by A. J. Ponder
Little cakes, undoubtedly filled with some kind of potion.
After eating the delicious little treats, the guards still didn’t back down, so Sylvalla knocked one over the head with the hilt of her sword. While he was staggering back, the other guard decided the better part of valour was to let them past.
Jonathan waved his arm. There was a clatter as something hit the floor inside, and Jonathan pushed open the door.
“It’s only me,” Maey said as they burst in. “I brought help.”
The crowd surged back, the tension in the warehouse palpable as the small party entered, firmly shutting and barring the door behind them.
Dalberth and his wife were the first to jump forward, welcoming Maey back with an awkward hug. Then they looked beyond her to the small party. “Is this everyone?” Dalberth demanded.
“What’s that?” Jonathan asked, cupping a hand to his ear. “Thanks for coming?”
“Jonathan, so good of you to finally turn up. Now, if only you were as focussed about us surviving today as you are about making money, perhaps we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Dalberth muttered.
Mr Goodfellow senior, clearly worried, stretched his arms out for calm, but Jonathan ignored him.
“Let’s get to work, then,” Jonathan said, clapping Dalberth on the back. “What have we got?”
“Not much,” Dalberth said. “We’ve got throwing knives, charms, some food that’s going off, several trays of magic antidote, plenty of Grannie’s Cure All, a handful of gems, a few bottles of really good cider along with that swill you call wine, several wheelbarrows—oh, and the invisibility cloak’s gone missing. Again.”
“That’s okay,” Jonathan said, “because what we really need is food laced with magic antidote, Granny’s Cure All, and as many charms as we can get.”
“Charms?” Dalberth said, his word echoed by the small crowd behind him. “Not the knives?”
“Charms,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “Everyone can pretend to be giving out trinkets to celebrate the new king.”
Jonathan sighed dramatically and pulled a box from the shelving. “I can’t believe I’m going to give away all this stuff for free.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “We’ll try to make them pay first, otherwise someone in the crowd is sure to be suspicious. After that, we might need some help. Have we got any thieves here?”
Nobody raised a hand.
Sylvalla felt for her purse, but it was gone. Probably in the fight earlier. She nudged Jonathan. “Offer a silver piece.”
‘To thieves?” Jonathan glared at her. “Don’t be crazy.”
“You don’t want to lose all this, do you?” Dalberth said, backing Sylvalla up.
“Fine,” Jonathan snapped, “a silver piece to anyone with pickpocket skills. But they better be pickpockets skilful enough to plant charms on people who refuse to buy any of the trinkets, or food laced with anti-magic. Who can do that?” Jonathan said.
A dozen hands went up, all demanding their silver piece. Only two hands went down when he requested a demonstration.
Ignoring Jonathan’s ridiculous grumbling—he had so much more to lose than a purse full of silver—Dirk and Mr Goodfellow senior opened the doors to let the small crowd of women, children, and pickpockets onto the street. The guards had long since run away by the time Sylvalla walked out. That was good. With Scotch Mist still firmly in the grip of this Zed and his thieves’ guild army, she was hoping to stay unrecognised for as long as she could.
Maey and Jonathan and their throng of helpers were already out hawking the charms and magic-laced food. Moving down the street like this was a feast day. People wondered loudly what they were doing standing around when they had washing to do, bread to bake, and errands to run, and they disappeared in short order. Others followed Sylvalla and her entourage, out of curiosity to see what was happening.
Thieves’ guild soldiers stepped forward.
Sylvalla put her hand to her sword. Dirk followed suit.
“Stand down, we’re here to stop rioting,” a soldier said.
The crowd was sizeable by the time they’d reached the city square. Here, the reception was different. Zed was orating to an enthusiastic crowd, who cheered at the hatred he spewed and drooled over the butterfly fluttering on his shoulder.
Cure All, charms, and food laced with magic antidote were plied to all and sundry until almost nothing was left. None of it seemed to make any difference. The crowd surrounding Zed wanted what he was selling—pride and domination over others. Sylvalla recognised the landlady from the Kyngs Arms and ducked away.
“Down with the Witch Queen! Hang them all,” she echoed, her fist pumping into the air.
Sylvalla could feel the icy cold Rieal in the crowd. Maybe the jewelled butterflies were designed to attract the evil spirits? Or were they attracted to the chaos magic the jewellery produced?
Zed, flanked by three heavyset guards, was yelling at the enraptured crowd, and to the soldiers lining the square, “We will turn Scotch Mist into a bastion of old. We will be victorious.”
The soldiers led the cheer and a chant of victorious. The crowd joined in enthusiastically.
Dirk drew his sword.
“Don’t attack first,” Jonathan whispered. “We need to destroy that butterfly.”
“The Two Kings are coming,” Zed continued. “They will lay waste to Scotch Mist’s enemies, defeat the Witch Queen Sylvalla, and bring you the prosperity you deserve.”
“No!” Mr Goodfellow senior shouted. “The Two Kings will destroy Scotch Mist as they’re destroying all the Seven Kingdoms.”
What in the Seven Hells is Mr Goodfellow doing? This isn’t the plan.
“Welcome,” Zed said. “I have been expecting you, Wizard.” He raised the jewelled butterfly high, drawing everyone’s attention to the glittering creation.
Capro threw a fireball at the thing.
The jewel, now bathed in light, lifted up over the crowd in flight, its glittery wings the most beautiful thing Sylvalla had ever seen.
“Kill them all,” Zed told his guards and supporters.
“Keep giving out the charms,” Sylvalla yelled and jumped ahead of Maey and the wizards, her sword swinging in time with Dirk’s. Together, they were formidable. Despite being so tired that her body ached, she was more in tune with her fighting self than she’d ever been. Focussed and deadly, each strike was designed to take down an opponent. Together, she and Dirk took down attacker after attacker.
It’s going too well.
Sylvalla glanced behind. It was clear of danger, thanks mainly to the pickpockets who were showing off their impressive knife skills to keep the more enthusiastic members of the crowd at bay.
“You with me?” Dirk asked, his sword so fast it whistled, releasing its characteristic scent of thunderstorm.
Focus.
They battled their way past the motley blue- and red-clad soldiers, toward Zed and his three enormous thugs.
Smiling triumphantly, Zed threw an exquisite silver butterfly knife.
It soared toward them.
Dirk checked a blow and seamlessly parried the knife, knocking it out of the air with a clang reminiscent of a pitched bell, before it clattered to the ground in two pieces.
Zed threw more blades, his aim becoming wilder as Dirk and Sylvalla ducked and parried. Worried more about the people behind her than herself, Sylvalla struggled to knock the last one out of the air—it caught in her dress as it fell. Wrong-handed, she gathered it up, and threw it back.
Zed ducked.
With only the tiniest of limps, Dirk and Sylvalla continued.
“Get them,” Zed ordered.
Two of Zed’s heavyset guards jumped to attack. They were cut down as easily as the rest.
With one guard remaining, Zed squeaked and turned to flee.
Sylvalla tried to put on a burst of speed. It would not be enough.
His guard, a huge man, got between Sylvalla and Zed, his sword outs
tretched.
He’d be difficult to bring down.
Only the huge man didn’t attack Sylvalla, he turned and plunged the sword through Zed’s back. He thrust again. “And that’s for Arrant when I see him next,” the man yelled, and ran off.
Zed sank to the ground.
Cries of horror and ragged cheering broke out.
“The butterfly!” Jonathan yelled, cutting into the small celebration, such as it was. He pointed up at the butterfly jewel fluttering above them on a magic field that had only strengthened with Zed’s death. “I can’t stop it.” More spells flew from him and the other wizards; sheets of snow, fireballs, lightning.
Nothing hurt it. Worse, it blazed brighter.
A handful of people fell to their knees, babbling.
“It’s the butterfly!” Sylvalla shouted. “It’s calling the demons to it.”
A boy threw a stone, a glancing blow that had the jewelled butterfly veering away. More in the crowd threw stones.
“We can do this!” Jonathan said, picking up more stones.
The butterfly, large and blazing with power, appeared to disintegrate several rocks as it flew away, up and over the city wall…to where an army was waiting.
An army headed by the wizards Dothie-Xem and Arrant-Emz. The army stretched out into the distance, wizards and were-wizards escorting the five—no, six kings, if you included the small child—standing under their fluttering butterflies.
King Nothing and his Dragon
The things you’ve chased—Metal Alika
“What now?” Dirk asked Sylvalla.
“Replace any of the Zed’s thieves’ guild on the gates. Get some archers up there and maybe some engineers. Does Scotch Mist have engineers?”
“Will do,” Dirk said, and rounded up some volunteers to help.
I’m supposed to save the kingdom with a crowd of civilians, a handful of wizards, and two warriors against an army. There has to be something…
Unfortunately, wherever Zed had put the Scotch Mist army, it didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby.
“Parley,” Sylvalla said. “We’ll call for a parley. I need a horse. I can’t be on foot if we’re pretending I have an army in here.”
“Onto it,” Dalberth said.
“How could they have got here so fast?” Dirk asked. “Our people, who’ve been on the move far longer, are likely still half a day away.”
“Same as us—wizard paths,” Sylvalla said, ignoring glares from the wizards. “They probably came here expecting the pale guy with the knives to open the gates and hand over the city.”
“Hmmm,” Potsie said. “They may attack immediately once they realise Zed no longer has the city, but with any luck, they’ll hesitate, assuming we have an army.”
“I wish Grehaum’s army would miraculously show up,” Sylvalla said, ignoring the Goodfellows’ raised eyebrows. “Francis might, but he has the civilians to think about.”
Trumpets blew. An invitation to parley, by the sound of it. Without her advisors, Sylvalla couldn’t be sure.
Dalberth arrived with the horses, the grooms barely keeping excited horses in check. Sylvalla checked the saddle of the frisky horse before jumping up.
Accompanied by the Goodfellows and Dirk, Sylvalla rode through the city to the gates. People watched from the ramparts cheering and clutching bows Sylvalla wasn’t sure they knew how to use—but at least they were there.
The sun dimming on a long day, Sylvalla took the opportunity to look around. Soldiers in Avondale and Scotch Mist uniforms had joined the opposition, others were being held in chains at the edge of the camp. So the Scotch Mist garrison has been taken. One more hope cancelled.
“Wait!” Dothie-Xem held out an arm. He and Arrant stopped their horses yards away. They talked to each other, before getting an aide to call over to her treacherous ex-advisor Villyus, a butterfly flying over his head.
“Evil traitorous maggot,” she muttered. “You’re not a king.” But it wasn’t Villyus they were calling over. A tussle-headed child wearing a gold circlet and carrying a flash sword, stepped from Villyus’ side.
It can’t be.
The boy was done up like a king. With a golden cloak, a crown on his head and a sword by his side, he looked remarkably like the little boy Mahrawyn had adored.
It is him. The original Tomas. Isn’t it? Sylvalla squinted to see him better. Something about the child is wrong. Tomas didn’t have green eyes.
“Your brother, Tomas,” Dothie-Xem said. “Abdicate now, or who knows what will happen to him?”
“Wait,” the boy said. “No need to be so extreme. We have Sylvalla’s little pet Amarinda rotting in the dungeons next to that stupid lizard of yours.”
The boy doesn’t sound like any child I’ve ever met. The green flecks in his eyes confirmed her suspicions. A’Rieal—it has to be. The boy’s possessed. Nothing else makes sense.
“Good. Whatever. Sylvalla, surrender, or Amarinda dies,” Dothie-Xem said. “I know the perfect way to kill her.”
“Enough,” Sylvalla shouted back. “I challenge you to a duel.”
Dothie-Xem looked up at Sylvalla on her horse. “Agreed. You can face me and my brother when the sun hits the horizon. Then, when the last ray of sun dips below the horizon, we’ll feed you and Amarinda to my pet dragon.”
“And don’t leave us waiting too long, or we’ll kill your brother, too,” Arrant-Emz said.
The boy shrugged, his eyes flashing A’Rieal green. “My sister’s a hero; she won’t let Amarinda be torn apart by a tiny excuse for a dragon, or turn down a fight and let all of Scotch Mist die for nothing, will you, Sylvalla? Isn’t that what heroes do, sister? Didn’t you say, ‘A hero is the right person, in the right place, at the right time, who, against the odds, manages to face their fears and selflessly help others?’”
Sylvalla winced. When had she told Tomas that?
Arrant smirked. “If you force my army to attack Scotch Mist, they will want the spoils I didn’t give them in Avondale.”
Sylvalla turned back.
“Your brother’s been possessed,” Mr Goodfellow senior whispered.
“I know,” Sylvalla said, determined to keep her back straight and her face blank. She was not about to show how much Tomas’ possession hurt.
“The poor boy. And Amarinda. What are we going to do?”
“Sacrificed to a dragon at dusk,” Capro harrumphed. “That’s so unoriginal.”
“Dammit, originality isn’t the problem,” Jonathan snapped.
“Propaganda is the thing here,” Mr Goodfellow senior said. “Either people will believe it’s truly Sylvalla on that stake—or they’ll believe Sylvalla and Dirk failed to rescue Amarinda from a dragon. Either way, Sylvalla will be disgraced.”
“We have to find Grehaum and Francis,” Jonathan said. “Dirk was right about one thing. We need warriors.”
Potsie nodded. “Give me four hours and I and my UN D’Ground will be able to bring your armies here.”
“We don’t have four hours. We have two at best before night falls,” Sylvalla said.
Going out alone was suicide. They’d be using magic. Going out with Dirk was also suicide. Dothie-Xem would not stick to any rules if he was losing. He’d turn to magic, and get his wizards and any remaining were-wizards to spread out around the camp.
But it was all time.
Moments. Every breath was significant.
§
Tara (previously known as Toots)
NAME:Tara
(Preferred pronouns) Fae, faer, faer, faers, faerself
CLASS:Jewelled Dragon
FAMILIAR:With the taste of wizard, thurgle and men.
SPECIALTY:Flying (after their wings heal)
RÉSUMÉ:The one thing anyone should know about Tara is never call them Toots. It’s likely a fatal mistake.
PASSED: The stage of being small and insignificant and is now a force in their own right.
Amarinda struggled as she was dragged to the stake.
She’d been dressed to look like Queen Sylvalla, her hair magicked golden to complete the image. They must be worried Sylvalla wouldn’t show, and whatever happened, Dothie-Xem and Arrant-Emz wanted everyone to see Queen Sylvalla die.
Tara, the dragon she’d befriended in the dungeon, was already there, chained to an enormous post, faer jaw trapped by an iron muzzle. Dejected and fluttering faer wings, Tara swiped at any guards who got close.
Amarinda had just helped mend faer wings, and now soldiers brutally pulled fae along, Tara moaned, fluttering faer wings and snapped at faer captors.
Dothie-Xem was smiling in a way that made Arrant’s soulless smiles seem almost human. “I never believed the rumours that Sylvalla killed a dragon,” Dothie-Xem proclaimed for everyone to hear.
“But let’s see if she can. If not, our hero will pull the sword, we’ll prove she’s a witch, and we’ll burn both these witches at the stake.”
Sylvalla had a tiny entourage, only Mr Goodfellow senior and Dirk. What is this? “Go back! Save yourselves!” Amarinda yelled.
“Quiet!” Dothie-Xem commanded.
And with that one word, Amarinda could no longer open her mouth.
Sylvalla, you have to run and take everyone you can. This is nothing but a trap. Not even you can survive.
§
Sylvalla turned and waved to the Scotch Mist citizens before walking out the gates. There were a few soldiers gathered, most of them ex-soldiers who wanted to be taken seriously, despite age or injury, but included a few who’d been on leave from the garrison and had been wandering around the city. But unless Francis or Grehaum emerged, they’d been told to stay safe and do what they could to protect Scotch Mist citizens when the inevitable arrived.
Out on the battlefield, a huge army stretched into the distance. A flash of red, front and centre of the battlefield, drew her eye to Amarinda. She was being bound to a stake, her red dress reminiscent of the one Sylvalla had worn when she’d thrown Torri’s bombs. Next to Amarinda, chained and muzzled, was a dragon that glittered in the evening light.
Lizard or dragon? It’s nothing like the dragon I faced. It’s not big enough for a start. What dragon ever shone like jewels in the setting sun? Whatever it was, it strained furiously against the chains on its legs and the iron muzzle clapped around its jaws.
