by Bruce Leslie
The Templar shouted, “Ballo, porce Eis Agoosta!”
The gray haired man nodded and pounded his table with a wooden rod to garner the attention of the musicians. He waved his rod around and the players worked at their strings and pipes producing a rhythmic tune.
The Sutton held his arms wide and spun in a circle, bouncing up and down in time with the music as he did so. “Yes, to dance is to be alive!” He stopped spinning and extended a hand toward Meena while he directed his gaze toward the Lump and Flynn. “Please, my guests, join me in the dance.”
Meena shook her head. “I am sorry, we are not accomplished dancers.”
“Oh, of course.” The Sutton’s face dropped into a frown for the briefest of moments before he whipped it back into a wide smile. “Perhaps at another time.” He waved his hand, and the music stopped.
“I’ll dance with you sometime,” said the Lump. “You looked like you were having fun.”
The Sutton arched an eyebrow. “Yes, my friend, sometime, perhaps.” He linked his arm with Meena’s again. “Now we can see the chamber of rule, you can sit on my troni, if you wish.”
The Lump wrinkled his nose. “I need to know what a troni is first.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “It’s not some kind of fish, is it?”
The Sutton laughed at The Lump’s words. “No, not a fish, it is my chair. Help me, Templar.”
The Templar said, “It is a throne.”
“Oh, a throne room,” said the Lump. “I always thought those chairs looked uncomfortable.”
The Sutton laughed again. “It is!” He pointed at the Lump. “The big man is wise, the troni is so very uncomfortable, but it is where I must sit.”
They marched along with the escort of guards to the throne room. It was a glorious, ornate chamber, the kind that might be used for important meetings of state. The throne sat in the center of the far side of the room atop a stone dais. Steps carved into the stone led up to a bronze throne. Though very shiny and ornate, it was a normal sized chair rather than some overly large symbol of power.
Intricate designs were carved directly into the yellow stone of the walls, and two rows of life-sized statues of men ran up either side of the room. The statues looked to be of varying age, with the oldest of them closest to the throne.
The Sutton smiled at his guests. “Have you seen rooms like this in your land?”
The Lump crossed his thick arms. “We’ve been in a throne room before, but it wasn’t quite like this.”
“What was it like?” asked the Sutton.
“Well, for one thing,” said the Lump, “it certainly wasn’t this friendly.” He pointed toward the dais that held the throne. “There’s no torture tools, or even rats here.”
The Sutton drew his brows together. “You have rats in your Sutton’s state room?”
The Lump held his hands out by his shoulders. “The King of Gallis had some rats in a cage, but he never did use them.”
The Sutton tilted his head. “What would he use them for?”
“An inquisition,” answered the Lump. “I’m not exactly sure how, but I’m pretty certain it would be unpleasant.”
“It is good you don’t do such things,” said Meena.
The Sutton’s smile returned. “But of course, I would never bring rats into my state room.”
The Lump brought a finger to his chin. “Can I ask you something, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, my friend,” answered the Sutton. “Ask anything you wish.”
The Lump put one hand on his hip and held out the other, palm up. “How did your spearmen make that crash of thunder out there on the plain?”
“Ah, that!” The Sutton unlinked his arm from Meena’s and clasped his hands together. “That would be one of my dragons.”
Meena drew down her brows. “You have dragons?”
The Sutton held up a finger. “I have new dragons, let me show you.” He called out to his guards with words the Lump did not understand, then looked at the Templar. “To the training grounds!”
The guards led the way to a heavy door that led out of the pyramid and into the city. Four guards remained at the door while the other two ran out to clear a path. After a few moments of waiting, the guards led the group out of the xiphos along a deserted pathway to a postern gate in the city’s wall. They passed through the gate and were greeted by scores of spearmen lined up in either direction. These spearmen were clad in the same humble gear as the patrol, rather than the ornate gear of the guards.
A row of ten bronze tubes were lined up about a dozen paces from the gate. The tubes were mounted on large, wooden wheels and pointed at piles of stone in the distance.
The Sutton held a hand toward the metallic tubes. “These are my dragons.”
Flynn wrinkled his forehead. “They don’t look like dragons, maybe you have the wrong word.”
“No, my friend, they are dragons, new dragons.” The Sutton balled a hand into a fist. “They do not look like dragons, but they bite like dragons.”
Flynn looked at the dirt, then back to the Sutton. “I don’t think I understand.”
The Sutton held his hands wide. “I must show you!” He swatted his hand toward a spearman and said, “Pyros toh draconotis!”
Two spearmen ran toward the nearest bronze tube. One pounded the butt of his spear inside the tube a few times while the other produced a flint from within his tunic. The spearman in front of the tube ran aside and dropped his spear. The other spearman struck his flint and sent a spark into an opening at the rear of the tube. Both spearman threw off their helms and covered their ears.
Within a a few heartbeats, the ground shook as a deafening boom erupted from the tube. Smoke billowed up from the device and a pungent odor reminiscent of rotten eggs wafted on the air. As the smoke settled, it revealed the end of the bronze tube was split into three ribbons of metal.
The Lump coughed at the smoke. “I think that’s what we heard.”
The Sutton stared in the distance and frowned. “It missed the pile of stones.”
“What missed?” asked The Lump.
The Sutton shook his head. “The ball missed the stones, and now the dragon is spent.”
The Lump wiped his eyes, they watered from the smoke. “What are those things? How do you get them to do that?”
“I will be happy to explain all to you,” answered the Sutton. “We shall sup and speak of this.” He put a hand on his round belly. “Will you dine with me? My cooks will prepare a great feast.”
The Lump shrugged and looked at Flynn.
Flynn grimaced and looked at Meena.
Meena nodded. “We would be most happy to accept your invitation.”
The Templar stepped forward. “May I return to the temple with your guests? I should like to gather more of their knowledge before we feast.”
“Yes, Templar, take your leave.” The Sutton held a hand up by his face. “But bring them back to me hungry, we shall have an incredible feast!”
14: Blades and Witches
The Templar and his trio of guests made their way back to the domed temple that sat in the shadow of the pyramid shaped castle the local folk referred to as a xiphos. Once inside, the Templar offered up three wooden chairs for Meena, Flynn, and The Lump. The chairs were modest, lacking cushions or soft coverings, but they were plenty comfortable to the weary travelers.
The Templar clasped his hands and stood tall. “We have some time before we dine with the Sutton.” He tilted his head a little to one side. “Maybe, you would be so kind as to help me advance my studies?” The dark features of his face curled into a tired smile. “I know our day has been long, but I should hate to lose any opportunity I have with you.”
“Do you want to know more words for things?” asked Flynn.
The Templar lowered his face and shook his head. “No, I would like to discuss a different thing.” He lifted his gaze back to the seated trio. “At the temple we have long wondered how the Molga could live among the jungle beasts before thei
r ascension.” He held his hands up by his shoulders. “Many scholars debate it, but you may have answers.”
The Lump leaned back in his chair and placed a hand on one of his thighs. “Why would we have answers?”
The Templar held up one of his brown fingers. “You survived the jungle with such a small party, you traversed it without loosing any of your number.” He flashed the Lump a wry smile. “I think you are Molga, returned.”
“What?” The Lump wrinkled his forehead and leaned forward. “We’re Aards.” He swung a finger between himself and Flynn, then pointed at Meena. “And she’s one of the Common Folk.” He put a hand beside his mouth and leaned farther forward. “They don’t like to be called Needlers.” His hand fell and he leaned back. “We’re not Molga.”
“Yes, I see.” The Templar gave his head a slight nod. “But, I think, maybe you could help me just the same.”
“Sure, we’ll try,” said the Lump. “Where do you want to start?”
The Templar rubbed his hands together and lowered his white eyebrows. “You spoke of a spirit, you also called it a ghost, I heard you say it two times.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Please, can you tell me more of this?”
“I don’t know.” The Lump furrowed his brow and looked at Meena. “What do you think, chief?”
“Please, don’t start with that. I’m too tired for your games.” Meena looked at the Templar and her face softened. “The Templar has treated us kindly, I think we should be open with him.”
The Lump smiled. “Whatever you say—”
“Don’t call me chief!” chided Meena.
The Lump laughed and looked up at the Templar. “You might not believe it, but I’ve been saved by spirits three times.”
“I believe you,” said the Templar. “And, how does this happen, do you think?”
The Lump shrugged. “To tell the truth, I don’t have any honey-loving idea.”
Flynn bounced forward and held up a finger. “They come from his sword!”
“Spirits from your sword?” The Templar drew his brows together. “Is this right?”
“Well, maybe.” The Lump brought a hand to his bearded chin. “The sword glows and seems to spit out ghosts when I’m in a really tough pickle.”
The Templar raised an eyebrow. “What is this pickle you speak of?”
Meena rested her staff in her lap. “A dire situation, that’s what he means by pickle.”
Flynn smiled and pointed at his big friend. “Lump, you should show him how your sword glows.”
“Yes.” The Templar nodded. “If this is true, I should very much like to see it.”
The Lump shifted on his seat. “Well, it’s not much to be impressed with, but I’ll show you.” He pulled his tiny sword from its loop at his hip. His eyes narrowed and he squeezed the hilt. After a few moments of concentration, the small blade lit with a faint, gray glow.
The Templar opened his eyes wide. “This, this thing is amazing!”
“It doesn’t really do much,” said the Lump. He relaxed his grip on the hilt and the glow faded. “It doesn’t even give off as much light as a torch, I don’t think it’d help me see in the dark.” He slid the small blade back into its loop.
“This sword…” The Templar pointed at the Lump’s hip. “I think it is a spectral blade.”
The Lump wrinkled his nose. “And what in the name of a sour-breathed sister is that?”
The Templar paced back and forth with his head hung low. “The Molga did not have much skill in forging weapons. From our studies, we venture they had very few.” He wrung his hands while he spoke. “Legends surrounded the scant number of blades they did have.” His pacing stopped and he lifted his face. “The Molga stones tell stories of collecting the specters of lost companions in spectral blades, so they could give guidance in times of need.”
Flynn nodded. “That does sound like your sword, Lump.”
The Templar resumed pacing, but let his hands fall to his sides. “We believed this to be a legend, or maybe a misreading of the stones, but what you tell me supports our understanding.” He stopped and clasped his hands together. “The three of you visiting is a very special thing.”
The Lump held his hands wide. “Why would I have some muskrat-loving magic Molga sword?”
“I would very much like to know this thing as well.” The Templar brought a finger to his chin. “Where did you get your sword?”
“It was my pop’s,” answered the Lump. “He left it for me when he died.”
“And who is pops?” asked the Templar.
Flynn said, “It’s what he calls his father.”
The Templar nodded. “Yes, the color language he uses.” He scratched his white tuft of hair. “How did your father obtain this sword?”
The Lump crossed his arms. “As far as I know, he found a smithy to make it for him.” He looked down at the blade on his hip. “Regular swords were too big for him.” His gaze lifted back to the Templar. “You see, my pop was a small fellow.”
The Templar brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. “You do not know this person who made it for him?” He leaned his head to one side. “Perhaps this person merely sold it, but did not forge it.”
The Lump held out his hand. “Your guess is as good as mine, Templar.” He paused, then said, “Come to think of it, your guess is probably better.” His arms crossed again. “I haven’t studied this Sol-forsaken magic business.”
The Templar asked, “The spirit from the sword, was it someone you knew?”
Meena nodded and answered on her friend’s behalf. “Yes, she was very close to me.” She cast a sideways glance at the Lump. “I am not so sure she was fond of him.”
“Yes, yes.” The Templar stared at the floor, then lifted his face. “And this specter sent you here?”
“Sort of,” answered the Lump. “She just told us to go west.”
The Templar paced again. “And she saw you safely through the jungle…” He held a finger up by his ear. “Perhaps the Molga survived by the care of their dead ancestors.”
“Not exactly,” said the Lump. “I mean, the specter saved me from the big snake, but Meena saw us through that mud-kissing forest.”
Meena shot the Lump a disapproving scowl.
The Templar asked, “Is this true, Meena?”
The Lump laughed and his ample belly shook. “You might as well let the swine out of the trough, you already told him my secret.”
Meena sighed. “I don’t think it was just the spirits of their ancestors.”
The Templar furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
Meena rested her hands on her staff. “I read a tome that had knowledge of the Molga, but it made no mention of any blades.”
“What else, then?” The Templar shuffled a step closer. “What would help them survive?”
“They had…” Meena pursed her lips and hesitated before she continued. “They had what the crone called witches.” She gave her head a quick shake. “Though I don’t care for that name.”
The Templar’s dark forehead wrinkled. “Could you tell me more of these… did you say witches?”
Meena nodded. “There were three sorts: water witches, woods witches, and dragon witches.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “At least that’s what I learned.”
The Templar lowered his head and put his fingers on his temples. “And who taught you this?”
“The crone,” answered Meena. “She’s one of the spirits in the sword, now.”
The Templar let his hands fall to his sides and raised his head. “But she wasn’t a spirit when she taught you?”
Meena shook her head. “No.”
The Templar raised his white eyebrows. “But she was a spirit when she sent you here?”
“Yes,” answered Meena.
“I fear I might grow confused.” The Templar rubbed his forehead. “How would these witches help the Molga survive in the jungle?”
Meena wrinkled her forehead at the qu
estion. “They were women who had a special… I don’t quite know, I suppose connection would be the right word.” She squinted for a moment, then said, “They could commune with the animals, live beside them.”
“We do know that women led the Molga,” said the Templar. “Do you think you may be speaking of the priestesses of the Sun and Moon?”
“I don’t know,” answered Meena. “I’ve never encountered that term.”
The Templar drew in a long deep breath, through his nostrils. “So, do you have this connection you speak of?”
“I…” Meena’s face stiffened. “Yes, I am a woods witch.”
“Can you tell me more about that?” asked the Templar.
Meena nodded. “I will tell you what I know.”
“May I retrieve a quill, and some paper?” The Templar started toward the door at the rear of the room. “I would like to take notes, so I don’t miss any knowledge.”
“Yes,” said Meena. “That would be fine.”
The Templar passed through the door and into the sanctuary under the temple’s dome.
With the Templar in the other room, Flynn raised an eyebrow and asked, “Should we be telling him all of this?”
The Lump held his hands wide. “I’m not one to share my business, but I can’t see what it could hurt.”
“I don’t like talking about it,” said Meena. “But, the crone told me to learn who I am, maybe this Templar can help.”
The Lump grunted and shook his head. “Maybe that big picture painted—”
“I have returned,” interrupted the Templar. “Please, let me position myself to take notes.” He stood behind the altar and placed a few leaves of paper and an inkwell upon it. “Now, you say there are three sorts of witches?”
“Yes,” answered Meena. “Water, woods, and dragon witches.” She grimaced. “That word feels bitter in my mouth.”
The Templar looked up from his notes. “Would you prefer priestess?” He tapped a finger against his paper. “I can refer to these wielders of power in that way.” He held one hand up by his shoulder. “Instead of water witch, I can write water priestess.”
Meena frowned and drew her brows together. “I appreciate your effort to make me comfortable, but priestess doesn’t seem right, either.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem to be involved with religious rites, it’s more natural than that.”