The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Sylvalla looked over to the other Chunkers, could she get them to fire at the archers, too? No. They’d all gone quiet—probably run out of boulders.

  “Last chance, let’s get it right.”

  Phetero and a small knot of his soldiers had wheeled back. The archers were spreading out.

  “Quick! Now!” Torri yelled.

  The Chunker fired—ploughing into the archers and missing Phetero.

  Dirk was running up and down the line of Chunkers. “If you’ve no shot left, dismantle them, take them apart. I want nothing left but kindling, do you understand?”

  “You heard the man,” Torri yelled to the Chunker crews. “Snap to it.”

  In moments the first contraption plummeted to the ground.

  “Today we topple giants,” one of the men called out, failing to catch the sombre mood—the unspoken knowledge that they had lost the war and didn’t want vital technology in enemy hands.

  As if on cue, there was another trumpet blast.

  “What’s Phetero doing?” Dirk muttered. “Is that Dothie’s Thurgle on point?”

  “I’ll find out.” Sylvalla scrambled up the last intact Chunker before anyone could stop her.

  It was definitely the Thurgle up front, dealing out damage. A mill of people wheeled about Phetero. The edges of Avondale’s eastern flank were tattered, and Avondale’s cavalry were scattered and being picked off one by one. The battle was nearly won, and Phetero had yet to release his most devastating forces.

  A talented young soldier wheeled about on the very edge of the battle and spurred his way toward Phetero.

  “Get me a horse!” Sylvalla yelled, determined this time to go out there and make a difference.

  No one seemed to hear. But someone had seen the soldier riding like silk on a sand-devil. “Reckless,” they muttered, pointing.

  Sylvalla agreed. He couldn’t possibly succeed—but surely someone that brave couldn’t be allowed to fail. Others wheeled to join him, forming a wedge, but they were still about to be horribly outnumbered. They slowed. Inch by inch they fought their way toward the city gates.

  “There you are!” Greybeard shouted.

  “Thank goodness,” Sylvalla said. “I need your horse.”

  He bowed and slid off. “Of, course, my Queen.”

  “Tell your men to follow me!” Ignoring his protests, she dug her feet into its flanks and jumped over the pit.

  It was liberating, thundering across the battlefield, white foam pouring from the horse’s sides. Soon she’d join forces with the young fighter.

  Ahead, Dothie raised his arms. A glow of red surrounded him like pure fire. It slammed into her forces.

  Sylvalla closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, wisps of smoke rose from a few blackened corpses, but the majority battled on, protected by whatever Capro had given them.

  “For Avondale,” she yelled, hoping she was half as good as the lad ahead, and those who’d chosen to risk it all and join him.

  All around, Avondale soldiers were rallying.

  But the Scotch Mist forces weren’t counter-attacking, they milled about as if they’d forgotten they were in a battle. What are they doing?

  Next to Phetero, Dothie raised his arms again. Could his magic get past Mr Goodfellow Senior’s magical defences?

  Dense smoke jettisoned from Dothie’s hands, and spread out in a thick wedge. People were sneezing, and shaking their heads blindly. Even at this distance, Sylvalla squinted through teary eyes, but she could only see smoke billowing out from where the wizard and King Phetero had stood.

  Greybeard’s horse reared. Ahead, Sylvalla’s soldiers coughed and gagged. Sylvalla took some comfort knowing it was only smoke, and the magic hadn’t harmed anyone who’d taken the antidote.

  Nearby horses wheeled in confusion. Panic spread. If only they’d stay calm. Sylvalla steeled herself for disaster; any minute now the enemy would punch through the disorganised mess and attack.

  Right Royal Visions of Glory

  “He has so many men,” Jonathan said, and this smoke is killing any advantage that attack was giving us. “What will we do when Avondale loses?”

  Capro shook his head. “Wait.”

  The smoke cleared.

  Phetero and his men were spurring their horses north, almost as if they were being called by a power beyond their control.

  “But why? Why stop in the middle of a battle when victory is still in the balance?” Jonathan asked.

  “You know why. There’s more going on here than just a battle between kingdoms. We need to follow them now, before it’s too late.”

  “And Sylvalla? Will she support us?”

  “Maybe. We need to convince her there’s no more time to waste. Whatever is pulling Dothie and Phetero north, we really don’t want them to reach it.”

  §

  “To me,” Sylvalla called, the words sticking in her raw throat, as she spurred her horse after Phetero’s retreating troops.

  “Cursed are the machinations of death and war, and cursed are you, Phetero,” Sylvalla yelled after him, urging Greybeard’s horse into a gallop. Then she saw Dirk running beside her.

  “We have to follow them!” Sylvalla gasped, pointing at the fast-disappearing cavalcade. “We have to follow Phetero!”

  “Not now,” he said. “We should not leave this place before we secure it.”

  “Damn you! What in the name of Death do you know about anything?” Sylvalla swore. “We have to renew the attack while we’re ahead.”

  A ragged cheer rose from the nearest soldiers. It was just enough to make her realise how exhausted they all were. “Never mind. I am sure even the most stubborn of them will soon realise their King has left the field. Especially if we point it out,” Sylvalla said, trying not to sigh—again—it was something she did rather too often. It was hard not to, given the circumstances.

  Greybeard rode up on Thunderbolt, Amarinda perched behind him. His face split into an unaccustomed grin. “Nothing better than a clean victory,” he roared.

  His men roared back at him, raising their fists to the air and reflecting his exhilaration a thousand-fold.

  Amarinda raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, right, a clean victory,” Sylvalla muttered. “When the true enemy gets away at the last possible moment.”

  “Shhh,” Greybeard hissed, and he was right. This wasn’t the time for recriminations. This was the time to cheer. So she did, and her men cheered even louder.

  Why then, she wondered, do I feel like I’ve failed?

  Licking of Wounds

  “Where’s Phetero going?” Sylvalla demanded of Dirk and Greybeard the second the cheering subsided. Yes, the soldiers needed a moment to celebrate, but she had priorities, too. She had to know what the slimy toad was up to.

  “We’ll get him, don’t worry.” Greybeard pointed at half a dozen soldiers “You, you and you, go mark the trail. The rest of you make sure the medics get all the help they need”.

  “What about them?” Amarinda gestured toward a cluster of wounded enemy soldiers, trying and failing to run from the battlefield.

  “Yes, we should finish off the wounded enemy at once,” Greybeard said. “Before they can make trouble.”

  “What!?” Torri and Amarinda shouted.

  Saving enemy soldiers wasn’t exactly standard practice, but maybe they had a point. “I think Amarinda’s right,” Sylvalla interjected before Greybeard could get much further. “That is not going to help us win the hearts of the Scotch Mist people. We should allow enemy medics onto the field.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to burn the city to the ground?” Dirk asked.

  “No!”

  “Fine,” Greybeard snapped. The man was no diplomat, that was for sure. On the other hand, he wasn’t backstabbing her when she wasn’t looking, either. Hopefully. “You two. Carry out the queen’s orders, but make sure they know how kind we’re being. No more than six of their medics may exit Scotch Mist. And search the
m thoroughly for weapons, understand? Also take the girl, she can make herself useful and assist the medics.”

  “Good idea,” Amarinda said.

  As she was striding off, Jonathan and Mr Goodfellow Senior waved.

  “Goodfellows!” Sylvalla yelled. “Where have you been?”

  “What is everyone deciding?” Jonathan asked. “The fastest way to go after Doth—I mean, Phetero?”

  “Sorry.” Sylvalla shook her head. Before Dirk had mentioned burning the city to the ground, she hadn’t made up her mind to stay. Now she had little choice. “We have to take the city first.”

  “What? No!” Jonathan protested. “You can’t just sit here outside the city and wait for it to fall.”

  “No,” Dirk said. “Since Syl—Queen Sylvalla didn’t want to burn it down, we’re going to have to enter the city. I think it will be best to take it before they can rally their forces again.”

  “What?” Sylvalla turned on Dirk. “You can’t just waltz into Scotch Mist.”

  “It’s not just me,” Dirk said with a grin. “You’re coming too.”

  §

  Two youths in Scotch Mist red emerged from the postern. The heavy door set into the Scotch Mist wall thunked closed behind them, almost disappearing into the stone. Chins raised, the two youths glanced fearfully over at Dirk and Sylvalla, before submitting to their satchels and bags to be searched by the Avondale soldiers. “Treat your own wounded, ’cause if any of ours die and you’re nearby...” the Avondale soldier’s words trailed off, even as he pointed to a grubby white tent.

  Another Avondale soldier came running their way. “Tents are up, even the Scotch Mist one.”

  “How many dead?” Sylvalla’s voice cut across the tension, colder and harder than she’d intended. Brittle.

  “Best not to count now, Ma’am. We’ll have an accurate tally later, after we’ve burnt the dead.”

  “And theirs?”

  Greybeard coughed. “Victory is bought with bodies, my Queen. There will be many wounded tonight who will wish they were here amongst the dead.”

  “General, you are right. Let us attend to the living. So, how does the parley go?” she asked, keeping a nervous eye on the city gates.

  The soldier frowned. “We’ve allowed their healers to attend their own, like you said.”

  “Excellent,” Greybeard said. “Best to have all those Misties in one place. Keeps things tidy.”

  “Do all the Mist Devils need to get to the safety of the tent, sir?” a soldier asked, hefting his sword. “Some of us would rather be safe than sorry.”

  Sylvalla turned to him. “I hope you aren’t talking about murder. Because, last I heard, there were very strict penalties for murder in the army. Understand?”

  The man blinked. “Ma’am.”

  “That means kicking from a gibbet,” Greybeard said. “And I do appreciate you coming to me. I would hate for an accident to cause you to dance so. You do understand, don’t you?” Greybeard grinned as the soldier swallowed, saluted and ran off.

  “How can you smile?” Sylvalla said. “While we play nursemaid, Phetero and Dothie are getting away.”

  “One step at a time, my lady,” Greybeard said.

  Was that insolence?

  “The negotiators will tell me when they’re getting somewhere. If you’re lucky, those wizards of yours will speed things up.”

  “It’ll take weeks,” Sylvalla said. “If the wizards are right we don’t have weeks.”

  Dirk shrugged. “Like I said, we could torch the city.”

  “No, that option is not even tempting.” Sylvalla stopped and covered her face as smoke from two pyres of burning bodies blew toward them. “I guess we’ll have to wait a little longer. From what I’ve heard, it’s best if I’m not at the early negotiations.”

  Greybeard nodded. “We don’t want to seem over-eager. And, of course, if there’s anything we decide was a bit of a mistake, you can say you would never have agreed to it and insist on changing it later.”

  “Good, you do that. In the meantime I’ve got a job to do.”

  Greybeard ignored the dismissal, and tagged along with Dirk as Sylvalla strode over to the mud spattered Avondale hospital tent. It was the largest tent Avondale had, and it was still nowhere near big enough, the overflow of dying were simply left lying around the entrance, surrounded by a blue sheen of flies that was waved away on occasion by a few listless boys.

  Sylvalla searched for signs of life where life had all but been cast aside. And where she found it, she stooped over to thank the men, grasping their hands and looking into their eyes, ignoring the all-pervasive smell of death, and trying to give them whatever hope she could.

  “Death flies here.” Dirk whispered. “Let’s go.”

  “Someone should care for them.” Sylvalla pushed through into the tent to be met by stifling heat and an even more terrible stench. “These men have fought for Avondale.” She gritted her teeth and continued.

  Amarinda was inside the stinking hospital tent, tending the wounded and looking saintly and efficient. The doctor was slumped in the corner, an empty bottle of alcohol in his hand.

  “Ugh, not that drunkard again,” Dirk said. “Excuse me!” he grabbed the empty bottle. “Is that all gone?”

  Whatever the doctor was saying was incomprehensible. “Saw the legs off…fruit flies…magic…battle….can’t do it anymore.”

  “Salt then?” Dirk demanded.

  The doctor mumbled something.

  The next thing Sylvalla knew Dirk had requisitioned cooking salt and other potions from the field kitchens. He offered his cures to anyone brave enough to take them. Many did, even withstanding compresses of near scalding water, not wishing to look weak before the queen.[75]

  Once Sylvalla had seen all the Avondale wounded, there was one more thing she wanted to do, but eyeing the dirty-white tent across the short blood and mud-churned path, she almost lost her nerve.

  Intuiting her intentions, Dirk drew himself up and tried to make his scrawny frame as large as possible. “No, my lady. It is too dangerous.”

  Worse, Greybeard scurried beside her and tried to lead her away physically from the tent of Scotch Mist wounded.

  “You do not dare,” Sylvalla’s voice thundered, her confidence only bolstered by Greybeard’s look of disapproval.

  Greybeard stepped back as if bitten, his hands falling away from Sylvalla faster than if she were a rattlesnake. “Gods you’re annoying!” He grinned. “You’ll make a fine leader—if they don’t kill you first.”

  “Come, Greybeard, you should see this as well,” Sylvalla insisted.

  “O Yea, and she will go even unto the place of death and be unscathed,” Dirk said, not altogether in jest.

  This time the smell of death didn’t so much cling to the bodies lying outside the tent, as congeal in the hazy late-afternoon air. But, while the smell outside was terrible, inside it was indescribably worse. Sylvalla choked as she ducked her head under the flap. Flies crawled on the people sprawled upon the ground. There were near 150 people, all grievously injured, in a tent that couldn’t be much longer than ten strides across. A much worse state of affairs than the comparatively tidy medical tent for Avondale soldiers.

  Dirk looked nervously around while Sylvalla barked new orders for Greybeard.

  “Fetch help. These people need pallets, and water—”

  “And alcohol, miss,” piped up a boy. “We’ve run out. And cloth.” The young boy’s voice was caught between hope and disaster—and several unnecessary registers as Greybeard snapped, “This is Queen Sylvalla, how dare you...”

  “He dares very well,” Sylvalla said. “So, if you wouldn’t mind, fetch those things, too. And someone else to run the errands when you return. We may be in need of more supplies.”

  Greybeard scowled furiously into his beard, before acceding to her command.

  She nodded curtly to him and then to the short line of brave Scotch Mist volunteers and medics, before proceeding t
o examine the injured. Smiling here and there, grasping hands and speaking words of encouragement, Sylvalla moved down the lines of camp cots, doling out whatever hope she could.

  Dirk, swallowed. After a while his hand left his sword and he began offering his cures. Most refused. He did treat those who were already unconscious—if their companions didn’t refuse too strenuously, in the hope a miracle might be attributed to his Queen. Better that, than for it to be said she was the harbinger of death—an all too likely outcome.

  “This is finest medicinal tincture of Arnica Montana and Calendula—that is, I mean, flowers of the golden sun. Try it, it will soothe the bruising.” And then having lulled them into a sense of security, he’d offer his salt cure. There was no boiling pot of water here to dissolve it properly, or for the changing of dressings.

  “Salt will burn, but it will cleanse the wound,” he said cheerily, as if daring them to be brave enough to live. The few who tried it rolled around in agony, screaming abuse. One man even got up and attempted to clobber Dirk with his stump of a hand. Dirk grabbed him, and effortlessly kicked his legs back up onto the pallet so his body was forced to follow.

  “If you think the pain from salt is bad, then I assure you, you do not want to die of the green death.”

  “Huh, you prey on our...” But whatever the amputee was going to say was cut off by a ragged cheer coming from the entrance. The supplies were rolling in.

  A hand reached up from a besmeared pallet. “Lady, those who live after today will always remember that you came to this place of death and...” His voice choked up and his eyes grew distant.

  The hand was falling. Without knowing why, she grasped it and willed the man to live. “Is there nothing we can do, Dirk?”

  Dirk shook his head, but he knelt down to look, anyway.

  To their surprise the man himself replied, eyes blinking. “No, no, I’m alright. It is just I made oaths, and now my heart strives to break them. We die and suffer and I do not know why anymore.”

  “You promised to serve the King of Scotch Mist, but now Phetero is no longer the King of Scotch Mist your oaths have been released.” She gave the man’s hand one last squeeze and hurried out.