by Steven Novak
The boy instantly thought that this was a blessing, because it meant that no one would notice that this incredible revelation had caused him to pee his pants
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CHAPTER 45
ASHES TO ASHES
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After Pleebo and Tommy had passed though what remained of the gradually receding cloud of dust and debris, the massive shadows of the large castle tower emerged - its silhouette slicing eerily though the rainy night sky. Tommy had previously thought the that fortress looked large from a distance, but it was enormous when one stood beneath its walls. He was intimidated by its incredible size, not to mention the ghastly looking gargoyles hanging off of its sides. Tommy reminded himself to ignore such things. No matter how ominous it might look, no matter how impossible the task at hand might seem, he needed to ignore it all. His brother was up there somewhere in grave danger and he had to get to him.
Many times in his young life Tommy Jarvis had been forced to ignore fear. He discovered long ago that emotions could be stuffed down deep – pushed down so far that they could not do harm. Though still a young boy, Tommy had practiced this many times. He had become a master, a specialist - the best of the best. He had done it before and he could do it again. Despite burying so much inside him over the last few years, there was room for a bit more, and if there was not he would make it. About forty feet away Tommy spotted a half-open doorway at the foot of the tower and sprinted toward it. The falling rain smacked against his face as he ran. His feet splashed loudly in muddy puddles. His nose inhaled the tangy-crisp night air, while his mouth exhaled steely-hot determination.
From the moment the smoke had cleared, Pleebo was engrossed in the madness. Creatures of different sizes and shapes were fighting tooth and nail with Ochan soldiers for as far as he could see. Not only were they fighting, they were fighting with a ferocity and determination he had not seen since he was a child. An undeniable sense of rebellion mixed with defiant hope hung heavy and thick in the air. The scene was frightening, inspiring, and oddly beautiful in its sadness. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Tommy running toward the castle. Pleebo turned his attention from the battles and moved briskly to catch up with the boy.
Tommy sprinted up a set of stairs while carefully avoiding the bodies of prisoners and soldiers strewn haphazardly across the floor, their dead eyes glassy and open. At the top of the stairwell he passed through a half-open doorway into an enormous chamber at the foot of the tower. His sudden appearance caught the attention of a group of Ochan soldiers who had just finished putting down a small group of rebels and were already searching for their next target. Pleebo entered the room just behind Tommy. Seeing the battle-hungry creatures, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He tapped Tommy lightly on the shoulder and quietly muttered, “If you’ve still got any juice left in those magic hands of yours, now would be a good time to put it to use.”
The soldiers started to move toward the intruders. Their pace was slow and deliberate, their weapons drawn. The steel of their blades dripped with the blood of those they had just killed. Directly behind the advancing soldiers Tommy noticed a doorway that appeared to lead to the top of the tower. He needed to get through that door and the only thing standing in his way were four, angry, blood-thirsty lizard men.
Not allowing his brain time to think, his body simply reacted.
As if on cue, the familiar warmth began to build. Tommy was slowly becoming comfortable with the strange hot pressure, possibly even beginning to like it. Pleebo noticed the young boy’s hands begin to glow, his fingertips crackled and popped. Slowly Pleebo backed away. As the group of soldiers moved within striking distance, Tommy pointed in their direction. Within seconds he fired an incredible blast of white-hot light from his skin. Humming loud enough for even those outside the castle to hear, the wall of searing bright light blasted the soldiers, violently scattering them in every direction. It was similar to fireworks exploding from one single point strewn across the sky. Their bodies slammed into the surrounding walls with such force that enormous cracks splintered the stone. To Tommy’s left another group of soldiers entered the room. In a single, quick deliberate movement Tommy spun in their direction, launching another powerful blast of light. Not only did this blast send the soldiers flailing wildly into the air it also took large chunks of wall with them. Sturdy Ochan construction made of stones whose weight could be measured only in tons was reduced to a massive hole, the edges of which were little more than a fine powder that caught the breeze and floated away. The energy built up inside Tommy’s body tingled across the surface of his skin, causing every hair follicle to stand at attention. The strange, haunting glow seeped through the space around his eyeballs. It lit them up from behind, shooting forward like the beams of two flashlights. Without uttering a single word Tommy moved toward the doorway
Pleebo made sure the coast was clear before he left his hiding place and entered the chamber. Cautiously he followed Tommy across the destroyed room, stepping carefully over the fallen body of an Ochan soldier that Tommy had blasted into oblivion. The creature’s armor was scalding hot. A soft gray smoke rose from the super-heated metal. The head inside the helmet was charred black – barely recognizable as something that had once been a living, breathing thing. The sight sent a chill down Pleebo’s spine.
Tommy stood at the doorway on the far end of the room and turned toward Pleebo. “Come on, we have to keep moving.” Every time the young boy opened his mouth an eerie beam of light escaped.
This was no longer the quiet, unassuming fourteen-year-old boy Pleebo had met only days before. No doubt some of that Tommy still remained but the boy had definitely changed. He had grown - evolved. He was partially a living thing but partially something else, something Pleebo could not fully recognize, and something so far beyond him that he would never entirely understand. Yes, Tommy Jarvis had indeed changed.
For better or worse.
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CHAPTER 46
THE LAST STAND OF NESTOR ROCKSHELL
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Nestor Rockshell pushed the indescribable smothering discomfort and pain as far back into his mind as he could. With Ochan soldiers attacking him from every angle, the acknowledgement of pain was a luxury he could not afford. Every movement of his body resulted in sheer agony; every thrust of his blade felt like an act of self-mutilation. The semi-circle of Ochan soldiers surrounding him outnumbered him four to one. Despite the incredible pain, despite the fact that he was faced with an insurmountable situation, his movements remained deft and sure. His was a showcase in the economy of motion, of insurmountable spirit, of the will to survive. Despite his best efforts though, it was obvious he was fighting a losing battle, There were simply too many of them coming from too many angles. Eventually he would misstep, or simply tire. Defeating four untrained, unarmed creatures would be one thing; fending off four of Ocha’s best-trained and well-armed was something else entirely. From behind him, the heavy blade of a soldier cracked against his shell, splitting it open ever so slightly. Much like the flashes of lightning above, the pain shot down Nestor’s back and into his already tired legs. The blinding bolt of agony caused him to crumble to the mud. From his knees he continued to ward off the advancing soldiers, screaming at the top of his lungs with every thrust of his sword.
The Ochan warriors had moved some of their forces away from the attacking prisoners who posed much less a threat in order to deal with the much larger problem that Nestor and Donald posed. For every soldier that Nestor struck down, another moved in to take its place. The cycle was unrelenting.
On the other end of the courtyard Donald stood defiantly with a large carriage hoisted into the air. The Ochan soldiers were shocked when they saw the pudgy little boy easily lift a piece of equipment that normally had required three massive beasts to move. Donald swatted huge groups of soldiers with it. Through the haze of night and the falling rain, Donald had caught a glimpse of Nestor a hundred yards aw
ay. The turtle man was down on one knee, fending off soldiers with every last ounce of energy in his body. How had they gotten so far away from each other? One minute they were fighting side by side and at the next they were separated by the length of a football field. Donald suddenly noticed a group of three soldiers moving toward him. In one quick movement he spun around, whacking the them with the rattling, wooden carriage. The force of the blow sent all three Ochans sailing into the air. Their unconscious bodies were eventually swallowed by the dark, rainy night as they disappeared from view.
The pain Nestor had been pushing to the back of his mind, forced its way into consciousness, coursed through his every limb and was eating him alive from the inside out. For the second time in as many days, he now believed his life was nearing an end. Once again he accepted his fate. All other options seemed to be exhausted. He had met his breaking point and crossed over it. He had seen this moment of realization firsthand in the faces of those who had fought beside him during the Great War. He recognized its truth, its honesty, and in the end accepted it as reality. To die in battle doing what he had been trained to do – fighting for his home, his people, a brighter future – was an honorable way to die. Unable to hold his arms up any longer, the pain in his cracked shell at last became too much to bear. Nestor dropped his weapons to his side, closed his eyes and prepared for the inevitable. Yet, just as before, the end did not come.
From somewhere behind him a deep, familiar voice bellowed the words, “FOR TYCARIA!”
Opening his eyes, Nestor saw his King, Walcott Shellamennes, charge the group of soldiers. With his weapon drawn, a furious battle-ready expression stretched across his wet, strained face. Surprisingly light on his feet, King Walcott took a protective stance near Nestor; the King was anxious to engage the Ochans in battle.
Through his blood stained teeth, King Walcott growled, “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me, you foul-breathed monstrosities!”
Every muscle in King Walcott’s body creaked, aching in displeasure at the demands placed upon them. Every twist, turn, crouch, and strike was both a chore and revelation for the Tycarian King. Despite the urging of his body to halt, he continued to fight. His lungs heaved and burned inside his chest cavity. A thousand invisible tiny soldiers with tiny little swords chopped at his aching muscles. What the old King lacked in strength and speed he more than made up with experience. A precision that could only have been gained through an endless number of battles throughout the course of his life ensured that every swing of his blade was as precise a strike as it could possibly be.
One by one, each Ochan soldier surrounding him tasted the business end of his sword. Defying the very laws of logic and common sense, one by one their bodies splashed into the mud, defeated. With corpses now scattered at his feet, King Walcott dropped his hands to his knees, taking full advantage of a much-needed opportunity to breathe in deeply. Every inch of his body ached. Every muscle strained with warmth that, until now, he could only faintly recall in a faraway memory. For the first time in a very long time he felt alive.
When the challenge of his breathing had been sufficiently conquered, King Walcott turned toward Nestor and muttered in a strained, tired voice, “It would seem…my old friend…that there still remains some life…in these dusty old bones of mine…does it not?”
Nestor smiled at him and chuckled. Nestor had admired his King more than any other, since he had been a young boy. Yet never in his life had he admired him more than at this very moment. Never in his life had he been more proud to call himself a Tycarian.
King Walcott wrapped his arm around Nestor, doing his best to help him stand. But Nestor’s massive body collapsed under his own weight and fell into the mud. His muscles were simply too worn, his body too heavy and drained. Wincing though the pain, Nestor attempted once more to stand. Once again he failed. King Walcott grabbed Nestor’s wrists and pulled him across the muddy ground, setting him against a wall and out of sight.
From a strap around one of his beefy thighs he removed a small dagger, placing it in Nestor’s palm. “Remain here until the battle has reached its conclusion my friend.”
“No…I can’t just sit here…must…” Nestor insisted as he tried to stand.
“Your determination is an inspiring sight, indeed. You’ve brought great honor to your people. Now, though, I must ask you to do as your King demands and remain here. Worry not…I will retrieve you when we’ve claimed victory. The victory celebration shall be yours to share.”
Again Nestor struggled to stand, “No! I can’t! Must…fight!”
King Walcott gently sat him down, “Please…I ask you to remain here not just as your King…but as your friend.”
Staring into the eyes of his childhood hero and after hearing King Walcott refer to him as a friend, Nestor finally relented.
A crooked smile crept across King Walcott’s face. “Frustratingly hard headed…truly, it is Tycarian blood that courses through your veins.”
King Walcott patted Nestor on the side of his shell and retrieved his sword from the muddy ground After taking a moment to allow both the fear and excitement of his current situation to sink in, the Tycarian King turned and headed toward the battle. After he had vanished from sight Nestor tightened his grip on the dagger. A renewed sense of pride and determination washed over him like the warm waters of a relaxing hot spring settling over his sore muscles.
After King Walcott turned the corner he spotted Donald Rondage fending off a horde of soldiers with the aid of an enormous carriage. The boy was swinging it like a club. Despite his astounding strength, Donald looked tired. His chest was heaving, his legs shaking with even the slightest of movements. The cold rain had drenched his clothes, causing him to shiver. Though the boy’s face bore an expression of steely determination, King Walcott could easily discern the hidden terror. Even with his amazing power, Donald was still a boy. He was a boy caught in the middle of an incredibly frightening, extremely confusing situation. Try as he might to disguise it, he was clearly scared.
Taking a deep breath, King Walcott allowed the moisture in the air to fill his aching lungs. The dampness of the night air felt at home inside him. Memories of his home world crashed like the tide against the beach of his mind. Digging his heels in the slick mud he charged toward Donald as fast as his body could manage. He had to help the boy. When an Ochan soldier crossed his path, attempting to halt his progress, he struck him down quickly and precisely. There was no time to waste – he had to get to the boy - time was of the essence.
The downpour had made Donald’s grip on the carriage flimsy at best. The wood slid through his tired fingers, pressing long, painful splinters into his tender flesh. At any moment he feared he would drop the massive contraption. Despite being stronger than all of them combined, the Ochan soldiers were well-organized. They sensed his inexperience early on. As a group they managed to back the boy against the outer fortress wall. The air of invincibility Donald first experienced when his new powers had been revealed to him diminished.
This was not a game – this was frighteningly real.
More and more, with every passing second, Donald could feel the danger around him growing to the point that it threatened to swallow him whole. The soldiers were outmaneuvering him quickly. Through the heavily falling rain his eyes caught a glimpse of something sailing toward him. Before he could make out what it was, the object tore through the muscles in his right shoulder like a hot knife through butter. Intense, unyielding pain shot through his body. His grip on the massive wooden carriage slipped. It shook the ground as it splashed into the muddy puddles. Donald screamed loudly as he stumbled and slammed into the wall. His legs gave way and he crumbled to his knees. The tears pouring from his eyes were barely noticeable as they mixed with the falling rain. In-between pained yelps, he peeked through a half-opened eye and looked at his shoulder. Sticking out of it was a two-foot long arrow. The soldiers surrounded him, licking their lips greedily and slowly advanced on their now helple
ss prey.
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CHAPTER 47
ANCIENT, BITTER RIVALRIES REVISITED
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General Gragor pushed himself from underneath the pile of dead prisoners that had covered him like a mound of fleshy, multi-colored dirt. They might have landed a few blows and fought with more grit than he had imagined, but in the end he had beaten each and every one of them. After tossing the last of the corpses over his shoulder, he angrily pulled himself to his feet. Every inch of his body was sore and his armor felt heavier than he last remembered. The Ochan heart buried deep within his chest pounded a warrior’s beat. Anger intermingled with exhilaration washed over his every inch. It was a feeling he had not had for several years. For General Gragor, this was the very meaning of life. This was living as it was meant to be and he welcomed its return. Reaching behind him he unlatched the straps of his chest plate, letting it fall to the floor. Through an open door, he saw battles being waged throughout the fortress courtyard.
These prisoners – these mongrels – where did they get the nerve?
In the back of his mind he cursed the Prince for allowing this to happen. The King would not have permitted such nonsense. The useless young Prince had made another mess, and he was now called on to clean it up. General Gragor retrieved his sword that had been left in the back of a fallen prisoner and slowly made his way toward the fighting. Stepping into the rain, his eyes were instantly drawn to a young boy swinging a carriage three hundred times his size and doing it with frightening ease. The Ochan warrior had seen many things over the course of his life, but never had he witnessed a display of strength such as this. With each twist of his body, the small boy had knocked the fortress guards senseless.
This could not be allowed to continue.
General Gragor retrieved a bow and a single arrow from a fallen soldier. Placing the arrow into position, he extended the bow forward, pulling back against the taught string. With the wind blowing buckets of heavy rain into his face, he took a deep breath and steadied his hand. His grip was firm, holding the bow for an instant before releasing the arrow. The arrow sliced through the storm, scattering droplets into eternity on a microscopic level. The arrow moved speedily through the air and despite the threatening wind pierced Donald Rondage’s shoulder. General Gragor grinned maniacally and watched as the boy dropped the massive carriage and crumbled to the ground with a heavy thud. The grin instantly disappeared when he realized he had hit the boy’s shoulder rather than his head. The Ochan soldiers surrounding Donald moved in for the kill. Hurriedly, General Gragor readied his sword, sprinting forward at full speed.