The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Amarinda didn’t take the hint. Neither did Dirk.

  As soon as the soldiers were out of earshot, Amarinda turned on Sylvalla. “You’re going to die, and what am I s’posed to do, then? Escape with my family to one of the other kingdoms? Hide in the forest? What have you done?”

  “Don’t worry,” Sylvalla said. “I won’t lose.” It was little white lie. The future was always unpredictable.

  “Fool,” Dirk snapped. “Anybody can lose in the heat of battle, and Phetero has both weight and reach on you. Besides, not so long ago your sword arm got an arrow through it.”

  “I know,” Sylvalla said.

  “Then why be so reckless? You’re tempting fate, what if he taints his blade?”

  “Good point, Dirk. I’ll make sure it’s blessed with oils.”

  “That may not be enough. Not all poisons are so easily washed away.”

  Sylvalla shook her head. It was too late for worry. Instead she did the best thing a warrior can do before a battle. She slept.

  §

  Day broke. Sylvalla rushed out to watch the cracking of the dawn. The view crystal clear as the sun crept up over hills—the world fragile and beautiful in the morning light.

  Dirk and Amarinda followed, saying nothing. An accusation in itself.

  Sylvalla drew her blade. She passed it through Phetero’s imaginary body many, many, times until, satisfied, she made her way to the newly erected defensive screens. The finishing touches of the arena were being set up.

  Dirk fussed over her, making sure she had food and water while the last of the crushed rock was raked over the small duelling square set in the no-man’s land between the Scotch Mist walls and the Avondale encampment. As soon as it was finished, the Avondale soldiers began to throw taunts out over the wall.

  An unshaven lout leered over the battlements and called out to Sylvalla, “Your desire must be great to see a real man, but there’s no need to fuss. Phetero wishes to satisfy all his ladies this morning.”

  Amarinda turned bright red.

  “What with?” One of her men yelled, amidst general laughter.

  Sure enough, a Scotch Mist soldier popped his head up over the wall, brandishing his sword. “If the lady will wait but a moment, our king will certainly show her some steel she will never forget.”

  “Best just ignore them,” Sylvalla whispered, taking her own advice and focussing on the sunlight glimmering on Dragonslayer, and the moves she thought would best stand up against Phetero’s weight and strength.

  As the morning wore on the smiles and jests on Phetero’s side of the wall faded. The duel would be forfeit by midday–along with all honour. Then, just as the sun was at its zenith, a small retinue emerged from the city, their white flag fluttering dispiritedly in the rich midday sun.

  The man holding the flag cleared his throat. “Ahem. The illustrious King Phetero has been called away on urgent business and so cannot attend the festivities this morning. He calls instead upon his champion...”

  Air surged into lungs in anticipation.

  The small entourage parted to reveal a billy goat. “Maaaa.”

  Sylvalla’s anger was disproportionate to the inoffensive sound. After all maaaa is somewhat expected of Billy goats.

  “Maaaa.” It repeated.

  “Listen to me,” Sylvalla called out, her fury as inescapable as the facts. “Phetero has no honour. I shall not sacrifice this one animal to absolve his crimes. And you? Are you men, or are you goats also? To be sent out here and sacrificed?”

  Amarinda pulled at Sylvalla’s tunic. “We should go.”

  “Sylvalla!” Dirk yelled. “Get back.”

  “Sergeant. Arrest these men!” Sylvalla ordered, not about to be scared away.

  A young Avondale officer saluted and stepped forward. “Come with me,” he said.

  Phetero’s small entourage looked about as the officer and his men surrounded them, but they did not surrender. They lifted their swords and attacked.

  The Best Laid Plans

  Royal spyglass pressed to his eye, and a smile on his face, King Phetero watched the goat from his observation tower. “Is this not a fine joke?”

  His staff nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, indeed.” Phetero laughed. “Like I would stoop to fight a woman?” Of course he would, and had—but not one who could fight back—and definitely not a dragon slayer, who, as much as he hated to admit it, would almost certainly highlight his inadequacy as a warrior.

  Phetero was almost surprised as the joke played out to its inevitable conclusion.

  Soon his bravery would no longer be in dispute; which was good, because he had none. Soon he would have reason, however flimsy, to claim the moral high ground. What else did a ruler require for victory, besides timing? Phetero’s tongue snaked out and licked his lips, waiting for the critical moment...

  “Cowards and murderers!” Phetero yelled as the first soldier pitched forward. “The barbarians kill under the white flag of truce.”

  Over on the wall his commander looked across for the pre-arranged signal. “Godsdammit! Fire Arrant’s ballistae!” Phetero roared, waving the spyglass in the air.

  Several bolts streaked from the battlements, catching the Avondale soldiers and their prisoners by surprise.

  The protective screens were soon shredded. But they held long enough for Sylvalla and most of her contingent to retreat. Soon, all Phetero could see was the small, accusatory square of crushed rock, and the dead—most of the Scotch Mist entourage, the goat, and several unlucky Avondale soldiers—all pierced through with arrows.

  The time for watching was over. “Guards, to me,” Phetero called, hurrying from the balcony. “Sound the trumpets. Have a boy fetch my horse. We’ll strike them now, and we’ll strike them hard!”

  Death Comes

  Screams rang out as Sylvalla took Amarinda’s hand and ran from the falling arrows. Breath catching in her throat, they scrabbled to the comparative safety of their camp.

  “They have a magic bow,” a soldier yelled.

  “Two,” Greybeard yelled back.

  Shields held overhead were only a partial defence—almost useless as they retreated over the scraggy mountain field. Fear lent speed to their feet, but not orderliness. The man beside Sylvalla fell with a bolt through his throat.

  Whoever has that magic bow thing is probably aiming at me.

  She passed by another victim, still walking, his shield and head both pierced, as if pinned together by a giant seamstress.

  “Help him,” Sylvalla yelled as he faltered. Carried away by the crush of people around her, she could only glance back as the soldier struggled.

  “Slower!” Voices screamed from somewhere ahead. “Careful.”

  “Care-ful!” Amarinda yelled, pointing ahead.

  Behind them, the firing had stopped.

  Sylvalla tried to slow, but Dirk was urging them onward. In front were the fortifications, a couple of hundred foot soldiers, and the Chunkers Dirk had so much faith in—along with those set to guard the terrible machines.

  “Watch out!” Someone shouted.

  A boulder sailed overhead. One of Torri’s. Boom! It landed far too close.

  Everyone around Sylvalla ran faster.

  Breathing in ragged gasps they raced toward the makeshift bridges. A casualty was being hauled out of the pit, pierced through by spikes.

  So that’s what all the yelling was about.

  Amarinda gasped but was not deterred. Together, they scrabbled onto the slippery planks, trying not to look at the spikes below.

  Something large whooshed overhead, as if the air above her were being torn asunder.

  A boulder.

  Panicked, Amarinda slid.

  Sylvalla grabbed her and pushed her to safety—before lurching to the other side of the makeshift bridge herself.

  “Thank you,” Amarinda said. She turned to Sylvalla. “Now what?”

  §

  Phetero strode onto the stage, grasping his sword
like a talisman. He looked around, not so much at the crowd, but at the theatre where he would declare war. Silently, he bemoaned the sad fact that he’d never even thought to beautify the edifice with the embellishments expected from a man of his stature—a few stakes on which to place the heads of his enemies, a gibbet or two, some cages in which traitors might thirst to death exposed to the elements. Phetero smiled wistfully. What have I been thinking to forget such obviously necessary ornamentation?

  The chaos of foot soldiers, mounted troops, and boys fetching horses coalesced around the makeshift plinth, awaiting his speech. “Men. Warriors, brave and true, we fight the aggressor on our doorstep.”

  A thud shook the ground.

  Phetero, and those around him, ignored the distraction as he raised his sword and shouted. “We fight for the strength of men.”

  Cheers came from his warriors, their red cloaks parting to reveal gleaming steel as swords clashed against shields and were thrust high into the air.

  “King! King! King Phetero!” The paid cheerers in their midst broke out, and today nobody hesitated to follow suit.

  King! King! King Phetero!”

  The words swelled his heart with pride—although, in some ways, it was annoying to stand here and listen to their adoration. Time was of the essence.

  He thought of adding something quick and forceful, like: For Scotch Mist! But he’d said it in the past, and it had never sounded quite right. Best to just enjoy the moment as Wraith, his silver-grey dappled horse, was led out stamping and rolling his eyes and giving his young groom no end of trouble.

  A whining sound cut through the cheering.

  Heads turned to the sky as if controlled by a single impulse.

  An enormous rock tumbled down, smashing into a building on the edge of the courtyard. Wood splintered. Stone cracked.

  In a surreal moment of silence, dust rose from the mangled ruins. It was followed by screaming.

  Phetero turned and saw a woman. She was running over the rubble, and through the door into...

  ...nothing. Only rubble. Where a house had stood, there was only the door, standing in its frame.

  The woman collapsed, sobbing.

  “What in all hells! Was that a rock?” Phetero demanded.

  Chunkers

  Sylvalla turned and looked at the battlefield. It was less instructional than she’d like.

  Dirk tapped her on the shoulder.

  “The messengers—” Sylvalla paused, gulping at the air like a stranded fish. “Did anyone dispatch the messengers to our reinforcements?”

  “If those messengers didn’t scramble at the first sign of trouble, they’re dead men,” Dirk replied. “Come on, um, ladies. Let’s get out of the front line.”

  What front line? Sylvalla thought. The foe wasn’t even on the battlefield and her army was in more of a mess than a ball of thread that had been attacked by a kitten. But she didn’t dare say it. “We need to get Amarinda to safety.”

  “No.” Amarinda patted down her torn dress. “I am your entourage. I do not leave your side.”

  “It’s dangerous out here. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “And you and Torri do?” Amarinda snapped back.

  “Great.” Sylvalla stomped off to talk to Greybeard, standing near Torri’s machines that towered over him and the rest of the soldiers like weird insects, all gangly elbows and knees.

  The damn things had to reach further. Or they would be worse than useless.

  Anxiously, Sylvalla watched as a Chunker prepared to fire.

  One of Torri’s new engineers fussed, checking the catches. Apparently satisfied, she stepped back. They heaved on the rope, the catch flicked, and the trebuchet arm swung up and around, sending the boulder soaring over the wall and into Scotch Mist itself.

  The army cheered, imagining the destruction within.

  Not Torri, she understood there were other priorities. “The wall! I said to hit the wall. How could you miss it?” she yelled, her voice pitched just high enough to carry over the general chorus of approval.

  Her engineers scrambled, arguing. These things, up until now, had been technical curiosities illustrated in an old history book[72]. Today they were real. At least, two of them were real—their triangular framing taller than the people surrounding them. Another two were close to completion. The large beams that would project the rocks were being fitted with counterweights. Sylvalla ordered a contingent of soldiers to surround them, and protect the vulnerable monstrosities from attack.

  Contradictory orders could be heard over the noise of marching soldiers. Winch it tighter!” someone yelled.

  “Winch it looser!” Torri contradicted vehemently.

  They scrambled to accede to the requests, turning handles and checking joints, and then turning the same handles again.

  The soldiers assigned to protect the Chunkers and their crews shuffled nervously under the shadow of the great wooden hulks.

  This time as the catch was released, something snapped.

  One of the Chunker’s frames twisted and buckled. Its boulder lurched into the air, impacting nearby with a krummmph and a shriek of tearing steel as armoured bodies were pulverised underneath heavy rock.

  Horses screamed and rolled their eyes, frothing at their bits.

  A voice wailed above the din. “The gods are against us!”

  “No! Do not tempt the gods,” Greybeard berated his troops. “They but test our resolve. Stand firm.”

  His words set Sylvalla’s thoughts in motion.

  It could have been worse. The rock could have shattered. It was a thought best not said aloud. The situation was already disaster enough. Still, she watched for the one thing she knew would make it worse…

  …sure enough, the front gates of Scotch Mist opened again, sending her already confused troops into panic.

  Dothie’s Regret

  The wizard Dothie prudently slumped down a little lower in the battlements.

  That bow trick had to be Arrant’s doing. Which meant it was best kept quiet and not repeated. The upstart would learn his lesson—at a time more convenient.

  I need more time. Back in the castle, books on the numerous uses of transmogrification and illusion waited for him, and here he was twiddling his fingers, with whatever that fool Arrant felt like bringing, and waiting for action that never seemed to arrive. It wasn’t like anyone was in range of a fruit-fly spell. Now, with rocks flying about, hanging around here seemed dangerous and stupid.

  The next thing Dothie knew, all the soldiers around him were laughing. Cheers echoed around the gates.

  Cautiously, he looked out over the battlements.

  “One of their wooden devil-machines broke. It fell on their own men,” a chatty soldier ventured.

  Dothie frowned and refrained from turning the young idiot into a fruit fly. Partly because this was good news, but mostly because there were only so many people he could transmogrify in one day, and if things went wrong, he might need to tax those limits.

  Back on the Scotch Mist side of the wall, King Phetero was in full armour, standing on a plinth bellowing, “Sally from the main port! Follow the battle plan.” Soldiers were streaming out onto the battlefield in disarray, eager to attack.

  It wasn’t exactly the plan as far as Dothie could remember. The infantry were supposed to exit the main gate, engage the enemy, and allow Phetero’s cavalry to sweep away Avondale from the sides, cutting into the artillery and archers like a knife through soft butter.

  The full frontal assault was about to begin early. Avondale was in disarray, so it might work. But only if Scotch Mist could hit fast and hit hard.

  Dothie stood up bravely. This was his chance…

  §

  Unused to full armour, King Phetero fumbled at his sword, fear overflowing into an itchy cold sweat that pooled under his helmet. Voice pitched to compensate for the clamour, he called, “Soldiers of Scotch Mist, we fight for our people, for our homes—for Scotch Mist.”


  Nobody was listening. The well-practised manoeuvre had been turned into a debacle, as the cavalry eagerly headed toward the gates in a mockery of the precision they’d managed during training.

  The plan. It had seemed so clever. To create a bloodbath, blame the opposition, and have his army sweep in and destroy Avondale and the obnoxious Sylvalla in a tide of self-righteous indignation.

  Still, even if it wasn’t the smoothly run operation he’d hoped, this was a battle he should win. His army was bigger, better trained, and better armed.

  Up on the walls, Dothie was waving his arms pointlessly. Annoying man. So far he’d proven more effective at turning Scotch Mist men into fruit flies than the Avondale soldiers he was supposed to be attacking. But he was still useful, and the best chance of making sure his ascension as a god happened without a hitch. If things went wrong, Dothie would be invaluable. Besides, if they were both outside the walls, they couldn’t be trapped inside, separated from the power that had been promised to him by the gods themselves, whispering in his ear that A’lganathrieal was indeed where the power lay.

  Or will I be better off within rock walls?

  Another boulder flew into his battlements sending rock and men flying.

  How could the strange flimsy machines his men had laughed at be so damned destructive?

  Suddenly the decision was easy. He couldn’t wait here for the next boulder to hit the wall, the city, and most worryingly, him. He had to get out. He had to bring the fight to his enemy, see what was happening and direct his forces. There was no way he could lose if he was outside the city, because if the worst happened and the witch queen looked like she might win, he could still escape into the hills to A’lganathrieal, to where the ancient power he’d been seeking waited for him. Once he had that, the whole world would be in his hands, and not just some trifling city.

  What could be sweeter than watching Sylvalla’s army being crushed, apart from ensuring Sylvalla paid for her crimes by keeping her soul in eternal torment?