The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Yes, I’m sure he did,” Dirk said. “Didn’t actually say he had though, did he?”

  Sylvalla shook her head minutely.

  “There’s always hope,” Dirk said, throwing his arm around Sylvalla, before quickly drawing it away.

  “Dirk? Sylvalla?” Francis said obliviously, looking about at the people in cages. “Don’t you think we should release the other prisoners?”

  Travesty

  Defeat is never good for morale

  A pale-faced man with a broken nose was amongst the soldiers trudging home. Zed, the torturer. He clutched his briefcase, and discreetly watched Phetero.

  Yelling one moment and speechless the next, Phetero did little to rally the tattered remnants of his army, or quell the rising gossip. Some even dared whisper the dying queen’s curse.

  Something had to be done. If Phetero’s army melted away into the night, so would the pale-faced man’s ambitions.

  It was time to tell a story.

  Zed cleared his throat and told the tale as it needed to be told, full of bravery and adventure and derring-do. A tale where the mighty Scotch Mist warriors had taught Avondale a lesson, and killed the evil witch, Queen Tishke. The audience booed appreciatively at the point where the queen promised, travesty in triumph, and death in dishonour. They applauded the overstated bravery of the men who were there, and sighed wisely at the implication that their defeat was due to prophecy—and nothing to do with the Avondale rabble who’d forced them from the castle.

  “Er,” a young soldier interjected, “shouldn’t we have stayed and fought—?”

  Liar! Traitor! The young soldier was kicked and spat upon.

  Zed had expected exactly this from the superstitious soldiers. They’d rather believe the gods themselves had responded to the witch-queen’s prayers, and summoned warriors and beasts from Hades itself, than that they’d been defeated by Avondale citizens with little more than knives on sticks. And so the pale-faced man continued his story of how the brave Scotch Mist soldiers’ heroic efforts were not in vain, but were a victory against the Avondale witch queen, now mortally injured. Anything less, and they would have to confront their failure.

  He retold the story at every opportunity. Everyone needed to hear it, Scotch Mist was not going to fall, it was going to be powerful—and with a king this weak, Zed was sure he could wield the power.

  He dabbed his smashed nose with a bloody handkerchief and walked up to the command tent. Phetero’s guards searched the torturer perfunctorily for weapons. The idiots were only looking for swords. It showed a distinct lack of respect for his talents. The thought crossed his mind that, after the fiasco with Tishke, it might take a while to get his reputation back.

  All in good time.

  King Phetero sat on his hands, apparently more interested in the golden eagles stitched on the crimson drapes than on anyone’s suggestions on improving morale or preventing deserters.[62]

  “Are you listening, my lord?” The general asked, not nearly politely enough.

  Phetero flung out his hand. “No. Are you saying anything worth listening to?”

  “My King, I have tried to—”

  “Tried? And failed! Avondale is lost. And someone should pay the price. I have plans, a vision for Scotch Mist to become the greatest kingdom of all—but how can I become ruler of the known world, if my soldiers are not bold enough to take the victories I offer?”

  Zed made his presence known with a delicate cough. “Sir, if you will pardon me, I believe you’ve outlined the problem perfectly.” The fool had barely touched on it. “Even so, I’m sure morale will improve once we arrive home to a spontaneous parade to celebrate your glory—and superlative success.”

  Phetero looked at the little man. The royal torturer was almost unrecognizable behind the bloodied nose, his complexion paler than ever. He might not have recognised Zed if not for his briefcase. As it was, he grinned and clapped Zed on the back. “Torturer, you are alright—no matter that you dress like a crow and preen like a peacock.”

  Zed looked left and right nervously as Phetero took a deliberate breath.

  The silence in the room was extreme, as everyone turned to see what would happen.

  Zed ploughed on. “Of course, claiming victory isn’t enough, we must celebrate it. Some words. Some dancing in the street when we return. I’m just surprised none of your advisors had the wit to think of it earlier.”

  Phetero’s commander coughed. “How very perspicacious of our torturer. So tell me, what do we sell as our success, besides Rufus’ death?”

  “And Tishke’s.” The torturer piped up.

  “Yes, Tishke’s death,” Phetero said. “She is dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, yes.” Zed smiled. “If the awful woman is not dead now, she soon will be.” With a bit of luck. He smiled up at the commander. Shared hate reflected infinitely as their eyes met like mirrored daggers. “Of course, I do realise it’s not all good news, and that’s why we must continue with your bold plan to sell this ... skirmish as a foray, merely a preamble to a full frontal assault. You do want to attack again? Don’t you, my lord?”

  “Just wonderful, torturer,” the commander he’d insulted drawled. “And how surprised do you think Avondale will be after my men have spent a week or two pulling siege towers along this pot-ridden goat-track of a road? Do you think they’ll hang around waiting like ripe cherries to be plucked? No, they’ll attack us while we’re strung out like wayward piglets.

  “Maybe they will at that.” A crotchety old voice interjected from the shadows. “But the princess Sylvalla is young and vulnerable, her popularity questionable, and her only surviving family, the heir apparent, an infant in arms. With the succession in doubt, she’ll quickly find she has more enemies than she can count. My informants will see to that.”

  “And what of the rumours that she’s in league with wizards?” a flunky asked. “If we give her time to prepare, she will call on them.”

  The torturer opened his mouth before he could think, “My lord, why should you not seek a magic user of your own?”

  To Phetero it was a revelation, and even as he leapt on the idea he realised the difficulty. Real wizards kept to themselves, they were pig-headed, and generally didn’t care for money[63].

  The voice from the shadows spoke once again. “My King, my informants have told me of a wizard that may be suitable for our needs. They say he’s ruthless and hungry for power and that he’s taken ownership of a tavern in Scotch Mist.

  “And you didn’t think to inform me?” Phetero bellowed.

  “My King, I would have looked into it further, but we have been ... preoccupied of late. I promise to talk to this wizard at the very first available moment. But you must understand, sometimes these accounts are nothing more than fanciful imagination, like that tale of a wizard sinking a ship and turning its crew into flies.”

  “And this tavern-owning wizard is real?”

  “We shall see,” the spymaster croaked. “But I have reason to believe he’s the real thing.”

  “Good. Good.” Phetero rubbed his hands together. “It will not be long before Avondale falls. Come spymaster, drink with me and tell me more. Maybe if we’re lucky the torturer will be able to obtain a little entertainment for us? I think maybe the commander of my army needs to pay for his incompetence with a little loss of his own, don’t you?

  “Indeed, my lord.” The torturer grinned, but his smile faded when he turned to discover his intended victim had already disappeared into the night.

  Death is Only the Beginning

  You take the high road

  Stomach growling, Sylvalla helped Dirk and Francis rescue the prisoners—by securing royal blood oaths from each of them and insisting they stayed silent about her captivity. Once all the doors were unlocked and everyone was rescued, they raced off to see Sylvalla’s mother, only to be shooed away by a gaggle of ladies in waiting. “No visitors today. The medic insists.”

  “Is she…?”


  “The medic says she’s very lucky, and doing well. But she needs to rest.”

  Then, ignoring the disapproving glances that Sylvalla’s general state of wretchedness engendered, they raced to the kitchens—and were stopped in their tracks by loud clattering and wailing.

  Dirk drew his sword.

  Francis opened the kitchen door—

  “It’s dead. Jus’ throw it away, it’ll never be the same again!” Cook sobbed, blowing her nose stertorously as the pot boy sorted through kitchen knives. “My best blades, ruined.”

  Given kitchen knives were designed for things that didn’t wear armour, or fight back, Sylvalla wasn’t surprised. But it didn’t seem sensible to say anything, or even do anything to aggravate Cook, so she tiptoed out of the kitchen, stomach growling harder than ever.

  There was no food in the dining room either—unless you counted the stuff trodden into the floor. The room looked as if a bear had rampaged through it—broken chairs still littered the floor, ornaments were shattered and hangings lay rucked across the floor. In the midst of it all, a gaggle of maids were gathered around a large reddish-brown patch in the middle of an expensive blue-and-gold ornamental carpet.

  “Salt will do it,” murmured one.

  Sylvalla took a step back.

  “You mean soap?” A harsh voice scoffed. “Dreadful stuff, waste of good tallow. What you need is some good old lather-root with a sprig of lavender to cut the smell.”

  “Unhygienic, is what these rugs are. In the old days we’d put rushes on the floor. When they got dirty you just threw...”

  Sylvalla took another step backward.

  “Sylvalla?”

  Sylvalla jumped.

  It was only Dirk. He frowned. “Sylvalla, the Queen is injured, your father is away. You need to make plans.”

  “Fine,” Sylvalla said. “My plan is to eat something.”

  “Dirk is right,” Francis said, handing Sylvalla a small pie. “Until your father gets back you have a duty...”

  “Duty?” Dirk said, while Sylvalla licked her fingers. “I was hoping we had a duty to escape and kill the Scotch Mist scum.”

  “Duty. Francis. Yes. You’re right.” Sylvalla made her way through the castle and climbed up the stairs to the battlements. At least the air was fresh out here. But there was no peace. As soon as she stepped outside, the guards saluted their queen with excess precision and returned to their duty of intently scanning the distance and marching about.

  Sylvalla was not impressed. No amount of tramping back and forth, or precise saluting would make up for Scotch Mist’s invasion.

  “My lady.” Francis pointed across the battlements to two dust-columns. One was Phetero’s army retreating. The other might be her father’s hunting party returning. “We cannot let Phetero get away with this. We should make plans.”

  “Yes, I think it would be best if we could organise a counterattack before Phetero can regroup. Perhaps just you, Dirk and myself.”

  “You jest, my lady,” Dirk broke into their conversation.

  A guard flicked his attention away from the motte and toward Sylvalla and Dirk’s conversation. No point reprimanding him, more were probably listening. Instead it would be best to give them something to listen to. “Why, of course.” Sylvalla smiled brightly. However angry she was, she had to keep up the guards’ morale. Raising her voice, she said, “Carry on, soldiers. Avondale will need your vigilance if we are to sleep safe tonight.” Then Sylvalla turned her back on all of them. She needed a place where they could talk openly.

  There was one place where there wouldn’t be a soul. The nursery.

  It was empty of everything except debris, a quiet testimonial to the efforts of Phetero and his men. The perfect place for this discussion.

  Sylvalla sat down by the fireplace, still seething. “Dirk, never ask me if I jest—there is nothing more insulting.”

  “What else could I do? We can’t have Francis tagging along, he’ll—”

  “What?” Francis interrupted. “Don’t think you can leave me behind.”

  “Princess Sylvalla, Prince Francis,” Dirk said, using their titles as weapons. “This is a job for which I alone am suited. Let me have my head and Phetero will be no more.”

  “Dirk, you’re talking about an assassination. If I was to resort to such a tactic, every kingdom would raise arms against me.”

  “An accident, my lady. Nothing more. But, either way, Francis is completely unsuited to the task.”

  “How dare you!” Francis snapped.

  Sylvalla sighed. “That is enough. We will all go—before Father returns.”

  “Surely, a little sleep wouldn’t hurt?” Francis asked.

  “No.” Sylvalla rose to her feet. “What if the second column of dust is my father’s hunting party? If we wait—”

  Dirk stroked the handle of his sword thoughtfully. “We travel light. Sylvalla, grab your things. Francis, you must have some of those arrows of yours stashed somewhere. We shall meet at the stables. And, Sylvalla, whatever you do, try not to get yourself assassinated. I won’t be there to watch your back.”

  Sylvalla snorted. “Just make sure you’re outside the stables and ready to go. I will be.” She swept out, her frown competing with her sense of excitement, but only for a moment. She felt almost free as she rushed back to her rooms. Heart pounding, Sylvalla rushed to the wardrobe and battered dozens of revoltingly frilly dresses aside until she found the loose panel. Inside was a duffle bag with real clothes, a sword belt, boots, and a heavy waterproof cloak.

  Nothing in the world would stop her from making her escape, not even Cook.

  The trumpets blared again, closer. They still sounded like wild animals being tortured—but these were more melancholic wild animals than usual. Something was wrong.

  “Morpholags!” Sylvalla swore.

  Why had the hunting party returned so quickly? Father only ever rode at a sedate walk, with plenty of stops and starts. Had he heard about the invasion?

  He’ll be in a state… He’ll blame me… He’ll make things difficult… I have to run… But what is all that racket for?

  Sylvalla had to know. Back up the stairs she ran, two steps at a time to get a better view from the battlements.

  At the head of the procession was a blue-canopied divan heralded by trumpeters and surrounded by...mourners? The nobility’s upper arms flashed blue, as if with hastily torn armbands.

  An important man lay dead.

  Sylvalla searched the crowd for her father. He was usually big enough, bright enough, to be easily spotted.

  He must be there, somewhere. A runner would have been sent if the King was dead—

  A runner might have been intercepted.

  Sylvalla tore back down the steps; her muscles protesting the steep downward climb after the all-too-rapid ascent, and raced to the king’s audience chamber.

  There, not so long ago—at least not so long ago that she’d forgotten, the people of Avondale had bayed for blood. Her blood. Demanding that she be sacrificed to a dragon. The memory of her fury visited her with surprising strength, even after all this time.

  Her thoughts were a blur. Too fast.

  Everything was happening too fast.

  Father’s not there.

  He was not riding in his position near the lead of the party—there was only a blue-canopied stretcher being carried by half a dozen men.

  No! Sylvalla’s skin prickled. Her stomach lurched. Who were they carrying? It can’t be Father. It must be someone else. Or maybe he’s just injured?

  If Father was dead or injured, Sylvalla couldn’t leave on some goose-chase. She had a responsibility to her kingdom.

  If her father was dead and she could not gain the throne, the result would be a civil war. Her mother had told her so often enough. Sylvalla might be the age of majority, but women far older than her had been considered too weak and young to gain a throne. And her mother was too sick for visitors…

  “He can’t really be dea
d,” Sylvalla said, her voice low and uneven as her mind shrank before the possibility, but Francis had already returned, so who else could it be? The blue canopy from the divan was royal Avondale blue. It looked like it had been scavenged from her father’s own tent.

  I don’t want the responsibility. I want to avenge myself of Phetero. Let it be the body of some doddering old adviser, dead in his sleep.

  Taking deep breaths, she entered through the king’s door, and stood by the throne.

  The pallbearers walked straight up to the wood and brassbound doors of the royal audience chamber and knocked slowly with a mace on the brass sun in splendour, denting the intricate work.

  Crisp, and professional, soldiers opened the double doors wide, ceremonial weapons thrust forward, gloved hands already returning to a military salute.

  Sylvalla stared as they walked in.

  The stretcher made its way into the chamber, the bearers moving one hesitant step at a time until they reached the podium and laid it down. A guard, his face mournfully impassive, whipped away the canopy to reveal King Phetero’s corpse to Sylvalla and the growing crowd.

  The body released a humid stench that clutched at the stomachs of everyone nearby—although they tried not to show it.

  “The King is dead.”

  Sylvalla barely heard the words. The guard’s voice was reminiscent of gravel underfoot, as she stared at her father’s body. He’d been murdered.

  “Who did this?”

  A grey-bearded commander stepped forward. “We are making enquiries.”

  Meaning you do not know. And will never know, Sylvalla thought. She wanted to yell and scream and rail at them all for their incompetence. But that would not win her the kingdom. Royalty should never show emotion.

  Two people swaggered through the entrance, cutting through the crowd like scissors. One wore his wizard’s robes to good effect, while the other sported the comfortable brown leathers of a trader. It took a moment for Sylvalla to recognise them. “Jonathan! Mr Goodfellow Senior!” she said, running to throw her arms around them. “Jonathan, your hair’s grown. It’s almost wizardy.”