The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Sylvalla couldn’t help but notice that what they didn’t know wasn’t elucidated. “You didn’t know what?”

  “We thought we were free,” the wretched man said. “We thought we could just... Dammit, we were almost…and then...Dammit.”

  So they were deserters. Sylvalla could hardly blame them.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like it’s us that are going to die today,” Dirk said, and raised his sword. “Excuse me, My Lady—”

  “Don’t kill him!”

  “Why ever not? We can hardly let any of them go.”

  “No. You’re right, but I won’t have them murdered either. Not in cold blood.”

  Annoyed as Dirk was, and continued to be, Sylvalla’s decision had been made, and she would not budge on it.

  “You’ve gone soft,” he muttered. “Where’s my warrior princess?”

  A Gift

  Dalberth wasn’t the only one who’d lost a horse during this trip. Now, the horses only carried important people, and things for important people. Dalberth wasn’t important. Now he was no longer part of the cavalry he was just a substitute for the poor dead boy who’d once carried his regiment’s standard. Half frozen in the wind, the pennon snapped and bit at him like a live thing.

  At least he had his bags, heavy and warm against his back. Even their crushing weight represented comfort and hope.

  Someone kicked him, “Come on, man. Stop dozing. Almost there.”

  Dalberth quickened his steps. “By the Seven, it’s cold tonight,” he muttered, peering at the tips of his fingers, and tried to pry his hands and their binding of frozen cloth from the standard’s wooden pole. They didn’t feel right, but he knew better than to complain to the officer who rode past, or take the risk of tying another piece of material around his hands. He dared not drop the banner. Men had been killed for infractions far less serious.

  Oh, but it was icy. The cold wrapped around him and burrowed into his bones. Maybe tomorrow, somebody else would carry it. With this warm thought, Dalberth dreamed momentarily of spring sunshine and laying upon the daisy-strewn grass. Surely nobody would notice if he just took a little nap?

  Sheer folly. Like his dreams of desertion. Dalberth gritted his teeth and kept on walking... A nice roaring fire.... Food around a campfire... somewhere dry to sleep...

  His walking dream was quickly broken as an officer marched up and leered evilly. “Soldiers. We’re setting up camp. Dalberth, you’re on guard duty tonight.”

  Dalberth ducked his head, and bit his tongue before he could say, “Shall I die out there today, too? Would that make you happy, sir?”

  No roaring fire, no comfort—and cold scraps, if anyone remembered to bring the sentries food at all. No! Better to die out there, in the snow, alone.

  Better to escape.

  Better to hope.

  Up until now, he’d been too frightened to consider it seriously—lacking only the resolve of a near-certain death. Not even the fear of leaving his family in the hands of an unknown tyrant like Sylvalla had convinced him to abandon his oaths to his king.

  Dalberth looked about at the soldiers scurrying to raise tents. The camp was not so big, far smaller than it had been on the way to Avondale—and even smaller than when they’d set out. Escape must be possible. Others had done it—probably.

  He planted the standard in the snow. Then, too scared to look, in case he truly had the deadly black-finger, Dalberth shoved his hands into his cloak and shuffled over to the guard post. The dreadful throbbing as his hands oscillated from burning cold to numbness was like the last straw breaking over and over again.

  King be damned, oath be damned, it had long been broken, and not by him. Phetero had abandoned his people and run. If Dalberth wanted something to fight for, and hands to fight with, he needed to go back now. He circled the camp, trying to ignore the gnarled tree that already contained the bodies of two failed deserters.

  I will not fail.

  In the centre of the camp tents sprang up like dirty giant mushrooms. Outside of this a perimeter of stakes were erected—half-heartedly. Phetero would have had earthworks and fortifications, but even the officers had politely ignored that request. No matter what Sylvalla had achieved with the damned things, they were firmly insistent that a soldier was a man and not a mole and so should not be expected to dig in the earth. They were more used to walls to hide behind while large masses of underlings waved pointy things and collided in an unseemly haste to meet their maker. Far more sporting.

  Dalberth risked a quick look back. His commanding officer had disappeared. Good.

  Eyeing the perimeter, he gaged the distance between scout stations and the holes in the pike wall, searching for the best way to get out,

  Past the fire, through there, behind the bush and—no, too dangerous.

  There has to be a way.

  Up near ridgeline, through the scrubby patches of bush peeking through the snow...he scuttled toward the break.

  A hand clapped down upon his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?

  Dalberth squawked, “I was look—” the words trailed off to incoherent babble as whatever he was about to say left his head. The Thurgle was emerging from a tent, paring his nails with a handy sword.

  “Fool!” The man behind him whispered in his ear. He shoved Dalberth forward. “I’ve been watching this one all day. Always thought he’d do a runner.”

  “You bastard,” Dalberth hissed over his shoulder, recognising the voice of the officer who’d given him the standard, and then duty. “You...” he turned, trying to summon enough spit for contempt, but he was too slow, the officer pushed him to the ground and kicked him.

  More men joined in. He covered his face with his arms. Time passed in a haze of red and white flashes before someone grabbed Dalberth by the back of the shirt and dragged him inside. The thurgle. Gods the thing was huge.

  “This is a mistake, I...” Dalberth said as he was dropped to the floor. He desperately needed to convince Phetero he was no deserter, but King Phetero and the wizard Dothie, were too busy arguing about some sort of trap or attack.

  “Oh dear, another deserter?” Phetero said tiredly, finally deigning to acknowledge Dalberth. “There was a time when I enjoyed it as their legs kicked from the gibbet. Now it merely bores me. Maybe we should try that idea of yours”

  Dothie smiled.

  Dalberth cringed. That smile was pure evil. “I didn’t—”

  “Like I care,” Phetero said. “Still, it is a pity we didn’t think to bring the royal torturer.”

  “This will be better.” Dothie smirked. “Punishment and payback in one package.”

  “Maybe you are right,” Phetero said. “It’s just a pity I can’t be there when the princess receives our little gift.”

  §

  As they set up camp for the evening, Dirk had a horrible feeling something about this adventure was wrong.

  It wasn’t that they were following an army and had little to no hope of surviving. It wasn’t that the weather was a little cold—after all, he’d been born in the mountains.

  For a start, Sylvalla seemed to have gone soft on him. She, and the other soldiers who should know better. Why insist on taking stupid risks like keeping prisoners alive? It was driving him crazy. The upcoming battle would be difficult enough, without playing nursemaid to over a dozen of Phetero’s deserters... And, as none of the deserters they’d captured had horses, they were seriously slowing the party down.

  Sylvalla’s eyes were less bright. Jonathan also appeared worn. At least Capro hadn’t much changed—he was complaining right now, as irascible as ever, while somehow enjoying his own bad humour.

  “I should have retired to the quiet life of a university hermit long ago. If only somebody else in the world had half as much sense, then they’d have the un-heralded job of looking after you lot,” Capro said with a chuckle in his throat. Just imagine it—my only difficulty would be finding a nice tropical beach to mark my term papers from.”
/>
  Dirk rushed away to avoid him and ran into Grimmo and Ricky and Lars half-carrying yet another deserter.

  And I had such high hopes for Grimmo, Dirk thought.

  “Look what we found crawling around out there.” Grimmo waved at a patch of scrub clinging grimly to the side of the mountain.

  Shock registered on the man’s face just before he was dropped—a little more carefully than usual—onto the ground. Two badly broken legs by the look of it.

  The man struggled for a moment, as if he might get up, before Grimmo kicked him (rather gently) and he stayed down.

  At least Grimmo’s good at playing tough.

  “A spy?” Dirk said, doing his best to keep his face devoid of emotion.

  Again that shocked expression from the prisoner—of wide-eyed innocence and unfocussed terror mixed into one. His fingers discreetly curled into the Eye of Protection as Queen Sylvalla ran up to see what the commotion was.

  Grimmo shook his head. “Spy? I don’t think so. He’s too wretched to be a spy. He’s just another deserter. What’s your name, deserter?”

  “Dalberth,” the prisoner snapped.

  §

  Dalberth’s eyes bulged. He’d just told a witch his name! He struggled for breath.

  “Poor bugger,” Grimmo spat distastefully.

  “And how did he manage to break both his legs?” Dirk asked. It was a weird question for the bloodthirsty warrior. Why the heck did he care if his victim had the use of his legs or not?

  “Wasn’t us,” Grimmo piped up.

  “Whatever. If he’s got no information he’s not much use to us.” Dirk strode up to the wretch, sword singing from its scabbard.

  “Don’t even think about it!” Sylvalla growled, grabbing Dirk’s arm and yanking it.

  “Don’t be soft, Milady, he’s the enemy,” Dirk said with a meaningful glare.

  Dalberth wished he knew what the meaning was.

  Sylvalla glared back at Dirk, real anger shining through. “Phetero is the enemy,” she stated with unmistakable contempt. “This man’s just a...”

  “A liability? Milady,” Dirk said, swishing his sword so it hovered above Dalberth’s pulsing jugular.

  Dalberth closed his eyes. It seemed easier to die than to suffer any longer.

  “Aren’t you going to tell us vital information?” Dirk asked. “It might save your life.”

  Dalberth swallowed carefully, while racking his brains. What do I know of any importance? Nothing. Surely nothing that could save my life, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt—too much—to try. “Er, Phetero and his wizard are heading toward something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not...” he gulped as Dirk’s fists tightened around his sword. “Some say King Phetero is rushing toward a source of great power. Some say that we are on a wild boar chase and some form of deviltry has driven the King mad, possessing him with a false hope.”

  “But the Scotch Mist soldiers still follow him?” Sylvalla blurted.

  “A king possessed by deviltry is one thing, but a witch—I mean, woman.” Dalberth looked sideways and swallowed again. “A... a woman who fights... It’s...um.... They say it is wrong. They say...” Dalberth hiccupped in a feeble attempt at laughter. “They say Syl— a witch will take the soul from any man, should he but look at them.”

  “Enough! That is not the kind of information with which your life can be bought.”

  Dalberth felt the pressure of Dirk’s sword. A trickle of blood wended its way down to the snow. What do I know that they could possibly want?

  “I can tell you how many men...”

  “That, we already know.”

  “I…I have heard the king has nine candles, and he talks to them. Ancient gods, Nameless and terrible.”

  “Nameless? So, you cannot name them then, can you?” Dirk’s gaze fell more piercing than any arrow.

  Embarrassingly, a tremor of fear ran through Dalberth’s body.

  They’re just playing with me. Any minute now I’ll be killed or tortured or worse. Who knows what the witch queen is capable of?

  “Again, I say you cannot tell us anything we do not already know,” Dirk said.

  Dalberth opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “I don’t suppose you could tell me anything of the wizard’s companions,” Sylvalla prompted. “A scrawny boy, bit of a country hayseed, acts stupid but isn’t?”

  Dalberth shook his head minutely, this time without the shiver. His eyes lit up. “The Thurgle...”

  “Is known to us.”

  “Anything else?” Sylvalla pressed.

  “Um.”

  “Anything else?” Dirk raised his sword high.

  Dalberth shook.

  “Oh well,” Dirk said.

  Dalberth struggled ineffectually. “Sorry,” he babbled. “Sorry, sorry…” knowing the apology would never change their minds. If he wanted a clean death, he needed to be brave, and make the final blow easy—but Dirk’s sword whistling through the air was too much for Dalberth to take, he flinched.

  The blow did not land. By the time Dalberth had dared look Dirk had returned his sword to its scabbard. “I guess we have another prisoner. At least this one will have trouble running away, or killing us all in our beds,” he muttered. “Get the medic to splint those legs before you put him in the tent with the others.”

  Grimmo and Ricky dragged Dalberth off to a small tent, yelling. “Come out, we have wounded.”

  The doctor peeked out, the alcohol on his breath enough to make Dalberth’s eyes water. “My god, I’m not dealing with this one until he’s had a bath. Go sort him out.”

  One of the scouts sighed. “This job’s going to take all night.”

  §

  Dirk frowned. The meeting with Dalberth had rattled him, and for the life of him he didn’t understand why. It was time he had a quiet chat with the Goodfellows. They were so full of secrets, those two. And riddles. You never knew if what they weren’t telling you was something you might need to know yesterday.

  Where are they? He must have been searching for about an hour in the dark by the time he finally found the Goodfellows whispering with Torri.

  What are they up to? It bothered Dirk that Torri appeared to prefer to share her secrets with the wizards than him.

  He strode up. “I’m sorry, can I please have a moment of your time, Goodfellows.”

  “What is it? We’re busy,” Mr Goodfellow Senior snapped.

  “We just caught a prisoner—”

  “Another prisoner.” Jonathan shrugged and turned back to his conversation with Torri.

  “This one seemed odd,” Dirk insisted.

  “How, odd?” Mr Goodfellow Senior, asked, suddenly interested.

  “A soldier shouldn’t look so…innocent.”

  Old Capro’s forehead wrinkled. “Could you bring him to me? No, on second thoughts, I’ll come with you.”

  They looked in the surgeon’s hut. The healer and his two guards had been struck unconscious by heavy blows, but they were, surprisingly enough, still breathing.

  Dalberth was gone.

  “He seemed so innocent,” Dirk said, and even as he said it, he wondered what had happened to his cynicism.

  Capro’s eyes scanned the terrain.

  “And badly hurt,” Dirk added as if trying to convince himself of something.

  “How badly hurt?”

  “His legs were broken, and he...”

  “Was left in the snow for you to find.” Capro swung around to stare fiercely at Dirk. “I don’t suppose you looked into this man’s eyes?”

  “Yes, they were...”

  “Wide and slightly unfocussed?”

  Dirk nodded.

  “Dammit. Where’s Sylvalla?”

  “She was...” Dirk turned. “I left her with guards. She’s back...”

  A scream echoed. Not of terror, but of hurt and anger. Dirk turned the corner to see the semi-reclined bodies of two guards. No time to hesitate, the clangour of steel on
steel rang out from inside the tent.

  “He’ll be as strong as three men,” Capro said as Dirk ran to the tent. “Possibly stronger. And whatever you do, don’t kill him, whatever else he is, he is in fact—innocent. Let us deal with the demon.”

  Dirk was already pushing his way through the tent door, past dead guards, smashed crockery and overturned furniture, testament to the struggle inside. Sylvalla, her hands slick with blood, was trying to duck away from her assailant.

  Dirk’s eyes boggled; the man held, not a sword, or likely Sylvalla would already be dead, but a broken tent-pole of all things. Frenzied blows cracked down around Sylvalla with a terrible inaccuracy—only surpassed by the even more terrible force involved. Why hadn’t she simply stuck him with the sword? But of course she had. That’s where all the blood was coming from—Dalberth.

  Kicking a table aside, Dirk waded through the devastation toward Sylvalla, dimly aware of Capro behind him, yelling, “Careful! Dirk stay away! Leave him to me! By the Mother Hen, why won’t anybody listen!?”

  Choosing to interpret this request in his own way, Dirk got behind the assailant and kicked him in the back.

  The flesh that was Dalberth’s fell forward, caught a chair with his shoulder, and fell headlong to the floor.

  Capro winced, but the fall hardly gave the demon inside Dalberth pause. It rolled to get up, and swiped at Sylvalla with the broken pole.

  Dirk kicked Dalberth’s hand. Bones crunched.

  “Stop!” Capro yelled. He pulled some withered stalks free from his cloak.

  Dirk hesitated, but the thing inhabiting Dalberth did not pause. It swept the pole in an arc. Dirk and Sylvalla both had to duck.

  Dirk raised his sword—

  “Sleep!” Capro said in a commanding voice.

  The room filled with the perfume of lavender in summer and Dalberth fell like a stone. Dirk, Torri and Sylvalla looked around with heavily lidded eyes.

  Sylvalla collapsed to the floor.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve been taking your magic antidote regularly, Sylvalla,” Capro said with a sigh.

  Dirk’s sword dropped from his fingers. “I’m not sure that’s the problem,” he said, scooping Sylvalla into his arms and laying her on the bed.