembered, the nastier he realised the prophecy was. And, he consoled his wounded pride, if Dirk and Sylvalla do manage to destroy the beast, my army will ensure they never return alive.
In the meantime, why not humour Sylvalla? If adventure and swords and ashes were everything she desired, he’d be delighted to give them to her, along with a nice quiet unmarked coffin in the middle of nowhere.
“So where is this creature, assuming it exists?” Sylvalla demanded.
Dirk almost said, no—but what was the point? Now the rat was out of the bag, so to speak, the princess would figure it out soon enough.
The king grinned. “I believe the morpholag creature lives in the forests somewhere to the north of Riverdale.”
Somewhere Just North of Riverdale: Or—“That Very Bloody Rodent”
Christopher
NAME:Christopher. More commonly known as the piebald morpholag, or in scientific circles as Morpholagus piebaldii.
CLASS:Lesser Monster (Somewhat lesser than the Greater Monsters reserved for True Heroes. He’s a little taller than a man and almost twice as long. Fur colour has never been confirmed by actual samples, but most survivors say it is brown and white.) The creature is actually believed to be a hermaphrodite, in other words, he/she is both male and female. This is considered to be a vital adaptation considering the rarity of the creature.
