Prophecy (The Sylvalla Chronicles Book 2) Read online

Skin prickling, she pushed back the bedclothes.

  A chill wind crept through her room, tempting her to snuggle back under the covers and think of other things.

  She heard a clink. Could that be padded armour? Or was it just her imagination?

  Sylvalla’s hand reached for Dragonslayer—the sword Capro Goodfellow had magically shrunk to the size of a pin, and hidden as an ornament on a gold chain. Where had it gone?

  She couldn’t see it. She could hardly see anything. The shafts of moonlight creeping through expensive slivers of window-glass did not fall on the bedside table. Dragonslayer should be on her dresser, hidden amongst the stuff required by a princess. Mr Goodfellow’s voice echoed in her ears, “Keep it secret, keep it close.”

  Something crashed against her door.

  Sylvalla jumped, putting her hand right on top of the sharp steel. “Ow!”

  Noise erupted all around: screaming; wood splintering; and worse.

  Sylvalla’s curses were hardly silent; they didn’t need to be. Not now. She grabbed Dragonslayer, struggling to hang its golden chain around her neck and stumble out of bed.

  Again, something crashed against her door—the thunk of steel biting into wood. The solid oak creaked in protest as a heavy blade was pulled free. Another blow thundered against the door. Splinters flew across the room. The metal glint of an axe reflected moonlight.

  “By the Hounds!” Sylvalla ducked as more splinters flew. She had no illusions about her prowess with a sword. She was good, yes, but fighting an army alone wasn’t a winning option.

  Heart thumping, she glanced at the tiny castle window. It promised fresh air and escape, as well as a nasty, and likely-fatal, fall to the flagstones below. A risk worth taking if she could be sure the courtyard wasn’t already occupied by enemy soldiers.

  No.

  There would be no escape outside. Her only option was the secret door inside her wardrobe.

  She rushed toward the wardrobe, and opened its slatted door.

  Behind her, the shriek of twisting metal heralded the destruction of the oak door’s hinges.

  It’s a terrible shame, Sylvalla thought, in a moment of stupid clarity. That door had always made Dirk happy. He’d always said, “That’s a solid door with decent hinges, it’ll take a good few seconds to smash through.” Sylvalla had been horrified at the time, but his estimate had been correct.

  A loud grunt from outside. An ear-splitting crash. The door toppled to the ground.

  Slamming her wardrobe closed, Sylvalla fumbled for the secret door within. Stay calm, she ordered her trembling fingers.

  The heavy tramp of boots neared.

  Behind her a man shouted, “In here.”

  His mailed fist smashed through the wooden slats of the wardrobe door as she found the latch. She scrambled through the secret door into absolute darkness.

  Hand to the wall, she fled.

  Compromises

  When the sun sets in the North, look to the East

  Avondale Castle in his sight, Dirk stopped running and waited for Francis’ horse to catch up. Why people insisted on riding horses when running was faster, Dirk would never know.

  Up in the battlements, guards in Avondale’s blue-and-gold were stationed in the usual places. Flags were flying, and the men manning the ramparts stared out with commendable vigilance.

  The pound of hoof beats slowed as Francis reined in his horse. “Dirk, see! Nothing’s wrong. This has been a wild goose chase. We should hurry back, before anyone discovers we’re gone.”

  “Shhh,” Dirk hissed.

  Francis was right. It looked fine. There was no sign of a battle. But Dirk trusted his instincts, and they’d been screaming at him for the entire journey. Now, they screamed louder than ever. Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “Those guards are too keen.”

  Francis sighed to show how obstinate he thought Dirk was being. “Too keen? Nonsense, who could’ve gotten in so easily?”

  “I could,” Dirk said, but as this didn’t seem to bother Francis, he added, “or a wizard, a hero, an assassin, a trickster...”

  Francis held his arms up in mock surrender. “Alright, I get the picture. Why don’t we sneak in through the secret entrance? That way nobody will know we’re here.”

  Fool, Dirk thought. If you know about a secret entrance, how secret can it be? But he didn’t say it. He settled for a contemptuous snort and surveyed the stone walls. “Um, you got some rope?” he asked. He should have come better prepared—sometimes, against the odds, a sword and a loincloth weren’t everything you needed.

  “No,” Francis replied bluntly. “How about, you do Sylvalla and yourself a favour, and run back now. We might avoid another scandal. It’s not like your paranoia has done you any favours lately.”

  Francis was right. It was fortunate that everyone thought Dirk was crazy—otherwise his over-protectiveness of the princess would have crossed the line. But Dirk couldn’t change his instincts—a healthy dose of paranoia had always served him well in the past. Well, almost always. “How about we go back to town and get that rope? Can’t be too careful.”

  Francis sighed again. “Where are we going to get a rope at this time of night?”

  “I’ll show you,” Dirk said. He set off into the middle of Avondale city, whistling tunelessly.

  Francis had little choice but to follow, grimly counting the people who suddenly changed direction for no reason—unless you took into account Dirk’s whistling.

  Dirk stopped and knocked on a solid-oak door.

  The peephole flipped open and an eye peered out.

  The door opened. A lady smiled toothlessly and welcomed them inside, hurriedly closing the door after them. She looked about, hands nervously smoothing her grimy pinny. “Welcome good-folk. What can Ai help you with today, Dirk?”

  “What news of the castle, good lady?” Dirk asked.

  “There’s nought been a word since the hunting party left.” She bustled back to the counter. “Ai sure don’t know what them posh people do. You know that King just came to visit. In the middle of the night, and all.”

  Dirk raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, so I’m wrong,” Francis muttered.

  To his credit Dirk didn’t gloat. It wasn’t in his nature. On the contrary, now the imminent danger had been all-but confirmed, he patted Francis on the back. “You’re alright, boy. Why don’t you just grab that rope off the wall, and I’ll pay. Go on.”

  Francis reached over the bins of grain while Dirk pressed a silver coin into the lady’s hand.

  “I’ll have that rope and maybe a bottle or two of your famous brew.” Dirk winked. “You know, the strong stuff.” He smiled his best smile and produced another silver coin. Then, trying to keep his tone casual, he asked, “Ah, which King came to visit?”

  The lady bit down on each coin before answering. “Ai’m not so sure as Ai know anythink about Kings ’n’ such, young sirs, but Ai’ll go ’n’ ask.”

  She scuttled behind the counter, and yelled to her husband. After a bit of yelling back and forth, her husband came out wielding two green bottles.

  “Yeah.” The unshaven man smiled ingratiatingly at Dirk, his breath a weapon’s grade combination of chewing tobacco, alcohol and rot. “They arrived in the middle of the night, so there was no real fanfare, just went in, and haven’t come out. If I knew heraldry, I’d know. But as my wife says, it’s not our business what them that live up at the castle get up to.” He arched an eyebrow, then winked. “Not that we haven’t heard the rumours.”

  Dirk grabbed the man by his collar. “Are you implying something?” he growled.

  The lady screamed.

  Francis tugged at Dirk’s sleeve. “Not now, Dirk. He’s just a fool who doesn’t know any better.”

  “Please.” The man batted at Dirk’s hands. “T’was but—”

  “I would like it better—”

  “If he minded his own business, and not ours?” Francis asked archly. “That’ll be no comfort to his wif
e, here.”

  Dirk grunted and let him go, whereupon the man dove behind the counter, and pulled out a rusted blade as big as he was.

  Dirk drew his sword. The whisper of steel cutting air[6] filled the room.

  “No!” the woman screamed. “Here, take the wine. It’s on the house. Ee didn’t mean nothing, the drunk old fool.”

  Francis put his hand on Dirk’s sword-arm. “We’re not looking for a fight—there’ll be enough killing before this night is over.”

  Dirk didn’t argue—Francis was right—there was no time to waste. He resheathed his sword, grabbed both bottles and headed out.

  Francis hesitated in the doorway. “The colours? The emblem? Was it a golden bird on a field of blood?”

  “Young sir, you did know,” the man said. “Tha’s it, exactly. Though I can’t say as I’ve seen that kinda bird before.”

  Francis could, he’d seen it plenty in his old life as a stable boy in Scotch Mist. Dirk had seen it too. It was on the pennants of the king he and Sylvalla had accidentally kidnapped. Without hesitation, Francis flipped a silver coin to the man and closed the door behind them.

  As Dirk ran with Francis’ horse galloping behind him, Francis muttered, “Paranoia one: Sane people nil.”

  Crazy. Did Dirk really think they could retake Avondale castle with two bottles of wine, and some rope?

  Bloody Company

  When words come to haunt you

  Bite your tongue

  Sylvalla hadn’t travelled far in the darkness of the secret corridor when she heard a counterpoint to her own footsteps—and stopped.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  Pit-a-thud, pit-a-thud… Sylvalla stood as still as a statue struck by the fear of medusa. Blood thick in her ears, heart hammering louder than the approaching footsteps, she pulled Dragonslayer from her necklace, held the tiny sword in front of her, and drew on its power. The miraculous sword grew as long as her arm.

  Three enemy soldiers, blinded by their own torches, and deafened by each other’s footsteps attacked Sylvalla—

  Pit-a-thud, pit-a-thud… Scleurgg.

  That first victim hadn’t stood a chance. As Dragonslayer skewered him, his torch toppled end over end and clattered to the stone floor.

  Sylvalla held fast her sword. It slid free of the falling soldier, a gurgling shadow slumped against the wall, scrabbling to keep his guts in.

  The second soldier lunged again.

  Sylvalla parried. Her sword grating against his, she used the strongest part of her sword to push her enemy’s wickedly sharp blade over her shoulder—and stepped forward to thrust her blade into his neck.

  This soldier fell back, slow as a feather, dropping his weapon. He, too, struck the wall on his way down, a soft sigh escaping through the hole in his throat.

  The last soldier took a step forward, as if to attack, before turning tail and hurtling back down the corridor, yelling for re-enforcements.

  Sylvalla’s stomach clenched, the smell of blood heavy. Fighting monsters was one thing—people lying dead at her feet were another. No time for that now. She blinked as the soldier’s torch guttered on the stone floor. Resisting the temptation to snatch it up, she turned away. With the enemy all around, she couldn’t afford the tell-tale light.

  Her arm still numb with shock, Sylvalla forced herself to move, one hand clutching Dragonslayer, the other groping the wall. If she could get to her secret room, she could hide there.

  Voices echoed, low and urgent. They were close. That soldier had been quick to get reinforcements.

  Not quick enough to catch me.

  Sylvalla turned the last corner and reached for the fake wall-sconce. A tug released a spring and the concealed door opened. Breathless, she closed and bolted it from the inside. She was still marshalling her thoughts when she heard thumping and scraping outside.

  Sylvalla tried to ignore it. They couldn’t know where this room was, could they?

  A brash voice echoed outside her bolt-hole.

  “Ah! Company! How de-lightful.”

  The voice was horribly familiar. So were the words.

  But Sylvalla didn’t move. It must be a bluff. How could King Phetero have known to come here, to an unmarked, perfectly camouflaged door?

  “Open the door. Or my men will bash it down.”

  Was that thumping and scraping them trying to open the latch?

  Yes. The spring was moving. It was only the bolt—Dirk’s bolt keeping them out. Thanks to Dirk’s paranoia, she had precious seconds, nothing more.

  “You don’t want us to open this door the hard way.”

  “Go ahead!” Sylvalla yelled back, knowing her defiance was as wasted as grains of sand in a desert.

  “Tut, tut,” King Phetero observed, almost pleasantly. “If you do not open the door right now, I shall be most put out.”

  Sylvalla bit her tongue so hard she was almost surprised it hadn’t severed. She’d learnt her lesson; sometimes the truth should be held back at all costs. Biting back the words hurt, so she allowed herself to whisper, too softly for anyone to hear, “You’re welcome, you vile toad. My blade remains hungry for blood: Let your men come and they will die by the dozen.”

  “Alright, men, on the count of three,” Phetero yelled. “One...two...three.”

  The door creaked.

  “And again! One...two...three.” The door juddered, the sound hard on her ears—the impact even harder on the door.

  They would soon be upon her, and for all her defiance, her sword would not help—it could only kill one at a time. Best to hide it. Sylvalla allowed it to shrink back to the size of needle, and threaded it through the folds of her nightdress. Treating it as little more than a pin was how she’d kept her tiny sword hidden, despite difficult questions like, where in Hades did you get that sword? And where is it now? The questions that had plagued her after she’d killed the dragon, Asumgeld.

  “Keep it secret, keep it close.” That Goodfellow chap was such a showman, such a charlatan, but he had good tricks and even better instincts. Sylvalla sent her silent thanks out to the old man. Thanks to him, she could die fighting.

  The door bulged and creaked.

  Heart racing, Sylvalla shoved the pallet bed up against the door, and stood back. Chin up, she waited for the inevitable.

  But it took so long.

  Long enough for her to think about the advice. “Keep it secret…”

  With nothing to do, but worry, Sylvalla winced as each thump echoed around the room. The curses of the men on the other side, muffled at first, grew louder and more abhorrent.

  Finally, the door splintered, the hinges shattered, and half a dozen soldiers smashed through.

  Spilling Royal Blood

  Too rich for commoners

  Hunting Stag is sport for Kings alone

  NAME:Capro Goodfellow.

  CLASS:Magician.

  FAMILIAR:With many things, including dragons.

  SPECIALTY: Living. Over 150 years of it, and still going strong.

  RÉSUMÉ:Despite his apparent inability to cure himself of his propensity for adventure, Mr Goodfellow Senior is a highly respected member of Bairnsley University’s inner circle. His eccentric behaviour has raised questions with the disciplinary committee from time to time. Most often called into dispute is his entrepreneurial streak, his legendary lack of circumspection as regards certain aspects of the law, including tax, and his propensity to free slaves—with or without paying for them first.

  Capro Goodfellow and his son, Jonathan, have recently returned to the university after a series of exploits, the details of which remain classified—despite the fact that even the most ignorant of students is aware of Capro Goodfellow’s role in the strange feats of the princess Sylvalla and the death of the dragon Asumgeld.

  PASSED: While Mr Capro Goodfellow has passed no exams, as such, he does seem to have been involved in writing most of them.

  §

  Old tomes lined the walls of Capro Goodfellow’s s
tudy in carefully-catalogued order, overlooking the mess of books and papers strewn across Capro’s desk.

  Capro Goodfellow squinted to better read the faded ink on an ancient hide-bound volume. The spidery writing warped and crawled under his gaze. He blinked. Was it the text, or his eyes? He shouldn’t sit here for so long, poring through ancient prophecies.

  Again and again, he came back to one phrase in particular...

  Go Forth Old Man

  & Seek The Maid.

  Lest Ye Arrive

  And find the World Laid

  To Waste,

  To Ashes,

  To the Fiery Breath of Hade.

  Capro’s eyes closed, giving his careworn face a moment of peace. For once, he felt his full one hundred and fifty one years.

  There’s only so long a wizard can work without resting, even one of Capro Goodfellow’s ability. But even as his thoughts turned to sleep, his head turned toward the window. The moonlit gardens outside were a not-so-subtle reminder that time waits on no man, or wizard. To refresh himself, he took a small sip of firewater and mumbled a second charm to keep himself awake–his tongue almost tripping on the words.

  When Capro Goodfellow opened his eyes again, he pushed the firewater glass away.

  I should be more careful with these texts. I should be more careful with magic—tiredness is no excuse for dangerous carelessness with magic[7].

  Slightly refreshed, Capro re-read the short piece of text, but the words refused to lie still beneath his rapidly watering eyes. They wriggled, and slid about, shifting until the words of the prophecy formed an arrow. An arrow that moved.

  Startled, Capro dropped the fusty tome back onto the table.

  Capro turned the piece of paper.

  The prophecy swung like a needle in a compass. And always toward the same direction—due north.

  It was as if—but it couldn’t be.

  Capro pulled out an old map, the brittle corners crackling as he carefully unfolded it and smoothed the paper.

  “Forgive me,” Capro said as he ripped out the page the prophecy was written on. He threw the paper on top of the map over Bairnsley.