by A. J. Ponder
What are they doing here?
Surprisingly, seeing these scoundrels filled Sylvalla with a fierce hope, not of rescue, but of revenge. After this pathetic spectacle was over, assuming it finished well, and preferably after a bath and a hot cup of tea, she’d have the pleasure of permanently retiring the thieves and assassins who’d tried to murder her and her companions in their sleep. Sylvalla knew this revenge was a dream, but it was better than the nightmare of imminent death.
Her head buzzed. Her revenge would put Jonathan in danger. Where had that thought come from? Jonathan would be a fine ally. He detested the wizard more than she did. Still, angry as she was to think that she’d die, and they’d live, she determined not to tell Jonathan about Dothie or his companions.
It was hard to think straight—her head buzzed like a fly was caught between her ears … Is that Dothie trying to manipulate me with magic?
Sylvalla gathered her anger and raised her head. It was time to resort to something a demure princess would never dream of.
Furious with the injustice, cowardice and sheer stupidity, she called out to the god of War, the god of Death and the Maiden. “Let me live to taste revenge!
“For War, let me strike the blow, I pray that it will release a river of blood with which to slake your thirst.
“For Death, let the blow be mortal, I pray it will release the dragon’s soul to you, so that it will pass unfettered to your realm and abide in your thrall.
“For the Maiden, I will build a pyre of sweet wood over the dragon and cover every inch with flowers. Though night follows day, and my fingers run with blood, I will do this task.
“Oh my gods, most terrible, take this offering, and my blood, sweat and tears, so I may light the pyre for you all!”
There was a deathly silence. Princess Sylvalla had taken a terrible oath, yet at the time she was so caught up in her fury, she was hardly aware she’d spoken the words aloud.
Holding her head high, she thought only of the dragon, saw only the dragon, and smelled only the blood of the dragon. Her vow filled her mind. It fed on her passion, and on the fear and tension permeating the great hall.
Defiantly, she repeated her oath time and time again.
The crowd drew back in horror.
At last, Sylvalla sat down, deflated. Her friends hadn’t come to see her.
Their absence stung.
§
Dirk swore. He wished he’d defied the edict. But Mr Goodfellow Senior had convinced him that rushing in and slaying everyone might not be the best idea. That he had a better plan. One that might work. So, together with the rest of the party, he watched from behind the guards stationed at the doors.
From his poor vantage point, he hadn’t noticed Dothie, Arrant or even Fergus in the packed room. He was too intent on the drama as it played out just beyond his reach.
When it was over, and Sylvalla was escorted away, Dirk glanced at his fellow adventurers. They looked back, dazed, and refusing to acknowledge the horror in each other’s eyes.
The Caged Bird Sings
That evening Sylvalla cried. Her guards had refused her even the smallest knife with which to defend herself. She told herself, her tears were not the tears of sadness, but tears of impotent rage, such as a hero would shed, should a great battle be fought without them.
The fools thought to earn the dragon’s trust. And they were truly fools, for they had listened to the parsimonious truth of dragons, and believed. From Capro’s stories, Sylvalla knew enough about dragons to understand Asumgeld would take her, and then destroy Avondale anyway.
Head in hands, she heard light footsteps outside her cell and looked up in time to see a guard crumple before her eyes.
Francis appeared from behind the figure, nonchalantly swinging the cosh he’d used to take the guard out and attaching it to his belt.
“My Lady,” he murmured. Something glittered in his fingers.
He swallowed, smiled nervously and pushed his cupped hands through the bars. “A blade to defend thyself. It is the blade crafted for you by the Wizard Goodfellow, and made small. He believes it’s now a seemly blade for fighting dragons—a little better even than he promised.”
Sylvalla frowned. The diminutive blade was no larger than a piece of jewellery—smaller than her eating knife.
Bigger might be better, she thought, but did not say the words. She did not need to.
Francis placed the tiny skewer on her numb fingers and continued to repeat what Mr Goodfellow Senior told him he must. “You only need hold it and will it to grow. Then, with luck, this tiny jewel will become a sword fit for slaying dragons.”
Sylvalla managed to swallow. She looked at Francis’ earnest face. It was hard to think. Which is why she found herself thanking Francis in the most formal way imaginable, a credit to the hours of drilling one of her governesses had put her through before resigning in the middle of the night and swearing never to tutor another princess ever again. “I offer my thanks for your noble gift. Let your bravery lift your heart, and my blessing touch your brow and all those who succour me in my hour of need.” There is no need to say that such words felt out of place; Sylvalla had only said them because in her extremity she could think of nothing else.
Francis nodded awkwardly, half opening and then closing his mouth, before bowing just as awkwardly.
Sylvalla bade a last solemn farewell to all her companions individually, insisting that Francis remember every word, and most especially that he thank Mr Goodfellow Senior properly for her gift, and for keeping his word.
Head down, Francis mumbled, “Goodbye and good luck,” with an unmistakable catch in his throat.
As he turned away, Sylvalla found one more thing that should be said, one last duty to perform. “Francis,” she called to his receding footsteps. “Tell Dirk I order him to remain within the city walls. It is important, Francis. His oath depends on it. It is an order! An ORDER!”
Her voice rose, but if anybody other than Francis heard, they ignored Sylvalla’s order as the ravings of a woman about to die. Of course, she would be trying to order her release, she was mad with fear and the expectation of death.
The guards thought nothing more of the incident—even the coshed guard, when he eventually recovered, saw no harm done and did his best to forget it ever happened. There was little forgiveness, or work available, for guards who are caught off guard when they are meant to be on duty.
All remained as it was before. Except Sylvalla, clutching her sword, cried softly, and without tears, to preserve her strength.
§
Outside the goal itself, Jonathan and Dirk lurked in the fancy guest quarters, which were in reality a prison of a different type, endlessly discussing stupidly elaborate rescue plans.
Jonathan sighed and rephrased the problem for the twenty-fourth time. “It’s all very well thinking of a way in which we can slip out of the city and save Sylvalla, but if we are to go outside the city gates, the dragon might sense danger, and that would likely be the end of everything. And certainly it would be the end of Sylvalla—she’d be roasted to a crisp.”
The door opened. Both men leapt from their seats.
It was Mr Goodfellow Senior. Before either of them could sit down, he slammed the door. “Do not fool yourself, Jonathan, there is no might. The second you, or any one of us goes outside the city gates, the dragon will know it, and then it’ll not only be you who will be dead.”
Confident he’d made his point, Mr Goodfellow Senior sank into a chair. He was exhausted, but he had to stay awake, so he cast yet another small spell.
It hurt.
From forging the sword to keeping rumours of Dothie’s whereabouts from his son, Mr Goodfellow Senior had used far too much magic. It was worth it to keep these idiots alive. Not an easy task given his priority had to be Sylvalla and the dragon, and not separating his son from some part-time villain. Yes, they’d have to deal with Dothie in time, but not now.
The door rattled. Dirk and Jonathan
jumped, clutching their weapons as Francis slunk in.
Dirk strode toward him. “Did—”
Francis nodded. He opened his mouth, unsure if he should relay Sylvalla’s message. Maybe they’d thought of a plan that would save Sylvalla, and his foolish words would ruin everything.
“Out with it, boy,” Dirk said, overtaking Jonathan and grabbing Francis by the arm. “What’s wrong?”
Francis looked at his feet, trying to organize his thoughts. If Dirk didn’t hear Sylvalla’s order, he’d be free to fight the dragon—but such a gesture was foolhardy. Even for Dirk, it was little better than suicide. Suddenly it was crystal clear, Sylvalla had a very good reason for her message, her order. That being so, he would not betray her trust.
Taking a deep breath, Francis started passing on the message slowly, his eyes turning to the floor so as not to see the look on Dirk’s face. Soon Sylvalla’s order, for Dirk to remain within the city walls, was tumbling out word for word, as if they’d been seared into his skull, as if he had no control over his own speech.
Afterward there was silence.
Speechless, Dirk was torn between immense respect and a violent urge to hit something with his sword—Francis looked as good a target as any. Now there could be no dreams of rushing to the princess’ rescue. Upon his soul, she had ordered it.
Dirk wanted to retch. It was as if his stomach had been ripped apart, and yet Mr Goodfellow Senior had already made it clear that this was the only way.
That she would think to save his life and his honour made the princess fairer in his eyes, and her fate all the more terrible. Why should you save me, princess? Is it simply a noble gesture, or do you truly believe you can do this alone?
A small part of him rebelled. Part of him could not help but feel wounded at this grievous lack of consideration for his reputation. He was the hero. He should rescue the maiden … but that impulse had to be quashed. Above all, heroes had to do the right thing. So, he would. But nothing could stop him from cursing the fates and pronouncing his own terrible oaths. It was only fair.
“One way or another,” vowed Dirk to his god, the god of War, “There will be blood watering the ground. There will be flames licking the sky.”
Then, when he could bear it no longer, for he knew in his heart every word was true—and the Maiden had best hear what he had to say—Dirk looked to the heavens. “Listen, Maiden, and protect your own, lest you be left with nothing to protect.”
Preparations for Death
Sylvalla was roused from her cell into a world of velvet darkness studded with starlight. Guards walked on either side of her in welcome silence. She did not spoil it by struggling.
The serenity was broken as a gaggle of maids rushed to greet Sylvalla. Even old Nurse was there, hanky in hand, and sobbing to everyone who would listen, “Sylvalla’s not such a bad girl, but I always knew she’d meet a bad end. Too wayward.”
Nurse sniffled. “It’s tragic, just tragic. Whatever shall I do?”
Sylvalla ignored the woman stoically.
Behind these romantics, straight as a ruler, stood her mother’s lady-in-waiting. She might be silent now, but she was watching everything like a silver-speckled hawk. Sylvalla kept her tiny sword out of sight. Of all the women in the world, this was the one she’d most feared as a child. And most avoided.
The girls chattered inanely about the necessary preparations for the big event. The gist of which was that princesses weren’t allowed to die if they’d come fresh from the dungeons. Apparently, they had to be scolded a lot, washed, groomed, and put into voluminous white robes first.
Holding her sharp sword carefully within her fist, Sylvalla did her best to pay no attention to their foolish chatter. And at least the bath was pleasantly hot. Sylvalla dozed and looked at the patterns the tiles made.
It did not seem so very long before somebody started banging on the door outside.
All of a sudden, all the ladies were desperately trying to grab hold of Sylvalla and pull her out.
“Leave me alone, parasites,” Sylvalla muttered, deliberately splashing the women. They shrieked and jumped back. Sylvalla took the opportunity to jump out, dry herself and start to dress herself one handed—her tiny sword flashing, not quite hidden in the fist of her free hand.
The queen’s lady-in-waiting’s hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist. “What have we got here, then?”
The others closed in.
“It’s a keepsake from Francis,” Sylvalla replied, gripping the little sword so tightly it cut her hand.
Two drops of blood spattered onto the floor.
“Give it to me, and I will pin it on your dress.” The queen’s lady-in-waiting stretched her other hand out eagerly, her eyes hard and bright like the bird she always reminded Sylvalla of.
Sylvalla shook her head. Ripping the brush from the hairdresser’s hands, she stood up. “No. Leave me alone.”
“Give it to me!” the woman repeated, all pretence of amity dropped.
“No! It’s the only thing I have left.”
“Stop it,” somebody hissed. Sylvalla turned to see her unexpected saviour, her old nurse.
As cross and grouchy as ever, Nurse snapped in the face of outright hostility. “The princess will bleed all over the dress, and then where will we be?”
The two women stared at each other.
“Fine,” her mother’s woman backed down, scowling.
Sylvalla smiled for the first time that day. At least some things never changed. Unfortunately, neither did her hair. Behind her, she could almost see the frown on the hairdresser’s face as the woman tried to yank it into submission, fussing and sighing over how unseemly short it was and stabbing each wayward tuft into submission with a golden pin.
An uneasy truce operated between her and these women, whose only care was that she went to her death looking her best. It could not last.
Sylvalla gazed at the tiny sword in her hand. Sooner or later, they’d attempt to take it. Surreptitiously, she began to watch her watchers. It would take but a moment, a small flick of the wrist to hide. Sylvalla’s hands played with the many layers of gauzy silk and waited for her chance.
Someone pounded on the door.
When everybody instinctively looked away, Sylvalla had the opportunity she needed to push the tiny sword-blade deep into one of the many folds. She secured it like a pin. A needle. And it seemed to Sylvalla her many hours of torment sewing with the real thing would be worthwhile, if only her sword would stay where she’d threaded it.
“Guards for the Princess Sylvalla. Let us in.” They threatened to batter the door down, as the ladies inspected their handiwork—straightening her dress here, and adding a final golden clasp there, until at last the door was opened and she was pushed into their relentless grip.
Sylvalla’s relief was palpable, and yet it was premature, for she was not to escape so easily. “Wait!” her mother’s lady called. “The princess carries a silver blade, a keepsake from the boy Francis. She holds it in her hand against the king’s specific orders that she bear no weapon of any kind.”
The guards looked at the woman, their lips narrowing further before turning back to Sylvalla. Prising open her fingers, they found nothing except a tiny cut on Sylvalla’s hand. “That scratch?” they scoffed.
Sylvalla’s nurse laughed through streaming tears. “’Tis little more than a pin the woman talks about. The old bat—”
“How dare you,” the lady-in-waiting fumed. “The king said no blade of any kind. I am doing my duty.”
Sylvalla tensed, meaning to fight if necessary.
“Leave it be, woman. Men care little for pins, brooches and baubles, no matter who gives them!” Laughing too loud at the joke, the guards gripped Sylvalla’s arms more firmly and hurried her along to the gates, through the knots of curious people already beginning to gather for the occasion, and into the dawn.
Sometimes it’s Harder Not to Fight
Mr Goodfellow Senior was busy laying out fo
od and drink carefully laced with sleep potion for Jonathan, Dirk and Francis. It wasn’t a difficult job, but his mind kept straying. Not to the dragon, but to the difficult nature of being a wizard.
Mr Goodfellow Senior’s treacherous thoughts revolved around his being too old for the job, and this job in particular—which required far too much gallivanting around the countryside and being civil to royalty, and not nearly enough blowing things up with fireballs. It didn’t help that he was more than a little rusty, and well past his prime adventuring days—when there’d always been plenty of warning, and more than enough time to get some really good spells organised.
Those past adventuring days had heroes and magical swords aplenty. So why did his mind keep straying to the sword the thurgle had been wielding in the caves?
He’d felt the sword, more than seen it, the magic in the blade whispering a name. It had been like listening to the softest of exhalations beneath the clash and whine of the combatants’ swords. Something strange, and yet oddly familiar. Something he just couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Who cares about Excalibur? Sylvalla is about to single-handedly take on a dragon. At least that was the plan, so long as no one lost their heads and ruined everything.
Galling as the notion was, there was nothing more he could do about the dragon. But that sword? Why should a tiny detail like the sound of air rushing past a blade bother him now, when he hadn’t really noticed it at the time? Probably because he’d hardly been conscious. Perhaps it was important. It was a shame nobody else had noticed either. Certainly not that good-for-nothing son of his who was determined to squander his talents.
His magic talents.
His name.
An exhalation, a call …
“Blue catfish!” Capro Goodfellow banged a plate down on the table so hard that it cracked and sent pasties tumbling all over the table and onto the floor. “Excalibur. The sword in the stone.”
