Forts: Liars and Thieves

by Steven Novak

  A trip that should have taken ten minutes ended up being closer to fifteen, mostly due to the crowds. Zanell at last came to a stop in front of a modest dwelling dug into one of the city’s walls. Gently pushing aside a rickety, oddly shaped and poorly constructed wooden door, she motioned for the children to enter without saying a word. One by one, the group stepped into the tiny, dimly lit room, huddling close together and filling it to capacity. Standing at the opposite end of the barely ten foot wide dwelling, cast in deep black shadows with his massively muscled back to the door, stood a figure of enormous stature. His skin was a dark grayish-green, covered in an endless amount of scars drawn tightly over a mountain of muscles hidden underneath. With nearly perfect spacing between them, the scars didn’t resemble anything the massive figure might have received in battle. Instead they looked almost intentional, bearing a close resemblance to hash marks.

  The thick, sharp scales, the green skin, the overly muscled body; Tommy immediately recognized this giant creature’s species. He was Ochan.

  Lifting a small clay bowl above him, the shadowy lizard man trickled the clear liquid inside over the top of his bald head. “Unbearably humid down here,” he grumbled in a morose tone, never turning from the wall. “Hate the humidity.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he glanced over the massive muscle of his shoulder, inhaling deep while grinding his sharp teeth together and showing just the slightest bit of annoyance. “Thought there would be five?”

  Hovering in mid-air, Roustaf carefully moved over the tightly packed crowd to the front of the group and alongside Tommy and Nicky.

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. I couldn’t convince the other one come. I tried, but the kid wasn’t having any of it. I wasn’t about to carry him back kicking and screaming, so this’ll have to do,” he stated almost apologetically.

  The massive Ochan turned back to the wall, half growling under his breath. From a modest, ancient-looking table next to him, the creature retrieved a heavy-looking armored chest plate. He lifted it over his head and rested it on his sturdy shoulders. The armor was covered in dings, slices and noticeable dents, parts of it looking like it had been welded and repaired numerous times. It was painfully obvious that this Ochan had seen battle, and lots of it. The already stale air around him grew weightier still as he strapped the armor in at the sides, pulling it so tight against his flesh that it almost resembled a second skin.

  “Will four be enough, gypsy?” he mumbled to no one in particular while lifting a massive sheathed sword from the shadowy floor and strapping it to his back.

  From the now closed doorway came Zanell’s soft response. “Four will suffice.”

  Again the Ochan mumbled underneath his breath, clearly annoyed. “Magic. I despise magic …needlessly complicated and unpredictable …troublesome. Nothing good has ever come from it.”

  Grumbling, he began to slide five smaller, yet equally dangerous looking, weapons into various leather straps hanging off his thick belt. Turning slowly, he stepped from the shadows and into the light of a nearby candle resting on a shelf built into the wall. His face looked aged, yet by no means old. It was also the only part of his exposed flesh not covered in the strange scars. Drops of transparent liquid continued to drip down the side of his face, over his mouth and across the nape of his neck. Hidden under a heavy protruding brow, his black pupils scanned the group of children huddled together at the opposite end of the diminutive dwelling. Lingering for a moment on Staci and Nicky, his dark eyes at last came to an unblinking, unmoving halt on Tommy Jarvis.

  The silence in the room was deafening.

  Only the breathing of those inside and the soft flicker of two candles could be heard. Eventually the enormous Ochan began to speak. “Hurm. I knew you were young, heard the stories …never imagined.”

  His voice was deep, echoing against the walls and quickly bouncing back. Every breath he took shook the ground underneath the children’s feet. Without realizing it, Nicky backed away slowly, behind his brother and toward Nestor near the rear of the room. Her heart racing as memories of Prince Valkea flooded her mind, Staci followed suit. Glancing at Tommy, she noticed that the boy was stone-faced, his eyes locked onto those of the burly green monster. Independent of thought, Tommy’s hands pulled tightly into fists. While he might not have been aware of what he was doing, the massive Ochan instantly took note of the gesture, smiling slightly before locking eyes again with boy.

  “Perhaps introductions are in order,” Zanell added, stepping between the two, feeling the unquestionable tension in the room. “Children, this is Krystoph. Believe it or not, he has come to help us save your world.”

  *

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  CHAPTER 16

  THE TERRIBLY MISERABLE TALE OF KRYSTOPH

  *

  Complete and total belief in any one thing can prove wonderfully freeing in its simplicity. Such explains the life of a young Ochan named Krystoph. The eldest of ten children, he came from earnest and humble, yet entirely honorable beginnings. Working as one of King Calador’s blacksmiths, his father was able to provide safety for his family by giving them a home within one of the king’s many fortresses. In a world as accustomed to war as Ocha, safety was often a difficult to find and highly sought after commodity. As was the case with most male Ochan youths, the child Krystoph joined his king’s army immediately upon reaching the age of maturity. At this period in Ochan history, seven kings ruled the whole of the planet. Spread out across its five continents, it was these seven that held the lives of the entire Ochan race in their hands. Each king hated the next with a passion, and the ultimate goal of all was exactly the same: to conquer the land of the others and take the land and people for their own. The citizens living under the rule of each king remained staunchly faithful to his ideals. Like his father, Krystoph believed King Calador was the center of the universe, the keeper of his wellbeing and the shining example of Ochan greatness. To question one’s king was unheard of, as his word was truth and his truth was the word.

  King Calador’s army proved a perfect fit for the young Krystoph. Smart, athletic and quick to learn, the child was found to be quite adept in the concepts of war, not to mention surprisingly at home with the idea of killing. To murder in the name of your king was considered honorable — to die in the preservation of his power more so.

  Years spent in unwavering, exceptional service of King Calador resulted in Krystoph’s quick ascension in the military’s ranks. When Krystoph’s father finally met his death, he did so of old age, a rarity among Ochan males. Krystoph took pride in this fact, believing beyond a doubt that Calador’s might and the protection of his armies were the direct cause. Not long into his service, murder ceased to have meaning for Krystoph, as if it were somehow a separate entity from war. The dead became statistics; the larger the number, the greater the success.

  A month after Krystoph was promoted to General, King Calador died quite unexpectedly in his chambers with only his son, Prince Kragamel, at his side. Calador’s death was never fully explained; some attributed it to the Groun, a rare disease the king had dealt with his entire life. Others, though, believed it to be a random occurrence, or some other manner of unexplainable illness. Fewer still settled on the most simple of concepts, old age. While none proved to be a wholly satisfying explanation, not a single one among the king’s devout opted to delve further. When hushed whispers in shadowed backrooms rose to the possibility of the newly appointed King’s involvement, his loyal soldiers squashed them immediately.

  To question the honor of a king — such an act was punishable by death.

  While there were indeed similarities between the new King Kragamel and his deceased father Calador, the heir to the throne seemed impossibly intent on expansion and obsessed with the ideals of power. Not simply content with existing or protecting, the new king not only wanted more, but believed it to be his destiny. Whether it was to spite his father, or in the spirit of competition, or possibly even in search of respect, the yo
ung Kragamel dedicated himself to expanding the reach of his influence with a fever no Ochan before him had ever shown.

  Stumbling onto the doorway leading to Fillagrou proved to be the first step toward accomplishing his lofty goals.

  At the outset of the Great War, Krystoph who led the charge. It was Krystoph who planned the initial invasion of Fillagrou, he who discovered the doorway to Dearagorn, Hackenstat, Chintaran, Grilgamorph and countless others. In the name of his king, Krystoph ordered the deaths of millions and the slavery of millions more. This was his role, and this became his sole reason for existing. Much like his new king, this was his destiny. In the service of his people, General Krystoph soon found himself filled with contentment, pride and happiness mere words alone could never hope to express.

  As is often the case with power, in order for one to achieve it, another must be squashed. The higher the corpses stack, the higher into the clouds one can reach. The bodies of the fallen make a superb ladder.

  Everything in General Krystoph’s life changed for the worse with the invasion of Tycaria. The forty-forth world discovered hidden in the Red Forest was populated with sturdy, well-trained, battle-ready creatures lead by a king referring to himself as Walcott Shellamennes, who proved surprisingly resourceful. Filled with a vigorous fighting spirit rivaling even that of the Ochans themselves, the Tycarians became the very first species to respond to their invading aggressors in accordance of the laws of motion themselves: for every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction. When the divisions under Krystoph’s control began suffering setbacks, Kragamel’s patience with the well-decorated general appointed under his father’s reign began to wear thin. The initial invasion, expected to take mere days, stretched to weeks and the weeks into months with still no significant progress made. Feeling the need to remind his general of the importance of his duties, Kragamel ordered Krystoph’s family murdered — his wife, his child, his brothers, his sister and their offspring, every last Ochan with an ounce of his family’s blood coursing through their veins was murdered in the name of expansion and country and war.

  The reaction was of course extreme, even for an Ochan king.

  As stated before, complete and total belief in any one thing can prove wonderfully freeing in its simplicity. That is, until the moment arrives when the pillars on which that belief stands crack and crumble. The veil lifted, the chinks in the finely constructed, beautifully polished armor that had protected him his entire life exposed, Krystoph suddenly found himself left with nothing.

  What is an Ochan who no longer has faith in the very things that made him Ochan?

  He was alone, no king, no family and none of the things in which he found solace or happiness. Instead there existed only disillusionment coupled with confusion. The implosion of the ideals he held most dear stirred a sweltering anger inside him. Like a pot boiling over, Krystoph’s hatred for Kragamel poured from his mouth, its thick, vile, foamy froth rolling across his flesh, seeping into his pores and transforming him from the inside out. The concept of vengeance had always played an important role in Ochan life, nearly as prominent a role as family, safety or king. If he were to be denied three, Krystoph would ensure he savored the fourth to the best of his ability.

  The success of the Ochan military when traveling from one strange new world to the next could be attributed to much more than simply superior strategy, size and experience. Unbeknownst to those not associated with the highest of military rank, what more often than not turned the tide in their favor was in fact the thing Ochans in general felt most uncomfortable with: magic, a deep, dangerous and powerful magic unlike anything mastered by the Ochan race before, a magic created by a mysterious artifact birthed into the universe by an ancient race of blind, deformed Ochans called the Conjurers. While many kings before Kragamel occasionally relied on the Conjurers and their peculiar powers as a source of counsel, none before him embraced their ideas with such earnest interest. Behind closed doors, away from the pervasive distaste for magic felt by the commoners, the king gave large groups of Conjurers safety, home and nourishment. Kragamel freed them from poverty, hunger and suffering, thus providing them with a purpose greater than any they had ever known. In return for his uncommon kindness, the Conjurers bestowed on the new king the Rongstag — a talisman with greater power than the Conjurers had ever mastered. One half of the Rongstag gave he who wielded it the ability to render useless an entire world’s technology, while the other half negated all magic. Without the aid of magic or superior weaponry, no world could hope to stand against the bladed, hard-knuckled, close-quarter warfare the Ochan race spent centuries mastering and held so dear. Due in no small part to this fantastic new artifact, ninety-nine worlds fell like dominos.

  In retaliation for the murder of his family, Krystoph struck at the heart of the Ochan nation’s hidden power. Masterfully stealing one half of the Rongstag, he hid it in a place he believed it would never be found, and it is there that it has remained. For this act of treachery against his people, Krystoph paid with his life — or so it was believed.

  What the tyrant king Kragamel failed to realize was that Krystoph died long before the newly appointed General Gragor dragged his hapless, broken shell of a body to the fire caves and slit his throat, allowing the combustion beetles free reign at this insides. What was left to rot among the sweltering awfulness of Ocha’s turbulent underground that day was little more than a shell, an empty vessel that once housed an unwavering belief in people and king. The mass of improperly healed bones, exposed wounds and gangrenous limbs that crawled from the caves into the chilly night air three weeks later had already begun to fill itself with a different cause entirely. Stumbling into the darkness, the thing that once thought itself a proud Ochan set forth on a new mission, the murder of a king. Vengeance is the most dangerous beast one is likely to encounter; once it has you in its grasp, more often than not it is there you will spend the remainder of your days.

  The hunger of vengeance is unrelenting and it will not be denied.

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  CHAPTER 17

  LIARS

  *

  Every breath was like a knife stabbing the twelve year old Tommy Jarvis in the chest. Even the most simple of movements sent a torrent of unrelenting pain flashing throughout the entirety of his body. Outside the cold window pressed against his shoulder, the darkened world passed by in flashes. Streetlights soared like shooting stars, dragging behind them ghostly trails that wagged across the blackness like the latent images of never-there monster tails. In desperate need of a tune-up, the car underneath him clanked and creaked, its engine struggling to maintain even the most average of speeds for any significant amount of time. Across from Tommy, only half awake and hunched over the steering wheel, was his father. The eyes of Chris Jarvis were wide, the stubble on his face at least two days old. Since the funeral for his wife earlier in the week, Chris spent his days fading in and out of reality. This was due in no small part to the endless stream of mind altering, wonderfully numbing liquid consistently making its way down his gullet and back up again into his brain. Problems were easier dealt with when one had the help of friends, and Chris found his friends in bottles. Faced with a red light, Chris slammed on the breaks, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Briefly glancing to his right, he watched with the slightest bit of worry as his eldest son clutched at his chest, a strained grimace stretched across his boyish features.

  Gripping tightly on the leather of the steering wheel, he looked away, his breaths coming in more rapid succession with every passing moment. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

  The hospital was still six blocks away, but it was not the time or even the amount of pain his son was in that worried Chris at the moment. There were much larger things at stake, things involving his personal well being and things involving the truth. The sweat pouring down his forehead seeped into the crack of his lips, salty and warm. He awkwardly swallowed it down. From two feet away, Tommy groaned deeply. The boy
’s breaths seemed labored and anguished, and a barely there wheeze escaped his lips. Chris asked himself How did this happen? Sifting through the blurry memories scattered across his mind like debris from an explosion, he found few answers. How could he do this? How could he do this to his own son? Worse yet, what if someone found out?

  Before he even realized what he was saying, the words were leaving his mouth. “It was an accident Tommy; you got in a fight at school. You didn’t tell me until just now. It was an accident.”

  Tommy could only barely hear his father. Stretching his neck upward, he twisted his nose toward the fresh, moist air pouring through the half-opened window next to him. The dewy smell of early morning entered his nose and traveled down his chest, caressing his injured ribs from the inside. The momentarily relief carried with it an all too brief moment of clarity, making it possible to once again put his other senses to use.

  Again came his father’s voice, clearer this time, more insistent now with the hospital only a few blocks away. “Do you hear me Tommy? It was an accident, right? Look at me and tell me it was an accident.”

  Reluctantly Tommy turned his head to his father, the pain in his chest moving outward once again, pouring over him like molten lava and scorching his insides. The person sitting across from him bore little resemblance to the man he’d known for the entirety of his young life. His father had changed. Whether by situations beyond his control or on account of a weak will, the father Tommy once knew and once loved was gone. In his place sat a drooling, wide-eyed, frightened and confused monster, an only partially existent thing that had lost control of everything in its life, including itself. Pulling into the hospital, the rusty car at last came to a stop and the engine puttered off.