by A. J. Ponder
§
Dothie, Fergus and Arrant’s success is such that it, and some of their taller stories about Princess Sylvalla, have reached the ears of King Phibiam Phetero, who is already plotting revenge.
The Horses
At least two of the horses found each other, and true love. They live in a secluded valley well away from people and are the proud grandparents of numerous foals and fillies—all of whom are tall, dark and handsome.
End Note
“So that kid from Scotch Mist was really a prince, was he?” Jonathan asked by way of conversation.
The old man laughed. “I said he was a prince among men. Son, you have a lot to learn.”
THE END
Thank you for reading my story, I hope you enjoyed it. I’d love you to leave a review, because I want to know what thought about the story, and the characters… Writers love reviews!
Watch out for the next book in this epic trilogy:
Prophecy
Sylvalla has never got the hang of being a princess—but that is the least of her problems, as her feud with King Phetero spirals into war.
The prophecies are dire. But, what help can they be against the ancient horror King Phetero is determined to wake?
Sneak peek of Prophecy: Book II of The Sylvalla Chronicles by F. Fraderghast. Or continue to the Appendix, and About the Author.
Appendix
Historical Note
Some of the information I received whilst researching this book did not appear to be true when presented with the rest of the information gathered, and had to be removed from the body of the story.
For any historical text there is conflicting evidence, so although it is a common belief that Dothie did indeed face the dragon and manage to survive, I have decided that Dothie never stood toe to toe with the dragon. Others disagree, and even embellish Dothie’s story, that he was almost fried on his way to the caves, and that he survived due to his wizardly skills[41].
My problem is that the evidence points to the fact that Dothie could run at least as fast as his companions, if not faster, and therefore there is no reason to believe he was left behind. He is also a proven liar, so there is no need to take his self-aggrandising accounts as gospel. Although many scholars believe the word “fell” might be telling.
But it is a matter of such controversy that I feel I would be remiss if at least one other possibility was not played out, and so here it is ...
Dothie and the Dragon
Dothie fell behind his companions, as he heroically cast a spell of dragon protection.
He looked up to see the dragon bearing down on him.
He picked up a clod of dirt to ward himself and his companions, and the dragon’s fiery breath swept over where he stood.
To Arrant, it sounded like a whoosh of fire, followed by thrown rocks.
Glancing behind, he saw Dothie’s body had flared up in a tortuous fireball. It blackened and slumped to the ground. Then, moments later, he saw Dothie running full tilt quite a distance from the inferno.
Dothie, on the other hand, says that he pulled himself out of the inferno, after mortally wounding the dragon, and brushed himself off, before sprinting to catch up to the others. He also insists that the one thing he couldn’t put back together after the encounter was the corn that had been in his pockets.
§
To make sense of this, one must not forget the ability of a wizard to create illusion. Even dragons can allow themselves to be fooled if an illusion provides the expected. Now, as the tale goes, Dothie was an expert at repelling magical fire, as he’d had plenty of practice. He is also touted as having some ability at certain types of illusory magic. To be more accurate, he was really good at one type of illusory magic, a very specific spell that produces the illusion of being someplace you were a minute ago, and are dying (horribly) in the grip of magical flames.
So, maybe parts of this tale are true. Maybe he even had corn in his pockets, and was the original inventor of popcorn as Professor G.L. Bull insists—but I doubt it.
Still, the line, popcorn, anybody? has been somewhat immortalised, along with the figure of a wizard sauntering away from death, quite unharmed.
Bibliography
Dothie: The Man, the Myth, the Magician and the Monster.
Professor G. L. Bull
Fairly University Press
The True Nature of Chaos
Ian Malcolm
Butterfly Press
Review of Why Morpholags Turn Bad by Dr G. White
Ian Porter
Daley news 7/13/301
Thurghue: Everything You Need to Know and More
MacKenzie Quinn
Bairnsley Press
Etiquette for Princesses
Marion Richman
Young Ladies League
The Natural Habitat of the Thurgle
Erasmus Stylo
Discover Books
Kiss and Tell: Sylvalla’s Governess tells all.
Angelica Swiftkick
Old Ladies League
The Princess Diaries
Sylvalla, Queen of Avondale
Unpublished
Why Morpholags Turn Bad
Dr G. White
Antget Morebere University
In the Nature of Magic
Hugh Write
Bairnsley Press
The Prophecy
The prophecy, in its supposed fully original version. Please note that no prophecy arrives in its original state because the scribes can’t resist tweaking it to make it sound better. Even so, this is a clumsy attempt to liven up a prophecy, and should in no way be confused with good taste, or poetry.
Prophecy 37: Word to the Hero:
Seek ye the Morpholag and destroy it
Only beware the mother who succours it
Flee the tempest when it finds thee
& bound to paths that cannot win free
Lose all there is to lose
From your victory will come ashes
The ashes hold the sword.
Gods Worshiped:
The God of War
The God of Death: A Blood Oath is sworn to this god who is supposedly directly connected to the Realm of Death.
The God of Pestilence
The God of Disease
The Harvester: Not associated with death, but life, food, celebrations and luck.
The Maiden: The God of beauty and Love and Compassion.
The Mother: The God of fertility.
About the Author
A.J. Ponder has a head full of monsters, and recklessly spills them out onto the written page. Beware dragons, dreadbeasts, taniwha, and small children—all are equally dangerous, and capable of treading on your heart—or tearing it, still beating, from your chest.
A.J. has novels and short stories published around the world. A.J.’s notable and award-winning stories include; Dying for the Record, Wizard’s Guide to Wellington, Frankie and the Netball Clone, BlindSight & Ahi Kā.
Books for younger readers include The Frankie Files, Attack of the Giant Bugs a You Choose Adventure Book, The Great Weta Robbery and Save the Moa.
Follow A.J. Ponder’s adventures by signing up to A.J.’s Writing Adventures newsletter today, or join A.J.’s blog at ajponder.wordpress.com.
Attack of the Giant Bugs
You Choose a Science and Spies Adventure
(Ages 8-12)
You are Greenville’s only hope. You can fail your mission or succeed your wildest expectations. But beware, within these pages lies great danger – giant bugs, ants, ladybirds, praying mantises and more. You might come to a grizzly end, or be transformed beyond your wildest dreams.
Are you ready?
Buy your copy today, because saving the world from giant bugs has never been so much fun.
The Frankie Files
(Ages 7-11)
Are you ready for Monsters and Mayhem?
Frankie wants to be a world-famous inventor, but her inventions always get her into mon
ster trouble.
Get your copy today and discover the magic of invention and science with Frankie—the irrepressible inventor.
Wizard’s Guide to Wellington
(Ages 8-12)
When Alec’s father goes missing, Alec and Perrin discover that Wellington is a dangerous magical city—and underneath it all is a taniwha who could destroy everything.
Will Alec find his father? Or will the people who’ve kidnapped him destroy everything in their mad quest for power…
“Wizards and a taniwha running wild in Wellington – who would have thought it. Perrin’s adventures in the capital city are fun to follow and full of surprises. My (unpointy) hat is off to Alicia Ponder. Now where’s my broom...” Fiona Kidman
Buy your copy today and discover adventure and magic in the heart of Wellington.
Miss Lionheart’s Laboratory of Death
(Age 10+)
Hijack yourself into mad scientists’ territory, duck the gelignite, avoid the Acme fuses. Do whatever you need to, just make sure you don’t miss out — it’s more than your life is worth.
Buy your copy and enjoy a mad romp into the dangerous world of evil genius, super spies, and deadly designer animals.
Prophecy
Prologue
The ancient paper crumbled beneath Jonathan’s fingers. This Maretta Prophecy, like all prophecies, was stuffed with uncertain meaning and bloated with doom. And yet the words felt as if they were written for him. It was ridiculous; Maretta had been dead a thousand years.
§
Words lie—
Twisted upon themselves,
Open to the void,
Open to the chasm,
To the noisome pits of hell.
For in this battle
Words are
The darkest shadows of all.
§
Just looking at the page was like taking a knife and twisting it into his stomach. Uneasy, Jonathan asked again, “So I am to visit her gravesite tomorrow?”
Mr Goodfellow Senior bowed under the weight of his head, and the overgrown beard dangling from it. “As do all Bairnsley students,” he mumbled through mouthfuls of hair.
Jonathan frowned, forcing himself to think of his father as his university lecturer—and one of the best magicians of this age. And not, as he’d once thought, a charlatan who thought he could do magic.
“We need to show our respect,” Mr Goodfellow Senior continued, “and bless the suffering child in the hope her soul will find peace.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Girl?” He couldn’t stop picturing a very different girl. Sylvalla. Had she played her role in prophecy, only to be left to rot in a castle? Or did the Maretta Prophecies hold more?
Mr Goodfellow Senior stopped, peered at Jonathan over his reading spectacles, and gave a sly wink. The wink was not meant to reassure Jonathan, not really. More a, Son, you’ll find out later, eh? That’s why you’re going, kind of wink.
Jonathan turned away until he could trust his voice. “I am here to learn,” he said, rising and bowing from the room like a good Bairnsley student.
“Jonathan—don’t forget the correct words for the blessing: Rest in peace, little one, find the paths north of the moon and south of the sun. Rest in peace, hide from sight. Cast aside shade and embrace the light.”
“I still think it’s—strange,” Jonathan demurred.
What would a prophetess like Maretta think of the wizard’s use of the clumsy rhyme in their blessing? Best not to say anything. It might annoy Capro. The thought of being given yet more fasting and contemplation of poetry was too much to bear. Another night of this and he’d be speaking in tongues.
“I have explained it to you,” Mr Goodfellow Senior sighed. “Such large burdens should not be for children to bear. Her sight, however useful to us–was, to her, a curse. Nothing more. We bless her, we who most profit from her burden, so she may be free.”
Jonathan nodded. This was his cue to start his pilgrimage. Now, while the night was at its darkest, he made his way to the kitchens. The large brick hearth was cold, the smell of baking stale, the ashes... The ashes hold the sword… The Sylvalla Prophecy burst into his head. But that prophecy had been fulfilled, hadn’t it? Everybody said so.
Must just be the silence, he thought. The sad echo of his footsteps replaced the usual clatter of dishes, the brassy impact of Cook’s voice across the room, and the babble of fellow students. All gone. He left alone, barefoot and carrying only a satchel of bread and water, as was the custom.
§
I was lucky enough to be among the senior staff, discreetly watching as he stepped out onto the Bairnsley paths, hands carefully folded inside his robe to prevent accidental travelling. We set him on the correct path, and watched until the smooth stone around the university transformed into the rough gravel and mud paths frequented by country people.
§
Jonathan walked through a day and a night, and on through the next day, until at last he reached the gravesite nestled in the lee of snow-capped mountains. It was little more than a wooden marker buried in a tangle of blue and white flowers and surrounded by a jumble of steel rings, straw dolls and simple toys, intended to make the spirit happy and look kindly upon the living.
Long ago, silver and even gold had decorated the wooden marker proclaiming Maretta’s resting place. Those riches were long gone. Only the inexpensive charms remained.
Standing vigil wasn’t so bad. Anything, but read another dusty prophecy. Tumbling through the sky, the angry sun blazed a trail. Villagers gathered. They pointed at him, and muttered about his odd clothes, and the danger of wizards. One whispered that it was dangerous it was to sleep with one, lest any offspring be two-headed. Another quipped that wizards were anatomically different, anyway. It was all nonsense.
At last the first rays of the sun’s gentle sister, the moon, to fall upon the wooden grave-marker. The soft light glinted on the steel rings wrought to trap evil spirits, and guide good ones to the realm of the dead in time for their rebirth. Superstitious twaddle, the wizards called it. And yet the wizards seemed to have their own superstitions.
Say the words.
Words are important. All Bairnsley wizards know this. They must know how to split infinities, fragment sentience, and understand the full potential of the spoken word, the ships of power that sail the world.
It was such words that Maretta had so famously cursed in her prophecy, The Twins.
§
Words Lie,
They are the darkest of shadows.
§
Or was it all prophecy that she’d cursed? There had been so very, very many. And perversely, Maretta—a girl no older than ten—had issued most of them.
Say the words.
Not the words of prophecy, Jonathan told himself. The words of the anti-prophecy: the words of the wizards’ poorly-structured blessing. But the wrong words lay on his tongue, black and thick, and yes, evil.
Was this temptation? Perhaps that was all this girl and her prophecies were. A test. A wizard held power and responsibility. He had to remember to control it. Always. That’s what all his lecturers told him anyway. If only he could...
The words of one of Maretta’s least-known prophecies came unbidden.
§
Prophecy,
Cursed prophecy,
An unclear glimpse into an uncertain world.
Shun them all you please
Disavow
And remain ignorant until the end
Until the things once prophesied come true
And terror stalks in the wake of words,
The ships of power that sail the world.
If it haunts thee
This prophecy
Perhaps it is merely an Omen of things to come.
§
Jonathan curtailed his rash impulse to say the prophecy aloud, and blessed Maretta’s spirit as he’d been taught—the benediction every student before him had used over the last thousand years. “R
est in peace….hide from sight. Cast aside shade and embrace the light.”
It didn’t help. The words of prophecy remained there in his mind’s eye; he could not seem to push them back. And the picture of Sylvalla, the feisty, irrepressible Sylvalla came with it.
Shun them all you please.
“I am not asking. I did not come to ask—” No–that was untrue–a lie he’d told himself. But he hadn’t asked, and he’d been given an answer. An answer he never expected:
An icy breeze fell on him, as if from the frozen mountains themselves.
White and blue and black orbs floated in front of him… Eyes.
Of course those blue eyes were involved. They always were.
The princess Sylvalla!
...one must awaken to the night...
Jonathan’s stomach stabbed with pain. His head swam, and he collapsed to the cold hard earth.
§
A malnourished girl in a torn dress approached, her mouth pursed in a determined moue. Her brown eyes sad in the moonlight, her bare feet bleeding on the dusty road.
Her dog, Radag the Faithful, cringed along beside her. A surprise, that. He’d been taught that the dog of the ancient child-prophetess was merely folk-legend.
Even more of a surprise was the shadow that swirled around the girl’s shoulders like a cloak. An absence of light in darkness, the fabric was almost impossible to see.
With a flick of her wrist, the ghostly child jerked the cloak toward him.
