by Steven Novak
Wrapping his muscular green arm around Pleebo’s waist, Walcott hoisted his companion into an upright position yet again. “I understand all too well the difficulty of the situation, but I must insist we keep moving, my friend. I swear to you that I will get you to safety. I shall allow no more to die in this icy pit.”
With the Tycarian king leading the way, the pair carefully moved along the outside of the building while keeping to the shadows and scanning the yard for anything resembling an exit point. Though Walcott had never seen an Ochan work camp for himself, he had heard the grizzly, terrifying stories, stories he now realized were unfortunately true. Normally located just outside the walls of the main castle, it was here that many interrogations were conducted, and it was here that survivors of those interrogations toiled the remainder of their days. In this place, freedom walked hand and hand with death. Of course, there was no real “work” being done. The act of breaking rock was quite meaningless, as the Ochans had no real use for shattered stone bits. This was busy work, intended only for the perverse amusement of the king’s soldiers. This was extended torture and nothing more. Coming to a stop behind a pile of unbroken boulders at least fifteen feet high, Walcott and Pleebo dropped to their knees and peered through the tiny spaces between the stone. Two hundred yards away, a group of Ochan soldiers were huddled together, engaged in idle chatter beside a massive steel gate. Walcott found the smiles slicing across their faces beyond revolting, especially considering the massive amounts of death and despair surrounding them. Just beyond the gate there was an open field of frozen dirt littered occasionally by spiny sharp foliage. Even the plants had teeth in this world. Beyond the field lay a row of densely packed, though mostly leafless trees. Further still there was freedom, at least comparatively. Giving his full attention to the guards and the gate, Walcott began to formulate a plan of escape. Years spent attending to the dead and dying had left the guards stationed here complacent. They had lost their edge and weren’t the least bit prepared to deal with an enemy willing or able to fight back. Walcott immediately saw this as an advantage, maybe their only advantage.
“If we move quickly, I believe we can make it,” The turtle man stated through tight lips, his eyes narrow and focused as the pain crippling his body slowly faded to the background, exactly where he needed it to be.
Unsure if Walcott was seeing the same thing he was, Pleebo stated with some surprise, “No offense, but are you nuts? Even if we somehow manage to get past the guards, how are we supposed to get through the gate?”
“Leave the useless piece of Ochan steel to me, my friend,” Walcott replied sternly.
Reaching between the pile of stone and the wall, the Tycarian retrieved the remnants of a rusted and broken pickaxe with a snapped wooden handle. Bouncing it in the palm of his hand, he tested its weight, finding the tool sufficient to meet his needs.
“No matter what may occur,” Walcott continued, “You are to run and continue running, Mr. Pleebo. Do not stop until you have entered the tree line. Once there, I suggest you hide for only a moment, then run some more.”
With his bones cracking and an expression of absolute rage on his face, Walcott Shellamennes rose to his feet. Gripping tighter on the broken handle of the pickaxe, his knuckles popped, crunched and ground against each other.
Reaching up, Pleebo tried in vain to pull the massive Tycarian into a crouched position once more. “Wait a minute. What do you mean me? What are you going to do?”
Walcott shrugged away the arm of his friend as his heart began to race, the adrenaline of battle now coursing through his veins like molten steel. “I regret there is currently no time for discussion, my friend. Our talks have proven enlightening in the past. I shall miss them. You have been given your orders. I expect you to follow them. Do not stop running until you are safely hidden among the trees.”
Again Pleebo tugged at the burly arm of the Tycarian; again Walcott wiggled free. “Hold on a minute, you nutcase!”
Unwilling to allow Pleebo further protest, Walcott breathed deeply of the chilly Ochan air and exhaled. Ignoring the fact that the majority of his bones were broken and his body was overrun with ungodly pain, he barreled forward in the direction of the Ochan guards and the enormous steel gate. Realizing he suddenly had no real choice in the matter, Pleebo forced his tired and mostly useless muscles to do the same.
The frozen soil shattered like broken glass beneath Walcott’s massive flat feet. The sound resulting from his every lumbering step resonated throughout the yard. With every second he picked up speed, his resolve expanding and mutating, boiling red with anger and popping when reaching its crest. In perfect health, Pleebo could have easily outrun the Tycarian; things being as they were, however, he found himself struggling to keep pace. For one so large, old and injured, Walcott was moving with impressive speed. Less than a hundred feet from the gate, the guards first took note of the heavy thumps of Walcott’s feet over the cool breeze and turned in his direction. Caught off guard, they hurriedly retrieved their weapons, instantly moving toward the charging Tycarian.
As the guards turned to face him, Walcott screamed through a mouthful of shattered teeth. There were four of them and one of him. In his condition, with little more than a digging tool for a weapon, he had no hope of putting the entire group down for good. He understood, however, that he needed only to stop them , to remove them from the equation long enough for Pleebo to escape. This much he could do. This much he was capable of. This much he had to do.
Moments later, Walcott and the guards clashed violently. Despite the fact that even walking should have been impossible when considering the extent of his injuries, it was Walcott and his sad excuse for a weapon that somehow gained the upper hand. Born from years of experience in battle, his every step was measured, precise and deadly. The massive Tycarian slid under the blades of two guards while tripping one to the ground with his shattered forearm and sinking the pickaxe into the belly of the other. Leaping straight into the air with his feet leading the way, he slammed the full weight of his body into the remaining two. The force of the blow dented the armor into their chests, collapsing bone underneath and cracking the back of their heads against the frozen ground with sickening thuds. Intent on maintaining his speed, Walcott lowered his shoulder and tucked his head into the top of his shell just enough to keep it safe while in no way obscuring his vision. The steel gate was less than fifty feet away, its bars nearly the thickness of his leg and considerably more sturdy. The Ochan construction was solid and built to last, much the same as the chains that formally bound him to the wall of the dungeon below. It remained, however, old, its best days having come and long since gone. Over many years, the harsh Ochan weather had eaten away at the once robust connections binding steel to steel leaving it vulnerable.
With age, all things lose their durability. In time, all things become useless. As it is a foe that has no equal, only the truly foolhardy challenge time. It is an enemy that’s never tasted defeat.
Possibly more than most, of this fact King Walcott Shellamennes was keenly aware.
A low, grimy, guttural growl bellowed from between the Tycarian’s lips once again, his black-green eyes focusing on the bars and the bars alone. The muscles in his aching legs worked double-time, kicking clumps of loose soil into the air as he barreled forward. Never slowing, Walcott slammed the entire weight of his body into the steel, tearing away a chunk of his already battered shell in the process and racking the entirety of his body in searing pain. As he knew it would, as if superheated and pliable, the steel miraculously bent, tore, and gave way. Of course, the collision and subsequent pain caused Walcott’s legs to give way as well. Stumbling forward, he slammed into the ground while spinning wildly, tossing chunks of frozen sand in every direction as he was engulfed in a cloud of debris. Quickly moving through the bent steel opening, Pleebo came to an awkward sliding stop alongside the body of his fallen friend. Not far behind the pair, the Ochan guards not mortally wounded had already begun to rec
over as more still poured from the doorway to the building further away.
Wrapping his arms underneath Walcott’s body, Pleebo attempted to pull the Tycarian to his feet. “Come on! Get up! We’ve got to keep moving!”
Walcott, however, had reached his limit. There would be no more moving. Drowning in pain and unable to speak, the Tycarian growled something incoherent, a frothy liquid seeping from between his lips. His body was gargantuan, even his arm alone weighed more than Pleebo could lift in his current state of health. Despite his tugging, Pleebo was accomplishing nothing. The Ochan guards were getting closer with every passing moment.
“Come on! Please! Move!” Pleebo’s voice cracked as he screamed, cursing every muscle in his body for being so sore and useless.
Passing through the blinding pain overtaking him for the briefest of instances, Walcott pried the bony finger of his friend from his wrist. “Go …to the trees. Go now. I cannot follow.”
“No! That is not an option! I’m not leaving you here!”
Reaching up, Walcott grabbed the filthy, tattered fabric adorning Pleebo’s body and pulled his Fillagrou companion close to his face. His lips quivered as he whispered sternly, “If you do not escape, it was all for nothing. Go now, my friend. Go and hide. Prove to me that this old shell of a king is still worth a damn.”
Pleebo’s grip loosened, Walcott’s beefy wrist sliding from between his sweaty, broken fingers. Within moments the guards would be on top of them both. Within moments it would have been all for nothing.
Struggling to breathe, his eyes floated to the back of his head as unconsciousness overtook him, Walcott whispered pleadingly, “Go my friend. Go now, please …”
Pleebo leaned in close enough to catch the salty smell of Walcott’s sweat in his nose. Wiping a single tear from the corner of his eye he sputtered, “I’ll come back for you, I swear it.”
Forcing himself to a standing position, Pleebo sprinted toward the tree line. Ochan arrows whizzed past his head, ricocheting off the frozen soil and bouncing back up like springs. Never once did he glance behind him. Walcott wouldn’t have wanted that. Soon the pain in his legs drifted away. He was running for his friend now. Pain was no longer an option. After entering the trees, Pleebo continued running until the Ochan guards had broken chase and he could run no more, until the night had strangled the life from the day and the darkness enveloped him completely. Running and hiding was what the Fillagrou did best. In this instance, Pleebo proved to be no exception.
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CHAPTER 53
OF BEST LAID PLANS
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From Roustaf’s perspective, it happened so fast, too fast for him to begin forming an appropriate response. One minute he was about to dive headfirst into the black abyss of the Ochan doorway leading to the Red Forest, and the next he was watching as his friends were ambushed by a regiment of Ochan soldiers just outside the king’s fortress. As he watched Tahnja get knocked violently from the back of her coal black Pegasus, the initial shock of the situation evaporated and was replaced by rage. The wings of the tiny man responded before his brain even gave them an order. Pulling his tiny hands into only slightly less tiny fists, Roustaf’s body blasted forward at a blistering speed. Forming a loose circle around his friends, the Ochan soldiers had managed to erase any possible means of escape. With this entire situation taking place just outside the castle, the group would no doubt be surrounded by hundreds of additional soldiers in a matter of minutes. The plan to rescue Walcott and Pleebo had gone to complete and absolute hell. Nearly halfway to his fallen Tahnja, icy wind cracking painfully against his frozen face, Roustaf cursed her for coming through the doorway at this hour of the day. He then cursed himself for not getting back to her sooner. She should have listened to him! Why didn’t she listen to him?
Roustaf suddenly knew he should have listened to Zanell. He should have never gone on this wild goose chase in the first place, and he definitely shouldn’t have included Tahnja. Had he thought with his head instead of his heart, all of this could have been avoided.
Tossed from her perch atop the muscular back of the Pegasus by a rather stiff blow to the center of her back, Tahnja landed hard on the frozen Ochan soil. Before she could even retrieve a dagger from her waist, she was kicked stiffly in the stomach. The blow made her eyes bulge and knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath as it scurried away. On either side of her, the remainder of the group now found themselves in equally precarious positions. Leaping from his Pegasus, Brutus pulled a pair of axes from his back, each nearly the length of his body. A pair of Ochan soldiers was rapidly closing on his position, sharp, dangerous smiles spread across their enraged faces. With weapons at the ready, the Tycarians ushered young Donald Rondage into a small space between them in order to protect the boy. Each was fully prepared to die to save him. Two more of Tahnja’s group, both friends of hers for many months, had already been struck down. Their bodies now lay prone in the partially frozen soil, blood pouring copiously from their wounds. Again the foot of the massive bodied Ochan guard hovering over Tahnja collided with her torso, sending a blood-curdling twinge of pain across her upper body. Something in her chest was broken, fractured, or possibly both. Trying to ignore the pain, she cursed herself for making the decision to leave their hiding place and come through the doorway. It was dumb, stupid and childish. It was the decision of a love struck fool rather than a soldier. She let her fear for Roustaf’s safety cloud her common sense. Those she vowed to protect were now paying for her mistake.
Sandwiched between a set of incredibly thick turtle shells, Donald tried his best to regain some control over his emotions. After everything he’d been through, everything he’d seen, everything he’d done and had done to him, he imagined situations such as this would have become easier to deal with. This, however, was proving not to be the case. In truth, facing the possibility of death is easy for no one, least of all a fourteen-year-old boy. Realizing his hands were shaking, Donald squeezed them into fists in a vain attempt to halt the wild jitters.
“No matter what happens, see to it that you remain between us, lad!” One of the Tycarians snarled from above while swinging his weapon in the direction of an advancing enemy.
A group of four Ochan soldiers had surrounded the trio and the Tycarians were using all of their nearly seven foot frames to keep the hungry predators at bay. The heavy blades of the combatants clashed violently, the sound of steel on steel ringing in Donald’s ears. Somewhere behind the boy, a terrified Pegasus broke through the Ochan defense, kicking its legs wildly, then instinctively bolting in the direction of the doorway to Fillagrou. Moments before reaching the enormous black pit, an arrow sliced through its neck. Howling wildly, the creature stumbled face first to the soil. Legs still twitching as it gasped for air, Donald watched the beautiful black creature as it swallowed its last chilly breath. With a final defiant and ultimately useless heave, it died. Dropping to his knees between the walls of Tycarian muscle on either side, Donald could no longer control the shaking of his hands, nor did he desire to. A feeling he’d felt before had begun spreading across his body, feeding off the jumbled mess of emotions making up the vast majority of his headspace and growing stronger as it devoured his fear, resentment and rage. Though his shaking had yet to stop, Donald Rondage suddenly felt stronger, and more alive than he had in quite some time. He felt different, bigger than himself, more than himself. Behind him, one of his Tycarian protectors hit the ground with a heavy thud as the dangerous blade of an Ochan sliced open its lower leg, making it impossible for the heavy-bodied turtle to remain upright. With half of Donald’s protective walls collapsed, he had become easy prey for the energized Ochans nearby—or so they believed.
Squeezing his fists tighter still, Donald’s jitters at last came to a screeching halt. For the briefest of moments, the world around him went silent and hollow. The sound of battle stretched, twisting and dragging into blurry disjointed echoes. Every muscle in his pudgy bod
y was on fire, tingling with something similar to electricity, only more. Above him an Ochan coiled his broadsword back, intent on lopping the boy’s head from his shoulders. Lifting his fists into the air, Donald smiled. He knew this feeling well. He’d felt this before.
Roustaf was less than ten feet from Tahnja and her attacker when he spotted the expression on Donald’s face. He too had seen this before. The moment the boy lifted his hands into the air, Roustaf pulled his wings straight and his body vertical. Still airborne, his body slid to an immediate hovering stop.
Covering his face, he turned his back to Donald Rondage and muttered to himself, “Awww crap.”
In one quick movement Donald dropped his fists, slamming them into the ground with every ounce of the incredible strength suddenly electrifying his body. The frozen Ochan soil proved no match for the blow. The boy’s fists shattered the jagged clumpy soil to bits, tearing it to shreds and sending debris sailing in every direction. Cracks as wide as twelve inches extended from the center of his arms, which were now buried at least that many inches into the ground. The smashing of fist to dirt caused the ground to rumble so violently that the attacking Ochans lost their balance and stumbled forward. A mound of fine dust and rocky pebbles rose up in a mushroom-shaped cloud from the area surrounding Donald. Quickly, it spread outward and over the still rumbling ground, engulfing everyone in the immediate area, snaking its way into their lungs and sending many of them into uncontrollable coughing fits. The warrior instinct of the Ochan soldiers instantly clicked on. Though they could hardly believe what they’d witnessed, the well-trained creatures chose to ignore the child’s ungodly feat of strength for the moment and simply retaliate. In a matter of seconds, the entire regiment was on their feet with weapons in hand, carefully making their way in Donald’s direction through the smoky debris cloud. Though Donald couldn’t see them through the brownish haze, he could hear their coughing hacks as they approached. His breathing was ragged and excited, his heart pumping double time, mounds of dirt sticking to the sweat on his grimy face. Fervent, terrified and entirely energized, he angrily spit a clump of sand from his mouth. Despite the horror of the situation and despite the fact that he was surrounded by lizard men with muscles on top of muscles carrying weapons that could easily slice him as fine as sushi, only one thing popped into Donald’s head: it was good to be back.
