by Steven Novak
Though Tommy’s wild eruption of energy lasted barely ten seconds, for all involved and those watching from close by, it felt like an eternity. Eventually the light began to slink backward and evaporate into the palms of the boy’s outstretched hands. The fires churning from the core of Ocha dulled to a murmur and a completely drained Tommy Jarvis dropped to his knees in the dirt. A moment later Pleebo was standing at his side. Tommy could feel the bony arms of his friend as they wedged themselves under his armpits and tugged him unwillingly to his feet. Though his vision was momentarily blurred, Tommy also recognized the muscular body of the Ochan, Krystoph, as he stepped alongside with a massively long sword firmly in this grasp. Tommy’s chest felt stuffy and lungs tight. His head was dancing on the clouds and his brain floating somewhere above them. His entire body seemed to be functioning at half capacity and he was having trouble breathing again. His limbs felt heavy and useless. Dangling loosely above his neck, he tilted his head upward and his eyes focused on the spot he’d seen Staci moments before. She was still there, lying motionless in the sand. His wild explosion of energy hadn’t touched her. Scattered a bit further down the way were the charred corpses of the conjurer council: five of them, anyway. The remaining two were tossed into the fiery crevasse and transformed instantly to ash. At Staci’s feet, lying face down in the fine, red-hued sand, was the body of King Kragamel. Unlike the conjurers, however, the Ochan’s flesh wasn’t charred or smoking, or the least bit unrecognizable.
For all intents and purposes, ignoring the fact that he was lying motionless and bits of his steel armor continued to smoke, the burly king seemed unharmed.
Tommy wiggled himself free of Pleebo and forced his wobbly legs to stand firm. Beside the boy, Krystoph growled and tightened the grip on his weapon. Together the threesome watched in disbelief as Kragamel lifted himself from the sand with a grunt and worked his way into a slightly groggy upright position.
The muscled Ochan peeled the superheated metal of his chest plate from his flesh and tossed it to the ground. He then proceeded to pat himself questioningly, ensuring that in fact everything was indeed where it was supposed to be. Lifting his hand to his face with a grin, the king of Ocha watched with unbridled satisfaction as his flesh began to glow.
The powers of the meddlesome female were his.
It worked.
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CHAPTER 57
A PLAN FALLS APART
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Krystoph understood that there was little time for hesitation. It would only make matters worse. He’d watched through squinted eyes as the flesh of the king peeled away under the glow of Tommy’s Jarvis’ magic light, saw his eyeballs pop from his skull and the lungs explode from his chest. He then continued to watch as everything done was undone. Kragamel’s blackened skin turned purple, then morphed smoothly to its original green. The eyeballs dangling loosely from the sockets of his skull coiled backward and returned snugly to their original position. For an instant the king was a torched, splattered and dead mess. A moment later, it was as if nothing at all had happened. The realization of this punched Krystoph square in the gut. The creature he’d come to kill was, for all intents and purposes, invincible. This changed everything.
Across from Krystoph, the king gazed through the fingers of his glowing hand and for the first time noticed the presence of his former general. For years he’d heard the stories of a rogue Ochan residing in the Fillagrou forest and unexpectedly attacking regiments of soldiers. He always assumed they were little more than wild tales brought on by the over imaginative minds of bored warriors anxious for battle. Never once did he take them seriously or afford them weight. It seemed an utterly foolish concept at the time. Krystoph was dead; Gragor slit his throat and left him for the beetles. The idea that he could have survived: it was silly and ultimately unworthy of his time. And yet, there he stood, the former General of Ocha, in the flesh. With a sigh and a chuckle the king grinned in the direction of his old friend.
Never taking his eyes off of the king, Krystoph reached into the satchel dangling from his belt and retrieved the half of the Rongstag he’d retrieved from the depths of the water world, Aquari.
Kragamel noticed the talisman originally created by his conjurers and chuckled once again. “You’ll find that trinket quite useless, Krystoph.”
The former general ignored the words of his king, tightened his grip on the magical artifact and extended it forward. Nothing happened.
Kragamel folded his arms and smiled from behind the crinkly gray hairs of his beard. “The Rongstag has the ability to negate magic; unfortunately, there is no magic at work.” His smile faded. He lowered his head and glared in the direction of his dumbfounded general with cold green eyes before his gaze settled on the blonde-haired boy struggling to remain upright behind. “You don’t know, do you, child? You have no idea what’s going on here.”
Tommy looked back at the king, puffing his chest and trying his best to create the impression that he was less tired than he appeared.
“Even the gods themselves are ignorant,” the king mumbled, unblinking. “How pathetic. I am doing you a favor, child—by ending your life.”
His blood boiling, Krystoph lowered his arms and squeezed the apparently useless amulet between his fingers so hard it smashed to pieces. It was better this way. Had it worked, the magic of the Rongstag would have been a cheat. He was tired of cheating. Steel was the only weapon he needed: steel and skill and the resolve of spirit.
Krystoph sprinkled the remains of the shattered stone from his sweaty hand. Inhaling deep, he lifted his weapon into the air and charged in the direction of the King.
Yes, it was far better this way. It was Ochan this way.
Moving with remarkable speed and precision, Krystoph’s initial attack was brutal. As a warrior, he was far more experienced and adept with a blade than Kragamel. The king had spent too many years outside the heat of battle. While he was powerful, his skills were rusty. Krystoph’s every movement had been tested, modified, retested, and perfected in the trenches of war. It was Kragamel’s army that turned him into this. They constructed him from the ground up for this very reason. He was an instrument of pure destruction, a finely tuned machine created for a single purpose. He was bred to kill. Though Kragamel retrieved a medium-length sword from his side and thrust the weapon in the direction of his attacker, Krystoph avoided the strike with relative ease. Making use of his free hand, the Ochan pulled a dagger from a sheath attached to his leg, shoved it into the king’s belly, and left it there. As he spun he removed another from the opposite leg and deposited the steel into the upper back of the sovereign leader of Ocha. With a pair of blades protruding from either side, Kragamel screamed in pain and responded with a wild swing that completely missed its target. Snarling, Krystoph lowered his stance and barreled forward into the King’s chest. The massive bodies of the Ochans collided with an echoing thud. Kragamel toppled backward into the dirt, landing squarely on his shoulders and driving the dagger sticking from his flesh further inward. Growling through teeth soaked in blood, the king rolled to his side and attempted to stand. The boot of his opponent slammed into his chest and returned him violently to his original position. Again the former general’s movements were swift and unwavering. After raising his broad sword into the air, he immediately thrust it downward. The blade sliced through Kragamel’s ribs, shattering them to bits and driving fragments of bone into the sensitive organs underneath. Refusing to waver, Krystoph struck again and again. Three thrusts quickly became six, and soon afterward six turned to nine. His hands were a blur; his muscles coiling and firing like fully gassed pistons. Every time he stabbed downward, he screamed, and with every scream he stabbed harder. In no time at all, the king’s chest resembled hamburger, ripped and torn and soaked in various oozing, bubbling liquids. Thick sprays of blood shot upward, cascading against Krystoph’s grimaced face before dropping with a splash to the rapidly expanding puddle in the sand beneath the king. For this moment
in time, Krystoph was somewhere else. This was exactly what he’d waited for. This was the reason he crawled from the fire caves and forced himself to survive in the balmy awfulness of Fillagrou for those many years. This was why he’d killed so many of his own. This was the reason his wife and children had died.
This moment was his and his alone.
When his muscles were spent, the former general stopped to catch his breath and afford himself the opportunity to fully absorb the full weight of what he’d just done. Lying beneath him was a mangled mess of greenish flesh with a blood-soaked broad sword protruding from the area previously resembling its chest. Krystoph knew all too well what would likely happen next. He also didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He closed his eyes, craned his head upward and inhaled the distinct odor of the fire caves. The chalky aftertaste of coal clung to his lips and coated the roof of his mouth, both revolting and memorable. This was where he was reborn. In many ways, these caves were his mother, its walls her womb. For the briefest of moments, what was to come simply did not matter. The inevitable was no longer of consequence. The fire coursing through his lungs was real, and the blood flowing through his veins electric.
No matter how short lived it might ultimately prove, this single moment of satisfaction was, in a word, wonderful.
Beneath Krystoph, the body of the tyrant king began to glow once again. The bloody weapon sticking like a flagpole from his chest evaporated and disappeared. The dagger in his back turned to dust and the one in his belly faded away. The meaty mess of shattered bone, mauled organs and shredded flesh that was once his chest cavity molded into place, snapped together and magically repaired. In a matter of seconds it was as if nothing had happened.
Krystoph could feel the warming glow of his enemy beneath him and knew full well what was taking place. Despite this knowledge, he made no attempt to move.
“You are as hardheaded as ever, my friend.”
The voice of the king pulled the former general from his blissful contentment and into the real world once more. Less than a second later he felt Kragamel’s fist smash against his chest. The blow carried with it far more punch than Krystoph anticipated or could have imagined. Powered by the incredible strength he’d stolen from Donald Rondage, the Ochan king’s knuckles demolished the chest of his foe, bent his ribs inward and tossed his limp body backward some thirty feet. A blanket of pain engulfed the scarred body of the Ochan. It wrapped him tight and refused to let go. The air in his lungs ran for cover, and the lights went black. Krystoph’s limp body collided with a sizable piece of rock further down the cavern, spun in the air like a top, and eventually came to a sliding stop near the edge of the fiery ravine.
Again Tommy Jarvis wiggled free from Pleebo’s grasp, and again the boy attempted to steady his legs. It didn’t matter how tired he was or how badly he hurt. It didn’t matter if his legs weren’t willing to cooperate. It also didn’t matter if the king couldn’t be killed or even injured. Tommy had fought losing battles his entire life. This was just another. This was no different. He watched as the tyrant king rose from the dirt and dusted himself off. Every gesture was dripping with arrogance and soaked in self-satisfaction. It was disgusting.
“Wait a minute! Where are you going?” Pleebo yelled, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s waist.
Though the Fillagrou had no idea what do next, he believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boy was in no condition to go another round with the apparently indestructible Ochan king. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
When Kragamel began to slowly turn in his direction, Tommy’s eyes moved past the haughty Ochan and to the prone body of Staci lying behind. Quite unexpectedly, she moved. A single finger on her left hand scooted, puttered, paused and jittered. When the brief moment of shaking stopped, the finger drug its way across the fine sand and left a barely noticeable trail behind.
She wasn’t dead.
Tommy’s pulse quickened. He squeezed his aching hands into aching fists. Staci was alive and he had to get to her. No matter what happened, he had to help her.
Again Tommy ripped himself free of Pleebo’s grasp, his eyes focused squarely on the Ochan king. When he spoke, his orders were simple. “Get Staci.”
“What? What’re yo—” Pleebo stuttered in response, grasping to regain his grip on the defiant child.
The King of Ocha settled his steely gaze the boy and smiled brightly. The glare between the two was steady and unmoving, a beacon on the horizon, a landmark in the darkness leading to places most dare not tread.
“I can keep him occupied,” Tommy added bluntly, willing the exhaustion from his body and the soreness from his bones. “Get to Staci.”
The boy reminded himself that he’d been hurt worse than he currently was, many times, in fact. He could take anything the king could dish and more. Unlike Kragamel, Tommy Jarvis had no interest in healing his wounds. He needed each and every one. He needed to feel the lasting aches of broken bones long since repaired and nights spent alone, crying himself to sleep beneath the stars. They were a part of him. Without them he had nothing.
Without them he was nothing.
When the boy’s hands began to glow, Pleebo reluctantly pulled himself away. He wanted to help. He wanted to do something, anything. Unfortunately, the situation had progressed far beyond his capabilities. This was obvious. Pleebo watched in disbelief as bendy beams of energy emerged from Tommy’s hands and extended ten feet in either direction before molding themselves into crackling fists of electricity twice the size of the boy’s entire body. When Pleebo opened his mouth to speak, no words emerged. No words existed. The sight was indescribable. It was the prophecy.
It was the prophecy come to life.
The smug grin of the invincible king faltered for the briefest of instances.
“You…are…a remarkable creature,” Kragamel stated through tight lips as the defiant child began slowly to approach, gargantuan hands of energy snarling and whipping from the tips of his fingers as if alive and angry.
Tommy Jarvis did not respond. The time for words was over. Instead the boy maintained eye contact with the Ochan king, lowered his head, gritted his teeth, and continued forward.
Kragamel’s grin returned as quickly as it disappeared. His chin lifted high and his chest barreled outward. “It will be an honor to kill you.”
Tommy’s steady plodding turned quickly into a full-on run. The sand beneath his feet kicked into the air with every step, leaving puffs of brownish-red smoke behind. His glowing fists tightened further, so tight the bones in his actual hands popped and his knuckles ached. His lungs heaved and his face bent into an infuriated grimace. The heart inside his chest was pumping at twice its speed. The screaming boy was less than twenty feet from the Ochan king and closing the distance between them rapidly. Across from him, he watched as Kragamel lowered his stance and nodded his head in approval. This was the moment. This was what it had all been leading to. This was the ending, and the beginning, and the final culmination of all the nonsense wedged between.
The second Tommy cut the distance between them in half, he threw his hand forward with a shout. Like a rubber band, the fist of light hanging from the end snapped backward briefly before shooting in the direction of the snarling Ochan. Pockets of energy popped from the superheated appendage like fireworks, leaving behind stretched afterimages like comets against a blackened sky. The fist of light smashed into Kragamel’s body with remarkable force. It lifted the Ochan into the air, carried him twenty feet and crushed him against the cavern wall. When the first fist dropped away and pulled backward, the second colossal appendage pounded against the body of the king and dug him deeper still into the rock. The ground shook. The fires behind roared.
Pleebo’s feet refused to move. He was unable to process what he was seeing. Across from him, he watched as Tommy Jarvis continued to charge toward the king, hammering the Ochan with mighty fists of light and driving him deeper and deeper into the wall with every powerful blow. Though it was very real and
it was happing right in front of his face, it still seemed impossible. A set of plump, purple fingers fell onto Pleebo’s shoulder and began to tug at his skin. They belonged to the little scientist, Arthur Crumbee.
“Come on! We have to go!” Arthur shrieked, an obvious urgency coating his every word, trying desperately to rouse Pleebo back to reality.
For the first time in the last five minutes, the beaten and confused Fillagrou blinked. The whipping beams of light created by Tommy’s crackling fists were casting jagged shadows across his face when he finally broke his silence. “What?”
Arthur grabbed him by his filthy tunic and tried to physically muscle the thin Fillagrou to his feet. “The girl! We have to get the girl!”
Pleebo followed the extended finger of the little man and his gaze settled on the body of Staci Alexander, lying in the sand across the way. Wearily her arm reached upward for a moment before falling loosely onto her forehead.
“Come on!” Arthur screamed again, turning to run in the girl’s direction, his stubby legs pumping frantically.
The entire cavern was shaking from the force of Tommy’s electric fists. Bits of rock fell in clumps from the ceiling above, crashing with dusty puffs to the red sand below.