The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “No,” Amarinda whispered. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Never kill the chef. Rule number—I forget,” Fergus said.

  “Maybe, uh—righto,” the thug holding Amarinda grated, his voice so low it was unnatural. “Um. I think Arrant wants her and these prisoners, right away, Mr Thurgle fellow.” They started dragging Amarinda away.

  Evil Cook stood, as if rooted to the spot, her mouth opening and closing like a fish as she watched the thurgle. Even Mac didn’t raise a hand, or even try to mount a distraction. He just slouched along with the young lad and his two captors.

  What’s happening here? Why’s there no resistance? Are the Avondale soldiers drugged or something?

  More guards arrived, barging past Evil Cook. Arrant’s guards, by their uniforms, a weird mismatch of Avondale blue and Scotch Mist red.

  I’m going to die.

  “We’ll take the prisoners now,” they demanded. “Arrant is having dragons. If it takes too much longer for the prisoners to arrive, who knows what will happen? He’ll probably start hanging soldiers.”

  Surprisingly, the men did not let her go. If anything, they pulled her and the other Avondale prisoners closer.

  “Those are not my orders,” the big one clutching her arm growled defensively. “I’m to take these men to the king immediately.”

  Finally, she recognised the voice. “Grimmo?” she whispered.

  How did I fail to recognise Grimmo? And Francis? That must be Francis clutching Mac. How did I not recognise him?

  Another group of soldiers in green Northdale uniforms thundered around the corner. “Hey,” one yelled. “Stop! Is that an escaped Avondale prisoner?”

  Francis gulped.

  Amarinda didn’t blame him, with soldiers all around, not to mention Evil Cook and Fergus the thurgle. They were not in a great position.

  Grimmo’s grip on Amarinda’s arm loosened. “There’s no escaped prisoners here. We have them all—and this one’s the worst.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a Northdale soldier barked. “You been fighting?”

  “No. No,” Francis replied, shielding the gaping hole in his uniform with Mac. “We’ve had to teach these escapees what’s what. Vicious lot, they are.”

  “Grunts. Not much use, are you?” one of Arrant’s guards sneered. “Half-dead and the fighting hasn’t even started yet. I should have you up on the scaffold with the rest of the scum who won’t follow orders.”

  Was he serious? Amarinda couldn’t tell, and besides, with all these soldiers closing in, his ruse couldn’t possibly last—someone would realise Francis and Grimmo were not Northdale soldiers…

  “They’re impostors! Attack!” Francis yelled.

  Arrant’s red and blue clad guards flinched.

  “I’ll get them rotten Avdales,” Grimmo cried, shaking his club in the vague direction of the Northdale soldiers.

  What are they thinking? Amarinda frowned. That’s a terrible distraction, we need to get them angry, so they won’t think straight. “You, goat-footed turd,” she said, pointing at Arrant’s guards. “Don’t you dare touch those men. They’re my accomplices!” Oops, that was bad—so much for being a quick-thinking spy. In the moment, it seemed to work. The Northdale guards stepped forward to fight Arrant’s men.

  Mac grabbed the sword back from Francis and skewered a guard with a tidy parry riposte.

  The guard slumped, sword clattering to the ground.

  Trying not to think about the person who’d been injured, Amarinda snatched up the sword. Evil Cook glared at her and took off, presumably to get help. But it was just as likely she was saving her own skin—not that Amarinda blamed her.

  At times like this, there was one person Amarinda wanted by her side, and it wasn’t Francis or Mac or even Grimmo. It was Dirk. He might be crazy, and more brutal than strictly necessary, but he’d have cut through these idiots and they’d be halfway home by now.

  And what’s Fergus doing, just watching the fight? Whose side is he on?

  §

  Francis hacked with the scavenged sword, keeping a good distance between his men and Fergus, who fortunately was staying well out of the fray.

  Amarinda was doing surprisingly well. She’d skewered a soldier who’d tried to grab her, and for some reason was yelling, “Save yourself!” Does she have a friend amongst the fighters?

  Only three of Arrant’s men were still standing by the time Mac and Grimmo extricated themselves from the fighting.

  “This way,” Francis urged. His team followed—including Amarinda—but so did the Northdale soldiers and the thurgle. Fergus was hanging around like a bad smell, and for the life of him he had no idea why, except that it might have something to do with Amarinda.

  “Faster!” Francis puffed. They had to get ahead of that thurgle.

  If only I had my sword, I wouldn’t be doing all this running and fighting. Without his sword he was no one. He couldn’t ensorcell people to stand down and look in awe. He felt like he was a stable boy again—and, this time, he didn’t even have arrows. Without thinking, he changed direction, and ran toward the foyer where he’d left his sword.

  “That’s the wrong way!” Amarinda yelled, running after him. “That way, through the side door.”

  “I need my sword,” Francis yelled. Maybe it was silly, but he could feel its call in his bones.

  They reached the foyer where hundreds of guards surrounded his sword, all eager to try their luck at pulling it from the stone.

  Heads swivelled in their direction, hands groping for weapons, mouths dropping.

  I should have taken Amarinda’s advice.

  “Excuse,” the thurgle said, barging past all of them to the sword.

  “Looking for this?” Fergus asked, carelessly retrieving the sword Francis thought he’d left safely encased in stone. “I’ve always wanted a matching pair.” Francis flinched. The thurgle made him nervous, not least because Francis had met him in battle once, and never wanted to repeat the experience. Fergus was the only fighter he’d ever seen to go toe-to-toe with Dirk.

  None of the Northdale soldiers dared approach either.

  “Uh…” Francis froze in terror as the vast mound of flesh towered above him and waved the blade.

  What hope do I have? Is this what he was waiting for, for me to lead him to my sword?

  “They’re with me,” the thurgle said, and together they walked out of the crowded room, alive, and without having to fight a single person, let alone all of them.

  “You know this sword the wizard made you is similar to my Excalibur,” Fergus said. “I don’t suppose he could make me an axe? I miss my axe. Better for slaying dragons.”

  “Um…” Francis said. “I could try.”

  “Good,” Fergus said, acting like it was all settled. He turned to Amarinda. “Thank you for the poppy seed cakes,” he said. “Nobody else makes them like you do.”

  “What’re you saying, Fergus? Don’t you want to come with us?” Amarinda asked, not nearly as afraid of the thurgle as she should be.

  The thurgle shrugged.

  Everyone instinctively stepped back—everyone except Amarinda. “We’d love you to come along,” she said. “Francis, Mac, Grimmo, say hello to my friend, Fergus.”

  “Er, delighted to meet you.” Francis swallowed his fear as best he could and held out his hand, half expecting it to be cut off. Still, as they weren’t going to make it out of here without the thurgle’s help, bravery was his only option.

  Fergus hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure what shaking hands was. “We have already met,” he said, shoving the sword at Francis.

  Francis half fell over, trying to scramble to safety.

  Fergus laughed, and held the sword out again—hilt first.

  “Thank you,” Francis said.

  “Time to run,” Grimmo yelled. “The Northdale soldiers in the foyer have been boosted by more of Arrant’s men.”

  “Back. Back!” Francis yelled as the enormous mound of f
lesh drew his own sword of power—it sang as night sings and water ripples in a lake.

  “This way,” the thurgle yelled. “Something is happening. Wizard magic.”

  “Really?” Francis said, and against all his better instincts, followed the thurgle back through the castle toward the courtyard. Is the thurgle taking us to our deaths, after all?

  The whole castle trembled. Loud bangs and raised voices reached them from the courtyard. It sounded like a cross between a stampede and a fireworks display. What was going on? Had Avondale come to their rescue? In the courtyard, the crowd that had come to watch the hangings were no longer standing. They were lying on the ground. Dead? No, someone was snoring—that was a good sign.

  Standing right in the middle of it all were Arrant and Mr Goodfellow senior, both using so much magic they were glowing.

  “See,” Fergus said. “Magic.”

  §

  Capro Goodfellow stepped up to Arrant. “By now, I what?” he yelled, releasing a sonic boom that knocked out everyone in the courtyard—everyone except Arrant.

  Arrant grinned smugly.

  Curses. “I see you’ve become a little more able since I saw you last,” Capro said, trying to speak nonchalantly.

  “I think you mean more powerful.” Arrant sneered. “Infinitely more powerful.”

  “I probably do,” Capro conceded with a shudder. No youngling should be that strong. It’s unnatural. He cast a fireball, bright as the setting sun. The flames curled around Arrant before dropping like autumn leaves.

  Arrant laughed and cast a fireball of his own.

  Capro flinched.

  The roar of flames approaching fast, he flicked up a shield. Dammit, this little trip is burning though my power. Maybe I should have kept up my façade of being enchanted by the jewel. No! A wizard as powerful as Arrant has become would not be fooled for long—and his jewels are dangerous—one slip and I’d have been in his clutches again.

  Sprinting as fast as he could—very fast indeed—toward the castle, it struck Mr Goodfellow senior that Arrant was no longer a man—at least, not the man he had been—but a shell holding an enormously powerful and ancient wizard.

  Emz’rial? By the gods, who else could it be?

  So much for saving Francis. I might not be able to save myself.

  A lightning bolt screamed after Capro, slammed into his shield, and fizzed past. A second bolt struck, ricocheting and exploding into a guard.

  Poor man. Capro desperately wanted to look back, but it wouldn’t help. He strengthened his shield and forced himself to keep running. “Flee for your lives,” he yelled. But the motley bunch of soldiers just stood and stared, barely making way as he pelted up the stairs to the castle doors, blasted the external door, and sprinted through.

  More soldiers, a motley crew in a mix of Avondale and Northdale uniforms, had been hammered by the blast. They picked themselves up, not too injured, hopefully.

  “Run!” Capro bellowed, expecting them to scatter. But they didn’t, they doggedly followed.

  Idiots. They were all idiots. And, for some reason, a girl and a thurgle were tagging along with them. The thurgle, in particular, was fending off attacks from Northdale soldiers. Suddenly, Capro recognised some of them. Amarinda, Francis and Grimmo. So much for saving my friends, I’ve put them directly into Arrant’s path.

  “Mr Goodfellow!” Francis yelled.

  The hairs on the back of Mr Goodfellow’s neck formed a chilling picture—Arrant was preparing to shoot.

  He expanded his shield. Zap! The blow rocked him, hammering his power reserves. Mr Goodfellow senior shuddered.

  I can’t let them all die. And I can’t keep this up, I need a plan.

  Two more steps and there was an almost impassable wall of soldiers. The idiots were right in the firing line. Arrant—or to be more accurate the thing inhabiting him—would happily sacrifice any number of soldiers to get to Capro.

  Leering, Arrant stepped inside and readied a lethal blast.

  Capro couldn’t protect all the people standing in harm’s way if he kept running. He’d have to do something reckless. Something unexpected. “This way!” he yelled, turning back toward Arrant. “Keep up!” He ran, head down, hands out, right at Arrant, while throwing a blast of slippery elm powder at Arrant’s boots.

  Arrant continued smirking, slowly and deliberately readying a spell.

  “Blow,” Mr Goodfellow senior ordered.

  Wind howled down the corridor, tipping Arrant off balance.

  Flailing, Arrant skidded and fell over the doorstep. His spell—a fireball—crashed into the stone wall.

  Capro varied his wind attack, leaving Arrant scrabbling to regain his footing while he and his companions rushed past. Fergus followed, too. It was disconcerting. Nobody in their right mind trusted thurgles, and yet Francis and his men didn’t seem the least bit concerned about their huge companion. Amarinda brushed right up against the monster as if for protection.

  There’s no time to worry about that now. Arrant could retaliate at any moment.

  Pushing himself to gather every remaining bit of power, Mr Goodfellow senior loped toward the courtyard wall, converted his shield into an outward detonating ram, closed his eyes and ran into the explosion.

  Countdown: Day 3 of the Timelock

  72 hours and counting

  Dothie-Xem laughed. The traitors ran ahead, as expected, but they’d never reach their destination. He’d blocked their path—and now that they’d revealed themselves, he would destroy them.

  He waved his followers aside and lifted his arms to throw a fireball, but something was wrong. At first, it was no more than a prickle on the back of his neck, and Toots’ claws stabbing into his shoulder. Then he noticed—everything outside the path was passing at unnatural speed, spiralling out of control while he and his favourites, his turncloaks, were all near-frozen in place.

  Timelock! Xem’rial screamed in his mind. The little traitors have cast timelock. They shall pay for this. Somehow, he’d expected the betrayal to be less effective. Potsie! So bumbling, so eager to please. I shouldn’t have underestimated him. I should have listened to my turncloaks.

  He wanted more than ever to fireball the traitors, even knowing he’d only manage to kill his own followers without so much as singeing a hair on the heads of the ungrateful hacks who’d betrayed him.

  He’d have to go back later and sort it out—if any of the traitors back at Bairnsley survived his little trap. But, for now—he needed to break the spell preventing him from getting to Avondale. According to prophecy, the Secret Child was the only person who could defeat the Two Kings. His time with the wizards had been enough to confirm the child’s identity—Sylvalla. The girl Dothie had turned into a fruit fly during her coronation, the girl who’d helped put Dothie into his prison. They had a long history, which begged the question —is it prophecy or Dothie’s actions that make her so dangerous? Either way defeating her, destroying her must be done at any cost, even if it means waiting for revenge on Potsie’s ridiculous Undy-whatevers.

  Fury built.

  I will harness my fury.

  Then he’d find time for the rest of them.

  §

  A dozen of us ran ahead of Dothie-Xem, the end of the wizard path almost in reach when the first of the UN D’Ground ran into nothing—bouncing off an invisible barrier as strong as the surface of a bubble prison.

  I looked back, half expecting a fireball from Dothie—or some other form of retaliation.

  Nothing. Wherever he was, hopefully he was trapped.

  “Freddie, you all right?” Potsie asked.

  “I’m fine. I think the Timelock worked,” I said.

  “Clever,” Mynyn said, stroking his overlong beard.

  “Eh, what was clever, lad?” an oldster asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

  “What in all hells is happening?!” demanded another. “You were supposed to trap this Dothie fellow, not us!”

  “Calm down,” Potsie said. �
�Dothie may have trapped us here, but we’ve trapped him in a Timelock, so we’re safe for now. Let’s use this time to work out our next move.”

  He was right, but I wasn’t the only one not to take his word. Like many of the others, I too ran at the invisible wall, only to bounce off and land in an undignified puddle on the floor.

  “Damnation.” I kicked a pebble. It swirled and bounced on the boundary and skittered back again.

  “It’s infuriating.”

  “It’s frustrating.”

  “How could Denowe have fluffed the spell so badly?” I demanded.

  Potsie shook his head. “Maybe Dothie-Xem had a trick up his sleeve.”

  “We need to get back to the university like we planned,” the old-timer said.

  “No,” Potsie said. “We can’t let Dothie get away.”

  The argument raged, but in the end, everyone agreed that we needed to protect the university at all costs.

  “Sylvalla is the sword,” a wizard said. “And a sword cuts both ways, for evil, and for good. But mostly for evil. You must understand that.”

  “The prophecies do not say lightly, beware the mad and fair.”

  “Er,” Mynyn said, “I thought we decided that was the maiden fair.”

  “Actually,” I said, trying to give the discussion some scholarly perspective, “many researchers argue that the true prophecy is mad and fair, and that it might reference two people, and not one.”

  “Why are we arguing semantics?” Potsie snapped. “It’s not like I didn’t go to a whole lot of trouble to rescue you lot. We need to save the one person who can defeat the Two Kings.”

  “We won’t have time to defend Sylvalla or Avondale, even if we wanted to,” Mynyn said, “and we cannot leave our fellow wizards in danger.”

  Potsie humphed. He wheedled and he pleaded, but the general consensus was with me—Bairnsley University had to be our first priority. We could worry about the troublesome Queen Sylvalla later.

  Shaken, Stirred and Shattered

  Reflections do not stand still

  Sylvalla opened Tishke’s shutters for some fresh air, half-hoping to see Francis and Amarinda returned.