The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

“Evil is here, and you are the sword—its only threat. It will come for you as soon as it dares—but not directly. It will use its influence, not to fight, but convince others to fight for it. In order to get to you, more soldiers than you’ve ever seen will converge upon Avondale.”

  “It’s a shame this evil doesn’t have better things to do with its time,” Sylvalla said.

  Jonathan glared at her. “Please, take this seriously. Dothie has escaped. The things he released have torn Bairnsley University apart. We, few, managed to escape, but most of the wizards are in chaos, being led by the very evil they were supposed to protect everyone from. And now, there’s nothing my father and I can do, nothing anyone can do to prevent Avondale from falling. There’s no hope but to evacuate all your people to Scotch Mist and make our stand there.”

  “What? You’re mad!” Sylvalla’s voice was punctuated by silence.

  Mr Goodfellow senior wandered over to shake his head at his son. Or is he shaking his head at me? Her outburst had gained the interest of more than a few wizards and soldiers who’d turned her way.

  “Even now,” Jonathan whispered, obviously not wanting to let the subject go, “all your neighbouring kingdoms are being recruited to fight you. They call you Witch Queen.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. But if you think I’ll turn tail—if you think Avondale will turn tail, you’d better think again. Avondale will always fight. If there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “The way’s to run, find safer ground, and then fight,” Jonathan insisted. “If you push the fight in Avondale, the Seven Kingdoms will fall upon your city and tear your people apart like wolves. Dammit, do you want Avondale men falling in its defence, almost to the last?”

  “I’ve defended Avondale before, and will again. I have good people.”

  “Yes, Avondale may win some small battles with Torri’s machines or Dirk’s bravery, but Arrant is amassing an army the likes of which we’ve never seen before, and Dothie has Bairnsley University. If they win, they’ll destroy everything. Everything. Believe me. I’ve seen it a hundred, a thousand times.”

  “If Dothie can make the wizards renounce their oaths of peace, then we are doomed,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “There will be nowhere safe.”

  “Nowhere except Scotch Mist,” Jonathan said.

  Dirk shook his head. “What? No. Scotch Mist isn’t even as well defended as Avondale, how can it possibly be safer?”

  Thank the gods Dirk is backing me up. Maybe they’ll listen to him.

  Jonathan wasn’t ready to let it go. “Emz’rial will fear to destroy Scotch Mist. That’s why it’s safer there—if only for a little while. But if you focus on defending Avondale, it will fall with hardly a blow in anger.”

  “Tell me, my personal harbingers of doom, how long do we have?”

  “Months, maybe weeks. Not long.”

  “And if I can talk some of the kingdoms out of it?”

  “Not you, Sylvalla.” Jonathan said quickly. “But Francis[98] might.”

  “Mmm.” Sylvalla narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my mother is a seer and I should listen to everything all you magical folk tell me.”

  “Indeed.” Jonathan smiled. “Perhaps she was called Marzi and bewitched the king, and we rescued you from—”

  “Shut up,” Capro snapped from behind them.

  Jonathan jumped. “By the gods, Father, you frightened the life out of me.”

  Mr Goodfellow senior took Jonathan by the arm and led him away, all the while smiling brightly as he hissed in Jonathan’s ear. “Do you think Tishke would appreciate you saying such rot? Now, for the love of the Seven, isn’t it time we were off?”

  “No,” Sylvalla said. “I shall have answers.”

  Jonathan looked at his father and back to Sylvalla. “The omens are dire. Will you follow your destiny, or will you let the world be destroyed?”

  “I care nothing for omens. And as for being a hero, I’ve had a taste of that as well, and I cannot say I liked it.”

  “So, you will not follow your destiny?” Capro chided.

  “My destiny? Who else shall die to fulfil this destiny? Would you be next? Mr Goodfellow? Jonathan?”

  Capro slowly raised his eyes to hers, cool to her defiance. “What makes you think I won’t be next? I will do what has to be done. I always have.”

  PART II

  BROKEN MIRRORS

  Things that Don’t Go Bang in the Night

  Torri had several different weapon prototypes lined up. Some were similar to her original trebuchets, others resembled catapults and giant slings. She’d even tried to create the hollow tubes that used chemicals and fire to spit out rocks and arrows, and spent days combining wizards’ salt, sulphur and charcoal to make the propellant. Before she could scale up, she needed to know why so many of her prototypes failed to fire, fired sideways, or exploded.

  Torri lit one of the tiny cannons and jumped out of the way. This one was promising—it had fired several shots close to the target. The fuse fizzed happily, then silence as Torri held her breath.

  The whole cannon exploded with a shriek of tearing metal.

  Damn. Back to the drawing board.

  “Excuse me.”

  Deeply lost in thought, Torri looked up.

  Two guards were sidling toward her with all the bravery of a surreptitiously-courting couple. A handful of gardeners were trooping behind them like nervous children after their parents.

  “Um, if you wouldn’t mind.” The guard had an immaculate voice, and an immaculate uniform. “Please come with us. You’re causing a nuisance and the queen wishes to sleep.”

  “Yes,” said a gardener, “about time. Before she destroys my garden.”

  “I…” Torri started. “My equipment. My things…”

  “Don’t you cause no trouble, miss,” the other guard said.

  “But Queen Sylvalla—”

  “Is not here. Queen Tishke is here, and she—”

  Glances were exchanged and the guard bit off whatever he was about to say. Torri sighed. Tishke had always run the castle. After the Amarinda fiasco, Torri should have known that nothing Sylvalla could say would stop Tishke doing whatever she pleased. At least, not while Sylvalla was absent. “Just don’t touch my things,” Torri said, stashing her most vital equipment into her duffle bag.

  “If you do anything stupid, Queen Tishke says to put you in the dungeon. Now? What do we have here?” The guard grabbed Torri’s duffle bag and rifled through balls of string, bits of wood, and assorted junk. He pulled out her secret book, Make your own Medieval Devices, fun for nine years and older: including the most popular designs from over forty years of pumpkin chunkin, and held it upside down. It was long moments before he realised the picture was the wrong way up. He turned it round several times, for show, before putting it back with Torri’s things. “Store all this in the guardroom,” he said, waving dismissively. “I’ll walk the lady back to her room.”

  “No! It needs…” Torri started, but the idiot wasn’t listening. He firmly escorted her into a prison of pink satin curtains and lace doilies. Torri grimaced with enough distaste to make even Sylvalla happy, unsure of what to do next.

  The hissed words, “die before you tell,” and her nod of acceptance haunted her. Was being caught with the book the same thing? Could she split hairs on such matters? Maybe. The book was written in an old-world code, and she wasn’t about to divulge how it worked. Perhaps that small point was enough. She prayed to the gods it would remain unused. After all, that book was more dangerous than a hundred berserkers, a pit full of vipers, and a wheelbarrow full of the explosive stuff wizards used—now that was an idea—she should ask the wizards when they turned up again. So long as she was careful, they should be able to tell her everything she needed to know about their wizard salt, without her having to give too many of her own secrets away.

  Head reeling with possibilities, Torri threw herself on the bed and almost missed the click of the door
being locked and the sound of boots clumping away. She got up and flung open the bedside drawer. Hairpins and other cosmetics tumbled on the floor.

  Don’t even think about it. Sylvalla will come back and rescue me soon enough. The nagging thought—if Sylvalla gets back—was firmly squashed.

  Torri curled up on the bed and turned her thoughts to pulleys and levers and wizards—and in her dreams, fireworks and inventions came together, more beautiful and dangerous than assassins at a masquerade.

  §

  Home, Sylvalla thought, seeing the Avondale Sun in Splendour on the castle doors and the rush of guards and courtiers and messengers all trying to look important and helpful as they welcomed Sylvalla’s party home.

  Sylvalla made her way through the castle, greeting people and pretending their mission had been successful because at least they’d brought back some wizards who’d pledged to help. The royal chancellor stepped up and started organising everything from the wizards’ accommodation to dismissing the soldiers.

  Despite all the greetings, by the time Sylvalla had reached the drawing room, she’d noticed a distinct lack of explosions.

  “Where’s Torri?” she demanded. “Dirk, please, would you find her? If things are as bad as Jonathan says, we’re going to need every bit of help we can get.”

  “My Lady.” Her royal chancellor stepped into the fray. “You’ve had a long ride. You should take some time—”

  “There’s no time to rest, but if you could arrange some food for us here, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “But, Syl—my Lady, er, excuse me. I was—of course, my Lady.” He turned and collided with a kerfuffle of people carrying Tishke into the room on a well-appointed litter.

  Sylvalla flinched. Great—Mother, wizards, advisors…can the end of my failed adventure get any worse? Sylvalla stared at the fireplace and listened to them argue about Avondale’s predicament. She could hardly believe she was back in Avondale. So much for freedom. So much for saving her kingdom.

  Very frail now, Tishke lay propped on the pillows and glared at the wizards.

  A shaggy Commander Grehaum and a close-cropped, heavily-muscled young lieutenant entered, escorting Francis.

  “Thank goodness, Francis, you made it,” Sylvalla blurted.

  “Really, Queen Sylvalla,” Tishke whispered altogether too loudly. “Is that the way you want to greet your husband, Prince Francis of Havendale?”

  Francis ignored the byplay. “Two days ago, I received a message saying I was urgently needed. What’s so important?”

  “We’re here because the wizards have bad news for us.”

  Commander Grehaum patted his beard. “What’s the problem?”

  Everyone looked to the Goodfellows.

  “Hhhmm. Well. That’s—hhhmm. The way does not seem clear,” Mr Goodfellow senior prevaricated.

  “It never is,” Sylvalla said. “Even with all your prophecies and omens, someone else always has to do the hard work.”

  “Omens and the like may even make things worse,” Jonathan replied. “The evil we fight would happily beat the walls of Avondale to dust to find you.”

  “If what you say is true, I cannot win.”

  “Not in Avondale,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “That’s what my son Jonathan’s been trying to tell you.”

  “So, Francis, how do you feel about being Avondale’s ambassador to other kingdoms?” Sylvalla asked.

  “Me? An ambassador?”

  Jonathan smiled like a businessman. “You’re the obvious choice for a diplomatic mission. The story of the prince who pulled a sword from a stone has made you quite the folk hero.”

  Tishke scowled. “I guess your facile charm has to be useful for something.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sylvalla said. “I’d do it—it’s what I wanted to do, but the Goodfellows have convinced me that my job is to protect Avondale and Scotch Mist. And even that will be difficult without splitting myself in two.”

  Tishke coughed.

  “Although, maybe I should stay in Avondale for a while.”

  “Yes, and who will look after Scotch Mist with Francis gallivanting about the countryside?” Grehaum demanded. “You can’t expect a conquered kingdom to be stable if nobody is there—”

  Jonathan drew his hands into tightly-balled fists. “Dammit, I’ve told you. I’ve seen a thousand futures, a billion deaths. Avondale will fall. You cannot stop it.”

  “I refuse to believe that.” Tishke pulled a blanket tight around her shoulders.

  Dirk burst in. “Torri’s not in the castle. Probably off on an errand somewhere.”

  “Ah, there he is.” Tishke turned to Dirk. “Avondale’s best warrior. Your heroism is legendary. Tell them they’re wrong. From what I’ve seen, you’ve near fought back an army on your own. Surely, with the brave Avondale and Scotch Mist armies to back you up, you can defend Avondale against any attacker.”

  Dirk grunted. “If the Goodfellows are right, and it’s five kingdoms against two—those are odds to run from.”

  Sylvalla didn’t want to believe the wizards either. “Maybe there is a way?”

  “Avondale will fall,” Jonathan said bluntly.

  “But the people…I can’t leave them.”

  “Move them.”

  “They won’t all go.” Sylvalla turned to her mother.

  “Make them,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “As many as you can.”

  “Don’t think I’m going anywhere,” Tishke muttered softly.

  “And while these armies besiege my cities and kill my people, what do I do?”

  “That, I cannot tell you,” Capro said.

  There has to be a way out. Something they haven’t seen. “If you’re right and Avondale is attacked—”

  Hard as granite, Jonathan’s voice hit Sylvalla like a slap. “It will fall.”

  “No amount of your soothsaying will stop me from defending my country.”

  “Rightly so,” Capro mumbled, patting her hand like an old man in his cups.

  Sylvalla knew better—he was mollifying her like she was some child. “Don’t patronise me, Mr Goodfellow, nor pretend you’re a senile nonagenarian in your cups. I will defend Avondale, with your support or without.”

  Capro turned to Jonathan and cracked a grin. “Ninety. Those were the days.”

  Jonathan sighed. “If you could both leave your egos at the door, we might be able to get somewhere.”

  “You’re not listening,” Grehaum said. “We need someone in Scotch Mist. I don’t trust the advisors there, not the ones you sent, and definitely none from Scotch Mist itself.”

  “He’s right,” Francis said. “Scotch Mist can’t be left to their own devices, or the Avondale and Scotch Mist advisors will tear each other apart.”

  “There’s nobody else,” Sylvalla said. Not the wizards, and Tishke is too ill for either of us to go. There’s nobody…except… “Grehaum, you’ll have to do it—you were an essential part in the early days of Scotch Mist rule.”

  “But what about Avondale?”

  It’s not a no. “These wizards think they know everything, but they’re often wrong.”

  Commander Greyhaum nodded. “My lieutenant will stay here. May I make a suggestion for your diplomatic mission, Francis?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take Mac,” Greyhaum said. “He’s a solid lad, and he knows Amarinda. Cook said he was quite upset when she disappeared. And who were those boys you had on the mountainside? That’s right. Grimmo, Lars, and Ricky. Take them along with a unit of light cavalry, so you can travel safe and quickly.”

  Sylvalla nodded, prepared to take his word on this Mac fellow.

  Grehaum stepped toward the door. “Well, the decision’s made, I won’t hang about. I guess I’m off to rule a kingdom. Not many old warriors can say they’ve done that.”

  “Are you sure—?” Tishke trailed off. She slumped back into her cushions as if even lying here was taking all the energy she had.

  “I’m sure,�
� Sylvalla said. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else.” And what other choice did she have? Waiting for Arrant to gather the kingdoms against her was not an option.

  Diplomacy

  The art of diplomacy is the ability to smile while you are stabbed in the back

  Francis swallowed. We have to make a good impression.

  West Mist court was definitely living up to its nickname of Westmisery. They waited outside in the cold grey-stone corridor, the eerie silence enough to make anybody nervous. Even the guards had replaced the blank expression expected of guards with the frowns of the indelibly angry.

  “Keep it together,” Francis whispered nervously.

  Grimmo nodded and turned back to glare at Mac, Ricky and Lars. The three soldiers were standing at attention like professionals, their young faces wiped clean of emotion. Grimmo replaced his glare with the smallest smile he could manage.

  Finally, they were ushered inside the West Mist throne room. Francis was overwhelmed by the lack of opulence and the drab grey stone walls. Both Avondale and Scotch Mist had a sense of theatre, grandeur, but here there were only dark walls and lines of soldiers. There was no rustle of fans, or any need for the audience to quieten, because, except for the soldiers, no one attended the King.

  “Bow to the most beneficent, King Reginald of West Mist,” a deep voice commanded, shiny medals dripping down his chest.

  “I’m honoured.” Francis bowed. “I bring word from—”

  King Reginald scowled from beneath the bushy crag of his mono-brow. “Can you offer us the likes of this gift?” he asked, flourishing an exquisitely-jewelled butterfly the size of a small bird. The jewel fluttered and glinted red in the thin light drizzling in from the high windows.

  Francis shook his head, aware of the pull the thing had. No matter that the Goodfellows had warned him, and Sylvalla, and Cook, too—he wanted more than a glimpse of the amazing creation.

  Francis’ hand on his sword tingled and flamed into a burning pain. A part of him said to throw the sword down and swear allegiance to this king. Francis gripped the sword’s pommel tighter and shifted his gaze to the top of the king’s head.