The Sylvalla Chronicles

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The Sylvalla Chronicles Page 20

by A. J. Ponder


  Shaking, Mr Goodfellow Senior picked up the broken crockery and thoughtfully placed the pasties onto another plate. He almost tasted the food he’d displayed so invitingly, before remembering just in time and snatching his hand away. Someone would have to stay awake—in case it was necessary to administer the antidote.

  He tipped the leftover potion into the beer, and then he was ready. Jonathan and Francis were easy enough to find. They were sulking on their beds. Dirk was more difficult, but it didn’t take too many brains to figure out where he’d gone.

  §

  Together, Mr Goodfellow Senior, Jonathan and Francis spearheaded their way through the fast-gathering crowd to where Dirk stood, hands clenched tightly around the steel bars of the city gates. Talking didn’t work, and pulling him only made him grip the bars tighter. Francis and Jonathan’s attempts to prise his fingers away one by one only met with temporary victory, until Mr Goodfellow Senior whispered, sharply enough for everybody in the vicinity to hear, “We will not be so barbaric.”

  Dirk half nodded in agreement, allowing his fingers to fall from the bars, and not resisting any further as Jonathan and Francis assisted him back to their rooms.

  “Come, sit down,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said as soon as they were inside. “Why don’t we have a little something to keep our minds off our troubles?”

  Hollow eyes looked up at Mr Goodfellow Senior.

  “I did some baking.” This is going very badly. “And, er, I think we should all drink to the princess’ good health.”

  They hesitated for an agonising moment before clinking their mugs and drinking deeply.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior then suggested that they all wish Sylvalla good fortune, and they drank to that as well.

  By the fifth toast, Mr Goodfellow Senior was wondering if he’d put enough sleeping draught into the beer, and struggling to figure out who or what he should toast next. Dirk, Francis and Jonathan continued to sit grim-faced, without moving as much as a finger toward the food he had carefully prepared.

  “U-um,” Mr Goodfellow Senior croaked, “Ah, who should we drink to now?” The puddle of beer under his seat was soaking through his shoes.

  Francis coughed and started to stand up, but his knees buckled. He swooned over the table.

  Dirk muttered something about the younger generation. His eyes lidded, and he also found the hard surface of the table with his forehead.

  One left. Mr Goodfellow Senior wiped away a bead of sweat.

  To keep his anxiety at bay, he played with his wine glass and tried to guess when the dragon would arrive.

  Jonathan stared at his father curiously, as if he knew something was going on, but his brain was working too slowly to figure it out.

  Trying his best to look innocent, Mr Goodfellow Senior mumbled something about it being a tough day.

  Jonathan blinked rapidly, then his eyes glazed over, and he slumped onto the unforgiving table top.

  Careful to note that all three companions were breathing properly, and most especially that Jonathan’s snores were genuine, Mr Goodfellow Senior began his lonely vigil. He knew it would probably take some time. Now, at least, it would be impossible for anyone to lose their convictions and embark on some stupidly heroic last stand. Whatever else happened, Asumgeld had to feel totally safe.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior took stock of the not-so-elaborately constructed back-up plans he’d made should this one fail. Not that throwing Sylvalla to the dragon had been Mr Goodfellow Senior’s idea in the first place, but with his minor help on the sword front, it had a very slim chance of succeeding. And that was more than he could say for all his alternative plans, which now consisted of little more than hopeful thinking, waving swords around, and diving for cover.

  He had the antidote ready, just in case. If the worst came to the worst, he’d need the others—despite the sick feeling that they’d be little more than a diversion.

  If only Rufus had listened to the plan that had involved lots of marksmen.

  Of Flowers Plucked in their Prime

  The crowd fell silent, straining to watch as Sylvalla was led from the city. It wasn’t the sight of the princess herself, as much as their expectations of the event. Accordingly, they took in every detail, from every vantage point available: The pristine glitter of frost on grass; the bound princess, barefoot, and stepping in a measured pace between two enormous guards; her voluminous white gown rippling in the breeze as artful tassels of hair flew in a restless dance of their own.

  Afterward, some said they could hear the light frost crunching underneath her feet as she left a thin tail of green in her wake. It was perfect, exactly what everybody expected of a soon-to-be-devoured princess.

  They did not expect swords.

  Sylvalla behaved as a princess should behave—demure and stiff-backed. Her heart strengthened by the slip of steel she hoped was still threaded into her skirts.

  The crowd warmed to her as she strode further from the city, showing less fear than the two burly ushers who goose-stepped her along, while constantly looking up to the sky.

  Hastily, they pushed her against an oversized fence post, and slung the rope around in careless loops and half-hearted knots.

  Sylvalla was glad of their lack of attention and wondered if they thought that using such an awful lot of rope would make up for their lack of care.

  At last, they tied the final loop.

  Happy she was secure, they sprinted all the way back to the city walls, where they were pummelled by rotten fruit and friendly abuse.

  As soon as the guards were inside and the gates closed, Sylvalla tested her bonds. Her hands could move, not exactly easily, but more freely than she’d dared hope. Carefully loosening the rope further, she began to feel around for the tiny blade, her fingers searching through swathes of cloth while her heart beat like a pot pounded by a careless two-year-old.

  What if the sword is lost?

  At last, she felt the hilt—cold and hard beneath her fingers.

  Now, if Sylvalla had wanted, she could have made them look like fools and simply walked away. If I do, will they be brave enough to bring me back? Possibly, probably—almost certainly, and then they would ensure the ties that bound her. Worst of all, they’d confiscate her blade and she’d die without the smallest chance of defending herself.

  No, I’ll not test their bravery, only my own.

  Carefully, she slipped the blade from its makeshift scabbard, and replaced it at her side; once, twice, three times. When she was certain she could reach it in a moment, Sylvalla settled down to wait, satisfied that she was ready—or as ready as she could ever be, trussed to a stake and anticipating the arrival of a dragon.

  The crowd continued to gather at the gates, clamouring for popcorn, jostling each other for the best view, and cursing the newly rebuilt city wall. The guards ignored all the people seething on its brim, for this event was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As such, even better patronised than the twice-yearly hanging. (Now there’s real family entertainment for you—with children perching on parents’ shoulders and plenty of food and souvenirs available on the big day. This was very similar, with swarms of people clambering up every available fence, lamp and tree, but the short notice meant a definite lack of memorabilia, and a dearth of quality food stalls.)

  The citizenry of Avondale were not Sylvalla’s current concern. Neither was their entertainment, or lack thereof. She turned her head from the gates to look at the sky and whispered to the ether, and presumably the gods who resided within, “I have made my pact. Do you test my resolve? Do you question my purpose? I am ready.”

  Apparently, the dragon wasn’t.

  There were romantics who remained patient, sighing over the beautiful princess doomed to die, and that sort of drivel. But for most, the glamour was merely a thin veneer, a pageant that would make the main event so much more enjoyable. They couldn’t understand why the dragon was taking such an inordinately long time. Hungry and disgruntled by the lack of spectacle, the c
rowd became restless.

  Patience is a virtue. Not being particularly virtuous, the restless crowd soon turned decidedly ugly. But that wasn’t Sylvalla’s problem either. Being hungry and thirsty was—although having experienced both in the caves, she knew she’d not die of those, at least not yet.

  Too Late

  Mr Goodfellow Senior thought he’d better do something about the riot. The fronts of stores were being smashed, and street lamps toppled to the ground. Looting, arson and death were likely next on the agenda.

  But there was also fear. Gut-eating fear.

  Mr Goodfellow Senior used that fear and multiplied it, magnifying it out of all proportion, so that anyone nearby ran down the street screaming contagiously, inducing more hysteria wherever they went—encouraging more and more people to flee to safety.

  Soon enough the city was quiet and Mr Goodfellow Senior returned to his lonely vigil, and wondered how stupid it was to be here, when he and Jonathan could have been safely a hundred miles away by now.

  §

  The day wore on, until night fell in its usual noiseless way.

  Sylvalla noticed the eerie hush as the last rays of sunlight retreated behind the hills, and held her breath, waiting. Waiting for the songs of the day to be replaced the calls of owls and frogs and other creatures of the night.

  The silence remained absolute. All she could hear was her own deep breaths echoing in her ears.

  Sylvalla wished to bring forth her sword.

  It was not yet time. She would draw it, calling it forth from the ensorcellment at the very last moment—or not at all.

  The sigh of wings overhead startled her. A sound soft enough to be no more than the wind in the feathers of a swooping owl, but Sylvalla no longer expected owls. The silence had gone on too long.

  The dragon was so close she could smell him. Metaphorically. She could feel his presence through the very fibre of her bones. In her soul, she faced an ancient nameless fear, and named it Asumgeld. In that instant, she was ready to die, and even more ready to live.

  Paradoxically, time slowed as her heart raced uncomfortably in her chest. All her soul, reaching out and fleeing the fleeting moment—and yet unable to move—bound by fear more surely than any rope.

  Somehow, Sylvalla’s tongue managed to break the deadly grip. “Enough, Asumgeld. Is it not enough that I stand here helpless? Will you torture me further with this interminable waiting?”

  “Indeed,” the dragon rumbled in a voice as deep as a well cut into a mountain. “That is … half the fun.”

  “Then I shall enjoy every breath.” Sylvalla laughed to herself. Perhaps statecraft wasn’t so useless after all.

  “A fine notion,” the dragon replied, sauntering into view. Three slow steps, and Asumgeld’s head tilted downward so he could better see the girl. And, more importantly, so the girl could better see him.

  Overwhelmed by a wave of very rational fear, Sylvalla’s bones turned to jelly—her bindings just good enough to prevent her from falling headfirst onto the mist-dampened ground.

  Fortunately, Sylvalla’s sword hand did not appear to be affected by this strange malaise. Her fingers curled around the blade as if it were her one salvation—because it was.

  Believing Sylvalla had fainted, and consequently, that he was perfectly safe, Asumgeld rushed to consume his chosen prey.

  Sylvalla grasped her small chance with both hands, swiftly pulling the miniature sword from its temporary scabbard.

  With half her consciousness screaming, too soon, and the other half clamouring, too late, she summoned her ebbing strength. Clutching the hilt, she willed with all her might that the tiny blade would kill the enormous beast looming above her—knowing in her heart that, in moments, the dragon’s teeth would tear her apart.

  Screaming fiercely, Sylvalla refused to give in. She felt the tug of cloth and rope, before the blade erupted through her bonds—the magic slicing through all obstacles as it grew.

  Raw terror lent her strength as she drove the sword upward.

  The blade flared with an intense light, growing heavier and heavier, expanding to the size of a lance with such force that it pierced the diamond-hard skin under the dragon’s chin, ripped through Asumgeld’s windpipe, and plunged deep into his brain.

  Asumgeld could not roar his fury. He had no voice. No breath. Unexpectedly, there was no sweet taste of revenge to satisfy his hunger. Only blood.

  He crashed to the ground.

  Sylvalla shuddered. A small echo of the earth as it rocked beneath her feet. How the enormous bulk of Asumgeld’s falling body managed to miss her, Sylvalla never knew.

  Gasping, she stood, staring alternately at the dragon, and then at her blade as it shrank back from its preposterous size. She could hardly believe it. At last, it was finally true, there could be no denying she was a hero.

  Sylvalla knew she would deservedly bask in the glory and praise that would be showered upon her when she returned home. Exhausted, triumphant and covered from head to toe with slowly congealing blood, she laughed. “I have killed the dragon!” she yelled, mad and fae as any child playing at adventuring.

  Only she couldn’t go home quite yet. She had to do as she’d sworn. Perhaps she shouldn’t have made such an outlandish promise, but then again, maybe it was only her oath that had saved her. Either way, the words had been said, and she could not unsay them now.

  Daring to pull up small saplings of ash and cinnamon, as well as tear down the branches of ancient cherry trees, Sylvalla built the dragon’s pyre branch by branch, tree by tree. It took such an incredibly long time to fetch even a small amount of wood that she despaired of ever finishing the task she’d given herself. That was until she discovered her precious sword cut wood like butter.

  When all the sweet aromatic wood was gone, Sylvalla found flowering trees and wild rose bushes, dragging whole branches and tossing them onto the byre. Her hands tore on thorns and splinters, until she was as sticky with her own blood as the dragon’s.

  Her muscles ached, and the job had barely begun. Every inch! What had she been thinking? Nevertheless, she persisted through the night. In all this time, nobody ventured from the city. Sylvalla had expected her comrades—not to help, that would not be in the spirit of her oath—but to at least keep her company.

  She sighed. This was her duty alone; she should not expect laudation, or even company. Not yet, anyway.

  Sweeping her sword through a lavender hedge, Sylvalla wondered dolefully if there were enough flowers in the entire world to cover the enormous beast. Still, she kept to her task as the sun rose … and travelled high into the sky.

  When Sylvalla thought she could move no further, nor even grasp her sword in her hand, she saw an enormous tree with a thousand red flowers had toppled to the ground, as if flattened by a terrible storm. There’d been no storm; the trees nearby were untouched. Sylvalla, praising her luck, decided that the old roots must have given way as the dragon slumped to the earth, the brittle branches smashing into kindling as it toppled to the ground.

  Offering a quick prayer of thanks to the Maiden, and as an afterthought, all the other gods as well, Sylvalla set to work throwing branches over the dragon. Small clusters of flowers on fine sticks, she was able to hurl even to the very top of the beast, which by now seemed somewhat shrunken. Once, she could have sworn it was the size of a mountain. Now it was merely as big as a large house.

  Covering it was still an enormous task, which pushed Sylvalla to the very brink of exhaustion. Her temperature ran hot and then cold. Although she shivered and sweated, she kept on working, even through the delusions.

  Delusions where she could almost believe she could hear the gods talking to the dragon.

  §

  WAR: You had a good innings, old chap.

  The Maiden: Too right, can’t expect to vanquish the innocent every time, you know.

  Asumgeld: I do not think so, I would have liked another millennia or two before the final sleep. My death was hardly fair!<
br />
  Death: This world is too old for dragons, and let’s face it, you were the size of a mountain. what’s fair about that?

  Asumgeld: So, you did cheat?

  WAR: Let’s say we stacked the odds a bit. Anyway, being dead isn’t so bad. Look, let’s go and have a cappuccino, and find something else you might like to be.

  Asumgeld (petulantly): Will it be a hundred metres long and breathe fire?

  WAR: Um. No. Maybe you should get used to the idea of downscaling.

  §

  At last, having finished her epic task, Sylvalla collapsed in a tattered puddle of diaphanous fabric. The white sacrificial robes had been designed to look decoratively tragic, not withstand swords and branches and dragon’s breath. Now they just looked tragic.

  Pulling the red and brown stained tatters together, Sylvalla did her best to make herself presentable, before walking up to the gates and informing the guard, as she had informed the countryside earlier, “I have killed the dragon.”

  Two guards peered over the wall nervously. They were either brave enough to still be on watch, or stupid enough not to have been able to get off duty for the previous night, as a wave of wizardly induced panic and fatuous kingly ultimatums had swept the city.

  “I have killed the dragon,” Sylvalla repeated. “I have rescued the city.”

  Dumbfounded, the guards could only stare.

  They looked horribly familiar. “Bob? Fred? You know me. I am Princess Sylvalla. Let me through.”

  They picked up a certain bound volume. Again.

  Sylvalla sighed.

  “Hmmm,” Fred said. “Did we get any orders about princesses who are supposed to be eaten by dragons returning to the city?”

  “Nope,” Bob said. “I don’t remember none of that. She got enough money for the toll? It’s two ounces of silver for a noblewoman.”

  “Do I look like I’ve got two ounces of silver?” Sylvalla asked. She brightened. “I’ve got these gold pins in my hair.” There were a few left, anyway.

 

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