by Steven Novak
“Does anyone else hear that?”
The terrified whisper came from just behind Fellow, and immediately drew his attention away from the comatose Christopher Jarvis. The voice belonged to Owen Little. Turning in the direction of the boy, Fellow noticed Owen standing a few feet away with his head tilted questioningly upward. His hands were shoved up to his wrists in the pockets of his jeans. His legs were trembling; crusty tears caked the corners of his eyes. With one hand Owen reached up and wiped a noticeable sheen of sweat from under his glasses and off his reddening cheek. When Fellow stood to move in the child’s direction, two other members of the group slid alongside the still unresponsive, Chris Jarvis.
“What did you say, Owen?” Fellow asked, stepping alongside the boy with the tussled mop of filthy red hair.
Owen swallowed deep, attempting to curtail his wild emotions long enough to formulate something resembling a coherent sentence. Choking on his own ragged breaths, he failed. As he coughed violently into his hand, he felt the webbed fingers of Fellow Undergotten squeeze gently at the flesh of his shoulder.
“You alright, kiddo?”
Images of the Jarvis brothers were flashing so brightly in Owen’s head that he was having trouble thinking straight. Images of the Jarvis brothers dead, of the very real possibility that he could soon join them were too much to handle. He wasn’t cut out for this, and he really had no desire to be. Sure, making himself invisible was a pretty cool little ability. It didn’t make him a hero though. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t tough, or invulnerable, or even the slightest bit heroic. He had no right pretending to be.
Still, as much as he might have wished he didn’t, the fact remained that he did hear something. There was something off in the distance, something hidden by the massive trees and the unending black. Something large. At least he thought he heard something. Maybe he didn’t. He hoped he didn’t.
Oh god, he hoped he didn’t.
Moving in front of the boy, Fellow dropped to one knee. “Hey, it’s going to be alright, kiddo. I promise you. I’m not going to let anything ha—”
It was at this moment that Fellow Undergotten heard it as well. Standing slowly, he turned away from Owen and stared into the forest behind. A few among his group of rescuers were whispering to each other from behind, making it difficult for him to pinpoint exactly what he was hearing and from exactly where it was originating.
“Shhhhhh!” Lifting his hand Fellow motioned for the group to be silent. Startled by the urgency of his tone, they did exactly that.
Yes, Owen was right.
There was indeed something out there, something getting nearer, something far too large for the Red Forest to contain. It sounded massive and it sounded imposing. It sounded like it was moving in their direction. Within moments the group as a whole was hearing it as well. It was obvious now. With every passing second it was getting louder and it was getting closer. Taking two steps backward, Fellow wrapped his arm around Owen’s shivering form and hoisted the boy into the air as if he were a piece of luggage.
His comment to the remainder of the group was straightforward and hurried. “We have to go. Someone grab Chris. We have to go right now!”
A moment later he was running, sprinting full speed through the darkened forest with Owen bobbing wildly over his shoulder and the rest of the group following close behind. Even running at full speed, the sound rising up from the darkness continued to grow. Somewhere behind a tree snapped in two. Another followed this immediately. The ground beneath Fellow’s feet rumbled and the sudden jolt nearly tossed both him and Owen to the ground. Two Ricardians, one with the upper half of Chris Jarvis tossed over his shoulder and the other lugging the lower at his side, huffed by Fellow before disappearing into the night ahead. Two more creatures passed him on the right, their breaths ragged and worried, their legs pumping double time. After sidestepping a tree and leaping over a fallen log, an enormous, panting mass of blue flesh on four legs sprinted up from somewhere behind Fellow. The wall of leathery muscles leapt over his head and crashed into the dirt a good ten feet away. The tail of the slimy, gargantuan beast clipped Fellow on the leg and caused him to stumble forward. Owen slipped from his shoulder and spun like a whirlybird across a pile of scattered red-purple leaves. Fellow’s head hit the forest floor before the rest of his body and immediately opened a sizable gash above his right eye. Dirt poured into his mouth as his body slid a few feet before slamming into the unforgiving trunk of a nearby tree. Spitting the soil from between his lips, Fellow propped himself up and turned to look in the direction of the ruckus behind. He was fully expecting to see a regiment or two of Ochan soldiers staring back.
What greeted him was something else entirely.
There was indeed a regiment emerging from the trees; they were, however, not Ochan. Another massive four-legged beast rushed by at a remarkable speed. Directly behind it was another, and another still after that. The ground was shaking from the weight of their thickly muscled bodies. Though they were moving far too quickly and it was much too dark for him to make out all of their details, Fellow noticed very quickly that the creatures were similar in build to Megalots. Their heads, however, more closely resembled his own. Dangerously sharp whiskers at least six feet in length bobbed in the breeze as they weaved through the trees with an adeptness belying their size. On the sides of their bodies, enormous gills huffed in the crisp Fillagrou air. Atop the backs of the great beasts sat creatures Fellow had never seen before: incredibly long-bodied aliens with scary-thin limbs that seemed oddly spongy and weirdly translucent. From somewhere above, Fellow heard a roar. His eyes darted upward in time to see what he believed were the silhouettes of Sea Dragons flying by and shaking the leaves loose from the tops of the trees.
He quickly reminded himself this was impossible. They couldn’t be Sea Dragons.
Directly ahead, no less than ten feet away, a webbed foot four times larger than the whole of Fellow’s body slammed to the ground and left a plume of dirt and debris in its wake. As the explosion of dust and leaves settled, the Chintaran followed the slightly moist, muscled wall of scales and skin upwards until it connected to a body some fifteen feet above him. On the back of the monster he spotted the undeniable shape of Nestor Rockshell, and directly beside him the even more undeniable shape of little Nicky Jarvis.
Emerging from the forest behind them was an army.
Behind them was hope.
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CHAPTER 24
BENEATH THE SLAVES
*
“There. Do you see it?”
Brutus followed the wobbly extended finger of the waifish, one-armed creature mashed underneath his arm. His gaze moved through a partially open doorway, across a rather large hallway bathed only in the subtle flicker of torchlight and through a window on the opposite wall. Through the curved opening lay a vast courtyard with a noticeable layer of coal black snow blanketing the ground and more still fluttering from above. Lined up near a fifty-foot high wall in the distance was a series of poorly constructed slave huts. The structures looked old and worn, pieced together with partially rotted wood and uneven bits of scrap metal that no longer served a purpose for the Ochans living comfortably within the walls of the castle itself. Crammed inside the ramshackle structures and huddled close together for warmth were dreary, emaciated creatures of every race imaginable. Though the huts were built to hold barely twenty slaves, upwards of sixty had been wedged uncomfortably inside. The close quarters forced the achy aliens to remain upright and on their feet if they wanted any sort of shelter from the treacherous cold outdoors. Outside each of the huts stood a pair of Ochan soldiers with weapons at the ready.
“Which one?” Brutus asked with a growl, never taking his eyes from the meager huts or the huge Ochans stationed beside.
Many years ago Brutus’s parents had been captured, brought to a caste very much like this one, and forced to live in conditions very much like these. They died in a place like this. They suffered in
a place like this. The very idea sickened him. It brought the simmering anger in his belly to a full on boil and tightened every muscle in his body. His nostrils flared. His fingers pulled into fists and his chilly knuckles audibly popped.
“There.” The old creature dangling at his side responded, his jittery finger pointing in the direction of the filthiest hut among the lot. “That one. Beneath the floorboards and near the rear. In there we will be safe.”
Sticking his head momentarily through the half-open doorway, Brutus peered from one end of the darkened hallway to the other. It was still night and for the most part there were little signs of activity. This would no longer be the case in a few hours. The pathetic Ochan sun would have risen, its faraway light peeking through the eternally thick cloud cover on this world. Soon after the castle would be filled with Ochans of all ages, anxious and bustling with the day’s activities. Soon the window of opportunity would be gone. They had to act. They had to act now. There would be no second chance.
Brutus’s eyes moved again to the courtyard and the guards stationed outside the slave huts. Getting past them while remaining unnoticed seemed at first glance to be impossible. Success would require a distraction. He heard Tahnja step from the shadows behind and nudge against him with Roustaf still perched on her shoulder and Staci wedged against her leg. The little girl’s hair was a wild disheveled mess, her eyes alert and dreamy at the same time. She looked tired and terrified and confused. She looked defeated. Out of breath, she reached her hand to her mouth and coughed painfully into a closed fist. Her clothes were covered in a layer of filth, ripped and torn and shredded. This was the sort of filth that couldn’t simply be wiped away, the sort of filth that not only stained, but stained permanently. It was the sort of filth that extended far below her clothes, into the pores of her skin, the folds of her muscles and the bones underneath. Nothing would ever wash it away. She would carry it forever.
Brutus also understood that even if Teek had somehow managed to dispatch both of the Ochan soldiers in the dungeon—which was highly unlikely—it would be only a matter of time before their bodies were discovered. Once news of their escape spread, the empty hallway in front of them would be anything but, no matter what time of day it might be. They had maybe ten minutes at the most, ten minutes before the castle would be crawling with soldiers and hiding would become impossible.
They had to move. There was no time to dwell on Staci’s filth or the fact that their chances of surviving the morning were nearly nonexistent. If they didn’t move now, there would be no chance at all.
Turning to the rest of the group, Brutus whispered in as low a tone as his gravelly voice would allow. “Keep quiet and stay close.”
Tightening her grip on Tahnja’s pink-skinned hand, Staci breathed deeply, swallowed, and closed her eyes tight. Though she was mildly successful at regulating her ragged gasps, the heart in her chest was pounding wildly. Her ribs felt sore from the inside out. Her face was prickly like needles from the intense cold, and puffs of visible smoke emerged from between her lips with every breath. When Brutus moved his massive body through the doorway in front of them, Tahnja followed and Staci trailed close behind.
Bouncing atop Tahnja’s shoulder, Roustaf grumbled under his breath. He could see exactly what Brutus was seeing and had drawn the same conclusions. Getting through the courtyard, past the guards, into the slave hut, and through the hidden doorway in the floorboards that none of them were even sure existed was going to be impossible. The courtyard was a vast area with almost no place to hide. The moment they stepped outside they’d be noticed. He didn’t like this plan. He didn’t trust the skinny old creature dangling from Brutus’s arm either. He had no reason to.
After moving through the doorway, the group stepped lightly across the corridor and came to a stop beneath the open window to the courtyard on the opposite side. Dropping to one knee, Brutus lowered both Donald Rondage and the waifish one-armed creature to the stone. He turned to the group and sighed. If there was indeed some form of temporary safety beneath the slave hut for the children, Tahnja, and his wingless little friend Roustaf, there was only one way they were going to get to it. He knew what had to be done. There was no other choice.
Teek had it right all along.
Reaching forward, Brutus placed his mammoth-sized hand on Tahnja’s slim, angular shoulder. “A diversion is needed.”
Not fully aware of what he was implying, Tahnja nodded her head in agreement.
His fingers kneaded the tender pink flesh of her arm before patting it reassuringly, “After I have drawn the guards’ attention, it will be up to you to get the children beneath the slave quarters.”
Tahnja’s eyes widened, her face a confused mass of awkwardly twisted angles. She swiped his hand away. “No, no, no. There’s no way I’m letting you do that. We’ll find another way.”
It was a suicide mission and she knew it. She’d already lost Teek, Roustaf had torn away his own wings, Donald was a vegetable, and the reminder of her group of rescuers was most likely dead. She couldn’t lose Brutus too—not Brutus, not after all that had happened. She couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t.
From her shoulder came a tiny, mustached voice of reason. “Wait just one minute, ya big idiot. You’re not going out there alone. And if ya do, I can guaran-damn-tee that you ain’t coming back. This whole hiding place thing is a stupid idea anyway. We can find another way out of this dump.”
“There is no time,” Brutus responded with a growl, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
“Oh yes there is! There’s got to be another way!” Tahnja hissed angrily as she looked in the direction of the old creature leaning against the wall beside the unresponsive Donald for another option.
The scarred, one-armed creature simply lowered his head. There was no way out of the king’s castle, at least not that he knew of. If there had been, he would have used it years ago.
Tahnja scowled in his direction, her frustration rapidly reaching a climax. “No! I don’t care what he says, there’s got to be another way around! We just need to get off our butts and find it!”
With both hands Brutus reached forward, gripped her flailing arms and held her still. “Look at me.”
She tried to wiggle free. His grip was far too strong. For all her squirming and squealing, she barely moved a centimeter.
“Look at me.” Brutus repeated.
Biting her lower lip, Tahnja instead looked into her lap, where her hands were pulled into, the tips of her knuckles pale and white against the bones underneath.
With one hand Brutus lifted her chin. Refusing still to look him in the eyes, Tahnja instead looked off to the side and further down the darkening hallway.
Brutus’s voice was steady and his delivery determined. His mind had been made up. “This is exactly what you brought me here for, my friend. This is why I chose to come along. Your job now is to get these children to safety. If they are indeed who we believe them to be, there is hope for us yet. My job is to show those Ochans the resolve still coursing in our veins, to remind those who have forgotten and teach those who have yet to learn. I will make them pay for what they have done. I will take as many as I can with me. This is my promise to you.”
Reluctantly Tahnja looked into the eyes of her friend. For months he had been a loyal companion, a constant on which she could always rely, a stoic mass of muscle and surprising wisdom to which she had become accustomed to leaning on when the weight of battle became too much to bear. In her lap, she allowed her fists to morph again into fingers, and her fingers to intertwine. Brutus spoke the truth, and she knew it.
Even if she couldn’t bring herself to accept it, she understood it and that would have to be enough.
Stepping lightly across her shoulder, Roustaf grabbed the back of her ear and began to massage gently. With his free hand he reached across her face to the corner of her eye where he wiped away the beginning of a newly formed tear. Though she was trying her best to disguise it, he could clearl
y see her heart breaking. She might have been able to fool anyone else, maybe even Brutus, but she was not fooling him. He could so clearly see her pain because he was feeling it as well.
Hoping to avoid any further protest, Brutus quickly leapt to his feet, placed one hand on the interior of the window to brace himself, and hopped into the courtyard on the opposite side.
Before charging in the direction of the slave huts, he turned momentarily to the group and added: “I shall endeavor to keep their attention for as long as I can. I would suggest, however, you make the most of your time.”
There was not an ounce of fear in his voice, not a single moment of hesitation or a millisecond of regret. At least none to which he was willing to make his companions privy. A heartbeat later, he was gone.
The chilly morning air slapped Brutus in the face as he barreled forward. It felt surprisingly good against his fur, a cooling counterpoint to the volcano of anger frothing over in his belly, and the molten steel pumping from his pair of hearts, across his chest and into his limbs. His muscles felt alive and tightly coiled, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. He hadn’t felt this way in quite some time: so alive, so angry. When he told Tahnja that this was the reason he had joined her group of rescuers, he wasn’t lying. The opportunity to fight and kill the Ochans in the very place they called home intrigued him in a way mere words could never do justice. For far too long they had brought death to the doorsteps of others.
He simply wished to return the favor.