by A. J. Ponder
“And who exactly would this witness be?” the judge asked.
“One Dalberth, previously a foot-soldier of Scotch Mist. The man was subject to minor possession.”
“Huh? Possession of what?”
His companion whispered in his ear.
“…Oh.” The judge shuffled papers.
“Dothie summoned a demon to possess said Dalberth. I’m sure the victim will testify.”
Up among the peers, angry cries against Dothie were drowned out by outrage that Mr Goodfellow senior had hidden a prophet.
“Why has this been hidden?”
“The old goat Capro thinks he’s above us all!”
“Hiding a conduit to prophecy is a crime!”
Mr Goodfellow senior could not help but reflect that the accusations against him were not unfounded. But while Dalberth had been recovering, he hadn’t needed a whole lot of wizards hanging on his every word. Besides, the university had everything they needed. “I think you’ll find that’s an oversight on your part. Dalberth has a scribe and his prophecies are filed in the prophets section of the library, just as they should be.”
Dothie licked his lips. Even Toots looked wary, the creature cocking its head sideways to take a better look at Mr Goodfellow senior before Dothie spoke. “First Wizard, it’s clear Mr Goodfellow is clutching at straws. This completely new, and very serious charge, is simply not true.”
“Of course it’s true,” Mr Goodfellow senior snapped. “Although, the charge is nothing compared to what Dothie tried to do at Altrghein…(Capro winced, the word was so tricky it was almost unpronounceable.) …“A’lganathrieal. The place of exile.”
The judge murmured, “Surely, you mean Atarlganathrieal?”
“No, that’s the corrupted version. Mine is correct.”
The judge humphed as if mere pronunciation was beneath him—not a credible stance for a wizard. “This is a separate charge of corporeal possession. We can set a new date. In the meantime, your disruption of the proceedings is noted, as is the charge of hiding a prophet. The council is adjourned. Wizard Dothie, you may consider yourself confined to the university building.”
“What,” Capro spluttered. “What? I haven’t finished.” He looked over to Potsie. Surely if there was one wizard in this building whom he could trust to stand up against danger, it was old Potsie.
But Potsie made a run for the door. He was long gone by the time it slammed closed behind him.
Does he know what’s at stake, or is he just running away?
§
Dalberth
NAME: Dalberth.
CLASS: Soldier
FAMILIAR: Horses
SPECIALTY:None
RÉSUMÉ:A fine soldier, prophet and businessman.
PASSED:Archery, Horsemanship, Sword Fighting
There was a knock on Dalberth’s door. Not Jonathan, or Jonathan’s father, but a short-sighted old academic peering through thick glasses.
“Potsie,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “So pleased to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you. I was wondering if you’d like to be a witness at Dothie’s trial?”
“No,” Dalberth said. He’d had quite enough of wizards for one lifetime. When they weren’t actively trying to kill you, they were interfering in everyone’s lives. Dalberth didn’t want to be playing their games, not now when he had a warehouse to run. And he certainly didn’t want to go anywhere near that sadistic Dothie. Never again. Not after—his mind shied away from the awful night Dothie had placed some kind of spirit in his mind in order to attack Sylvalla. The physical scars were bad enough. The emotional ones were worse. His wife had barely forgiven him—he’d taken so long to heal and stop screaming at night.
“I’ve had enough of interfering wizards,” Dalberth said, reflecting on the fact that Jonathan had said something similar, not so long ago.
“Old Goodfellow saved your life,” his scribe insisted—or was the scribe Mr Goodfellow senior’s? It was Mr Goodfellow senior who paid him.
“He only saved my life so that you could write down whatever I say.”
“Not me. That was never the deal. He saved your life first. And it ended up quite good for both of us, now didn’t it? We’re not struggling the way some of the others are. You’ve got food on the table, you’re doing good business, and you don’t have to put yourself in front of a sword any more.”
“Ah, excuse me,” the wizard, Potsie, said. “Sorry to interrupt, but will you come? I fear it’s quite urgent. The trial’s not going well, and if Dothie is released…”
“What do you mean if Dothie is released…they can’t be thinking about such a thing?” Dalberth grabbed a hat and cloak and strode to the door.
“You’d better bring him back,” his wife said. “Or I’m going to hunt you down.”
Old Potsie laughed.
“It’s not a joke,” she yelled behind him.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Dalberth turned back and kissed her goodbye. “Watch over the business while I’m gone.”
“Fool,” she snorted. “Who do you think does all the work now? Just hurry back, will you?”
“I’ll try,” Dalberth said. “Potsie. How long is this trip going to be?”
“Not so long,” Potsie replied.
“I might have a limp…”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear, I’m not as strong as old Capro,” Potsie said. “But I can still travel the wizard paths. Take my hand and we’ll be there in a jiffy.”
The path, while appearing deceptively solid, moved strangely underfoot, and the scenery all around was little more than a blur. In moments, they were far away from Scotch Mist and walking along a carefully-tended path leading up to a beautiful stone building like the Scotch Mist castle, but without all the fortifications.
“That’s strong magic,” Dalberth said.
Potsie nodded. “Let’s hope we’re not too late.”
§
Capro Goodfellow refused to cede that it was the end of the day’s trial and decided it was past time to give his fellow wizards a history lesson. It would at least give Potsie a chance to find Dalberth and, maybe with the right context, they would understand the danger they were all in. He picked up an old tome and coughed at the sudden release of dust. “And the words writ upon the ancient parchment[87] are thus, ‘Long, long ago, two brothers, two powerful wizards, lived in the castle of Charleignon…’”
“Do we have to hear all this?” Dothie barked. “How is it relevant?”
“You are accused of releasing these, these things into…” the judge started to explain before The First Wizard rolled his eyes and waved Capro on to continue his story.
“Few wizards know it, but even this university was built by one of the Nameless Ones, the foundation stone itself infused with the Nameless One’s power. That’s why we should be careful not to invoke the name. And the same applies in Scotch Mist, for that is the castle of He Who Should Never Be Named.”
The First Wizard sighed. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
“As their youth dissipated, so did their humanity. They began to think of themselves more as gods, yet greater and more powerful because they could walk the world with impunity, whereas the gods could not. The world rotted, while they lived on, promising power, but always taking more than they gave…”
The court was restless, already. Maybe they do know this story, but do they understand it? Can they really comprehend the horrors of a past they do not remember?
“The people who lived nearby bowed their heads to these false gods and went as far as sacrificing people’s lives to their lust for power, until one day a little girl looked up and said, ‘You are no gods, you are tyrants.’
“The wizards killed her. But her words, and her death, incensed the villagers and they revolted. The result was a massacre. The village was razed and the two wizard brothers eventually disappeared from the world after travelling to the forbidden A’lganathrieal (the place of exile) in a
gambit to regain their power.
“Since then, there have only been whispers of small cults who worshipped the Nameless Gods, and even fewer whispers of the books they were supposed to have left behind. But their atrocities were well documented, as was the re-sealing of the caves of A’lganathrieal.”
“So what?” the First Wizard said. “Stop stalling and get to the point.”
Capro jumped up. “Don’t you understand? Dothie is yet another worshipper of the false gods. But more than that, he’s another dangerous wizard who went to A’lganathrieal to release the A’Rieal demons for his own sick purposes.”
“Point of order,” the judge said. “Speculation.”
“I’ve seen—”
“Anything you say is biased. The court cannot admit it as evidence.”
“Check the academic records. I filed the report nearly five months ago. And even if it was recent, I am a witness, and that man, Dothie, has released or attempted to release the twin evils, the Nameless One, and He Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Heh, hah hah,” the First Wizard creaked with laughter.
Capro cringed. That laugh would haunt his dreams. Whatever the old fraud was about to say, it was going to be bad.
“A quaint tale with which to frighten children. Wizards turned into hounds, the earth opening out and releasing hordes of insects. We wizards of Bairnsley University are stronger than that. We don’t need to believe in fairy tales.”
“But I didn’t even mention those things,” Mr Goodfellow senior said, appalled that his colleague would attribute unsubstantiated rumours to him. “Those are fairy tales.”
The door creaked open. Dalberth stood there, eyes wide. Potsie had already found a seat and was staring at the pages of a book—as if he’d never left.
Thank goodness he’s here. Maybe this trial can be saved, after all.
“Dalberth! I thank you for coming. We—”
Dalberth took two steps into the courtroom and pointed at Dothie. “You…you…YOU!” he shouted, his anger crackling around the courtroom like lightning. “You destroyed my life.”
“Oh dear me, no. We can’t have this man in the court,” the First Wizard said. “He has been touched by evil.”
“That is exactly what I’ve been saying,” Capro Goodfellow yelled. “Dothie’s been using evil magic.”
The First Wizard sniffed. “This behaviour is unfitting to this court. I will not have it. Not from either of you.”
Dalberth’s jaw dropped. “But that man tortured me and turned me into—”
“What?” the First Wizard snapped. “What did he turn you into?”
“Some kind of monster…” Dalberth whispered.
“A monster?” the First Wizard sneered. “Should we listen to a monster?”
Laughter from the peers echoed around the room.
Maybe Potsie will come out of hiding, and help?
But no, as the leader of the UN D’Ground, Potsie knew too much to carelessly blow his cover. He’d already done too much.
“Dalberth got better,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “We managed to clear the demon Dothie used—”
Nobody listened. Most talked about the rudeness of non-wizards. And just like that, his trump card was gone. It did not matter what Dothie had done—kill, destroy lives, allow demons into the world—so long as everyone was polite about it and did things the right way, or preferably made no fuss at all while their hallowed institution was turned into a parody of itself and destroyed from the inside out.
Ripples of Prophecy
Ruler’s robes in the dust
Crown upon the ground
Heed the death of a country
Beware the ruler who will tread
Down dark alleyways of dread
To seek salvation and find only death, Death, DEATH!
Word of Sylvalla’s injury had got out, and of her success with the raiders. Now that she was up and out of bed, every second person she passed had congratulations to offer, before proceeding to ask about her leg.
“It hasn’t fallen off, yet,” Sylvalla said[88], giving her leg a shake, and ignoring the pain. “Another dose of Granny’s Cure All and I’ll be right as rain. Just like Dirk.” Of course the line would work better without the accompanying limp, which she tried her best to hide.
Why has Dirk’s wound healed so much better than mine?
Hobbling out past alternating red and blue banners toward the throne room to where she was supposed to be meeting a contingent of Avondale and Scotch Mist ambassadors, Sylvalla reflected that the audience probably wasn’t going to go well. Not if the growing crowd was any indication. All these people made her nervous. Still, she needed to know everything—why so many more of their ambassadors had been kicked out of Scotch Mist and some of the surrounding kingdoms. And what they should do next.
It was probably not going to go well.
“Easier to cut my way through.” Dirk scowled as he helped clear a path through the many well-wishers to the door.
“They just want to make sure I’m still alive, to see if they can torture me some more,” Sylvalla said.
“Well, at least they don’t hate you,” Torri muttered. “If anything, you’re more popular here than ever.”
She was right. Someone raised a cheer. “Sylvalla the Dragonslayer! Dragonslayer! Dragonslayer!”
She thanked them politely, ignoring Dirk’s and Torri’s comments and got the guards to close their door on the small, worried contingent.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
“There’s not much to say,” the ambassador replied. “Soldiers came in the middle of the night and kicked us all out. They said you’d know why.”
“Queen Sylvalla.” A younger man interrupted—Scotch Mist by the accent. “They told us you are the doom of the Seven Kingdoms, and that the prophecy says so.”
“Which prophecy?” Sylvalla asked and immediately regretted it as the young man launched into one of Sylvalla’s most hated prophecies.
§
“Ruler’s robes in the dust
Crown upon the ground
Heed the death of a country—
§
“Stop! Don’t say another word,” Sylvalla said, cutting off the ambassador.
Fists balled by her side, she struggled to contain her anger. How dare he bring up that wretched prophecy? Is he trying to embarrass me? “Thank you for informing me. You may all go, except my advisors. I should not have to emphasise your need for discretion.”
The Scotch Mist nobles positively quaked in their boots at her obvious rage. Not having had to deal with a homicidal ruler, the Avondale nobles were noticeably more relaxed.
“We won’t say a word, Queen Sylvalla, Dragonslayer and—” a young Scotch Mist noble piped up.
“Yes, yes, how very kind,” Sylvalla said, waving them all out.
But I do not expect Sylvalla had hoped that her absence from the Scotch Mist court would have given time for the rumours of prophecy and omens to have died down.
And some of them had. Nobody was talking any more about the poor old lady who’d yelled, “It is unseen and creeps into your very bones. Awake!” Now, with rumours of the other kings of the Seven Kingdoms looking to move against her and news of her mother, Tishke’s, ill health, she hardly needed to be reminded of the prophecy her mother had spouted when Dothie had turned her into a fruit fly at her coronation.
Didn’t I already fulfil that prophecy when I defeated the demonic creature at A’lganathrieal?
It was a pity the Goodfellows weren’t around to help explain it. Assuming they’d explain anything. They rarely did, preferring to remain enigmatic, the way people do when they don’t know anything and prefer not to let on.
Angry, Sylvalla turned to Dirk and Torri. “We need to find out who’s been spreading this…slander to the other kingdoms. Something must be done.”
Dirk flexed an embarrassment of carefully-delineated muscles, to the swish of waving fans. If he was trying to scare peopl
e, Sylvalla wasn’t sure it was working.
“Is there anything else I should know about? Apart from rogue armies marauding the countryside, and all the kingdoms turning against us?”
“People are worried about omens.” The royal chancellor stared over his beak-like nose. “They hope that you will make them better—and fear you will make them worse.”
Sylvalla frowned. “I cannot fight death, phantasms, spoilt milk and the like.”
Torri shook her head.
What does that mean? Does Torri think that I can fight phantasms and spoiled milk? Or is she just sick of court? If Amarinda was here, Torri could be working on her people traps, and everyone would be happy.
“Dirk? Any ideas?”
Dirk blinked and tried to look thoughtful. His reticence was to be expected. Unless the problem required hitting with a sword, it really wasn’t his area of expertise. “Sylvalla, I…”
A young messenger entered and coughed quietly, eyes glued on Dirk. A rapid intake of breath did not hide the boy’s trembling fingers, or the way he didn’t quite meet Sylvalla’s eyes.
More bad news?
Sylvalla looked at the scroll he was clutching. “What message do you bring?”
It might be sealed with the royal Avondale blue wax, but the young queen doubted that had proved much of an impediment. It never seemed to.
“Oh, Queen Sylvalla the beneficent, oh ruler of our hearts.”
A sure sign it was bad news. Really bad news. “Yes, please just get on with it.”
“Francis sends a message. He says, ‘Queen Tishke, mother of Sylvalla and wife of Rufus, Ruler of Avondale’s Heart and Queen of the Gardens, both High and Low, is dying.’”
All That Glitters
Following Villyus’ lead, Arrant bowed respectfully to a minor king. Emz’rial found it infuriating, but it had to be done. First things first. So he swallowed down the pride of the ancient wizard occupying his skull and smiled up at the fool.
Villyus had warned him about King Reginald, coaching him on exactly how best to pique the king’s interest. “No attention span,” he’d said. “Deeply religious but ignores all the gods except the Hunter, and most importantly, greedy as all heck. If you can get past the first five minutes, he’s sure to ask for a bribe.” So Arrant tried to keep to the point. “My Lord, Avondale is weak.”
