Legend of the White Sword (Books 1 - 3)

by P. D. Kalnay

  “One and the same creature,” Gran said. “The Mopat is my servant. The only one I could bring with me.”

  “And it’s the cat too?”

  “The cat is the Mopat’s… resting form. Normally, it can appear human, but when it taxes itself, and exerts its power, it must spend time in a diminutive form as it recuperates.”

  “Did Ivy know?”

  “Of course, Ivangelain may be stunted in some ways, but she’s as powerfully gifted as any of her kind.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She is exceptionally talented at sensing things related to living creatures. It was Ivangelain who confirmed the Dragon Lord’s identity, before I was certain. She would have recognised the Mopat immediately.”

  I thought back to Ivy’s eviction of the cat from my room. The Mopat was terrifying in its natural form, but Ivy had manhandled it like a regular housecat. I couldn’t help being impressed after what I’d seen.

  “She didn’t tell me about Mopats,” I said.

  “No doubt she believed doing so would break her promise to me,” Gran said.

  “What kind of creature are they?”

  “I think it would be more educational for you to discover that on your own.”

  “How?” I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “In the library,” Gran said.

  I’m not claiming to have read all, or even a sizeable fraction of the books in Gran’s library, but I had looked through the collection. None were about magical creatures, or magic of any kind. I told Gran so.

  “Not that library,” she said. “The other library.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the attic.”

  Gran fished around in a pocket before handing me an old fashioned skeleton key.

  “I thought you said the attic was just storage space for old junk?”

  “Some of the books are quite old.”

  Chapter 9 – The Other Library

  After living at Glastonbury Manor for over two years, I’d seen the rest of the house. The attic was the last unexplored frontier. The door had always been locked, and my grandmother had said it was storage space for old things that were no longer needed. I’d pictured another junk-filled room like the old kitchen in the basement. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The door to the attic stood at the top of the servant’s staircase. I rarely used those stairs because the main stairs were right by my room. My old room. Unlike the basement door, to the portal between worlds, the attic door looked ordinary enough. I stuck the antique key in the keyhole, turned it with a smooth, oily click and opened the last door in Gran’s house. That’s not totally true—I’d never gone in Gran’s or Ms. Mopat’s rooms—but I didn’t count those.

  You’d think that with all I’d seen, I’d have been prepared for Gran’s attic. Not even close. The door swung open to reveal one massive room as big as the entire house. The ceiling sloped from a high peak to low walls at the edges, and dormers ran its length. Morning sunshine sparkled in a thousand cobwebs above me. A central isle ran the length of the attic, straight down the middle. All the rest of it was… full. Shelf after shelf, filled with books, stood at right angles to the walkway. Other things, many of which I couldn’t put names to, hung from the rafters, or sat, dust-covered, atop the shelves. I stood in the doorway unable to decide if I should go in or step back, re-locking the door. My curiosity got the better of me.

  Slowly, I walked the central aisle. There was so much that I didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t just books. I must have examined a globe—that was most definitely not Earth—for a good twenty minutes. Reading desks sat under a few of the windowed dormers. None of the shelves matched the others, and no signage was affixed to their ends. Most of the books were old looking, leather-bound tomes. Less than one in a hundred had a title on its spine. I didn’t know how the Dewey Decimal System worked, but it didn’t matter. The real library at Glastonbury Manor contained no card catalogues, or any system I could determine. I missed my recently deceased laptop.

  I browsed the books at random. Most were handwritten in English. A few were undecipherable; I wondered if I was looking at the writing of the First World. Eventually, I stumbled onto a book titled: A Bestiary of the Southwestern Shores. That book was so fascinating that I skipped lunch without noticing. Detailed descriptions, and beautiful illustrations, brought some of the wild animals of the First World to life. Not literally, thank goodness. Ivy had mentioned a few of the creatures in the book, but seeing the drawings made them more real, and generally more terrifying. Where are the First World equivalents of puppy dogs and panda bears? I wondered. Not counting Ivy’s descriptions, I only recognised one type of creature in the entire volume. The unicorns. The ones in the book didn’t look much like horses and had sharp looking teeth. They did have a single long horn, and the name was the same. I learned that unicorn horns were useful for a variety of enchantments. I also learned, that, as in the stories I’d read, they were drawn to purity… more specifically, to virgins. According to the book—unicorns found them to be irresistibly delicious. They’d kill and eat almost anything they ran into (no pun intended), but for unicorns… virgins were like chocolate.

  I found no Mopats in the bestiary, but then I had no idea what kind of creature they were. I certainly didn’t know if they hailed from the ‘Southwestern Shores’. The diminishing light, from the windows above, told me that lunch had come and gone a long time ago. My stomach complained of its neglect with a loud growl. I closed the thick book and decided to go downstairs.

  A rough feminine voice spoke right next to my ear.

  “Young Master, the mistress of the house has sent me to fetch you for dinner.”

  I jerked back in the chair, startled. Strong hands held my shoulders firmly, and soft lips tickled my ear.

  “Now that you’ve seen my true form, I’m permitted to speak with you,” Ms. Mopat said.

  Awkward.

  “I didn’t know you could talk,” I said. I wasn’t able to turn my head because her face was pressed right next to mine.

  “The mistress bound me, long ago… when she truly was a queen of air and darkness.” Ms. Mopat paused to smell me—I’m talking a good long sniff. “I was the darkness.”

  “Uh, OK. You said it was dinnertime?”

  “You hunger, Young Master?”

  “I could eat.”

  “I too have hungered… for your gentle touch. None have touched me as you did, Young Master.”

  What? I’d never laid a finger on her. Gran’s cat on the other hand… Oh, Crap! Ivy’s bizarre reaction to my grandmother’s cat made sense now. Crap! Just when I thought I’d run out of weird.

  “I didn’t really know–”

  “I have thought often of the nights we lay together,” she whispered.

  OK, that made it sound a lot dirtier than sleeping next to a house cat. The nightmare image of the thing that had killed Mr. Smith flashed through my brain. I gave an uncontrollable shiver.

  “I see you remember those nights as well, Young Master.”

  She definitely had the wrong idea. Be blunt Jack, explain the misunderstanding.

  “Well, the thing is–”

  “And then that girl destroyed our happiness!”

  The hands gripped my shoulders a little too tightly.

  “I think–”

  “Were I not bound; I would have torn her tiny head from her tiny body, ripped her two, and feasted on her heart!”

  I’d found nothing in the books, but it looked as though Mopats were super scary over-reactors. Something to remember.

  “You said it was dinnertime,” was the best I could come up with.

  “I did, Young Master.”

  Ms. Mopat released my shoulders and headed for the door. Watching her go, she still looked the same as she always had. She paused in the doorway without looking back.

  “The mistress won’t live forever. I won’t forget.”

  Then she was gone.

>   Damn.

  I determined to camp out in the attic until I found out what the heck Ms. Mopat was.

  Chapter 10 – A Mopat’s Tale

  After evening practice, I returned to the library and began combing through the collection. If there was a system, to the order in which the books had been shelved, I couldn’t determine it. A handful of the books were in languages I couldn’t read, and a few in scripts I didn’t even recognise. The majority were written in Earth’s languages. I recognised Chinese characters, along with Greek and Latin texts. Recognising didn’t bring me any closer to comprehending, but most of the library books were in English. Or at least, Old English. The majority of those books were handwritten in the same flowing script—and I felt certain—by the same hand. Many of the books were beautifully illuminated. Even when I couldn’t read them, it was hard to resist thumbing through to look at the illustrations.

  ***

  It took me a week to find a book that mentioned Mopats. Luckily, it was written in English, but not in the handwriting that dominated the collection. The book was a small volume, wrapped in rich red leather. The title read Peoples of the Black Wastes. Ivy had described the Black Wastes as a hellish desert, where few survived a single day, and no one travelled by choice. The book was pretty thin compared to most on the shelves, but I figured that made sense. How many people could there be, living in a place called the Black Wastes? I flipped through the book, passing by a page titled Mopats, before catching myself and flipping back. That chapter was only a single page long and contained no illustrations.

  Of all the creatures inhabiting the Wastes, none are more feared, or more whispered about, than the Mopat. The irony is, few recorded cases of contact exist. Some suggest this lack of record merely indicates the fatal nature of the encounters. Other sources claim the numbers of this species are few. Halik Longwalker stated in his memoirs that he believed the Mopat to be a singular creature. A survivor from an earlier age. So little factual information exists—that this question may never be answered.

  Those who claim to have seen a Mopat describe a creature formed of darkness. All mention claws and a tail, but there the descriptions diverge. In size alone, those few accounts of the Mopat’s stature range from “goblin sized” to “taller than an ogre”. No doubt these, admittedly scarce, accounts are seasoned with fear, diminishing the accuracy of the observations. The genuine terror that other formidable peoples in the area display, at the mention of the name Mopat, are strong indicators that these creatures are not merely legends, or the stuff of fireside tales. In the years I travelled the wastes, I found no proof of the existence of a Mopat. Finding the truth of this legend must fall to another.

  That was what the original text said about Mopats. Someone else had continued the two paragraph chapter underneath. I immediately recognised the ubiquitous handwriting that filled so much of the library.

  Having had an unfortunate amount of firsthand experience, I can conclusively confirm the existence of Mopats. Or at least, of a Mopat. I hope no others exist. Nothing, I’ve learned to date, suggests there are others. What follows is a brief account of how I came to know the Mopat. The long years that followed are recorded elsewhere.

  While making my way to the Great Library of Anukdun, I was forced, through circumstance, to travel across the northeastern corner of the Black Wastes. Having little in the way of supplies, and knowing nothing of the region, I soon found myself lost. Thirsty, tired, and near to despair, I found shelter in the ruins of an ancient temple, deep within the Waste. For days and nights, I huddled in darkness, waiting-out the raging sandstorm that had driven me there. I will confess to feeling quite sorry for myself. Though my tears disappeared shortly after the last of my water, the Mopat found me sobbing. My story nearly ended there.

  Long, dark, miserable days in the depths of the temple had left me sensitive to the sounds around me. Most of those sounds came from the sand and small rocks pounding against the thick outer walls. But even in my sad state, I recognised a new sound on the far side of the sacrificial chamber. Then I discovered a faint presence nearby. Calming myself, I sent my thoughts outward and found the Mopat. My fear grew with the realisation that the creature contained immense power… and a dark hatred. That such a powerful creature was able to mask itself so thoroughly, was terrifying. Few would have had the talent to mark its presence.

  No doubt existed in my mind that death approached within that unknown darkness. I was sure I was being hunted. The Mopat later confirmed this. Physically weakened by my recent ordeals, and alone in the darkness, I thought desperately of how I might escape or defend myself. In the depths of the temple, I could summon no winds, nor call the lightning. Only luck, or fate—if you believe the weavers truly work at the loom—saved me. My flight from Windhol had been unplanned, and I’d fled with Ariel’s Seven Ladies in my possession. Theft was not among my reasons for leaving, and I fully intended to send the stones back when I reached Anukdun. Knowing the small knife at my side would prove worthless, and with no proper weapon to speak of, I took the stones from my pack.

  A massive altar filled the centre of the chamber. On arrival, I’d lit the room briefly, before settling into darkness to conserve my strength. I learned later that the Mopat can see in the utter absence of light, so that altar saved my life. As silently as possible, I took the Seven Ladies from my pack and arranged them in a wide circle in front of me. All the while, I expected the creature to spring across the chamber. The Mopat is possessed of virtually limitless patience. This trait, which makes it so deadly a hunter, became in this instance, its downfall. Knowing what I now know, it’s impossible that the Mopat failed to hear my movements. Its patience, and an arrogance from aeons of successful kills, bought me the time to set a trap.

  The circle of stones placed, I returned to sit with my back to the wall of the chamber. I then pulled my knife from its sheath and attempted to look frightened. This was, given my circumstances, easily accomplished. After a wait that seemed interminable, I heard the Mopat make its way around the chamber. The Mopat can move in absolute silence. Each soft scrape of claw on stone was for my benefit. The Mopat is a deadly predator, and it loves the hunt. I listened fearfully for the sound of one of the Stones being kicked aside. If the circle were broken that would be the end of it. Focusing on its prey and enjoying the savour of the hunt, the Mopat failed to notice the circle. I believe it was the Mopat’s loneliness that allowed me to spring my trap.

  The Mopat spoke to me from the darkness—unusual behaviour for the silent hunter. I barely recall the words now, after so many centuries. At the time, I said whatever came to mind. Gently, I let my will flow into the stones. When the Mopat realised—and sprang for my throat—the circle was closed. For hours the Mopat raged, attempting to break free. Had I drawn the circle, or used a talisman of lesser power, it would have done so. Ariel’s Seven Ladies are limited in the uses to which they may be put, but the things they can do… they do well. The Mopat was trapped in an unbreakable cage. My dilemma was that I had to keep the cage door shut with the force of my own will. When I grew too tired to continue, the Mopat would break free.

  I finally arrived at a solution. A horrible, unthinkable solution. Unfortunately, it was the only one I came up with. I bound the Mopat to myself. The choosing of a familiar is a serious matter that should receive months, if not years, of consideration. As all know, a sentient being should never be bound in such a way. I was young and afraid. Perhaps, those are inadequate excuses, but they remain the simple truth. The price I paid for my decision made any reprimand I might receive laughable.

  I don’t know how long the binding took to accomplish. Darkness, rage, and seemingly endless screams followed. At some point, I lost consciousness. When I woke, the Mopat knelt silently at my side. Waiting—unable to harm its master.

  Those who view power as the only prize worth attaining might envy me my servant. They are fools. In my youth, I often considered ending my life to escape the Mopat. The knowledge that it
would then roam free, stayed my hand. I’m older now and will use whatever means I find at my disposal to accomplish my goals. In this… I make use of the darkness to safeguard the light.

  I’d seen ten summers when I bound the Mopat. A willful child, with dreams of life different than that accorded to me by birth. The stain of Mopat’s soul is a thing I can never escape, never scrape off, no matter how long I live. As the winds outside the temple calmed, I abandoned my childish dreams, and began the long journey back to Windhol.

  I looked down at the last words, and the handwriting, for a while after I’d finished. It appeared the flowing handwriting belonged to Gran. She’d written most of the books that surrounded me. She’d also run away from home, travelled across the First World, and defeated a powerful monster by the time she was ten. I’d thought I was already fully intimidated by my grandmother, but formidable was way too small a word to describe her. I’d learned a little more about Ms. Mopat, if nothing directly useful. I also had a bunch of new questions. Figuring out how to ask them was another matter.

  ***

  Gran had already set her limit on personal questions. I’d used up my three, although one had technically been about Glastonbury Manor. She never budged on anything. Asking straight-out was a waste of time. To learn more about Ms. Mopat, I’d need to find the other book that recorded the years that followed. Presumably, that book would also tell me more of my grandmother’s story. At dinner, I tried my hand at a more general question. It was only Mr. Ryan, Gran, and me. There was no reason to hold back.