The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Mr Goodfellow Senior leaned against the mountain with nothing but his small, smooth rock in his hand.

  His unusually relaxed stance caused the dragon to temporarily cease her efforts against the confining walls of the canyon.

  Curious, she twisted her face into an unlikely smile. “Puny mortal, give me your companions. So I may spare your life.”

  The old man ignored the lie, or more accurately the deception.[37] “A quiet word, Asumgeld, for so I name you. The debt is paid.”

  The beast roared in fury—the sound white-hot in the wizard’s ears as he hefted the oft-fondled stone, throwing it with a deal more accuracy and force than would be physically possible.

  It hit the dragon with a dull thump. Then, just for luck, he threw the other stone, the one he’d made for Christopher—just in case.

  That also had no effect. Now, at last, Mr Goodfellow Senior ran after the others with the knowledge that at least he’d tried something. It might not have worked, but the old wizard was happy to have given it his best shot.

  A wall of angry flame spewed behind him.

  His magic all but spent, it was only fear that lent Mr Goodfellow Senior the strength and speed to run in front of it.

  Asumgeld roared her fury at failing to chargrill the not-so-succulent morsel. Incensed to breaking point, she tore at the rock until it fell in great piles of rubble. But although her rage pulled down tonnes of stone, it did no good. The cave itself was sound.

  After a while, Mr Goodfellow Senior heard the much gentler hiss of scale against rock. The dragon was making her stay a little more comfortable while she waited for them to come out.

  Well within the cave, Mr Goodfellow Senior took a second to brush the soot off his clothes—only to have the blackened cloth disintegrate under his fingers. He’d been somewhat closer to the dragon-fire than he’d realised, and would have suffered extensive burns if not for his legendary foresight and planning.

  Spent as he was, after using more magic in the last ten minutes than in the previous ten years, Mr Goodfellow Senior was about to squander even more—and pay the inevitable price.

  Sighing, he rehydrated his wizardly robes, then searched the cave floor for a suitable stone, and asked for light. With the stone glowing almost as brightly as his reconstituted silver robes, he was ready to find the others. Even though they did not appreciate him. Even though they’d never realise how much accumulated power he’d just wasted on them, he still had to help. It was the price he paid for getting tangled up with adventurers, dragons, and his ungrateful son.

  Idly, Mr Goodfellow Senior wondered if the stone he’d thrown at the dragon would do any good. It hadn’t killed the beast—that had been a long shot, but it should have done something. The question was, what? The text he’d used to fashion it had a small tear cutting off the end of the phrase: Deployed in full accordance to the text, this missile will render even the most ingenious dragon mort— There couldn’t have been more than one or two missing words. Capro Goodfellow had filled in the blanks with what he thought were astute guesses—one of which had clearly been wrong. Now, he could only hope.

  In the Dark

  Dirk, Sylvalla, Jonathan, and Francis groped blindly as their eyes adjusted to the near pitch-dark. Nevertheless, a sense of jubilation buoyed the adventurers. They had survived. They’d defeated one dragon and cheated certain death, if only temporarily. Cheering and laughing, they patted each other on the back to celebrate their good fortune.

  Moments later, the caves no longer seemed so welcoming —the walls darker, danker and more oppressive.

  “Now, how are we going to get out of here?” Sylvalla asked. “Talk about falling out of the fire and into the frying pan.”

  Nobody was panicking. Jonathan would’ve liked to say that he was panicking least of all—but he was concerned. Something was wrong, very wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could feel it. “Is everybody here?” he asked, and just as everybody who was there replied yes, of course they were here, Jonathan realised his father wasn’t.

  Dirk’s voice echoed Jonathan’s thoughts. “Capro’s missing.”

  Everyone began talking at once, but Jonathan ignored them. There was something he had to say—no matter that the sensible part of his brain knew the words were sheer folly. “We have to go back and get him.”

  Dirk rolled his eyes. “Typical wizard, always in trouble, and never there when you need them.”

  All sound ceased. Nobody seemed to breathe. The idea of Mr Goodfellow Senior at the dragon’s mercy was too horrendous to contemplate. Especially if it left them all here, trapped in the dark.

  Jonathan bit his lip.

  In the dreadful silence, as the full realisation of their predicament weighed upon them, Francis heard a noise ahead. At first, he thought the old wizard had slipped ahead of them, somehow. But there was more than one voice engaged in heated conversation.

  Francis turned back to the others. “Can you hear that?”

  For a moment, Jonathan wondered if his crazy old father was talking to himself, having finally cracked his way out of any semblance of sanity. Except none of the voices sounded the slightest bit like his father.

  “Shhh—stay,” Francis whispered. He inched closer to the sound. A gruff voice floated toward him, as if coming from the rock itself.

  §

  “I say we kill them now.”

  “I might not be able to see well enough to use my spell, so it will only be you, Thurgle. You can kill them all by yourself, can’t you?”

  “Um, they killed a dragon,” Fergus mumbled. His confidence not as high as it would normally be before a fight against five pitiful humans.

  “We’ll surprise them,” Arrant muttered. “Let’s wait for them to kip down and kill ’em while they’re sleeping.”

  Fergus grunted his appreciation of the plan.

  “Good lad,” Dothie murmured. Planning was the boy’s strength. It was the reason he was still alive.

  §

  Francis might not have known who was talking, or exactly where they were, but he had the general idea. He stepped back, unseen (obviously), and unheard (he’d had plenty of practice sneaking into kitchens). Gently, he pushed and pulled his companions further away from the spot where he’d been listening.

  “I take it that wasn’t my father?” Jonathan said.

  “No, just some people who want to kill us,” Francis replied in an understated drawl, as if resigned to the fact everybody he met wanted to murder him.

  “What sort of people, Francis?” Dirk’s voice was low and urgent. He gripped the pommel of his sword.

  “I, I think there is a wizard, and—”

  Jonathan’s ears pricked up.

  “—and a fighter. Maybe two. And … and they’re going to wait for us to sleep—then kill us.”

  “A sound tactic, although no fun,” Dirk muttered disparagingly.

  “Did you say a wizard?” Jonathan grabbed Francis. “I don’t suppose you heard anything else? Did the wizard have a name?”

  “No … no. Maybe. I don’t remember!”

  “Shhh,” Sylvalla said. She applied reason to the fast-growing tension. “None of that matters right now, Jonathan. What does matter is that they think they have a plan—and we know it. That puts us at an advantage. We should use it to lure them into an ambush.”

  Sylvalla was startled by her eagerness to fight. Hadn’t she had enough for one day? And yet fighting appeared to give the chance of life. If nothing else, it was something to think about besides the enormous dragon waiting for them, and their choice of stepping outside and being fried alive, or dying slowly, trapped underground.

  “We should—” Dirk began. He had some ideas, but they had to wait as footsteps crunched on the loose gravel behind them.

  They all froze, except Dirk. The song of steel rang out as he unsheathed his sword—a noise not so much heard, as felt.

  A faint glow reflected from the cave walls.

  The light grew,
and from around a bend came a wizard dressed in a richly-woven silver robe. He was holding a glowing stone aloft, like it was a sacred chalice.

  The face was familiar.

  “Capro?” Jonathan asked, not quite believing this wizard could be his father.

  “A fine welcoming committee, I must say,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said in the brightest voice he could muster given the circumstances. He was bone weary, and the expected migraine was just beginning.

  “Thank goodness you’re alive,” Sylvalla murmured. “We were so worried …”

  “We have uninvited guests,” Dirk growled, quietly. Not forgetting his job—not even for small miracles.

  “You deal with them, hey, boys? And you too, Sylvalla, I guess. I’m going to sleep like a stone. Think of it as an old man’s privilege.”

  There was something in Mr Goodfellow Senior’s voice that kept anyone from arguing with him.

  Only his son dared a parting shot. “Just don’t snore, old-timer, or you’ll bring them on top of us, and we’re not quite ready yet.” There was no way Jonathan was going to admit how worried he’d been about the old codger, only to have him turn up like some sort of hero.

  Ambush

  Caves are nasty things in the dark. Firstly, there is the treacherous footing compounded by poor visibility. Secondly, the walls are usually jagged, as if designed to graze palms and knees and hips. Thirdly, there is the traditional oppressive atmosphere, enhanced by the occasional skitter of rocks or claws, the chittering of bats, and the smell of guano.

  Dothie had had enough.

  The other party had light. He could see its faint glow in the inky darkness. If only he’d been a better student, he wouldn’t be sitting in the dark right now, with cuts on his palms and bruises on his knees.

  “Are they sleeping?” he asked Arrant, for perhaps the thousandth time.

  “No,” Arrant answered sullenly. “Perhaps we should wait more than five minutes. I know, how about we wait until night-time? You know, that’s when most people sleep.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny,” Dothie replied, unimpressed.

  “You, shut up and keep it quiet,” Arrant snapped. “I’ll go back and watch them until I think it’s time to scramble.”

  Dothie fumed. How dare Arrant talk to him like that? He could turn the boy into a fruit fly as soon as look at him. Although that would be too easy, even thumbscrews and racks seemed too good for the upstart. He devised ever more horrendous tortures for a time when he no longer needed the cocky little brat.

  An hour later, Dothie was still fuming, but mostly about being left alone in the dark with a thurgle who was being more taciturn than usual.

  Arrant’s footsteps neared. “It’s time,” he said. “Are you ready? Let’s get ’em.”

  “Yes,” grunted the thurgle.

  Dothie found himself agreeing with enthusiasm, happy to be so close to the princess and, more importantly, the promised reward.

  “Righto,” Arrant whispered. “They’re all sleeping, excepting the old man on guard.” (Actually, Mr Goodfellow Senior was fast asleep, propped up against a rock and snoring into his beard.) “Now don’t forget, Dirk first. He’s the real danger. And, by the gods, keep the princess alive—whatever the cost.”

  The trio crept like a herd of wildebeest down the corridor. The thurgle first, with Arrant and Dothie close behind.

  “Quietly!” Arrant admonished his companions. At least Dothie had some idea, but that thurgle!

  Arrant peered around the dimly illuminated cavern. Still just the old man on guard, and he was still staring off in the wrong direction.

  Dothie also scanned the scene.

  He saw the light in the old man’s hand and recognised the glow as magical. He wanted that light, desperately. More than that, he knew his priority had to be the wizard. Old man, indeed. Even after everything he’d done, the fools still underestimated magic. One day that would be to his advantage, but not now when the idiots were more worried about a sword than someone who could kill them all with a single word.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior gave a deep spluttering sigh.

  Seeing the old man wasn’t in fact on guard, but asleep, Dothie’s courage soared. He padded in to help his companions assault the supine figures, before any of them could wake.

  There was no such lag. Instead, as one, the unsurprised and hitherto thought-to-be-sleeping foes leapt to their feet and rushed to engage their now thoroughly surprised attackers.

  “Attack,” Arrant yelled, hardly missing a beat.

  Torn between fleeing and fighting, Dothie hesitated before taking heart from the way Fergus was already pushing Dirk back. As he regathered his courage, he remembered his plan to attack the old wizard first.

  In a split second, Dothie ducked past Sylvalla and Jonathan who were trying to blindside the thurgle, and landed a hefty blow on his unsuspecting target.

  The old man crumpled.

  Heartened enormously by this success, Dothie strode into the fray. His blood-lust was up, and his opinion of his own ability with a sword was spectacularly high. So much so that he stopped considering that running might be a better option. A very unusual state of affairs for him, but one he was monumentally proud of as he swung his sword at Sylvalla.

  Arrant, on the other hand, had already disappeared behind a boulder. After all his talk, his sole participation in the battle was watching from a safe distance. By the time Dothie realised he should’ve done the same thing, it was too late. A very familiar trader was cheering Sylvalla on as she backed him into a corner and plunged her sword toward his heart.

  He gave a yelp of fear, and threw an illusion …

  §

  Sylvalla missed the poxy wizard, her sword slicing through illusion and hitting the rock, hard. Sparks shot from the stone, and the cave began to shudder. The noise barely perceptible above the clamour of the combatants.

  Distracted, Sylvalla lost her advantage.

  Dothie slashed high.

  She parried it easily, turning his blade to once again gain the advantage …

  “I’m coming!” Jonathan yelled, desperate to attack the wizard.

  “No!” Sylvalla and Dirk yelled at the same time.

  Jonathan swore, but he stayed to help Dirk with the thurgle.

  The rumble spread. Francis felt it before he heard it. “To me!” he called. Then, just as the real noise began, he screamed, “Sylvalla!”

  Realising the roar in her ears wasn’t just blood, Sylvalla allowed herself to be pushed back by Dothie. She didn’t dare disengage; her opponent might not be particularly competent, but an unprotected back was a target even he couldn’t miss.

  Dothie took the opportunity. He stepped back a couple of paces, turned tail, and fled.

  Meanwhile, Dirk and Jonathan were tag-teaming the thurgle, too engrossed in the music their blades were making, to hear Francis calling.

  They only noticed something was wrong when bits of the ceiling pattered down. It was hard to ignore the gravel that dinted their thick skulls, and the half a dozen huge stones that dropped so close, the ground trembled beneath their feet.

  “To me!” Francis shouted again. But then, if anything, the struggle became more ferocious.

  The thurgle, his sword flashing eerily in the light, stabbed and slashed with a wanton abandon that made the most of his overly long reach.

  Dirk skittered backward, parrying and flashing out a backhanded blow that would have been fatal if it hadn’t fallen well short of its target.

  Through all the fighting, Francis saw Mr Goodfellow Senior slumped on the ground, his light-stone partially obscured by dust. “Sylvalla, we have to get Mr Goodfellow.”

  Together, they ran and grabbed the old man. “Wake up, Mister Goodfellow Senior, sir. Wake up.”

  The old man didn’t groan. Not even when they both tried to drag him to safety—only to find he was far too heavy for them to move. How could such a tiny man be so very heavy?

  Worse, Jonathan and Dirk were still preoccupi
ed with the thurgle, who refused to give up the fight despite all the blood pouring from his sword arm. The two deep gashes would have slowed any man, but not Fergus. They only made him angry.

  Thinking quickly, Francis prised the light from Mr Goodfellow Senior’s grip and tossed it to Sylvalla.

  Sylvalla deftly caught it, then squealed as Francis used the diversion to snatch the sword from her hand and jump into the fray.

  “Quick, get your father!” Francis yelled at Jonathan, slashing wildly, his enthusiasm compensating for his lack of skill. “Hurry! We’ve got to get out of here before the whole thing collapses!”

  Jonathan left them to it. Francis could play his part of decoy. It was Dirk’s amazing ability that was keeping the monster in line. Moreover, Jonathan’s arms felt like lead, and much as he hated to admit it, sooner rather than later, the point of his blade would have dropped, and he would have died. So, quickly as he could, he stumbled the few paces to where Sylvalla was bent over, placing the fading light-stone on the slumped figure of his father.

  Sylvalla stood up and held out her hand.

  Jonathan gave her his sword and turned away, saying nothing. Sylvalla was going back to join the fight. He would not stop her. It was up to him to do what he could do for his father, lying unmoving in the flickering light.

  Eyes rapidly blinking—from all the dust—Jonathan braced himself. The old man’s body was cold to the touch.

  §

  Mr Goodfellow Senior sighed a rattling sigh, as something within him awakened and struggled free. There was no room in this crippled old body anymore. No room for his mighty spirit as it soared above the petty daily distractions of mere mortals. Mr Goodfellow knew his part had been played, and now it was ending with no more ovation than the clashing of swords. Nobody cried or sang, no trumpets played. The dust merely settled.

  §

  “You are so moving, you obstinate old goat!” Jonathan grunted.

  Refusing to believe his father was dead, he heaved Mr Goodfellow Senior over his shoulder. In the process, he couldn’t help thinking that for a skinny bag of bones, his dad was surprisingly heavy.