The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  And if that doesn’t frighten them, I don’t know what will.

  §

  Jonathan rushed to find his father. Surely the rumours spreading through the university like wildfire were lies and exaggerations.

  He didn’t get far before Potsie grabbed his robe. “Jonathan, you must beware. Get as far away as you can.”

  “What?” Jonathan said, worried the old wizard had finally cracked. “What do you mean?”

  Potsie adjusted his thick glasses and stared owlishly at Jonathan.

  “So the rumours are true?” Jonathan demanded.

  “What rumours?”

  “That the First Wizard is going to release Dothie?”

  “They’re going to put him on trial,” Potsie said.

  “Something they should have done much earlier.”

  “Perhaps,” Potsie said as Jonathan’s father appeared around the corner.

  “Jonathan, keep away from this, and keep away from me,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “If this goes badly, they’ll take you, too.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Jonathan said.

  “Then you are stupider than you look,” Potsie said, “because I’m terrified.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Mr Goodfellow senior’s head jerked, emphasising his obvious lie. “Please, just go. That way, if the worst comes, it’ll be easier for you to break me out.”

  “You can’t mean it,” Jonathan protested. “Not after everything you did to get me in here.”

  Capro put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And you've learned a lot. Pray that it’s enough.”

  The march of footsteps echoed on the wooden floors.

  “Go!” Capro flung Jonathan away.

  Jonathan stumbled. Ten black-cowled wizards headed toward his father.

  Open-mouthed, Jonathan watched as the wizards told Capro his rights.

  As they led him away.

  As his father disappeared around the corner.

  Jonathan wanted to protest, tell them they were wrong. That his father was innocent. But the words died in his throat. He’d helped capture Dothie, and if that was the supposed crime, then he was every bit as guilty as his father. Moreover, he wasn’t even a proper wizard yet. His words would mean nothing.

  He needed proof.

  Butterflies and Moth

  At first, having the wizard Emz’rial’s knowledge to call on had been a revelation. But now, after two days of riding with fifty-odd thieves and soldiers, the voice stomping at the back of Arrant’s head was persistent and whiny, like an accountant with a lost account. It made keeping an eye on Villyus and Zed more difficult.

  Worse, Arrant was starting to suspect the wily old devil was keeping knowledge and power to himself.

  Why would I do that? See how freely I’ve shared the secret magic of creating charms to ensorcel kings and bend them to our will? That’s far stronger magic than insignificant illusions and other wizard tricks.

  They must be close now; a glimpse of smoke from the forge fire could be seen from the road.

  A bend in the road revealed a fortified village surrounded by wooden stakes at man height. From here it looked no different from many of the other fortified villages on the outskirts of any of the kingdoms, just slightly less friendly, with a wall of gibbets—thankfully empty—clearly on display in front of its walls. In fact, it had been a small village until quite recently, when Villyus had seen the opportunity to make into a base of operations. It had been a fantastic training ground, and the perfect place for training up their burgeoning numbers of soldiers and keeping a few artisans on hand, including a master jeweller.

  It was the master crafter Arrant was truly here to visit. He could give his pep talk to his soldiers anywhere, but he needed someone truly talented to create the exquisite butterflies that fluttered in his head.

  As soon as they arrived, Arrant barged into the jeweller’s forge. The workroom was hot, the furnace dripping gold. Arrant gave the jeweller his trove of insanely-expensive jewellery, stolen from Phetero’s rooms, and Emz’rial’s plans detailing seven jewelled butterflies for the Seven Realms, and a death’s-eye moth for him. An ornament that would announce His Majesty wherever he went. An ornament through which the people entranced by the butterflies could be better controlled.

  “Flawless.” The jeweller sifted through the jewels, open-mouthed with awe. “But this will take weeks,” he protested, re-examining the plans.

  “No,” Arrant said. “It cannot.”

  Do not worry, the voice in his head said. We will place him in a singularity. Weeks will pass for him, but less than a day for us. Besides, it is the only way to keep him sane whilst staring at his creations.

  The jeweller was babbling. “An intricate piece of metalwork that flutters and catches the eye. Difficult, most difficult, still, they will be the most beautiful trinket any of the seven kingdoms has ever seen.”

  Of course. They have to be fit for kings. The most important one needs to be fit for a king of kings.

  Arrant smiled. “Each butterfly must have a blood opal at its heart, and mine must have this blood-red diamond.” He held the gem up. It pulsed with the glare of the furnace.

  “Exquisite, and cut so finely—this will be a magnificent piece.”

  “Good,” Arrant said, leaving the building before Emz’rial cast a kind of reverse Timelock on it. Not wanting anyone other than Emz’rial to hear, he mumbled the next line under his breath. “Isn’t a reverse Timelock dangerous? Will he still be alive when he comes out?”

  It barely matters, after he’s stared into the heart of those jewels, his soul will not be his own.

  Now, for those soldiers. It’s time to send them out to raid the outskirts of the seven kingdoms. We need the folks that live there thoroughly angry with the Witch Queen, Sylvalla, before we come knocking on their doors and offering them our support.

  “Yes, yes,” Arrant said.

  Zed and Villyus were waiting outside. “The uniforms are ready. They’ll be the spitting image of Avondale soldiers.”

  “Right, I’ll send the troops out now,” Arrant said, not wanting the ex-soldiers and thieves hanging around for too long, in case they organised themselves well enough to stab him in the back. “Call them.”

  “No need, sir, they’re waiting. They want to see the man who will free Scotch Mist and Avondale from the Witch Queen, so they can go home.”

  “Good.” Arrant strode up to the town square. The soldiers stood in five tidy groups. One for each kingdom—except Scotch Mist and Avondale.

  “Soldiers!” Arrant said. “Now is your time to shine. No more hiding in the shadows. The general whose squad gains the most notoriety and money will become commander of my army. Commander not just of Scotch Mist, not just of Avondale, but for the whole seven kingdoms. And we lucky few who have been outcast will rule it all!”

  The armies scrambled. Arrant had said nothing about territory, and they would each be wanting to grab the choicest tracts of land.

  Soon, only the thieves and Arrant’s soldiers were left. And Zed and Villyus.

  §

  Smoke rose into an almighty billow rising up into the sky. Trying to stay low in the grass, Sylvalla, Dirk and Torri crept up the hill and peered over the small mountain valley.

  Sylvalla was surprised to see not just a camp, but a village below surrounded by man-sized wooden stakes, nearly the same brown-grey as the local rock. Drab white tents were scattered within the boundary among the more permanent stone houses that were clustered, almost invisible, against the cliff.

  Even with Dirk limping, they’d found the raiders’ base within days, a bigger ring than they’d originally thought. Organised. The smoke was coming from the tall stone building near the centre of the village, probably the smithy.

  There’d been a lot of activity around the settlement recently, with muddy boot prints everywhere and food scraps tossed to the side of the road. Several large groups left as they were watching. Presumably going out raiding.

  Dirk
limped off to scout.

  He wasn’t gone long, but the smoke from the forge was already subsiding when Dirk returned. “They’re well set in. We could starve them out like a siege, we can parley, or we can offer ourselves to their arrows. But I don’t mind our odds, if we can get past the wooden stakes,” Dirk said. “It looks like most of them are out raiding. We’ve seen enough of them leave. If we can take this outpost, we can ambush each group as they return.”

  “Torri, we should expect treachery. What do you suggest?”

  “There’s three of us,” Torri said. “This is ridiculous. We should go back and get some help.”

  “We can’t,” Dirk said, pointing at the dying plume. “I think they know we’re here. Anyway, I already took their guards. They’ll know someone was around snooping—so by the time we get help, this lot will have disappeared into the mountains and we’ll be back where we started. It’s now or never.” Dirk pulled his sword.

  “Let’s go.” Sylvalla grinned as a reckless thrill burned through her.

  “This is far too big for us to take,” Torri hissed. “You two are crazy.”

  “Good to know,” Dirk said. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s a trap,” Sylvalla whispered. “This whole area was chosen because it’s a funnel into a central killing ground. If we want to live, we need them running in the wrong direction. A distraction. Torri, can you help with that?”

  “We’ve got to go, before they realise the guards are down.” Dirk scamper-limped toward the village.

  “I’ll make that distraction for you,” Torri said, scurrying up the slope.

  Dirk cut through the stake walls of the settlement and slipped inside. There were a lot of soldiers around, wearing motley blue-and-red-uniforms and acting more like this was a military barracks than a thieves’ outpost.

  Rocks started dripping down the cliff. They became a torrent, knocking clumps of the man-sized wooden stakes out of the ground, or cracking them into pieces. Yelling and screaming erupted from the houses. Too much of it from women and crying children. One way or another, this was a well-established settlement.

  Someone ran from the forge, carrying something in a sack. Arrant! He wasn’t the only one running. Villyus, her old crow of an adviser, and a pale man with a broken nose, were close behind. A rock barrelled toward Arrant.

  Sylvalla cheered, only to find he’d dodged the blow.

  “We have to get Arrant!” Sylvalla yelled. “Dothie’s slimy lapdog’s just there.”

  Dirk shook his head. “We’ll never make it.”

  §

  “We’ll be going soon,” Arrant told them, hurrying to the forge, eyes watering from the acrid smoke billowing from the chimney. “Stay back.”

  Careful, do not look straight at the chaos butterflies until I finish my incantation, Emz’rial insisted as Arrant went inside.

  The jeweller was slumped over the bench, his breathing shallow.

  Arrant badly wanted to look. But he controlled himself.

  It must not be interrupted for any reason, Emz’rial cautioned before reciting the long spell.

  Part way through, the relative silence was broken by the thundering of something large falling, and screams and yells echoing around the village.

  Zed and Villyus burst in.

  But Arrant stayed focussed, and let Emz’rial speak through him, until at last he could pick up the beautiful pieces and cradle them lovingly in his hands.

  “One for each of you,” he said, thrusting one into Zed’s and Villyus’ hands, and popping the rest in a small sack. “And keep your heads about you. Those creations will make you kings.”

  Puppet kings, Emz’rial thought.

  “Only if we make it out of here,” Villyus said. “The Witch Queen and Dirk are here, slaughtering our men.”

  “Well, let’s leave them to it,” Arrant said, emerging from the building. Rocks were falling down the mountainside, smashing through the village’s wooden stakes. Arrant ran.

  §

  The last thing Amarinda expected when she arrived at Avondale with the wounded was to be summoned by Queen Tishke. She quickly changed into the expensive clothing Sylvalla had gifted her, determined to look like a lady of the court. Queen Sylvalla, Queen of Avondale, Amarinda reminded herself. Tishke is just queen in title.

  She entered the drawing room, flanked by the escort Sylvalla had provided her, only to have the men summarily dismissed before she even got inside.

  Queen Tishke sat in her ornate chair by the fire, as if she was the queen of Avondale, and this her throne room. “We have a task for you,” Tishke pronounced, lacing her fingers together. “Go and see Cook.”

  “But, I can’t,” Amarinda said. “Sylvalla said—I—I’m a lady of the court.”

  “Not my court,” Tishke said. “You’re a scullery maid and an embarrassment. Can you see any of my ladies mucking out the wounded? No. You blew your opportunity. Now we need you on a mission. Cook will set you up. And for the love of the Seven, get changed into something more appropriate.”

  Amarinda nodded, trying to wish the flush of scarlet from her cheeks. Why was doing the right thing seen as unladylike?

  She left the room, trying to think of what she could do, but without Sylvalla’s help she was nobody. And Tishke, titular or queen or not, could do whatever she liked. This was a disaster. She’d only planned to stay long enough to get her patients settled with their families, set up a network so they could help themselves, and visit her old dad. Maybe, whatever the mission is, Cook can at least grant me a few days to do that.

  In the kitchens, the familiar smell of bread cooking and staff sweating over trays of mince pies brought back memories of hard work but, also, stolen treats.

  Cook raised an eyebrow. “So, yer back again. A birdie tol’ me Queen Tishke was less than ’appy.”

  “Queen Tishke should be happy. By the Seven, without me, many more good soldiers would have died. I saved them—”

  “Ter live as cripples?”

  “There’s worse things than having a gammy leg or one arm.”

  “Yer know tha’ wasn’t the old queen’s problem. It were that you, a scullery maid, outshone Sylvalla. She weren’t going to ’ave that. Anyways, how ’bout yer give me a hand collecting wine from the cellar?”

  Amarinda burst into tears on the cold stone stairway. “I’ve another life, now. I’m a lady and a physician.”

  “If yer make it out of this alive, you’ll ’ave whatever life yer want. That’s always been me promise. An’ you’ve never had a proper commission—just the one keeping an eye out on Sylvalla, an’ what did I ever hear back? Nothin’.”

  Safely in the cellar, with the door firmly closed, Cook got down to business. “There’re rumours Sylvalla wants to unite the Seven Kingdoms under a single banner—her own. It’s gone and made the other kingdoms frightened an’ restless. It’s not lookin’ good. Ambassadors missin’ or cast out. We need information. So yer job is to sneak into Northdale as a kitchen hand. Yer’ll be contacted for reports once a week—an’ if the news is really dire, an’ worth blowin’ yer cover, get back here, quick as yer can. But it better be as the world is ending stuff—or the mood Tishke is in, she might go ahead an’ hang you for treason.

  “With Sylvalla and so many of her trusted advisors in Scotch Mist and gallivanting up an’ down the countryside, we need more people keeping an eye on the other kingdoms.”

  Amarinda rolled her eyes. “Better and better.”

  “Stop frettin’ like a spoilt princess,” Cook said. “You’re needed, or I’d sneak yer back to Sylvalla meself. Yer think I don’t want you to be happy, girl, ’cause I do. But I also like staying alive. Holding on ter one kingdom’s been difficult enough. This is going ter be rocky. Until we get those diplomats workin’ again, we’re all in a lot more danger than most realise.”

  “Can I even see my family?”

  “Yes, go see your family for a day or two. And then, when you’re gone, don’ worry, I’ll be sure to ke
ep your dad and your siblings safe.”

  Was that a threat?

  Amarinda felt her cheeks warming. With great effort she bit down her anger. “Sylvalla will ask for me. What’ll you do then?”

  “Ah’ll say you’re visiting sick family. Now, come on, ’elp me with this cask, will yer? When we get to the kitchen you can let loose that tongue—tell everyone what yer think of me an’ storm out, understand?”

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Someone must have come down to see what was taking Cook so long.

  “You treacherous breach of common decency,” Amarinda yelled. “You think I’m going to help you? Like you can order me about? I’m going to go visit my family, and don’t expect me to come back!”

  Cook nodded and smiled. “Yer spoilt brat. Spent too much time la-de-dahing around with the princess. Think yer all above the likes of us now, don’t ya?”

  Amarinda stormed out—slamming the door in Cook’s face. Knowing her anger was sanctioned made the move feel hollow. The life she’d dreamed of had slipped through her fingers and there was nothing she could do about it, not without putting her family in danger.

  §

  Fighting back to back with Dirk, Sylvalla held back tears of frustration. Arrant was right here, and try as she might, she couldn’t fight her way through these deserters and thieves to take him down once and for all.

  Maybe Torri will see him and down him with her sling. It was a slim hope.

  Ow! Focus.

  Her leg had been slashed. An ex-soldier if she was to guess by his technique.

  Parry. Riposte. Stroke after stroke, Sylvalla worked deliberately. She had to make every stroke count. Fortunately, they weren’t all soldiers. Still, if Torri was going to help them like she’d promised, she’d better manage something better than rocks, and she’d better do it quick! Blood poured from several cuts and slashes. Still, the enemy were doing far worse than that.

  “Surrender,” Sylvalla yelled, wishing she had Francis’ sword. Her sword was good, it might even glow a little from time to time, but it didn’t proclaim her as anything but a proficient fighter. She chopped off the arm of the person closest. “We will spare the lives of any who surrender!”