The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  From this high room she could see there was a crowd at the city gates, but it was of people leaving, not returning. Families straggling down the cobblestone streets, their worldly possessions bundled into carts, or loaded on horses, and even goats and pigs. Many of the travellers were wrapped in rags and poorly prepared for a winter journey to Scotch Mist.

  Dirk arrived with Torri running alongside. He glared at the guards on his way in. “Eyes peeled. What are you doing? I could have killed you five times by now.”

  “Any luck?” Sylvalla said, ignoring his outburst.

  He sighed. “Strange how the news of Tishke death has unnerved people more than the Goodfellows’ prophecies of war.”

  “So? Did you manage to get the priests we want to oversee the funeral? And Pestilence and Disease to stay away?” Any more omens and panic, and Arrant won’t need an invading army to destroy Avondale, it’ll fall apart on its own.

  “The priests all agreed to do their bit. Some even refused to take the gold you gave me, saying that staying in my good graces was payment enough—but don’t worry, I left it anyway.”

  “Hmm,” Sylvalla said. “You should wait outside while Torri and I hold vigil.”

  Dirk scowled. “Your Majesty, we need to have a word.”

  Your Majesty? That wasn’t a good sign.

  “What am I doing here?” he continued.

  “I released you from your oath a long time ago.”

  “No. I meant, what’s my job? I don’t want to protect a kingdom.”

  “Neither do I,” Sylvalla said. “But I can’t just leave.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “Not with war coming. What sort of hero runs away from a battle?”

  “One that wants to live and fight another day,” Dirk said, but the heat was gone. “Never mind, I’ll go and guard the door.”

  “One day soon, we’ll run away on another adventure,” Sylvalla said. “A real adventure, where we can slay an ancient evil and come back home to adulation and warm baths.”

  Torri coughed. While Sylvalla had been distracted, she’d quietly opened Tishke’s writing desk and began making notes.

  “Interesting,” Sylvalla said, glancing at the drawings and notes and not understanding a thing. She opened the wardrobe. “Which dress, do you think?”

  “The cream lace,” Torri said. “It was her favourite.”

  Together they cleaned the body and wrestled Tishke into her favourite lace. Torri, distracted by her ideas, kept rushing over to the desk to jot them down.

  Sylvalla brushed Tishke’s hair until it shone, avoiding the stiffened flesh, cold as marble.

  A leering face flashed in the corner of her eye. The ripple of a black cloak.

  Sylvalla drew her sword and swung.

  A loud crack split the room. Smashed glass fell to the floor. Sylvalla readied to strike again, but her foe had disappeared.

  Dirk popped his head around the door. “That was a mirror, your highness,” he said pointedly.

  “Um, my sword slipped,” Sylvalla said. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask any of the staff to clean it up, I know how superstitious they can be.”

  Dirk raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t say it.” Sylvalla sighed. Everything these days was an Omen. Usually reported as an Omen of Doom. Somehow she couldn’t quite shake the feeling they might be right. After Tishke’s outburst during the Fruit fly Incident, and the whole Unseen[103] scandal that was Granny Earwax’s prophecy, the broken mirror, and the au-de-vomit enveloping the room would only add fuel to the fire. “Please sit near the door. I hate to think what will happen if anybody sees.”

  Sylvalla retrieved the largest shard and began stacking smaller pieces on top until all that was left were tiny shards, smaller than the crescent moon of her fingernails, and sharper than most blades. Blood welling on her fingers, Sylvalla cursed and dropped the stack onto the blank paper on Tishke’s desk.

  “Careful!” Torri shouted, snatching her notes away.

  “An expensive waste,” Dirk tutted.

  Unsure about whether he was talking about the mirror or the paper, Sylvalla retorted, “Ah, but this whole charade is an expensive waste.”

  Reaching down to pick up the small pile, Sylvalla saw the strange face, leering up at her from one of the shards of glass.

  Sword in hand, she hesitated, and the face, if it could be described as a face, was gone.

  “That which can be seen and is unseen,” Sylvalla whispered to herself, a well-known old prophecy about the approach of evil and a time of great danger.

  It’s ridiculous. “I’m jumping at shadows.”

  Dirk and Torri said nothing. And that, please the gods, would be all there was to it. No need to add more fuel to an already-volatile situation.

  §

  “Hurry,” Capro Goodfellow yelled, sprinting directly toward the stone city wall.

  “The gates are that way,” the thurgle yelled.

  “Good point,” Goodfellow senior said, and swerved further away from the gates where guards waited, swords and arrows readied.

  I hope he’s got a plan—he’s running toward the city wall without even slowing.

  The wall exploded.

  Francis sprinted through, his team close behind, not to mention a few dozen enemy soldiers.

  A volley of arrows whooshed toward them, thudding into the ground nearby—all except one.

  “Ow!” the thurgle yelled.

  Francis glanced back. The thurgle was still running, and behind the thurgle, Arrant was bathed in an unnatural green glow.

  Is he preparing to fire?

  Francis ducked back and grabbed Amarinda’s hand. Near dragging her along, he stuck close to Mr Goodfellow senior.

  Arrant and the Northdale commanders were yelling obscenities and screaming for the archers to move to the front and get a clear shot.

  Francis was on edge, his back prickling with the expectation of a fireball.

  Then, all of a sudden, Mr Goodfellow senior was disappearing into the distance, and leaving them all behind.

  “Damned wizard!” Mac yelled.

  “Damned wizard,” Francis and the thurgle agreed.

  “Damned idiots,” Amarinda said, but without any real sting. “I don’t know, but is that really what you call a rescue mission? ’Cos if it was, you sure made a hash of it. I thought we were going to die, like seven times back there. And it looks like we’re going to die now once Arrant gets his cavalry organised—unless,” she added hopefully, pointing at the blue-clad soldiers running toward them, “those men really Avondale?”

  “Hopefully,” Mac said. “We told them to keep their eyes open.”

  “Yeah, they’re ours,” Grimmo muttered. “The fools have lost half their horses. He pointed to the horses galloping toward Avondale. Sensible creatures.

  “What you waiting for? Run!” Grimmo shouted at the Avondale solders.

  “No,” Francis countermanded. Blast Mr Goodfellow for not sticking around to help. Still, wizards aren’t the only ones who can attack from a distance. “We need to cover our retreat with arrows and give the Northies something to think about.” He grabbed a bow and quiver from one of the younger soldiers and hoped he wasn’t too out of practice. “Stand, aim, fire!” he yelled.

  Seeing the enemy duck for cover felt good—but with so few archers the tactic could only buy them a little time.

  Once more won’t hurt.

  “Ten paces back! Aim. Fire!”

  The oncoming soldiers barely flinched. There were too many to be bothered by a handful of Avondale archers. Still, the tactic had given them time to catch their breath.

  “Hi,” Francis said, catching up to Amarinda again. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Francis.”

  “Charmed,” Amarinda said. “But we’ve already met. I’m Amarinda.”

  “Yes, I was…uh…” His tongue rebelled, his chest already aching from running. “Um…” So much for dashing hero.

  Fergus, th
e thurgle, ran up to the pair of them and grinned.

  “Ah.” Fergus said. “Rescue the maiden,” he said, his grin wider than ever. “That is the game, is it not? Did we win?”

  “Uh. No,” Amarinda said, glancing behind.

  Mac and Grimmo dropped back. “Hurry!” Mac yelled. “Francis, don’t you think you should start running properly?

  “Yes,” Grimmo growled. “I was hoping we could catch up to the Avondale horses when they stop to graze.”

  Francis nodded, and they ran in earnest. Exhausted, each breath rasped through his throat like jagged glass.

  Within moments, it was obvious Amarinda was struggling even more than he was. “In case…I don’t…make it,” she said, heaving in breaths, “I think Arrant is plotting—”

  “Save your strength,” Grimmo said. “We’re not going back without you—Sylvalla will kill us.”

  “Talking about death,” Fergus said, pointing behind them.

  The Northdale cavalry were spurring their way past the soldiers chasing them.

  Grimmo turned to face down the incoming Northdale riders. “By the gods, Death, haven’t I fed you well enough today?” He raised his sword.

  “No! Grimmo!” Francis yelled. “Grimmo. Please run. I can’t lose you now.”

  “Damn it, Grimmo,” Mac said.

  “Get Prince Francis to safety,” Grimmo growled and pushed them both away.

  The Northdale horses thundered closer.

  King Tomas

  Scratch the gilt

  And you will find

  A human vessel

  Of hope and nightmares

  Fuming, Arrant burst into the Northdale castle nursery. If Villyus and his soldiers had done their jobs properly, Prince Francis would be safely hanged and the wizard Mr Goodfellow senior would be under his control.

  Anger is good, but save it for when it’s most useful.

  Emz’rial was right—this boy was his excuse to rally the Seven Kingdoms under his banner and eventually take them all as his own.

  Our. The Two Kings will rule, as was prophesied.

  Ignoring the voice in his head, Arrant said to Tomas, “Good. You’re here. I hope you’re ready to gain your place as the rightful king of Avondale.”

  The boy backed away to cling to the grey-haired nanny they’d found for him.

  “King,” the woman said, blinking rheumy eyes. “That will be nice. Stand tall. The young prince Norvid always stands tall. He’ll make a great king one day.”

  Arrant bit his tongue. Norvid, like all his fellow kings, was a shallow pit of self-obsession. “Tomas, this is Villyus. And Villyus…”

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “I need to get ready now. Make sure Tomas looks the part, then set up our little prince behind the curtain in the throne room. Be quick.”

  “And the other kingdoms?”

  “I’ll meet you back here afterwards. Be ready to go.”

  “Already?” Villyus raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Arrant replied. He knew what Villyus was thinking, that Capro and Francis’ escape had rattled him into this pre-emptive move. And maybe he was right—

  No, it’s perfect. Yes, letting them escape was not my original plan, but we are only a little early. Believe me, old Capro’s stunt of taking out the Northdale castle walls and making the Northdale warriors look idiotic couldn’t have been better scripted. We can use that anger and outrage and turn it on the Witch Queen, Sylvalla.

  Arrant smiled as he hurried to the Northdale throne room to announce the most exciting event of Emz’rial’s very long life—

  Everyone bowed as he entered, showing more respect to him than to King Norvid on his throne. More respect than he’d ever had before. King Norvid gave an official air to the theatrics, but otherwise he was worse than useless. Caught in the mind-snare of the chaos butterfly, he barely acknowledged Arrant’s presence.

  Arrant rubbed his hands together. All my plans are coming to fruition.

  Frowning, Arrant looked down at his hands. Rubbing them together felt unnatural. But other things felt right. The power… The respect… Dimly, he realised it wasn’t quite the power or respect that he wanted. But on the other hand, until he had the Seven Kingdoms under his thumb, he really needed Emz’rial.

  The crowd shuffled, waiting for his big announcement.

  Arrant surveyed the room and shouted, “I say, our time is at hand. The Avondale scum invaded our kingdom. They killed our sons and daughters in this very castle. The Witch Queen’s filthy wizards…”

  He paused, letting the crowd’s hiss reverberate around the room.

  “…have devastated our countryside. Destroyed our walls. And used magic to do so.”

  The crowd hissed again. They really hated the magic part. Fortunately, because of my restraint (he’d been restrained when it mattered most—when the nobles arrived) all the magic could be blamed on others.

  “That’s right, her wizard used magic against our people!” Arrant raised his arms, aware of the magic power of the moth on his shoulder and not at all missing the irony. “It is heresy against everything we hold dear, against the covenant of the Seven Kingdoms itself. We must fight back. And, to win, we must take Avondale by storm.”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  King Norvid nodded vacantly. He cradled his jewelled butterfly, flashing its chaos magic around the crowd.

  Arrant directed a thought at the king. We must take Avondale by storm.

  “We must take Avondale by storm,” King Norvid mumbled.

  “Usurper!” someone yelled, ruining the moment and pushing their way through the enthralled throng. “What have you done with our king?”

  Fool. Hadn’t the hangings been message enough that we will brook no dissent? That it’s safer to question one’s own eyes than to disagree with me?

  “Never!” Arrant yelled as if appalled by the thought of usurping a throne, and trying not to grin as the guards dragged the woman outside—hopefully to the gallows. “I would never. We fight to regain Avondale for its rightful king.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Let me introduce him. King…er…Tomas of Avondale,” Arrant yelled.

  Tomas trotted out from behind the curtains, and stopped, eyes wide as he gazed around the room. He looked as kinglike as any small child could.

  “And here he is—Tomas, King of Avondale!” Arrant said.

  Villyus prompted the boy to wave.

  Slowly, laboriously, Tomas pulled out his miniature sword and waved it in a way that was disconcertingly reminiscent of his sister, Sylvalla. Was he imitating her, or had Villyus coached him in an effort to make the boy look heroic and defiant? Either way, it worked. The crowd roared, and the boy was quickly ushered out by Villyus before the image of kingliness, or at least, princeliness, could be tarnished back to snot-nosed child.

  “What are we to do?” Arrant demanded. “Wait here while the Witch Queen sits on the Avondale throne in this boy’s stead, or take Avondale?”

  Take Avondale! Arrant directed the king.

  The king yelled, “Take Avondale!”

  Emz’rial slammed the crowd with a potent combination of fear and outrage.

  “Take Avondale! Take Avondale! Take Avondale!” the crowd responded.

  “The Witch Queen must be destroyed.”

  The crowd chanted, “Burn the Witch!” and “Wizards must die!”

  Foolish mortals, Emz’rial sulked.

  Still, the tactic was working, so Arrant continued. “We must stand against the Witch Queen. Are you with me?”

  “Aye!” the crowd cheered wildly. Arrant allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He’d imagined this day so many times, but he’d never truly managed to capture this feeling.

  It was beautiful. And he’d earned every second. Fear here, rumours there, and destroying villages everywhere to create chaos. It’d been hard work, but this moment made it all worthwhile.

  After the cheering subsided, Arrant briefed the generals.
“Remember, there’s no time to waste. Your troops need to be outside Avondale and ready to attack before they organise their defences. Oh, and your king said he wants to lead. Isn’t that great news? His presence will fortify your men.” And so will my little jewel.

  That done, Arrant rushed to find Villyus and Tomas.

  “Hurry,” Arrant yelled to them. “We must go now. I need all five kingdoms. I need to crush her.”

  “We’ll never make it in time,” Villyus said, running after Arrant, and dragging Tomas behind him.

  That’s not a good look.

  Emz’rial was right. Arrant slowed so that Tomas could keep up. When they were out of sight of prying eyes, Emz’rial pointed toward a pathway. Arrant walked toward it and slammed into—nothing—bouncing back like he’d run into an iron fist—or a mountain.

  “What are you doing?” Arrant hissed, ignoring the looks Tomas and Villyus were giving him.

  The paths are closed! Emz’rial raged. How long have they been down while we’ve been unaware?

  It’s not like Xem’rial to do that. Someone else must’ve tried to stop him. Stop us.

  Brother, are you all right? Emz’rial’s thought seared through Arrant’s mind like a scream.

  Arrant wasn’t sure if Emz’rial expected to hear a reply or not, but he certainly didn’t get one. With the paths closed, there were priorities other than babysitting more long-dead wizards, like how were they going to rally all five kingdoms in time?

  Don’t worry, there is another way. We just have to be careful, and quiet. “This way,” Emz’rial ordered, taking control of Arrant and the situation. “Villyus, blindfold the boy.”

  Villyus tore a strip of material from his cloak and wound it around the boy’s head.

  “Can’t see,” Tomas whimpered.

  “Quiet,” Arrant said. “Or the monsters will get you.”

  Emz’rial searched about. Ah, there, right underneath us.

  The boy whimpered louder, and Villyus rolled his eyes. “Keep your eyes closed really tight,” the advisor said, “and shut up, or I’ll kick you.”

  The boy quietened, and Arrant let Emz’rial cast a spell, opening a welt in the earth. “Ready?” Emz’rial asked.

  Arrant wasn’t sure if he was.