The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “What are you doing?” Sylvalla asked nervously, with visions of eviscerated bodies scattered about.

  “Just, ah... re-arranging the furniture,” Dirk called.

  Sylvalla peered around the corner to reassure herself.

  “Not long now,” Dirk said. “There’s a few window shutters and a wardrobe that could do with some nails in them.”

  “Am I not supposed to breathe?” Sylvalla asked.

  “Not if breathing requires an open shutter,” Dirk retorted.

  Finally, finally, Sylvalla stumbled into the room, closed the door with a loud and satisfying ker-thunk, and slumped down upon the bed. Barely had she pulled off her boots than she heard someone approaching the door.

  “Hh hmm.” The sound of a clearing throat was accompanied momentarily by a knock. The Goodfellows barged in.

  Why hadn’t they gone to sleep like sensible people?

  “My lady,” Capro murmured.

  “Queen Sylvalla,” Jonathan said, a slight bow accompanying his words. “You will be pleased to know we have won over many of the local businesses.”

  “My two wizards,” Sylvalla greeted them, enjoying the way they squirmed at her use of the possessive, my. “I don’t suppose anyone else would like to come in? My mother? Has she made it all the way from Avondale?”

  Another grey beard peeked around the door. Grehaum.

  Dammit. In his own way Greybeard was every bit as bad as her mother. “Couldn’t this be left until morning?”

  “Your Highness,” Jonathan and Capro murmured. Rich words, agreeably pleasant in tone. Did they know that if they pushed her too hard she would have to refuse them? Of course they did. That’s why they’d said so little in public.

  “Queen Sylvalla, now we have the city, we must hurry,” Mr Goodfellow Senior blurted. “Francis will be able to hold his own here. He is the Prince of Havendale.”

  “Should I not wait for him, then?”

  “No!” Mr Goodfellow Senior shook his head. “Should Scotch Mist fall, even should Avondale fall, it will be as nothing compared to what will be unleashed.”

  “No, Sylvalla—Queen Sylvalla,” Greybeard snapped. “You need Francis here before you can leave. He is coming, my lady, I assure you. The messengers have been sent out with all haste, but unless you’ve thought to invent mail that flies through the air he will take more than one day.

  Sylvalla frowned.

  Greybeard licked his lips. “If you wish him to hurry, maybe it would be best if you wrote another note yourself, my Queen. In the meantime where can Phetero go? I assure you we will apprehend him soon enough.”

  “There is no time!” Capro Goodfellow snapped back, eyes blazing. “The words are clear....”

  “Yes, as clear as mud and you know it. No, I will do what I should. What I must to secure my people.”

  Sylvalla? The leathery old voice imposed itself on her consciousness. Another sally; did Mr Goodfellow Senior expect her to change her mind?

  “Yes?” Sylvalla replied aloud, wary of this new approach.

  “I was sent to seek you. There was a prophecy, Go forth old man and seek the maid…”

  “In all the world. Am I the only maid you know?” Sylvalla laughed. “Your prophecy is only words—obscure hints of things that might never be.”

  Jonathan spoke up. “Sylvalla, this is your destiny, to fight the great evil that has turned Phetero and Dothie. We have to stop them before he reaches the caves where its power lies.”

  “I cannot do everything,” Sylvalla snapped. “Wasn’t the dragon enough?”

  “If it was me, I would not wait,” Jonathan said. “I would strike down that evil snake Dothie now and leave the rest of this to care for itself.”

  Capro held up a placating hand. “For most people yes, but it seems this is also your destiny and the more you fight it, the harder it will be. Thank you for your time, Your Highness. There is much to be done, and I intend to be ready come the dawn.”

  The two men bowed and shuffled back as if to leave, but stopped at the door, expectantly waiting.

  The pull to fight was something she could scarcely resist. Jonathan must have known it on some level. That, and he had his own grudge to settle with Dothie.

  Sylvalla turned to Dirk. His eyes were locked with Jonathan’s despite the fact that she was sure the last thing Dirk wanted to do was to stay here and babysit Scotch Mist.

  This is not their decision, Sylvalla thought.

  The silence hung taut.

  Sylvalla looked from face to face. It was a shame she had the weight of two kingdoms upon her shoulders. “I need one more day. After that, our position will be more secure. Now, if someone would kindly fetch me paper and a pen, I need to write that letter to my...husband. No, on second thoughts, get a scribe.” Yes, a scribe always knew what to say even when their employer did not; they were as well versed in sweet nothings as they were in politics, and this would be a letter containing more than its fair share of both.

  “At least, let us be off by midday tomorrow,” Jonathan persisted, tossing back his half-grown wizard’s locks.

  “Yes, that is fair,” Sylvalla capitulated, knowing it was not, but feeling the echo of Jonathan’s hunger for revenge. “We will wait for Francis until the sun is at its zenith, and then we will move faster than the wind itself.”

  The wizards nodded with their best approximation of respectful bows, and swept out the door.

  Sylvalla sighed. Now the decision had been made, she could sleep. She’d dreamed of chasing Phetero and Dothie, but in all her dreams, she arrived too late and could only watch as the world was overrun by monsters.

  Treacherous Footing

  Leaving behind two, albeit small, countries to take care of themselves was, Sylvalla reflected, a dangerous move. She saddled up Thunderbolt and prepared to ride off. To chase Phetero’s crack units, her party consisted of a young officer, two dozen soldiers, Dirk, the Goodfellows, and Torri.

  How so few could turn back such dire prophecies, Sylvalla did not know, but the Goodfellows seemed happy enough. And so did the small crowd that had gathered to say their goodbyes, including many of the wounded from both sides. Even Amarinda seemed content, for once, to let Sylvalla out of her sight. She seemed to trust Torri, in turn Torri trusted her to look after her engineers.

  Just as the last girth was being tightened, Greybeard appeared. “My Queen,” he said with a respectfully low bow.

  Sylvalla nodded, hoping he would get on and say whatever he had to say.

  “Francis is not here yet. Perhaps it would be sensible to wait.”

  “I do not think so, Commander. The scouts are back now, and they advise against waiting lest the trail gets lost in a late spring snow.”

  “This is a foolish stunt, My Lady. I had hoped you would think better of it.”

  A deep breath. “You are a good man, Commander Grehaum Tehray, and you take your responsibilities seriously. That is why you have risen to such high esteem. Should I come back victorious, your name will be sung of by all the great bards. Then again, even if I fail, I do not think you shall be remembered badly, having secured this victory. Keep it. That is all I ask.”

  Greybeard smiled wanly, he seemed suitably mollified, although it would undoubtedly wear off quickly if they didn’t get a move on. Too many of the spectators had special words they wished to give their queen before she left. Sylvalla listened, bemused as they apologised time and again for Francis not being there. It seemed they were sad–not so much to have missed Francis, they would see him anyway. It was more as if they’d been expecting some heart-felt lovers’ goodbye. Legends are legends, and the story of her and Francis had grown into a love story. The idea was so absurd, it was all Sylvalla could do not to laugh in their faces.

  “We should waste no more time, my Lady,” Dirk interrupted, frowning. “The weather may become treacherous.”

  Sylvalla mounted Thunderbolt, and waved. “Keep these walls safe for my return,” she yelled to the crowd befor
e wheeling her horse onto the track. Torri’s horse scrambled to follow, while Dirk’s measured strides matched her horse, pace for pace. The Goodfellows, both on borrowed horses, trotted behind, surrounded by soldiers.

  For the first two days, they made good time along the marked trail, but after that, Dirk and Torri’s tracking skills were in high demand. Tiny signs were enough to send the party through narrow ravines, up steep rocky trails, or through mountain fields of springy bushes like miniature overgrown hedges.

  Sylvalla listened, trying to take in the details, but half the time she couldn’t even see what they were looking at. Anyway, the details weren’t important, what mattered was that both Dirk and Torri thought many of the Scotch Mist soldiers were leaving the main party. Dangerous, desperate men. Sylvalla hoped they’d go out of their way to avoid a confrontation, but everyone kept their eyes peeled and swords ready, just in case. Even Torri, who’d found a sword from somewhere and was practicing sparring in the evenings.

  The third day was slow and miserable. A thin mist of sleet whipped into their faces and slush covered much of the trail, but it was still better than dealing with politics.

  Behind the party, the wizards’ were becoming increasingly anxious. Their lowered voices and ponderous tones contributing to the general unease. If the wizards were worried, most figured it was reason enough to be terrified.

  Thunderbolt whinnied, stamping nervously. The soldiers closed in to give Sylvalla less room.

  What is it?

  Then she saw the wreckage of a days-old camp site. The charcoaled circles of dead fires, and the cast-aside carcasses of two half-eaten horses.

  Dirk ran ahead, tireless. Eyes alert for every crushed leaf, every rustle in the sparse undergrowth.

  “Wait!” Dirk yelled, holding out an arm.

  Thunderbolt almost skidded into Dirk.

  The young officer, his voice surprisingly imposing, called, “Company, halt!”

  The road was silent. Little tufts of bracken on the edges wavered tremulously in the wind. Everywhere Sylvalla turned, she saw shadows as she scanned the hillside. Any minute there would be swords at their throats, or arrows from the undergrowth…

  Nothing happened.

  “Proceed with caution,” the officer said, holding out his sword with a nonchalance his men were not quite managing to emulate. Sylvalla thought she could see something move just beyond the nearby cliff-face. Sun glinting off steel. She hoped it was her imagination.

  Torri turned and frowned, she’d seen them, too.

  “Ready your arms,” Sylvalla said. “Steady. Looks like we have a fight on our hands.”

  §

  Dalberth shivered. The cold of the mountains had taken a day or so to truly seep in. He hunkered close to his horse, and tried not to think about his feet, he couldn’t feel them most of the time, and when he could, they burned. Even King Phetero was cold, hunkering down on the saddle closer to Wraith, trying to keep an eye out for the mad wizard, Dothie who kept on ranting about how they should be leaving surprises for the witch-queen to find. Booby traps of some kind, presumably—but in truth he was creating more havoc amongst the Scotch Mist troops than he ever had for Avondale. At least half a dozen soldiers had been turned into fruit flies over the past three days. It was something that terrified Dalberth. And others presumably. So many of the men who’d started this expedition were now gone, and nobody could say how or why.

  Dalberth held tight to his horse and tried his damnedest not to be noticed. Dothie had even turned his own horse into a fruit fly, before discovering life with saddle sores was far superior to life wading through snow and snow-melt. After that, the wizard was as unpopular as a burning building. It was hard to say who was despised most—Dothie or Phetero. And still the men followed, scared of those who believed with a religious fervour the tales of ultimate glory, and that their king, a new god, would raise them up to live in power and privilege. Even Dothie had spoken at length about how fortunate they were to be here.

  But most of the soldiers Dalberth knew did not seem to care much for the proselytising, despite the promises of riches, power, and most anything they might want. Truth be told, even if they believed the stories of godhood, they did not see how a god would be in need of soldiers.

  Phetero geed his mount, brushing past Dalberth’s horse, and almost knocking over the soldier walking with the pennant in front. He was muttering about a strange place called A’lganathrieal, and being promised a place next to the gods.

  “Damn horse,” Phetero growled as Wraith slowed to a stutter in the snow. Clearly tired, the heavy warhorse stumbled again. Phetero whipped the poor creature. Wraith took half a dozen more awkward steps, before lurching sideways, sending Phetero spinning to the ground in a flurry of robes and a spray of snow.

  A gods-awful wail ricocheted off the barren mountains. His horse, screaming.

  Throwing off snow, Phetero rose to his feet, grappled with his sword hilt, and wrenched the blade free from its scabbard. Already, Wraith was trying to regain its feet. A big horse like that would be tired, but should be alright.

  Phetero started whacking it with his sword, ignoring Wraith’s screams as he hacked and yelled, “Damned, damned, useless horse!”

  When the last scream faded into a haunting echo, Phetero turned his blood-spattered face to Dalberth. Get me another one, or I’ll do the same to you.”

  Dalberth stood, frozen in horror. Before he knew it, his own horse had been requisitioned and he was trudging through the snow. His heart heavy and his feet near frozen, he mourned both horses, even as he wondered how much longer he could survive like this.

  §

  Sylvalla gripped Dragonslayer in her hand, aware of Torri beside her, not helpless, but certainly no warrior.

  Nobody moved. The silence seemed absolute.

  “What is it?” Torri whispered, breaking the silence.

  “I don’t know,” Dirk said. “I thought I saw something—somebody moving up there. “Everybody get your shields up, stay close, we’re heading for that overhang.”

  “I’ll climb up. If I sneak along that ridge I can see what’s happening, and check for traps,” Torri whispered, sliding off her borrowed horse and scrambling up the man-high rock face.

  Dirk put his finger to his lips, his hands waving in urgent, but not entirely comprehensible signals. The officer responded in kind, and two soldiers were hoisted above the lip to the side of the track after Torri.

  Waiting below, Sylvalla watched them disappear along a goat-track after Torri. Was the track too obvious? Did it lead to ambushers?

  A squeal echoed around the countryside.

  “Well, they’re a-goner,” Dirk said, with a cheerful fatality. It was no doubt only what everyone else was thinking, but Sylvalla really wished he hadn’t. She still wanted to hold on to hope.

  Dirk turned to Sylvalla. “My Queen, there is nothing for it, we’re sure to reach their roadblock soon, and when we do, we must stand and fight. Men, I say this rarely, in fact, not at all until now, but it has been an honour. We will stand and draw their stragglers in toward the fight, then, once they are committed, Sylvalla and I will punch through their lines. If you can keep up with us, then you may live till tomorrow.” Dirk saluted.

  “What?” Sylvalla said. “No. We can’t abandon Torri and those soldiers. They might still be alive.”

  “We will do what we must,” Mr Goodfellow senior muttered. “Remember, all the world is at stake. Torri would not want us waiting for her.”

  “And we may be able to help,” Jonathan said.

  “Just a moment,” Sylvalla said. The world diminished to a distant throbbing as Sylvalla scanned the ground ahead for movement, wracking her brain for another plan. A better plan. Something other than continue up the path and walk into an ambush.

  “All clear!” came a voice from above. It sounded like Torri.

  “Torri, is that you?” the officer asked.

  “If it is Torri, then where’re Ricky and Lars?”
Dirk demanded.

  At least Dirk knows the soldier’s names, Sylvalla thought, and wished she did too. Damn, but it was hard enough to keep up with wizards and warriors, without having to remember names and faces as well.

  “…Ricky… back with them, sir…wounded…Lars…...prisoner.” Torri was puffing so hard it was hard to hear what she was saying, but it didn’t sound good. The soldiers below gave each other flinty looks. Sylvalla recognised the “Do or die” hand-signal they passed each other.

  Dirk raised his hand for patience.

  Sylvalla tried to stay calm. It was hard not to rush in and rescue her men, but Dirk was right, they needed to know their enemy first.

  “If they know we’re here, there’s no point in trying to stay silent. So you might as well tell us what it is that they want. Surely they don’t think we’ll surrender.”

  “No.” Torri’s laughter rang out, echoing over the rock. “Ricky and Lars are looking after the wounded prisoners. There’s a couple more dead. Couldn’t help that. I mean, they weren’t to know.”

  “Weren’t to know what?”

  “They’re deserters. It wasn’t even an ambush—these guys are running away. They’re far more terrified of Phetero and Dothie, than of us.”

  “Hmph. And you believed them?”

  “I guess it could have been a trap. I see that now. But we made a call, and I think we were right. Back soon.”

  “Grimmo, go with her.”

  Grimmo, or whatever the heavily-muscled soldier’s real name might actually be, jumped up to obey Dirk’s order, lumbering across the open ground. Big and tough, he didn’t look the sort to believe in words. At least not without punching first.

  After a heart-arresting wait, Grimmo staggered back again, an injured man in his arms. Two other Scotch Mist prisoners were prodded forward at sword point by Ricky and Lars. “We captured them for you,” Ricky said proudly.

  “We were only trying to get home,” one of the men blurted. The hands which partially covered his face were blotchy and he was covered in sores. Snot ran from his nostrils and pink skin showed through tracks running down his cheeks. “I promise. We didn’t know.”