The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  The grins disappeared. What in the Seven is their problem?

  “We’re burned baked goods,” Grimmo muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Mac turned.

  A guard glared through the bars in the door. His heavy key clanked against the lock. Mac shrank back.

  “Leave this to me,” Francis said with more of that ridiculous confidence. He stepped forward.

  The cell door swung open.

  Not one, but three brawny guards hurried to block his way. A huge one in the lead, another with shaggy hair, and the third hefting a huge club.

  “Excuse me, Mr Guard, sir,” Francis said, with a middling-fair attempt at dignity.

  “You. Shut up.” The biggest guard shoved Francis back with a brawny hand. He sneered. “See what’s happening out there? Well, it’s your lucky day, ’cause you’re joining the fun. Line up.”

  Back at Bairnsley U

  Every war has captives

  Every war has a time when retreat comes too late

  Every villain’s offensive is the script of hate

  War drums beat outside my window. The sky was filled with the drone of magic missiles. Bairnsley University was up in arms, our once-peaceful boating lake scorched with fireballs, steam rising off its surface. Rumours of the Witch Queen, Sylvalla, and the dire prediction she’d destroy magic was all the pretext Dothie-Xem needed to have the First Wizard order every wizard into battle training. Like children excused from study, the turncloaks[101] revelled in the war games.

  Potsie and his friends railed against the new administration. Of course I agreed with them, even though many of the senior wizards scoffed and told stories of when they were younger and had adventures and saved the world of magic. “All this bookwork nonsense, it wasn’t like that in our day. It’s about time wizards prepared for the real world.”

  “The real world?” Mynyn sneered. His overlong beard waggling, he launched into a rant demanding that everyone tell him what they thought all this training was for.

  Mynyn disappeared soon after that, only to reappear after midnight, raving about being turned into a fruit fly.

  Everyone laughed, and told him to go back to bed.

  “Outlandish nonsense,” a turncloak said. “Accusing Dothie of such impossible things was one of the reasons Mr Goodfellow senior’s trial went so badly. That venerable old wizard never should’ve stooped to lies.”

  Everyone nodded. I did too—but only so I could bide my time and confront Dothie when I was ready, and not because I believed that rot[102].

  More wizards disappeared—wizards who objected to the way in which things were being done. Speculation about how we were getting so many fruit flies in the middle of winter got louder.

  When the First Wizard himself disappeared, the danger could no longer be laughed off. The university was a powderkeg, and according to almost everyone, one person was to blame: Sylvalla. The idea that she would somehow destroy magic quickly metamorphosed into hysteria—Sylvalla, magic slayer, eater of babies, death to villages, destroyer of cities. Each lie was more outrageous than the last. Each step Dothie needed Bairnsley University to take, more sinister, until he had us researching death spells. As an historian and scholar, I was expected to search through the records for useful spells, faking enthusiasm while hiding everything of import.

  But that wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stand idly by while our beautiful lake smouldered, and aggressive spells rocked the foundations of Bairnsley College. I argued that Bairnsley University was full of wizards educated in history, science, philosophy, and prophecy itself, that we were stronger and better than this, and that warfare was against all the oaths we had sworn as wizards.

  My efforts brought me to the attention of Potsie’s notorious UN D’Ground. “The what?” I said, when asked to join the secret organisation. “Yes, I’m worried about the grounds, but I’ve no intention of joining the university gardening club.”

  “Could be worse,” Potsie said. “One wizard recruited insisted he didn’t want to join an organisation that crafted undergarments. Truth is, our real task is creating a lifeline for wizards. Right now, we are the only group capable of saving Bairnsley U.”

  Suddenly, I was a part of an exclusive group that became more and more exclusive by the day as our people were slowly turned into fruit flies. I barely survived that experience. It was bad enough to suspect what was going on, but knowing the truth and pretending obedience to Dothie was nerve-wrecking.

  Potsie tried to calm the rumours circulating like wildfire through the UN D’Ground. Dothie-Xem could turn us all into fruit flies on a whim, he could control thoughts, or worse, that Mr Goodfellow senior was right and Dothie was little more than an empty shell inhabited by the too-evil-to-be-pronounced Nameless One—and that just like that old wizard, he could order his enemies to tear their own hearts out of their chests with their bare hands. That he had a list of enemies, and was waiting to kill us all.

  Soon, the only question anybody asked was how long could we convince Dothie-Xem we were on his side by pulling up frivolous spells and feigning a level of stupidity that should not have been believable? The thought was crippling.

  Quietly, unobtrusively, we survived. We made plans in terrified secrecy. Others who objected more vociferously disappeared. I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to overcome Dothie, but we had to try. We quietly waited for our chance. That was, until the day two young wizards, not even sixty years of age, attacked Dothie with a fireball that backfired and singed every strand of hair and clothing from their bodies.

  Denowe heard the news, and snapped. Rampaging through the university, yelling and accusing Dothie of murder, he confronted Dothie-Xem in the hallway, protection spell blazing.

  “How dare you!” Dothie yelled back, throwing a punch Denowe failed to dodge. Denowe’s protection spell sputtering, Dothie still managed to turn the wizard into a fruit fly.

  The tiny insect flew straight for me. Trying to control the beating of my heart, I spirited him off to the library archives, a maze of a building where librarians regularly left out way-bread and other staples for those who lost their way in the rambling warren of bookshelves. It was the perfect place for him to hide.

  The following day, Potsie and I were late to the UN D’Ground meeting in the library. We both rushed in the door to be greeted by a swarm of fruit flies.

  Several hovered near my face. I covered my mouth with my hands.

  “By the gods,” I whispered. “It was only our lateness that saved us from the same fate.”

  “We’re doomed,” Potsie whispered back.

  Is someone in our group a traitor? Surely not. Maybe someone who attended the meeting had been followed? Are we being followed now?

  I glanced nervously about, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, except the swarm of flies.

  “We cannot fall to despair,” Potsie said. “There will be something we can do. We’ll just have to pretend we’re all right. Whatever Dothie-Xem’s plans are, they must be close to fruition, or he wouldn’t have risked this.” Potsie waved gently at the swarm. “We just have to find the right moment to stop him.”

  “How can we stop him? There are barely any of us left.”

  “If only we could lock Dothie up,” Potsie said. “But I’m not as strong as Capro, certainly not strong enough to make a wizard cage.”

  “Timelock,” I whispered. And we had our weapon. We would use the spell traditionally used to keep produce from spoiling—but much, much bigger. We needed a little help—someone who would be able to cast the spell so it set fast and smooth, so as not to alert the wizards we were intending to trap.

  “Any of the surviving UN D’Ground could be traitors,” I whispered. “How will I know?”

  Potsie bit his lip. “You’re right. Even the fruit flies could be traitors. Nobody can know our plans until the last minute.”

  Without hesitating, we began to prepare. Hours later, I had the ingredients we needed, and Potsie had quietly contacted the few rema
ining dissenters, including Denowe and the fruit fly survivors hidden in the bowels of the library, so that they’d be ready to help catch Dothie.

  It was lucky we’d moved so fast, because that very hour, Dothie-Xem and his turncloaks rounded us up.

  “Congratulations,” Dothie-Xem said. “You are the best of the best. The wizards chosen to make history and destroy the Witch Queen Sylvalla before she destroys us. It is time.”

  I caught sight of Denowe. What’s he doing here, where he might be caught by Dothie again? It took me a moment to realise he must be the one casting the timelock spell. The rest of us in the UN D’Ground ran eagerly out on the path pretending to be impatient to join Dothie-Zem’s grand adventure. In actual fact we were determined to double back to Bairnsley University. Would three days planning make a difference? We didn’t know, but we hoped it would give us time to think, and time to turn the fruit flies back into wizards.

  Dothie-Xem grinned as we stepped up onto the path.

  I ran ahead to join the others, with one nagging thought plaguing my mind—Why was Dothie-Xem so happy to leave behind so many fruit flies, when he knew they’d be returned to wizard form at the stroke of midnight? What did he have up his sleeve?

  Caught in the Crossfire

  Amarinda rounded the corner, sucking in huge gulps of air. Evil Cook’s slowing. One more burst of speed should do it.

  She ran right into the arms of a pair of vicious-looking Northdale guards, half-covered in blood. They were escorting a dejected bunch of Avondale prisoners, including Mac who sported bruises and blood splatters. He was a proud man. What had they done to make him hang his head so low?

  “No!” Amarinda screamed, trying to escape their evil clutches. “Mac! What’ve they done to you?”

  The hand around her arm constricted, pulling Amarinda back against the brute’s chest. Determined to escape, she tried to bite him, and stamp on his foot, but she couldn’t manage either…and just as I thought I had a chance of escaping.

  Evil Cook stomped up, looked the guards up and down, and snapped, “That serving lass is my staff, leave her to me.”

  “No,” the burly Northdale guard holding her growled. “She’s an Avondale spy. We’ll deal with her.” That voice sounded scarily familiar—was it one of Arrant’s men?

  “How do you know lass girl is a spy?” Evil Cook said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man holding her grunted. “I hope you’re not a spy, too, ma’am.”

  “Definitely not. Don’t be too quick, then. I want to see the traitor kicking.” Evil Cook didn’t look as happy as Amarinda might have expected. Well, she was shorthanded in the kitchens…so it kind of made sense…then a crushing realisation hit Amarinda. The Northdale guard called me a spy! They’ll hang me! In her terror, Amarinda screamed and flailed at the thug digging his fingers into her arms.

  §

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,” Francis said to the huge guard, determined to show Mac and Grimmo and the young soldier that he wasn’t a pushover. “I don’t suppose you could…”

  The other two guards laughed, which only made their boss more furious. “I SAID, LINE U—”

  Ker-thunk. Francis’ fist rebounded off the huge guard. “Ow!” Francis turned beet red. He hadn’t so much as rocked the man back on his feet—yet the guard was falling anyway—tripped by Mac.

  Sneaky move. But there’s two more to go.

  Francis hopped nimbly aside, narrowly avoiding being flattened as the large guard crashed to the ground.

  The guard behind hefted his club.

  “By the gods, you are all crazy,” the young lad said. “Help, help. I’m not with them!” He ducked sideways, rushing past the pair.

  The guard with the club let him go, rolling his shoulders and squaring up to face Francis and Mac.

  “Desperate times, as they say.” Mac kneed the huge brute in the solar plexus, and ran to the last guard, whose shaggy hair was flying out of his helm, chasing the lad around the guardroom. The kid wouldn’t be able to avoid him for much longer.

  “Oi! You!” Mac yelled.

  The shaggy guard stopped chasing the lad and ran for the door shouting, “Help! Prisoner escape. Hel—oof!”

  Mac pushed him from behind, taking the wind out of his yell.

  Seeing that he couldn’t get away, the shaggy guard pulled a knife. Head whipping from side to side, and hair flying, he slashed the knife. With a change of tempo, he pushed the blade at Mac’s face.

  Desperately, Mac grabbed at the hilt. The sharp blade sliced his palm, but the pain hardly registered as he gripped the owner’s hands.

  The sharp edge inched closer.

  In a sudden burst of inspiration, Mac twisted the knife, wrenching it sideways.

  The win didn’t last long. Even pushing as hard as he could, Mac couldn’t stop the blade, once again, inching closer to his face.

  Desperate, Mac waited till the last possible moment before twisting the knife again and then shoving with all his strength. The knife smacked hilt-first into the guard’s face. Blood and snot sprayed everywhere.

  With his attacker holding his face and screaming in pain, Mac spun.

  Grimmo was standing over the erstwhile owner of the club.

  Francis and the young lad were backing away from the huge guard who, having regained his feet, had pulled out a sword and was backing them into a corner.

  “Dragondung!” Mac adjusted his grip on the slippery knife and threw.

  The knife flew true, burying itself in the heavyset guard in his back. He grunted and fell.

  Mac scavenged the knife, and helped drag the guards into their cell. The other cells were surprisingly quiet. They were empty. All the other prisoners must have been taken to the gibbets outside. Mac shuddered. He wanted to go out and save them, but anything he could do would only put himself and the others at risk.

  “So far, so good,” Francis said appraisingly. “Now, who wants to wear these uniforms?” He held up the two uniforms least covered in blood.

  Mac’s stomach heaved. Francis shrugged and put one on. Grimmo reluctantly put on the other.

  There was a bit of clanking, and the door to the dungeon opened. “Hurry up,” the messenger yelled. “The king’s getting a bit anxious. He wants to put on a good show for his visitor. The crowd’s impatient for the main event.”

  Francis gave his men a quick thumbs up.

  This time, the messenger stuck his head round the door. “I said—”

  Nobody cared what he’d said—but they were very keen to make sure he didn’t say too much, punching him hard and pulling him into the dungeon. “We’d better go,” Francis said. “Shove him in the cell with the others. I’ll lock the door.”

  “Shouldn’t we—?” Mac asked.

  Francis glared. “I’m not a murderer. Not in cold blood. Besides, nobody’s going to be fooled by dead bodies. Let’s lock them up and get out of here before every alarm in the castle is rung.”

  “How?” Mac asked. “We can’t walk through the castle.”

  “Uh. One step at a time.” Suspiciously ignoring the question, Francis ushered them out of the dungeon, slammed the door shut, and checked the lock.

  “The boy’s right,” Grimmo said. “We can’t just walk out. What’re we going to do?”

  Francis balled his fists. “I’m not sure we have too many other options.”

  “Are you crazy?” Mac said. “They’ll kill us.”

  “If you’d rather wait here and make it easy for them, I won’t stop you.”

  “What if we dress up as…?” the lad asked.

  “Washer women?” Francis said. “Yeah, maybe you and I could get away with it—but Mac and Grimmo? Think again.”

  “Fine. Let’s do this.” Mac took the sword and slipped the guard’s club to Grimmo.

  Grimmo patted him on the back. “Thanks, Mac. You sure you don’t want to give me that sword?”

  “No.”

  “The most important thing’s to k
eep your heads—and not to panic,” Francis said. “We need to pretend we’re on an errand with Mac and the young lad here as our prisoners, and we’re too busy to stop. We’ll find the stables, grab horses, and ride like the wind. Got it?”

  “Er. Not exactly,” the lad said. “Are you sure this is the best idea? It seems a little…suicidal to me.”

  “Hmm,” Francis said, rolling his shoulders. “I think I know what I’m doing, I’ve had espionage lessons from Dirk.”

  “Can you fight like Dirk, too?” Grimmo muttered.

  “You want to stay here and die?” Francis asked, exhibiting an unnatural amount of confidence.

  The young lad’s eyes boggled in fear. He near reeked of it.

  Mac clapped the boy on the back. “We can do this. All you and I need to do is look scared and walk right on out the door. You think you can do that?”

  The boy nodded, and together they made good progress, stomping up the stairs and out of the bowels of the castle to one of the main corridors—until a Northdale serving wench ran into them. Francis held an arm out to protect himself from being knocked over by her headlong flight, and stopped her in her tracks. “Wait—” he said.

  More footsteps. A hefty woman with a meat cleaver came into view. “You little toad,” she screamed. “I told you, you’d never escape.”

  Escape? Francis’ brain slowed. The girl trembling in his arms looked familiar.

  “Amarinda?”

  Half a dozen fully-armed soldiers appeared. And behind them strode a thurgle waving a very magic sword.

  We’re all dead.

  But the thurgle didn’t rush to attack and that sword felt strangely familiar. My sword? It can’t be. My sword is tuned to nobody but me. There’s no way Fergus the Thurgle could have pulled Excelsio out of solid rock—I would have felt it. So whose sword is it?

  “Are you rescuing the girl?” Fergus demanded.

  §

  Fergus? Amarinda thought. What’s he doing here? Has he been following me and Evil Cook this whole time?

  “Cook,” Fergus said. “Would you like me to rescue the poppy seed girl? I can put her back in the kitchen for you.”