by Steven Novak
The idea that the Ochans could construct a substance more resilient than the Tycarian spirit was utter madness, and it simply could not be true.
Whipping his massive body forward violently once more, Walcott let out a pained scream, then quickly muffled it in an attempt to remain as quiet as possible, despite the fact that his muscles were being torn to shreds just beneath his skin. The king of Tycaria would not fold or bend. It is the steel and the stone that would crumble, this he promised himself. Again he whipped his arms forward and again the chains rattled, garnering the attention of the other malnourished, barely awake unfortunate souls hidden within the darkness of Kragamel’s dungeon. His eyes closed, pulling so tightly that the color had drained from his hands, blood seeping from underneath his fingernails, and at last Walcott heard it: a crack. A piece of stone no larger than a grain of sand fell from the wall behind and to the floor below. The rock had faltered. It was a sign of its weakness. He was winning.
Beyond the dictates of logic, science and common sense, he was winning.
The rattling of chains four times the thickness of his arm woke Pleebo from a sleep that seemed to have lasted only hours, yet felt more like weeks. His head was throbbing, his skin cold and clammy. Like a frosty tattoo on the interior his eyeballs, the awful image of the conjurers gazing down at him evilly remained transparent and ghostly, overlaying everything in his field of vision. Every muscle in his body felt useless and broken, as if they would never work the same again. Remembering the moment when the damned creatures pulled the location of the doorway to the children’s world from his brain, he lowered his head in shame as his lanky body went limp. He’d failed them. He’d failed them all. He’d failed them all and there was no going back. Again came the sound of chains, this time followed by the ever so slight crack of stone and a deep, angry, menacing grunt. Lifting his weary head, the world still swirling as if gravity were somehow pulling downward and emptying it into a drain, Pleebo glanced in the general direction of the noise. The dungeon was dark, the blacks deep and unforgiving. Barely visible among the shadows, tucked behind the bars of his cell, was Walcott. With muscled, blood-covered arms jutting from the sides of his enormous shell, the Tycarian thrust forward with an enraged sort of violence Pleebo didn’t believe possible in the aged creature. Again the sound of cracking rock from somewhere behind was swallowed whole by the monstrous shadows. Opening his eyes wide, Walcott glanced at him through a set of animalistic, bloodshot pupils, puddles of sweat having built up at his feet, more still dripping off him with every passing moment.
“He’s trying to pull himself free,” Pleebo muttered to the air. “That crazy old fool is seriously trying to pull himself free.”
Again came the sound of cracking stone, followed by the echo of chunks tumbling to the floor.
“He’s trying to pull himself free…and he’s actually doing it.”
From his cell, Walcott continued to jerk with everything he had. Long ago the feeling in his arms and legs drifted away and were swept into the air by a breeze made up of only pain, carried from him forever. His eyes made contact with the slowly waking form of Pleebo in the cell across from him, and his body heaved tighter still. Singularly focused on the task at hand, what remained of the dungeon faded from view. Now there was only he and Pleebo. Now there was only the promise of freedom. Kragamel, the war, his comrades in the New Tipoloo rebellion, the agony overtaking his body and the chains binding him tight from this point on ceased to exist. They would not defeat him; they could not defeat him. He would not allow it. Though his body was old and his muscles only half of what they once were, Walcott understood all too well that at its heart, escape was simply a matter of will, and age had no bearing on will.
I can do this for ages, you bastard, he growled to the stone and the steel. It is you who will relent, not I.
Snarling through a mouth of shattered teeth, the Tycarian king pulled once again with every single muscle in his body, fully functioning or otherwise. Able to withstand no more, the wall gave way. Tearing from the stone, a heavy chain whipped across the cell, the jagged, shattered hunk of rock at its end colliding with the bars. With one arm suddenly free, Walcott’s body at last folded in half, going limp as he struggled to catch his breath. Wearily he glanced at Pleebo, a wide smile slowly spreading across the face of his battered and bruised friend.
Though the act itself caused him considerable discomfort, Walcott smiled back.
*
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CHAPTER 46
GREAT ANGER, GREAT POWER
*
“Get down, lad!” Nestor screamed, while expertly avoiding a slew of fire-tipped arrows puncturing the deck of the ship around him before throwing his body over a terrified Nicky Jarvis in a last ditch effort to protect the boy.
Though still some distance from the Briar Patch, the Ochan vessel—much larger, newer and significantly better-constructed—had rapidly closed the distance. Silhouetted in what remained of the setting sun, the forbidding ship sliced through the water with the deadliest of intentions. Lit up on its deck were pockets of orange red flame, casting a dangerous, eerie glow across the hellish form. One after another, like a finely tuned machine of war, the Ochans began sending over volleys of flame-tipped arrows numbering in the hundreds. The vicious assault created pockets of sporadic fire that soon began running rampant across the deck of the Briar Patch. As half of Fluuffytail’s crew attempted to douse the flames, the other half began firing arrows of their own in retaliation. With so many creatures scurrying in so many directions at once, the ship had rapidly descended into a state of absolute chaos.
Removing a long curved sword from the sheath at his waist, Captain Fluuffytail raced to the highest point of the Briar Patch’s deck and pointed his weapon angrily toward the Ochan vessel, flaming arrows cascading around him like acid rain.
“Return fire, ya useless Grazealumps! Deliver those lousy green-skins a first class ticket to the great beyond!” He screamed loud enough for his scattered and frustrated crew to hear over the madness. They needed his encouragement now more than ever.
Wrapping Nicky in his arms, Nestor rose into a crouched position, a flaming arrow ricocheting off his shell painfully before spinning like a top into the cool dark waters. Moving as quickly as his flat feet and massive oval shaped body would allow, he rushed to the opposite end of the ship near Tommy and Staci, who were coiled in the fetal position against a railing partially engulfed in flame.
“Get under me, children! We have to get you below!” Nestor screamed over the insanity while turning his back to the Ochan war ship as yet more arrows connected with his sturdy exterior, a few wedging their fiery tips between the plates of his shell.
Overcome with fear, Staci had long ago pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her face. Sobbing uncontrollably into the fibers, her body trembling, she was finding it impossible to gain control over her emotions with so much lunacy brewing around her. Wrapping the girl in his arms, Tommy pulled her close to his chest. Forcefully dragging her to her feet, he managed to maneuver her shivering form behind the safety of Nestor’s massive shell, using the Tycarian as a shield. Though his heart was racing, arrows blanketing the area around him in flames, Tommy attempted to keep some semblance of composure. He had to. For his brother and for Staci, he had to. In front of him, the deck of the Briar Patch was lit up like exploding fireflies across a blackened night. To his left, two of the crew’s bodies were engulfed in flames, no less than three arrows protruding from what remained of their charred corpses. For every fire the crew was able to snuff, three more sprouted to life. It had become painfully obvious even to one as new to the concept of war as Tommy that they were losing the battle. Crouched over the children, Nestor began to slide along the deck while keeping them safely in front of him the entire time. Peeking around the massive Tycarian’s shell, Tommy glanced quickly toward the Ochan ship in the distance. The enormous wooden structure was now less than two hundred feet away, bearing down on the Briar Patch with
astounding speed. This close, it looked larger than anything he could scarcely imagine. Extending higher into the sky than some small buildings, the gargantuan sails alone seemed bigger than the whole of Captain Fluuffytail’s pathetic looking vessel.
At last reaching the doorway to the lower deck, Nestor began shoving the children through, arrows exploding off his back like fireworks. “Inside now! All of you inside!”
Nicky stumbled through the doorway, followed closely behind by Staci. The pair began hurriedly descending a rotting, wobbly staircase leading into the dank, stuffy blackness below. A moment before Tommy followed them through, he overheard the voice of Fluuffytail buried amidst the craziness outside.
“Brace for impact, ya scoundrels!”
Glancing to his left, Tommy watched as the front of the monstrous Ochan vessel violently collided with the side of the Briar Patch. Wood splintered and cracked, straining and shattering to pieces. A low rumble shook the timbers of the Briar Patch to their core, unable to withstand the weight and construction of the Ochan ship. The sheer size and incredible speed of the Ochan vessel very nearly flipped the Briar Patch over and succeeded in lifting it out of the water for an instant. Defying gravity, Fluuffytail’s ship was weightless for a moment, teetering perilously on the tightrope between remaining upright and spilling its contents into the sea. The collision whipped Tommy and Nestor across the deck, slamming the pair into the railing on the opposite side. Somewhere within the vessel’s belly, Nicky and Staci lost their already shaky balance and tumbled forward roughly to the foot of the stairs. When the Briar Patch at last splashed back into the ocean, every board, nail and bolt holding the aged ship together elicited a deep, uncompromising moan, making its captain aware in no uncertain terms that the chances of it surviving a similar collision were unlikely. Within its dank underbelly, splinters in its already worn timbers split open wide, allowing the chilly Aquari sea to spray in. Their limbs sore from their fall, Nicky and Staci regained control over their senses only to discover they were partially submerged in no less than three inches of water that was rising quickly. All around them, random crewmembers scrambled wildly to close the leaks before they became too much for the ship to handle. The fact that the Briar Patch had managed to stay afloat this long despite the collision and the gallons of ocean pouring into its belly was nothing short of remarkable.
Slowly opening his eyes, the pain of a thousand needles pressing against a rapidly forming lump on his head, Tommy glanced wearily in the direction of the Ochan vessel now less than fifty feet from the Briar Patch. Beneath him, the momentum of the collision continued to cause the ship to wobble back and forth atop the tumultuous waves awkwardly. Attempting to balance himself and get to his feet, Tommy stumbled. Slipping on the water soaked deck, he landed hard on his rear. One after another, improbably thick ropes with enormous three-pronged anchors as large as the whole of Tommy’s torso were tossed from the Ochan ship to the deck of the Briar Patch. Wrapping themselves around crates, wedging themselves between boards, or simply slicing into the partially rotted wood like scissors through paper, the anchors attached themselves to the soaked timbers and tied the vessels together. Like a tired old fly caught in a spider web, Captain Fluuffytail’s ship had been captured. Using the ropes as a means of transportation, the Ochans began the process of boarding the now helpless vessel like a well-oiled machine of death. They had done this before and they would do it again. Warfare was commonplace to them, even on the high seas. It was in their blood. It defined them.
Within a matter of minutes Captain Fluuffytail’s ship was infested with Ochan soldiers.
At last able to find secure footing, Nestor retrieved the sword from his back. Gritting his teeth, he swatted away the arrows jutting from his shell while tightening his muscles and preparing himself for the inevitability of battle. In every corner of the ship, hand-to-hand combat had begun. Steel clashed with steel. Steel sliced through flesh. Blood was sprayed in frighteningly copious amounts. Mixing with the half-inch of water now glistening in the light of the impending moon on the slippery deck, the multi-colored insides of those fighting for their lives coated the ship’s floorboards a milky, cloudy rainbow of savagery.
Reaching to his side, Nestor snagged a handful of Tommy’s shirt, lifting the boy into the air and pulling him close. “Stay behind me, lad!” He screamed angrily as an Ochan soldier barreled in his direction from ten feet away with a blood soaked weapon at his side.
Near the front of the ship, Krystoph was fending off a group of five Ochans. Each instantly recognized him as a traitor to his race, making the prospect of ending his life all the more enticing. The former general’s movements were too fluid though, too precise and far too deadly. At every turn, Krystoph remained no less than three steps ahead of his countrymen-turned-bitter enemies. While they were still searching for ways to strike him down, he had already set forth the process inevitably leading to their deaths. He was the future and they were the past; no matter how quickly they moved, there was simply no catching up. Even Krystoph understood, however, that he could not stay ahead of the pack forever. As their numbers grew, so would their chances of catching him off guard. With every passing minute, more and more Ochans made their way from their massive ship to the fiery deck of the Briar Patch. Soon Fluuffytail’s crew would be vastly outnumbered; soon they would be overrun. This, too, was inevitable.
Trying his best to keep Tommy out of harm’s way, Nestor continued to fend off a pair of Ochan soldiers while keeping the boy behind him the entire time. He was able to strike one of the two down, but the second landed a stiff, echoing blow to the underside of his shell that nearly split it open. The strike dropped Nestor instantly to his knees. When the wild movement of the waves caused the sides of the two ships to again smash into each other, Tommy was sent airborne for the second time in less than ten minutes. Thrown clear across the deck, the world around him went blurry, painful and cold. His ribs slammed into the debris of a half-shattered wooden crate, bringing the wild spinning to an immediate halt while knocking the wind out of his lungs in the process. Glancing down at his knees in an attempt to regain his bearings and catch his breath, he noticed that he was partially submerged in a purplish colored substance that could only be blood. Seeping into the fabric of his sopping wet jeans, it stained the fibers to their very core. This was the kind of stain that wouldn’t easily be washed away, the kind of stain that remained even when it was no longer visible to the naked eye. Every inch of his body was sore and aching, dipped in a boiling vat of confusion and pain. Beneath his chilled, jittery skin and the clumped strands of drenched dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes, his bones shivered. His ears felt sore, packed to the point of overflowing with the clashing of steel, the pained death cries and the thunderous booms of monstrous ocean waves. The sound of battle was attacking his every sense, and winning. His heart was racing, his mind swirling; the situation was quickly proving too much for him to absorb and far too much to make sense of.
Closing his eyes, Tommy held his breath, his body beginning to feel warm, and angry, and stuffed …in desperate need of release.
Pulling his hand from the puddle of warm purple-colored liquid, he lifted it to his face and peeked through a pair of squinting eyes. The tips of his fingers had begun to glow.
It was happening again.
*
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CHAPTER 47
A CHOICE MUST BE MADE
*
“That’s it. I can’t sit here like some two-bit schlep while those damn Ochans tear into Pleebs and Walcott. I’m going in.”
Lifting himself off a rock, Roustaf began hovering slowly toward the tree line. Off in the distance, Ochan workers and soldiers alike continued to exit the blackened hole leading from their home world into the sprawling night of the Fillagrou Forest. Roustaf and his group, consisting of his pink skinned love interest Tahnja and the rest of her traveling companions, as well as a pair of Tycarian soldiers and the burly bodied bully Donald Rondage, had remained
hidden just inside the tree line for quite some time. The break they were waiting patiently for in the exodus of Ochans appearing from the doorway had yet to arrive. Sick of sitting around doing nothing, Roustaf made the decision to take matters into his own miniscule hands. Keenly aware of the fact that the longer his friends were captives of the tyrant king, the less likely they were to survive, he understood there simply was no other choice. No matter the danger, no matter the unlikelihood of success, he had to at least attempt to help Pleebo.
