The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Well done,” Dirk said, hurrying after her. “You’ll have those boys eating out of your lap.”

  Sylvalla shot an angry look in his direction. “That wasn’t why I came.”

  “Precisely,” Dirk replied, smug as ever.

  Greybeard strode toward them, waving papers. Before Sylvalla could thank him for organising the supplies he yelled, “My lady, they have begged us for a treaty, I have papers for you to sign. They are being quite—accommodating.” He shoved the papers into her unwilling fingers. “The only question is who’s going to go in to secure the city?”

  Scotch Mist

  Sylvalla glanced at Dirk and the Goodfellows arguing. “Are you sure?” Mr Goodfellow pressed. “Surely, we could get King Phetero and his wizard and be back in time to do—all this.”

  “By all this, you mean secure Scotch Mist?” Greybeard interjected. “I’m afraid half our advantage is that an absent king is not a king. We should not throw that away. With a bit of luck the city will be ours within the day.”

  “It is but a kingdom.” Capro fumbled at the clasp of the enormous tome he was wielding as if it were a piece of kindling.

  “No, no. I have had my fill of prophecy,” Sylvalla said. “No more. I have said already—”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Jonathan interjected smoothly, “but you must itch to be off. To fight the ignoble Phetero.”

  “Fighting? And where were you earlier? I did not see you on the battlefield,” Sylvalla snapped. “Typical wizards, you come when it’s too late to change anything.

  “Fighting is not for wizards. Simply being here is against all the wizard codes but stopping Phetero is—”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Do you even know, or are you blown from place to place on the vapours of words alone?”

  “The world is at stake.”

  “Oh, only the world? How can you say such things and leave them on my shoulders?”

  “That is the way of things, it seems. We...” Capro glanced at the flinty-eyed look from his son. “I…I have been careless. And...remiss.”

  “We think,” Jonathan paused. “We think Phetero has gone to awaken the old gods—to use their power for his own ends.

  “Only beware the snake bearing a forked tongue.”

  “Dothie, no doubt.” Sylvalla’s words were edged.

  “Yes, that does seem rather clear,” Capro said.

  “And I am to just go, leaving two kingdoms in turmoil?” Sylvalla asked, trying to mask her enthusiasm to be off, far, far, away from this place.

  “You cannot,” Dirk said. “It is far too dangerous to leave Scotch Mist unsecured behind us. Besides if Greybeard’s scouts do their job properly we’ll catch up quickly enough.”

  “I know, I know.” Sylvalla sighed. “If you wizards want, you can go on ahead to stop Dothie. Meanwhile, I have a job to do. We take Scotch Mist first, Phetero second.”

  “What?” Jonathan said. “You are—”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior put a hand on his shoulder. What was he up to? Not leaving, that was for sure.

  Sylvalla set off for the city gates, surrounded by cavalry and trumpeters who couldn’t hold a note. The noise was unbearable. She would sign the dratted documents and they would hand over the city, and then she could get on with the real business of fighting Phetero.

  At the gate the Avondale herald stepped forward, puffed out his chest, and pronounced, “Avondale has all your men.”

  “What men?” Sylvalla asked Greybeard. “He means the wounded, doesn’t he?”

  “No. No. There’s a few grunts. Not sure which way up a sword is. Maybe a hundred or so.”

  “To ransom a city with? There’s more wounded,” Sylvalla whispered.

  “Not much we can do about that—but, you see, the real threat is we could stay here and starve them out, or get those trebuchet’s working...”

  That might take a while, Sylvalla thought, considering how thoroughly they’ve been smashed.

  “And of course, we do have their wounded, obviously. Oh, and they gave us the archers. At least they say these are their archers.” His head tilted toward a group of two hundred men sitting on the ground with their hands on their heads. “We refused to negotiate with them sitting up on the walls.”

  “Can they shoot arrows?”

  “Hard to say, there don’t seem to be too many arrows left, but they’ve all got the build for it, and most of them carry bows. Anyway, I doubt we have them all.”

  There’s always danger.

  “...in return,” The Avondale herald continued. “Scotch Mist will be rebuilt to its former glory, and a hostage will be released every day Scotch Mist maintains allegiance.”

  No reply.

  “Aren’t they supposed to agree? Didn’t they already sign the papers?” Sylvalla whispered to Grehaum.

  Up above them, the Scotch Mist negotiators were still arguing.

  “Wait, they will. This is not a problem…yet.”

  “We accede to your terms—” one of the men called out, and was almost drowned out by a loud chorus of, “no,” and “wait!”

  After some discussion—including reassurances from Greybeard and a few perceptive individuals on their side pointing out the obvious—their leader yelled, “We accede to your terms. Avondale may enter the city.”

  “And may the gods have mercy on us,” one of the men muttered as the gates were pulled open.

  The first wave of Avondale’s army rode into the city to secure positions on the walls and road, and Sylvalla followed. The Scotch Mist spokesmen were still muttering angrily as she rode by.

  A brave handful of residents milled around, suspicion and fear drawn in clean lines upon their grimy faces. Some pointed to the wizards, others to Dirk, or Greybeard, but most seemed fascinated by Sylvalla. Even from horseback she could hear them debating whether she was the devil, a witch, or a queen magnanimous in victory. The fact she wasn’t wearing a dress was stated several times.

  Well protected by her honour guard, Sylvalla focussed on nothing more than waving, and smiling the best smile she could muster. Her trumpeters also did their best to relieve the gloom as more and more people came out to brave the odd procession making its way to the palace. Girls and boys whose mothers would no doubt spank them when they returned home, mourners who shook their fists and tore their hair, ordinary people who were brave enough to come out and watch an occupying army.

  The blank facades of shuttered buildings were the worst. Sudden movements of people peering out from behind those barricades sent the horses skittering and Sylvalla’s heart thumping. It felt as if everyone was waiting for someone else to make the first move and be the first to die.

  Sylvalla looked into every face she could, young or old, rich or poor. Smile. Show no fear. Or this procession would turn into a fight for every street corner. Winning the battle was not enough. To win the war, she needed hearts and minds.

  The crowd thickened, and her accompanying trumpets sounded louder and louder and more and more defiant, until at last they reached a crescendo at the palace doors.

  The great doors swung open revealing little but shadows. The advance party entered.

  Sylvalla’s heart thundered as she and Dirk rushed inside behind them. She was desperate to be within the false safety of walls—and to avoid the uncomfortable stares of the Scotch Mist citizens.

  If it’s a trap, best spring it early.

  Inside, the furnishings had been chosen for maximum expense and minimum aesthetic value, and were only somewhat improved when Phetero’s eagle-motif pennons were torn down and replaced with Avondale standards.

  A handful of Phetero’s advisors stood near the throne. Except for their gaudy attire, they looked exactly like her crows and would also be masters of manipulation to have risen so high, and survived a king like Phetero.

  The outside doors clanged shut.

  Sylvalla tensed—no longer worried that this was a trap and she would die, but that it was a cage and
she’d never escape.

  Deep breaths. I will be out hunting Phetero soon enough.

  Her men were searching everyone for weapons. The Scotch Mist advisors submitting with stiff dignity and words of diplomatic protest.

  Sylvalla only half-listened before shrugging her shoulders. “Just a precaution, my good sirs,” she said, doing her best to be equally diplomatic. “I do appreciate your patience.” She turned to Greybeard. “Greybea—er, General Grehaum, if everything is in order, allow as many civilians as is wise to enter, and not a man or child more. Do you understand?”

  “My lady—” Greybeard began.

  “What?” one of Phetero’s advisors said. He bowed hurriedly, caught between their need to tell Sylvalla what to do, and the equally pressing need not to appear presumptuous. “Opening the doors now would be…might be...not as safe as we would like.”

  “He means, dangerous. Really dangerous,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said.

  Sylvalla bared her teeth into something resembling a smile. “If I am to be a despot, would it not be better to have witnesses? If I am to be fair and reasonable, then again, why should the people of Scotch Mist find out third hand? Let some in, and when there is enough, have my herald relay the proceedings to the people outside.”

  The door swung open and Sylvalla looked hopefully at Dirk. “What I need is a figurehead,” she whispered. “Someone to rule here and sort this mess out.”

  Dirk frowned. “You have Francis for that, Milady. He will come soon, I swear it.”

  “We better not be waiting for him to arrive,” Mr Goodfellow Senior muttered.

  “Whatever,” Dirk said. “So long as nobody gets any bright ideas about leaving me behind.”

  A handful of brave souls made their way inside. A woman yelled something about death and witches, sidestepped the soldiers conducting searches and charged Sylvalla.

  “Wait!” Sylvalla said, but the woman was already dead—an arrow in her back.

  Sylvalla straightened to face the rather sullen crowd, and raised her arms. “I call upon the god of war to acknowledge my victory. May he intercede on behalf of those that are dead as they pass the narrow gates of this world.” She bent her head in the proper hundred-count silence. Then, for good measure she added a further twenty...

  “I am Sylvalla, Queen of Avondale, slayer of dragons. My fight is not with the worthy citizens of Scotch Mist, but against a coward without honour who has not the fortitude to stand and fight for Scotch Mist, but only to run and save his own hide.”

  The crowd murmured and shuffled. This was the wrong way to fight, she should not be pointing out the worth of their King, they knew that already. She needed to display hers—prove to them that they not only needed her rule, but they wanted her rule. “I shall see this city rebuilt. I shall see Scotch Mist and Avondale strong. United. As a gesture of my goodwill, Francis, Prince of Havendale, shall sit on the Scotch Mist throne. And our armies shall be as one.”

  “But the hostages,” a lady wailed from the crowd. “You said the hostages were to be released. They cannot be released—and fight for you.”

  For just a moment Sylvalla felt the room spinning. Releasing the army was not an option. “I understand. You need your men to work the fields, mind the businesses, and help look after your families. But if I were to simply let them all go with no money and no prospects, they’d drain off what little food Scotch Mist has left…” And go around killing people.

  “And,” Jonathan said, finally deciding to speak up. “Imagine the business prospects for those of you who remain in the city? For a start, Queen Sylvalla is going to need flags and pennants to celebrate today, and you’ll pay well, won’t you my Queen?”

  Sylvalla nodded. Typical Jonathan, in it for the money. Still, the outcry had changed from outrage, to outrageous demands. Time to say the nice stuff, and hope.

  “But I do not want to keep farmers from their fields, so of course farmers will be the first to be returned in exchange for more appropriate host-er, fighting men.” Sylvalla stopped speaking; she could hardly hear herself over the din anyway. Perhaps, she thought, now would be a good time to pull out my sword. After all, the tactic worked for Francis.

  She grasped it tight, calling upon its power as she raised it high.

  The silence was palpable as her sword cut the air.

  A voice whispered in her ear. The silver beard it was attached to tickled annoyingly, but for once she repeated the words verbatim. “Who will enter my service now that War and Death have forsaken your former master?”

  There was no rush of volunteers. Once more, the silver beard tickled against her ear. He said, “There is land aplenty out in the wilderness for those who remain oath-less. For the crown will not abide landowners who have not sworn.”

  “By the gods, that will take forever!” Sylvalla thundered back.

  The court froze. Used to the tantrums of their former master, they dreaded more from this unknown conqueror. The teenage girl who stood before them could hardly be expected to have more self-control.

  “Sylvalla, minor land holders may of course swear to a clerk. Just repeat what I said, and we’ll have some men organise the queues.”

  There was nothing for it, except to repeat Greybeard’s words, even as a sick feeling of déjà vu washed over Sylvalla. She sat down heavily on the unwelcoming throne.

  §

  Three hours and two assassination attempts later, Sylvalla’s queue thinned to a dribble and the old commander gave her his hand. “Go. Rest. Take half the bodyguard and take the King’s rooms in the castle.”

  Sylvalla struggled, and failed, to keep the note of whining out of her voice. “But I want to get out, outside the city gates. I—”

  Greybeard’s voice whipped back with a great deal of force despite the gravelly undertone. “You are their Queen. Now do it! There will be more in the morning.”

  Sylvalla flashed him a glance of unadulterated horror and turned to Dirk. “Do you think my life will ever be sane again?” she asked.

  “Sane?” Dirk replied, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Dalberth

  NAME:Dalberth

  CLASS:Army menial.

  FAMILIAR:His horse, unceremoniously called, Horse. Being in the army, Dalberth couldn’t afford to get too sentimental.

  SPECIALTY:None.

  RÉSUMÉ:Recruited at the age of twelve as a bowyer of reasonable skill, Dalberth’s eyesight was badly damaged after an infection. After that, he was demoted and placed in the ranks, a crime for which his wife never quite forgave him—even after he was promoted to horseback. He is an old twenty—two children, army life and constant debts have worn him down.

  PASSED: Was not in the social class to take exams.

  §

  Hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms about his chest as he helped set up camp did not make Dalberth feel any warmer. He stamped his feet and tried to think about when this madness had first seized his King. Was it before or after the wizard Dothie had appeared?

  Before—something had driven the previously lackadaisical king to unearth the wizard, but what? Could the rumours be true? Had the King really been attacked by the evil witch-queen? Had she poisoned his heart with a thorn? The only people who knew what had truly gone on in the Kyngs Arms Inn that fateful night were the three people who’d been in it: Dirk, Sylvalla, and Phetero.

  Whatever had happened must have been bad for Phetero to drag his army over half the countryside. That was bad enough—but to then turn around and run home again without catching the princess… There was no living that down. Or the botched attack on Avondale. And with each event, the rumours of the king’s madness had escalated. Each following hard on the heels of the other, like the chicken and the egg[76].

  Why am I here, following a mad king, anyway? I should be at home protecting my family from Sylvalla, the evil witch-princess.

  He hated to think what would happen to them, what might have happened already.

  If only Phetero ha
d stood his ground and defended his own people.

  If only someone would make a stand against Phetero, I would follow. Be it to death or glory. So long as the stand isn’t completely suicidal. If I had the strength or the courage I’d do it myself.

  But Dalberth did not have the courage, he did not even have the courage to ride off and disappear into the night—not with the rumours that death awaited all deserters. Dalberth hadn’t quite reached that stage of desperation yet.

  So here I am waiting for the courage to desert—or for fear and madness to take us all.

  Sylvalla’s Quarters

  Sylvalla woke disoriented and slumped against a wall in the palace corridor. In her dreams she’d chased Dothie and Phetero, only to arrive too late. She’d been fleeing the horde of monsters they’d released and woken gasping for breath.

  A young officer was stomping toward them. Ignoring her discombobulation, he saluted brusquely, his hand rebounding off his forehead as he looked fearfully towards Dirk. “Your rooms are ready, milady.”

  “Thank you, officer, um–private—er…thank you.” She rubbed her eyes and shambled along behind him. It had been a long 24 hours, what with all the waiting to fight, and fighting, visiting the wounded, and statecraft. And these nightmares she’d been having weren’t helping.

  Smiling nervously, the soldier encouraged Sylvalla with a warm, not far, Your Majesty, about every twenty footsteps; as if by mere words alone, he might shorten the distance. At the door of a purple and gold nightmare of a room, the soldier turned and saluted again in a way only the military could consider smart. Sylvalla tried to shoo him away with a tired wave of her hand. Of course the fool saluted again, and then the guards on either side of the door, not to be outdone, bashed their foreheads. Sylvalla ignored them and groped for the door handle.

  “Wait.” Dirk barged into the bedchamber. “Let me check it, first.”

  Loud thumps resonated from the room.