Forts Special Edition: Fathers and Sons

by Steven Novak

  Though not fully aware of what he was doing, Donald tightened his grip on the leg of the soldier, lifted and pushed.

  The massive bodied creature seemed to weigh no more than a small rock. Donald tossed him straight into the air as if he had been shot from a catapult. The Ochan hung against the background of the sky, arched, and fell quickly to the ground. His body slammed into the dirt nearly thirty feet away with a puff of smoke, knocking him completely unconscious and breaking several bones in the process. Donald sat and stared blankly at his arms. He wiggled his fingers slowly. His limbs quivered. He could not make sense of what he had just done.

  From the corner of his eye he spotted the soldier that had knocked King Walcott unconscious. He was sprinting towards him, weapon at the ready. Once again the boy’s body moved before his brain could process what was happening around him. This was action, rather than reaction. Body and mind seemed to be two beings, completely independent of each other. Propping himself up on one knee, he flung his hands into the dirt like a pair of jackhammers. The incredible strength of the movement buried his arms up to his shoulders and sent a shockwave cascading across the soil toward the charging soldier. The ground popped, rattled, and shook, as if an earthquake rumbled underneath his feet. Thick plumes of dirt and rock flew into the air, exploding underneath the soldier like a bomb. The explosion sent him flailing wildly into the air before crashing violently into a nearby tree. Donald tugged his arms from the ground, dusted the dirt and rocks off his sleeves and lifted them to his face.

  Now it was his turn to smile widely.

  Somewhere in-between the fighting, Tommy Jarvis was sprawled out on his hands and knees, his head buried in his sweaty palms. The moment he noticed that his group was trapped, the strange, warm feeling he had experienced in Tipoloo started to wash over him. His entire body felt as if it were on fire – a fire so hot and all-encompassing that it seemed to consume every part of him at an alarming rate. His heart, which had been pumping in double time, now pushed itself to triple time. His breaths were quick and deep, each one echoing in his chest, picking up speed like a swinging pendulum. It seemed unbearable. Tommy lifted his head and gazed at the sky. Every part of him wanted to scream – to do something – anything to release the pressure pressing against his insides like a million tiny little hands attached to a million tiny fire bombs. Beams of pure white light poured through his eyes and mouth. The beams parted the clouds like a great gust of wind, disintegrating them on contact. The release of energy provided Tommy temporary relief but the relief was fleeting. He felt it building inside him once again. It did not take long for the boy’s entire body to light up with the strange, crackling energy. Even the slightest movement on his part resulted in a popping and crackling sound, much like static from a television set. The need to release again the pressure was painfully obvious to the boy. Not only did he need to be rid of it, he needed to do it quickly. Awash in the strange glow, Tommy slowly rose to his feet and lifted his hands. He pointed them at the doorway to Fillagrou. Though he could not explain why, it seemed the obvious choice.

  Of his regiment, only Nestor Rockshell remained standing. His men had fought gallantly in the name of their King but each had tasted the blade of the enemy and lay dead in the blood-stained grass. Out of breath and unable to lift his blade due to a badly injured arm, he was surrounded by five Ochan soldiers. Nestor breathed in the odor of Tycaria one final time, so moist, so soft, and so very much home. He would miss this place; yet if anything, it was worth dying for. Nestor closed his eyes and defiantly raised his head, awaiting the inevitable. The Ochan soldiers closed in on his position. The soldier closest to Nestor’s fallen body was given the honor of the kill.

  The Ochan raised his sword, ready to strike his injured foe, but then froze. His wide eyes focused on a tidal wave of light that was moving in his direction at an alarming rate. Confused, he stepped away from Nestor. The Ochan realized that he could not out run the great wall of light and raised his shield, bracing himself for whatever impact the incredible sight would bring. All around him, his fellow soldiers followed his lead and assumed a similar defensive position.

  Nestor wondered why he was not dead and slowly opened his eyes. He noticed that his executioner was hiding behind his shield. From the corner of his eye, Nestor spotted the gargantuan, rapidly approaching wall of light. Instinct a million years old instructed him to tuck his limbs into his shell and hide, which was exactly what he did without hesitation.

  The ominous glowing wall slammed into the soldiers with the force of a freight train, leaving heavy scorch marks across their armor and tossing them wildly for miles in every direction. An entire regiment of well-trained, battle-tested, war-tough Ochan soldiers had been wiped out in the blink of an eye. Amazingly, the light had targeted only the Ochan soldiers, leaving Nester’s protective shell unscathed. Tommy Jarvis turned his still glowing body to Pleebo and lifted his arms. The boy’s fingertips crackled to life once again, humming and popping, aglow with their otherworldly light. Swiftly the light expanded and extended in every direction. A sound eerily reminiscent of a growl filled the air, shook the ground and blew apart the clouds as the radiance from his fingers blasted toward the soldiers near the tree line.

  Little Roustaf, who had been knocked unconscious when the soldier swatted him away, woke just in time to see the incredible light rushing toward him.

  His mouth agape, he managed to whisper only two words before it was upon him, “Oh, crap.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 40

  PROPHECIES AND VISIONS

  *

  Zanell’s feet splashed in the muddy puddles as she walked steadily through the forest. The rain beat gently down on her head, cooling her skin and washing away years of dirt and grime from her stringy hair. Opening her mouth, she let some of it catch on the tip of her long, flat tongue. It tasted good – cool and salty – and brought with it memories of a place she had never had the opportunity to fully understand. The forest, the world and the universe seemed different to her now. Everything around her had a story and a history all its own. The minuscule and meaningless things that she might never have noticed only hours ago suddenly played a crucial part in a grand and complicated tale. Even with her new eyes filled with wonderful sight, she could never hope to fully understand the magnitude of her gift. The death of a flower, the birth of another, each was a piece in an absurdly complicated puzzle that was nowhere near its completion.

  Zanell stopped in a particularly deep puddle of muddy water, pausing for a second as an image flashed in her head. Amazing sensations exploded and cascaded across her brain like a trillion stars coming to a tragically beautiful end in a brilliant chorus.

  Without a doubt this was a unique feeling – warm, comforting and scary, all at the same time. It was unique, though a uniqueness for which she was slowly growing accustomed.

  Pivoting on one foot, she turned and looked behind her with a steady, assured gaze. As if on cue, two Ochan soldiers seated atop a pair of massive, drooling, multi-horned creatures called Megalots, passed through a thick set of trees in the distance. They spotted Zanell and kicked at the sides of the large creatures, eliciting a deep, guttural growl from the snarling snouts of the beasts. They ran toward her as quickly as their massive bodies could manage. Not long ago such a sight would have scared the daylights out of Zanell. Her first response would have been to run in the opposite direction, to keep running until her legs gave out.

  Now, though, things were different. She was different.

  The creatures came to a stop just ten feet from her. Their massive hoofed feet slid across the damp soil, almost spinning out of control in the process. The creatures secured their footing, and the soldiers hopped off of their backs, heading for Zanell. The larger of the two stepped in close, his face inches from her, his breath warm on her flesh.

  The soldier clacked his teeth menacingly, sporting a quizzical half grin-half frown. “Look at this one…not even running. I’m not
sure if we should give her credit for bravery, laugh at her stupidity, or remove the head from her shoulders for her insolence.”

  From behind him the other soldier laughed so deeply that his armor clanked and rattled with each heave of his burly chest.

  The first Ochan moved closer to Zanell, sniffing at her skin while licking his lips. His face was now so close that she could almost taste his rancid, acid smelling breath in her mouth. “Well…which is it, female? Are you brave or stupid…or both?”

  Zanell said nothing but stared at the trees. She spotted a tiny black Muridon spider. With a little grin, she watched it crawl underneath a large leaf on the forest floor in order to escape the falling rain. Fillagrou, Ocha, the war, her grandfather, The Five to save them all, none of it meant anything to the tiny sixteen-legged, thirty-four-eyed arachnid. He was simply trying to get home to his family. He had his own battles to fight, his own tests to complete. Her world and her problems meant absolutely nothing to him and never would. Beyond a fleeting glance in her direction, the Muridon barely acknowledged her existence. Zanell found this truth to be quite funny in a bittersweet sort of way. Smiling broadly she winked at the tiny creature.

  The soldier took note of the unexpected gesture.

  Angrily he shoved her against a nearby tree. “Do you find something funny, female? Please share it with me. I would love to know exactly what you find so comical about your current situation.” Pulling a dagger from his side he held it up to her face, gently running the sharp blade against the skin of her forehead. “I’ll tell you what’s funny…the way your pathetic little underground city fell…now that’s funny.”

  His comment immediately garnered Zanell’s attention. Turning her head slowly she gazed into his eyes.

  “Ooh, what happened to your sweet smile, female? It seems to have suddenly disappeared…how strange. What is it? Did you have some family down there, friends maybe? Yes, that’s it…I bet you did, didn’t you? Lots of friends…lots of friends and family who are now dead.”

  In one long, slow movement the creature repositioned his blade underneath her small nostrils. The disgusting, dirty yellow of his teeth now showed through his broad, sarcastic smile. “Can you smell that? On the edge of my blade, can you smell that? That’s the smell of your mother and your father…or maybe your sister. It’s the smell of your best friend’s life ending. It’s the smell of destiny…both yours and mine.”

  Zanell’s flat lips curved into a grin. While the brutish soldier saw himself as one thing, she saw him as another entirely. Try as he might to intimidate her, he could not and would not – not ever again. She saw his past, his present and his future reflected in his eyes. Her mind wandered back in time, overflowing with images of the soldier as a youth, the lost and lonely son of a father that had died in a pointless war over land. The knife resting precariously against her face, the sharpness of his teeth, the fact that he was twice her size and could easily overpower her no longer meant a thing. Hiding behind his dark helmet, thick skin and menacing eyes, she saw only a young boy that had been raised by an overbearing, domineering mother, a young man who had sought love and a feeling of belonging and a sad young man who, when unable to find what he had desired, forced himself to settle for the next closest thing in the military.

  No, Zanell did not fear this creature at all but rather pitied him.

  In a soft, gentle voice she whispered, “You’re not going to kill me.”

  The soldier cackled. “Oh, I’m not, am I?”

  “No, in fact you’re going to take me exactly where I need to go.”

  “Is that what I’m going to do?”

  “Yes it is.”

  The young Ochan’s smile gradually faded as he examined the emotionless features of the young Fillagrou female, somewhat confused.

  The confusion quickly turned to anger. Who did this girl think she was? Where did she get the nerve? To speak to him in such a manner was unheard of! Annoyance intertwined with rage boiled up his belly. He was quickly growing tired of the disgusting female and her strange, blank stare. With a flick of his hand he moved his dagger to her throat, fully prepared to slice it open and spray her thick, warm blood across the forest floor. His plan came to an abrupt halt when a regiment of Ochan soldiers burst through the trees behind them. Every soldier was seated atop one of at least five different types of creatures, each adorned in armor built to meet their specific dimensions. The regiment was obviously in a hurry, moving hastily through the forest with purpose.

  As the group thundered past, a Lieutenant perched on top of an animal resembling a large snake with twelve tiny muscular legs growing along the length of its enormous, squirmy body, came to a stop ten feet from the soldier with his knife to Zanell’s throat. “You, there! All regiments have been called back to the fortress immediately! There’s been an uprising, and reinforcements are needed!”

  The two soldiers confronting Zanell looked briefly at each other in shock and astonishment. There had not been an uprising worthy of even one regiment in a very long time, let alone one requiring all of them at once.

  The Lieutenant tugged angrily at the reins of his multi-footed snake and turned to rejoin the group of galloping beasts that by now had passed by.

  Stopping only momentarily, he turned briefly to Zanell and her tormentors. “On the off chance that she may prove useful, bring that…thing…with you,” he stated gruffly.

  The soldier who had her pinned against the tree reluctantly removed the blade from her neck, grumbling under his breath his dissatisfaction with the order from his superior.

  Zanell smiled slightly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “I told you so.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 41

  THE GREAT SLAVE REVOLT

  *

  “GUARDS! GET THEM!” General Gragor bellowed at the top of his lungs, pulling his broad sword from the sheath on his back as he prepared himself for battle.

  Across from him a horde of snarling, angry prisoners emerged from the dungeon corridors, spreading out across the interior of the great hall like liquid poured into a goblet. At the front, leading the charge was the injured Fellow Undergotten.

  General Gragor stared directly into Fellow’s eyes and nodded. The movement was barely noticeable to the others, but Fellow had recognized it immediately and smiled back in defiance, his mouth slowly filling with his own blood.

  The Chintaran scum had managed quite a feat escaping from the dungeon and for this act deserved credit. General Gragor could admit this. At the same time the Ochan General promised himself that he would ensure that it was the Chintaran’s very last accomplishment.

  The crowd of screaming prisoners broke off in two directions in order to defend themselves against the Ochan guards who had entered the hall through the large doors lining its outer walls. Simultaneously, a large group immediately moved in the direction of General Gragor and the two guards who still held the children captive. They had no weapons – save for the occasional lantern, jimmied steel rod or loose brick that they had acquired while in the dungeon. They outnumbered the guards in the hall at least ten to one, and this was their lone advantage. As the horde descended on General Gragor, the Ochan fought them off as best he could, slicing and chopping with deadly accuracy. Despite putting down prisoners in threes, three quickly took their place. General Gragor ultimately found himself backed into a corner, away from the brunt of the fighting. It was a fantastic tactical maneuver on the part of Fellow Undergotten who had intended to get the skilled warrior as far away from the children as possible. The guards holding Nicky and Staci had to drop the children in order to unsheathe their weapons and fully defend themselves.

  From inside the flailing, screaming mass of half-starved prisoners now clawing at his every limb, General Gragor noticed his soldiers’ actions.

  Furious, he screamed, “NO, YOU FOOLS! DO NOT LET THE CHILDREN GO!”

  Avoiding the occasional swinging blade and trying his best to keep his insides from
spilling onto the floor, Fellow quickly made his way through the fighting, wailing mass of bodies, and headed toward the children. Staci was lying curled upon the stone with little Nicky Jarvis hovering over her. With his hands pressed tightly over his ears, the boy tried in vain to block out the sounds of death which assaulted his senses from every angle. Fellow snatched Staci in his arms.

  Turning to Nicky he barked over the noise, “FOLLOW ME!”

  With Nicky close behind, Fellow carried Staci through the raucous fighting toward a door at the far end of the hall. He kicked it open with his foot and passed into another long hallway. A few feet behind the fish-man ran Nicky. Once the boy was inside, Fellow slammed his shoulder into the door and shut it behind them. His wound was throbbing underneath the thin cloth that barely held him together. For Fellow, even the slightest movement on his part resulted in a considerable amount of discomfort. Sharp stabs of pain exploded in his side, traveled up his body and exploded more violently in his head. His sight was getting more blurry by the second, his breathing labored. Standing at his side, Nicky looked at the fish-man with tears in his eyes. The boy was confused, scared and in desperate need of his help. Nicky’s expression reminded Fellow that they had to keep moving.

  Breathing in deeply, Fellow held his breath for a second, shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. He tried to block out the pain. In his arms, Staci still seemed to be lost somewhere else. Her hands hung limply to the side, her eyes wide open, her gaze blank and distant. Fellow looked down the dark hallway and back toward Nicky, who was hiding behind his leg, the boy’s tiny body trembling as if he were freezing cold.

  Readjusting his grip on Staci, Fellow at last exhaled and sternly said, “Come on…we have to keep moving.”