Forts Special Edition: Fathers and Sons

by Steven Novak

  “It’s all right, my boy, it’s all right. I fully understand that there are more important things than the suffering of an old wreck such as me, especially in this day and age.”

  As soon as he was sitting, the Elder lovingly tapped Pleebo on the side of his face, smiling at him. “Besides, how could I stay mad at you when you look so much like your mother?”

  He gazed dreamily upon Pleebo before he directed his attention to the people that now packed his tiny dwelling. The Elder signed deeply as he glanced about the room. His eyes stopped roaming when he noticed Owen, “Ah…it would seem that the third has arrived…good. Welcome, young man, I’ve been quite anxious to meet you.”

  “Grandfather,” Pleebo said shyly since he was not sure if he should interrupt, “Outside, in the street, Tommy’s hand…”

  The Elder lifted his bony finger and nodded to Pleebo, indicating to his grandson that an explanation was unnecessary. After letting a stiff and very painful ache in his back run its course, he sighed deeply once again before he turned his attention back to the group.

  “You are now three, but you must be five before we stand any chance at all. The other two are currently being held captive by the Prince in his fortress at the end of the red forest.”

  Owen had no idea what was going on, but immediately realized who the strange looking old creature was talking about. Quietly, he mumbled to himself, “Staci and Nicky.”

  Tommy, who was standing at the far side of the room, instantly chimed in , “What did you just say, Owen?”

  “Nothing…I mean…I just said…Staci Alexander and your brother…”

  “What about my brother?” Tommy asked, pushing his way past King Walcott and moving to within inches of Owen’s face. Though Tommy and Owen had never been friends, he had known of his existence since kindergarten. In many ways, Owen was a lot like him, shy, quiet, choosing to keep to himself – whether by choice or not. Upon hearing the mention of his little brother’s name, something inside Tommy came to life. In that instant, nothing else mattered - not the Elder, not Fillagrou, not the war or the weird thing happening to him. All that mattered was his little brother and whether or not he was safe.

  “Y…your brother…” Owen continued, slightly stuttering, “…and Staci…I saw them…a bunch of guys in armor took them…”

  “TOOK THEM!? WHO TOOK THEM!? HOW LONG AGO!?”

  “I…I…I don’t…know…”

  From his bed, the tired voice of the Elder interrupted, “Calm yourself, Tommy Jarvis. You will be given the opportunity to find and rescue both your brother and the young girl. In fact, you may find this difficult to fathom, but from my vantage point, it has already occurred.”

  Tommy moved briskly toward the Elder with a purpose and intent long beyond his years. Looking the tired old creature directly in the eyes, he said two words, “When? How?”

  The Elder smiled.

  For years he had made the prophecy a part of his life. After Nelvo’s passing some years ago, he had taken over the mantle of Elder of the Fillagrou. With the position came the power of sight beyond sight. It was the sight that Nelvo had possessed for so many years. It was the sight that had allowed him to make the prophecy in the first place. Since then, the Elder had experienced the prophecy firsthand; he studied it, repeated it, lived it, and became one with it in ways he could have hardly imagined beforehand. Yet, over the years, while the suffering continued and the promise of anything different became less and less likely, there had been times when even he doubted the truth of the images associated with it. Now though, staring directly into the face of a determined little boy from a land unlike his own, he found his faith justified.

  Reaching up, he touched the side of Tommy’s face the same way he had touched Pleebo’s only minutes ago. “I can see now why they sent you…I should never have doubted.”

  The Elder was quite serious when he spoke to everyone in the room. “Seven of you will go to rescue them. Not a single more and not a single less. You will take only what you carry on your person, and nothing else. Tommy, Donald, Owen, The Tycarian King, Roustaf, my grandson, and one you will meet when you’ve reached your destination. It is you that will strike the first blow…it is you who will at last set into motion Nelvo’s words.”

  Not hearing her name mentioned, Zanell quickly interjected, “But grandfather, what about me?”

  “You will be needed here, Zanell.”

  “But grandfath…”

  “Please Zanell…have faith in the prophecy…have faith in me.”

  Zanell nodded, lowering her head quietly. A small part of her wanted to continue pleading her case, but what more could she say? As much as she wanted to go, she had been raised to believe in the prophecy. She was raised even more so to believe in her grandfather. When her mother had died some years ago, it was her grandfather that raised her and kept her safe. She owed him her life and she was not about to lose faith in him now.

  The Elder sighed deeply, trying to ignore the growing pain throughout his tired body. He did not need the sight beyond sight to tell him that his time in this world was quickly growing short. Such things were obvious, even to the blind. Soon everything that he was, everything Nelvo had given him upon his death, would be passed on to another. Most likely this would be his last act as the Fillagrou Elder and he was not about to let the pains of his useless old body keep him from performing it.

  “On the road to reunite The Five, the seven will face grave danger at every turn. But through friendship and teamwork they will survive. If the prophecy is to come to fruition, The Five must be reunited…at any cost. Five will arrive, four will return. All of reality walks beside you on this journey my friends; failure will mean the end of all things. Go now…take with you the knowledge of the importance of the situation facing you and fight accordingly. You are the last hope…you are the only hope.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 21

  COUNSEL WITH THE CONJURER

  *

  As Prince Valkea marched through one of the many corridors in his immense fortress, he noticed that the air around him felt stuffier, heavier somehow. Outside the massive walls, the land of Fillagrou had begun the patient darkening that came with dusk. For the Prince, the nights were over much too quickly. In Ocha, night could last upwards of three months, while in Fillagrou it seemed barely twelve hours. This was just one of the many reasons why he missed his home world so greatly. The place where he now resided was too stuffy, too hot, and much too bright for far too long. It was filled with forests and plants and other such things for which he held no patience or interest. Over the years, he had grown to despise the color red. It haunted his dreams; even while awake, he could see it whenever he closed his eyes, making the very act of blinking almost unbearable. Where he wanted there to be only black, he saw red - annoying, frustrating, disgusting red.

  The Prince had taken this position because his father had demanded it. He often cursed the King’s decision behind his back. A very large part of him wished that the old creature would die. His father’s death would allow him to take the mantle of King. Before returning to Ocha, he would leave this wretched little place and all its disgusting little creatures in the hands of another unfortunate soul. Those were, of course, thoughts that he kept to himself. Prince or not, he could be put to death for even thinking such things.

  Prince Valkea finally came to a stop in front of a thick, fifteen-foot-high wooden door at the end of the corridor. Two guards on either side immediately stepped in front of him to unlatch an endless number of heavy iron locks. The sound of each heavy lock as it clicked open echoed throughout the empty fortress, bouncing off its endless stone walls, carrying on forever. When the guards were finished, they stepped aside and lowered their heads as the Prince passed through. Prince Valkea slowly pushed open the enormous door and strode confidently into the room. Once inside, the guards quickly closed and locked the door behind him.

  The room was very nearly pitch-black, somewhat co
ld, very damp, and eerily silent. It smelled heavy and pungent and thick, as if something had died within its walls and was decaying in a darkened corner. The light of a blue flame crackled and burned on the far side. Next to the fire a very old creature adorned in a thick black cloak rested on its hands and knees, its forehead pressing against the floor. The robe seemed ancient – covered in a thin layer of dust that could only have built up from years of inactivity. Despite the Prince’s arrival, the creature remained motionless, lost in some sort of prayer. Prince Valkea moved slowly toward the blue fire and the hunched figure.

  The Prince rolled his eyes deeply; in a voice heavy with annoyance muttered, “Conjurer…I seek counsel.”

  The dusty figure did not respond. The only sound heard in the room was the crackle created by the strange blue flame and the labored wheeze of the tired old figure underneath the cloak.

  In a more serious tone the Prince again stated, “Conjurer…your Prince has informed you that he requires your counsel.”

  Never moving, the cloaked figure responded from his hunched position. “Your request has been heard and understood, oh, great Prince.”

  Every single part of Prince Valkea hated the conjurers. Mystics, prophets, magicians, it all seemed like such nonsense to him – and the conjurers were all three combined. To the young Prince the entire race was little more than a holdover from days long since forgotten – relics of a time better left in the past. If it had not been for his father and the ancient traditions of his race, he never would have allowed one of the creatures inside the walls of his fortress. In fact, if it had not been for his father’s insane belief in the Fillagrou Elder’s nonsensical ramblings, he would not have troubled himself with coming into the conjurer’s disgusting chamber at all.

  The Prince was annoyed that the conjurer seemed intent on ignoring him and moved toward the fire. He grabbed the creature by the back of its cloak and angrily lifted it into the air. “FOUL CREATURE! I SAY THIS TO YOU ONE MORE TIME! YOUR PRINCE REQUIRES COUNSEL!”

  With one hand he spun the conjurer around to face him. , As a direct result of the Prince’s anger, the blue flame shot upward as if stoked by a handful of gasoline. Prince Valkea pulled the conjurer close to his face and ripped the cloak from its head, staring into its milky white eyes.

  “Ugly things, these conjurers – foul, ugly, deplorable things.”

  The conjurer race was an offshoot of the Ochan people, but the similarities ended with their appearance. While the Prince’s face was covered in healthy looking green scales, the conjurer’s were much more yellow in tint - dirty, light yellow, with just a hint of brown - the color of dirty sugar. Unlike the Ochan people, the conjurer race was completely blind. It was because of this very ailment that they were believed to have evolved their other senses to terrifying heights. Through hearing, taste, and touch, the conjurers were believed to be conscious of things in the world around them on a level that the average Ochan could never imagine – including the world of magic. Of course, that was if one believed in such things, which the Prince most certainly did not.

  In fact, Prince Valkea thought that the powers of the conjurers were little more than pathetic, ancient legends, parlor tricks at best. To him, the entire race was nothing more than a great band of freaks - worthless old relics that had long since outlived their usefulness to the world of Ocha.

  He moved the conjurer closer to his face. “Next time your Prince speaks to you, I suggest that you acknowledge his presence. Do we understand each other, creature?”

  Almost sarcastically, the conjurer answered, “Indeed we do, mighty Prince. Indeed we do.”

  “Good.” Prince Valkea let go of the creature’s robe and stepped away “Do you know why I’m here, old fool?”

  “Indeed I do, great Prince, indeed I do.”

  “Tell me, then, what nonsense does your blue flame have to offer on the pink-skinned children that arrived in my chamber earlier this day?”

  The conjurer turned back to the flame. The blue light reflected in his clear, milky eyes.

  A long, thin tongue snaked its way out of its toothless, wrinkled mouth and over his lips. “You take the danger these things present too lightly, young Prince. There are ancient powers at work…some light, yes…but some quite dark indeed. To stand in arrogant defiance of them is a grand mistake.”

  The Prince chuckled quietly under his breath at the old creature’s words. “Great powers? They are but children. Tiny, pathetic, useless children…I see no proof of these powers that you speak of, old fool.”

  “Your words say one thing, but your heart says another, glorious Prince. Be warned, failure to heed these warnings could prove to be your undoing. It is a mistake that the great King Kragamel would never make.”

  When he was compared to his father in such a manner, the Prince overflowed with rage. He lunged toward the conjurer and grabbed him again by the cloak, whipping him violently from side to side, “DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK OF MY FATHER, YOU DISGUSTING CREATURE!”

  “I…apologize glorious Prince…I…I meant n…”

  “I KNOW WHAT YOU MEANT! Do you think me stupid, conjurer? Do not believe even for one second that your condescending tone has gone unnoticed. Were it not for my father and his idiotic beliefs in all things unreal and foolish, I would kill you where you stand!”

  Tugging the conjurer mere inches from his face, Prince Valkea smiled at him with his endless row of sharp teeth, “Tell me, old fool…do you think your magic could save you from the steel of my blade?”

  With a blank expression, the conjurer answered after a long pause. “Do you know how your father came to power, mighty Prince? Do you know the circumstances surrounding the death of your grandfather? You wait for power like a scavenger waiting to pick at the remains of a carcass caught by another mightier beast. Your words do not scare me, great Prince, because they are just that…words. The words of a child lost in the very long shadow of one much greater than he and nothing more.”

  Prince Valkea’s smile quickly faded. He had heard enough.

  The defiant words of the old creature angered him beyond the point of reason. Every part of his body trembled with the frustration of a lifetime spent as his father’s son. In one smooth motion he reached to his side, removed the dagger from his belt and plunged it into the conjurer’s stomach. Behind them both, the blue flame once again sparked violently upward. An unholy noise vaguely reminiscent of a scream shot up from its center, echoing across the darkened room.

  With his jaw clenched tight, Prince Valkea growled at the conjurer through a half-smile, “DO YOU FEAR THIS YOU, OLD FOOL!? DO YOU FEAR THIS!?” Spittle shot from his massive, toothed jaw, splashing on the face of the quickly dying creature.

  The Prince then twisted the blade back and forth, grinding it further and further into the soft flesh of the conjurer’s belly. Each time the old creature tried to mutter a word, Prince Valkea pressed his dagger deeper, preventing it from accomplishing the task.

  “As I told you it would, your magic does nothing for you now, does it foul beast? My first action as sovereign leader of Ocha will be to wipe your entire race from our land. I will see to each and every one of your kind’s deaths personally…and I will do this…in your name.” With one last push, the Prince drove the remainder of the dagger into the conjurer’s stomach. “Take this knowledge with you into the hereafter.”

  In one quick motion he removed the dagger and shoved the lifeless body into the fire. The strange blue flames engulfed the conjurer’s body, its wicked crackles screaming in agony as it reluctantly devoured the flesh tossed upon it. Wiping the blood from his blade, Prince Valkea placed it back on his belt and left the conjurer’s chambers, still smelling the searing of its flesh.

  Once back in the corridor, the Prince turned to one of the guards and spoke with a patient, self-satisfied tone. “You there…tell General Gragor that I need to speak to him immediately. Tell him I want the doorway that leads to the world of these meddlesome little children found as soon
as possible. There is no more time to delay. I feel very much like conquering a world.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 22

  THE ALEXANDER FAMILY

  *

  When Chris Jarvis awoke, he was staring at the ceiling in his bedroom through a pair of blurry eyes. His body was covered in a very old, very sticky, dirty sweat. What day was it? What time was it? What had happened the night before? Chris found himself with many questions and absolutely no answers to any of them – unfortunately, this was a very familiar feeling.

  Taking a deep breath, he rolled over onto his stomach, sliding awkwardly onto the floor. He took a moment to clear his head and let the pain pulsing behind his eyes fade a bit. He stood up slowly and walked into the bathroom to take a much needed cold shower. While letting the water cascade across his sore body, he tried to remember what had happened the previous afternoon. Vague memories of sparse instances bounced around in his brain, but everything was in pieces, random and jumbled. He recalled moments – going to the bar after work, coming home, tripping over Tommy’s backpack and nearly breaking his neck, but everything was choppy, unedited and out of order. Fragments of images were unable to come together, like two positively charged magnets pushing against one another. Slowly Chris pulled his hands to his face, and for some reason he made a fist. The knuckles on the right hand hurt a good deal more than any other part of his body. They looked red, and every time he moved his fingers even the slightest, he could hear the bones crack and pop softly, like old wood on a campfire.

  Tommy – book bag – fists – tears.

  The images continued their sadistic dance inside his skull, mocking his inability to piece them together. Tommy – fists – tears. For some reason it was these brief remembrances in particular that kept forcing their way to the front of the line. Something deep inside him – maybe fear, possibly good sense – hinted to him that he might be better served to stop searching for an answer.