Forts: Liars and Thieves

by Steven Novak

  Staring into Nestor’s green eyes, he stated with obvious sarcasm, “Suggest you take your precious cargo below.”

  For the first time since their meeting, Nestor found himself in complete agreement with the Ochan murderer. Quickly wrapping his outstretched arms around the group of children, Nestor began nudging them toward the doorway leading to the lower deck. They would be safer below, at least for the time being. Considering the size of the Ochan fleet sounding them, however, Nestor believed the word “safe” had no real place here.

  Standing beside the muscular leg of the turtle man, Nicky Jarvis pointed to the ships in the distance and stuttered breathlessly, “Um, oh my God.”

  Turning, Nestor saw exactly what had the boy so spooked. All at once, a mountain of arrows from the surrounding ships took to the air, so many that they blocked out the light of the sun and blanketed the Briar Patch in the shadow of darkness.

  From the opposite end of the ship Fluuffytail bellowed, “Incoming!”

  Immediately the crew dropped what they were doing and scurried for cover. Some took refuge under nearby crates, while others lifted shards of wood and hastily constructed shields in the air for protection. A few ripped away patches of the recently repaired deck and dove headfirst into the lower levels. Flipping over a partially constructed escape raft, Krystoph hid what he could of his overly muscled body underneath. Pulling the children close together, Nestor leaned over the top of the group, using his already battered shell as an umbrella once more. For a moment, as the wall of arrows approach the ship, everything went quiet. Only the awful hum of thousands of steel tipped weapons cutting across the sky and the crash of the waves on the side of the ship could be heard. In a hurricane-like flurry, the arrows struck all at once, contacting with nearly every area of the ship and its crew instantaneously, slicing through wood and flesh alike with bitter-stunning ease. While the cover of some provided ample protection against the Ochan’s initial onslaught, others among the crew did not fare so well. Pained screams rose up from every corner of the ship’s deck as arrows sliced through muscle and bone, leaving many seriously injured and a few others dead. The ship’s already tattered sail was chopped to pieces and reduced to a dilapidated, useless piece of fabric. Cut loose from its cable, the frayed material floated worthlessly to the deck, covering those below. Lifting himself off the children, Nestor stumbled awkwardly to the deck, his face a grimace of absolute pain. A number of arrows now jutted from ugly, bloody wounds on his shoulders and arms, a few more from the back of his legs. Causing him the biggest problem, however, was the arrow protruding from the side of his neck. Leaning against the side of the ship, he reached up and pulled the stick of wood free. A stream of thick blood squirted from the open wound, and he quickly applied pressure with his paw.

  With the sobbing heads of Nicky and Staci buried against his chest, Tommy opened his eyes. Around him, the ship had been tossed into a state of disarray. The deck was littered with stiffly standing arrows, the tips of which had sunk deep into the aged, water-soaked wood. Moaning in agony, arrows sticking grotesquely from various parts of their bodies, random crewmembers scratched their way across the deck, leaving trails of blood in every color of the rainbow sprayed behind. Pulling away from his older brother’s body with his face drenched in tears, Nicky ran to Nestor’s side.

  Through a mouth filled with blood, Nestor shoved the boy in the direction of the doorway to the lower deck and gurgled, “Get below. Go now.”

  Sobbing uncontrollably, the tiny boy wrapped his arms around the underside of Nestor’s shell as best he could, shaking his head and refusing to leave.

  Warm blood seeping between his fat fingers, the Tycarian pried Nicky loose, angrily shoving him in the direction of his older sibling. “Take your brother, lad! Get below before it is too late!”

  Grabbing Nicky by the wrist, Tommy forcefully tugged his little brother in the opposite direction with Staci still clinging to the fabric of his shirt, both awash in a torrent of tears. Hearing the suddenly familiar, utterly terrifying hum of incoming arrows, Tommy glanced toward the sky. Like a great, hungry black beast, again the wall of pointed weapons blocked out the light of the Aquari sun and replaced it with something entirely different. This time the arrows tips were on fire, leaving trails of crackling orange and red behind like fireworks as they tore across the sky. Looking in the direction of the doorway to the lower decks, Tommy realized it was still too far away; they would never make it.

  A few feet behind the children, Nestor tried rising to his feet, using the edge of the ship as a brace. Having lost far too much blood, he awkwardly stumbled to the slippery deck below, squealing in pain as the fall drove an arrow further into the back of his leg. Similar situations were playing themselves out across the whole of the ship. The crew was injured, disoriented and unorganized, in no way prepared for a second volley. Peering through a hole in the underside of the boat he was using for cover, Krystoph growled angrily at the inferno of fiery arrows filling the sky. When he was the leader of the armies of Ocha, he secretly despised this type of warfare, finding it entirely too impersonal for his tastes. War should be waged in close, close enough to stare into the eyes of the enemy and watch as death wrapped its bony fingers around their necks and choked the remaining bits of life from their bodies.

  As the pained moans of the dead and dying stabbed their way into Tommy Jarvis’ ears, the swarm of flaming arrows continued to sail forward, now only moments from scorching what remained of the already battered Briar Patch. Less than thirty feet from the doorway to the lower decks, Tommy came to a sudden, surprising stop. His fingers had begun to tingle. His head felt fuzzy and warm, smothered by a blanket of static. Prying Staci from his chest, he shoved her to the deck beside his younger brother. The situation was beyond words, overwhelming, the pressure incredible. Unsure of exactly what he planned to do, Tommy understood he needed to do something. If he didn’t, Nicky would die, Staci would die, he would die—everyone would die. Clamping his teeth together so hard it hurt, he raised his hands above his head and pressed the otherworldly pressure building up in his fingertips toward the sky. A beam of miraculous, crackling energy shot from his hands, quickly climbing higher than the ship’s highest point. Once there, it spread out like a translucent umbrella, and back down into the ocean with a splash, encasing the Briar Patch in a protective bubble. The instant the fiery arrows came into contact with the crackling energy, they were reduced to cinders. What remained caught the breeze and floated away, tiny particles of charred black wafting upward into the dark clouds. Immediately, the surrounding Ochan ships fired a third volley. With Tommy maintaining his protective bubble, these new arrows suffered the same fate.

  Violently tossing the shell of the escape boat from his head, Krystoph stared at the amazing sight above with terrified wonder. Less than ten feet away, the bizarre glow continued to pour from Tommy’s fingertips. The astonishing light above hummed softly as if somehow alive, its shape melted and thick like hot wax, a perfect half-sphere. Gripping the weapons in his hands tighter, Krystoph stared at the boy carefully, taking special note of the angry grimace on his young face.

  “Staci, get up!” Tommy yelled as he looked down at the teary-eyed girl crouched at his feet.

  Hesitantly, Staci glanced in his direction. Her hair was a disheveled, matted mess, her eyes puffy-red, glassy with tears. Above her, with his arms stretched high over his head as glowing light pouring from his fingers, Tommy stared at her sternly. Slowly the boy’s blue eyes were devoured by the incredible energy emanating from within, shooting tiny streams of power like beams from a flashlight in her direction.

  As he spoke, his mouth too was awash in the incredible glow. “You have to help them, Stace.”

  Shaking uncontrollably, Staci spotted Nestor through the crook of Tommy’s legs. The Tycarian was bleeding to death near the railing of the ship, struggling to breathe as blood continued to spurt from the gaping hole in his neck. All around her much of the crew shared his grizzly fate.
They were dying, all of them—dying. It was at this point Staci realized exactly what Tommy was asking of her.

  “You have to help them,” The boy stated seriously from above.

  “What? I–I can’t. I mean, I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you do! You have to help them! I’ve seen you do it, and you have to do it now!”

  High above, a fourth volley of Ochan arrows slammed against Tommy’s protective bubble, each arrow turned instantly to dust as if fried by a jolt of electricity. The bizarre situation had become too much for Staci to bear. Her mind was drowning in a sea of ideas and emotions, ranging from the startling to the utterly horrifying, and her body had responded the only way it knew how, by freezing. She wanted to help, she knew she needed to help, but she couldn’t bring herself to help. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t have known how. The task was too daunting.

  Burying her head in her hands, Staci returned to sobbing wildly, shaking her head back and forth as she screamed, “I can’t, Tommy! I can’t! I can’t do it! I don’t know how!”

  Lowering one of the hands over his head in Staci’s direction, Tommy opened his palm. “Yes, you can, Stace.” The bubble encasing the ship wobbled momentarily like the surface of water broken by a falling stone. Remaining intact, the energy continued to pour from the boy’s remaining fingers.

  The tear-soaked wetness covering Staci’s face glimmered with a trillion tiny reflections brought on by Tommy’s light show. Hesitantly reaching up, she placed her hand in his. With the boy’s help, she crawled to her feet. Upright on spaghetti legs, Staci stared lovingly into the incredible glow of her friend’s eyes. They looked understanding and safe, calming in a way she’d never known.

  Drastically, Tommy’s voice softened, suddenly filled with longing, pleading and understanding. “Please, Stace, you have to help them. I know you can do it.”

  Staring into the glowing eyes of Tommy Jarvis and feeling the crackling warmth of his hand in hers, Staci’s heart began to expand and change, growing larger and fuller than she believed possible. The sensation was beyond explanation, indescribable in fact. Passing through the microscopic pores of her skin, the energy created by her heart cascaded across her exterior. Within moments, it had engulfed her in pure, undiluted crystalline light. Moving to her toes, it spread in every direction at once across the deck of the ship, enveloping everything in its path. Every injured crewmember touched by the living heart-light was instantly healed. The energy repaired and closed their wounds, turning the arrows protruding from their bodies to dust. Those already taken by the hand of death were miraculously given life. Everything done was undone, the impossible, made possible. Through the ball of energy encasing her body, Staci gripped Tommy’s hand tighter, smiling in his direction as the power continued to erupt from beneath her skin.

  Through the haze of humming white, Tommy smiled back.

  When every member of the crew had been healed, the light retreated back across the deck of the ship, seeping into Staci’s body and disappearing from existence once more. With some reluctance, Tommy allowed her hand to slide from his. It took less than a second for him to miss her touch. Looking in the direction of his wide-eyed little brother now sitting on his knees at his feet, Tommy’s expression turned serious once more.

  With a sly, slightly undiscerning grin, the eldest Jarvis boy stated in a very matter of fact tone, “If we want to get out of here alive, I’m going to need your help, bro.”

  While looking at his brother, Nicky’s throat began to warm. Something foreign and itchy was building, something uncanny, fantastic, and beyond-words-powerful beginning to boil and rise to a violent crescendo within.

  Closer than ever, the first fleet of Ochan ships was now mere moments away from crashing headlong into the protective bubble surrounding the once helpless Briar Patch. On the decks of the dark-wooded war vessels, Ochan soldiers readied a full arsenal of weapons, including cannons so large they required five of the massive creatures to properly fire. As if aware of what was to come next, the tide cracked violently, turning dark, foamy and angry.

  Real or imagined, the afterlife prepared itself for a plethora of new tenants.

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 60

  THE RAIN SHALL TELL HIS TALE

  *

  Despite its lack of teeth or arsenal of bladed weapons, even the air in Ocha could be a painful, dangerous enemy. Stiff and sharp, the bitter cold nibbled at the flesh of those unaccustomed to its harshness like a million hungry mouths feeding simultaneously. Led from the dungeon below into the massive courtyard of King Kragamel’s castle, Donald Rondage gazed wearily into the gray, cloud-covered sky. A substance resembling snow in form, function, and texture, though as black as the darkest of dark coals, began to flutter gently from above. Landing in Donald’s hair, the odd substance leaked down the front of his face, staining his skin black like mascara running from his mother’s eyes on the nights when she cried alone in the kitchen. Lead by a massive chain attached to a steel collar around his neck, Donald turned away from the clouds and the awful black snow. Shamed, he lowered his head, watching as his feet shuffled across the small piles of charcoal snow and frozen dirt. Spaced evenly around him, six archers pointed the tips of their arrows in the direction of his heart, head and other vital organs likely to produce instant death. An attempt to escape, or even the slightest movement in any direction, and they would cut him down. Incredible strength was of no use here. He was helpless and he was worthless. His fate was in their hands. Dangling from a belt loop on his pants hung the cage containing the shivering form of little Roustaf. As the pair was led across the icy soil, large groups of Ochans began to form on either side, many among them women and children. Every single one of the creatures sported an angry, disgusted scowl across their face. They hated the boy because he was different. They hated the boy because they were told to. A rock tossed by an Ochan child barely older than Donald hit him in the center of his back. Stumbling forward, Donald managed to remain upright due mostly to the massive Ochan guard pulling him forward like a dog on a chain.

  “You little putz!” Roustaf screamed at the Ochan child while beating his fists against the bars encasing him, “If I wasn’t in this cage, I’d come over there and tan your hide, you little brat!”

  The courtyard was absurdly large, and the journey across took nearly ten minutes. Eventually the soldier pulling the pair forward came to a stop at the base of a rather rudimentary looking stone altar. Unlike many of the finely detailed artifacts within the castle walls, the altar was little more than two stone blocks piled on top of one another, the bottom significantly wider than the top, creating a tiered effect. Rusty chains of old, stained steel dangled loosely over the edge on either side. The crowd surrounding the stone altar quickly ballooned, and the entire courtyard was soon filled with green-scaled Ochan citizens. Loaded to the brim with anxiousness and disgust, they stared at Donald and Roustaf angrily while pointing, snarling and shaking their heads. Gatherings such as this were not an uncommon aspect of life within these walls. Intended for those of all ages to enjoy, they were meant to lift the spirits of the community as a whole and to reinforce undying faith in the king. One of the archers behind Donald lifted his foot into the air and kicked the boy in the back, knocking him to his knees. The blow sent a jolt of pain down Donald’s spine, flinging Roustaf against the bars of his cage violently as well and creating a sizeable welt on the side of his red face.

  Many among the crowd chuckled at the boy’s pain; a few applauded. Indeed, the show had officially begun. These theatrics were only the prelims, however; the main event was soon to come.

  Peering through the bars while rubbing the throbbing lump on the side of his head, Roustaf watched as a door along the exterior wall of a medium-sized tower not too far behind the stone altar opened. In unison, every head in the crowd turned in its direction. A pair of burly Ochan soldiers emerged from the darkened doorway, dragging behind them the limp, filthy body of Walcott Shellamenne
s. The appendages of the Tycarian king were bruised beyond recognition, his shell a mass of partially chipped fragments and cracks just barely managing to hold together. As if the muscles in his neck were nonexistent or simply nonfunctional, Walcott’s bulbous head drooped heavily, bouncing back and forth as he was pulled across the dirt, hoisted into the air, and deposited onto the massive gray altar. After carefully securing him to the stone, the guards stepped away, disappearing again into a sea of green flesh. Random pockets of cheers immediately rose from the younger members of the tightly packed crowd. Those having observed this ceremony many times over the course of their lives, however, managed to contain their emotions for the moment. They understood all too well that the show was only just getting under way. The moment to give themselves freely into jubilation would arrive in due time, and patience was virtue. From the very same doorway from which Walcott was dragged, King Kragamel himself stepped into the hazy, mid-day light. Approaching the altar, he stood above the body of the fallen Tycarian king, staring past his rotund shell and into the brown eyes of Donald Rondage kneeling in the dirt not too far away.