by Steven Novak
The volume of his voice dropping drastically, Fellow scanned the eyes of the inexperienced somberly. “You should be aware that in all likelihood, many of us will not return. We have all lost someone we love over the course of this war, myself included. I can’t honestly say if these children are really the culmination of the Fillagrou prophecy. I’m not sure anyone can. I’m not even sure if I believe in prophecies. What I can say without a moment’s hesitation is that I’m sick of watching innocents die. I’ve buried too many bodies. I can’t to do it anymore. I refuse to add these kids to the list. Maybe it means something to you, but whether or not these kids can change the course of the war doesn’t really make a difference to me. Without them, none of us would be standing here today. None of us would be breathing the air we breathe or eating the food we eat. Prophets or not, if these children need our help, we owe it to them to try. They’ve given us too much not to.”
The instant Fellow stopped speaking, a cheer rose from the crowd. Though the Chintaran’s speech was inspiring to say the least, none among the rescue party needed it. Every one of them understood quite well exactly what the children had given them, and was as anxious to give something back, no matter the danger.
While failure did indeed seem a likely outcome, failure would not come lightly.
As the stone doorway to the passage slid open, the large group began to filter in. Anxiously chatting amongst themselves, the rescuers had prepared themselves for every possible outcome as well as they could, even those difficult to face. Not a single one among the group dwelled on the idea of failure, however. Dedication and hope remained the emotions of the day. If the children were alive, they would be found. When found, they would be rescued.
As the group continued piling single-file into the dank, claustrophobic tunnel, Fellow and Chris spotted Owen Little standing alone in the slowly emptying street.
His hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, the boy sighed deeply, his eyelids heavy behind his thick-rimmed glasses. Once again Owen was finding himself entirely unsure of why he was doing exactly what he seemed to be doing. He’d always prided himself on logic. His recent inability to follow through on the suggestions of logic, however, was frustrating and confusing with a heaping spoonful of frosty annoyance on top. It had become painfully obvious that he shouldn’t have led Mr. Jarvis to the tree fort. Most definitely, he shouldn’t have followed the man into the stream shortly afterward. Now he found himself staring at Tommy’s father once again as he stood alongside a six-foot tall fish man in leather pants, about to inform the both of them that he would be joining the group in the search.
If his father were there, he would have grounded Owen so many times that the boy wouldn’t have left the house until his sophomore year in college.
“Owen?” Fellow asked quizzically, staring in the direction of the diminutive, floppy auburn-haired boy. “Go to Zanell’s, Owen; you should be safe there until we get back.”
Lifting the glasses from his head, Owen rubbed his eyes and shook his head back and forth, not believing the reality of the words about to spring from his mouth. “I’m going with you.”
“Oh no, you’re not.” Fellow answered quickly, leaping from his rock and stepping toward the boy.
“Yes, I am. Believe me, I don’t want to, seriously. I don’t at all. It’s the last thing I want to do actually. I have to go, though. Don’t ask me why, because I’ve got no idea. I think I’m supposed to go with you, though. I know I’m supposed to go with you.”
Now just a few feet from the boy, Fellow gently placed the webbed fingers of his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “No, you’re not. I’m sorry, kiddo. There’s no way I’m going to be the guy that puts the life of another kid on the line. There’s been enough of that going around lately. I don’t care what kind of powers everyone seems to think you have, I can’t do it and I’m not going to do it, end of story. Go back to Zanell’s. If everything goes well, we’ll only be gone a few days.”
Staring down at the dirt while still shaking his head, Owen placed his hand on top of Fellow’s, the fish man’s scales like sandpaper against his palm. “Look, I have a feeling you’re going to need my help. I can get you through the forest without anyone noticing you.”
Though impressed with his eagerness to help the other children, Fellow chuckled at the childlike innocence in Owen’s statement. “Listen, kiddo. I’m sorry, but it’s just not going to happen, so stop trying to make it happen. I don’t know what we’re going to come up against out there. No matter what, I have to imagine it’s going to get ugly. You won’t be safe, and if something does go wrong, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to help you. The best thing you can do to help is stay here and stay alive.”
Looking up from the dirt, Owen gazed into the enormous blue-gray eyes of Fellow Undergotten. In his heart the boy understood that he shouldn’t be there. He wasn’t a hero. The idea of him actually “rescuing” someone was ludicrous, the kind of thing that would send anyone he’d ever met into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. At the same time, though, something buried deep inside—something he was incapable of ignoring—was telling him that more than any of the creatures that had agreed to go along, he was the one that needed to be there. Still resting on top of Fellow’s scaly hand, Owen’s fingers began to tingle. The sensation arrived quickly, carrying with it a sense of familiarity. In a matter of moments, it had spread across the entirety of his body. Quite strangely, like electricity jumping from one conduit to the next, Fellow Undergotten’s hand began tingling as well. Less than ten feet away, eyes wide and jaw hanging low, Chris Jarvis watched as the pair disappeared into thin air.
Looking down at the empty space where Owen stood only moments prior, Fellow realized that not only has Owen vanished, but his own hand, arm and body were gone as well.
From the empty space in front of him came Owen’s familiar voice. “See? I told you I could help.”
*
*
CHAPTER 58
FATES REVEALED
*
Surrender proved a simple, painfully obvious choice for Roustaf. In fact, there really was no other. Surrounded by a castle full of Ochan soldiers, the plan to rescue Walcott and Pleebo was no longer an option. Donald Rondage could throw as many boulders in as many directions as he wanted, or create earthquakes by slamming his fists into the ground until he opened up a crater to the center of Ocha, and none of it would make a difference. The boy was strong; he wasn’t invincible. If even one of the hundreds upon hundreds of arrows pointed directly at the child’s chest hit their mark, like everything else in the universe, he too would die. Surrender extended the length of their lives, and extending the length of their lives brought with it a chance for further survival. Tahnja, Donald and the rest of the group still alive were quickly shackled as a small army of Ochans kept their weapons pointed at Donald the entire time. Roustaf was tossed into a tiny metal cage normally used to capture HonduBirds, a sight that garnered snickers from many of the Ochan soldiers.
Once within the walls of Kragamel’s massive castle, the group of would-be rescuers was taken below the castle and into the dungeon, where they were tossed behind the thick bars of their very own cells. Kragamel’s dungeon was quite different from that of his recently deceased son Valkea. For instance, buried just beneath the Frosty Ochan tundra, the air here was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that paralyzed the muscles, a cold so awful it made the flesh burn. Lowering herself to the floor, Tahnja curled into a corner and breathed into knees pulled close to her chest. The dungeon was silent and dark. Swallowed by the shadows came the sound of dripping water in the distance, and behind it the low moan of prisoners aching for the sweet release that only death could bring. Across from her, partially obscured by a frighteningly endless shadow, puffs of steam rising from her mouth with every breath, Tahnja noticed icicles glittering off the steel bars. Cutting through the agonizing hums of the dying from the next cell over, Tahnja could clearly hear Brutus’ enormous sharp teeth chatter. Despit
e his layers of thick fur, he too was feeling the chill. Across from her, just beyond the bars, Roustaf’s tiny box dangled from a hook on the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly in a cold breeze emanating from an unknown source.
In the cell opposite her, obscured by the black abyss, she recognized the muffled sobs of Donald Rondage. Intent on ensuring that no one heard him, Donald cried into the fabric of his filthy shirt, icy tears freezing the instant they seeped from his eyes. Peering above the pink flesh of her bony knees, Tahnja stared at Roustaf with sad, apologetic eyes. This was all her fault. She should have stayed put like he told her. She should have listened to him. If she had, they’d be back in the Fillagrou forest right now, planning their next move. If she had listened, no one would be dead.
From his tiny cage, Roustaf glanced briefly in her direction and shook his head. He knew he would forgive her eventually. Though they had only known each other a short time, he realized some time ago that staying angry with Tahnja for any significant amount of time would be entirely impossible. What she had done was stupid, but she was only trying to help. A lifetime of thick-headedness, however, made forgiving her just yet equally impossible. He needed to be mad a little longer, and he needed for her to know that he was mad.
In the cell to Roustaf’s right, Donald Rondage snorted into his shirt, fighting back shameful tears with every ounce of strength. “It’ll be okay, slick. There was nothing you could’ve done,” Roustaf whispered in the boy’s general direction, doing his best to assure the child that he did nothing wrong. “We’ll get out of here, kid, we aren’t done just yet. You can count on that.”
The gesture did little to stymie Donald’s emotions. A deep, uncontrollable fear had settled into the back of his mind. Like the stifling cold of the dungeon, it left him paralyzed, unable to halt the chattering of his teeth or the leaking of his eyes. Thankfully, the shadows kept him hidden; thankfully, no one could see his personal disgrace.
A bright light emerged from the darkness behind Roustaf, accompanied by the squeak of a heavy steel door. Turning in its direction, the little man spotted the silhouette of a figure so massive in stature it barely fit in the oversized doorway. As the enormous shape moved closer, it got somehow larger, blurry dark details growing crisp and sharp. Squinting with his head wedged through the tiny bars of his dangling cage, Roustaf realized that the shape in question was actually the tyrant king himself, Kragamel. Ducking his head, the enormous, white-bearded Ochan stepped under Roustaf and came to a stop in front of Donald’s cell. Having never seen the king face-to-face, Roustaf marveled at the size of the creature from above, realizing most of the stories he’d heard were in fact true. Monstrous in stature, every ounce of Kragamel’s body was layered in thick, beefy, well-aged muscle. His skin was darker than most Ochans, closer to a smoky gray than green. The gold-encrusted armor adorning his body was intricately detailed, polished free of anything even faintly resembling an imperfection. Beneath his chest plate, the king’s heart beat so loudly it echoed throughout the dungeon, bouncing off the walls and back again. A pair of soldiers stepped to either side of Kragamel. Pulling back on their bows, they trained their weapons at the sobbing child hidden behind the bars. His black eyes unblinking, Kragamel directed his stare in Donald’s direction.
When at last he spoke, his tone was as cold as the surrounding air, calculated and devoid of the slightest bit of emotion. “I find you to be an intriguing anomaly, child.”
Unable to answer or even look up, Donald Rondage pulled the shirt tighter against the soaking flesh of his face.
“Leave the kid alone, you bastard!” Roustaf screamed with his hands wrapped tightly around the bars of his swaying prison.
Turning his head, Kragamel glanced in the direction of the tiny man. His face remained expressionless, his voice a steady unchanging growl. “Do you sincerely believe your threats are of the slightest concern to me, mongrel? Have you already forgotten how easily your kind was slaughtered? I can count the Ochan warriors lost in the invasion of your world on one hand.” Reaching up, the king wrapped the fingers of his massive gloved hand around Roustaf’s cage, encasing the little man in a tomb of darkness. “A single squeeze and you are gone. One squeeze, and you’re transformed into nothing more than a smear for the servants to clean from my glove. One squeeze, and I successfully put the period on the sentence that is the obliteration of your race. Your threats are as hollow as the bones of a Scarbeak; they, like you, mean nothing to me.”
“Leave him alone.” The voice came from the shadows. Falsely heroic in tone, it belonged to Donald Rondage.
Releasing Roustaf’s cage from his grasp, the king turned his attention to the child’s cell once more. The archers on either side pulled tighter on their bows, aiming their weapons at the puffy-faced boy slowly emerging from the darkness with his hands pulled into shaky unreliable fists. Wiping the final remnants of the tears on his face with his forearm, Donald approached the bars. His heart was pounding, his lip quivering. Looking up at the massive Ochan with the gray beard as long as he was tall, Donald was frightened beyond words. Mashing his tongue between his teeth, he tried his best to quell his growing fear and to give the impression of confidence where there was none to speak of.
“Welcome, child,” Kragamel grumbled through tight lips. “I have been anxious to meet you for so very long now. We have much to discuss. I believe you knew my son, yes?”
His body shaking, Donald’s throat squeezed shut and left him unable to respond. His legs had gone stiff and straight, worthless. Realizing his hands were shaking uncontrollably, he dug them deep into the denim of his jean pockets. His face was smeared and filthy, glistening with a layer of salty, partially frozen tears.
Staring down at the child, the tyrant king smiled wide with a mouth full of yellow teeth built over generations of evolution specifically for ripping and tearing. “As I was saying: you have within your pathetic body something that interests me greatly, something I would like very much to have for myself. One way or another, I shall have it. My only hope is that you prove less hardheaded than the Tycarian king. He has left me with little time, and sparse remainders of patience.”
Upon the mention of Walcott, Roustaf slammed the whole of his body violently against his little cage, causing it to whip back and forth. “Where is he? What did you do with him?”
Turning in the little man’s direction once more, Kragamel smiled wide. “Fret not. You shall see him soon, little one. I have taken the liberty of arranging a demonstration for the boy. My aim, of course, is to prove to the child the seriousness of his situation.”
Looking away from Roustaf, the king stepped closer to the cage holding Donald once again. As he moved, so did the archers at his side, their eyes glued to the boy’s every gesture. Reaching up, the king wrapped his fingers around the cold steel, leaning in the direction of the frightened child. Despite every part of him wanting to maintain his position and show his confidence, Donald could not help but take a step back.
“During his interrogations, the Tycarian spoke of you and your cohorts often. Despite our best attempts, the fool proved a difficult puzzle to solve. No matter the pain he suffered, and I assure you, he suffered quite a lot, he continually refused to reveal the location of the doorway to your world. In the end I retrieved the information from his Fillagrou friend, of course. Still, I must admit, the Tycarian’s willpower impressed me. They are strong creatures; otherwise worthless, yes, but strong, much stronger than you could ever hope to be. It is this point I want to stress to you, boy. It is this I want you to keep in the forefront of your mind as you watch him die.”
*
*
CHAPTER 59
IMPOSSIBLE ODDS
*
Previously blue, the sea had turned a frightening wooden black. Where once there was ocean, there now was only an endless blanket of Ochan warships. Packed tightly together in every conceivable direction, numbering well into the hundreds, and possibly even thousands, the awful mass converged on the
Briar Patch like a swarm of vultures on slowly dying prey. The lone defender in a sea of enemies, Captain Fluuffytail’s warped, barnacle-encrusted collection of scavenged items and hastily made repairs had no real chance of survival. The situation was hopeless and the odds, quite honestly, impossible. Ignoring the inevitability of the situation, the grizzled ship’s captain climbed atop a set of dusty crates, retrieved the blade hanging from his belt, and lifted it defiantly into the air.
Through his puffy gray cheeks and slightly off-color buckteeth, Fluuffytail screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get to yer battle stations, ya useless lumps of dragon plop! Today’s as good as any to die, and I don’t plan on goin’ out without puttin’ up a fight that’ll make em remember our names!”
It was not simply by luck alone that the Briar Patch and its crew were among the few ships to have avoided destruction at the hands of the Ochans, though luck had assuredly played a role. Jacques Fluuffytail was born on the water; it was all he knew, and it was his home. His crew was also his family, and despite his often-gruff tone when dealing with them, they were by far the most important things in his life. He refused to simply roll over and let the Ochans take them from him. More times than he was capable of counting—mostly on account of nonexistent schooling and an inability to count—his crew had spat in the face of the odds and prevailed. This time would be no different. If there were indeed a way to escape this situation with their lives, those calling the Briar Patch home would discover it.
Huddled close to Nestor, Tommy, Staci and Nicky began moving toward the rear of the ship, doing their best to stay out of the way of the determined crew. The deck was buzzing with nervous, angry energy. Ropes were being pulled, sails raised, and weapons readied. Sailing in from every direction, the wall of black ships continued to steadily advance. Simply outrunning their aggressors was no longer an option as the Briar Patch and its crew had been thoroughly surrounded. Escape, like victory, was impossible. The only choice remaining was to fight, and this choice didn’t seem very promising. Emerging from the patches of excited movement near the rear of the ship with a bladed weapon in each hand, Krystoph approached the children and Nestor. The Ochan’s face was a mask of steely seriousness. Fear had ceased to exist for some time as far as Krystoph was concerned. Twisting underneath and into itself, it had long since transformed into something abstract, more idea than reality, an emotion better observed than experienced. Before him now lay the promise of battle. This was where he excelled; this was where he’d spent the majority of his life. This was home.
