Forts: Liars and Thieves

by Steven Novak

  Her body on fire, her mind awash in a tidal wave of confusion, a creature the size of an elephant, with horns as long as she was tall, moments from grinding her to pulp, Staci Alexander shut down. Pulling her legs into her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that it instantly gave her a headache. Around her, the forest was shaking with every stomp of the enormous beast, creating vibrations so noticeable that they rattled the fillings recently installed by her dentist. If she could have found the strength to scream, she most certainly would have. Were the Megalot to take one more step, Staci Alexander would indeed have died. That step never came.

  An instant before the creature’s hoof came into contact with her flesh, a blade four feet in length pierced the thick hide of its neck. Slicing through with ease, the sword split the jugular underneath, which in turn sent a spray of thick, dirty-brown blood in every direction. The Megalot’s body stumbled to the side, sliding across the dusty soil before bouncing off of trees and finally coming to a spiraling stop twenty feet behind Staci’s still prone body. Her hands shaking, Staci slowly opened her eyes while wiping the sticky blood splatter from her face and fighting the urge to break down in tears. Staring at the odd, gooey substance between her fingers, she gazed through the cloud dust and leaves left in the creature’s wake. Standing among the chaos, staring at her with more than a hint of disgust, was the Ochan, Krystoph.

  “Should be more careful child. Won’t always be around to save you.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 24

  THE CONJURER COUNCIL

  *

  As was usually the case during that time of the afternoon, the corridors of King Kragamel’s castle were eerily quiet. All who took up residence inside its walls understood quite well that the king was not to be bothered at this hour. Less of a request than an order, complete silence was expected and obeyed. In the past, the punishment for anything contrary had proven shockingly severe. Descending a staircase hidden in the rear of his personal chambers, Kragamel moved quietly into the lower levels of his castle, beneath even the dungeon and into an area very few of his royal guard were even aware existed. It was here, hidden below the frozen Ochan tundra, that the real cornerstone of the king’s empire resided. It was here, bathed in deep shadow and the flicker of a peculiar blue flame that could only be created by magic, that the fate of the Ochan nation had long been decided. It was here, away from the prying eyes of the old-guard Ochan warriors too afraid to confront the realities of the dark arts, that Kragamel housed his very own council of conjurers, an ancient race of disfigured Ochans with a wide array of mystical talents. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Kragamel continued through a series of dank, stuffy hallways sparsely lit by flickering torches attached to the cold stone walls on either side. The entire journey took nearly ten minutes. At last reaching a massive steel door, the king patiently released a series of locks, each more elaborate in design and function than the last. When done, he pulled open the door with a dusty, aged squeak and stepped into a room darker than the hallways recently journeyed. Light became unnecessary at this point. The tyrant king had made this trek on a daily basis for years and was at this point quite capable of doing so with his eyes closed. Off in the distance, gradually fading from the darkness, came the soft flicker of bluish light. The tyrant king began leisurely moving toward it, the glow getting brighter with every step and slowly bringing into view the bent, garish forms of seven figures seated around it. Each was dressed in a cloak as black as the surrounding room that hung halfway over their faces, bathing the wrinkled guises of the disfigured creatures underneath in murky, intimidating shadow. Lost in concentration, none among the group acknowledged the king’s presence. This luxury was afforded to the conjurers and the conjurers only. Were any other Ochan to act the same way, it would have undoubtedly been the final act of their lives. Kragamel came to a stop less than ten feet from the conjurers, his eyes never straying from the haunting blue flame crackling menacingly among the group of mystics.

  All at once, in unison, the misshapen things began to speak. “The moment has arrived, my Lord. The endgame has begun.”

  Upon hearing the words, the black heart of the tyrant king sped. History had taught him time and time again to never question the words of his conjurer council. For as much as his current position of power had been gained through the blood and sweat of his own devices, these mystics had played an undeniably important role as well.

  Their blank, milky eyes lost in the hot white-blue flame, the council continued, “Fate has seen fit to return the children to the land of red. As we speak they journey to recapture the Rongstag. If the denizens of fate are to be denied their long harbored vengeance against the Ochan nation, such an act must not be permitted.”

  “I shall send my ships to intercept immediately,” Kragamel quickly responded, his deep voice echoing off the walls of the pitch black room. “The artifact will again take residence on Ochan soil long before they arrive.”

  All at once the conjurers groaned their disapproval, fearing the measures put in place by their king would not be enough. Unlike the Fillagrou elders, the conjurers were unable to see the future clearly. Blind from birth, the creatures instead relied on feelings coupled with an intuition garnered through a thousand years spent wading through the confusing waters of magic. Where the Fillagrou elders saw pictures, the conjurers felt emotion, hints of things to come. Much to their dismay, what often resulted could be imprecise, like hushed whispers in a darkened room. Suddenly and quite uncharacteristically, the frail form of one among the seven shivered, almost as if absorbing a mild shock. The remaining six questioningly tilted their heads in its direction. This had never happened before, and should not have been happening then.

  Through gritted, worn teeth, the single ancient creature began to mumble breathily, “The female child…she is the key. Separate the child from that which is her infatuation. Separate the female and there will be no coming back, no coming back for any of them .”

  Though King Kragamel hardly understood the full meaning of the words, he knew well enough to take heed. Many years ago, a Fillagrou elder prophesied the appearance of the children who had, a mere six months ago, murdered his son and only heir to the throne while laying waste to one of his finest castles. In order to ensure that the prophecy made by the Fillagrou named Nelvo never came to fruition, Kragamel understood all too well that he would need the aid of something beyond the sheer brute force of the Ochan nation. He would need the aid of his conjurers.

  Again the council began to speak in perfect sync. “You have another request of us mighty king, do you not?”

  Kragamel stepped forward, the glow of the haunting blue flame casting deep, frightening shadows in the wrinkles of his face. “Yes.”

  “Speak then, Lord. We remain in your service.”

  “The doorway to the hundredth world …I need to know where it is.”

  For a moment the room was silent, the only audible noise was the soft crackle of the rising and falling flame. Hidden beneath their dark cloaks, the ancient wiry heads of the conjurers moved slowly back and forth among themselves, engaged in a voiceless conversation to which only they were privy. Eventually the movements came to a sudden, jarring halt and again they spoke as one. “Two aware of its whereabouts have recently taken residence in your dungeon…a Fillagrou peasant and the Tycarian king.”

  Upon hearing the far away, strained words, Kragamel instantly perked up.

  Weeks of torture having produced no results, he was beginning to doubt whether or not the captured rebels truly had worthwhile information to offer.

  All at once the seven heads of the seven conjurers turned in Kragamel’s direction, the eerie flicker of the supernatural blue flame reflecting off their blank, glassy eyes. In terrifyingly precise synchronicity they whispered, “Bring the gray one to us. We shall retrieve the information you desire.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 25

  THOSE LEFT BEHIND
r />   *

  “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have gone along. When you consider where they’re going, if anybody would’ve been helpful it’s me!” Fellow Undergotten stated firmly, a noticeable amount of annoyance in his voice.

  Seated on the opposite end of the tiny dwelling located in the heart of New Tipoloo, Zanell stared back at him with a slight grin on her face. On some level she could understand Fellow’s frustration. The Chintaran builder’s affection for the children was no secret. Staci Alexander brought him back to life not once, but twice. Making sure that he repaid her and the other children for what they’d done for him and everyone else locked up in Prince Valkea’s dungeon no doubt remained number one on his long list of priorities. When the plan to retrieve the Rongstag was revealed, Fellow was first to offer his services without a moment’s hesitation. Zanell, however, had other plans for him. Rising to her feet, she moved slowly in his direction, taking note of the dejected, slightly angry expression on his blue face.

  “You’re needed here, Fellow,” she whispered softly with a reassuring smile while placing her hands on his sturdy shoulders and squeezing gently. “The children will be fine, trust me. Try to keep in mind just who it is that’s telling you this, too.”

  Sighing deep, Fellow rolled his eyes while running his hand over the top of his head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you can see the future, fine. I get it. I don’t know though; something about sitting around here doing a bunch of useless repairs while those kids are out risking their lives …it doesn’t feel right.”

  Never much of a believer in magic, fate or things not easily categorized, Fellow Undergotten had been forced to change the way he looked at the world since his experiences with the “five to save them all.” Despite his progress, he hadn’t yet come to terms with the strange realities of this new world. As much as he believed in the words of Zanell, an equal part of him didn’t particularly like the idea of taking the chance she might be wrong.

  At heart this seemed so simple; the children needed help and he should be there to offer it.

  Moving away from Zanell, Fellow turned his back to her, gazing out over one of the many quiet, darkened New Tipoloo streets. At this time of night, most of the city’s citizens had already retired to their modest, stuffy dwellings, lured in by the sweet siren call of sleep. Their bellies still full from the previous day’s festivities, most would no doubt find rest easily, catch it and let it envelop them fully. After everything they had been through, they deserved as much.

  “Okay, fine,” Fellow responded with some frustration, his annoyance not fully ebbed. “Can you at least tell me what in the world is so important about me being here?”

  “You know I can’t,” Zanell answered with a wry chuckle.

  “But why? That makes absolutely no sense, Zanell! You know that, right? I mean, what difference does it make if I know? If the future is the future and can’t be changed like you’re always telling everyone, then what does it matter if I know? ”

  Zanell’s chuckle grew into full on laughter, serving only to annoy Fellow further.

  She wondered how many times she had answered this very question since receiving the power of the elders. How many times had she failed to give a satisfying answer? It didn’t take her long to realize that explaining the intricacies of time to one not fully submerged in its warmth was a task that could only be described as impossible. How do you even begin to explain the color red to an unfortunate soul born blind? It simply could not be done. Realizing her laughter was only making matters worse, Zanell took a deep breath and collected herself.

  Moving to the other side of the tiny room, she retrieved a half-burned candle from a shelf built into the dirt wall. “Let’s stop talking about this. How about a walk? I love Tipoloo at this time of night, don’t you? After my parents died, my grandfather would take my brother and me out for walks around this hour. I think he appreciated the silence. It wasn’t until I inherited his powers that I truly understood why.”

  Moving past Fellow, Zanell stepped out the doorway of her dwelling and into the street. The air was sticky-thick, layered heavy and recycled—to most, quite uncomfortable. From her perspective, however, it smelled glorious.

  Exhaling deep, Fellow Undergotten at last decided to relent. In his heart, he understood that no answer Zanell could give him would quell the feeling of helplessness in his belly. Though it pained him to admit it, he realized that this was simply too much to ask of her, even with her powers.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he stepped into the street behind her. “Alright. Who knows, maybe a walk will do me some good.”

  Zanell turned to face him, grinning wide once more. “Oh, I’m almost positive it will.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 26

  AND THEN THERE WERE EIGHT

  *

  Not long after the dust of the Megalot stampede had settled, the group of scattered travelers emerged from their hiding places to find that they were suddenly two members short: Roustaf and Donald had vanished.

  A brief search of the surrounding area providing no results, Krystoph insisted that the group continue on without them. It was his belief that most likely Roustaf saw the stampede as an opportunity to make a break for Ocha. The pudgy hardheaded Donald most likely followed. Not content with simply leaving without Roustaf and boy, yet understanding that there was precious little time to spare searching for them, Nestor ordered two of his soldiers to track the pair and lead them to the group’s intended destination if at all possible. The Tycarian’s decision did not sit well with Krystoph.

  His group of twelve had dwindled to eight in a matter of hours. This most assuredly was not part of the plan.

  The remaining eight trekked on until nightfall, finally deciding to stop for some much needed rest in a tiny cave built into the side of a grassy hill slightly less than a day’s hike from their final destination.

  “Three hours rest, no more. The night will provide superb cover. Should not waste it,” Krystoph gruffly stated, watching as one by one the children dropped to their rears against the walls of the dark, musty cave.

  Seeing them rub their eyes, hearing them groan and complain about aching muscles and sore bones, Krystoph wondered if he had made the right decision by approaching the Fillagrou female weeks ago. Of all the great powers these spindly, strange looking little children were rumored to wield, he had seen none. In fact, were it not for his intervention during the Megalot stampede, the young female would be dead. This was a question he had asked himself many times since sneaking into the underground city in search of the Fillagrou elder. It was a question for which, as of yet, he had no answer.

  “We shouldn’t have left them like that.” The soft, diminutive voice coming from the shadows belonged to Staci Alexander. “We shouldn’t have just left them.”

  To the Ochan, her voice sounded frustratingly familiar. Were Krystoph to close his eyes, he could easily mistake it for that of his daughter. So painfully familiar, so achingly familiar. He was rapidly beginning to resent the little girl’s voice.

  Standing at the entrance to the cave, Krystoph gazed into the darkening forest outside. “The child and the tiny devil have made their choice, little girl. Whether they soak or drown, swim in it they shall.”

  Her frustration meshed with a nagging, ever-growing fear, Staci angrily lifted herself into a standing position. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  Seated next to her, Tommy reached up and grabbed her by the wrist in an attempt to calm her down before the situation got too far out of hand. “Stace—”

  Staci brushed his arm away. “No, Tommy! I’m sick of this!” Before she knew what she was doing, ignoring not only common sense but a rather sizable lump of panic settled deep in her gut, Staci found herself stomping in the direction of the massive former Ochan general.

  “We just left them! Like they didn’t even matter! All because of you!”

  Though Krystoph could sense the diminuti
ve female moving in his direction, never once did he avert his gaze from the forest. Despite what the girl might have believed, he had no interest in shouting matches with children. Such was an act left to those with wills weaker than his.

  Five feet from Krystoph, Staci finally came to a stop, her face bright red, her chest heaving as she swallowed a nearly overwhelming urge to break down in tears. Cautiously moving behind her, Tommy rested his hand gently on her shoulder. Again she brushed it off.

  Images of the snarling, wild Megalot charging in her direction clouding her mind and the feel of its thick blood splatter still caked in the strands of her hair, Staci mumbled through a jittery lip, “Don’t you have any feelings? Don’t you …don’t you care about anything?”

  Upon hearing this sentence, Krystoph realized he had enough. In a single patient, deliberate movement he turned. Now within a foot of the oval-eyed girl, he leaned forward, his face close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. “The Ochan heart is deeper than you can scarcely contemplate, child. Two things we cherish more than any other: King, and family ….” Moving closer still, Krystoph gazed so deeply into Staci’s eyes one might imagine he was examining the soul hidden somewhere within. “I no longer have either.”

  Frozen in place, mere inches from Krystoph’s dangerously sharp teeth, her body overcome with terror, Staci chose at last to remain silent. Wrapping his arms around her, Tommy pulled her away from the icy stare of the massive Ochan and back into the shadows of the cave. Krystoph’s eyes followed her the entire way, glancing briefly in the direction of Nestor, who had watched the entire exchange with one hand resting on the blade at his side. His frustration waning, Krystoph turned again to the forest. A small drizzle of rain had begun slowly trickling from the thick, dark clouds partially camouflaged by the blackness of the night sky. Always raining …it rained so much here. Reaching forward into the open air, he let the droplets gently caress his palm, relishing the simplicity of the transparent, cleansing liquid. There was a time, not too long ago, when Krystoph despised the warm, Fillagrou showers.