by A. J. Ponder
“Go ahead!” Sylvalla yelled back, knowing her defiance was as wasted as grains of sand in a desert.
“Tut, tut,” King Phetero observed, almost pleasantly. “If you do not open the door right now, I shall be most put out.”
Sylvalla bit her tongue so hard she was almost surprised it hadn’t severed. She’d learnt her lesson; sometimes the truth should be held back at all costs. Biting back the words hurt, so she allowed herself to whisper, too softly for anyone to hear, “You’re welcome, you vile toad. My blade remains hungry for blood: Let your men come and they will die by the dozen.”
“Alright, men, on the count of three,” Phetero yelled. “One...two...three.”
The door creaked.
“And again! One...two...three.” The door juddered, the sound hard on her ears—the impact even harder on the door.
They would soon be upon her, and for all her defiance, her sword would not help—it could only kill one at a time. Best to hide it. Sylvalla allowed it to shrink back to the size of needle, and threaded it through the folds of her nightdress. Treating it as little more than a pin was how she’d kept her tiny sword hidden, despite difficult questions like, where in Hades did you get that sword? And where is it now? The questions that had plagued her after she’d killed the dragon, Asumgeld.
“Keep it secret, keep it close.” That Goodfellow chap was such a showman, such a charlatan, but he had good tricks and even better instincts. Sylvalla sent her silent thanks out to the old man. Thanks to him, she could die fighting.
The door bulged and creaked.
Heart racing, Sylvalla shoved the pallet bed up against the door, and stood back. Chin up, she waited for the inevitable.
But it took so long.
Long enough for her to think about the advice. “Keep it secret…”
With nothing to do, but worry, Sylvalla winced as each thump echoed around the room. The curses of the men on the other side, muffled at first, grew louder and more abhorrent.
Finally, the door splintered, the hinges shattered, and half a dozen soldiers smashed through.
Spilling Royal Blood
Too rich for commoners
Hunting Stag is sport for Kings alone
NAME:Capro Goodfellow.
CLASS:Magician.
FAMILIAR:With many things, including dragons.
SPECIALTY: Living. Over 150 years of it, and still going strong.
RÉSUMÉ:Despite his apparent inability to cure himself of his propensity for adventure, Mr Goodfellow Senior is a highly respected member of Bairnsley University’s inner circle. His eccentric behaviour has raised questions with the disciplinary committee from time to time. Most often called into dispute is his entrepreneurial streak, his legendary lack of circumspection as regards certain aspects of the law, including tax, and his propensity to free slaves—with or without paying for them first.
Capro Goodfellow and his son, Jonathan, have recently returned to the university after a series of exploits, the details of which remain classified—despite the fact that even the most ignorant of students is aware of Capro Goodfellow’s role in the strange feats of the princess Sylvalla and the death of the dragon Asumgeld.
PASSED: While Mr Capro Goodfellow has passed no exams, as such, he does seem to have been involved in writing most of them.
§
Old tomes lined the walls of Capro Goodfellow’s study in carefully-catalogued order, overlooking the mess of books and papers strewn across Capro’s desk.
Capro Goodfellow squinted to better read the faded ink on an ancient hide-bound volume. The spidery writing warped and crawled under his gaze. He blinked. Was it the text, or his eyes? He shouldn’t sit here for so long, poring through ancient prophecies.
Again and again, he came back to one phrase in particular...
Go Forth Old Man
& Seek The Maid.
Lest Ye Arrive
And find the World Laid
To Waste,
To Ashes,
To the Fiery Breath of Hade.
Capro’s eyes closed, giving his careworn face a moment of peace. For once, he felt his full one hundred and fifty one years.
There’s only so long a wizard can work without resting, even one of Capro Goodfellow’s ability. But even as his thoughts turned to sleep, his head turned toward the window. The moonlit gardens outside were a not-so-subtle reminder that time waits on no man, or wizard. To refresh himself, he took a small sip of firewater and mumbled a second charm to keep himself awake–his tongue almost tripping on the words.
When Capro Goodfellow opened his eyes again, he pushed the firewater glass away.
I should be more careful with these texts. I should be more careful with magic—tiredness is no excuse for dangerous carelessness with magic[48].
Slightly refreshed, Capro re-read the short piece of text, but the words refused to lie still beneath his rapidly watering eyes. They wriggled, and slid about, shifting until the words of the prophecy formed an arrow. An arrow that moved.
Startled, Capro dropped the fusty tome back onto the table.
Capro turned the piece of paper.
The prophecy swung like a needle in a compass. And always toward the same direction—due north.
It was as if—but it couldn’t be.
Capro pulled out an old map, the brittle corners crackling as he carefully unfolded it and smoothed the paper.
“Forgive me,” Capro said as he ripped out the page the prophecy was written on. He threw the paper on top of the map over Bairnsley.
The arrow pointed directly toward Avondale.
But the arrow had not finished. It did not stay pointed on Avondale—it writhed and wrinkled and burst into flame, almost destroying the irreplaceable map.
The ashes said little.
“Forgive me,” Capro repeated, defeat and sorrow mixed in a single exhalation. Yet another problem. A destroyed page.
He had been right. But after all this, what proof did he have? Nothing but a singed map and a vandalised book.
His fellow mages would try and reprimand him, they’d say, “Your wish to see the outside world is clouding your mind.” Or, “Your efforts only draw these old prophecies about you, until you are blinded in their light, lured like a moth to flame.”
Were they right?
Was it need or desire that drove him find answers? Answers that set him on the trail of an adventure that threatened sanity itself.
Was this some kind of repressed wish? No. There were a hundred things he’d rather be doing. Maretta had seen this path, and now he must walk in its footsteps to the bitter end, or doom the world. Surely there was nothing in his heart that would wish such a fate on anybody, least of all himself?
He searched his books for further inspiration.
Should I go, or should I stay?
But prophecies are worse than talking to dragons. The words are ambiguous—until it’s all over and you’re being spit-roasted and consumed like toasted marshmallows.
His heart beating too quickly for sleep, Capro Goodfellow opened compendium after compendium of prophecies. They all fell open on the same Maretta prophecies. Dammit! Was there a connection between these prophecies and the one that had just combusted under his fingers? They had nothing in common—except for swords…and ashes…and maidens...
A memory slipped into his mind, dark and unbidden. His son, Jonathan, eyes still closed after his ordeal, saying— “The girl was really important...”
§
Sylvalla blinked the dust out of her eyes and stared at King Phetero.
By torchlight he held an indescribable menace. Wreathed in cavorting shadows, his deep-set eyes twitched under craggy eyebrows—the overlarge pupils sucking in his surroundings.
“Company, how delightful,” King Phibium Phetero simpered the dreadful inanity Sylvalla had first said to King Phetero in the Kyngs Arms—almost a year ago now. The phrase must have preyed upon the shreds of his mind.
If only Dirk were here, I
would not feel so repulsed by this man. Or so frightened.
King Phetero clapped his hands and turned to two of his guards. “Take her to the dungeons. She is the least of my problems. For now.”
Two enormous guards grabbed her, crushing her shoulders.
Phetero turned, as if to leave, his pudgy hands gripping the sides of his cloak. He stopped midstride, and twisted back with the aplomb of an actor. “Oh, and I forgot–”
But what he said was no trivial afterthought. “I’ve got Royal Family to kill.” The words hit Sylvalla like a kick to the stomach.
“My father’s not here,” Sylvalla muttered.
Phetero examined his perfect nails, before flashing a self-satisfied smile. “I expect that fat fool is already dead. It’s your little brother I’m talking about.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Sylvalla said calmly, finding the air from somewhere. “He’s not my brother.” Even as she spoke, her lie rang with unexpected truth. Her mother’s lack of a baby stomach. The convenient way the delicate matter with the blacksmith’s pregnant wife had disappeared, and barely days later, she’d quietly reappeared and taken on the position of wet nurse.
“He is not my brother,” Sylvalla repeated, wondering that until now the thought had never occurred to her.
“Pah, that hardly matters. The little brat is the official heir. I can’t have that. It would compromise the legitimacy of my rule.”
Phetero grinned wider, before sweeping away, cloak billowing dramatically in the torchlight.
She struggled against her captors, trying to escape—or to grab her sword—but she couldn’t. They crushed her clawed hands in their fists, and locked her arms behind her back.
What was wrong with Phetero? Was this sick attack some kind of retribution? Was it all her fault? Capro had always said, be careful what you wish for. Had she wished for something she shouldn’t? (Like not having to spend time with her brother until he could at least hold a sword.)
Nevertheless, Sylvalla couldn’t help but wish. Mostly she wished Phetero was dead as his retreating footsteps echoed on the stone flags of the not-nearly-secret-enough, secret corridor.
Feet scrabbling for purchase on the stone flags, Sylvalla felt as if she were being ripped apart by the guards as they each clutched an arm and hauled her away. The harder she struggled, the more she hurt. Crying out served no purpose, nor begging—her words merely bounced off the walls.
The air, musty and oppressive with every wrenching step, did not compare to the sound of the tormented souls in the dungeons. Dungeons that should have been empty.
The burning in Sylvalla’s arms and shoulders flared as she was pushed toward a dark cell. With her last reserves, she struggled to fight back and regain her sword.
A guard slammed a fist into her stomach and shoved her in. She fell, her head slamming onto the stone floor.
“Death take you,” she cursed, struggling to her feet. Disoriented, she tried to work out which hazy door was the mirage, and which real. The two fuzzy wooden doors coalesced as she flung herself at the steel-rimmed wood.
It clanged shut on her face.
The guards laughed, but not so loud as to disguise the sound of the key grating in the lock.
Sylvalla threw herself against the door again and the guards laughed harder. “Girl, when this is over, they’ll sing ballads about how you slayed the door with your bare hands.”
Not stupid enough to draw her sword in a locked cell, Sylvalla worked off her anger by throwing herself at the door until, bruised and battered, she had little choice but to succumb to defeat. Lying down in the barren cell, Sylvalla felt an unexpected sense of relief. Her cell might be tiny and unlit, it might have a less-than-attractive scattering of rodent droppings—but the slab-rock floor was a solid surface and, for the moment it was every bit as enticing as a feather bed.
When Sylvalla woke, she was alone—unless rats can be counted—and utterly beside herself. Her younger brother was to be murdered for the one reason he might be useful: his unquestionable succession. In her head she saw the boy, rolls of baby fat only partially hidden by a stupid gold-ruffled outfit. She even remembered her hollow jealousy as her father cooed over the kicking infant. “My prince and heir. Isn’t he a feisty lad? You’ll save the kingdom, won’t you, my prince?”
The pudgy little brat had only just learnt to crawl. He couldn’t be in the same room as a sword without cutting himself. He couldn’t save himself from a spanked bottom, let alone an axe. Sylvalla shuddered. What sort of deranged psychopath goes around killing babies?[49]
She clutched her miniature sword, almost willing it to grow, before reason took hold. Right now, she was as helpless as the young prince.
“He’s not my brother,” Sylvalla whispered.
But, in the end, what difference did it make?
§
King Rufus splashed his face in a cool mountain stream, and tried to wake up. He’d barely got out of bed and today was not going as planned. Where could Dirk and Francis possibly be? This whole hunting fiasco was for their benefit. After all, Rufus had been on plenty of hunting trips, even if he couldn’t remember actually hunting on any of them. Although some of his men often took a pot-shot or two as an afterthought on the way home. The charade of a hunt was more convincing if they brought home a kill or two.
Unfortunately, he had to stick this one out and hope Francis turned up by the end of the day. Alive or dead—either was fine by him.
“It will be fun,” Rufus said, in an effort to convince himself.
He got back on his horse and rode the short distance to the killing grounds, before dismounting and regretfully handing the beast over to a groom. A King is always more of a King on horseback, Rufus thought with a soft sigh. Still, he had to admit (if only to himself), that he was a terrible shot at the best of times. Riding a horse would make it worse.
Without a backward glance, he strode over to his carefully-chosen companions to make polite conversation. For them, this was an honour and, Rufus, ever the statesman, wanted to make sure they realised it.
“Just point the arrows in the right direction, Jonas,” Rufus said by way of not quite so friendly—faux-fatherly advice to one of the younger lads whose name he’d overheard.
“Oh my King, how very droll,” the boy replied, eyes shining, honoured to be mentioned in such elevated company.
The seconds stretched with anticipation as the rumble of beaters approached. The game would arrive soon—it would burst into the funnel the servants had created with a rough wood fence, and they would all shoot. In the unlikely event of an animal winning free of the killing zone, there was an opening to the right of the hunters. Through this narrow channel animals might run to freedom. It was an old tradition, as old and sacred as the tradition that only a king could shoot a buck crowned with seven antlers or more.
Rufus hoped one wouldn’t show—unless Francis turned up first and he could ever-so-magnanimously give the young prince the shot.
The beat of drums grew louder, accompanied by cries, cracking branches, hooves, and the tinkling of bells.
Rufus’ fellow hunters steadied themselves, pulled back their drawstrings, and loosed a barrage of arrows as rabbits and other small game broke cover. A fox appeared, and, although it was not a target, it too fell alongside its prey.
Shortly after, a deer crashed into view and tossed its heavily antlered head.
Rufus cursed this most royal of animals. His mood sank further as the crier inevitably called. “Hold! It has seven tips! Hold for the king.”
Rufus set his jaw, and loaded his arrow. Without Prince Francis there, he alone would shoot. Nobody else would dare, lest they wished to pay with their own life for the crime of killing a Royal buck—and then answer for their hubris to the God of Death himself.
Rufus missed.
“The gods be cursed,” Rufus muttered under his breath. “The boy could have done this for me.” And Jonas was, at best, a moderate shot. Rufus didn’t care to consider w
hat that made him. Instead, he gritted his teeth and released two more arrows in, what was for him, quick succession. The second grazed the creature’s flank as it wheeled and made for the obvious gap.
Rufus shrugged magnanimously and did not shoot again. “I have spilt Royal blood, and that is honour enough.” He grabbed his wineskin, raised it to the gathered crowd, and did not need to fake the grin—happy enough to see the creature make good on its bid for freedom, especially when he heard Jonas, eyes wide with wonder, say, “It is a sign, an omen of things to come.”
The boy’s father replied, “Those antlers were...magnificent.”
Good omen or bad, the stag was gone. The party raised their bows, and once again, the arrows flew thick and fast.
As the carcasses piled up, Rufus grinned and thumped young Jonas on the back. The day had gone well. He might even forgive Francis for disappearing. Over a mug of beer and a suckling pig, he’d have every reason to be avuncular and forgiving.
Rufus raised his hands to declare the hunt over and felt a thud on his back, like an overfriendly thump from a heavy-handed friend.
Pain shot through him.
He turned to see who had been so rude, hands fumbling at his blood-soaked chest. An arrowhead poked from his ribcage.
Rufus opened his mouth to scream—and a second arrow thudded through his throat.
§
Limbs thrashing, Rufus fell—he toppled in wide-eyed wonder, his bloodied hand hitting Jonas.
Jonas stared for agonised moments, eyes bulging in fear. “By the gods. The King! The King!” he shouted as Rufus’ eyes glazed over.
Hand over his mouth in horror, Jonas whispered. “The King is dead!”
The hunters looked about in shock. Nobody could raise the hand of the successor and trumpet, “Long live the King!” The rightful heir was a babe in arms, and the other obvious choice—Francis—had disappeared.
The killer, or killers, had also disappeared.
Men began passing blame like a hot potato, their voices getting louder and louder, until, over the chaos, a clear voice rang out. The new Commander of Arms, his beard salted with age, and his cloak heavily seasoned with medallions, commanded attention. “The killer. Find him. Find the man who killed our king!”
