The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  The pity of it was, that although the girl fell well below expectations for a princess, or indeed almost any girl, she didn’t seem to care.

  Maybe she relished her notoriety? Too often, the dress Sylvalla was expected to wear for an occasion would be found cut to ribbons. The princess would be standing over the tatters, grinning. “Oh dear, my hand must have slipped. I am so terribly clumsy.”

  A shout echoed down the hall, but Mahrawyn was remembering dinner, recalling how the princess’ knife had danced whenever the Queen’s eyes were diverted. And this very day she’d gone so far as to invite Mahrawyn to fight with a sword!

  It was not right. Sylvalla might be a princess, and Mahrawyn might be nothing more than a foreign dignitary, but this chance should have been looked into more thoroughly, before her parents allowed their daughter to be subjected to…to…such a frightening monster.

  From the way she caressed the wrong types of metal, to the careful way she watched everyone around her, Sylvalla was dangerous. A man could not be any more dangerous. Or crude of tongue. Well, maybe Dirk—the pair were like caged tigers. They would jump at the chance to bite the hands that fed them.

  Not for the first time Mahrawyn resolved—I must get out of here before my reputation is stained forever.

  Mahrawyn opened her door slowly, looking about to make certain the young princess wasn’t hiding somewhere. Too often Sylvalla would jump out, laugh at her stifled surprise, and ask if she was ready to defend herself.

  Satisfied there was no princess, Mahrawyn breathed deeply, straining her beribboned corset as she shut her door on her tiresome day. She wanted nothing more than to go home. Perhaps repeating the words of those guards would help convince her parents; although they’d be shocked Mahrawyn had consorted with such lowly types at all. Perhaps a more polite version might do the trick.

  Mahrawyn looked heavenward, ignoring the clank of metal and, thinking how noisy the castle was tonight, she worked hard to phrase the words just right—without all the profanity. Surely her parents would see reason? The girl had a nasty fate waiting for her—and woe betide the fool who stood in its path.

  The knock on her door was not entirely unexpected. There was a young man of a worthy family who seemed to have definite intentions, and who was comely enough. Mahrawyn was prepared to accept his tokens, if not his love. Not yet, at any rate. She was nothing, if not proper.

  “Mattiew,” her voice lilted. She managed a smile as the moon peeked through the glass, its nimbus silvery-soft and hazy as down. It was the same full moon to which her many admirers often compared her, quoting beloved favourites like: “Thou art more lovely than the day,” and “The moon in all her lustrous beauty could not shine so beguilingly as the smallest smile from you.” There was no doubt in Mahrawyn’s mind, Sylvalla was the day they were talking about, and no man wanted his woman so sharp…

  She opened the door...

  It was not Mattiew, but a knight in armour.

  Given Mahrawyn’s earlier thoughts, the attack should not have been so unexpected. But despite Sylvalla’s attempts to train her—and for all that she was compared to the night, Mahrawyn was no creature of stealth, or intrigue, or darkness.

  She stared, wide-eyed, as the blade slashed her throat. Overcome, not with remorse, but with the bitter understanding that she really had been standing in the path of Sylvalla’s fate.

  Mahrawyn’s eyes closed forever.

  But this night of death was not over. The deaths had barely begun. And although I mention them not, there were many other tragedies and murders, no less cruel and pointless than this one.

  Too Late

  Death has no remedy

  Sylvalla had gone to bed early, but could not sleep.

  When she’d been younger and she’d begged her father to go hunting, he’d informed her: “You’re not a man. You cannot do the things men do.” This time he’d snapped, “Men only—and that does not include you.”

  She dragged her sheet up to her chin and tried to forget the idiot who’d sniggered, or that the king had done nothing about it, except pretend he’d not noticed the insult.

  She thumped her pillow.

  Half the castle was out on this hunting trip designed to intimidate Francis, the stable boy who’d pulled a sword from a stone and been declared prince. And her husband-to-be. It was a farce.

  But whatever anyone thought of him, Francis could look after himself with that bow of his. And maybe even hold his own with that fancy sword Capro had made him. And if he couldn’t, Dirk could. There wasn’t a person in Avondale who could intimidate Dirk.

  Sylvalla tossed and turned, angry one moment, worried the next.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  It was too dark to be morning. The hall outside her room should have been empty.

  Sylvalla sat up, clutching her nightgown. Her breath caught. Her imagination had armoured men stalking the corridors with death in their wake.

  Perhaps paranoia is catching.

  Dirk had voiced worries about leaving her alone, recounting a multitude of murderous scenarios—in detail. He’d finally relented when she’d pointed out that if someone should bear Francis a grudge, there’d be swords and arrows on all sides–whereas in the castle she had strong walls, with eyes, arrows and murder holes protecting her.

  Now, she didn’t feel quite so safe.

  Skin prickling, she pushed back the bedclothes.

  A chill wind crept through her room, tempting her to snuggle back under the covers and think of other things.

  She heard a clink. Could that be padded armour? Or was it just her imagination?

  Sylvalla’s hand reached for Dragonslayer—the sword Capro Goodfellow had magically shrunk to the size of a pin, and hidden as an ornament on a gold chain. Where had it gone?

  She couldn’t see it. She could hardly see anything. The shafts of moonlight creeping through expensive slivers of window-glass did not fall on the bedside table. Dragonslayer should be on her dresser, hidden amongst the stuff required by a princess. Mr Goodfellow’s voice echoed in her ears, “Keep it secret, keep it close.”

  Something crashed against her door.

  Sylvalla jumped, putting her hand right on top of the sharp steel. “Ow!”

  Noise erupted all around: screaming; wood splintering; and worse.

  Sylvalla’s curses were hardly silent; they didn’t need to be. Not now. She grabbed Dragonslayer, struggling to hang its golden chain around her neck and stumble out of bed.

  Again, something crashed against her door—the thunk of steel biting into wood. The solid oak creaked in protest as a heavy blade was pulled free. Another blow thundered against the door. Splinters flew across the room. The metal glint of an axe reflected moonlight.

  “By the Hounds!” Sylvalla ducked as more splinters flew. She had no illusions about her prowess with a sword. She was good, yes, but fighting an army alone wasn’t a winning option.

  Heart thumping, she glanced at the tiny castle window. It promised fresh air and escape, as well as a nasty, and likely-fatal, fall to the flagstones below. A risk worth taking if she could be sure the courtyard wasn’t already occupied by enemy soldiers.

  No.

  There would be no escape outside. Her only option was the secret door inside her wardrobe.

  She rushed toward the wardrobe, and opened its slatted door.

  Behind her, the shriek of twisting metal heralded the destruction of the oak door’s hinges.

  It’s a terrible shame, Sylvalla thought, in a moment of stupid clarity. That door had always made Dirk happy. He’d always said, “That’s a solid door with decent hinges, it’ll take a good few seconds to smash through.” Sylvalla had been horrified at the time, but his estimate had been correct.

  A loud grunt from outside. An ear-splitting crash. The door toppled to the ground.

  Slamming her wardrobe closed, Sylvalla fumbled for the secret door within. Stay calm, she ordered her trembling fingers.

  The he
avy tramp of boots neared.

  Behind her a man shouted, “In here.”

  His mailed fist smashed through the wooden slats of the wardrobe door as she found the latch. She scrambled through the secret door into absolute darkness.

  Hand to the wall, she fled.

  Compromises

  When the sun sets in the North, look to the East

  Avondale Castle in his sight, Dirk stopped running and waited for Francis’ horse to catch up. Why people insisted on riding horses when running was faster, Dirk would never know.

  Up in the battlements, guards in Avondale’s blue-and-gold were stationed in the usual places. Flags were flying, and the men manning the ramparts stared out with commendable vigilance.

  The pound of hoof beats slowed as Francis reined in his horse. “Dirk, see! Nothing’s wrong. This has been a wild goose chase. We should hurry back, before anyone discovers we’re gone.”

  “Shhh,” Dirk hissed.

  Francis was right. It looked fine. There was no sign of a battle. But Dirk trusted his instincts, and they’d been screaming at him for the entire journey. Now, they screamed louder than ever. Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “Those guards are too keen.”

  Francis sighed to show how obstinate he thought Dirk was being. “Too keen? Nonsense, who could’ve gotten in so easily?”

  “I could,” Dirk said, but as this didn’t seem to bother Francis, he added, “or a wizard, a hero, an assassin, a trickster...”

  Francis held his arms up in mock surrender. “Alright, I get the picture. Why don’t we sneak in through the secret entrance? That way nobody will know we’re here.”

  Fool, Dirk thought. If you know about a secret entrance, how secret can it be? But he didn’t say it. He settled for a contemptuous snort and surveyed the stone walls. “Um, you got some rope?” he asked. He should have come better prepared—sometimes, against the odds, a sword and a loincloth weren’t everything you needed.

  “No,” Francis replied bluntly. “How about, you do Sylvalla and yourself a favour, and run back now. We might avoid another scandal. It’s not like your paranoia has done you any favours lately.”

  Francis was right. It was fortunate that everyone thought Dirk was crazy—otherwise his over-protectiveness of the princess would have crossed the line. But Dirk couldn’t change his instincts—a healthy dose of paranoia had always served him well in the past. Well, almost always. “How about we go back to town and get that rope? Can’t be too careful.”

  Francis sighed again. “Where are we going to get a rope at this time of night?”

  “I’ll show you,” Dirk said. He set off into the middle of Avondale city, whistling tunelessly.

  Francis had little choice but to follow, grimly counting the people who suddenly changed direction for no reason—unless you took into account Dirk’s whistling.

  Dirk stopped and knocked on a solid-oak door.

  The peephole flipped open and an eye peered out.

  The door opened. A lady smiled toothlessly and welcomed them inside, hurriedly closing the door after them. She looked about, hands nervously smoothing her grimy pinny. “Welcome good-folk. What can Ai help you with today, Dirk?”

  “What news of the castle, good lady?” Dirk asked.

  “There’s nought been a word since the hunting party left.” She bustled back to the counter. “Ai sure don’t know what them posh people do. You know that King just came to visit. In the middle of the night, and all.”

  Dirk raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, so I’m wrong,” Francis muttered.

  To his credit Dirk didn’t gloat. It wasn’t in his nature. On the contrary, now the imminent danger had been all-but confirmed, he patted Francis on the back. “You’re alright, boy. Why don’t you just grab that rope off the wall, and I’ll pay. Go on.”

  Francis reached over the bins of grain while Dirk pressed a silver coin into the lady’s hand.

  “I’ll have that rope and maybe a bottle or two of your famous brew.” Dirk winked. “You know, the strong stuff.” He smiled his best smile and produced another silver coin. Then, trying to keep his tone casual, he asked, “Ah, which King came to visit?”

  The lady bit down on each coin before answering. “Ai’m not so sure as Ai know anythink about Kings ’n’ such, young sirs, but Ai’ll go ’n’ ask.”

  She scuttled behind the counter, and yelled to her husband. After a bit of yelling back and forth, her husband came out wielding two green bottles.

  “Yeah.” The unshaven man smiled ingratiatingly at Dirk, his breath a weapon’s grade combination of chewing tobacco, alcohol and rot. “They arrived in the middle of the night, so there was no real fanfare, just went in, and haven’t come out. If I knew heraldry, I’d know. But as my wife says, it’s not our business what them that live up at the castle get up to.” He arched an eyebrow, then winked. “Not that we haven’t heard the rumours.”

  Dirk grabbed the man by his collar. “Are you implying something?” he growled.

  The lady screamed.

  Francis tugged at Dirk’s sleeve. “Not now, Dirk. He’s just a fool who doesn’t know any better.”

  “Please.” The man batted at Dirk’s hands. “T’was but—”

  “I would like it better—”

  “If he minded his own business, and not ours?” Francis asked archly. “That’ll be no comfort to his wife, here.”

  Dirk grunted and let him go, whereupon the man dove behind the counter, and pulled out a rusted blade as big as he was.

  Dirk drew his sword. The whisper of steel cutting air[47] filled the room.

  “No!” the woman screamed. “Here, take the wine. It’s on the house. Ee didn’t mean nothing, the drunk old fool.”

  Francis put his hand on Dirk’s sword-arm. “We’re not looking for a fight—there’ll be enough killing before this night is over.”

  Dirk didn’t argue—Francis was right—there was no time to waste. He resheathed his sword, grabbed both bottles and headed out.

  Francis hesitated in the doorway. “The colours? The emblem? Was it a golden bird on a field of blood?”

  “Young sir, you did know,” the man said. “Tha’s it, exactly. Though I can’t say as I’ve seen that kinda bird before.”

  Francis could, he’d seen it plenty in his old life as a stable boy in Scotch Mist. Dirk had seen it too. It was on the pennants of the king he and Sylvalla had accidentally kidnapped. Without hesitation, Francis flipped a silver coin to the man and closed the door behind them.

  As Dirk ran with Francis’ horse galloping behind him, Francis muttered, “Paranoia one: Sane people nil.”

  Crazy. Did Dirk really think they could retake Avondale castle with two bottles of wine, and some rope?

  Bloody Company

  When words come to haunt you

  Bite your tongue

  Sylvalla hadn’t travelled far in the darkness of the secret corridor when she heard a counterpoint to her own footsteps—and stopped.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  Pit-a-thud, pit-a-thud… Sylvalla stood as still as a statue struck by the fear of medusa. Blood thick in her ears, heart hammering louder than the approaching footsteps, she pulled Dragonslayer from her necklace, held the tiny sword in front of her, and drew on its power. The miraculous sword grew as long as her arm.

  Three enemy soldiers, blinded by their own torches, and deafened by each other’s footsteps attacked Sylvalla—

  Pit-a-thud, pit-a-thud… Scleurgg.

  That first victim hadn’t stood a chance. As Dragonslayer skewered him, his torch toppled end over end and clattered to the stone floor.

  Sylvalla held fast her sword. It slid free of the falling soldier, a gurgling shadow slumped against the wall, scrabbling to keep his guts in.

  The second soldier lunged again.

  Sylvalla parried. Her sword grating against his, she used the strongest part of her sword to push her enemy’s wickedly sharp blade over her shoulder—and stepped forward to th
rust her blade into his neck.

  This soldier fell back, slow as a feather, dropping his weapon. He, too, struck the wall on his way down, a soft sigh escaping through the hole in his throat.

  The last soldier took a step forward, as if to attack, before turning tail and hurtling back down the corridor, yelling for re-enforcements.

  Sylvalla’s stomach clenched, the smell of blood heavy. Fighting monsters was one thing—people lying dead at her feet were another. No time for that now. She blinked as the soldier’s torch guttered on the stone floor. Resisting the temptation to snatch it up, she turned away. With the enemy all around, she couldn’t afford the tell-tale light.

  Her arm still numb with shock, Sylvalla forced herself to move, one hand clutching Dragonslayer, the other groping the wall. If she could get to her secret room, she could hide there.

  Voices echoed, low and urgent. They were close. That soldier had been quick to get reinforcements.

  Not quick enough to catch me.

  Sylvalla turned the last corner and reached for the fake wall-sconce. A tug released a spring and the concealed door opened. Breathless, she closed and bolted it from the inside. She was still marshalling her thoughts when she heard thumping and scraping outside.

  Sylvalla tried to ignore it. They couldn’t know where this room was, could they?

  A brash voice echoed outside her bolt-hole.

  “Ah! Company! How de-lightful.”

  The voice was horribly familiar. So were the words.

  But Sylvalla didn’t move. It must be a bluff. How could King Phetero have known to come here, to an unmarked, perfectly camouflaged door?

  “Open the door. Or my men will bash it down.”

  Was that thumping and scraping them trying to open the latch?

  Yes. The spring was moving. It was only the bolt—Dirk’s bolt keeping them out. Thanks to Dirk’s paranoia, she had precious seconds, nothing more.

  “You don’t want us to open this door the hard way.”