Forts: Liars and Thieves

by Steven Novak

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  FORTS: LIARS AND THIEVES

  By Steven Novak

  Illustrated by Steven Novak

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  Published in the United States of America by Quiet Corner Press. 33800 Chapman Heights Rd., Yucaipa California. Copyright © 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from Quiet Corner Press.

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  www.novakillustration.com

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  CHAPTER 1

  TRAITOR TO THE CAUSE

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  For him, time ceased to have meaning long ago. How many days had he spent shackled in the king’s dungeon? Could it be weeks? Months even? Long enough that the heavy chains around his ankles sliced into his skin, merging with the muscle underneath and forcing the flesh to heal grotesquely around them. How often was he dragged from his cell and beaten? How many times had he teetered through a wobbly haze, barely conscious on the razor-thin line between life and death? Two hundred? Three hundred? Maybe four? His body no longer resembled the one he’d spent a lifetime becoming familiar with. Quite adept in the dealing of punishment, the guard’s fists had changed him into something else. Like a reflection in a broken mirror, he was shattered, distorted, and barely recognizable. Busted numerous times, his jaw dangled from his face, useless. All but a few of his teeth had been removed — some ripped out during hour-long torture sessions, others knocked loose during any one of the regular beatings. His skin, once a healthy dark green, had become a disgusting, blotchy mess of purples, blues, and deep grayish-blacks. Even the most minute of movements on his part brought forth worlds of agony. The gentle breeze from a window nearby instantly reduced him to tears. His limbs had long since ceased functioning, devolving his form a million years and making upright movement impossible. Having suffered through things no creature should ever be forced to feel, he found himself crumpled in a garish heap at the feet of the massive, stone-faced tyrant king of Ocha. A small part of him wondered if he’d made the right choice. This pain could have been avoided. He brought this on himself.

  Gently nudging the broken, tangled body of the creature sprawled before him, the massive king sighed deeply. “How sad it is to see you like this, Krystoph. I had such high hopes for you. You were so very talented in the art of killing … so frighteningly, wonderfully talented. There was a time, not too long ago, when my opinion of you approached admiration.”

  Shaking his head while flashing a disgusted look at the broken lump, the king turned swiftly, pacing back to his throne before reclining with yet another heavy sigh. “I gave you everything, and what did you offer in return — deceit, lies, and thievery? You’ve shamed your king. You’ve shamed your country and all those calling it home. You’ve shamed yourself.”

  His ears smashed and barely of use, the broken lump of flesh that once answered to the name Krystoph was able only to make out half the king’s words, and even they seemed distant and jumbled. Despite this fact, his clouded brain managed to put the pieces together well enough to get a general idea of the point the ruler of Ocha was trying to make. Doing his best to ignore the unbelievable amount of pain shooting through every centimeter of his body, Krystoph lifted his weary, half-conscious face with a shaky defiance to the creature he once admired beyond all others.

  While using a hand consisting mostly of broken fingers to hold his jaw in place, he grumbled, “Y-you … ki-killed m-my … my … family.”

  Quietly the tyrant King Kragamel chuckled. “You are mistaken old friend. Long ago you gave your life to me, and in return I allowed you the privilege of serving as a general in the greatest army the world has ever known and will ever know. In doing so, your family became my family. You see, unlike what you’ve stolen from me, their lives were mine to do with as I pleased. They were mine to kill.”

  In direct response to the words, Krystoph’s distorted excuse for a body lurched forward angrily. His broken legs awkwardly thrust the mass of wrecked bones and torn muscles in the king’s direction. Something more a guttural noise than a fully imagined word rose up from his belly, exploding from his mouth like searing magma. Despite the fact that his fingers had been shattered beyond the point of usefulness, Krystoph reached for the king’s foot, clawing at his thick leather boot. The rabid, snarling growl did little to frighten Kragamel though. His expression remained stoic. Many times in the past Krystoph had proven the most capable, the most willing, and the most vicious soldier his army ever produced. The snarling, sniveling mass of bloody flesh kneeling before him now – this was not Krystoph. Nothing remained of Ocha’s most feared general, and the revolting thing he’d become was of no threat. Placing his foot on top of Krystoph’s head, the king easily shoved the broken lump of flesh away as two beefy guards rushed in, pulling Krystoph further still from Ocha’s benevolent leader. The flow of adrenaline having passed, Krystoph began at last to feel the result of his outburst. His body was in no shape for such an act. Now he found himself struggling not only to reclaim his escaping breath but also to deal with the flashes of deep, searing pain tearing him apart from within.

  “I will give you one more chance old friend.” The king offered sternly from atop his throne. “Tell me where you’ve hidden it. End this nonsense. You know I will locate it eventually; you will have suffered for nothing. Why take your misguided hatred for me out on the Ochan race? Should this great nation suffer because of your random loss of common sense? Tell me where it is … tell me where it is and this all comes to an end. Tell me where it is, and I assure you I will make your death quick and painless.”

  Though one of his lungs was punctured months ago, Krystoph breathed in deeply, managing to momentarily gain control of the pain pouring over him like molten steel. His brain was on fire, his head on the brink of an explosion. Grimacing through eyes drowning in blood, he attempted for the first time in weeks to pull his twisted, mangled body upright. Seeing this, the two guards hovering nearby immediately moved close and shoved him back to the floor. With a flip of his wrist and a slight gesture of his fingers, King Kragamel ordered them to stand down. Managing successfully to maneuver himself to one knee, Krystoph bit down on his lower lip with the few reaming teeth in his mouth and grunted deeply, eventually hoisting his tattered, starved, frail body upward. Teetering atop wobbly, useless legs, he raised his shaky head, staring defiantly into the eyes of Ocha’s most feared king.

  With a voice of whispered rage he choked out a single word, “No.”

  Overcome with the undeniable urge to rip the head from his former general’s shoulders and place it on a pike in the center of the castle courtyard for all to see, the king instead shoved his emotions down, successfully centering his rapidly expanding rage.

  Krystoph would have loved nothing more than to see him frazzled, and because of this, frazzled was by no means an option. Calmly looking past Krystoph’s unsteady form, Kragamel called out to the back of the room: “Gragor!”

  From the opposite side of the massive throne room, the then newly-appointed, still young, fresh, and anxious to please general of the king’s armies moved across the floor in long, determined strides. Stopping alongside Krystoph, the massive Ochan dropped to a knee, bowing his head in reverence of his king. “Yes sire?”

  “We could torture this traitor until the end of our days, and it is unlikely he will ever tell us what we need to know; he has been trained too well. He has outworn his usefulness. I shall waste no more time on him. I want you personally to take him to the fire caves, open his throat, and watch the life bleed from his sad excuse for a
body. Do not burn his corpse though … let the combustion beetles make a meal of him instead. This fool is undeserving of a proper torching.”

  Though barely noticeable to most in the room, Gragor grinned ever so slightly. “Of course sire. Consider it done.”

  Still wobbling, his body shaking violently as a jolt of pain traveled up his spine, Krystoph managed to remain standing, his steely gaze never once moving from the king. Even after hearing the words from Kragamel’s mouth, at no point would his expression falter.

  The king would have loved nothing more than to see him weakened and because of this weakness was simply not an option.

  Gragor locked his muscular arms around Krystoph’s torso, tugging his busted, useless form backward across the cold stone floor. From his throne the tyrant king of Ocha watched intently until his former general was pulled from sight. He allowed himself only a moment to dwell on his choice before moving to the next order of business. The king had ordered many to die during his tenure. Krystoph was no different than any of the others.

  Once dead they are gone and once gone they never come back – this was the way of things.

  *

  CHAPTER 2

  FAMILY VISITS

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  “Boys?” Edna Williamson called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Your father and the chaperone should be here soon! Why don’t you come downstairs?”

  Both Tommy Jarvis and his younger brother Nicky clearly heard her words, yet neither made a movement toward the bedroom door. It had been months since either boy had been in the same room with their father. The abuse allegations, and subsequent investigation proving them to be true, resulted in their removal from his care and placement with a foster family. For almost half a year they lived with a couple of retirees named Ed and Edna Williamson. In spite of their comically similar first names, the Williamsons proved to be decent, caring people — not perfect people by any means, but good people — the kind of people Tommy and Nicky barely believed existed anymore. Neither boy had forgotten about their father, yet at the same time they were only now beginning to settle in to their new life with the Williamsons. Things were easier for them here, quieter and certainly a lot less painful. The truth of the matter was that neither boy found the idea of introducing their father back into their lives even remotely appetizing. A week and a half before, a social worker for the state sat the pair down, telling them that Chris had been attending his meetings, that he was sober, and remorseful, that he was making great strides, and was anxious to see them again. Of the two, Nicky was slightly more open to the idea of reuniting with their father, but then Nicky’s past experiences with the old man were quite different from Tommy’s.

  The memories – the awful, stinging memories –just recently began melting away for the fourteen year old Tommy Jarvis. What would happen now though? What would happen, when after all these months, Tommy came face to face with his father? Would the very old, very thick anger boil up from wherever he’d managed to shove it down deep inside his belly? Would the pain attached to those memories like a nasty parasite feeding off a half-starved host prove too much to bear? There were some questions in life for which one simply didn’t want answers. For Tommy Jarvis, these were those very questions.

  “Boys? Come on now, don’t dawdle …get your behinds down here.” Edna yelled out a bit more forcefully from downstairs.

  Propped up on his elbows, Nicky reluctantly slid his feet over the side of his bed, sighing deeply. Across the room Tommy remained on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and sinking patiently with each breath. Tommy didn’t want to forgive his father, and he couldn’t understand why everyone seemed to expect him to. Even if the old man had changed – even if he never again laid a hand on him, or screamed at his little brother – so what? The damage had been done.

  Some things, once done, can never be undone. It was as simple as that.

  Things were by no means perfect with the Williamsons, but they were certainly better than anything the Jarvis brothers had experienced in a very long time. Tommy understood completely that he and Nicky’s time with Ed and Edna was limited - a temporary solution at best. Temporary or not, it was something he wasn’t ready to let go of. Nicky was speaking again and doing better in school. Last week Tommy spotted his little brother talking to another boy outside the building after school ended. Nicky had a friend - a real, living and breathing friend. Things were getting better. For the first time in years, happiness – even on the tiniest of levels – seemed attainable. It could all go away with the snap of the fingers — or the stinging crack of a backhand across the face if they were forced to move back in with their father. Only recently, Tommy had experienced, for the very first time, the wonderful sensation of going to bed without a welt on his leg, a scratch on his arm, or a fractured bone inside his chest. Lately his sleep had been deep and comfortable and warm, his dreams nonexistent. How utterly amazing it had been to simply sleep, free of nightmares and without worry. It was luxury he had forgotten existed. What did a life with his father have to offer? Why did he deserve a second chance? He didn’t.

  “Are you coming down?” Nicky asked Tommy while standing next to his bed, and staring at his older brother from across the room.

  Tommy breathed deeply, turning his head slightly in Nicky’s direction. “No…and neither should you.”

  “We have to.”

  “We don’t have to do anything Nicky…especially not for him.” Twisting his body sideways while pulling his knees to his chest and curling into a half-fetal position, Tommy turned away from the confused face of his little brother and toward the opposite wall.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Edna Williamson was a moment away from calling to the boys again when she noticed Nicky slowly making his way toward her. Tommy, though, was nowhere to be found.

  “Where’s your brother?” She asked the youngest Jarvis boy as he passed her on his way into the kitchen.

  “He doesn’t want to come down,” Nicky responded softly, never turning in her direction.

  From the opposite end of the room, Ed Williamson sighed with a deep, noticeable frustration while tugging his aching body up from a very comfortable position on the couch.

  “I’ll go have a talk with him,” he grumbled, slowly beginning the long journey up the stairs.

  “Don’t you go flying off the handle, Ed …this isn’t easy on the boy.”

  “I know Edna, I know. Give me a little credit will you. I’m just going to have a little chat with him, that’s all.”

  “If he’s not ready to come down, the social worker said we shouldn’t push too hard …especially not for the first meeting.”

  Ed was near the top of the stairs now, his chest straining, his aged knees aching from the journey.

  Stopping momentarily to catch his breath he looked down at his wife of so many years while rolling his eyes, “I remember what she said …I remember. If there’s anyone in this house that knows what he’s going through, it’s me. Relax. I’m not going to push the boy, trust me.”

  The wrinkled, slightly more crooked than it was twenty years ago smile on her husband’s face instantly reassured Edna Williamson. She loved Ed. She loved him as much as the day they were married, though for entirely different reasons. Love is funny like that, having the uncanny ability to morph into something completely foreign while still holding onto the things that made it so unique, wonderful, and safe in the first place. The sixty-three year old Edward Williamson was a good deal different from the twenty-four year old version. In his heart though, despite the changes brought on by age and experience, he was still the same man she fell in love with and still a comfortably perfect fit for her.

  Reaching the door to the boy’s bedroom, Ed stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. Rubbing his hand across his balding head covered sparsely with stringy gray hair, he sighed deeply. His mind wandered back many, many years to his own father, to the unresolved issues he allowed to remain un
resolved until the day his father died. As frustrated as young Tommy Jarvis had occasionally made him over the last six months, he cared about the boy. In fact, he cared about the boy so deeply that it surprised him. When Edna suggested they become a foster family, the one thing Ed never counted on was forming any real, serious feelings for the children sent to live with them. After his own son’s untimely death so many years ago, he simply didn’t think he was capable of such a thing anymore. Having loved a child so deeply only to have that love taken away – he always believed it left him hollow and incapable of reaching that peak again.

  The appearance of the Jarvis boys had proved him wrong.

  After mustering up a bit of courage, he pushed the bedroom door open gently, “Hey pal, why don’t you …” Ed’s voice quickly trailed off.

  The room was empty. Tommy was gone. The window on the opposite wall was wide open, loose drapes flapping softly in the fall breeze.

  Shaking his head, Ed calmly called out to his wife from the top of the stairs, “I think Tommy is going to sit this one out, dear.”

  *

  CHAPTER 3

  LIFE AND TIMES OF A LOCAL BULLY

  *

  “Hey loser…wake up.”

  Donald Rondage slowly opened his eyes, the blurry world around him folding clumsily into focus.

  “I said wake up! Come on, move your pudge!”

  Not fully aware of what was happening, Donald was shoved in the square of his back and rolled awkwardly off the couch on which, until that very moment, he was sleeping quite soundly. With a heavy thud, his oversized body collapsed to the floor, colliding with the legs of a nearby table. The smack of thick wood into soft flesh instantly sent a sharp pain across the muscles in his shoulder and down the right side of his body. Wincing while trying to get his bearings, he looked back at the dusty lime green couch. Silhouetted by the light of a nearby lamp like pair of angry shadows were his two older brothers. Behind them, three local boys of whom he was only slightly familiar cackled at his situation like a pack of wild hyenas.