Grim Lions (The Templar Wars Book 1) Read online

  Grim Lions

  Grim Lions

  Book One of The Templar Wars

  J. A. Deriu

  Copyright J. A. Deriu 2020

  [email protected]

  J. A. Deriu asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Prologue

  He preferred to occupy his mind with stories of adventure rather than concentrate on the history lesson. The classroom window was open, and he could see the outline of the distant mountains. They looked the type of setting for a tale. He was about to let his mind wander to their peaks when he was interrupted by the horrible noise of chalk being scratched on the blackboard.

  “Are you paying attention?” the young teacher, John Smith, asked. His fingers were white from holding the stick of chalk too tightly. His body was facing the blackboard, but he had turned his head at a sharp angle to face the classroom.

  He eased as he realized John Smith was talking to all of the class. The scent of rain was on the wind coming through the windows, and the students had to be thinking it would be better to be running outside before the rain came than cooped up in the crowded classroom. Furthermore, they had all been distracted by the noise of a wagon coming into the village and the assumption that it was a traveling salesman who would have his wagon full of goods they all wanted to see and touch.

  “Constance had an excellent question,” the teacher said in a serious voice, “and you should all listen to the answer. Ask it again, Constance.”

  Constance, her hair in long, elaborate braids, stood and joined her hands in front of her. “I asked, Teacher, when did the Ottomans conquer their empire?”

  “A great question.” The teacher nodded his head. “A hard one to answer. Are you all listening?”

  The boy shook his head so that the teacher could see.

  “It is hard to answer because it didn’t happen in one day or start on any particular day,” John Smith explained. “It was conquered over a long period of time that started about two hundred years ago in the old lands once known as Europa. These lands are to our east, across a vast ocean known as the Atlantic. The armies of the Ottomans marched out of their capital and defeated the kingdoms of Europa, one by one, including the great Russian Empire.” As he was talking, he was pointing to shapes he had drawn on the blackboard, his black jacket marked by the chalk. “Once the navies of the British and French were defeated, within years, the ships of the Ottomans began to land on the shores of this continent. Their armies made the coasts of these lands part of their empire. Their brother empires expanded at the same time. The Persians in Africa and the Mughals in the Orient and the Pacific. These empires covered the known world. Do not mistake me, there are three empires, but the Ottomans are the older brother and behave like one.” He had the attention of the classroom. He was mostly likable, not like the impatient, wrinkle-filled men and women who were the usual teachers, although he did stretch the classes longer than the others.

  “But they did not come to our lands,” Constance said.

  “Why are we not ruled by the Ottomans?” asked another pupil.

  “Well, they did not conquer everything,” the teacher answered. “A lasting empire knows when its boundaries have been reached and when its armies are exhausted. They stopped their expansion and allowed the settlers in the wilderness of this continent to have peace, albeit with the understanding that it was at the whim of the sultan.”

  “Are there others not ruled by these empires?”

  “There are. There is a whole continent. After the conquest of Europa, there were mass expulsions and migrations to the new lands of the southern continent, which had not been long discovered and settled. It became known as New Europa.” He pointed to a shape on the blackboard, part of his map. It was underneath the other shapes. “These people made the continent fertile. It was too massive and far away for the Ottomans or the other empires to bother. It became many countries, some like the Old World and some nothing like the Old World.” The keenness in his voice made the children lean forward to listen. “Let me tell you something very interesting about New Europa,” he said and then paused before dramatically announcing, “I have been there.”

  The faces of the children said that they did not believe him. Some scoffed loudly. He had been in the village for only months. A “passer-through,” he had called himself. No one really knew where he had come from. John Smith had a daring face, lean with dark eyes, the kind he imagined belonging to an adventurer.

  The teacher ignored the doubters. “It is a truly wondrous land. They have machines that could not be imagined. Vehicles are moved by motors with no animals pulling them, thousands and thousands of them on roads that they clog. You can sit in a theater and watch pictures that move. Speak to someone who is far away by using what they call a telephone. Buildings that reach into the clouds. And most astonishing, airships that sail through the skies like mammoth ships. I have seen all of this.”

  “I have heard of such things in the Ottoman Empire,” a student said.

  “That may be true. But I’d vouch anything in the lands of New Europa compares to that in the empires. I am told that the cities are larger than those in the empires. One even grander than Konstantinople. I experienced this city myself. It is on the southern end of the landmass, and I can say it takes days to journey from one side to the other.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Constance was standing again. “Are there any other lands free from the empires?”

  “There are specks about that find a way to live outside the shadow.” He considered. “I suppose the only other lands of size would be those of the Qing Dynasty of the Orient.” He frowned and turned to look at his map. He lifted his eyes well above the shape he had called New Europa. “Although some say it is only time before the Ottomans conquer this kingdom. It has not the distance to protect itself, other than formidable mountains.”

  Constance gulped. “What about our lands, sir? Will the Ottomans conquer us?”

  His eyes, for the first time, looked uncertain before he produced a reassuring smile. “No, Constance, these lands are safe. There is no reason for the armies of the Ottomans to come here.”

  Time had hurried as they listened to John Smith. The children bustled among themselves to be the first out. The boy looked across the dark-green of the village gardens. Like the other students, he was looking for the traveling salesman. The wagon was farther down the road, toward the middle of the village. The others were already running.

  The salesman had spread out his wares. His horses, untethered, grazed on long grass at the side of the road. Both sides of the wagon were open. A crowd was gathering, their heads covered for the impending rain. The merchant was loudly touting. He had set up a brazier, flames beginning to reach out of it. Potatoes would be baked and chestnuts roasted. The smells would attract all of the village to his camp.

  The boy watched the camp patiently from a distance and ignored the shouts from some of the children who had run on to play in the fields. The salesman had placed his popular items close to the wagon. He lifted awnings for cover. Shelves of bottled elixirs reflected the waning sunshine. Hanging dresses moved with gusts of win
d before ladies could feel them. A waistcoat was being tried on by an old man. Children jostled with one another to reach into an open crate that was full of wooden toys. The salesman looked nervously at the darkening sky. A drop of rain landed on his forehead.

  The box the boy was looking for was placed under the cover of a thick old tree. He edged closer as others looked into it. He had no money and could not see his mother. Children had squatted next to the box and reached inside. He moved so that he was close enough to see what they were looking at. The books looked new, thick covers filled with bold letters. He stretched his neck so that he could read over the shoulders of those holding the books.

  “Don’t be shy, lad.” The salesman was talking to him. “Pick one up. Read it. See if you like it. I’m sure your mother or father will be here to make sure you own it.”

  “I have a mother,” the boy said.

  “Right, then.” The salesman smiled and patted his shoulder. He was tough looking. Taller than any man in the village, with hands that looked like they worked in a lumberyard, but he had the smell of a vase full of roses.

  The boy looked to the box, dropped to his knees, and picked up the closest book he could reach. He opened it and held it tightly. It was a seafaring adventure. Pirates and sea monsters. He moved his fingers over a fantastic illustration of a giant kraken attacking a ship. The sounds of good-natured haggling resumed in the background. He moved to a comfortable spot among the oversized tree roots, where he could not be easily seen or bothered by the raindrops, and started reading.

  He looked up. Smoke was coming from chimneys. His mother had not come. The villagers had gone home for dinner. He could not see the salesman. Most of his crates and goods had been cleared. He had been too focused on the story to register that it was late and had darkened. He had been straining his eyes. The brazier had burned out. There was not enough light to continue reading. The smell of roasted chestnuts had blown away. There was a curious cat watching him. He waved his hand for it to go away. He had not finished the story. An underwater kingdom had been discovered, populated by mermaids and mermen. He looked for the salesman. The wagon was dark in the distance. Perhaps he could borrow the book for the night and finish it next to the warmth of a fireplace.

  He heard voices from the other side of the thick-trunked tree. His stiff body moved gingerly. He felt the knots of the tree as he moved around it. He could see the bland outlines of two men. One was the tall figure of the salesman. He had to look harder to see who the other one was. He recognized the voice. It was the teacher, John Smith.

  “You look well, brother. The life of a traveler is for you?”

  “You jest. I was made for action, not talking,” the salesman replied. “Or perhaps you talk of yourself. Teaching has made you content.”

  The boy decided he did not want to interrupt the conversation and took a step back.

  “It is how I journey across these lands unnoticed,” John Smith said. “Yet in truth, perhaps it is some satisfaction to help the young understand the world beyond. But also, in truth, and like you, I long to replace a book in my hands with the feel of a warm rifle.”

  “Hmm,” the salesman responded and crouched.

  John Smith did the same and spoke in a hushed voice. “The Children of Liberty have been recruiting from the wilderness. This means the enemy will come, and they will be angered. The Children have done much damage. Their cause is being rallied to. You can be sure of this, Brother Felix.”

  “Is this the rebellion, Brother Gaspar? Is this finally the time?” the salesman asked.

  The boy tried to think why they were calling each other strange names.

  “I pray that it is. The leadership of our enemies has never been so poor. They act like spoiled children, lashing out, then sourly retreating to sulk. Nothing of the cleverness of their forebears.”

  “We must be ready to join the fight. All of us. We can expect no aid from New Europa. They are too far away,” the salesman said.

  “It does not mean it won’t come,” John Smith replied.

  “There is a storm coming, Brother Gaspar.”

  “That is certain,” John Smith said, “yet we must not only withstand it, we must become the storm.”

  The boy backed into the darkness, the rain wetting his hair. He left the book and sneaked away.

  Chapter One

  He rubbed the sweat from his eyes. His hands were dirty. There was no time for sentiment. It had been his house from birth, and it would be no longer. His lacrosse stick leaned against the white boards. They had been roughly painted, done with a glass of lemonade in one hand, with laughter on a carefree spring day. He emptied the kerosene-filled can onto the wooden planks thrown across the veranda, splashing out the last drops, and bent to light the kindling. The wood was from the busted porch chair. He had sat on it most evenings, reading until it was too dark, looking up to watch the sunset above the shadowy treetops. He had broken it apart with his boot, as if they had not known each other.

  A cat meowed behind him. A gust of smoke swept across his face. He had nothing to feed the cat and ignored its pleas. Its owner, if it had one, was far away. Perhaps it would be able to make a living. Time was not his anymore. The militia had not been able to hold. It was for him now to do his task. Burn everything, leaving nothing for the enemy, and run.

  The flames rose up the wooden pylons, smoking against the ceiling. Soon, they would consume the walls, the roof that had sheltered him, the table stained by apple-cider circles, chairs that rocked with use, dog-eared books, his unmade bed. He heard a rumble in the distance. Not thunder. It was the militia, what was left of them. The stiff-jawed militia leader had warned that they couldn’t hold, yet they had marched away in the darkest clothes they could find, with the dullest faces. He had been told he was too young to join them, even though he had trained. They had tramped across the green fields, disorderly. The militia leader had not looked back. Others did. His task was to burn the dwellings. He picked up his rucksack to continue to the next house. He stopped, looked at the lacrosse stick, clasped it, and carried it slung over his shoulder. He heard the cat scamper behind him.

  He emerged outside the smoke and saw the mark in the sky. There it was. How long had it been there? He observed it, conscious of being emotionless, the stick and his rifle strapped to his back. His arms hanging loosely at his sides. The purple flare slashed against the pale blue like an ugly, crooked finger. It was the signal from the militia. They had run out of ammunition. All was lost.

  He thought of the militia leader again. His mother. He would not see her again. She had not looked back. He knew he had no time now. There were still five houses in this fork of the village. Perhaps the others would catch from the flying embers of the ones already burning. It was unlikely, as there was little wind or heat in the atmosphere. He crouched, took out his binoculars, and scanned the edge of the wood. Nothing but the outline of the ever-reaching pines. He needed to go toward the setting sun to catch the others who had fled. He was maybe five hours behind the children and citizens now. He would need to stay low to the ground as he moved. He had on his dark, dirty greens, which blended with the terrain, but the shooters of the invaders would be racing to the smoke. He pulled the tight-fitting black wool beret lower on his head, to his eyebrows, leaving his ears uncovered. For a moment he rested on his knees, taking long breaths. This would be the last chance for many hours, maybe days.

  He hadn’t slept properly for nights. It had been twelve days since the reports of the enemy crossing the Missouri River, the unofficial border, which had held for decades, as long as anyone could remember. It had been breached. Nobody had slept a full night since then. His mother pacing the floorboards until the morning. Villagers, coming to see her, speaking to one another, hushed, urgently. His sisters, packing and leaving two days ago, gripping their dolls. Facing him as the wagon rolled away, blowing kisses, their long hair caught by the wind.


  His weapons were a hunting knife and his loaded rifle. It shot one bullet at a time, a bolt to reload. He felt both instinctively every few moments to make sure they were still there. There were another twenty-eight bullets of various ages packaged in his rucksack, which he now tightened to make sure that it was firmly, comfortably attached to his back. There had been no firearms practice since the incursion, with the militia leader instructing that all ammunition needed to be preserved.

  The cat was now at his feet, rubbing against his thick-soled boots. He couldn’t recall which house this cat came from. Most kept one for the mice. Not his mother. Their dog, a pup, had chased after the girls and had leaped onto the wagon as it joined the dirt road. The cat was ugly, a collection of colors, unfed, more a kitten. He steadied himself to stand and leave, scanning his surroundings for the last time. The grass patches he had played on as a boy with a ball or a stick. The uneven lacrosse field in the distance. He knew every rock and rabbit hole across it.

  From deep in the woods came the sound of short, sharp cracks rapidly after one another, then a pause and then more. Momentarily he had competing thoughts. Run to the fight or run from the fight. The militia had fired the flare, which meant the fight was over and to flee. There was no decision to be made. He couldn’t move though. He scanned the area again with the binoculars. The cat insistently meowed at his heels, as if it knew it was time to leave. Yet he had not moved. Again, the short, sharp cracks could be heard. There could be militia needing aid, and he was useless. He waited for more noise. There was only the rapid shooting and, later, complaining birds. The militia didn’t have that many guns. It wasn’t a firefight. It was the enemy making all the noise.

  He crept backward. The best way, the way he was supposed to go, was where the shooting noises were coming from. He would have to take a long, long way. He had made it to the last of the houses and an old stone fence that acted as a border for the village when an eruption came from the woods. He could see branches with clumps of leaves attached going airborne, spirals of smoke twisting into the sky. They had blown the cross. The explosion had come from the outdoor chapel in the woods.