Forts Special Edition: Fathers and Sons

by Steven Novak

  Everywhere around Zanell, their forms partially obscured by clouds of dirt and dust, innocents were being slaughtered.

  With deadly precision, without regret or remorse, the Ochan army was doing exactly what they had been trained to do. They were killing everything. The city of Tipoloo had been the single stain on the legacy of their people for years – an embarrassment to the glory of the empire. Now, with the chance to take care of that which had eluded them for so many years, they were assuredly making the most of the opportunity.

  Zanell’s tears were thick with sand and soot. When she wiped them, it smeared across her already dirty face, sticking to her skin in clumps. She looked in the direction of her grandfathers dwelling. It was now totally obscured by the smoky madness that had engulfed the city.

  Softly through her shivering lips she whispered, “I love you” to her grandfather before she ran toward the southern passage as fast as her shaky legs would carry her. Behind her, nearly everything she had ever known and loved - died.

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  CHAPTER 30

  NEW ALLIES

  *

  The trip across the westernmost part of the Nellasor Swamp to the Villadhor Mountains was, for the most part, uneventful. The group stayed low and moved quickly, taking the absolute shortest route possible, making remarkably good time thanks to King Walcott’s knowledge of the area. He led them along a mostly out of the way route. It was because of this that the group had only one encounter with the Ochan military. At the foot of the mountains a regiment of about eight or ten Ochan soldiers had just finished ransacking a small village and were shackling fifteen or twenty Tycarian prisoners to the leg of a massive green lizard. The lizard’s tongue was so long that it could curl around its entire body three times over if stretched to its full length. It took the combined might of the entire group to keep King Walcott from charging into what remained of the village and engage the soldiers in battle.

  It was Pleebo who finally convinced the proud Tycarian King that getting to the Prince’s fortress and fulfilling the prophecy was the wiser choice of action. “If we fulfill the prophecy we can save them all. If we don’t, then all this was for nothing. I hate leaving them but we have to keep moving. There isn’t any other choice.”

  Reluctantly, King Walcott agreed. Watching his people dragged off in shackles and doing absolutely nothing proved to be one of the hardest things he had ever been asked to do. If months ago his cabinet ministers had not insisted that a group of their best surviving soldiers lead him away from Tycaria and to the safety of Tipoloo, he would no doubt still be gallantly fighting for the freedom of his people alongside what remained of the resistance.

  He left only because his people had demanded it – they believed it to be in the best interest of Tycaria to save their King. It was for this reason that he had forced himself to leave, no matter how much every part of his soul might have disagreed.

  Owen Little took note of how remarkably different Tycaria was from Fillagrou. The land was much swampier, cooler; the air felt sticky and moist and smelled sour. The dark, heavy cloud cover seemed to extend for miles upon miles in every direction. This led the boy to believe that a very heavy rain was not only possible, but inevitable. Tycaria and Fillagrou did have one thing in common though – the results of a never-ending war could be seen everywhere. Twice the group had passed the bodies of Tycarian citizens, or at least what remained of them. They were little more than empty, hollowed out shells of all shapes and sizes, piled on top of each other. Some shells seemed to have been split open - only a thick, greenish, half-dried glop remained inside. A few of the piles were stacked so high that they very nearly reached the treetops. Modest dwellings and large buildings had been burned to the ground and now looked like jagged, ashy stones growing awkwardly from the ground. To say that it was a grizzly sight would have been the understatement of the century. The images instantly reminded Owen of the ones he had seen in history books or occasionally on the late night news.

  The very idea of war – or murder on such a massive, pointless level – confused him greatly.

  Owen had prided himself on being able to discover how things worked, on being able to take things apart, dissect them and examine them from an objective point of view. He had firmly believed that he understood things better than others his age might because of this very skill. With war, the boy found this method of discovery impossible. Even deconstructed, sprawled out in pieces and examined objectively, he still could not make any sense of of it.

  By the time the group reached the base of the mountains a downpour had begun. The rain felt so heavy and thick that each time a drop came into contact with one of the boys it caused a fair amount of pain. From Donald’s point of view, the mountains looked massive, extending to the north and south endlessly, with sharp, jagged surfaces and huge snow-topped peaks that disappeared from sight into the cloud-covered sky.

  Tapping King Walcott on the back of his shell, while trying to avoid the painful rain, Donald said sarcastically, “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is supposed to be the quicker way!?”

  King Walcott smiled at the shocked and annoyed look on the boy’s face and smiled even wider after noticing that the others looked exactly the same, “Do not fret for a moment, Mr. Donald. We won’t be going over the mountains. We’ll be going through.” He pointed one of his flat, three fingered paws toward a cave off in the distance. “That cave will take us underneath the mountains and drop us near the doorway back to Fillagrou. We must keep moving though, my friends. It will be night soon and the rain tends to get a wee bit heavy at night.”

  Donald could feel welts forming underneath his clothes. He found it almost impossible to imagine how the raindrops would be more violent and painful than they already were.

  He stared at King Walcott, gap jawed. “Heavier than this?! Are you nuts!?”

  King Walcott laughed under his breath, and lifted his paw to the sky, letting the rain pound away at the surface of his palm. His long, rough tongue snaked out the corner of his mouth, catching some of the falling moisture.

  With his eyes closed and a contented smile on his face he said softly, “I know. Isn’t it beautiful? It feels so wonderful to be home.”

  After about an hour and a half of crawling through the dark, dank, wet caves underneath the Villadhor Mountains, Owen felt tired, as did the rest of them. They had been moving non-stop for some time now and even Tommy – the most determined among them to continue onward – felt the stress of the unwavering pace.

  Pleebo moved to the front of the line, alongside King Walcott. “Maybe we should stop for a while. I don’t think the children can keep up this pace much longer, and for that matter, neither can I.”

  King Walcott glanced briefly at the tired group. Even tiny Roustaf had stopped flying and was lying half-asleep on Pleebo’s shoulder. For the last half hour the pace had slowed significantly.

  The group dragged; continuing on without any rest was not going to do their cause any good. “You may have a point, Mr. Pleebo. The cave opens up not far from here. I believe it would be a safe place to stop and rest our weary joints.”

  A little later the small passageway turned into a much larger cavern. At the center of the enormous clearing was a crystal-clear, blue body of water near the base of a waterfall. Had Tommy not been so tired or worried about his little brother, he would have taken the time to appreciate the remarkable beauty of the place a bit more.

  King Walcott stopped at the water’s edge and turned to face the exhausted group of travelers. “We shall halt here and rest. The cave’s exit is less than a day’s travel and we will need our energy to make the trip.”

  Donald and Owen tumbled to the sand and curled up on their sides. Every part of their bodies ached. The minute they laid down they knew they would have trouble getting up again.

  King Walcott plucked a purplish-brown mushroom from the soil under his feet. “The mushrooms all around you are quite edible.” With a flick of his wr
ist he popped the entire thing into his mouth and swallowed. “Not to mention incredibly delicious. The water behind me is safe to drink as well. Eat, drink and sleep, my friends. We have a long journey still to come.”

  Tommy reluctantly crumbled onto the ground, propping himself against the cavern wall with a deep sigh. From the dirt beside him he snatched a mushroom and timidly put it to his nose, sniffing it. There was no smell. It did not look the least bit appetizing to his eyes, but to his empty stomach it seemed about as tasty as a bowl of ice cream. Shyly he nibbled at the corner of the large, light purple colored top. Surprisingly the odd looking fungus did not taste bad at all, sort of like wet, sugary bread, with a very similar texture.

  With everyone reclined in various states of fatigue across the dirt floor, King Walcott took the opportunity to breathe in the air around him. As a boy he had often traversed these caves. He smelled the familiar air, heard the relaxing sounds of the crystal-clear waterfall behind him and was reminded of happier times. His heart felt warm in a way it had not felt in years. It was going to be difficult leaving Tycaria again, very difficult, but he reminded himself that what he was doing was for the sanctity of places such as this. He remembered his wife and his son and the soldiers who had given their lives helping him escape to Fillagrou He hinged his hopes on these children, not only because some part of him was beginning to believe the wild Fillagrou prophecy, but because there was really no other option.

  The sad truth was that Tycaria had lost the war. There was no way around that and there was no coming back from it. Nothing he could do would ever change that. Even if these children were barely a chance, barely was significantly better than not at all.

  “King Walcott Shellamennes!”

  The deep voice came from the water which caused King Walcott to spin around. Though half asleep, the others jumped to their feet, glancing at the massive puddle in the center of the cavern. Peeking out of the pool of water was the green head of a Tycarian. The creature stared wide-eyed and stern, looking only at King Walcott. As the stone-faced creature moved forward, more of its body appeared from underneath the drink, revealing its knees. Lifting one of its paws into the air, the Tycarian made a subtle hand gesture. Slowly the heads of other Tycarians popped up from underneath the water’s surface. One after another seven heavily armored soldiers stepped out of the pond and onto land. The group approached King Walcott, dropped to one knee and lowered their heads as a sign of respect. The soldier in the front looked young and handsome, as handsome as a man-sized turtle could possibly look, save for a large scar that ran over his right eye and down the side of his face. Scattered across his shell were telltale signs of years of battle. Cuts, scratches and large gaping chips made it obvious that he had experienced war firsthand for quite some time and had survived to tell the story.

  Pulling a long broad sword from a sheath strapped to his back, the young Tycarian soldier set it in the dirt at King Walcott’s feet. “King Walcott Shellamennes, son of former King, Waldorf Shellamennes, current King of the Tycarian people, holder of the sacred cup of Peladrov and keeper of the great Mud Chalice…we pledge our allegiance to you and welcome you home.”

  King Walcott nodded as he gently placed his hand on the top of the young soldier’s head.

  Happily he motioned for the soldiers to come forward, indicating that it was safe. “There’s no need to be frightened, my friends. I’d like to introduce to you to the finest soldiers a King could ever hope to call his own…the glorious Fighting Fifth!”

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  CHAPTER 31

  THE FATE OF THE ELDER

  *

  Moments after Zanell had been tossed through the front door of her grandfather’s dwelling and into the city streets, a large chunk of the ceiling directly above the Elder broke loose, collapsed and dropped a heavy load of dirt on top of him. The immense weight smashed the bed underneath him and broke most of the bones in the lower half of his body. The Elder attempted to dig his way out from underneath the heavy mixture of clay, rocks and sand, but there was simply too much of it and he was far too tired. A cloud of thick brownish-gray dust rose up from the pile of debris that covered him and filled the room. His vision had decreased a fair amount in the past couple years, but even a much younger Fillagrou, with absolutely perfect vision, would have found it nearly impossible to make out anything through the mass of thick smoke. The Elder heard a heavy crash somewhere on the opposite side of the dust cloud outside his dwelling. The crash was followed by the monstrous growl of an enormous beast that sent vibrations across the city’s endless tunnels.

  Everything was happening just as the Elder had seen in his visions. Moment for moment, instance for instance, the situation was playing out exactly as he knew it would. Zanell and the Fluto root, the collapse of the ceiling, the breaking of his bones, the incredible pain shooting across his back, the roar of the great unseen beast. It was perfect in its insanity. He realized he could no longer feel his legs that were buried under at least a ton of dirt, yet strangely, he smiled.

  Were it not for the sight beyond sight and the knowledge it afforded him, he would have been frightened beyond comprehension at the prospect of his demise. It was the realization of his dreams, though, that filled him with a sense of wonderful, warm, indescribable peace. The madness and death outside his dwelling, and his situation inside, crystallized for him the fact that there was truth to the prophecy and reaffirmed his belief in the Fillagrou race, in the Elders that came before him, in Pleebo and Zanell, in everything he had taught the majority of his adult life and most importantly in The Five to save them all.

  In the pain of his ending he found truth, and in truth discovered hope.

  The door to his dwelling was violently kicked open. A heavily armored soldier stepped into the dusty, darkened room. He held a two-sided axe tightly in his hand. The weapon was massive - almost half the size of the soldier’s body, both ends splattered with a rainbow of sticky, half-dried blood in various shades and colors. The mammoth Ochan spotted the weary, half-alive Elder pinned underneath a mountain of soil, lowered his ax and chuckled underneath his breath. Behind him, like a demented circus of pain, the screams of the citizens of Tipoloo bounced back and forth off the city walls.

  For the Elder, the world was gradually becoming blurrier. He found it increasingly difficult to maintain a steady breathing rhythm. His inhales were longer and deeper, while at the same time, his exhales shrank dramatically in length. The numbness in the lower half of his legs inched its way up his body and hovered achingly in his chest.

  The massive soldier moved slowly but deliberately in the Elder’s direction, still laughing at the sad situation of the tired old creature. The kills had been easy for him on this day. The various races living underground in these dank, disgusting tunnels were malnourished, weak, and vastly undertrained. They proved to be the weakest of the weak, the most useless of the useless. Killing these pathetic creatures came easily for the Ochan, yet still very satisfying. As easy as the others had been to dispatch, the ancient Fillagrou in front of him now, half gone to the world and pinned underneath a mound of earth would prove the easiest of all.

  Nearing the Elder, the guard slowly raised the enormous axe above his head.

  He muttered from underneath his dark helmet, “So pathetic…the lot of you…so very pathetic. Though you may not realize it, I’m doing you a great favor by putting an end to your miserable excuse for a life.”

  To the Elder, the soldier was just a dark blur spread out across a dusty, smoky background. His eyes felt light and his lids heavy. Simply keeping them open was difficult. The numbness in his chest silently crept its way up into his neck. White-hot images of his wife and his children flashed in his brain, beautiful explosions like dying supernovas across the pitch-black nothingness of space. Fondly he recalled climbing the trees in the red forest while a youth in order to pick the delicious Caba fruit that grew only near the top. He remembered the exquisitely smooth, relaxing feel of the cool
water in Lake Willacha on his skin when he had gone swimming with his brother during the summer months. He could feel the night he had first kissed his wife, once again amazed at the sublime softness of her skin. Fond remembrances of the birth of his daughter Lanell faded in and out of his reality; how her tiny features had fascinated him! He called to mind the exquisite feeling of transforming into more than himself when he had first experienced the unexplainable wonder of the gift of sight beyond sight. He evoked the image of Zanell’s beautiful red eyes from moments ago when he last gazed upon them. In an instant the Elder could see anything and everything that happened or will happen, and it felt divine. These were the images he would take with him into the next world. They would become his pillow, his blanket and the exquisitely soft bed on which he would rest for all eternity.

  With his dying breath, the Elder gazed wearily at the blurry figure of the soldier and smiled.

  In the instant before the numbness traveling up his body overtook his lips, he whispered only three words, “Watch your head.”

  With his axe still perched high above him, the soldier stared at the dying old creature. A confused expression spread across his helmeted face. Seconds later the roof above him collapsed, burying both he and the Elder underneath a mountain of earth forever.

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  CHAPTER 32

  OFF WITH THEIR HEADS

  *

  It had been hours since little Staci Alexander brought Fellow Undergotten back from the dead. Since that moment, she had spent the majority of her time seated against the cold cell wall, staring blankly at her hands. Directly across from her, the face of Nicky Jarvis shared her same expression, and in the cell opposite them, the look was repeated again on the face of the recently reborn Chintaran. Not one among the three had been able to make an ounce of sense out of what had happened.