by Bruce Leslie
The Lump jerked his head around. Another ship approached behind the burning one. Amidst the chaos of fighting and flames, it had gone unnoticed. The second boat, however, had to have seen its sister ship go up in flames. The approaching vessel slowed, and in all likelihood, planned to go back the other direction.
“Don’t worry about that,” said the Lump, arms wrapped across his chest. “It already looks like it’s running away.”
“We have to stop it,” said Meena. “We can’t let it escape.”
The Lump cringed, growing ever more uncomfortable with his lack of a shirt. “I figured you’d want it to go away, so we don’t have to fight no more.”
Meena turned away from the Lump and looked at the other ship. “We have to stop it for precisely that reason.”
The Lump felt relief that eyes were on the boat and not him. “I don’t think I’m following what you’re getting at…”
“If it goes back to the Darklands, it will report what it saw,” said Meena, still staring at the vessel in question. “More ships will come, bigger ships. They will also be better prepared and we likely won’t.” She glanced back at the Lump, then quickly returned her gaze to the river. “We were fortunate all our armies were here and ready to fight when the Ylamite ships arrived.” She asked, “Do you want us to feel the need to spend the rest of our lives preparing for war?” The young woman shook her head. “We’ve done all we’ve done to put an end to exactly that.”
The Lump shrugged. “Well, now it makes more sense.” He looked at Flynn. “Swim back to land and get your archers to burn that boat.” His eyes shifted to the back of Meena’s head. “Do you have anymore fire pots for your crows?”
Meena turned around, no longer concerned with the Lump’s embarrassment. “No! We can’t burn it, I want to capture it.”
The Lump groaned. “We’ll have to fight all those spearmen.” He nodded southward and shifted on his spectral mule. “Our folk on the bank are busy subduing the last lot, they won’t be able to help us.”
Meena arched an eyebrow. “By now, I thought you’d know what we are capable of doing.”
Flynn stepped forward and held his hands wide. “You have a vanguard of unstoppable spirits.” He pointed at Meena. “And she’ll have every bird and beast capable of reaching that boat fighting for us!”
The Lump nodded. “That does make it sound better.” He smirked. “What do you have to offer?”
Flynn grinned and held up his cudgel. “Why, I have a stick!”
“Wonderful,” said Meena. “We can’t lose.” She sprinted to the side of the burning boat, put a foot up on the ledge, and leaped overboard.
Flynn ran to the side of the ship and looked down. The Lump and his spectral mount followed close behind him. Meena was astride Snowy as the white bear swam alongside the burning boat.
Meena looked up and shouted, “Come on, Flynn, it will slow her down, but Snowy should be able to carry us both.”
Tilley’s specter snorted, then brayed. The otherworldly sound of the spectral mule’s cry gave all who could hear a start, including the other spirits.
The Lump chuckled. “Flynn, I think you’re going for a ride on a ghost-mule.”
Flynn raised his eyebrows and said, “I’d rather—”
Tilley zipped toward Flynn, not bothering to let him finish his words. The Lump’s stomach jumped up to his throat and his boots slammed against the burning boards of the deck. Before he could gain his bearings, he was back in the air, perched on his ghost-mule once more, but now Flynn was behind him.
“Now quick, let’s go,” shouted the crone’s specter. “I’d rather not see if spirits can burn.”
The ghost-mule streaked along the river’s surface carrying its passengers as if they weighed nothing. Its spectral companions floated alongside at an equally incredible pace. In the passing of a few heartbeats, they reached the second ship while Meena and the bear were still several lengths away.
The Lump, Flynn, and the five specters charged onto the boat’s deck. The spearmen on board looked at them with mouths agape, but still fell into a fighting formation.
Tilley’s specter reared back and dumped Flynn on the deck.
The Lump ignored his bare chest and raised his still glowing sword high.
Silas dove into the ranks of spearmen first, followed by Merigola and the crone. Six-Toe was last to jump into the fray, but the joyous tone of his shouts suggested he was most enthusiastic.
The Lump braced for his own charge, but Tilley’s specter took to the air. The ghost-mule flew around the mast and the Lump understood why. He swept his sword against the ropes and the sail came loose on one side. The broad cloth flew in the air like a banner and provided no movement to the vessel it was meant to propel.
The spectral mule swooped toward the river and skimmed its surface along one side of the ship. The Lump held out his blade and sheared all the oars along the boat’s south flank.
Tilley’s specter pressed on toward Meena and the white bear. Water rushed against the Lump’s bare chest as the ghost-mule dived into the river. When it emerged, Meena was now on the ghost-mule’s back, just behind the Lump.
Meena grimaced. “We really should try and find you a shirt.”
The Lump nodded. “It’s number two on my list, right behind surviving this ox-sniffing battle.”
Tilley swooped back toward the boat and the fight it contained. They settled onto the deck and Meena hopped off the ghost-mule, her staff held firmly in both hands.
“Now, Tilley,” said the Lump. “Charge!”
After all he’d been through, the Lump conceded that the fight didn’t look so bad. After all, though his side was outnumbered five to one, he thought but hey, at least there aren’t any dragons.
The Lump kicked a spearman aside with an oversized boot and surveyed the battle to see how the others were faring.
Six-Toe slammed his club into a spearman and shouted in satisfaction. The specter spun and slammed his weapon into another. A dagger struck between the ghost’s shoulder blades and Six-Toe let out a sinister laugh. The spirit said, “Let me show you something really scary!” In a quick swipe, Six-Toe’s specter yanked of its ghostly boot and shoved an unshod foot in the man’s face, complete with six otherworldly toes.
The spearman gasped and fell to the ground, unconscious.
Glowing, gray spectral snakes shot through the air, each one wrapping around a spearman’s head and bringing him to his knees.
An Ylam soldier thrust his spear through Merigola’s middle. The large specter of a woman shook a chastising finger at the man before bringing her wooden spoon crashing against his helmet.
The specter of Silas ducked under one spear strike, then hopped over another. The spirit spun and slammed its spectral fist into a man’s knee. When the man knelt from the force of the blow, Silas put a foot on his foe’s back and leaped through the air.
Meena knocked aside a spear’s point with her shortened staff.
The man wielding the spear swept its shaft around at her head.
Meena failed to block the blow, and it crashed against her temple. She fell and lay flat, on her back.
The spearman snarled and stepped forward, his weapon raised high with intent to bury it into Meena’s middle. When he tried to bring it down, it met resistance.
Above the man, owls screeched, their talons grasping his spear. He took one hand off the weapon and swatted at the birds.
Meena kicked the distracted spearman in the middle and scrambled away.
“Stop!” shouted a foreign voice. “I speak small Molgatong.”
The Lump turned to see Flynn with an Ylamite arm wrapped around his chest and a knife’s edge pressed to his throat. He was at the mercy of a red-tunic clad spearman, one of the Sutton’s elite guards.
Flynn’s captor said, “Send away specters!”
The Lump climbed down from the ghost-mule and held up his hands.
Flynn shouted, “No, fight on! Forget about me!” He
groaned as a knee slammed into his flank.
The Lump shook his head. “I can’t do that, Flynn. You’re a friend.”
Meena tossed down her staff and raised her hands. “Release him and we’ll let you go.”
The Ylamite man shouted, “Send away Specters!”
The Lump lowered his head and turned toward his father’s spirit. “I appreciate everything, pop, but I think my last ride is over.”
The specter of Silas said, “You can send us back, but the mule needs to run some more.”
The Lump furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
Tilley dived into the planks of the ship’s deck.
Flynn’s captor said, “Where beast go?”
The specter of Silas flashed a malicious, otherworldly grin. “You’re about to find out, you rotten-breathed son of a hammer-toed hen!”
Gray light erupted beneath Flynn and, in an instant, he was mounted on the spectral-mule’s back.
The Lump scooped Flynn’s cudgel up from the deck and tossed it to his friend. “It’s your charge, ol’ boy!”
Flynn reached out and caught the cudgel.
The Lump called out, “Time to be a hero and save the day!”
Tilley’s specter tore through the gathered spearmen. Flynn’s cudgel crashed against them mercilessly. The pair made pass after pass, leaving defeated Ylamites in their wake.
The crone’s specter resumed launching snakes while the specters of Silas and Six-Toe simply slapped each other on the back and cackled with laughter. Merigola swung her spoon like a long-axe and sent adversaries sprawling.
Everyone stopped as a menacing shadow passed over the ship. The Lump looked up to see what cast it.
The sky darkened with birds of every imaginable size and color. The few spearmen who remained standing fell to their knees. As the apocalyptic cloud of feathers and talons fell upon them, they all shouted the same thing. “Propishus eso, Sophia!”
34: Peace
The Lump narrowed his eyes. He hunkered down low with his sword by his side. His eyes locked on their target and he sprang. The big man crashed against the deck and his hand snapped shut. In his grasp was a coarse, yellow blanket. He wrapped the cloth around his shoulders and tucked it into his breeches. That’s better he thought Now I don’t feel naked.
The capture of the second ship was a simple matter after Meena’s display of power. The change that came over the invaders in that moment was remarkable. Not only did the Ylamite spearmen surrender, some seemed to swear allegiance to Meena, though their strange language made their intent less than entirely clear.
How about that thought the Lump They came to fight her, then switched to her side. He shook his head and mumbled, “Strange how she has that effect on people.”
Up ahead, the smoke was slowly clearing. The collection of brush fires near the castle had been long extinguished, and all that remained of the burning boat were smoldering embers floating just above the waters that would soon snuff them out. The wind blew eastward and would take the dense cloud of smoke to torment unfortunate River-Folk villages. In all likelihood, accounts of the day’s fantastic battles would reach them before the smoke. Few things in Aardland traveled faster than the speed of gossip.
Meena approached the Lump, her face was long despite the overwhelming victory. She looked up at him and said, “I’d like to speak with the crone before her specter disappears.”
The Lump adjusted the coarse cloth that served as his shirt. “Fine with me, I don’t really have much say in the matter.” He nodded toward the congregation of spirits near the fore of the ship. “I’ll go with you, I need to talk to my pop.”
Meena stepped over to the crone’s specter with the Lump at her side. She opened her mouth to speak, but was not given the chance.
“Ah, child,” said the crone’s specter. “I don’t have any wisdom left for you.” A crooked spectral-finger waved in the air.
“I’m not asking for any,” said Meena, her voice smooth and calm.
The crone’s specter flashed an eery, snaggle-toothed grin. “It looks like you learned who you are.”
Meena nodded. “Yes, I think I have…” She tilted her head a little to one side. “All too well, in fact.”
The crone chuckled and crossed her ghostly arms. “It’s clear I don’t need to tell you what to do next.” The specter arched an otherworldly eyebrow. “I know you kept this wretched boat for a reason, you can’t fool me, girl.”
“I would never attempt to fool you,” said Meena. “Yes, I do indeed have a plan for this vessel.” Her expression softened and her eyes opened just a bit wider than before. “I simply wanted to say goodbye, and thank you… Beverly.”
“Bah!” The crone’s specter scowled at Meena. “I never liked that name! It’s too soft and squishy for a rough edged crone like me.”
“I think it’s a beautiful name,” said Meena, leaning against what remained of her ash staff.
The crone’s specter groaned. “Tell it to my grandson!” A spectral finger went into the air. “Maybe he’ll be inspired to slay that weasel on his lip he calls a mustache.” The spirit’s arms crossed. “What kind of name for a man is Beverly, anyway? Idiots, I tell you! Always surrounded by idiots!” The specter’s eyes darted toward Six-Toe, then back to Meena. “In this life as well as the last.”
The Lump stepped away from Meena’s side and walked to his father’s specter. “Pop, I just want to say goodbye now.” He frowned. “And I want to say I’m sorry.”
The specter of Silas drew its ghostly eyebrows together. “Sorry? For what?”
“I’ve spoken ill of you,” said the Lump, his eyes lowered. “I just want to say I see things different now.” He looked up and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Silas nodded. “Yes, my boy, yes there is.” The specter sighed. “Let us rest now. Every soul ought to have peace in the end.”
The Lump brought a hand to his bearded chin. He asked, “How do I do that?”
The specter of Silas laughed quietly. “You’ll figure it out, son.” The ghost shot the Lump a stern glare. “But, your mother won’t rest if you keep fighting dragons and storming castles.”
“Is that right?” asked the Lump. He narrowed his eyes. “You, of all people, are telling me not to be a hero?”
“Heroes are fools!” spat the specter. “I was a fool, from the day I was born until well after I died.” Silas pointed a ghostly finger at his son. “Listen to me, boy, be a farmer, plant those potatoes you love so much.”
“Not much I can think of that would make me happier.” The Lump saw the glow fade around his father. “It looks like you’re fixing to go, pop.”
“Not yet.” The specter of Merigola sauntered forward. “Not without a hug. It’s been too long since I’ve had one, and I may never have another chance.”
The Lump stepped forward and wrapped his big arms around his mother’s specter. The spirit felt cold to the touch, but his heart felt warm. For the briefest of moments, the specter’s pale, gray light became a bright flash of rich amber, then it was gone.
The Lumps now empty arms fell to his sides. All the specters were gone. He looked around the boat and, as best he could tell, only living people remained on the ship.
Meena walked over to the Lump with Flynn close beside her. She said, “The ship is secure, we don’t need to stay aboard any longer.”
The Lump put a hand on the back of his neck and rubbed it. “Then I guess I’m going back to the tavern.” He shrugged. “Wendy’s going to be madder than a hornet in buttermilk that we took Marty from her.” His lips twisted into a smirk. “I’m glad she’ll have Eugene to take her bitterness out on instead of me…” The Lump shook his head. “He won’t have an easy go of it.”
“No, I’m sure he won’t,” said Flynn.
The Lump raised his eyes to Flynn. “Are you finally going back to Silverport?”
“Not yet.” Flynn narrowed his eyes. “I think I shall help Meena.” He crossed his arms. “We n
eed to help many of the volunteers return to their homes.” He looked at Meena and raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps, there are further tasks with which I can help.”
Meena nodded. “I do have further tasks in mind.” She looked at the Lump. “You have earned your peace, you’ve clearly repaid any debt your father owed the Common Folk.”
“When it comes down to it,” said the Lump, “my pop paid some of it himself.”
Meena nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She paused, then said, “But I have another matter to pursue before I can rest.” Her eyes went to Flynn. “Flynn, your support would be greatly appreciated in that endeavor.”
“You have my support, Meena,” said Flynn. “Now and always.”
The Lump scratched his chest, the coarse cloth of his makeshift shirt made him itch. “I think I’m going back to the castle to see if I can find a proper shirt.” He stopped scratching but the shirt didn’t stop itching. “I might even find a good night’s sleep before I head to Windthorne with the prisoner.”
The big man walked toward the edge of the deck where a plank served as a wobbly bridge to the river bank. “Maybe Marty’ll lend me his ox-cart, he should have plenty of others to choose from in his new castle.” He put a foot on the plank.
Meena called out, “Lump!”
The Lump looked back over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised.
“I will miss you,” said Meena. Her mismatched eyes were tinged with sadness.
The Lump laughed. “I think you’ll be plenty busy.” He pointed a thick finger back at her. “After all, you saved the Great Egg today.”
“No, I mean it,” said Meena. “Thank you for everything.” She held one hand out by her side while the other clutched her staff. “Without you, none of this would have been a success.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said the Lump. “You are Meena, and I ain’t ever met nobody else like you.” He faced forward and resumed walking.
“Goodbye, Lump,” shouted Meena. “May your days be filled with peace, love, and kindness!”
The Lump stopped and turned around on the plank. “You can always come visit The Turnip Bowl , you know.”