Forts: Liars and Thieves

by Steven Novak

  Defeated and hopeless, he chose simply to allow the scavengers their meal.

  He was a failure. He had failed his wife, his family, and his king. Let these filthy things feast on what remained. Let them hollow him out. Let them transform him into the empty shell he had become. After all, this was exactly what he deserved. Closing his swollen eyes, he gritted his teeth, bearing the pain of their hungry, dirty business as best he could. The beetles would ensure his end came painfully and would not come quickly, exactly as it should be.

  However, as suddenly as the feast began, it stopped. The blanket of combustion beetles retreated from his body, regurgitating that which they had partially digested and covering him in a layer of his own sticky, half-eaten flesh. Confused, he opened his weary eyes once more. The creatures had now formed an unmoving circle around him, their black, soulless eyes staring blankly into his.

  “Finish me,” He muttered to the collective, confused and annoyed with their curious inaction.

  The two thousand or so beetles remained steady, their bodies covering the rock around him completely and transforming it from a dusty red to a shiny black.

  “Damn you, finish me!” He growled again, blood seeping from his mouth and neck before pooling in the dirt beneath.

  Again there was no response. Not a single beetle moved, the partially lit torches atop their tiny heads flickering among the superheated shadows of cave.

  “Finish me!” He roared as loudly as his sore, useless throat could manage.

  His arm was broken in several places, the bones in his fingers shattered to dust, yet still he managed to raise his fist in anger and swat at the pathetic creatures. Moving as one, the combustion beetles stepped backward, dodging the blow with ease. Having wasted what remaining energy he had at his disposal, he lowered his head into the bloody dirt, mumbling in frustration with a mouth full of sticky-wet sand. Still the beetles stared, as if they were judging him, though he knew such a thing was impossible. Why did they continue to watch and refuse to end his suffering? Why were they doing this to him? All at once the beetles turned, slowly retreating to their homes inside the cave rock. Only a single one among them remained behind, its attention never waning. Despite the very real possibility of a broken spine, he lifted his head to look at the pathetic thing. The insect’s inaction made no sense. Combustion beetles were hungry, mindless scavengers existing only to reproduce and eat. Why then had they chosen to ignore him? Was he too pathetic, too worthless and undesirable for even the lowest of the low? Had he fallen so far?

  Without warning, he was suddenly again in his home, with his wife by his side and his children in the next room. Though he knew the image was fleeting, an illusion, he tried to hold onto it as long as he could, attempting to capture this moment, superheat it and brand it with an iron onto his brain where he could keep it forever. He would not succeed. A sudden flare of the flames boiling from the center of Ocha below dragged him to reality once more. Again it was gone. Again he was alone with the single, frustrating beetle; again he growled in its direction through a mouth coated in blood.

  He had bled for his king more times than he dared count, pledged his life and soul to Kragamel in the name of his people, in the name of Ocha. For his hardship and suffering he had received nothing. For his pain he received exactly that. The king was a liar. The king had stolen his family, his country and his life. The king was a liar and a thief. Suddenly he understood why the beetles had chosen not to devour him. Suddenly, it seemed so obvious why a single one of the soulless, eating machines continued to watch him from the sand. He had become one of them. He had become one of them and there was no going back.

  He had become one of them, and he, too, was hungry.

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 44

  STORM ON THE HORIZON

  *

  Standing atop a wooden crate, Nicky leaned his head over the edge of the ship to better watch the waves crash violently against the side. Feeling a chill, he pulled the hood of his sweater over his head and tied the strings just below his chin. In the distance the sun had nearly set, the blue sky transformed into a series of lavish deep purples and brick reds. Never having been on a boat, let alone at sea, the boy was surprised at how remarkably quiet the ocean was. For as far as he could see in every direction there was nothing but water. As went the gentle sway of the waves below, the ship and he went. Behind him a few of the Briar Patch’s more gnarly looking crew members mumbled to each other in a slightly incoherent gibberish while occasionally chugging back on an unmarked bottle full of a liquid that looked an awful lot like urine. The bubbly substance was causing them to burp sporadically, flinging particles of food and frothy golden bubbles from between their lips and onto their filthy clothes. Almost directly above him, the tattered sail flapped tightly as it caught the breeze. Leaning further over the edge of the ship, Nicky tried to gaze through the now nearly black water for signs of life, but saw none.

  “Be careful, child. These waters are quite capable of swallowing you whole when you least expect it.” The voice was familiar and quite welcome.

  Looking up from the edge, Nicky glanced behind him just in time to see Nestor step alongside. The orange glow of descending sun cast deep shadows across the cavernous wrinkles and scars of his dark green face. Like an awning, his brow hung at least two inches over his eyes, which seemed both weary and intensely battle ready at the same time.

  Breathing deeply, Nestor scanned the sea much the same as the boy to his left. It had been so long since he’d seen these waters. Quite at home in the ocean, there was a point during the war when his people considered retreating to the oceans of Aquari to escape the Ochan invasion. After further examination, however, the waters proved too dangerous. The Tycarians had spent entirely too many generations on land as well. Returning to the ocean after so many years away—a lifetime for most—would have proven disastrous.

  Still, he could not deny the majesty and simplicity of this place. “There are legends claiming an entire race of creatures reside at the bottom of these waters. When I say creatures, I am not simply speaking of sea dragons and fluker fish, mind you, but of beings with great intelligence, beings capable of making choices—choices such as remaining neutral in the war raging above despite the fact that so many die.”

  Reaching up, Nestor ran his paw along the curve of his hairless head. His fingers lingered for a moment, absentmindedly tracing the length of a scar he received many years ago in battle. The Ochan who had cut him very nearly ended his life that day. In the end though, only one of the two remained standing; only one lived to fight again.

  Choosing to instead focus on the here and the now, Nestor turned his attention from the water to the child at his side. “Ultimately, I believe submerging oneself in mere legend serves no purpose; better to exist in the reality of the moment. How are you faring, lad?”

  “Alright, I guess,” Nicky mumbled in response.

  “Your feet—do they remain sore?”

  “No, they’re better.”

  “Very good, child, very good indeed. Your recovery was short. You heal with a warrior’s spirit. For this you should be commended.”

  The absurdity of the statement caused Nicky to giggle for a moment. Behind him, two of the Briar Patch’s deckhands burped simultaneously, turning his giggle into a full on laugh. It felt good to laugh again; laughter helped him forget, if only for a moment. Raising his hand to his face, he attempted to reign in the chuckles before they got too out of hand. Turning to the always proper, businesslike Nestor, he was about to apologize for the outburst when he noticed that the massive turtle man was smiling as well. Though Nicky hadn’t known Nestor long, he had been around him long enough to understand all too well that he rarely smiled. Nicky appreciated the gesture.

  Near the rear of the ship, Staci sat shivering atop a series of dusty crates holding rope as thick as her arm and as heavy as her body. Quietly she wished to herself that she’d been given the time to pack a sweater like Tom
my’s little brother. The sea breeze was remarkably cold, like a blustery fall back home, though carrying with it an odd humidity that left her skin moist, salty and shimmering. Pulling her knees to her chest, she sunk her head between her arms, trying desperately to capture some much-needed warmth.

  From behind her came the familiar voice of Tommy Jarvis. “Hey, I have an extra sweater if you want it.”

  Looking up, she spotted the blond haired boy behind her holding a large hooded sweatshirt with a worn and dirty version of their school logo displayed on the back. Instantly she forgot about the cold; instantly she smiled.

  Her cheeks flushing red, she reached up and took the piece of clothing from his hand. “Thanks. Are you sure you don’t need it?”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine.” Tommy responded, plopping himself onto the crate next to her.

  Despite his bravado, in truth the cold was already beginning to bother him—even though he’d never let her know it.

  Immediately after lifting the shirt over her head, Staci could feel the difference. The sweater was much too big for her, falling almost to her knees and encasing her in extra warmth. Reaching over, Tommy lifted the hood over her head as the pair exchanged a subtle, warm smile.

  After a moment of only slightly awkward shared silence, Staci was the first to speak. “How do you think Donald and Roustaf are doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Tommy responded, pausing momentarily to reminisce about Pleebo and Walcott, wondering once again if maybe he should have been looking for them rather than searching the ocean for some useless amulet. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  In his heart, he knew this was more than likely not the case. He was simply giving Staci what he believed she wanted to hear, even if she didn’t necessarily think it true herself. Again there was a pause; again there was only the crashing of the waves. Somewhere behind him Tommy heard his little brother laugh, which in turn made him smile. Slipping her hand from underneath the sleeve of the oversized sweater, Staci let her fingers rest gently atop his. Though hesitant at first, eventually the digits of the children’s hands intertwined and locked together tightly.

  “I’m glad you came to get me,” Staci whispered, her eyes glued to the light dancing on the waves in the distance.

  “Yeah, well, that makes one of us,” Tommy responded with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have let Roustaf drag you into this, you or my brother. You aren’t safe here. Heck, I don’t even know what I was thinking when I agreed to come along. The only one of us with any brains is Owen.”

  “Well, he does get much better grades than you,” Staci joked, trying her best to make the boy feel better. “Then again, so does pretty much everyone.”

  Tommy laughed subtly for a moment; his forlorn expression, however, never wavered.

  “We’ll be okay,” Staci added as she turned toward him, her face wrapped snugly in the hooded sweatshirt, her ponytail causing it to bulge awkwardly in the rear like a pup tent.

  Tommy, however, couldn’t bring himself to return her glance. For some time now he had felt lost, tied in a knot he couldn’t seem to work free no matter how hard he tried. It felt like so long since he’d had a real, deep, lasting rest, the kind of rest where you forget everything and everyone, maybe even yourself. For so long now, a wad of grayish brown festering guilt, anger, and shame had hung over him like a dark cloud torrentially raining atop his head.

  When he at last chose to speak, his voice was barely a whisper, a remnant of something that once was and might never be again. “I hope so.”

  Sensing the faraway hopelessness in his voice, Staci was strangely overcome with a surge of confidence. She felt the need to say something she’d wanted to say to Tommy for a very long time, something she just couldn’t keep locked inside any longer. Breathing in deeply, she tried to steady her emotions, her heart speeding and forehead perspiring.

  “Tommy,” She whispered, staring longingly at his profile, the orange setting sun behind blackening his boyish features, “Tommy, there’s something I need to tell you; something—I don’t know, something I wanted to tell you when we got back home. You were never around, though, and the time never felt quite right. I dunno, I just …there’s something I need you to know …”

  Though neither child was aware of it, as Staci struggled to make sense of the overflowing of emotions building inside, her chest began to glow. An odd warmness she hadn’t felt since she brought Tommy back to life in Prince Valkea’s castle moved briskly from her upper torso into her shoulder, down her arm, into her hand and toward the tips of her fingers. Moments later, a softball sized sphere of pure light had begun to form around their connected digits. Having engulfed their hands entirely, it abruptly halted its expansion and settled into a gentle, mid-air hover. The soft, white reflection rising up between them eventually managed to garner their attention, and both children looked down in unison.

  “Tommy, I …think maybe I …” Stopping mid-sentence, Staci was caught off guard by the strange light, leaping to her feet while attempting to pull her hand free from his.

  “No, wait,” Tommy muttered, gripping her fingers tighter in order to maintain their connection as he rose to his feet as well.

  Standing parallel to each other, Tommy lifted their glowing hands between them, staring with wide-eyed fascination at the ball of energy. Her pulse slowing, Staci too became entranced by the otherworldly display. Using his free hand, Tommy poked cautiously at the humming ball with the tip of his index finger. Like liquid lightning, the sphere sparked for an instant. When he pulled his finger back, the strange glow stuck to him like sticky-stretchy gum, pulling back with his finger before at last losing its grip on his flesh and bouncing into the wobbling orb once more.

  “It’s …amazing,” Staci muttered through a wide smile, her face lit brightly in the hypnotic glow.

  She was not, however, staring at the ball of light; she was staring at Tommy.

  Less than twenty feet away, standing among a growing crowd, Krystoph watched the pair of them with a mixture of amazement and fear. For the first time since meeting these children of the prophecy, he was witnessing firsthand that there might be a sliver of truth to the stories of their power. Seeing the bizarre light show between them, his mind wandered back to Prince Valkea’s castle, to the endless Ochan corpses littering the soil for miles in every direction. Though he tried denying it even to himself, for the first time since encountering these creatures, he was overcome with a subtle, barely there twinge of fear. While this may not sound like much, it was more fear than the Ochan had felt since he was a child. The earsplitting hum created by blowing into one end of an Aquari Concota shell, however, pulled his attentions away from the children and instantly back to reality.

  Stationed in a lookout box high above the ship, one of the Brian Patch’s crew bellowed at the top of his lungs to those below, “We’ve got company, Cap’n!”

  Following his extended finger toward the ocean, the entire crew gazed out across the dark water in unison. The hands of Tommy and Staci at last came apart, the glow from her chest quickly evaporating into nothingness. Off in the distance, barely visible though the rapidly darkening sky, was another ship. Constructed of wood as black as the absolute blackest of ash, it looked sturdy, well-built, and dangerous. Despite being still so far away, the ship seemed quite massive as well. Like a great, snarling black beast, the enormous boat cut across the waters with ease on a direct course for the Brian Patch. Scurrying from his quarters below as fast as his furry legs and oversized feet would take him, Captain Fluuffytail ran to the side of his ship and hopped alongside Nicky on a set of crates near the edge. Immediately his brow lowered, his little gray nose twitching sporadically as if he had an itch.

  Through the two massive buckteeth just underneath his furry lips, he growled only two words: “Battle stations!”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 45

  THE TYCARIAN SPIRIT

  *

  It had been some time since Walcott watched f
rom behind weary, heavy eyelids as Pleebo was dragged back to his cell and chained into position on the wall again. Since that moment, the lanky Fillagrou had not moved; since that moment, there had been only silence and black. Was it not for the subtle rising and falling of Pleebo’s chest, coupled with the fact that the Ochans bothered to drag him to the dungeon in the first place, Walcott might have believed his friend dead. The beatings Walcott had become so very accustomed to stopped coming at their regular intervals. In fact, he hadn’t seen the scaly, dark green face of a single Ochan in hours. The fact that neither he nor Pleebo were dead, or getting interrogated anymore, led him to only one conclusion: they had finally gotten the information they were seeking. Somehow, after all this time, they managed to pry it from Pleebo. He supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later. One could only withstand so much. No one could hold out forever. Pleebo lasted longer than Walcott ever imaged he would, longer than he imagined any others of his peaceful, non-violent race could have hoped. The fact that Kragamel now had what he desired, however, added some urgency to their situation. With their usefulness having run its course, the king would see no reason to keep them alive. It was somewhat surprising they’d managed to remain breathing for as long as they had. Fate had made the decision that he and Pleebo had reached the end of their journey. Like a wall miles high, constructed of the thickest unbreakable stone, it now stood erect in front of them, preventing further travels.

  Walcott, however, had no interest in fate or patience for its endless whims. Having never bent to the will of any creature in his many years, he would not bend for it.

  If he and Pleebo hoped to survive another day, they had to do the absolute impossible: they had to escape this dungeon. Painfully, the Tycarian king pulled his mostly broken, bent and bloody fingers into something vaguely resembling a fist. Drawing from reserves of energy he believed age had wiped away, Walcott forced the tired, injured muscles in his neck back to life. From there he coaxed those in his arms, torso and legs to do the same. They must work. They had to work; there was no longer a choice. Breathing heavily, a thick sheen of sweat pouring down his wrinkled green flesh, he gritted what remained of his teeth, tugging on the chains binding his arms to cold stone. The steel links instantly pulled tight, the sound echoing throughout the endless, stuffy dank tunnels. Planting his feet firmly against the wall behind in order to use it for leverage, the full weight of his huge body ripped tighter still on the thick steel binds slicing grotesquely into his flesh. A low gurgle from his mouth quickly morphed into something grimier, more guttural and animalistic. Utilizing the very same spirit that had given the Ochan nation so much trouble over the course of the war, Walcott jerked forward with all of his might. The muscles in his arm had been useless for some time, his shell had been cracked repeatedly and he had lost more blood than he believed resided in the whole of his body. None of this mattered, though. He needed to pull, and he must continue pulling until he was free. If he ended up tearing his limbs from his torso, so be it. He was dead already; meeting his end a few hours earlier would be of no consequence. The chains were inches thick. It would take a number of blows from the most finely constructed Tycarian weapons to cut them, and even then there would be no guarantee of success. The stone to which they were attached was old but sturdy, showing very little wear. Where stone meets steel, however, there existed weakness. There had to be a crack hidden between the joining of materials; there needed to be a crack.