by Steven Novak
Quite surprisingly, this did not hurt.
In fact, the little man felt nothing at all. Ocha had left him numb. Nothing hurt anymore. Nothing would ever hurt again. A stiff wind blew in from the north, and his body was tossed wildly. His head smacked against the stone, chipping one of the tiny horns protruding from the top. The flesh on the underside of his hands and fingers was suddenly the only thing holding him to the castle wall. Despite his miniscule size and rather paltry overall weight, it was still too much for his epidermis to handle. The same as his feet, the skin on his fingers began to tear free from the muscles underneath. Bit by bit the icy-crisp flesh peeled loose like ripped paper. After the first finger fell away, a second followed. A third frozen-bloody digit tore slowly from the rock mere moments afterward. No longer glued to the wall, Roustaf’s arm and blood-coated hand dropped limply to his side. Only a single appendage remained frozen to the stone as another gust of wind tossed him like a rag doll once more. Beneath the icy bristles of his mustache, the little man’s cracked lips parted and bled.
Breathy and distant, he whispered a single word to the snarling heavens above: “Tahnja.”
The clouds overhead responded with a howl and a flash. They tossed a bolt of lightning into the crowded courtyard of Kragamel’s castle. Roustaf’s middle finger tore free, exposing the half-frozen bloody underside to the bristly Ochan air. Again the wind whipped his body, and again his head cracked stiffly against the ages-old rock. Things were getting blurrier, as if the whole of the universe had turned its back and was walking away. It no longer cared what happened to him. Only half aware of where he was and what was happening, the little man vaguely recalled a gesture of defiance he’d witnessed on numerous occasions while searching for the children of the prophecy in their home world. The first time he saw it, he didn’t understand it. It seemed like such an odd thing to do when angry, such a confusing gesture of disobedience. It was weird and simple, and yet almost elegant in that very simplicity. It made him chuckle. As the remainder of his fingers peeled from the wall and his body fell free, the little man opened his eyes ever so briefly, closed his fist, extended his middle finger, and pointed it in the direction of the clouds overhead. Though he knew they could see it, he doubted they would know what it meant. In the end, he didn’t really care.
Though Roustaf could barely muster the necessary oxygen in his lungs for such a thing, somehow he chuckled.
Much to his surprise, what awaited the rebellious little man at the end of his fall was not the frozen, war torn courtyard that he expected to encounter. Instead it was a pair of far softer hands. These hands snatched his tumbling body from the air and the winds like a falling leaf or a flake of snow. These hands saved his life.
These hands belonged to Donald Rondage.
Donald pulled Roustaf’s limp body to his chest, and quickly ducked into a nearby alleyway out of sight. It was by sheer luck alone that he even spotted the little man clingingly loosely to the wall and flopping back and forth in the breeze. When he called out and Roustaf didn’t respond, he knew something was wrong. When he saw Roustaf’s little body fall, he leapt into action. The way the wind was tossing the little man, Donald was surprised he managed to make the catch.
Safely hidden away from the brunt of the fighting, Donald opened his hands and was horrified by what he saw. Normally a bright crimson, almost brick colored red, Roustaf’s frozen flesh was something closer to purple in hue. It was ugly. He looked dead. The skin on his feet and hands resembled salad: frayed, tattered, and flapping in the breeze. One of his horns was chipped and split down the middle. Along his back, where his transparent wings used to be, Donald saw only a pair of gaping scars. His chest wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing.
Delicately the boy poked his tiny friend in the chest, his voice hurried and hoarse. “Hey, you’re okay. Come on. You’re okay.”
When Roustaf didn’t respond, Donald coiled his little red body, cupped it in his hands and brought those hands to his mouth. He didn’t know why he was doing it, but in the moment it seemed to make sense. Roustaf was frozen and he needed to warm him up. After thirty seconds and ten or possibly twelve hefty exhales of hot air, Donald opened his hands and poked the little man in the chest once again. Still, there was no response.
“Come on, you little jerk!” The boy’s voice cracked. It was drenched with worry and overstuffed with frustration. “You’re fine! You’re okay!”
Once more he rolled Roustaf up, inhaled deeply and blew warming breaths into his cupped hands.
“Wake the hell up, you little jerk!” The very instant he finished screaming at his cupped hands, Donald Rondage began blowing once again, fighting back the tears he could feel welling within.
Quite unexpectedly something squeezed through the cage of his tight fingers and punched him stiffly in the lower lip. “Knock it off, ya bum! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
When Donald opened his hands, Roustaf was sitting in the crook of his palm shaking a fist at him angrily while his other hand rubbed the cracked horn on top his head.
The hand massaging his horn moved down his face and pinched the nostrils of his tiny red nose shut.
“Your breath smells like crap, kid.”
*
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CHAPTER 54
PERPETUAL MOTION
*
Chris Jarvis wedged his fingers into the deep set grooves of Nestor’s shell and held on for dear life. The four-legged fish creature beneath him snarled irately, tossing wads of spittle to either side as it bounded across the crowded battlefield toward the castle ahead. Chris’ heart was pounding. Despite the freezing temperatures, his hands were soaked with sweat, which in turn forced him to continually readjust his grip on the thick-shelled turtle man bouncing in front of him. Leaning to his left just far enough to see around Nestor’s girth and still keep from sliding off the back of the slimy fish thing beneath him, Chris gazed wide-eyed at the battle ahead. There were bodies everywhere, their limbs awkwardly bent and twisted, partially submerged in shiny pools of multicolored blood. Those not already dead were fighting for their lives, or injured, or dying. It was madness – utter madness the likes of which he never thought he’d bear witness. For a moment Christopher Jarvis began to wonder exactly what he was doing. How was he supposed to help Tommy? How did he even expect to find his son in the violence and the craziness? An arrow whizzed past his head and he instinctively ducked behind Nestor for cover. Another one bounced off the corner of the Tycarian’s shell, split in two, and caught the breeze. Breathing heavily, Chris readjusted his grip once again, then plastered his cheek against the turtle man and closed his eyes.
Though the attention of Nestor Rockshell remained firmly on the battle ahead, he could sense the fear of the grown man pressed firmly against his back. It was undeniable. Chris’s hands were fidgeting and his was chest heaving. When the father of two made the decision to come along, he had no idea what he was getting himself into and suddenly found himself smack dab in the middle of a situation for which he wasn’t prepared. On some level, the Tycarian understood what he was going through. Though he’d spent years immersed in the harsh truths presented by war, there was a time, very long ago, when this was anything but the case. Despite the overzealous bravado of Tycarian kings and elderly storytellers, Nestor had long understood that warriors were created rather than born, and while innocence was often lost, it was rarely given away.
Less than a hundred feet away from the remains of the outer wall, Nestor leaned forward and gripped tighter on the leathery reins of the growling beast beneath him. An arrow passed just inches from his head as another bounced off his shell. They’d progressed into the very mouth of the skirmish. Here the battlefield was far more crowded, littered with corpses of every shape and size, and beset with soldiers from both sides brandishing their weapons with the deadliest of intentions. To his left a dazed, injured and possibly mortally wounded Ochan coiled back and swung wildly at both him and Chris with an oversized axe
as they passed by. Only half aware of where he was and what was happening, the injured soldier’s strike missed by nearly a foot. His forward momentum spun him around and deposited him face first into the dirt. The entranceway to the castle was impossibly jammed. Though Tommy Jarvis had opened it significantly, the Aquari forces were still forced to navigate their way over the rubble of the decimated walls before entering into the heart of Kragamel’s stronghold. Realizing they simply didn’t have time to waste fighting their way through the blockage, Nestor settled on a different approach entirely.
“Hold on, my friend!” The Tycarian bellowed to the shivering man huddled behind him. “Whatever you do, I implore you, do not let go!”
For Chris Jarvis, the suggestion was entirely unnecessary.
After another, more densely patterned set of arrows shot past, Nestor rose from his crouched position and pulled back firmly on the reins of his charging fish creature. Lifting its front feet, the muscled beast shifted its weight to its muscular hind legs, pressed upward and took to the air. Defying the very dictates of gravity, its impossibly bulky body soared over the heads of the soldiers below, past the reach of their weapons and somehow even managed to avoid the piercing sting of a single arrow. The creature returned to the ground nearly forty feet from the point from which it took to the sky. After landing on the finely webbed feet of its equally powerful front legs, it howled at the surprised Ochans nearby. Before the soldiers could react to the newly arrived enemy, the creature swung its bulky head like a hammer and knocked three of them to the ground. Utilizing the tail attached to its backside, the beast whacked two more soldiers in the chest, compressed their armor inward, and tossed them five feet. Nestor tugged on its reins again and kicked his heels into the sides of its belly. Immediately the snarling fish leapt forward, trampling a pair of fallen soldiers before continuing its sprint further into the castle. Though Nestor would have loved noting more than to dismount and fight alongside the Aquari soldiers, he was currently engaged in another mission. The Tycarian charged into the meat of the battle for one reason and one reason alone: to locate and rescue the boy-prophet. He needed to find young Tommy Jarvis. He’d seen hints of the glowing light man the boy had created briefly through the chaos of battle. He watched it move north, further into the castle, before eventually disappearing from view. Pulling back on the reins once more with a grunt, Nestor pointed the huffing creature beneath him in that very direction. If they hoped to find the boy, they needed to head north. It was all they had to go on.
Hesitantly Chris peeked through a half opened eye and glanced to his side. The castle was passing by quickly, the landscape a blurred mass of fire and steel and blood. It was a nightmare come to life, something he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams, and something he would never forget. He felt Nestor’s body stiffen unexpectedly.
With just a hint of worry in his voice, the stone-faced Tycarian screamed at the top of his lungs: “Hold on!”
Chris turned his head to the opposite side just in time to see what he could only describe as a dinosaur charging in their direction. On its back, grinning with malicious intent from behind a thick black helmet with a sword gripped tightly between his fingers, was an Ochan soldier.
What happened next, happened quickly.
Moving with remarkable speed, the dinosaur lowered its head and drove the gargantuan pair of horns protruding from its sturdy dome into the belly of the fish monster on which Nestor and Chris rode. The collision of the animals was immense, like fully packed trucks smashing into each other at top speeds. It was wet and it was sturdy. It was disgusting.
Its belly suddenly full of shattered ribs, torn organs and Megalot horns, the Aquari fish creature howled in pain before flipping to its side and kicking its feet upward. Nestor and Chris were tossed into the air. Spinning uncontrollably, Chris Jarvis suddenly found himself unable to tell up from down. Left and right were a distant memory. Less than a second later the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed on his side. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and shattered his forearm under the weight of his flailing body. After flipping, rolling, and sliding uncomfortably over a rather sharp patch of gravel, Chris Jarvis came to a sliding stop nearly thirty feet away. The pain in his broken forearm traveled instantly up his shoulder and into his chest. From there it moved into his throat. This resulted in a scream. Though it hurt to move, Chris bit his lower lip, swallowed a second impending wail, and rolled onto his back.
Every inch of him hurt. Every centimeter was throbbing. Strangely, the ground beneath him was rumbling. The sounds and the corresponding vibrations were subtle, but distinct. They were also getting louder. Huffing through locked teeth and tightly shut eyes, he forced himself into a sitting position. The pain in his head was excruciating, and his ears began to ring. There was blood running down the back of his head, across the crook of his neck, and into the collar of his shirt. Most importantly, the dinosaur that initially rammed them and the soldier seated firmly on its back were staring at him from across the courtyard.
Blood still dripping from its horns, the Megalot bared its teeth and growled. With another grin, the Ochan on its back kicked his heels into its sides, and instantly the beast’s feet began to plod forward. The animal’s first few steps were barely more than a trot. Very quickly, the trot transformed into a gallop, the gallop into a run, and the run into a full on sprint.
Chris’s heart stopped and his lungs chose to do the same. Scooting backward across the dirt he flipped onto his stomach and fumbled awkwardly to his knees. He was moving too quickly though, focusing far too much on getting away and far too little on something as simple as the placement of his feet. His legs moved out of tune, tripped over each other, and before he knew it he was lying face down in the dirt once again. The Megalot was just twenty feet away, its grayish lips curled into a snarl, its eyes hot with rage. Unable to think, plan, or even move, Chris dropped to the dirt, closed his eyes and covered his head.
Seconds before he was trampled, a familiar voice filled the air. “For Tycaria!”
Screaming with as much furious gusto as he could muster, the body of the Tycarian warrior, Nestor Rockshell, sailed in from the left and smashed its full weight into the belly of the charging Megalot. Though significantly smaller than the thick-bodied beast, somehow the blow succeeded in knocking the creature to the side and throwing the Ochan warrior from its back. The Megalot was thicker than Nestor anticipated; the impact of their bodies sent a wave of pain across his shoulder and down his side. Not only did he manage to ignore it, but somehow the Tycarian remained on his feet as well. Continuing his forward movement, Nestor rolled over the side of the fallen Megalot while at the same time retrieving two daggers attached to either end of his wide shell. Weapons in hand, he leapt into the air, came crashing down on the back of the fallen soldier, wedged his daggers underneath the Ochan’s helmet, and pressed inward until steel touched spine. It was a flawless kill, perpetual motion at its absolute finest.
In the eyes of some, possibly even a thing of beauty.
After pulling his weapons from the deceased Ochan’s neck, Nestor noticed a group of soldiers charging in his direction. There were at least fifteen of them, possibly twenty. Behind him, Chris Jarvis was on his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs and nursing his broken forearm. Nestor slid the daggers back into the sheaths dangling from his waist and pulled a much larger weapon from the one on his back. The Ochans outnumbered him greatly. If he hoped to survive, he would need to create distance.
Weapon at the ready, he yelled in Chris’s direction: “Go now! Find your son! I will hold them off!”
For the first time Chris Jarvis noticed the advancing horde of Ochan warriors heading in Nestor’s direction. There were so many of them. They were so big.
“Go now!” Nestor screamed more forcefully than before. “Continue north and keep hidden! Go, my friend! Find your son! Protect him! There is no time to waste!”
Chris watched as the green-skinned lizard-men swarmed
his traveling companion. After boxing him in, they advanced forward patiently. They had the numbers. They were in no hurry. Unsure of what to do, Chris turned to run, then stopped and turned back. He needed to get as far away as possible. He knew this, and yet he couldn’t. Running meant leaving Nestor alone with the wolves. Running felt wrong. The Tycarian was no longer visible among the crowded patch of swinging steel and green-tinted flesh. Reaching into his belt, Chris removed the weapon the turtle man gave him earlier and held it to his face. Though faint, the blade was stained with what he thought could only be blood. His hand was shaking, his legs quivering. He couldn’t seem to make them stop. For a moment he considered charging into the group with his little weapon, slicing and stabbing and doing whatever he could to help Nestor. What would it accomplish though? The armor clad Ochans were trained killers. They’d dispose of him easily. They’d slice him to bits, stomp on his corpse and spit on the remains. He couldn’t fight them, and he couldn’t help Nestor. He couldn’t help anyone.
Quite unexpectedly, a single Ochan sailed upward from the center of the group swarming their Tycarian opponent. The soldier’s body arched like a rainbow in the air before crashing down outside of the crowded pack. Protruding from his chest was a dagger. A moment later, another stumbled from the horde, his neck spitting blood in every direction. Through the gaps in a wall of black tinted armor, Chris spotted Nestor Rockshell. Not only was the turtle man alive, but he looked relatively uninjured. Despite the impossible odds, he was winning.
