by Bruce Leslie
Marty’s eyebrows drooped. “Huh?”
Meena turned to Marty and put a hand on his shoulder. “This castle will need a castellan.”
“What’s that?” asked Marty.
“It’s someone to take charge of the castle,” said Meena. “Also, someone to watch over the Kingdom while a new ruling body is chosen.”
Marty squinted and rubbed his chin. “How long do I have to do it?”
“Once the people have chosen a council, a new castellan can be elected every year,” answered Meena.
Marty’s hand fell from his face and he shrugged. “I guess I can do that.” He asked, “But why me?”
The Lump put a big hand on Marty’s shoulder. “I never would have guessed it, but you’re awfully good at running things.” He sighed. “You ain’t never been the brightest lamp in the inn, but you’re honest, and a downright good person.”
“That’s the sort of person Aardland needs as castellan,” added Meena.
One of the Aard volunteers ran into the kitchen, a panicked look on his face. He put a hand on the wall and leaned against it to catch his breath.
“What’s this?” asked Marty. “Why are you running through my castle in such a tizzy?”
The Lump looked at Meena and raised his eyebrows. “Well, he’s taken to the castellan’s role quickly enough.”
The man took his hand off the wall and stood up straight. “There’s something in the river, it’s coming this way!”
Flynn looked at the man and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a boat.” The man’s face was pale and lines of sweat ran down from his brow. “But not like a ferry, it’s a right big one.”
“Take us,” said Meena. “We need to see.” She nodded to Wooly. “Stay here with Martin and his people, see to the prisoner.” Her hand waved at the man bearing the strange news. “Go on, take us now.”
The man nodded and led them across the grounds and to a watchtower at the northwest corner of the castle wall. Meena shoved past him and ran up the stairs, followed by Flynn, The Lump, and a handful of Hill-Folk.
They crested the tower and another Aard volunteer greeted them. She said, “It’s that way.”
They looked out, along the river to the west. There was a form barely visible in the distance.
The volunteer nudged the Lump. “Have a look with this.” She offered him a long, brass spyglass.
The Lump grabbed the spyglass and held it up to his eye. As he looked through it, he saw a large, brown ship with a sturdy mast rising up in its center. The sail was filled with wind and bore a single, yellow triangle, the symbol of Ylam.
“What is it?” asked Meena.
The Lump handed Meena the spyglass. “That Sutton has brought a boat to the Egg!”
Meena looked through the spyglass. “The Templar told us not to trust him.” She handed it to Flynn.
Flynn looked. “What are we going to do?”
The Lump patted the hilt of his small sword. “I think we should follow the crone’s advice.”
Flynn lowered the spyglass. “And what is that?”
The Lump rubbed his bearded chin. “We need to build a fire.” He pointed across the river. “We send people to both banks to burn all kinds of dry brush, make it good and smoky.” His hand fell to his side. “They won’t be able to see anything, and it’ll choke them when they try to breathe.”
A boom thundered in the distance. A heartbeat later, a divot of soil flew up from the river bank and a metal ball bounced along the ground. Another thundering boom rang out, and a chunk of stone and dust fell from the castle’s outer wall.
The Lump gritted his teeth. “He’s brought those brass dragons with him.”
“I think they were bronze,” said Flynn.
The Lump groaned. “It don’t matter, we’ve got to get that screen of smoke up so they don’t get no closer.” He pulled his tiny sword from its loop. “Then we can take the fight to them.”
Meena shouted down from the tower, setting off a chain of shouts and movement that extended to both banks of the river. In short order, fires burned all along both sides of the river. Folk used the blue cloth from the river crossing to quickly piece together large, makeshift fans. As the smoke billowed up from the fires, the fans wafted it across the river where it hung like a dense, dirty fog.
The thunder of the Ylamites’ strange weapons continued to shake the air from time to time, but the boat had stopped its progress at the sight of the smoke on the water. The distance the ship maintained prevented it from causing any severe damage to the castle walls.
Meena, Flynn, and the Lump made their own preparations for a sortie against the unexpected invaders.
Meena had several clay pots filled with tallow-soaked rags and stacked into a wooden cart. She hitched the cart to Snowy and jumped on the bear’s back.
Flynn checked the bows and quivers of two-score Common Folk archers, as well as tightening the string on his own bow.
The Lump grumbled at a group of thirty Hill-Folk who scampered around searching for anything they could throw. He assured his men that arrows weren’t the only missiles that would matter in this fight.
Meena and Snowy moved toward the postern gate. “Flynn, Lump, let’s march.”
Flynn nodded and his archers fell in behind Meena’s cart.
The Lump waved a hand. “My fellows know what to do, I’m sending them on without me.” He squeezed the hilt of the small sword in his hand. “I’m gonna walk down to the river for a minute, I’ll see you at the battle.”
Meena looked over her shoulder. “You’ll approach alone?”
The Lump looked at his blade and it gave off a faint, gray, glow. “I hope not.”
Meena arched an eyebrow and grinned. “Oh, I see.” She led her column out of the castle grounds and westward along the small, riverside path.
The Lump lumbered toward the river. He passed by the crews working diligently to keep the smoke hanging over the water. His eyes burned from the foul air and tears streamed down his cheeks. The big man burst into fits of coughing every time he drew breath, and he could taste ash in his mouth.
At the water’s edge, he sat and brought his head low. He gulped in a big breath from the sliver of clean air that remained between the river’s surface and the cloud of smoke.
The Lump sat up and looked at his sword. “Pop, I think you’re in there, and I think you can hear me.” He coughed, but continued speaking. “This is where the dragon done you in, and it might be where my number comes up.” He wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the smoke. “If there’s any way I could fight beside you one last time, well…” His head shook slowly. “Well, I’m saying it’s now or never.”
“Listen to you, you overgrown oaf!” This wasn’t his father’s voice, it was the crone’s.
The Lump couldn’t help but let out a long, loud laugh. “I guess you’re welcome too.”
The gray light around the blade glowed brighter and twisted around until five, brilliant tendrils fanned out and touched the surface of the water. Suddenly, the air around the Lump felt clean, neither his eyes nor his lungs burned from the smoke any longer.
“You’re right I’m welcome!” One tendril of light shifted into the form of the crone’s specter. “If you want to win this mess, you’ll need someone clever to help.”
“She’s right, my boy.” A second tendril became the small, wiry specter of Silas the Swift. “And you’ll need a mount if you want to keep up with us.”
Next to Silas, a tendril became an oblong blob that rose up to become Tilley. The mule’s spirit snorted and a puff of white smoke shot from its nostrils.
The Lump hopped to his feet and swung a big fist through the air. “Now we’re ready to fight!”
“Not yet, you over-eager buffoon!” The crone’s specter pointed a crooked, ghostly finger at the Lump. “We’re all coming this time!”
A tendril bounced up and down aga
inst the river until it took on the form of Six-Toe. He crossed his shimmering arms and said, “I hear we need to help the chief.”
“That we do,” said the Lump. “Now, can we go fight?”
The specter of Silas held up a finger. “Not without my Meri.”
“You mean…” The Lumps eyes became wide, round saucers. “I get to see my mum?”
The final tendril expanded into a form nearly equal to the Lump’s in stature. A warm, feminine voice said, “Yes, Ollie, and I think it’s been too long.”
The Lump watched the form become the specter of his mother, Merigola. His mouth hung open and he stood dumbfounded.
“Aren’t you going to tell me you missed me?” asked Merigola’s specter.
The Lump nodded and his mouth snapped shut. He drew in a deep breath and said, “I… I… I don’t have the words.”
Merigola’s specter smiled. “That’s all right. You need to concentrate on the fight at hand.”
“Fight?” The Lump rubbed his face and gathered his senses. “Yes, the fight! We have to stop those mud-kissing Ylamites.”
“Point us toward ‘em,” said the specter of Six-Toe. “I ain’t choked nobody in a long time!”
The Lump held his blade out to his father’s ghost. “I reckon you’ll want your sword.”
“No, you keep the sword.” The specter of Silas balled his hands into fists and held them up. “These were good enough to scrap with many a brigand before I ever saw that little hunk of steel.”
The Lump held his blade down by his hip. “You need me to find you a weapon, Six-Toe.”
The Hill-Man’s specter shook its head. “I can find my own.” He clutched a handful of the dirty smoke in the air and it took the form of a knobby cudgel.
Merigola’s specter said, “I’ve got my own weapon as well.” She held up her hand and an oversized, wooden spoon appeared.
“So that’s how Wendy learned to use one of those,” said the Lump. He looked at the crone’s specter. “I suppose you’ve got something, too?”
The crone’s specter held out her arm and whipped back her wrist. A ghastly serpent flew out of her palm like an arrow.
The Lump winced at the sight. “That should send ‘em running, alright.”
The specter of Tilley snorted and stamped a ghostly hoof against the surface of the river.
“I think she’s itching to go, boy,” said the specter of Silas.
The Lump nodded. “Come on, girl. Pick me up so we can get moving.”
The spectral mule dived into the river and emerged from the ground beneath the Lump. The big man straddled its back and the Mule trotted out onto the river and charged along the water’s surface.
The other four spirits streaked along at either side of the mule. Six-Toe and the crone were on the left, while Silas and Merigola traveled on the right. The specters didn’t need to move their legs, they simply flew alongside the mule as it moved forward faster than any living animal could.
The Lump felt the smoke riddled air blow against his body as his ghostly mount charged. A wide smile took hold of him and he raised his glowing sword. He shouted, “Huzzah! Let’s go thump those sons of a cross-eyed weasel!”
33: The Wicked
The Lump and his ghostly mount rushed out of the heavy cover of smoke and toward the bow of the foreign ship. He watched a volley of flaming arrows launch from the south bank, a sign Flynn’s archers were in position. The arrows flew in a high arc, then descended sharply toward the boat, about half hitting their target.
Thunder boomed from the river and the line of archers on the bank scattered. Dirt and grass erupted into the air from the impact of a heavy ball.
The Lump saw Meena and her bear draw closer to the water. She unhooked the cart from Snowy and lit a torch. Her hand swept the fire across the clay pots, setting the tallow-soaked rags aflame. A flock of black, cawing crows swooped down and claimed the now burning clay pots. The birds lifted their fiery cargo and flew over the ship.
On board the unwelcome vessel, spearmen shouted up at the birds. A few helmets flew toward the crows, but failed to deter the flight of the winged attackers. The clay pots fell to the ship’s deck as talons released them. They smashed and spread the burning tallow across the surface in irregular patches.
Meena jumped on the white bear’s back and the beast took to the river. The bear and rider skimmed through the water toward the ship’s flank.
The Lump and his spectral brigade reached the boat and sharply rose to reach its deck. Without hesitation, the spearmen attacked the ghosts. In the initial flurry of battle, only the Lump attempted to dodge the attacks, an act that would have been all but impossible if not for the nimble hooves of his spectral mount.
Many of the spearmen formed into ranks, while a few others tried to quench the fires. Throwing water on the burning tallow only spread it wider, rather than extinguish it.
Tilley’s specter charged the spearmen’s formation while the Lump swung his glowing sword savagely. The lines broke and ghost-mule and rider passed through, the small, glowing blade shearing heads from spears throughout the run.
When they reached the aft of the boat, Tilley turned for another pass. The Lump saw Meena pop over the edge of the ship and onto the deck with her damaged staff in hand.
Another volley of flaming arrows descended on the boat. Meena dove to the deck’s edge to avoid them, while Tilley threaded through them expertly, as if the ghost-mule knew where they were destined to land. More flames sprung up aboard the doomed ship.
The Lump looked over to the archers’ reformed line at the bank. He shook his head vigorously, hoping Flynn would see. Those arrows were as much a danger to Meena and him as they were to the spearmen.
Flynn waved his arms and the archers lowered their bows.
The Lump exhaled in relief and turned his attention back to the spearmen.
Flynn tossed his own bow to the ground and rushed to the river. He dove head first into the water with his cudgel dangling at his belt. His arms beat hard against the water, and in a few powerful strokes, he reached the ship.
Meena used her staff to fight off advancing spearmen, but it was less effective with its recently reduced reach.
Flynn pulled himself up and threw a leg over the edge of the boat. Four spearmen rushed to push him back.
The Lump shouted, “To Flynn, ol’ girl!” His spectral mount rounded and charged through a patch of flame. He howled as they emerged from the fire and the shocked spearmen scrambled away.
Flynn made his way onto the burning boat. He shouted, “Lump, your back!”
The Lump craned his neck and glanced over his shoulder. The back of his cloth shirt was aflame. It struck him that his leather vest was still outside the castle’s south gate where, ironically, he used it to snuff out flames. He thought I wish I had that honey-loving vest now, it wouldn’t burn as easy as this shirt.
Six-Toe’s spirit cackled as it slammed its spectral club into a spearman. The ghost bounced up to Tilley’s back and said, “Looks like you need to shed that shirt!” Its ghostly hand grabbed the flaming cloth and yanked it from the Lump’s back.
The Lump’s face flushed, he felt embarrassed riding around the ship’s deck shirtless. All around him flames grew higher. He watched the crone fling snakes and heard screams lacerate the air. Despite it all, he had to admit that the spearmen held up remarkably well to the sight of ghosts. Perhaps their superstitions conditioned them for such a thing.
The specter of Silas ducked under a spear thrust and rolled across the deck, toward its attacker. The ghost bounced up and struck the man with two quick punches to the gut that doubled the spearman over. The specter swung his left fist up to the bent man’s chin and knocked him to the ground.
Meena leaped back from the arcing swing of a spear. Her back pressed against the low wall enclosing the ship’s deck. The spear thrust straight at her and she sidestepped it. The spear missed her torso, but pinned her cloak to the wood of the wall. She tugged at
her cloak, but it would not pull free.
The attacking spearman released his spear, leaving Meena pinned. He pulled an intimidating dagger from his belt and advanced.
Meena grabbed her own gold-handled dagger and prepared for a fight. The man lunged at her and she parried his blade with her own. His free hand shot to her neck and clutched her throat. The man squeezed and her face reddened.
Meena grasped the man’s wrist with her left hand, but could not pull it free. She swung her dagger up at her assailant’s arm, but the man’s blade intercepted it before it reached its mark.
Flynn saw Meena’s struggle and charged with his cudgel held high. The shaft of a low slung spear caught his ankles and he fell to the deck.
The man choking Meena flinched at the sound of Flynn clattering against the burning planks.
Meena brought up her knee and smashed it into her attacker’s pelvis. The man gasped and dropped his hand from her throat. She braced her elbows against the ledge behind her and raised her legs. With a grunt, she smashed both boots into the man’s chest and sent him careening back.
Flynn crawled toward Meena, then raised himself up onto his knees. He grabbed the spear that pinned her and pulled it free of her cloak.
Meena nodded at Flynn, grabbed her staff, and charged back into the battle.
Much of the ship was taken in flames. Smoke rolled off it so thick that this part of the river now resembled that back down by the castle. The Ylamites began abandoning their vessel and leaped into the water in droves.
The Hill-Folk arrived at the shore. They pelted the fleeing Ylamites with their hastily-chosen, makeshift projectiles. Most of the spearmen relinquished their spears to the Oxhorn’s flowing waters in order to swim. This left the invaders all but defenseless when the soldiers on the dry land met them.
The Lump rode Tilley’s specter across the ever-more burning deck of the boat. He crossed his arms across his torso to cover his bare chest, clutching his still glowing sword in his right hand. The big, shirtless man called out, “We need to get off this tinderbox now!”
Flynn pointed toward the aft of the shift with his cudgel. “Look!”
