Forts: Liars and Thieves Page 14

  Donald gulped deeply, realizing he was about to eat his words.

  By the time he turned his head, the massive Snaggleworm was towering over him. Standing erect on its rear section, the gargantuan monster stretched at least thirty feet into the air. A pair of beady, coal-black eyes shone in the glare of the moonlight. Focusing on the pink skinned child below and the tiny devil clenched between its fingers, the creature clanked its teeth together hungrily. It had been quite some time since it had eaten. The pair would prove a satisfying meal.

  “Let go of me, kid!” Roustaf screamed, trying in vain to wiggle himself free from Donald’s vice-like grip.

  Staring up at the growling monster, Donald was paralyzed with fear and frozen in place. His legs had gone rigid, his jaw hanging open as his lips quivered uncontrollably. A massive drop of drool nearly the size of his head fell from the Snaggleworm’s mouth, splashing in the dirt at his feet and drenching his sneakers. Though he was unaware, his hold on Roustaf tightened further still as the sickening liquid seeped through his shoes and onto the socks within. The treacherous looking mouth of the Snaggleworm opened wide, its jagged teeth pointing in every direction at once. In a single movement the creature thrust its open mouth downward, fully intent on chomping its terrified prey to pieces. Moments before swallowing Donald from head to toe, though, an arrow pierced the side of its head. This first arrow was immediately followed by another and another still. The monster wailed in pain, its long body flailing crazily, smashing into nearby trees. Quite confused, and still being crushed by the vice-like grip of Donald Rondage, Roustaf glanced over the boy’s shoulder past the great howling worm. Twenty feet away, just barely visible in the darkness, two of Nestor’s soldiers continued firing arrows in the direction of the beast. Each arrow connected with its intended target, further infuriating the monster. With at least twelve arrows piercing its slimy flesh, the Snaggleworm turned its attention away from Donald and Roustaf, growling at the pair of Tycarian archers while spitting bucketfuls of slobber in their direction. When arrows began piercing its sensitive eyes, the monster at last relented, retreating into the forest with an annoyed yelp. Long after disappearing into the darkness, the creature’s moans could still be heard—frustrated that it would be forced to deal with its hunger pangs for yet another day.

  The pair of Tycarian soldiers lowered their bows and slid them back in the harnesses strapped to the rear of their massive shells.

  “Are you unharmed?” The nearest soldier asked, moving briskly in the direction of Donald and Roustaf.

  The sound of the soldier’s deep voice awakened Donald from his trance. With his free hand, he wiped a particularly thick wad of Snaggleworm drool from his hair, flipping it to the ground like sticky molasses. At last his grip on Roustaf loosened and the tiny man wiggled from his grasp immediately.

  “Are you unharmed, child?” The Tycarian soldier repeated while reaching out to inspect the boy with his huge, flat paw.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, tot—totally fine ….” Donald snapped back, brushing the turtle man’s hand away and trying his best to pretend nothing was wrong.

  “What the hell are you two doing here? Let me guess: Nestor ordered you to track us?” Roustaf asked from behind the boy as he rubbed at his now sore chest.

  The muscled Tycarian simply nodded.

  “I bet he asked you to bring us back, too, didn’t he?”

  Again the turtle man nodded. Behind him, his partner continued to scan the surrounding area, ensuring the Snaggleworm had indeed moved on.

  “Seeing as how you schmoes just kept us from eventually ending up as steaming piles of worm plop, I suppose it would be in bad form to start complaining about him sending you our way, wouldn’t it? As far as going back with you though, it’s just not gonna happen. I can’t let my friend die in that Ochan hellhole. I just can’t. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the help, but you came all this way for nothing.”

  Sternly staring into Roustaf’s eyes, the Tycarian breathed deeply. Twisting his head, he glanced over his massive shoulder and exchanged a subtle gesture of confirmation with his partner.

  Staring at Donald and Roustaf, he responded in a very matter of fact tone, “Then we shall journey with you to the castle.”

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 30

  THE SCARS ARE REMINDERS

  *

  When at last Tommy Jarvis opened his eyes, he realized that he wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been asleep. Though it felt like only a moment, Nicky and Staci were cuddled up on either side of him, snoring quite loudly . Their arms wrapped around his torso, their chests rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the pair looked like they’d been out for some time. The cave was dark, musty and dank, the air soaked in heavy moisture brought on by the torrential downpour outside. To his left, near the rear of the cave, Nestor and his soldiers were seated around a modest campfire, whispering quietly back and forth while mulling over a map spread out in the middle of them. To his right, at the cave’s entrance, stood the silhouetted form of Krystoph. The Ochan didn’t seem like he had moved since Tommy last closed his eyes. His head craning slowly back and forth, Krystoph scanned the black forest outside for even the slightest bit of movement. All the while, his muscles remained tense and tightly wound, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Tommy wondered: How long had he been standing in that exact position? How long would he continue to do so? With an unexpected flash of lightning Krystoph’s muscled back was momentarily bathed in a blanket of bluish-white. Every muscle, contour and curve was brought into frightening focus, further emphasizing the creature’s incredible bulk. Again Tommy couldn’t help but take note of the strange scars spread across the entirety of his dark green flesh. What were they? Where did they come from? It was painfully obvious they weren’t simply the result of battle: these were something else entirely – something confusing, mysterious, and slightly frightening. After slowly peeling Nicky and Staci’s hands from his chest, Tommy carefully rose to his feet, using the chilly stone of the cave behind as leverage. Though he had no idea why he was doing it, less than a moment later he was shuffling quietly toward the motionless Ochan at the foot of the cave. It made no sense, really. If anyone in the group should have been left to their own devices, it was Krystoph. Tommy had no idea what he was going to say, if anything at all, or why he would have wanted to say anything in the first place, yet he didn’t turn around. About five feet away from Krystoph, he came to a stop. The heart in his chest was beating double-time. Engorged with blood, it thumped feverishly at the underside of his ribs in tune with his over-hyped pulse.

  Krystoph heard the boy shuffling in his direction and could now taste his distinctive scent on the crest of his lips. It was a unique odor, sweet and sour, disgustingly crisp, unlike anything the Ochan had smelled or tasted before. Outside the cave the Fillagrou wind wailed, rattling the trees and kicking up clumps of moist sand. The sound of thunder rumbled angrily from somewhere deep in the belly of the overstuffed clouds.

  Never once averting his gaze from the dark, rainy forest, Krystoph mumbled to the quiet child behind, “Leave me be, boy. Return to your slumber. Likely the only opportunity you will have.”

  His voice was shallow and coarse, instantly causing the hairs on Tommy’s arms to stand at attention. Despite Krystoph’s insistence, however, he did not move an inch.

  “Ochans do not give orders twice, child,” Krystoph muttered angrily, flexing the fingers on his right hand and causing the bones underneath to crack and pop.

  Though every muscle in his body was telling him to turn around, to crawl between Nicky and Staci and go to sleep, Tommy held his position.

  Before he realized it, words formed somewhere deep in the bowels of his stomach were rolling past his lips. “Where did you get the scars?” The moment the question escaped his mouth, he regretted asking it. Why was he doing this? He shouldn’t be doing this.

  Never turning his body, Krystoph glanced over his heavily muscled shoulder, gla
ring at Tommy with his cold, black eyes. Perhaps absentmindedly, perhaps not, his fingers gently traced the contours of the blade hanging loosely from his belt. The feel of familiar steel was soothing and strangely comforting.

  Near the rear of the cave, Nestor had been carefully observing the exchange between the two, preparing himself to rush to Tommy’s side if things were to get out of hand. Krystoph could sense the Tycarian’s glare. Turning his head back to the forest, the former Ochan general breathed deeply, letting the Fillagrou air fill his lungs and cool his nerves. Though every fiber of his being told him to simply ignore the nosey child, he uncharacteristically offered a response, “The scars are reminders.”

  “Reminders of what?” Tommy asked after a long and quite awkward pause, highlighted by an exceptionally bright flash of lightning.

  Extending his forearm to the side, Krystoph opened the back of his hand to the boy’s view. Etched deeply into the scaled flesh were a series of freshly cut grooves leaking warm blood across the contours of his skin, underneath and into his palm, where they at last fell to the moist soil below.

  “Each represents an Ochan that has perished by my hand.” Krystoph added while forming a fist and pulling it from the boy’s view.

  For a moment, Tommy stopped breathing.

  “At first it was difficult, killing my own in the name of vengeance,” Krystoph continued as he pulled the bloody hand to his face. “I am not ashamed to say that I openly wept for them at first, questioned whether I had chosen the correct path. In time though, as their numbers grew, it became easier, far too easy in fact. I have since learned that killing your own …such an act should never come free of heartache, boy. Eventually the day arrived when I felt nothing at all. No sadness or remorse or regret. Nothing. I found this to be …disturbing, inappropriate. The cuts ensure that I shall always feel something. They remind me of what I have done. They make it impossible to forget what I have become, even for a moment.”

  Turning away from the rain, Krystoph looked down at Tommy with a cold, steely stare, his face an emotionless mask of iron. “Vengeance is both just and disturbing, child. Spending a lifetime wading in a pool of it can distort you beyond recognition, make you view the world differently, make you do things you never dreamt possible. Then again, you know this as well as I, don’t you?”

  Caught off guard by the comment, Tommy stumbled backward. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “We are more alike than you care to admit, boy. Despite their disgusting color, I have seen your eyes before, boy. I know what lurks behind.”

  Flustered, his heart racing, Tommy again took two steps back, very nearly tripping over a loose rock on the cave floor. What the hell was this green-skinned bastard talking about? Where did he get off saying something like that?

  “What? Shut up, we’re nothing alike. You’re a killer,” Tommy growled, wiping a fresh sheen of sweat from his forehead.

  Krystoph followed the boy into the cave, leaning close enough to smell the child’s breath as it wafted past his cracked lips. “You may be able to fool the Tycarians or the Fillagrou mystic or even yourself. You cannot, however, fool me. I have walked among the corpses at Valkea’s castle. If it is true they met their fate at your hand, you are twice the killer I will ever be.”

  Awkwardly sliding backward, Tommy tripped over his own feet, falling to his rear in the dirt with a heavy thud. Like a living, breathing tower of muscle, Krystoph’s dark form now hovered over him, noxious breath escaping through the cracks in his pointed teeth.

  From the back of the cave came Nestor’s voice. “That is quite enough, Ochan. Step away from the child.”

  Looking away from Tommy, Krystoph glared at the Tycarian, now a mere ten feet away with his sword drawn. Behind him, weapons at the ready as well, were three more Tycarian warriors, each as dangerous looking as the last. Slowly Krystoph took two steps away from Tommy. Pausing briefly, he scanned the faces of his traveling companions, questioning yet again whether or not he had made the right choice approaching them for help. Making deals with mongrels such as these; was this too high a price to pay? Even for vengeance? He reminded himself, however, that he’d come too far to simply back out. Too many had suffered and died needlessly. Vague remembrances of the faces of his children and the feel of his wife’s flesh against his flashed like lightning in the back of his mind. So brief and yet so deadly, so impossible to hold onto …too quickly they disappeared, leaving him alone once more. No, to quit now would disgrace their memory. The king must be held accountable.

  He had to see this through to its end, no matter the cost.

  Turning from Tommy, Krystoph returned to the mouth of the cave and resumed his scan of the forest outside. The rain was slowing. In a matter of hours, Fillagrou’s sister suns would again chase away the night, taking their position once more as the protectors of the sky. Every day the battle between night and day raged and every day the result was exactly the same. It was a fruitless war, pointless and without end—a war of which there were no winners or losers.

  It was a war Krystoph understood all too well.

  *

  *

  CHAPTER 31

  TALL TALES AND SECOND CHANCES

  *

  From the seat of his car, Chris Jarvis carefully scanned the sidewalk on the opposite end of the street. One after another, groups of children strolled by on their way to school. For the most part, those walking alone seemed to have dejected looks on their faces as if marching to their deaths, anxious to be done with a day that had yet to even begin. The children traveling in packs, however, were nothing but smiles, giggling, laughing and whispering, not so much anxious to get down to learning as they were anxious to socialize. Chris had been sitting in this exact position for nearly an hour, carefully examining each child, waiting to spot specific ones among the many. Tommy, Nicky and Staci were still missing, and the police hadn’t turned up a single clue. After being threatened by his neighbor and questioned by the local authorities concerning their whereabouts, Chris broke down, coming perilously close to looking for answers in the bottom of the bottle. It would have been so simple, popping the cap, letting the cool, mind numbing liquid slosh around inside his head and blur away yet another in the never-ending problems that had become the whole of his existence.

  Which is precisely why he chose not to.

  Life isn’t meant to be simple. If there is one thing Chris Jarvis had learned over the last six months, it was this very fact. It had taken the loss of his wife, his sons, his job, his reputation, his sanity and very likely his soul for him to figure it out, but figure it out he did; to turn back now would mean to fail and would make it all for nothing. Megan deserved better. His boys deserved better. He deserved better.

  Peeking through the partially fogged passenger side window, Chris at last spotted who he’d spent his morning waiting for. On the opposite end of the street, lugging around a backpack thicker than his torso and possibly half his bodyweight, was Mack Little’s son, Owen. When the children disappeared for nearly a week six months ago, Owen was with them. When the exact same children disappeared just two days ago, Owen apparently didn’t go along. Reaching down, Chris inserted his key in the car’s ignition and turned it on. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Common sense told him that it was an awful idea and should be avoided at any cost. He understood all too well that the police had likely already questioned Owen, thinking that he might have some information to offer. Chris was also keenly aware of the fact that the police already didn’t like him, and that stalking Owen wasn’t likely to change their opinion for the better. He had to do something, though. For too long, inaction had become Chris Jarvis’ first reaction. For too long, he’d been everything but a father to his children. There was no longer a choice. He had to act.

  For Owen Little, the morning was proving to be like any other. He was scheduled for a test later in the day, and a difficult one at that, even for someone with grades as solid as his. Last night a pair of police officers
showed up at the house, wondering if he might have any information regarding the whereabouts of the Jarvis brothers, Donald Rondage and Staci Alexander. Owen, of course, told them exactly what he’s been telling them since “disappearing” the first time: the truth, every word of it. Tommy’s tree fort, the doorway at the bottom of the stream, Fillagrou, Roustaf, Walcott, Prince Valkea—the boy recalled every single moment in startling detail. After hearing such a wild tale, as one might imagine, the officers responded simply by shaking their heads, sighing and returning to the station. A frustrated Mack Little immediately sent his son to his room, grounding the boy from television until he agreed to “start telling the truth.” Owen didn’t particularly care for television anyway and wasn’t that upset. In the end, it wasn’t the questions that annoyed him, as he’d become rather accustomed to them and the response they generally received. Regaling the rather extensive tale once again to the police, however, unfortunately took a significant hunk out of his study time. As a result, he didn’t feel nearly as prepared for today’s test as he might have liked. Mrs. Higler’s quizzes were notoriously difficult. Going in partially prepared could result in a “B,” or, worst-case scenario, even a “B-”.

  He should have just lifted the cup Roustaf was hiding under that night and exposed the little man to his father. If he’d done so, maybe his dad wouldn’t still be looking at him like he was such a lunatic. So why didn’t he?

  There was a small part of Owen’s mind, a miniscule, barely there part that he was trying to ignore and hated to admit existed, that wondered what was happening in Fillagrou. What could have been so urgent that Roustaf saw fit to sneak into his room at night and beg him to return? A much larger part of him, however, didn’t want to know. He wasn’t who any of the creatures in Fillagrou believed him to be. He was not a savior or the realization of some goofy prophecy. He was just a kid, and he couldn’t save them. He never could have. In his heart, Owen believed it was better and easier for everyone if he simply forgot about all of it. It was smarter to shove the entire experience as far back in his mind as he could and bury it forever. Worrying about Mrs. Hilger and her annoyingly tough tests: this was something he understood. This was something he could handle.