by Steven Novak
At daybreak he’d start home, sneak into his room and into his bed, leaving none the wiser.
Fireflies popped in and out of existence around the pair, circling the area where Button now lay, the only attendees of the funeral. It was at least an hour before Tommy fell asleep. At some point during the night he believed he could hear Mr. Button breathing just below the dirt underneath his head. This, however, was only a dream, and dreams are, unfortunately, not real. Mr. Button was no different than anyone else. Mr. Button could not speak to those living anymore than Tommy could to those dead. These were constants that could in no way be altered, despite the best of intentions of scared young boys. Mr. Button was dead, and Mr. Button was not coming back; this was absolute and this was forever.
So be it.
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CHAPTER 55
THE ARTIFACT
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From the bow of the Briar Patch, Krystoph screamed at the top of his lungs, “We have arrived!”
Stepping alongside the burly Ochan, Nestor scanned the surrounding waters with an obvious confusion. At first glance, the area seemed no different than any of the miles upon miles of water they’d sailed to that point. Krystoph’s arbitrary announcement made little sense.
Rubbing his chin, Nestor turned to the scowl-faced Ochan beside him. “Might I inquire as to how exactly you’ve arrived at this conclusion?”
Krystoph’s response was monotone and deliberate, soaked in a hint of anger. “Hurm. We are here. Nothing more need be said. Question me again, Tycarian, and I promise it will be the last thing you do.”
Never once did Krystoph’s black gaze stray from the froth-tipped waves ahead. Shaking his head while rolling his eyes, Nestor opted to end the conversation.
From the door leading to the lower decks, the children emerged one by one, with Tommy Jarvis leading the way. As a group, they had spent the night asleep on a dusty bed in the quarters of Captain Fluuffytail himself. Just outside, the crew worked tirelessly throughout the night patching leaks and draining ocean water in a desperate effort to keep the ship afloat. Despite the noise, and the fact that they were lying on top of a smelly, dust covered mattress barely large enough for one rather than three, each of the children managed to sleep at some point, including Tommy. The eruption of power earlier in the night had left him drained and tired, making the act of simply keeping his eyes open difficult, bordering on impossible. After running his hand through his stiff morning hair, Nicky stretched his arms and yawned. Standing beside him, Staci did the same, though she believed this was more of a reaction to the boy’s yawn rather than a general feeling of tiredness.
“I’ll be going down with you,” Nestor stated in a matter of fact tone, passing by the sleepy-eyed children and in hot pursuit of the muscular Ochan on a direct course with the rear of the ship.
Lifting the heavy metal breastplate over his head, Krystoph tossed it to the deck with a clank. “Hurm. Did not ask for your help Tycarian. Do not require it.”
“It only makes sense for me to accompany you, as I am the superior swimmer,” Nestor responded, kicking the heavy armor from his path with his flat foot.
Instead of responding, Krystoph shook his head, growling in annoyance under his breath. After unlocking the belt from his waist, he dropped it to the deck of the Briar Patch as well. Placing a single dagger between his razor sharp teeth, he stepped onto the railing overlooking the water. The early morning light exposed the scars covering his dark green flesh in frightening detail. Nestor stopped moving forward, momentarily taken aback by the self-inflicted wounds, each of which represented a dead Ochan. There were so many. Reaching forward, the turtle man grabbed hold of Krystoph’s leg moments before he could leap headfirst into the calm waters.
The Ochan scowled, biting on the steel between his teeth harder and growling through tight lips, “It would be in your best interest to remove your hand.”
Nestor squeezed tighter, “These waters are dangerous. You will need help.”
“Hurm. Rest assured, I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”
Nestor’s brow lowered angrily. With his free hand, he reached down and unlocked the belt from around his waist, letting it fall to the aged wood below. “If you truly believe my desire to accompany you is due to the fact that I fear for your safety, I regret to inform you that you are sadly mistaken. I simply refuse to have traveled all this way only to return empty handed. If you fail, I will not.”
Showcasing remarkable balance for one so large, Krystoph remained motionless, perched atop the thin wood railing. Looking behind him, he glared down at Nestor. His expression was petrifying, cold and undeniably annoyed. A semi-circle of crewmembers had formed around the pair, every last one of them unsure of exactly how to respond to the standoff. Gnawing on a moldy piece of food somewhat similar to a carrot, though more purple in color, Captain Fluuffytail chuckled softly from underneath his dusty, oversized hat.
Nudging Nicky in the ribs playfully, he whispered, “Hehehe. I’ll bet ya fifty doubloons the shellhead wins this one, boy.”
As he chomped away, the bent whiskers extending from his cheeks flapped in the breeze, his gray nose twitching. Nicky couldn’t help but chuckle. The rest of the ship, however, remained silent. Staring at one another, neither Nestor nor Krystoph blinked, both unwilling to budge even an inch.
Having grown tired of the pointless standoff, Krystoph at last turned away. “I have no interest in rescuing you, Tycarian, nor do I have an interest in carrying your excess weight. If trouble arises, you are on your own.” A second later he dove headfirst into the frothy waves.
After a brief glance in the direction of the children, Nestor slid a dagger between his lips, took a deep breath, and splashed into the cool waters as well. Once submerged, the Tycarian spotted the vague, dark outline of Krystoph twenty feet below. Despite belonging to a race with such disgust for water, the Ochan was moving quite fast, making remarkable time. Nestor, however, was as at home among the waves as on land, and he quickly closed the gap. As the pair sank deeper, visibility reduced. What seemed crystal-clear, blue and inviting above twisted into something with a hint of green, black and mysterious below. Instantly Nestor’s senses heightened; at this depth, things became infinitely more dangerous. Nonchalance would cost him his life.
Descending into the murky blackness, the water growing significantly colder the further down he swam; Krystoph found himself relying more heavily on senses other than sight. Visibility was near zero. Shapes had been reduced to blurs, and those blurs reduced to something even less recognizable. Reaching an underwater cliff with a ninety-degree drop into a realm even he was incapable of treading, the Ochan pawed his way across the sandy soil and into an alcove twenty feet away. Once inside, he shoved aside a rock nearly half his weight, dug into the ground underneath, and retrieved a piece of brown fabric tightly wrapped with rope at the top.
The Rongstag, exactly where he’d left it.
Placing the bag between his teeth alongside the dagger, Krystoph immediately began swimming toward the Briar Patch. A brief glance of the surrounding water revealed that Nestor was nowhere to be found. The ocean, however, remained as black as coal at this depth and almost impossible to see through. Theoretically, the Tycarian could be swimming alongside Krystoph at that very moment and he might not have been aware. The dense cloud of darkness encasing him, molded into a grayish mist which shifted again into something slightly more greenish blue. Suddenly able to see more than a few inches in front of his face, it was at this point Krystoph realized without a shadow of a doubt that Nestor was no longer following him. In a rare, uncharacteristic moment of weakness, he allowed the idea of searching for the frustrating Tycarian to slide its way into his brain. As quickly as it arrived, however, he pushed it away. The fool had been warned. His fate was his and his alone; let him sink in it.
Above Krystoph, the tattered, deep brown underside of the Briar Patch faded hazily into view. The waters were slowly warming at the sa
me time, transforming soft and crystal clear with a hint of blue once again. Already Krystoph missed the cold. If there was anything he ached to feel again, it was the icy chill of an Ochan winter, the kind of cold that would seep into your muscles, make them ache and leave them sore for months. He’d spent too many years in the humid Fillagrou forest; he longed for the cold of his home world.
Less than a hundred feet from the surface, something massive sliced though the water alongside him. So large and moving so fast, the shape created a tornado-like ripple effect in the tide that caused Krystoph to spin wildly to the right and launched the dagger from between his teeth. Quick to regain his bearings, the Ochan snagged the bag containing the Rongstag from his mouth and gripped it tightly between his fingers, intent on not losing it the same way as his weapon. Again the gargantuan shape emerged and whizzed past, turning him upside down and spinning him awkwardly. Normally able to hold his breath for an astounding amount of time, being tossed about had caused the Ochan’s concentration to slip, allowing tiny amounts of warm sea water to seep into his lungs. He needed to breathe, and he needed to do it quickly. Less than a hundred yards above, the underside of the Briar Patch continued to ride the ebb and flow of the waves expertly, unaware of everything taking place below. Again the dark green shape whipped past. This time Krystoph managed to avoid being spun, and at the same time got his first good look at the thing tormenting him. It was a sea dragon. Of all the known dangers in Aquari waters, sea dragons sat atop of the list. At nearly sixty feet long and weighting upwards of fifty tons, the long-bodied creatures held their spot at the apex of the food chain for as long as the Ochans had known of their existence. So massive were the jaws of these incredible eating machines that even an adolescent was fully capable of swallowing Krystoph, or any Ochan for that matter, in a single gulp. Usually the beasts tended to keep to deeper, darker, significantly colder waters. Unfortunately for Krystoph, it appeared this one in particular preferred its dinner warm. Having swum by three times already, the Ochan realized that the beast was circling him, sizing him up as they did all their prey, and patiently awaiting the opportunity to strike. It was exactly what he would do in the same situation. It was exactly what he’d done for years. Even with a full arsenal of weapons, Krystoph understood he would stand little chance against the monster one on one, especially on its turf. He stood absolutely none without a weapon. His only hope was to reach the Briar Patch. Hopefully the Sea Dragon would taper off as they ascended into warmer waters …hopefully.
Pulling from the sparse reserves of oxygen stored in his lungs, Krystoph resumed his upward swim with renewed vigor. He managed to make it only a few feet before the Sea Dragon again whizzed past. This time, the enormous creature nudged him stiffly with its massive head. Nearly the size of Krystoph’s entire body, what was a simple bump to the dragon was a stiff blow to the Ochan. The fifty or so horns on the creature’s head slammed into Krystoph’s side and knocked the wind from his chest. More liquid seeped between his tightly drawn lips. The Sea Dragon twisted its gargantuan body in the water, dragging a tail twice the length of its torso behind before swimming in the direction of its prey yet again. The top of its skull smashed into Krystoph’s spine, turning cartilage to dust and sending shivers of pain across his muscled back. Grunting through gritted teeth, he expelled yet more precious oxygen. There was very little left. With every pass, the beast was becoming more aggressive. Mostly unfamiliar with Ochans, it was testing him, unsure if the muscular lizard man posed any sort of threat. With every pass, it was getting closer to discovering that the answer was a resounding no. The pain in his lower back traveled to his legs, and now a little less than fifty feet from the surface, Krystoph suddenly came to a stop. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the Sea Dragon moving toward him at an incredible speed. This time its massive mouth was opened wide, teeth as long as Krystoph’s arm and as thick as his leg anxious to tear hungrily into his flesh. Realizing there was no hope of out-maneuvering the beast, the Ochan gripped the bag containing the Rongstag tighter, determined to not let go as he braced himself for impact. Through a pair of enormous milky eyes with even milkier pupils set on either end of its long snout, the Sea Dragon never averted its gaze. It was intrigued, it was hungry, and it would not be deterred. With the speed of a creature half its size, the gargantuan crocodile-like jaws of the dragon snapped around Krystoph’s midsection. Somehow the Ochan managed to not only avoid the dangerous teeth, but wedge his body in the mouth of the great beast as well, thus preventing it from biting down. Immediately the Sea Dragon shook its head violently from side to side in response, attempting to whip its wedged food loose. When this didn’t succeed, it started thrashing the whole of its body, coiling and spinning in every conceivable direction. Wedged between the jaws of the monster while struggling to hold his breath and maintain his grip on the Rongstag, Krystoph could tell his muscles were close to giving way. The Sea Dragon’s fourteen-foot long tongue rose from the abyss of its throat and wrapped around his waist, attempting to tug him into its belly. Krystoph’s collarbone snapped, chunks of bone slicing into the muscle underneath his skin and pressing against the fleshly exterior. Three fingers in his right hand broke. One of the massive ebony teeth near his left leg sliced through his deep green scales, leaving a cloud of blood spewing into the ocean. The strength of the Sea Dragon’s jaw was simply too much and he was too weak. It was winning.
Their complete attention on one another, unbeknownst to both Krystoph and the Sea Dragon was the fact that Nestor Rockshell was currently gripping tightly to a row of pointy, bony fins lining the creature’s spine. Despite the dragon’s wild flailing, Nestor maintained his grip and his position, a dagger sandwiched between his flat edged teeth. Carefully, the Tycarian began clawing his way toward the beast’s head. If he were to be tossed off, he might not be able to get back on. His grip meant everything; his grip meant life. Furious with the fact that it was unable to swallow its prey, quite suddenly the Sea Dragon dove downward and headed for the darker, cooler, more familiar surroundings of deep sea. Using the row of fins as a ladder, Nestor at last reached the top of the beast’s skull. The ocean had again begun to change from blue to black, the temperature dropping noticeably. Nestor understood that the deeper the monster carried them, the more the pressure would build. If they were pulled too deep, it would crush both he and Krystoph like cans. Collapsing bone and muscle with ease, the depths of the sea would leave little more than a disgusting blob of goop behind. He had to act and he had to act now, before it was too late.
Pulling the knife from his teeth, Nestor muscled himself forward and drove the weapon directly into the Sea Dragon’s exposed eye. Gummy streams of egg colored liquid spurted from the wound, spreading out across the surrounding water in grotesque cantaloupe-size clumps. Whipping its head violently, the Dragon managed to not only shake Nestor from its back, but Krystoph from its mouth as well. Spinning in circles as its tail thrashed haphazardly, the monster released a horrifying yelp accompanied by a wall of air bubbles so immense they engulfed the bodies of Nestor and Krystoph entirely. Through the bubbles, blackness and pained cries of the Sea Dragon, Nestor spotted Krystoph’s body floating limply a few feet away. The Ochan’s eyes were closed, his expression blank. Streams of blood poured not only from his leg, but a few nasty looking wounds along his back as well. Still gripped tightly between Krystoph’s fingers, however, was the Rongstag. Snagging Krystoph’s wrist, Nestor swam for the surface as fast as his sore muscles would allow while dragging the burly, lifeless body of the Ochan behind. From somewhere below came the angry roar of the Sea Dragon. More frightening than the howl was the fact that it was getting closer. Instead of stopping to look behind him, Nestor chose to swim faster. Nearly matching the speed of the dragon below, he could say without a moment’s hesitation that it had been years since he’d moved so fast. The underside of the Briar
Patch again became visible, now barely a hundred yards away. Again the great beast screamed from the depths as a bed of bubbles r
ose up around Nestor and the partially unconscious Ochan in tow. Moving at such an incredible speed, the moment Nestor reached the surface he shot at least twenty feet into the air as water sprayed in every direction around him. With his free hand he grabbed the railing of the ship and held tight. Using his momentum, he tossed Krystoph and the Rongstag onto the deck. The Ochan’s body hit the wood with a thud and slid across the soaked beams toward the center of the ship.
A moment later the Sea Dragon exploded from the surface of the water as well. Its massive jaws attempted to clamp down on Nestor. Narrowly missing, the beast instead took a bite out of the side of the ship, ripping a huge chunk of the wood away with ease. After spitting the rotted timber aside, it lunged at Nestor once more as he dangled perilously from the side of the Briar Patch. The Sea Dragon’s jaws were only a few inches from his shell when a bevy of arrows begin to pierce the flesh of its head and snout; a few found their way into its already injured eye. Howling in pain, the dragon dove below the water once again. With the aid of the crew, Nestor was hoisted onto the ocean-soaked deck a moment later. Never in his life had he been happier to feel the familiar hardness of solid ground. Rushing to his side, young Nicky Jarvis did his best to help the turtle man to his feet.
“Thank you, lad,” Nestor said with a thankful sigh, mussing the boy’s dark brown hair with his flat paw while trying to corral his hurried breath.
Less than ten feet away, Krystoph slowly rose to his feet. He hacked and spit a disgusting, slimy mix of ocean water, saliva and blood from his mouth.
“Glad ya made it back in one piece, ya green-skinned scallywag!” Captain Fluuffytail commented to Nestor with a smile, shoving a bow and several arrows into the hard shell of the Tycarian’s chest. “I hate to put ya back to work the moment ya return, but we got ourselves bigger problems than a teenage Sea Dragon with an eye-ache!”