The Sylvalla Chronicles
Page 47
Phetero’s laugh echoed around the chamber. “Fools, the power is mine. You are too late, all of you. Nobody can hope to stand against the god I am becoming. Watch, and bow down, mortal fools, as I take up my destiny!” Reaching upward in his triumph, Phetero welcomed the thing as it swept toward him, highlighting him in splendiferous light...before it ripped him apart. Phetero disappeared, replaced by gobbets of blood and ichor that spattered across the room.
Dothie and Fergus ran, fleeing before the demonic creature that stretched out its tentacles. Dothie used his last remaining magic to throw an illusion of himself and sidestep Dirk.
Part of Sylvalla wished she could follow them as she wiped Phetero’s gore off her face with one hand, screaming fury. Whatever she was fighting here was beyond anything she’d ever seen before. Anything she’d imagined.
A breath of movement.
A tentacle reached for her.
Sylvalla exploded into action, somersaulting sideways on instinct alone.
The tentacle whipped down again, fast as fear. Putrid air whistled as the pseudo-limb slammed down, sending her tumbling over and over on the blood-slicked floor.
“By the dragon, Asumgeld!” Sylvalla cried as the tentacle dove for her once again. This time, Dragonslayer burst into life.
Thank goodness. Maybe Jonathan braking the slate had done something, after all.
Full size, Dragonslayer glinted in the semi-darkness, sucking in the evil glow of the Rieal, and turning it back on the thing that had ripped its way into the world.
Otherworldly shrieks, one and many, penetrated the cavern. They were more of outrage than despair. But Sylvalla was a sword well-forged, and their pause was all she needed before regaining her courage and running at the creature.
Capro intoned, “Depart now, go back to the—”
Sylvalla rushed the thing, piercing deep into one of its many appendages. It shrieked, coiling back a sinuous limb to strike a vicious blow on Sylvalla, throwing her backward. She landed like a rag-doll, sprawled across the ground.
She had wounded the demonic thing. A tangled collection of writhing limbs, the pustulent creature shambled toward her, one sucking, grasping limb at a time.
Dirk leapt into the fray, sword drawn.
Mr Goodfellow Senior was yelling. “Go back to the hells where you belong.” Hopefully his yelling was accomplishing something—even if it didn’t seem to be.
A limb slammed into Dirk’s sword, and was severed. Still, Dirk was knocked back by the stump. He tumbled toward Sylvalla.
The ground pooled with green ichor.
Sylvalla rose.
Dirk rose.
They glanced at each other, and together, attacked the creature, forcing it backward. Green ichor sprayed as Sylvalla managed to sever another limb. It was a short lived victory, as yet another tentacle whipped up from the depths, crashing into her.
Sylvalla’s world exploded into darkness and pain. The tentacle’s hooks buried in her side did not let go. They began dragging her toward the chasm. Blindly she lashed out with one last hit.
She felt her sword sink in, and heard the shriek more terrible than time itself. She was free.
“Sylvalla?” Mr Goodfellow Senior’s voice came from so far away. “The creature’s gone.”
Sylvalla turned to thank him, but her head wobbled and her hands dropped. Her eyes were so swollen she could barely see. Her hands were empty. “Dragonslayer,” she cried, scrabbling blindly on the floor. “Where is it? It fell! It must have. Where is it?”
The cavern was clear; the smell and the cold seeping back into the rock.
Jonathan was also yelling, “We must find a way to get that Thing back and destroy it once and for all.”
“It is gone,” Mr Goodfellow Senior said, his voice stricken. “Surely we saw it go back into the void?”
Jonathan shook his head. “I fear the Damned have been released. Possibly even the two godlets. The prophecies are to be fulfilled, after all. We have failed.”
“But we won,” Dirk said. “The creature is gone. And if it survives, I do not think it is coming back.”
“The creature was never the real danger,” Jonathan said, his voice ringing with an uncanny conviction. What had the old wizard done to him? Since he’d come back he’d been so weird. He’d hardly even talked about money at all.
“Ah, yes,” Mr Goodfellow Senior muttered. “How about we call this a victory and run? Without the demons to sustain it, this place will soon be no more.”
Sylvalla shook her head. The cave rocked by tremors, she still insisted, “I will not go without Dragonslayer.”
“Dammit! We’ve got to run!” Dirk insisted.
“Not until I find my sword,” Sylvalla said, obstinately searching, although the pain of moving was like being hit by a sledgehammer, over and over again.
The ground shook harder.
A rock began its fall down from the ceiling.
Kathunk.
Other rocks fell, encouraging their fellow rocks to do the same. The noise grew rapidly until it was jaw-shattering, as if invisible hands were pulling the cave apart.
“Sylvalla, forget the sword.” Capro pulled at her. “You are the Sword. Now, run!”
The noise of granite drums lost their rhythm and became thunderous. The altar shattered.
Dirk yanked at Sylvalla. “We have to chase Dothie and Fergus, we can’t let them get loose. Not again.”
Still numb with shock, Sylvalla continued searching for her sword, until a heavy rock ricocheted off her shoulder.
The blast of pain was enough for Sylvalla to have an epiphany—caves are not a safe places when the rocks they are made of desire to inhabit the same space as you.
Sylvalla ran.
Loss
Phetero was dead.
Dothie did not grieve for him. The king had been a fool. Fergus was also a fool, but a fool who knew when to run. Dothie chased after the Thurgle, relief coursing through him as he burst into the sunlight—and snagged his foot. A tripwire! He stumbled and fell.
Toots managed to hold on, hissing angrily, his claws digging into Dothie’s shoulder so hard blood trickled down from his rent tunic.
All around, Scotch Mist soldiers were trussed up. Fergus was being manhandled by half a dozen Avondale warriors.
“There!” A girl yelled. “Quick! Forget the Thurgle.”
What in all hells was a girl doing out here? Besides Sylvalla, of course.
The soldiers hurried to follow her instructions, breaking off the fight with the thurgle, who bounded off free, and rushing Dothie.
Dothie hurried to rise, throwing an illusion.
Before he could get far, a soldier’s pack caught his midriff and sent him sprawling again, the air knocked from his lungs. A fluke, but now they knew where he was and the whole dozen or so were closing in.
Using the last of his strength, Dothie threw another illusion and stumbled down the track and away from the soldiers.
§
Sylvalla lurched out of the tunnel.
“Watch out,” Torri called, reaching out for something. A trip wire.
“Thanks,” Sylvalla said, rushing over to hug Torri.
“What was that for?”
Sylvalla shrugged. “Have you got Dothie?”
“That way,” Torri pointed. “I’m sorry. He got past. So did the Thurgle.”
“You’ve done a great job.” Sylvalla surveyed the trussed-up Scotch Mist soldiers. “They can’t have gone far.”
Torri pointed down the trail. “We almost had him, but we thought it safer not to split up.”
“Good plan,” Sylvalla said. She pointed over the rise. “I think that’s him, on that snowy ridge.”
“He hasn’t got far,” Dirk observed. “Let’s see if we can get him.”
Sylvalla, Torri and Dirk set out, leaving the soldiers behind.
§
The wizards soon overtook Sylvalla, Dirk and Torri to get to Dothie first. They found Dothie, not a mile away, shaking f
rom exhaustion.
Dothie’s lizard lashed his tail from side to side, pink mouth wide open to reveal sharp white teeth as it hissed its anger.
“So much for endless power and world domination,” Capro said, hands on hips.
Dothie scowled.
“All such dreams are dust in the end.” Capro shook his head in a terrible attempt at empathy. “Even though you called those things, you could never have tamed them to your will.”
Dothie shook his head. “You are nothing. I will be a god. In time, you will see why they have chosen me and not the weakling, Phetero.”
Capro called over his shoulder for some help with this recalcitrant prisoner, to find Dirk already there.
“Dirk, please, help me bring this criminal to justice.”
“Justice?” Dirk muttered. “Death is justice for the likes of him. I say we kill him now. Sylvalla can always try him later and make it official.”
“No. He is a wizard. I am a wizard. I must follow our laws.”
“Fine, you deal with him then,” Dirk snapped. “I’ve had enough of your wizard laws. I’ll look after the princess. Her sword was everything to her, you know, and now it’s gone.”
“Fool, Sylvalla is The Sword.”
“Am I invisible?” Sylvalla asked, furious. “I am not a child, so do not talk about me as if I’m not here.”
Torri nodded, backing Sylvalla up. She turned toward Dothie. “Why doesn’t he run away? Shouldn’t we—?”
“He is very weak now,” Capro said. “Magic is like that, even little bits can exhaust a wizard, and Dothie has used his far too freely. I doubt he’ll be up to much for a quite some time. But even so, perhaps you are right. Stand back.”
Mr Goodfellow Senior took a deep breath. “Jonathan, just follow my lead and lend me a little of your power. Dirk, if you could hold the prisoner for a moment.” The old wizard pulled up a vial and a piece of twisted wire. He dunked the wire seven times until there was a thick film of fluid that glittered like a rainbow. He began to blow a bubble. Larger and larger it grew, until it was the size of a dog.
Jonathan caught it—a rainbow of colours shimmering under his fingers, and together the two wizards stretched and moulded the surface, until the bubble was large enough to easily contain Dothie.
“Right, shove him in...now!” Capro called.
Dirk complied, muscles bulging. Torri leant a hand. Sylvalla pushed a little, but her wounds burned like fire.
Dothie hardly budged.
Jonathan swept one of Dothie’s feet from under him. Still Dothie did not fall, his eyes boring into those who were trying to restrain him, lips moving to the incantation of his favourite spell.
Sylvalla stepped back. She dropped her good shoulder and barged in, with all her remaining strength.
At last, Dothie lost his equilibrium and fell headlong into the bubble.
For a moment the wizard looked like he’d fall straight through, and out the other side—but when he reached the concave interior wall of the bubble, he bounced.
Jonathan whooped with joy. “Got you and your revolting familiar, you evil-fruit-fly-transmogrifying, magic-defiling, toad-of-a-magician.”
Sylvalla smiled through her tears. She might have lost her sword, but she’d helped save the world from the evil king and his wizard. This time, she was determined there would be celebrations with her friends and allies, and she’d enjoy every moment.
But before she did anything else, she needed to sleep. She lay down on the spot, and for once her dreams were good—nothing but celebrations and sparring with friends, and the wizards setting off fireworks in her honour.
Epilogue:—
The First Wizard coughed, breaking into Capro’s monologue with a pompous, “So this is the infamous Dothie, eh?”
“He’s more than infamous. He almost—”
“I can see what a pathetic creature he is. Look at him. What about the girl? How is she?”
The girl? He means Sylvalla.
“Queen Sylvalla is dancing. The people of Scotch Mist can recognise a hero when they see one. She is their darling. They call her Liberator, and Bringer of Life. I believe they will be praising her name for some time.”
“Your doing, old man? I hope not. You know the rules. Although you break them all the time. Just like you did with that boy, Francis. He’s living it all up in Scotch Mist now, isn’t he?”
“He did a fine job looking after the place in Queen Sylvalla’s absence.”
“Whatever. We have other things to consider right now. You’re taking all this nonsense about the Nameless Evil too seriously. I hope you will not always feel the need to be so melodramatic.”
Mr Goodfellow Senior shook his head and looked into the eyes of his questioner. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Liar. There are always reasons. Still, Mr Goodfellow Senior held his tongue.
In that uncomfortable silence, Dothie’s eyes opened. He looked at the two men.
The movement startled Capro from his thought—
“He can’t hear us, can he?” A sharp note of fear was audible in the whisper. Chancellor of Bairnsley University and First Wizard he might be, but he was still just a youngling as far as Capro was concerned.
“I don’t think so,” Capro answered, ignoring the man’s embarrassed laughter. “But that doesn’t mean we should relax. As far as I’m aware, nobody has ever voluntarily stepped into one of those things—so it’s difficult to know exactly what the prisoner is aware of. Wizards are quite good at obfuscating, and not just the evil ones.”
Mr Goodfellow Senior took a deep breath and stepped toward the door. “Come on, First Wizard, I think it’s time we left.”
§
The First Wizard stepped out of the room, his curiosity aflame. What was it about this wizard and his reptilian familiar that frightened his old rival into making such foolish mistakes?
He'd be back to find out.
Soon.
THE END
§
All good stories must come to an end, but on the positive side you can begin reading Omens, the last book of the Sylvalla Chronicles, now.
Appendix:
Bibliography
Dothie: The Man, the Myth, the Magician and the Monster
Professor G. L. Bull
Fairly University Press
Etiquette for Princesses
Marion Richman
Young Ladies League
The Great Gyger’s Book of Yllusions
Cornelis Steiwai
One Stone Books
Heroism in the Age of Chivalry
A P Ocrypha
Ersatz Fancees
In the Nature of Magic
Hugh Write
Bairnsley Press
Kiss and Tell: Sylvalla’s Governess tells all
Angelica Swiftkick
Old Ladies League
Magic, Sixth Edition
Bairnsley University Staff
Bairnsley University Press
Make your own Medieval Devices, fun for nine years and older
Unknown
Ancient Text
The Princess Diaries
Sylvalla, Queen of Avondale
Unpublished
The Natural Habitat of the Thurgle
Erasmus Stylo
Discover Books
Thurghue: Everything You Need to Know and More
MacKenzie Quinn
Bairnsley Press
The True Nature of Chaos
Ian Malcolm
Butterfly Press
Why Morpholags Turn Bad
Dr G. White
Antget Morebere University Press
Wizarding Today
Bairnsley University Press
Sylvalla Prophecies:
Please note that the wording of the following prophecies can be inconsistent. Whether this is due to scribe error or variations from the prophets themselves has been much debated. Even so, I believe my comment about poetry and
good taste in Quest was apt, and that is my last word on the matter.
Maretta Prophecy 7: Shadows
Words lie—
Twisted upon themselves,
Open to the void,
Open to the chasm,
To the noisome pits of hell.
For in this battle
words are
the darkest shadows of all.
Maretta Prophecy 37: Word To the Hero:
Seek ye the Morpholag and destroy it
But beware the mother who succours it
Flee the tempest when it finds thee
& bound to paths that cannot win free
Lose all there is to lose
From your victory will come ashes
The ashes hold the sword.
Mighty are the fallen three
Death stalks, evil walks,
My words,
My gift to thee.
Maretta Prophecy 42: A Moment
When reality is cut asunder
And made anew
When the world cries out for Heroes
And Death awakens
When Evil slithers through
The cracks of Truth
Then comes a moment,
A call
Then comes a simple illusion that breaks its bonds
And becomes.
Maretta Prophecy 73: Go Forth:
Go Forth Old Man
& Seek The Maid.
Lest Ye Arrive
And find the World Laid
To Waste,
To Ashes,
To the Fiery Breath of Hade.
Prophecy 231: Prophecy
Prophecy,
Cursed prophecy,
An unclear glimpse into an uncertain world.
Shun them all you please
Disavow, and remain ignorant until the end
Until the things once prophesied come true
And terror stalks in the wake of words,