by Steven Novak
Utilizing a subtle gesture of his hand, Kragamel motioned for the young soldier to stand. “You may rise.”
With his longtime general, Gragor, reduced to a smoldering husk in what remained of his son’s castle, and the corpse of Thrax now a charred and bloated mass of fish food at the bottom of the Aquari Sea, the king was in need of fresh blood to command his armies. In the awful red forest of Fillagrou, work had already begun on the creation of a doorway leading to the hundredth world, the final world. Once large enough for his army to pass, the invasion would begin. Only one world remained, one world left to conquer and make his. A single world stood between him and control of the universe.
Had his father lived to see this moment, the king believed beyond a shadow of a doubt the useless old fool would be reluctantly proud.
Kragamel needed someone he could trust to lead Ocha into this glorious new day, someone he had faith in and someone who would do whatever needed to be done.
Gently stroking the coarse, neatly tied gray hairs of his beard, the King leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply. Though his head moved, his eyes remained trained on the soldier standing before him. “I assume you are aware of General Thrax’s demise?”
The youthful soldier inhaled and held his breath, his chest puffed no less than five inches further than a moment prior. “Indeed I am sire.”
“Good. I would imagine then that you have at least some idea why I’ve summoned you to my chambers?”
The soldier’s jaw remained tight. His gaze was stern and serious, and unwavering. As hesitation was hardly in his nature, his response came quickly. “Indeed I do, sire.”
“There is one world left to be tamed, and I need it wrangled quickly. Ocha needs it wrangled quickly. Either you can do this for me or you cannot.”
Absent-mindedly the hand of the soldier moved to his side, tracing the contours of the sword hanging from his hip with an anxious confidence. His response came through a pair of rapidly moistening lips. “I assure you I can, Sire.”
His elbows resting on the arms of his throne, Kragamel’s fingers came together over his lap and just under his chin where they intertwined. Keeping his eyes glued on the young warrior, he leaned forward and sighed deeply. Though some years younger than those promoted to general before him, the king had been watching the Ochan warrior with keen interest for some time. He liked what he’d seen. There was something familiar in the mannerisms of the young Ochan, something that reminded him ever so vaguely of himself around that age. The youth seemed dedicated, eager to please, and capable of following orders, while at the same time understanding the need for occasional bouts of controlled improvisation. Letting his eyes move to the soldier’s belt, Kragamel took note of the lingering bloodstains still adorning the blades of the young soldier’s weapons, a masterful rainbow of colors, an opus to a lifetime’s work.
He had found his new general.
“The position is yours, Artem,” Kragamel stated sternly, leaning back in his chair and relaxing as much as his body would ever allow. “I would suggest you do not fail me. As you are no doubt aware, the price paid for such an act is often quite high.”
In response, Artem grinned devilishly. “Understood, Sire.”
With another flip of his wrist, the king motioned for his newly appointed general to exit. After a subtle nod of his head, Artem did exactly that. The massive doors closed behind him, and again the surrounding air became eerily silent. Alone again in his obscenely large throne room, Kragamel rose from his chair and made his way to the window once more. Outside, the rain continued to spit angrily from the heavens. Thick dark-hued droplets nearly the size of golf balls pounded away at the frozen ground of the courtyard with such force it seemed almost angry. Such disgusting weather—maddening even—far better suited a backwards world like Tycaria than his. For everything he had accomplished, something as simple as the weather remained, and would continue to remain, just beyond his grasp. Though it might seem unreasonable to most, a part of the tyrant King was bothered by the fact that he had not, and might never have control over it.
Well, for the time being at least.
*
CHAPTER 5
NO TIME FOR GRIEVING
*
It was so cold. It was always cold in Ocha. Reaching behind him, tiny Roustaf grabbed hold of the wispy-thin wings attached to his back and wrapped them snugly around his body. It did little to quell the jittering of his appendages. Dangling from a hook on the ceiling of the narrow hallway in the dungeon far beneath the castle of King Kragamel, the little steel cage containing him swayed gently in a breeze of unknown origins. He hadn’t closed his eyes in hours; he couldn’t. Every time he shut them he saw Walcott. The image of his friend, split open and sprawled out on a slab in the courtyard had burned itself into the undersides of his eyelids. He couldn’t escape it. The echo of the Tycarian’s screams continued to reverberate in the cones of his ears, skipping on an endless frustrating loop and driving him nearly to the point of madness. Over the course of the war the little man had seen his fair share of death, unfortunately having to count his family, his friends, and his entire world among them. He was not unaccustomed to losing those he loved. Walcott’s final moments were still fresh, however—fresh, and clear, and so disgustingly vibrant they hurt. Roustaf understood all too well that, for the time being at least, he needed to push these images into the back of his mind. Grieving had become a luxury, and it was a luxury he could no longer afford to indulge. This frozen prison was a death sentence, this tiny cage a coffin. While the king might in fact have found a worthwhile reason to keep Donald and Staci—and their incredible powers—alive, he and the rest of the group were a different story entirely. They offered Kragamel nothing, and therefore they were useless. In Ocha, useless things tended not to last. Glancing over his shoulder, Roustaf gazed in the direction of the cell holding his neon pink-skinned love interest, Tahnja. Mostly obscured by the shadows, only a portion of her lower body remained visible. The smallest of small icicles had begun to form on the tips of her rounded pink toes, glistening in what little light managed to somehow worm its way into the dungeon. Her previously bright skin had dulled and was slowly transforming into something more bluish and icy. If she hadn’t followed him through the doorway into Ocha she wouldn’t have been there, half frozen and clinging perilously to life. If she’d just done what he told her to do, if she’d just waited like he instructed, she wouldn’t have been suffering, and he wouldn’t be forced to watch helplessly from fifteen feet away. Seeing her in such a state—the sight was breaking his heart further than it was already broken. Unable to take anymore, Roustaf decided to turn his attention to the cell on the opposite side of the hallway. Though he couldn’t see her, the tiny man was keenly aware of the fact that young Staci Alexander was sobbing into her half frozen shirt against the cell’s rear wall. While the deep shadows had entirely obscured her frail and shivering form, the sound of her breathing remained. Pained, and distant, and labored, it quickly proved as difficult to listen to as Tahnja’s toes were to look at. A bit further down the hallway, Brutus and Teek and what remained of their ultimately fruitless attempt at a rescue party lay helpless and suffering behind their own sets of thick steel bars. All Roustaf had wanted to do was help Walcott and Pleebo. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Yet, in trying to help, he succeeded only in making matters worse. Walcott was dead, and Pleebo’s whereabouts remained a mystery, though he was most likely dead as well. Those sent to rescue them had been captured. On every conceivable level he had failed.
From thirty or so feet away came the sound of an unlatching lock, followed immediately by a drawn out squeak as a door four times thicker than Roustaf’s body, opened and bathed the darkened hallway in a momentary burst of light. Distorted, frightening silhouettes moved slowly in his direction. At first amorphous shapes, the shadows quickly began to bend, and crisp, and take shape. A pair of Ochan guards passed underneath his dangling cage, their
massively muscled shoulders a stark contrast of differing greens, the steel of their weapons shimmering in the warming glow. Walking slowly ahead of them with his head buried in his chest, his hands resting stiffly at his sides, was none other than young Donald Rondage. This was a different Donald than Roustaf first met six months ago. It was a different Donald even than the one he encountered again a week or so prior. The boy’s cocky smirk had disappeared, his swagger had been stolen, and his sarcastic quips wiped from existence. Watching Walcott die had permanently changed Donald Rondage. He’d been beaten—defeated and hollowed out. What remained now was simply an afterthought. In short, he had given up. After ushering the messy-haired boy into the cell opposite from Staci, the guards locked it and walked away. The archers who had been assigned to keep their weapons trained on his every move were no longer necessary. Donald wouldn’t be fighting back, not any more. This instance marked the third time today that the Ochans removed Donald from his cell and marched him sullen-faced from the dungeon, only to return him a few hours later. Both Roustaf and Tahnja tried on two separate occasions to convince the boy to tell them where he was being taken and what was being done to him. Despite their pleas, Donald refused to answer. Maybe he didn’t want to; maybe he couldn’t. Roustaf was no genius, but then it didn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever was happening to the boy couldn’t be good. From a few cells down came an overly drawn out, gravelly moan. Injured during the scuffle just inside the doorway to Ocha, the stringy gray-haired creature known as Teek had been bleeding for days. He was dying slowly. He was dying painfully. Behind Roustaf, Tahnja shifted her weight on the frosty stone floor, her thin frame pulling itself into the fetal position in a desperate attempt to find something resembling warmth in the chilly awfulness. Unfortunately for her, there was no warmth in this place. There never had been and there never would be. Ocha was a world for zombies, for the weary-useless just beginning their journey along the road to death’s doorstep, and those that had already reached the destination.
This was a place where dreams came to rust.
Again Teek moaned; again Tahnja shifted uncomfortably. A few cells down, the burly-bodied Brutus groaned, his thick fingers sore and his knuckles bloated from beating at the bars a day prior in a vain attempt to escape. From the shadows, delicate and broken, little Staci’s sobs caught the breeze before smacking Roustaf square in the in the chest. Suddenly it seemed so terrifyingly clear to the little mustached man; they were all going to die here. Unless they escaped, they were going to die in this dark, unforgiving place atop the bloodstained floor of those that had come before.
They had to escape.
From the ceiling above, an extraordinarily chilly droplet of rainwater seeped its way through the cracks, falling onto the top of Roustaf’s cage, rolling over the side, and at last splashing onto the flesh of his exposed foot. The wetness on his skin suddenly reminded him of the world outside the stone and the steel, of Walcott and Pleebo, of freedom and his friends.
They had to escape, and they were going to escape. There was no other option.
Unwrapping himself from his transparent wings, Roustaf willed his half frozen muscles into existence one last time, despite their desire to do anything but. Grabbing hold of the frozen bars surrounding him, he ignored the mental and physical soreness weighing so heavily on his bones and willed himself into something vaguely resembling a standing position. Chest heaving, he breathed in the painfully crisp Ochan air. He hated this place. He hated this place and didn’t want to be there anymore. He hated this place and he was going to leave. With every breath, a puff of defiant steam spread like smoke from a fire, rising slowly before being swallowed by the darkness. His fingers were jittery, noticeably shaking as they gripped the frozen steel. Every muscle was sore and working at half capacity. The fabric of his blue overalls had become a mass of stiff, icy angles, crackling and crumpling like frozen paper. With everything that was wrong, however, he reminded himself that things could be worse. The fact remained: He wasn’t dead yet. None of them were dead. No matter how impossible the odds, there was a chance. The time for grieving was done. They had to escape, if not for themselves, or Fillagrou, or the prophecy, or his friends and family, then at the very least for Pleebo and Walcott. Dying in this place would serve no purpose, and dying here would disgrace everything they had given to the cause. Dying was not an option.
Though his throat was ragged dry and sore, Roustaf managed to whisper in Tahnja’s general direction. “Hey? Hey darlin’, wake up.”
There was no movement from her cell.
Using the remaining strength in his arms, he began to rattle the bars of his dangling prison. “Come on, cutie, wake your sweet lil’ patoot up! We got business that needs attending to.”
Wearily Tahnja’s eyes opened. Though she could hear Roustaf’s voice, she half believed she might be dreaming. She knew that he was still sore at her for coming to look for him when she should have stayed hidden among the ancient trees of the Fillagrou forest, a decision that ultimately landed all of them in this dreadful place. He had barely been able to look at her since Walcott’s death, let alone speak to her directly. Shuffling slowly across the stone on tired, frozen knees, she emerged from the shadows and gazed in the direction of his rusty cage.
Upon seeing her waifish form, Roustaf smiled thinly through a pair of cracked lips and the partially frozen hairs of his mustache. “Good to see you’re still kickin’, beautiful. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had just about enough of this hole. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
She couldn’t help but smile back.
*
CHAPTER 6
BEHIND ENEMY LINES
*
It seemed like days since the black snow turned to black rain. For Pleebo the passage of time had become a blurry, confusing mess. Since escaping the work camp and fleeing into the Ochan forest, he was constantly on the move. Despite the distance traveled and the hours passed, a regiment of steely-dedicated Ochan soldiers continued to track his every movement. They were hunting him, and they had no intention of giving up. The hours spent fielding questions and beatings from interrogators had reduced his body to a pulsating, blistering mass of welts, sores, and improperly healed bones. Every inch hurt, and every step was a revelation in the true meaning of the word agony. Staying ahead of the Ochans had become increasingly difficult, and it was painfully obvious that maintaining his current pace for much longer would be impossible. His chest heaving, the lanky Fillagrou stopped for a moment to catch hold of his disappearing breath. Using the massive trunk of a dark gray tree as cover, he dropped to his rear and attempted to momentarily gain control over the pockets of pain exploding like fireworks throughout his body. A very small part of him almost appreciated the low temperatures. For the moment anyway, they were providing an all too welcome numbing effect on some of his smaller injuries. The less he had to deal with, the better. Glancing from side to side Pleebo scanned the forest and tried to get an idea of exactly where he was. Unfortunately his knowledge of Ocha was limited to a few stories told to him by a handful that managed to travel to this place and return with their lives. Everything in this godforsaken world looked the same - everything looked dead. Unlike the lush and plentiful Red Forest of Fillagrou, the entire world felt decrepit and used, and unforgiving. Barely clinging to life, the mostly leafless trees with their bent and nasty wire-framed branches were even more terrifying sights to behold up close than from afar. The ground was the color of ash, made sticky-thick from the falling rain. The air smelled of sulfur – of age, and foreboding death. For a moment the image of Walcott, laid out and clinging to life just outside the Ochan work farm wiggled its way into his head.
He shouldn’t have ran. Why did he run?
Staying to fight would have meant certain death. Despite this bit of knowledge, and in spite of Walcott’s insistence, Pleebo knew he should have stayed – no matter how inevitable the outcome. He didn’t though. He made a choice, and it was the wrong one,
and he regretted it. He acted like a coward. He ran, and kept running, and while he may not have to accept this truth, Pleebo understood he would have to find a way to deal with the reality of it. There was no other choice. The plan now was to shake loose the Ochan soldiers following him, locate the doorway leading to Fillagrou, find help and pray that Walcott would somehow still be alive when he returned. And he would return. No matter what.
From somewhere among the rain, the mist, and the decaying trees came the familiar sound of whispering voices. Instantly Pleebo’s body went stiff. They’d found him again and they were getting closer. Peeling his bruised back from the prickly bark of the tree, he dropped to his hands and knees in the ashy mud. Keeping low, he used the layer of thick mist rising at least three feet from the forest floor as cover and began crawling silently in the opposite direction. This proved remarkably easier said than done. His joints were impossibly sore. Even the slightest of movements caused his bones to grind together and sent pangs of pain throughout his extremities. The already thick mud was growing thicker still with every droplet of falling rain. Peppered with tiny ice crystals glimmering like opals in the early morning light, the sludge teetered on the brink of freezing, further chilling his already frostbitten digits. After twenty minutes of careful crawling the voices began to finally fade. After forty minutes they’d disappeared completely. He managed to shake the Ochan soldiers once again, but for how long? Every time he believed himself rid of them, the silent assassins would emerge from the depths of the forest once more. They had become his shadow. They were never going to give up. Embarrassed by his escape from the work camp it had become a matter of honor for the headstrong warriors. They would never give quit. They couldn’t quit. Not until he was dead. Cautiously peeking above the layer of mist Pleebo surveyed the forest, making sure he was truly alone before painfully jerking himself into a standing position. The torrential downpour above had begun to taper off. He stared with sad, tired eyes into the dark clouds covering the entirety of the sky high above the tops of the ugly dead trees. Heavy droplets of frosty black rain splashed against the skin of his face, leaving terrifying noir trails behind as they ran off the sides. Opening his mouth he extended his tongue to catch the revolting liquid. It tasted like acid – like the charred remnants of a fire a million years old – it tasted exactly as he expected and exactly as Ocha looked. Despite its flavor, the disgusting liquid remained a source of sustenance, and his belly was so very empty. He was starving and dehydrated. In the end, the acid rain proved as satisfying a meal as any. After wiping the black moisture from his eyes and lips he spotted something off in the distance – just beyond the fading wall of rain, the rotten trees, and the smoldering mist. It was a light. While Pleebo knew there was no way it could belong to the Ochan’s pursuing him - as they were somewhere off in the opposite direction – he understood all too well that this light could not be interrupted as an entirely welcome sign either. Caution was necessary and caution would keep him alive. There was nothing good, or friendly, or safe in this forest or this world for that matter. He was best served keeping his distance. Foolish inquisitiveness would only get him in trouble.
