by A. J. Ponder
The yelling became less distinct as stone grated and the king disappeared from view.
A few more moments passed, and the gate opened.
When Dothie and his companions passed through it, the king and the horse he was riding had disappeared.
Obviously, they hadn’t actually disappeared, or at least this is an unlikely conclusion. It is more likely there was a secret door through the wall. Such a door would be perfect for contraband of all sorts and would also explain the grating sound. Right now, Arrant, Dothie and Fergus didn’t care as much about such things as they otherwise might—they were off to catch their reward.
Something About your Father and the Horse you Rode In On
Jonathan waited morosely at the crossroads. Now the interminable journey through Drunken Pass was over, he was beginning to look back on the experience fondly. However unhappy during the journey, hanging around here was infinitely worse.
He hated setting up camp, his father’s watchful eye quick to point out the tiniest fault. He hated the stony ground. He hated the silly rock mile-marker with Avyndyle, Northdyle and Scoch Misht chiselled into it. And, most of all, he hated the smooth stone his father never seemed to want to put down, turning it over from hand to hand as if it were the greatest treasure in the world. In fact, he hated all stones, and most of all, he hated sitting here with nothing to do except drink tea and listen to the doubts he’d easily ignored earlier.
“Dad,” he said, the word strangely alien on his tongue. “What if we’re waiting in the wrong place? The princess could be anywhere by now.”
Not that he cared about the princess, he was still more concerned with the loss of his wagon. And the treasure it held. It represented everything, his lost home, his lost livelihood, and his shattered lifestyle.
Would the scoundrel who stole it still be on the princess’ trail, and more importantly, did the faithless, deceitful, spurious, underhanded, mendacious, truth-less, troth-less, mealy-mouthed, double-tongued phoney still know where any of it was?
The old wizard stretched calmly, juggling his precious rock and cracking his knuckles one by one. “We are at the right place at the right time. I feel it in these old bones of mine, boy. Can’t you feel it? There’s a storm coming, and we’re in the middle.”
“What are you talking about, old man? The weather looks fine,” Jonathan snapped.
“Believe me, this will be a storm the like of which you never saw in your lifetime, and it’s coming our way. Get ready to ride that storm, son!”
Jonathan was not comforted. Real or metaphorical, a storm was not what he was looking for.
“I’d rather ride my horse, if it’s all the same to you, Father,” he quipped uneasily. “But if the weather is going to close in, perhaps we could find shelter?”
Mr Goodfellow Senior sighed deeply.
Jonathan didn’t care. He was willing to admit that he was more interested in mundane comforts than some grand adventure. Thinking of comforts, he turned to his father. “Is there anything left to eat?”
“Not likely. Go find something. You have plenty of time, they won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jonathan said, allowing his pessimism full rein. This hare-brained trip would likely end up the way it had started—badly.
The following morning, Jonathan felt less optimistic than he had the night before. To make matters worse, his father had spent every spare second muttering about the world being dangerous for a wizard, and how important it was to be one. Which made as much sense as saying how wonderful it was to be an ant, just so a boot could come along and squash you. He was about to say as much when Mr Goodfellow Senior put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. Any minute now, and the three of them will be coming around that corner. You just wait and see.”
Crazy, Jonathan thought, nodding politely. He saddled his horse, checking her girth several times. Thinking about it, now his horse was rested, maybe she could outpace his old man?
It was worth a try.
Jonathan was almost ready to ride when Mr Goodfellow Senior’s gnarled finger pointed toward a cloud of dust approaching from the direction of Scotch Mist. It couldn’t be the princess. It was too early—firstly, because everyone knows princesses don’t rise before dawn, and secondly, because nobody could possibly see the distant figures, not with all that dust.
Yet Jonathan couldn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest. He tried to compose himself, ready to greet whoever it might be with a flourish of his hat.
They ignored him and sped right on past.
Gawking, open-mouthed, he didn’t know what surprised him most. That their horses had sped right past, or that his father’s prediction had been so canny. Or, more accurately, uncanny. If his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he’d just seen Sylvalla, Dirk, and one other—a ragged boy by the look of it—speed past.
Disappointment turned quickly to shock as Jonathan’s mare, wasting no time, pulled her reins from his suddenly nerveless grip. She hurried to join the two horses being ridden by Francis and Sylvalla. (One was especially tall and dark and handsome.)
“Oi,” Jonathan shouted, chasing after them. “We’ve been waiting for you. The least you can do is stop.” In the moment, Jonathan forgot the slight disagreement he’d had with Dirk—as to whether his head should be attached to his shoulders or not. He was too busy running as fast as he could and whistling at his horse in a pitiful attempt to get her to come back.
The mare paid him about as much attention as the people he was trying to catch up with. A half mile down the road, Jonathan started to think about the cleverness of his plan, chasing after a man who had sworn to kill him. He started to slow.
For a while, Goodfellow Senior loped along beside his son, before giving up on him, and caught up to Dirk with a few improbable strides.
As soon as Mr Goodfellow reached Dirk, he whispered something into the swordsman’s ear.
Dirk turned back.
Mr Goodfellow Senior muttered more urgently.
At last, Dirk shrugged and slowed. “For you, old man. But I can’t promise how long.”
After that, everybody stopped and waited for Jonathan. It took a while, mostly because Jonathan’s horse was in no mood to be caught.
Mr Goodfellow Senior watched, unhappily wondering if something could be done about his boy. If only he would forget his real job and stop cutting his blasted hair. At least, that would be a start.
The Party
When Jonathan finally caught his horse, and approached the small group, he found the introductions were somewhat cursory, or perhaps curt would be a better word. The minute he was close, Dirk said, “I see a dead man walking.”
Mr Goodfellow Senior sidled back next to Dirk with a worried frown. “We talked about this, Dirk. He was a boy. Not yet fifteen. That is your rule, isn’t it? Anyway, I would think you’d have enough things to worry about killing, without adding my son to the list. Especially when I’ve asked you so nicely.”
“I wouldn’t mind … Eh, what? He’s your son? Really? You sure, Grandpa? You didn’t say so at the time.”
Dirk thought about it some more. He didn’t like changing his habits for anybody. Yes, Mr Goodfellow Senior had helped him out of a couple of scrapes early in his adventuring career. Yes, he’d always been impressed with the old wizard, although he’d never admit it. And, yes, he kind of liked the old guy. But what was friendship compared to the sanctity of his word? Dirk’s face lost all expression as he turned cold-eyed toward Jonathan.
Sylvalla had never seen Dirk act this way. Frightened that her erstwhile perfectly reasonable companion might do something rash, she whispered something about an oath. It was perfectly audible, but everybody pretended—for Dirk’s sake—not to have heard.
Dirk thought about his position some more. An oath weighed more than a word. Besides, maybe it was for the best; Mr Goodfellow Senior was a very dangerous old friend and one he really shouldn’t annoy. Dirk swallowed. “I guess�
��for old time’s sake. And because the princess has asked so prettily. But there will be no second chances.”
Mr Goodfellow Senior nodded. “Thanks, Dirk. You know I appreciate it.”
Dirk looked around at the now sizable group and grimaced. “As it seems that I know everybody—at least to some degree, I shall do my best to perform the introductions. My companions are the charming princess Sylvalla and”—Dirk’s eyebrows drew together as the name eluded him momentarily—“Francis the stable hand.”
He turned to Sylvalla. “Milady, these wayfarers are Jonathan, and his father, Mr Goodfellow Senior. Now the introductions are done, pray, what is it that causes a dishonest butcher to roam the country?”
“Come, come, Dirk. There is no need to call me names. We are all here to slay the ravaging monster, are we not?” Mr Goodfellow Senior answered soothingly.
“Perhaps, then, if you wish to help slay ravaging monsters it would be best if you would take Sylvalla and Jonathan back to Avondale so that I can do my duty as a hero.” Dirk knew he was prattling, but he was none too fond of crowds, even at the best of times.[31]
Jonathan, still bristling with indignation at the earlier insult to his person, faked a smile. “I will happily slay the morpholag. If you wish to turn tail, why don’t you return the princess yourself? You could take the reward and toddle off as rich and happy as a man could wish until some jealous idiot kills you for your ill-gotten gains.” Jonathan’s tongue dripped with malice. “I know I’d rather slay the ravaging beast.”
Dirk and Jonathan glowered at each other.
Did Dirk know it was an utter lie? Jonathan couldn’t think what had gotten into him. He wanted the reward, didn’t he? And the princess? Why not? Despite her un-princess-like attitude, she was still a princess, wasn’t she? And if he were a prince, maybe he wouldn’t need to worry about money so much? So why couldn’t he just agree to rescue her? It’s not like he wanted to fight a monster, so why did his pride go and make such a hash of things? Jealousy? Or a wish for glory? Surely not. Jonathan’s sensible side knew he was being stupid. Problem was Jonathan’s sensible side had taken a hammering on this trip—and, after what he’d been through, it didn’t look about to recover any time soon.
Dirk stood, quietly holding in his rage and trying to think of something biting to say. Nothing came to mind. He was terribly out of practice. Up until the last few days, his sword had always done the talking for him.
Mr Goodfellow Senior ignored both his son’s posturing and Dirk’s seething, and turned toward Sylvalla. “Come on, Sylvalla.” He gently took her arm. “You do want to be a hero, don’t you?” He hurried her off down the track, before anybody realised what had happened—least of all Sylvalla.
“The problem is,” Mr Goodfellow Senior continued in a conspiratorial tone, “I fear you won’t much enjoy it. Heroism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. For a start, the life expectancy of a hero isn’t great. The hours are terrible, the conditions worse, and if you do manage to survive all that tiresome fighting and wintering beneath the stars to make a name for yourself, you’ll find it’s the bards who enjoy all the glory. After this adventure, my advice would be to settle down and learn how to behave like a proper young lady. Find a nice boy and have a family …”
The old man prattled on.
Sylvalla didn’t wish to be rude, so she tolerated the oddly familiar lecture, although the finding a nice boy bit almost made her choke. The old man didn’t know anything about being a princess. He certainly hadn’t met any of the local princes. The word cad didn’t even begin to describe them. Bounder? Pampered brat?
She fought off a sudden urge to roll her eyes and tell the old git to shut up by reminding herself that at least he was leading her in the right direction.
Once she’d killed the ravaging beast, this would all be worthwhile. The dreaded piebald morpholag. It didn’t have quite the heroic ring she might have hoped for, but nonetheless it was a good start to making a name for herself. After all, how many ravenous monsters had their very own prophecy?
Behind Sylvalla and Mr Goodfellow Senior, Francis quietly led Sylvalla’s pony. He wondered if she wouldn’t prefer to ride it and save him the chore. Dirk and Jonathan tagged along behind further still, giving each other meaningful looks, hands grasping the hilts of their swords.
All in all, it wasn’t much of a party: an old man, a girl, a trader, a stable boy, and a man who was afraid of rodents.
All the King’s Men
“Hup, two, three, four.
“Hup, two, three, four.”
King Phibiam Phetero’s army looked splendid. All the soldiers turned and stood at attention as one, ready to hear the voice of their Beloved Regent. (King Phetero liked to think of himself as beloved and, although it wasn’t strictly true, as king, he was well within his rights to give himself the title anyway.)
King Phetero sat atop a fresh warhorse, looking heroic in his best armour, a sword clutched in his hand. “Soldiers, warriors, my fine men of Scotch Mist. Today, through guile and quick wits, I have escaped the clutches of Dirk the Sword and Sylvalla the mad princess of Avondale. Unfortunately, these villains are still at large. They are a blight on the honour of us all.
“We must win back that honour and retaliate swiftly to crush these impudent fools like the bugs they are. Nobody shall scorn the might of King Phibiam of Scotch Mist, and you, my glorious army, because together we are unstoppable!”
Phetero’s horse pranced as he raised his sword to stab the air.
The soldiers cheered. Phetero had called them glorious—but even better, his speech had been unusually short.
King Phetero coughed. He’d planned to continue his rousing speech, but the audience kept cheering. He didn’t notice the strained note that had crept in, as more and more soldiers wondered when it would be polite to stop.
Phetero flagged the speech, raised his sword once more, and yelled over the ragged shouting, “We fight for Scotch Mist, we fight for glory and honour. We are always ready.”
His words ringing in the soldiers’ ears, King Phetero rode out of the parade ground, followed by regiment after regiment of determined soldiers.
Palace-approved gossip had already spread far and wide, as the citizens rushed around telling each other about the vile, evil and underhanded people who’d attempted to reginap their beloved king.
This quick thinking on Phetero’s part ensured hundreds of townspeople turned out to cheer their brave soldiers. Waving and dropping flowers onto the street, they watched the dazzling military display with a proud sheen in their eyes. Their brave boys were about to teach the terrible upstarts who reginapped their king a lesson. Nobody really thought about the ridiculousness of sending an entire army after three people.
King Phetero loved it. The soldiers looked so very spectacular as they paraded out the gates after their glorious king.
But the crowds soon thinned. Twenty minutes outside the city walls, Phetero slumped. His bottom hurt, his armour chaffed, he was hot, he was dusty, and of all the things he’d like to be doing right now, this didn’t even rate in the top hundred. As they got further and further away from Scotch Mist, he wondered more and more about the wisdom of this outing and his choice of clothing. It rattled and clanked, it was heavy as Hades and as sweaty and stinky as a poorly ventilated sauna.
Maybe he could turn around and leave the army to it?
If only he’d pretended nothing had happened—that he’d been delighted with Dirk’s and Sylvalla’s company, he could be at home right now, luxuriating in a bath. No. He couldn’t bear the thought that they might get away with disrespecting his royal personage.
Instead of turning back home, he urged his men to hurry. The quicker he brought the ruffians to justice, the quicker he could get back to his palace comforts—and still keep the high regard he deserved as king. He set a fast pace. As fast as the trackers could go without losing the trail. King Phetero made it clear he’d hang them for dereliction of duty if they los
t the adventurers’ trail. The last thing he wanted was to go through all this discomfort for nothing.
In amongst the marching, and searching, tracking and other soldierly activities, nobody noticed the small problem of the supply wagons being left behind. They’d travelled for most of the day before anybody realised. By then it was no longer a small problem.
A messenger was dispatched to find them, only to discover the provisions carts had barely left Scotch Mist. They’d be lucky to reach the soldiers by breakfast the following day.
My duty, thought the messenger, is to go back down the road to a thousand soldiers and say that there will be no food tonight. He considered running away. He wouldn’t be the first man to have deserted over the last twenty-four hours. If he hurried, he should be able to pack up his family and disappear into the night.
“No. I won’t.” The words came out so powerfully, he hardly realised he’d said them aloud. “If I manage this, I’ll be famous.”
The messenger rode up to the driver of the last wagon. “You’re too slow!” he snapped with the self-importance of an officer. “Unhitch your horses, they will have to carry as much as possible on their backs. We’re loading up now.”
The hot afternoon sun beat down on them like a fever, and the two men sweated profusely as the other wagons pulled slowly away.
The wagoneer grumbled, waving at the dust from the wagons ahead, “They’ll get there in time, and we’ll still be loading up.”
“They won’t, and you know it! Dear gods, you thurgle-headed fool, don’t load that horse up so heavily. That’s the horse you’re going to ride.”
“Three loaded horses to feed a thousand men. Believe me, it isn’t going to make any difference,” the man moaned. “I tell you what, nothing on earth will make me come with you, but you take my horses, and I’ll stay here and protect my wagon.”
