by Steven Novak
Roustaf was fast. His size allowed him to maneuver through spaces that the guards and their massive creatures could never hope to fit. The Scarbeaks were remarkably fast. Despite their heavily muscled forms, they moved with a graceful ease that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. In conjunction with each jump, duck or long stride the creatures let out a loud, high-pitched squeal. The volume of the squeals was precisely what had enabled Roustaf to judge just how close they were without having to look behind him. Despite his speed advantage, no matter what Roustaf tried, he could not seem to shake the creatures. Flying very fast for such a lengthy amount of time was also beginning to wear on him. Every muscle in his upper body ached. His wings were hot and sore and felt moments away from being torn from his back. He did not know how much longer he could keep up the pace.
He needed to shake the guards and he needed to do it now - before it was too late.
With both hands, he reached to his chest, grabbed the straps on his overalls, gritted his teeth, quickly shot up and headed toward the top of the trees. In response, the Scarbeaks flapped their wings, tucked their legs and lifted off the ground, flying after him. The sound of the creatures’ high pitched wail got louder and louder as Roustaf realized they were catching up. He attempted to shake them, zigzagging back and forth widely. The maneuver accomplished little toward creating distance, but it did cause the guards to loosen their formation as they attempted to anticipate the next move of their miniscule prey. As Roustaf passed in front of one guard and then the other, they lunged at him with their sword and barely missed. One of the swings had almost struck the tip of his tiny wings. Had it connected, it would have sent him crashing to the ground. Looking above, Roustaf caught a glimpse of the underside of a large, bushy topped red tree - the thick foliage completely blocking out the sky.
Lowering his head, he flew into the thick leaves, weaving through the tiny openings in the branches with a speed and experience that could only have come from half a lifetime spent in the air.
Knowing that they could not follow him, the guards maneuvered their creatures around, up and over the underside of the tree. Each of them popped up at an opposite end, just as Roustaf zoomed through the middle. When they charged at him from either side, they found themselves unable to halt the forward progress of their creatures fast enough and collided in midair. The Scarbeaks let out a pair of pained screams, bucked wildly like bulls shaking off rodeo riders and threw the helmeted guards off their backs. The guards crashed through the trees, cracking and smashing branches as they fell a good hundred feet to the forest floor. Roustaf stopped, hovering in-mid air just above the tree tops. Breathing heavily, he took a moment to slow the beating of his heart. Looking down, he watched both guards hit the ground. They were far down from his vantage point, their painful crashes looking like little puffs of brown dirt and red leaves. The now riderless Scarbeaks squeaked and cawed wildly, flying aimlessly in the sky.
A crooked smile formed on Roustaf’s face as he muttered to himself, “Wow…I can’t believe that actually worked.”
*
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CHAPTER 26
RACE TO THE DOORWAY
*
Not more than five seconds after Roustaf had darted in the direction of the guards, Donald mumbled to the group in a somewhat surprised tone, “Wow, that little dude’s got some guts.”
Pleebo nodded silently in agreement.
The closer Roustaf came to the soldiers, the more impossible it had been for any of the group to see him. Because of his diminutive size, by the time he had reached the pair of guards, no one among the travelers could see him at all. What they could see, though, was the rapidly growing anger of the guards. The Scarbeaks the soldiers sat upon squealed, squawked and spun wildly in circles. The massive Ochans pulled weapons from their sheaths and swung crazily at the air. From a distance, it seemed as if they were trying to swat a bothersome fly and the sight made Pleebo smile ever so slightly. A few moments later the Scarbeaks bolted quickly away from the door and ran into the forest. Their massive, beefy legs cut swiftly across the ground like a speedboat over the surface of water, no doubt in hot pursuit of the annoying little Roustaf.
Tommy immediately stood from behind the bushes, leaped over them in one determined motion and screamed, “Let’s go!”
Pleebo was next, followed by Owen and Donald, with King Walcott bringing up the rear. King Walcott did not so much as jump over the bushes as plow through them, but the result was the same. Now running at full speed, Tommy kept his eyes on the doorway, his legs pumping in double time. Pleebo was much quicker than the boy and passed him, already nearing the doorway entrance.
Not more than ten feet behind Tommy, Owen Little kept a fairly decent pace. Despite the coordination of a drunken lemur, Owen’s thin, wiry frame allowed for a decent amount of speed if he carefully focused on every step. The strong desire to not get captured and hauled away on a monstrous beast like he had earlier seen happen to Staci and Nicky made it a whole lot easier to concentrate.
As Tommy reached the door, Pleebo waved for him to pass through. Before Tommy stepped inside, he glanced off in the distance, noticing that the Scarbeaks were now flying at a ninety-degree angle toward the tops of the trees. He felt a somewhat hyper Owen shove past him, jump headfirst through the crack in the rocks, while screaming, “MOVE! OUTTA MY WAY! MOVE!”
Pleebo tapped Tommy on the shoulder and nudged him to follow Own through the doorway. “Get in, Tommy! Come on, no time to waste!”
Tommy hesitated at first, thinking briefly about Roustaf. He hoped the little man was all right. Pleebo gave him a much stiffer shove as he forcibly moved him toward the narrow opening.
Both Donald and King Walcott lagged behind. Donald was close but nearly out of breath. With every step he had found it more difficult to breathe correctly. Air was coming in, but it was not going out, and on the rare occasion that it did go out, it was not coming in. Behind him King Walcott was making terrible time. His legs were moving faster than they had moved in years – just as he had promised they would – but apparently he had not been all that fast, even at a youthful one hundred and fifty. By the time Donald, now completely out of breath, reached the doorway he was nearly spent. An abundance of thick, salty sweat poured down his face as he struggled to catch his breath. Turning sideways he shuffled his way through the darkened crack in the rocks, while Pleebo urged him to move faster. King Walcott reached the doorway a minute or so later, feeling as if he was about to pass out. His head was blurry, stuffy, and dizzy. His shell – massive to begin with – now felt twice its size and three times its weight. For the life of him, he could not remember the last time he had moved so quickly. While he felt exhilarated and excited, a very large part of him prayed that he would never have to do this again.
Gasping for air, he turned toward Pleebo and stuttered between deep and gasping pants, “Ha! I am nothing if not true to my word, eh, Mr. Pleebo? King Walcott the fleet of foot! That’s what they used to call me in my youth! King Walcott the fleet of foot!”
Pleebo chuckled quietly to himself at the absurdity of the statement.
He rolled his eyes and gently pushed King Walcott into the crack within the rocks. Only half of the turtle man’s large body had gone through when he became stuck. Pressing his palms against King Walcott’s thick shell, Pleebo pushed with all of his strength, yet the Tycarian King would not budge. Turning around, he wedged his back against King Walcott, dug his feet into the dirt for leverage and pushed harder. Still the rotund creature would not move.
“Push harder, Mr. Pleebo! Put your back into it, my good man!”
Pleebo took a deep breath and shoved again – still nothing. Glancing behind him, he did not see any sign of the guards or Roustaf or the Scarbeaks. Was his tiny friend okay? Had he gotten away? Were the guards on their way back? The process of getting everyone though the doorway felt like it was taking much too long and he was worried. Quickly Pleebo ran twelve steps in the opposite direction from King
Walcott. Lowering his shoulder he charged at the rear of the Tycarian’s massive shell as fast as he could. The intent was to ram the entire weight of his body into that of the stuck former King. Pleebo did not really weigh much, but the force was enough to shake King Walcott loose, pushing him forward into the darkness as he yelped, “Success! Tally-ho, my good man! TALLY-HO!!”
Once King Walcott had been swallowed by the darkness, Pleebo glanced across the forest, looking for Roustaf. He saw nothing. Hopefully Roustaf was okay. Hopefully he was able to lose the guards and was now hiding safely in the trees somewhere, propped upon a branch. Pleebo could imagine he was chuckling to himself at a job well done, with a cocky grin on his face and stroking his mustache – hopefully. Pleebo sighed deeply. He had to keep everyone moving. He did not have any other choice as he headed toward the doorway.
In front of the doorway, hovering not more than five inches from his face, was none other than Roustaf. “What are you waitin’ for, Pleebs? We ain’t got all day, you know.”
The cocky smile, the absentminded stroking of the facial hair, the dirty blue overalls that had not been washed in at least a year, everything was there in full force and Pleebo could not have been any happier.
“Don’t look so surprised to see me, buddy. You did not think I was going to leave you alone to lead this little group, did you? Are you kidding me? This nonsense is way too important to leave in your less than capable hands. The goal is to save the world, not make it worse, big guy”
Pleebo smiled back at his friend. “Good to see you, too.”
With a sly grin on his face, Pleebo raised his hand to Roustaf and flicked him playfully in the chest with one of his bony white fingers. The force of the blow sent the little man flying into the doorway.
*
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CHAPTER 27
WELCOME TO TYCARIA
*
When Tommy had stepped into the blackness of the doorway, a feeling of complete weightlessness took control of his body. As he hovered in the heavy, smothering darkness, the concept of up disappeared and the idea of down folded into the nothingness as if it were a memory half forgotten from long ago. A part of him was worried that he was moving in the wrong direction, that he would somehow end up exactly where he had started. Tommy knew, though, that even if this were the case, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Whatever force controlled him was controlling him completely.
Much in the way his body drifted so did his mind. Thoughts and memories of his brother, Staci, and his mother bounced off of one another like bubbles colliding under water. Some of them collapsed into each other, became one and created something new.
A cold breeze pushed its way through the all-encompassing black, cascaded across his cheek and sent a chill to the very tip of his fingers. A second breeze, from the opposite direction, fluttered the hairs on his head, making those on the back of his neck stand at attention. Before long the breeze changed into a strong, cold wind that flapped his clothes wildly from side to side, occasionally causing his shirt to smack him in the face. Piggy-backed on the tail end of the breeze was the undeniable smell of an ocean of clean, clear, fresh water. The sound of waves rolled into his ears as if crashing onto the shore. Tommy nearly stumbled when his feet came into contact with something solid, yet invisible, as the strange feeling of weightlessness slowly disappeared. A force lacking any form or shape propelled him forward and through the black on this newly discovered piece of land. A tiny speck of white light, no bigger than a grain of sand, appeared directly in front of him. It quickly grew larger and brighter, filling his vision completely. He lifted his hands to shade his eyes from the ominous glow. The light, however, was so intense that his hands did very little. It seemed almost to pass through his flesh and bones as if they had been made of glass. The light was nearly unbearable as Tommy took one more step forward. This time his feet could not find solid ground. The young boy toppled head over heels into the massive field of light. His arms flailed wildly as his hands reached for anything that could halt his rapid descent. Around him the white quickly evaporated, replaced by something new, something more real and weighty.
Blue. Now he could see only blue . Blurry, spinning, blue.
As suddenly as he fell, Tommy splashed down into the chilly water. Unable to take a breath or even close his mouth, his lungs instantly started to fill with the cold, bluish-green liquid. He spotted something resembling light above him and swam toward it. Moments later he broke the water’s surface, gasping for air while coughing liquid from his lungs. The sky was covered in a heavy blanket of thick, gray clouds. The glow of an odd sun, more orange than yellow, peeked sporadically though small holes. Not more than five feet from him, Tommy spotted Owen treading water and doing it badly. Once every few seconds the boy’s head fell beneath the waters’ surface, filling his mouth with the cool, salty liquid.
Struggling to stay afloat Owen called out. “Tommy…can’t…swim! Help…can’t…swim!”
Tommy quickly swam toward Owen, wrapping his arm around the boy’s waist to keep him from drowning.
Donald’s screaming voice could be heard behind them, “OH CRAP!!”
Tommy turned just in time to see Donald falling through the air, perilously close to an enormous cliff. He came to an abrupt stop when he belly-flopped into the water. Near the top of the cliff at the water’s edge, Tommy saw a very small opening cut into its rocky side; he instantly understood that this must be the other side of the doorway.
Donald’s head popped up from under the water as he breathed in a big gulp of fresh air.
Angrily he screamed, “What the hell!? You’ve got to be kidding me!” With an annoyed grimace, he looked toward the opening within the mountainous rock. “Ohh, give me a break! A cliff?! Seriously!?” As Donald bobbed up and down with the gentle waves, he turned toward Tommy and Owen, “Do you two see this!? A cliff! A CLIFF! Why didn’t that idiot mention that there was a cliff!? I am going to kill that stupid turtle!”
Almost as if on cue, the enormous body of King Walcott fell from the crack and splashed into the water, his massive body sending waves in every direction. Unlike the boys before him, King Walcott did not immediately come up for air. He thrust his limbs out of his shell and swam through the water with a speed and ease that contradicted the appearance of his incredible girth. The boys looked through the water and watched as his dark outline moved about the ocean in quick, precise circles.
As he darted between them, a smile crossed his face. King Walcott cheered happily, “Ahh! It feels good to be home, lads!”
Behind the four of them, Pleebo and Roustaf fell into the ocean. Roustaf avoided a splash-down when he caught the breeze with his extended wings and flew toward the group.
He stopped in front of Tommy and Owen and said with a self-satisfied smirk, “Eh…you kids needed a bath anyway.”
Not far away, Pleebo’s head popped out of the water. He noticed the group and slowly swam over to them. The large shell of King Walcott rose up out of the water as the Tycarian floated gently on its underside. His slimy green head stuck out like a turret on the front of a tank.
He slowly paddled across the water to Pleebo. “Welcome to Tycaria, gents! No time for idle chit-chat though, no time to dawdle. Everyone…follow me to shore. If we want to make it to the mountains before nightfall, our pace will have to remain brisk! Tally-ho!”
His gigantic body moved across the water like a rock skipping across the surface of a lake. For the first time since meeting the Tycarian King, the group was going to have trouble keeping up with him, rather than the other way around.
*
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CHAPTER 28
LOWEST OF LOWS. HIGHEST OF HIGHS
*
Prince Valkea shoved his way through a row of fortress guards, pushing one of them violently to the ground. The Ochan Prince was having trouble wrapping his mind around what he had just witnessed, and more importantly, exactly what it meant.
T
he girl – the pathetic looking, tiny pink-skinned girl – had somehow given life to the dead.
The Prince had witnessed various forms of magic throughout the course of his life, but nothing like this. Nothing had ever come close to this. To give life to the dead was the act of a god. The idea that godlike powers could be wielded so freely by such a puny, pathetic being angered and confused him in ways that he simply was not prepared, or willing, to understand. Was his father right? Was the prophecy more than just the hopeful nonsense of an over-imaginative race on the brink of oblivion?
Was it – could it be – real?
As much as he wished that he could answer with a resounding “no” to these questions, he found it impossible to ignore what his eyes had just witnessed.
On top of it all, the fact that the little girl looked more surprised than he had been after what she had done terrified him.
When he saw the girl bring the deceased Chintaran back from the dead, Prince Valkea had instructed the guard on duty to keep an eye on her, then turned and left the dungeon without saying a word. He needed time to fully digest the reality of the situation and formulate an appropriate response. A part of him briefly considered notifying his father. Another part of him quickly pushed the idea out of his head. No, he would handle this himself. He would prove his father wrong and handle the situation on his own, if he could just figure out how.
Shoving past another row of guards, the Prince strode into his throne room, slamming the massive wooden door behind him. Across the large chamber, with its high ceilings and sparse decorations, was General Gragor, looking at the courtyard through an open window.
When he heard the Prince enter the room, General Gragor removed his helmet, and faced his ruler. “Prince, I have word on…”
Before General Gragor could finish his sentence, Prince Valkea angrily kicked over a nearby marble bust made in his own image and screamed, “WHAT!? WORD ON WHAT!? What is so very important that you saw fit to bother me with it right at this very moment, Gragor!? Tell me what you have on your pathetic excuse for a mind! Tell me now while my world is collapsing around me!”