The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “We need to think more clearly on this,” Mr Goodfellow senior told his fellow wizards. “We are wizards, not cowards. And we take care of our own. If they used wizard magic, then they’re wizards and we need to train them. Those are the rules.”

  Sylvalla’s jaw dropped. What’s he doing talking about me like I’m a child to be tutored? I have a kingdom to save. “What? No. I—”

  Shut up. It was Mr Goodfellow in her head again. Come with Potsie and us if you want to live. “Well,” Mr Goodfellow senior said aloud, “What are you doing standing there with your mouth open? I expect you to be ready for your lesson in twenty-five minutes.”

  Maey started to cry. “I’ve let everyone in Scotch Mist down. They’re all going to die. Zed has one of the butterflies, and it—it’s like possession. People are not the same after they’ve stared at it.”

  “What?” Sylvalla yelled. “Scotch Mist has fallen?”

  Mr Goodfellow senior patted her arm. “There must be hope, even on the darkest day. Or night, I suppose, it’s all very confusing.”

  Sylvalla shook her head. “This is not about the weather. It’s about lives. My army and the rest of my people are on the way there, so rescuing Scotch Mist is my first priority. Your friends will be safe if I can warn them in time.”

  “Ah, about that.” Mr Goodfellow senior looked furtively back at his fellow wizards. “You’d better give me a moment. In the meantime, this is a new wizard’s dorm room for you two to share. Nice and safe.”

  Mr Goodfellow senior took his time glaring at individual wizards. “And if one of you lays one hand on either of them, without going through the committee first, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  Before Sylvalla knew it, she and Maey were shoved into a small room and told to be ready in half an hour for their first lesson on how to be responsible wizards.

  “Wizards?” Sylvalla echoed, not quite knowing what to think, as she glanced around at the two cots and dressers that filled most of the small room.

  “Where’s my scribe?” Maey asked.

  “What? No!” squealed a voice outside the door. “I didn’t bring anyone in.” The voice wavered and raised a couple of pitches in false outrage. “I’d never. Maey got here by yourself…I mean, herself. If her name is even Maey, I wouldn’t know.”

  The voice trailed off and was replaced by Mr Goodfellow’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll come and get you both soon.”

  The lock snicked and a conflagration of noisy wizards yelled and stomped off down the corridor, raising points of order and calling for quorums.

  Sylvalla fretted, storming from one end of the room to the other. She needed to get out, and fast, if what Maey had told her was right. She opened the cupboard door and pushed aside the wizard cloaks hanging inside, but couldn’t find a catch, or any indication of a hidden door. It was just a cupboard.

  It was a shame she couldn’t use magic like Jonathan. A locked door was no problem to a wizard like him…

  But if I’m a wizard…

  Sylvalla laid a hand on the lock and asked, very nicely, for it to open. With a burst of light, the nib snicked and the door opened. Yes. “Are you coming?” she asked the girl.

  Maey nodded, blinking. “Wait,” she said, pulling two wizard cloaks from the cupboard.

  Dungeons and Dragons

  Amarinda sucked in a deep breath as she and Fergus strode further into Avondale castle. “This way,” she whispered. “The royal suites are down this corridor.” Prince Tomas would be nearby if Villyus was keeping up the charade that Tomas was the king.

  A pair of soldiers strode past. “Are you…?” one of them asked Fergus, before deciding discretion was the better part of valour and sidling away.

  Amarinda hung her head, and tried to look disgruntled.

  Fergus called out, “Wait one minute. I am on a mission from Arrant. I have his prisoner. Where is he?”

  They shrugged. “Just don’t go that way. The young prince is that way.”

  Fergus nodded and they strode off in the other direction until the soldiers were out of sight.

  “If he’s down there,” Amarinda whispered, “he can’t be in the king’s or queen’s suite. Maybe they put him in Sylvalla’s old rooms.”

  Finally, they made it to Sylvalla’s steel-reinforced door. Heart in her mouth, Amarinda knocked.

  A guard opened the door. He let out a strangled shriek, saw Fergus’ raised sword and choked out a terrified, “Please…”

  “Yes, please don’t kill the guard,” Amarinda said. “You’ll scare the boy.” And me.

  Fergus shrugged. “There is no rope to tie him up.”

  “I can use the bedsheets.” Amarinda got to work tearing them into strips. When she had a good pile, she tied the man as efficiently and securely as she could. “He should be able to fit in Sylvalla’s closet.”

  “Are we escaping?” Tomas asked.

  “Safely back to your sister.”

  Tomas nodded, his eyes downcast.

  “It’s all right,” Amarinda said. “Fergus and I will keep you safe.”

  I hope.

  “Not too slow. Head up,” Fergus said.

  Amarinda squared her shoulders. “If anybody stops us, say you’re hungry, okay?”

  The boy gave a shallow nod, his eyes still firmly fixed to the floor.

  “Good. Let’s go and pick up some food.”

  “You’re doing so well,” Amarinda told Tomas every few steps until they reached the kitchen.

  Guards were everywhere, but none stopped them.

  Amarinda smiled. This was going much better than she hoped. Dirk and Cook are right, it is all about confidence. She opened the door to the kitchen and strode inside, Tomas’ little hand in hers.

  Inside, Cook was surrounded by soldiers who glared at them suspiciously. Hardly missing a beat, Cook yelled at a soldier, “Either give me a knife, or cut it finer.”

  Pasties and poppy seed cakes and other treats lined the far shelf, but Amarinda needed something more transportable. Squeezing Tomas’ hand reassuringly, she assessed the situation. The kitchen was a powder keg. The soldiers clearly did not trust Cook, having gone to the trouble of keeping her away from her knives.

  It’s too late to go back now. “The young prince is hungry,” Amarinda said by way of subterfuge. She was about to add something about gathering snacks from the pantry when Tomas looked up to reveal green-tinged eyes. “Yes, I’m hungry for blood,” he said. “Kill these two traitors.”

  “Demon!” Fergus wrapped Amarinda in a bear hug and pulled her away from Tomas.

  Tears pricked Amarinda’s eyes as Tomas’ hand was ripped from hers. A demon? But I was holding the hand of a little boy.

  Sword drawn, Fergus tugged her toward the door, his reputation sufficient to keep the soldiers at bay. They were nearly outside when Fergus sidestepped and reached out to grab a poppy seed cake on the bench.

  Tomas lunged with his miniature sword. It was nothing more than a distraction, easily knocked aside. “Out, demon!” Fergus yelled, to no effect.

  Soldiers charged down the corridor toward them.

  “Watch out!” Amarinda yelled.

  Attackers closed in from all directions. Fergus turned too late. A sword ripped through his back.

  Amarinda screamed.

  The huge thurgle collapsed to the floor with an almighty crash that shook the castle to its foundations.

  Amarinda swallowed her tears and rushed to his aid. “Don’t die! Don’t die…don’t die… I need rags, alcohol, and a knife.”

  Her words were met by laughter.

  Blood bubbling from his lips, Fergus struggled to say something, struggled to breathe. “…for you…”

  “Tell me later.” She tried to staunch the flow of blood with pressure alone.

  His heart slowed. His eyes glazed.

  “No, no, no,” she said.

  With his last sigh, a flash of bright light emanated from his sword. Rock appeared from nowhere, attaching itself to the
sword until it was encased in stone up to its hilt.

  “Fergus?” Amarinda murmured, ear crushed to his chest, desperate to hear something, anything. Knowing he’d never answer.

  §

  Mr Goodfellow senior and his son Jonathan gasped. “Excalibur?” Jonathan said. “Does this mean Fergus is dead?”

  “Amongst other things,” Mr Goodfellow senior muttered. “Pity I don’t dare go rescue it. We’ll have to hope nobody else manages to either.”

  §

  Amarinda closed Fergus’ eyes while the soldiers laughed and took turns trying to pull the sword out of the stone.

  “Watch me, I’m about to become a prince.”

  The sword didn’t budge.

  “Let me try, I want to be Prince of Havendale and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, too.” The joking titles escalated as they each tried and failed to draw Excalibur.

  “That’s enough,” the demon occupying little Tomas said. “Take both the traitors down to feed the dragon. I want to watch.”

  Behind them, six junior officers heaved Fergus down the stone stairs to the dungeons, dragging Amarinda with them. Inside, most of the cells were missing doors, but some had been restored with fresh steel bars.

  Chained and bailed up against the corner, a jewelled lizard larger than a man was snapping and roaring at his captors.

  Tomas’ green eyes lit up. “Dragon, I have brought you—”

  A guard sneered. “It’s not a dragon, it’s Dothie’s lizard.”

  The fabled Toots? Amarinda thought. If so, the creature was far bigger than she’d ever imagined—two times the size of a man. Surely, it could never have balanced on Dothie’s shoulder?

  Toots blinked its eyes at them. Even in the dark, Toots was pretty, as if made of jewels. That doesn’t fit the description of Dothie’s lizard either. And this creature has wings. Mangled wings. Poor thing.

  “What’s the matter?” Amarinda asked, wondering who could have hurt the creature.

  “Hey, Toots, we’ve brought you food,” a guard yelled as they dragged Fergus’ corpse toward the creature. “So now you can stop trying to eat the guards.”

  The creature didn’t hesitate. It snapped up Fergus, tearing him apart in front of her.

  “Fergus!” Tears ran down Amarinda’s face.

  The guards laughed, taunting her and pushing her closer.

  Leaving half of Fergus’ body on the floor, the creature rushed its bonds and snapped—missing Amarinda and sinking its jaws into the guard that had called it Toots, dragging the man to his death.

  The thing residing in the tiny child laughed. “Regrettably, the dragon appears to have enough to eat. Don’t worry, you won’t suffer long. We’ll feed you to it tomorrow.”

  The creature stopped eating and looked up, fluttering its shredded wings. Somehow, despite the horror, Amarinda couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.

  And for herself.

  But mostly for Fergus. He’d seemed so lonely and so happy at her small gestures of friendship. He’d never see his people again, or even enjoy the simple pleasure of tearing into a poppy seed cake fresh from the oven.

  And then Tomas laughed, and she knew she was feeling sorry for the wrong people. Somewhere behind that hideous laugher was a frightened little boy. She was sure of it. The impression of his little hand in hers was indelible.

  “I will save you,” she whispered.

  Please do.

  Amarinda looked around.

  The creature fluttered its pathetic wings.

  Despite everything, Amarinda’s curiosity and medical training took over.

  Rescue

  Sylvalla and Maey crept through the corridors, avoiding knots of wizards accusing each other of betrayal. “Stupid wizards,” Sylvalla muttered. They were so caught up with their internal fighting, they couldn’t see the noses in front of their faces. No wonder they let Dothie escape.

  Moving swiftly and sticking to the quieter and less well-lit corridors, they found an empty out-of-the-way staircase and crept down into a quiet sunny room.

  A window beckoned to her. The ornamental shrub growing outside would make great cover. The fighting in the gardens had also stopped, the remaining wizards clumped into factions on the lawn, waving their fists and yelling at each other. They’ll be hard to get past. And even if we do, can we find a wizard path and escape on it?

  Sylvalla and Maey waited for a group to pass by. Young though she was, Maey was holding her nerve well. “Ready?” Sylvalla whispered.

  Maey nodded.

  They clambered out the window and ducked behind the ornamental bushes.

  “What’s the plan?” Maey whispered. “How are we going to get past these wizards to Scotch Mist?”

  “Wizard paths,” Sylvalla whispered back. “I—I just have to see them. Then we’ll run. Are you ready—?”

  “Ah, there you are.” Jonathan poked his head out the window. “Better come back in, it’s not safe out there. Besides, Capro and Potsie are waiting for you in the lecture hall.”

  “There’s no time,” Sylvalla said. “If Maey’s right and Scotch Mist’s fallen, there’s no time to waste. The Avondale evacuees will be walking into a trap. I have to warn them.”

  Maey nodded, then her eyes widened. “Wait? No. You have to save Scotch Mist, too.”

  “I know,” Sylvalla said. “Do you have a plan?”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Maey’s face dropped. Her hands brushed away tears.

  Jonathan glanced around nervously. Sylvalla wasn’t sure if it was from fear or Maey’s display of emotion. He pulled himself together and reached through the window. “We need to hurry. You ready?”

  Sylvalla grasped one hand, and Maey the other. Effortlessly, he used magic to pull them up and along the corridor—the walls a blur as they were whisked along—right into a blockade of wizards protesting outside the briefing room.

  “Excuse me,” Jonathan said, brushing past the startled wizards and pushing Sylvalla and Maey through the door. Potsie, Mr Goodfellow senior, and a handful of black-cloaked wizards turned, eyes widening, before relaxing again.

  More talking and not actually doing anything. Sylvalla cleared her throat, ready to insist they had to go now to rescue Scotch Mist—when she realised one of the wizards was in fact Dirk, hidden in voluminous wizard robes.

  “Dirk? You’re here. How—”

  “We have to go,” Maey said, cutting into their reunion.

  “Of course we have to go,” Potsie said. “That’s why we’ve gathered all the wizards we can trust. But I don’t want to rush in.”

  “What can we do?” the wizard with the huge beard asked. “Dothie-Xem has wizards and were-wizards. He has an army.”

  I’m fighting and fighting and running and fighting and never winning. “There has to be some way to stop this nightmare.”

  “Yes, what?” Potsie said, his owlish eyes blinking behind his heavy lenses.

  The room was silent.

  Outside, protesters were yelling abuse at the witch Sylvalla, and asking everyone inside to destroy her before she destroyed magic.

  “So, they all hate me because they think I’ll destroy magic,” Sylvalla said.

  The wizards nodded.

  “Maybe I need to do that, then.”

  The idea was met with a chorus of beard-waggling.

  Maey shook her head. “I haven’t seen it. All I’ve seen is that we need to save Scotch Mist or the Two Kings will destroy the Seven Kingdoms with their greed. And we’re running out of time.”

  “When?”

  “The visions aren’t that clear. I can only see…what I see. You can’t trust prophecies to be nice and accurate—no matter what anybody says. And I ought to know.”

  “Angsun Utter might have something to say about that,” Potsie muttered. “As it is, I do agree with Maey on one thing: Sylvalla will not destroy magic.”

  Sylvalla bit her tongue. It was worn down by biting.

  “We should go find Grehaum and Francis a
nd gather the army,” Dirk said.

  “I don’t think it’s enough. Maybe Mother was right, and fighting isn’t always the answer,” Sylvalla said. “At least, not to get Scotch Mist back.”

  “What?” Dirk said. “Fighting is always the answer.”

  “Don’t panic,” Potsie said. “We just need to peel Zed’s support away.”

  “Who asked you, Wizard?” Dirk said. “Did you even listen to the scribe? I say if we wait much longer, there’ll be nothing to save, which is why I propose a full-frontal assault. Walk into Scotch Mist on one of your wizard paths. Assassinate Zed. Destroy his butterfly.”

  “It won’t be that easy,” Maey said.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” Dirk replied. “It never is.”

  “I have an idea,” Jonathan said. “We go to my—I mean, Dalberth’s warehouse, and use my—ah—his charms to stop people from falling for those butterflies. Then, once we have Scotch Mist, we can worry about Dothie and Arrant and the entities that haunt them.”

  “Did everyone bring travelling cloaks that will hold their charms and potions?” Mr Goodfellow senior asked.

  A flurry of wizards checked their sleeves and pockets and removed their gowns. When everyone was as ready as they were going to be, he climbed out the window and opened the path to Scotch Mist.

  Sylvalla, Dirk, Maey and a small handful of wizards followed. Before long they were in Scotch Mist, rushing through the street past people talking about something that was happening at the main square. Sylvalla glanced nervously at the blue- and red-clad thieves’ guild army.

  Pity I didn’t rout them out of the mountains when I had the chance.

  The wizards’ attempt to wear travelling clothes to blend in hadn’t really worked. Fortunately, the crowd was too caught up in the excitement to notice.

  A small child tugged his mother’s skirt. “See. Pretty.”

  “Yes,” the mother said with a faraway look.

  “This way,” Jonathan said. They crept down the alleyway to Jonathan and Dalberth’s warehouse. Maey took something from Jonathan and bravely ran ahead to a couple of huge guards loitering by the entrance.