by Steven Novak
“I wonder…do all children from your world resemble the pair of you?” He asked, strangely calm, his eyes seeming to peer through their skin, examining what soul, if any, resided somewhere deep inside.
“What sort of life have you led? So soft you are…so fragile. No doubt it was one built on comfort…possibly kindness. I am not being the least bit dramatic when I say that an Ochan child…any Ochan child for that matter…would eat the pair of you alive.”
Staci gazed at the prince, tears rolling down her cheeks and onto the cold floor. Nicky’s lip quivered uncontrollably as Staci instinctively wrapped her arm around him, pulling the small boy close.
“Are you aware that one can learn everything one needs to learn about a race through its young? In every creature I’ve encountered during my rule, I’ve found this truth to be one of the few constants. There are no innocent Ochan children. There are no sad eyes and without question there are no tears. Each is well aware of the realities of the world they are destined to inhabit at a very young age. Each can recall every contour of their father’s fists with excruciating detail before their third year…and most importantly each thanks their parents for this most harsh of lessons upon entering adulthood.”
The Prince slowly moved closer to the children and looked into their eyes. “Like hardened steel, we are a race forged in fire and molded to a fine point. This is how strength is made. This is how power, greatness and legacy are given birth. This is a lesson you can never understand, and this is the reason you and all those like you will eventually fall.”
Prince Valkea had barely finished his sentence when the door to his tower chamber exploded. Shards of wood in every shape and size flew in every direction. The largest among them knocked over chairs, while the smallest instantly filling the room with a fine dust. The force of the explosion knocked the Prince onto his rear. Turning his head, he shaded his eyes from the dangerous shrapnel. Staci let out a loud scream and pulled Nicky closer to her as she shielded him from the blast. By the time the thin layer of dust had settled Prince Valkea was already on his feet, dagger in hand. His dark heart pounded against his ribs, heightening his senses, preparing him for battle.
Glowing so brightly that he might have been confused for the sun, Tommy Jarvis strode angrily into the room. His entire body crackled with the porous energy emanating from his hands
The unbelievable sight was unlike anything that Prince Valkea had experienced in his life. He was no stranger to magic. But something about the strange glow made him believe that this was more than simple magic, that this was something else entirely – something unique, frightening, and new. His brain told him to hold his position but his body chose to step back.
Tommy’s eyes left the Prince and rested upon his little brother and Staci. Terrified, Nicky and Staci kept their faces hidden, neither looking at Tommy when he had entered the room. Both look tired, their clothes a filthy mess of caked on dirt and grime. Seeing Nicky looking so haggard and scared caused the energy coursing through Tommy’s body to boil hotter. Forming a fist, the strange ethereal light crept through the cracks, again swallowing the whole of his hand.
Tommy looked again at Prince Valkea.
In a voice much too deep for his body, Tommy calmly and firmly said, “Get away from my brother.”
Both Nicky and Staci were awestruck by what they saw. With his jaw hanging open, Nicky pried himself from Staci’s grip and turned toward the living ball of light that seemed to encase someone that resembled his older brother. Staci hesitantly moved beside the young boy, not sure of what she saw.
“Tom…Tom…Tommy?” She stuttered, her teeth chattering.
“Get them out of here,” Tommy yelled.
The crackling of the energy surrounding his body was growing louder and scarier as his anger continued to rise.
Pleebo rushed into the room through the smoking rubble and made his way along the wall, grabbing Nicky and Staci. “Come with me, children!” Pleebo said as he attempted to pull them out of the way.
Staci waited next to Pleebo while Nicky pushed him away. Pleebo’s second attempt failed when the small boy squirmed out of his grasp.
“We have to go, child!” Pleebo urged, lunging for Nicky as the boy crawled across the floor.
“Come on, Nicky!” Staci yelped, as she stood in the burnt out husk of the doorway and motioned for Nicky to follow.
Their pleas meant little to the youngest of the Jarvis boys. Unlike Staci, he simply could not bring himself to leave his brother alone with the Prince, glowing with energy or otherwise. How many times had his brother stood up for him? How many times had he taken the fall for him? How many times had Tommy suffered through the aftermath of those choices? No, he could not leave Tommy alone – not now and not ever again - not after everything that had happened.
Prince Valkea slowly controlled his emotions . He could see that the thing residing inside the glowing mass of light stalking him was a child. There were incredible powers at work here, and yet the thing underneath it all remained a simple, small boy. A disgusting, pink skinned, weak little creature and exactly like the other two. Like all boys, this one could no doubt bleed. He could be beaten – powers or otherwise. He was not prepared to hand over his Kingdom to a child.
This time when Tommy took a step forward, Prince Valkea did not take one back. “Your powers don’t frighten me, boy. This…all of this…is my birthright. I will not allow it to be taken away by the likes of one such as you. Not now…not ever.”
“Come closer and I will introduce you to the true strength of the Ochan nation,” Prince Valkea defiantly added as he tightened his grip on the dagger.
With his body shaking with rage, Tommy lifted his glowing fist at Prince Valkea. Slowly he opened his fingers, intending to blast the awful green-skinned creature into the afterlife.
Unfortunately for Tommy it did not happen.
As quickly as the light had sprouted from his hands, it just as quickly disappeared. Without warning the crackling power dimmed, retreating back into the hands that had first given it life. As the last of it vanished into nothingness, a frustrated and confused Tommy, stared at his normal-looking hands. Of all the times the power could have chosen to become unreliable, this was the least opportune of all. He glanced at the Prince and noticed a cocky smile creeping across his dark green face.
“Just a boy,” Prince Valkea chuckled. “Just a child who knows nothing of will or strength or pain. Strip away your magic and you’re nothing. Before this day is done, I guarantee that you will have learned all these lessons, little one. I will be your teacher…and I assure you I will be quite thorough. Unfortunately for you, these will be the last things you will ever learn.”
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CHAPTER 52
ONE LAST RESCUE
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It did not take long for Roustaf to figure out exactly what was happening on the other side of the courtyard between Owen Little and the massive angry soldier who towered over him. If the rain had not given the boy away, he might have fooled the Ochan into believing he was gone. But the Ochan had figured it out and before long Owen’s head would be rolling in the mud.
Roustaf faced the pink woman and said, “Looks like I’m going to have to cut our meeting a little short, beautiful.”
His tiny wings fluttered, quickly becoming invisible to the naked eye. His body jutted forward as he zoomed between the pink woman’s legs.
“Wait, where are you…?” was all she had time to say before he was gone.
Roustaf dove to the ground and picked up the very same wooden splinter he had used earlier, the pain in his wings all but forgotten. He was well aware that the boy’s life depended on him. Once again Roustaf’s tiny body sliced through the air like an arrow. Hoisting the long splinter of wood close, Roustaf let it rest against his hip like a knight preparing for a joust. As he cut through the droplets of rain, the tiny red man tightened his muscles, gritted his teeth and prepared himself for battle. There would only be
one shot, one chance to get this right. If he let the opportunity slip, he had no back-up plan.
Failure would mean the boy’s death.
The Ochan soldier tightened his grip on Owen as he gained control over the boy’s squirming, transparent body. He lifted the blade of his sword to Owen’s throat. “Your invisible skull will make for quite a unique trophy, little one.”
Just as the cold, wet steel came in contact with Owen’s invisible neck, the Ochan heard a tiny distinctive voice utter a tiny distinctive battle cry. Confused, he turned and faced the voice.
Roustaf closed his eyes and extended the long splinter of wood. While moving at an incredible speed, he jabbed not only the splinter but the upper half of his body into the creature’s ear. The sharp piece of wood sliced through the fleshy insides like scissors through paper and was deep enough to poke the brain. The Ochan’s eyes popped open; his jaw sank low, his vision blurred as the sounds of the world around him evaporated into a mist. The creature released his iron grip and Owen tumbled to the ground.
Bracing his legs on the side of the soldier’s face, Roustaf pried himself loose. “Well…that was pretty much the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done.” He calmly remarked, brushing a pile of sloppy, sticky earwax from the top of his head.
The half-alert Ochan stared at the tiny little man. Slowly his attention shifted to the cloudy sky. He patted the side of his head, making sure that it was still attached to his shoulders. Lost in a hypnotic trance, the soldier’s body swayed. A soft growl squeaked from between his lips, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body tumbled into the mud with a wet splash.
After scraping the remainder of the earwax from his scalp, Roustaf turned his attention to Owen. The boy was now completely visible, half submerged in the sopping mud, leaning back on his hands. His wide eyes were glued to the motionless body of the fallen Ochan.
Roustaf nodded and said with half a smile, “Good to see you again, kid.”
Before Owen could respond, the sound of a massive explosion filled the night air, causing the ground to shimmy. Both he and Roustaf looked at the sky just in time to see an enormous cloud of smoke, cluttered with thick debris, rise into the air at the opposite end of the castle.
Surprised and slightly annoyed, Roustaf quietly sighed, “Now what?”
*
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CHAPTER 53
THE LAST STAND OF KING WALCOTT SHELLAMENNES
*
General Gragor smiled brightly when he recognized the King of Tycaria standing in the falling rain. He had thought the King was dead. The Tycarians had not fallen easily during the war. Time and time again they had proven themselves to be a strong-willed race, led by a crafty King, who had also been a competent military strategist. Not long after the Ochan army had finally managed to gain control of the region, rumors of King Shellamennes’ death ran rampant, even though his body had never been recovered. General Gragor had never believed the rumors. For years he and his men had searched for proof of King Shellamennes’ death without much success. Now the great lost King of Tycaria stood before him.
“King Walcott Shellamennes…the great ghost of a King finally comes out of hiding. I am both honored and humbled to be in your presence, your highness.” General Gragor said sarcastically. “To what…oh great King…do I owe the pleasure?”
Never taking his eyes off of General Gragor, King Walcott answered sternly. “Back away from the boy, scoundrel.”
“No, no, no…you see, you do not give me orders. You are not my King. You do not come into this place and give me orders, Tycarian…not now, not ever.”
Like a flock of starving vultures, the Ochan soldiers standing nearby moved toward King Walcott. Responding to their advance, the Tycarian lifted his sword, ready to challenge them all.
“NO!” General Gragor screamed, “BACK AWAY FROM HIM, MUTTS!”
The large group of Ochan soldiers froze in their tracks, standing in thick mounds of mud. General Gragor gripped his sword tightly and slowly moved toward King Walcott “This one…is mine,” he added with a growl, causing the surrounding horde of soldiers to slowly back away.
With weapons drawn, King Walcott and General Gragor approached one another. The Ochan soldiers formed a loose circle around them. Crouched against the fortress wall, Donald Rondage ignored the incredible pain in his shoulder long enough to see the stand-off gradually building to a boiling point. Despite everything he had said to King Walcott, despite the fact that he had done nothing but frustrate and annoy the old turtle-man, King Walcott was willing to put his life on the line for him. This concept confused Donald. No one - not his parents, not his brothers – no one had ever been willing to give so much for him. It did not make sense. An overwhelming feeling of shame trickled across his skin like the feet of a billion tiny spiders, creeping into every pore, swallowing the still childish soul buried deep within him. Overcome with the need to try and help King Walcott in some way, Donald pulled himself to his feet. He fell when the intense pain in his shoulder shot through his body. There was nothing he could do to help King Walcott and that fact settled heavily on his stomach. He could only watch – watch and hope.
As thunder roared overhead, their swords clashed violently. From the outset, it was painfully obvious that King Walcott was no match for General Gragor who was bigger, stronger and unlike many of the soldiers the King had ever faced. The Ochan general was equally adept with a blade but King Walcott matched his opponent stroke for stroke even though the King’s stamina was waning. As swords clashed, the combatants were close. They dug their heels into the mud, pushing against each other in a bizarre test of strength.
General Gragor confidently hissed, “You move well…for one of such advancing age.”
King Walcott’s feet were sliding across the thick mud which pooled between his toes. He held his breath and pushed back with all the strength he could muster.
With a pained, determined grimace, the King growled angrily, “I…am not…leaving here…without…that boy!” King Walcott thrust forward, kicking thick clumps of mud with every step.
In one quick movement, King Walcott rammed the top of his shell into General Gragor’s midsection. The sudden skillful ploy caused General Gragor to stumble, knocking the air from his lungs. King Walcott barreled forward at full speed, ramming the Ochan into a nearby prisoner hut. The pair crashed through the wooden wall and crumbled onto the floor with a wild, heavy thud that sent shrapnel sailing in every direction. In a flash, they were back on their feet, swinging their swords with deadly intention. Their bodies collided against the walls, as they engaged in close-quarter combat. The air was heavy with the familiar odor of the dead and dying. Over the course of the war the smell had inspired different reactions from each of them. For General Gragor it had been the smell of success – the undeniable, beautiful fragrance of victory. For King Walcott it had meant the end of his people, the death of his friends and family; it had been the painful, destructive odor of hopeless endings.
“You’re tiring, King…I can see it in your eyes.” General Gragor was smug and breathing heavily.
King Walcott ignored the verbal jab, despite the truth behind it. Every muscle in his aging body heaved, ached and screamed for him to stop. Despite the youthful fires in his heart, he was painfully aware that he was not going to be able to maintain this frantic pace. General Gragor grabbed a sword from the hand of a fallen soldier and viciously attacked his enemy. King Walcott moved quickly, deflecting each blow. But there has always been an undeniable truth in inevitability that all great warriors understood. King Walcott had been pushed to the limit; it was only a matter of time before he faltered, only a matter of time before his aged muscles failed, only a matter of time before the spirit to fight would no longer be enough. Unfortunately for the Tycarian King, the moment had arrived.
General Gragor’s blade sliced King Walcott’s leg, exposing the bone. The Tycarian fell, dropping his weapon. King Walcott rolled on his stomach, crawling along the slick gro
und, attempting to reach his sword. General Gragor thrust his sword into the King’s back, splitting open the shell with a sickening crack.
King Walcott screamed, his thick fingers digging into the mud, while his body tensed. He gritted his teeth in an effort to withstand the indescribable pain. General Gragor stared at the withering King with mild disgust as a thick green liquid seeped from the massive gash, “Look at me whelp.” The Ochan General mumbled. “ Meet your end like a warrior.”
Grimacing in agony, King Walcott rolled onto his back, groaning as his weight on the cracked shell increased the pain. A flash of lightning ominously lit the sky as General Gragor stood over the King, sword in hand. The light of the Fillagrou moon barely crept through the clouds, silhouetting the victorious Ochan. King Walcott involuntarily shook as the rain splashed his face, cooling the agonizing heat of his suffering. The King was overcome with the need to protect his limbs and slowly pulled his extremities inside his shell, leaving his head exposed. He would face his end with his eyes open as befitted a warrior and a King.
General Gragor glanced at his enemy with a mixture of disgust and admiration. It had been years since an opponent managed to meet him blow for blow. It had been years since he had found himself fulfilled in a way that could only be attained through battle with a worthy foe. As he watched King Walcott tremble, his admiration quickly waned. His adversary, the great King of the Tycarian people, looked quite pathetic covered in mud, his arms and legs hiding inside his shell.
Raising the sword, General Gragor growled, “You fought well, Tycarian…like all of your kind though, you’ve failed. In your death I can guarantee you only one thing… your countrymen will soon share your fate. I am glad you had survived all these years. It has afforded me the opportunity to personally end your life once and for all.” He tightened his grip while raising his sword. “Safe journey to the afterlife, if there is such a place for the likes of you.”