Forts Special Edition: Fathers and Sons

by Steven Novak

  “YOU, THERE! HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!” he bellowed, closing the distance between him and the soldiers in a matter of seconds. “HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!”

  The soldiers immediately parted, giving the higher ranking officer clear access to the injured boy. “Hold your positions. This one is mine.”

  Donald Rondage was curled against a wall, one finger timidly poking at the arrow sticking out of his shoulder as tears streamed down the his face. The massive form of General Gragor approached him slowly, still breathing heavily from his run. General Gragor noticed that the child looked even smaller and more pathetic than he had from a distance which made the boy’s incredible show of strength all the more terrifying and dangerous.

  Kneeling down, the General touched Donald’s face underneath his chin and took in the contours of the boy’s chubby, oval shaped head. “So powerful one moment, so pathetic the next. What a sad enigma you are, child.”

  When Donald at last opened his eyes, General Gragor slid his hand over the arrow sticking, twisting it slightly. The movement sent a blinding flash of pain coursing through Donald’s frame and made him scream louder than he had ever screamed in his life.

  “If you think for a second that I am going to allow you or any of your kind to take away everything that my people have fought for, you are sadly mistaken, young man.”

  While Donald continued to sob, General Gragor stood and lifted his sword. “Magic doesn’t frighten me, boy, because like all who wield magic…you can bleed. In all the worlds, there is but one truth…whatever can bleed…can die.”

  A ravenous scowl stretched across his face as he lifted his sword higher into the air, preparing to strike down the meddlesome child of the prophecy, once and for all. A moment before he swung, a deep, heavy voice echoed throughout the courtyard . “LEAVE THE BOY ALONE, YOU BASTARD!”

  General Gragor turned swiftly. Much to his surprise, standing defiantly behind him, the rain crashing forcefully off of his thick shell was none other than the King of Tycaria, Walcott Shellamennes.

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  CHAPTER 48

  THE INVISIBILITY GLITCH

  *

  The Ochan soldier that stood gazing menacingly at the helpless form of Owen Little found himself staring blankly at the space where the boy once sat. In utter disbelief, he extended his sword, poked at the air and found nothing. A bit further away the creature noticed something incredibly odd. Tilting his head slightly to the side he tried to make sense of it. Though the boy had disappeared, something resembling his shape was slowly coming into focus. Droplets of rain pooled on what seemed to be empty space and revealed, what seemed to be, a ghostly form reminiscent of the child.

  Backed against a large wall, Owen tried to keep quiet and remained as still as possible. Not more than five to seven feet away, the massive soldier stared directly at him, yet seemed to look past him at the same time. Owen accepted the fact that he was still invisible. It did not make an ounce of sense, but then what in his life did anymore? He had seen Tommy Jarvis shoot lightning from his hands, had slid down hills on the backs of giant turtle-men and had traveled through secret doorways that led to castles in worlds that normally existed in books and terrible movies. It was completely insane - all of it. With insanity the norm, Owen realized his only choice was to accept the fact that he was indeed invisible, or get chopped to bits by a seven-foot tall lizard-man. He would find a way to come to terms with the idea of invisibility.

  The soldier took a single, timid step in Owen’s direction. The look of confusion slowly drifted from his face as he began working things out with the small brain crammed into his thick skull. Owen stepped slowly to his right – the soldier followed in turn. Owen stepped even more slowly to his left – the soldier did the same. Could the creature possibly see him? Was he not invisible anymore or was the ugly behemoth just making lucky guesses? What had changed? Lifting his invisible hands to his face, he noticed that they still did not exist. He still looked invisible. There was one minor difference though. He could make out the contours of his fingers.

  The rain – the water – was outlining him.

  Gazing back into the soldier’s face, Owen noticed that the creature was smiling brightly, not to mention staring him right in the eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation, Owen turned on his heel to run. He was not able to take more than a step before the soldier reached out and grabbed his invisible soaked shirt, halting his progress. The Ochan’s massively muscled arm wrapped the boy up, pulling his flailing body close to his chest and chuckled through his mouth full of jagged, dangerous fangs.

  Twisting Owen around, the soldier pulled him close to his face, staring at the invisible space where Owen’s head should be. “I hate magic, little boy. I have always hated magic. I hate it so much that I am now going to kill you twice for using it against me.”

  Thick, disgusting spit from the creature’s mouth splashed on Owen’s face as he tried in vain to squirm his way from the vice-like grip which crushed his spine. It squeezed his insides together painfully. The soldier laughed again, an angry scowl sprouting across his soaking wet, green-skinned face.

  With his free hand he lifted the blade of his sword to Owen’s throat. “Your invisible skull will make quite a unique trophy, little one.”

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  CHAPTER 49

  THE TINIEST OF HEROES

  *

  Little Roustaf had watched Pleebo and the three boys slide down the incredibly steep hill on the backs of King Walcott and Nestor before beginning his descent. The unrelenting soreness in his wings mixed with the strength of the heavy winds pushed against his tiny body. It forced him to take it slow. Under his breath he quietly cursed his wings, remembering a time in his youth when they would have worked at their peak ability every hour of every day, no matter the circumstance. The flight down to the fortress was taking much too long. Anything could have happened to his friends by now. For all he knew, they could be dead – or worse. Flying into what remained of the plume of dust and debris caused by Donald’s giant boulders, Roustaf lost momentarily his sense of direction.

  When the dust had cleared, Roustaf looked for Tommy and Pleebo but did not see either of them. The courtyard was enormous, significantly larger than it had looked from above. Pockets of prisoners were engaged in combat with Ochan guards as far as his eyes could see. Countless dead bodies lay half submerged in the large puddles of mud, victims of pointless aggression. The scene was one of complete and utter madness. Roustaf quickly realized that locating any of his friends was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated, if not impossible. Despite the overwhelmingly loud sounds of battle ringing in his ears, he heard a woman scream. He saw a soldier lurching over a scared, screaming female who had tried to hide underneath an ornately decorated awning. She looked alarmingly thin, covered in pink skin pulled tightly over the muscled skeleton. Two very odd looking ears grew from the sides of her head, connecting at the top almost as if she were wearing a pair of pink headphones. Roustaf instantly recognized her species, she was a Grilgamorph. Because it had been so long since he had seen a member of the Grilgamorph race, he assumed that they, like many others, had been wiped from existence at some point during the war. To see one now – even one that was barely alive was quite astounding.

  The massive soldier hovering over her pulled back his sword, preparing to strike. Roustaf realized that if he did not act soon she would end up like the rest of her race and his own – gone forever. Ignoring the nagging pain in his wings, Roustaf pulled his body straight as a board, reached out his arms and cut through the air. To the average-sized being a single drop of rain was barely noticeable. It could hardly be classified as a nuisance. To one the size of Roustaf, though, each was akin to a boulder. Every single one was an ominous, heavy mass of rapidly descending water nearly a twentieth of his body weight, carrying with it the danger of knocking him to the ground and crushing him. Roustaf’s eyes never left his intended target as he weaved and bobbed betwee
n the individual drops, skillfully avoiding them with the speed and accuracy of a hummingbird.

  The soldier hovering over the pink woman was armed to the teeth, covered in thick armor capable of withstanding the blows of almost any enemy’s blade. Roustaf was well aware that he would not be able to significantly injure the Ochan. Thinking quickly, he spotted a large splinter of wood, jagged and sharp, sticking out of the mud. Without deviating from his course, he swooped down and plucked it off the ground. Though the splinter was nearly the same length as his entire body, he managed to hoist it above his head, every muscle in his body straining. Almost too quick for the eye to see, he flew above the awning and used the splinter to slice through the rope which connected it to the castle wall. Just as the soldier was about to plunge his blade into the pink woman’s chest, the thick awning fell onto his head. While the annoyed soldier struggled to cut himself free, Roustaf darted underneath the massive piece of material and flew back , lifting the corner to create an opening through which the pink woman could make an escape.

  “Come on, lady! Move it!” He screamed at her, trying to get her attention as she shivered.

  Even though it was just a simple piece of fabric to the average sized being, Roustaf’s muscles had burned red-hot under its weight. The soldier flailed wildly under the tarp just a few feet away, screaming his frustration.

  Again Roustaf attempted to get the female’s attention. “You’re killing me here, toots! This thing weighs a ton! Come on! Get the lead out!”

  Overcome with fear, the woman spotted the space the tiny flying man had created for her. She quickly crawled toward Roustaf but the enraged soldier snatched her ankle and pulled her back. The pink woman cried out, her fingers digging hopelessly into the mud as she was dragged back. Roustaf landed on the soldier’s hand and bit his knuckle. There was no denying that Roustaf was small, as were his jaw and teeth but a bite was a bite and would still be painful. With a hunk of flesh ripped from his finger, the soldier released his grip on the woman, recoiling momentarily underneath the fabric.

  The pink woman crawled to her feet just as Roustaf zoomed towards her, hovering close to her face . “You better start running, lady! Call me crazy, but I don’t think that awning is going to hold him for long.”

  The pink woman glanced at her rescuer briefly before she looked back at the amorphous shape of the soldier writhing underneath the rain-soaked fabric. Spinning in the air, Roustaf flew away from the downed awning but the pink woman ran toward the soldier. Completely confused, Roustaf bellowed. “Wait! What the heck are you doing!? When I told you to run, I didn’t mean back toward him, you ditzy broad! Come on! We’ve got to go, and we’ve got to do it now!”

  Ignoring his pleas, the pink woman grabbed a half-submerged axe from a nearby puddle and headed toward the Ochan. She stopped in front of his tarp-covered form, reeled back and swung wildly at what she believed to be his head. The axe sliced through the fabric and the flesh and bone underneath, finally lodging in the creature’s thick skull. The lump of living matter fell into the mud. Still breathing heavily with fear and rage the pink woman stared at Roustaf. She was shocked about what she had just done. Tiny Roustaf shared her sentiment.

  With his mouth hanging open, Roustaf quietly muttered, “Um…well…okay, then. I mean, running was just a suggestion. Ramming a huge axe into his head was another way to go. I guess. Either one works for me.”

  The pink woman glanced timidly at him, a slightly embarrassed smile just barely coming to life on her thin lips.

  “Remind me to always stay on your good side, lady,” Roustaf added, rolling his eyes.

  It was at this moment that Roustaf noticed Owen Little. At least, for a moment it was Owen Little. Not more than a few seconds after he had seen the boy and the Ochan soldier, Owen disappeared. The boy had not run away, hid under something, or crawled into an opening in the castle wall. He had simply disappeared into thin air.

  With his jaw hanging even lower, Roustaf said quietly to himself, “I really should be accustomed to this stuff at this point, but come on…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

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  CHAPTER 50

  REINFORCEMENTS ARRIVE

  *

  Zanell had been riding on the back of the Ochan Lieutenant’s Megalot for such a long period of time that every movement of the massive, heavy-footed beast sent ripples of pain up her spine and into her neck. The creature moved with remarkable speed in spite of its incredible girth and weight. Like a souped up tank, though, it was not light on its feet. The Megalot ran with a lumbering gait distinctly its own. Unable to maneuver around obstacles, the beast simply lowered its head and smashed them from its path. Its feet mashed whatever they stepped on, while the gargantuan horns on its head turned trees to splinters, plowing through the red forest with the destructive force of a miniature hurricane. Other regiments joined the Lieutenant along the way. The Ochan force mowing down the ancient forest en route to the Prince’s castle numbered a thousand or more. Every single soldier was starved for battle, anxious and blood thirsty. It had been a long time since the Ochans had amassed a force this size. It had been an even longer time since the great Ochan nation had faced a legitimate threat of any kind. The soldiers were chomping at the bit for a little action. As the massive army moved through the trees like an angry storm, the rumors of a Fillagrou prophesy and the dangerous, incredible magic had passed between them. Some had responded to the information with a twinge of fear while others had been spurred on for battle. Others still had simply regarded them as what they were – rumors hardly worth the time to consider seriously.

  With every passing moment, Zanell could feel that they were getting closer to their intended destination and with every passing moment the beating of her heart increased. Having the sight of the Elders was proving to be an odd but wonderful sensation. Through a thick haze of crystalline softness she could see the beginning and end of all things. The images were vast and confusing, often complicated in their simplicity. Thrust at her all at once, the information had proved to be more than her mind could handle. To see everything all the time and understand it completely was an impossible task. She scarcely believed even the gods themselves could understand every nuance of the universe when condensed into a single moment.

  No more than a hundred or so feet ahead of her, Zanell watched as the first of the reinforcements left the red forest, stepping with heavy hooves onto the great plain. They would arrive at the castle walls within minutes. Somewhere above her she could hear all things not of terrestrial time and space wailing their displeasure with the problems that had been caused by beast, man, and creatures confined to the flesh. With their disturbingly dejected voices ringing loudly in her ears, she was amazed that she had not heard them before.

  Zanell was filled with anxiety. Despite the knowledge of what was to come, she knew that the true essence of the moment was in the journey, rather than the destination. Sadness and joy. Love and hate. Death and life. Downfall and redemption. What lay ahead was both a beginning and consequently, an end.

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  CHAPTER 51

  BORN OF BROKEN MEN

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  Prince Valkea gazed through the window of the castle tower and across the courtyard. For the most part, his forces had corralled the prisoner uprising. Small pockets of resistance remained uncontained, but when reinforcements arrived, the prisoners would be overwhelmed and beaten, smothering their pathetic attempt at freedom.

  One of the massive boulders that had crashed through the outer wall could be seen from Prince Valkea’s window. Massive cracks from the collision ran alongside the base of the tower and halfway up its side. Had the stone slammed into the castle with a bit more speed, the entire structure might have collapsed to the ground. Whatever force, magic, technology or otherwise tossed the stone, it would eventually be destroyed under the weight of Ochan reinforcements. Prince Valkea was confident. When the battle was finally won, the Prince would see that e
very prisoner met with a very long and painful drawn-out death. He would make sure that each one felt every agonizing second leading up to the end of their life. The castle would be rebuilt and he would ensure that word of what had happened here never reached his father. All things broken would be repaired. All incidents, no matter how real, would be concealed with lies.

  This shameful disaster would be salvaged, no matter the cost.

  Across from the Prince, still curled up against the wall were Staci and Nicky. Everything about the children disgusted Prince Valkea. Their pale flesh, their pink cheeks, the revolting mass of hair follicles growing from their scalps like sickening tumors; the very sight of them made his stomach churn. These two pathetic things were not saviors. No, these were freaks. They were useless lumps of flesh from another useless lump of a world and nothing more. When all was settled with the prisoners, he would make it his first priority to locate their home world and burn it to the ground. He would scorch the lands so deeply that no life would grow from its soil again. They deserved nothing less.

  Turning away from the window, Prince Valkea stared at the two cowering children, looking them over from top to bottom. Every glance found yet another reason to hate them.