Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “He did what you could not,” Fibian said, “You already underestimated the Warrior Witch once. Do not underestimate her destroyer as well.”

  The serpent’s eyes shifted to the froskman. Cyrus sensed an ancient anger burn within the beast. Fibian’s gone too far, Drache’s going to kill us, he thought. He felt his body grow electric, ready for flight.

  “Revenge on the old witch, you say?” the dragon growled, “Then freedom would truly be mine.”

  He seemed to turn inward as if weighing the risks, and the rewards.

  “We will discuss this further inside,” he finally said.

  He turned his back and ducked into his dwelling.

  “But if I sense any lies, or if your plot is foolhardy, you will all be in my belly by nightfall.”

  Cyrus looked to Fibian, bewildered. Fibian nodded back, a slight grin on his smooth face. Had the froskman’s plan actually worked?

  Chapter 23

  DRAGON’S BLOOD

  CYRUS, EDWARD, AND FIBIAN crept down the large tunnel of the Himmel Garde’s lair. The din of dripping water and squeaking rodents echoed off the granite walls. Was this a trap? Was Cyrus walking to his death? His breath was rapid in his chest.

  “What’s that smell?” Edward asked.

  The tiny spider clung to Cyrus’ forearm, his face twisted in disgust.

  “It smells like rotting chicken guts,” Cyrus whispered, fighting the urge to vomit.

  They found the dragon curled up on a dark rock in the middle of his chamber. The blackened ceiling bore scars from his horned crown, and his legs dangled awkwardly off the foot of his stone bed.

  “I discovered this cave years ago,” Drache boomed, “It was inhabited by a much smaller dragon. I claimed the dwelling as my own and called out the puny beast. The battle lasted mere moments, and in the end, I stood victorious over the whelp. I swept his carcass from the cliff like crumbs from a table.”

  The dragon’s thick, steely face beamed with pride.

  Was that some kind of threat? Cyrus thought. His legs quivered as he followed Fibian into the main chamber of the serpent’s abode. The dark grey of the froskman’s flesh and seal skin suit made him invisible, with the exception of his glowing, blue eyes.

  “So tell me, child, how was it that a boy, a blodbad spider and a froskman came to face the Warrior Witch and survive?” Drache asked.

  Cyrus looked to Edward. The furry spider stared back at him, his two eyes as big as coins. If Cyrus told the entire truth, surely all three of them would end up in the dragon’s belly. But if he lied and made himself sound heroic, would the beast be fooled? The image of Niels lying dead on a cold log infiltrated his thoughts.

  “I discovered that my island was a giant, fossilized turtle shell,” he said, steeling his nerves, “I tried to warn the mayor, but he wouldn’t listen. The shell fractured, and my island caved in on itself. Many survived, but we lost the whole village. The mayor blamed me for the cave-in, saying that I brought an evil curse upon our island. He sentenced me to death, but I escaped.”

  “Giant turtle you say,” the dragon said, his eyes narrowing.

  Growing hot, Cyrus drew the fleece cap from his head. He wiped his brow and gestured to the small spider on his sleeve.

  “My best friend Edward here joined me, and we sailed out to find a new home. That’s when we came across a creature that called herself Rorroh. She welcomed me aboard her boat, fed me poisoned tea and tied me up below deck. Fibian found me and cut me loose and -”

  “And together,” Fibian interrupted, “we fought our way out of her ship, defeating the Warrior Witch and set her vessel ablaze.”

  “If you were able to cut off her hand, why did you not just kill her?” the dragon asked.

  “You especially should know that that is an impossible task,” Fibian replied, “the boy needs time and training if he is to achieve his destiny.”

  “So, what do you propose?” Drache said.

  “These islands are riddled with the Warrior Witch’s minions,” Fibian said, “We need safe passage, somewhere far from her reach, where I can train the boy.”

  He drew from his collar a small glass vial he had slung around his neck.

  “And we need your blood.”

  Blood? What was Fibian playing at? And where had he gotten that vial? Rorroh’s ship?

  “Tell me you do not believe in that hogwash?” Drache snorted.

  “The prophecy says that, in a time of great need, the chosen one will drink a vial of dragon’s blood to strengthen him, when all strength is lost,” Fibian said, as a matter of fact.

  “It may save the one, yes, but to all others, it will give a slow and agonizing death,” Drache growled, “burning you alive from within as if you’ve swallowed molten rock.”

  “Will you give us some?” Fibian continued.

  “We will see,” the dragon said, seeming to measure Cyrus, “but what will you do once you’ve had your safe passage, and the boy’s received his training?”

  “When his training is complete, he will hunt down the witch and rid the seas of her tyranny.”

  “Do you have a place in mind for this training? the dragon asked.

  “No, but we need somewhere where the Warrior Witch would never think to look for us,” Fibian said.

  “I will ponder your requests,” the dragon purred, “In the meantime, let me rest.”

  Cyrus could not believe his luck. The dragon was going to help them escape. Then once they were safe, far from the Sea Zombie and her spies, he and Edward could get away from the mad froskman and live a life of peace.

  He thought about Fibian, about the risks the froskman had taken for them. A deep guilt began to simmer in his heart.

  “Come on,” Edward said, “I’m tired too.”

  The trio found a place to bed down near the mouth of the cave, away from the den’s putrid stink.

  “Why didn’t you mention dragon’s blood before?” Cyrus asked.

  “Without actually having any, I did not think it necessary,” Fibian replied.

  “Drinking it causes a slow and agonizing death?” Cyrus said.

  “Only for the unworthy,” Fibian replied, his voice a low hum, “Now try to sleep,” the froskman lay down with his back against the cave wall, “With any luck, we will be airborne by daybreak.”

  Cyrus used his cap as a pillow against the cold, granite floor. They were so close to escape. His shoulders began to relax.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?” Edward said, curling up on Cyrus’ forearm.

  ***

  IN THE BOWELS OF THE CAVERN, away from the trio, Drache picked through a pile of bone, gold, and steel. There, he found a crystal orb. The tiny sphere was like a pebble in his claws. A dim, green ember glowed within its womb. He gazed into its center.

  “So, Mistress, he cleaved off your hand and lit your ship ablaze,” the dragon chuckled.

  “Bring him to me, sssnake,” the orb spoke.

  Drache’s slick scales gleamed in the emerald light.

  “I envy the child’s boldness,” he said, in a low purr, “It is a shame he must die.”

  Chapter 24

  A FOOL’S BARGAIN

  THE NEXT MORNING Cyrus woke up cold as stone. He looked out of the cave entrance and saw grey skies threatening rain. His belly growled, and his head throbbed. He rolled to his side and grimaced. The welt on his ribs felt like a knife wound.

  “Edward, you up?” he asked, searching his jacket for his friend.

  The tiny spider spindled down from his hair onto his nose.

  “Yes. I’m hungry,” he said, crawling onto Cyrus’ sleeve.

  Cyrus found several tidal nuts in his pocket; gave Edward one, and ate the rest himself. The kelp bulbs tasted like chewy grapes.

  “Can you believe we’re getting out of here?” Edward asked.

  Cyrus took a sip from the canteen. The water was ice cold.

  “I don’t know. After everything that’s happened, I can’t
believe we’re still alive.”

  “Well, wherever you end up, you will need to know how to defend yourself,” said a warbled voice.

  Cyrus’ head spun towards the mouth of the cave. From the top of the entrance, silhouetted against the granite sky, the froskman hung bat-like, his eyes glowing a dim blue. He dropped several feet from the ceiling and landed on all fours.

  “Where have you been?” Edward asked, chewing on a bit of tidal nut.

  “Surveying the peak,” Fibian replied, “Do you know how to use a knife?” he asked Cyrus.

  “To cut bread or sharpen a stick,” Cyrus said, feeling unsure.

  Fibian walked over to the two and drew his own blade.

  “You want to get to know the feel of your knife,” he said, “All are different, and you want to be able to change your grip without dropping it.”

  The froskman reversed his hold on the blade, then with a flash of his hand, flipped it back.

  “You want to know its weight and how it will move in your hand.”

  Cyrus rose to his feet, his body achy with a hard night’s sleep. He unsheathed his own knife. Its bone handle was slick, about six inches long. He rubbed his thumb along where the handle met the blade; then reversed the grip. He tried flipping it back. It fell.

  “If you lose your knife in a fight,” Fibian said, “you are dead.”

  With a deep sigh, Cyrus picked up his blade and hefted it in his hand. He felt awkward and foolish practicing in front of others, but Fibian was right. After what had happened on Rorroh’s ship, he had to learn to defend himself.

  Fibian stood a little crouched with his right foot forward and his knife in his right hand.

  “You want to try and stand sideways to your enemy, giving them as small a target as necessary, and always keep your knife between you and your opponent.”

  Cyrus mimicked Fibian’s stance.

  “Keep your chin down to defend your neck,” Fibian said, “and use your left hand to block your throat and chest. Better your hand is pierced than your organs.”

  Pierced organs? What am I doing? Cyrus thought. He prayed to the Angel King that he would never have to use a knife in defense ever again.

  Looking to Fibian, he tucked his chin and raised his left hand to his chest, as if he was going to catch something with it.

  “That is good,” Fibian said, “Now put your knife away and take this.”

  The froskman produced two knife-sized sticks from the back of his belt. So that is what he had been looking for on the peak. He handed one to Cyrus. Holding the other, he stood at the ready.

  “When facing an armed enemy, your first goal is to disarm them,” Fibian said, “Attack the knife hand above the joints to sever tendons,” he pretended to cut Cyrus above the wrist and elbow, “and inside the arm to slice arteries,” he dragged the stick along the inside of Cyrus’ forearm and biceps, then mimicked stabbing it into his armpit, “The same goes for the legs.”

  A deep chuckle echoed from within the dragon’s chamber. It was followed by heavy footsteps. The beast’s head emerged from the darkness, a sneering smile forged across his armored mask.

  “Do you really think a tiny knife will aid you against the Warrior Witch?”

  Cyrus dropped his stick and stood straight. He must look a fool, he thought.

  “You should ask the witch that same question,” Fibian replied, “then ask her about her hand. You would be surprised by what can cause the mighty to fall.”

  He cast a thoughtful glance towards Edward. The spider scurried up into Cyrus’ thick jacket collar.

  “I have thought a great deal about your predicament,” Drache said, “and the story of your doomed island reminded me of a past memory.”

  This was the moment, Cyrus thought. Was Drache really going to help them escape Rorroh’s web? The dragon stroked his snowy beard with an iron-crusted claw.

  “A few years ago, I saw a queer island drifting north. At first, I thought, where has this rock come from? For it had trees and earth on its back. Then I saw that it swam and looked about with a head and eyes. It was a massive turtle, like the fossil you described, but living.”

  Cyrus’ mouth fell open. Was Drache telling the truth? Could there be more of those giants? Edward crawled back onto his sleeve. The spider looked almost frightened.

  “When I thought of the great creature heading north, it reminded me of something else,” Drache continued, “Long ago, the Warrior Witch told me of a great Yeti Kingdom that ruled in the Northern Sea. She said the yeti was a race of giants that worshiped knowledge above all else.”

  The dragon lowered his voice. A fiery glow flickered in his large, reptilian eyes.

  “I believe their wisdom threatened the witch, and their beast-like beauty made her envious. Many times, her minions laid siege to their stronghold, but always they failed.”

  Drache brought his enormous head down to Cyrus’ level. The serpent’s hot breath smelled like a long-dead funeral pyre.

  “You will not find a better place than the north to escape the Warrior Witch’s probing gaze. There you can gain new allies and ready your counter attack. Maybe even find a way to rescue your people.”

  Cyrus liked the idea of aligning himself with giants and escaping Rorroh’s grasp. But a counter attack was out of the question. He was no savior of legend. And risk his life to rescue his people? Never. They did not deserve his help, and he would not give them a second chance to take his life. He pictured Sarah drowning in the lake…

  “It sounds like a good place to start,” Cyrus said to Fibian, shaking the image.

  “I have heard stories of these yeti,” Fibian replied, looking unsure, “It would be very cold and dangerous, but it would also be the last place the Warrior Witch would search.”

  “Then it is agreed,” Drache said.

  The dragon quaked with a low, rumbling chuckle.

  Chapter 25

  THE BLODBAD SPIDER

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE LUNCH when Cyrus followed Fibian up onto Drache’s tail. The armor smelled musky and felt thinly of oil. Don’t fall, Cyrus thought, pulling his way up the dragon’s back. He clung, white-knuckled, to the spikes along the beast’s spine. The serpent’s scales shifted and scraped underfoot.

  “We will fly on until nightfall, then find a place to bed-down for the evening,” Drache said, stroking his beard, “It may take two or three days to reach the north depending on the wind.”

  “Will the yeti definitely help us?” Edward asked, huddled inside Cyrus’ jacket collar.

  “It would be in their best interests,” Fibian said, adjusting the bow and arrows slung around his chest.

  The froskman walked across the dragon’s uneven body as if it was flat, solid ground.

  “We both have the same enemy, and we both desire the same result.”

  “Save your breaths until we are airborne,” Drache said.

  The dragon rose to all fours and began to stalk towards the cliff edge.

  “No, wait-” Cyrus blurted.

  He sat behind Fibian, clinging to the serpent’s barbed spine as if he meant never to let go. Drache paused on the precipice.

  “If you want to turn back, now is the time,” the dragon smirked, looking over his shoulder.

  Turn back and go where? Cyrus thought. He set his face in a mask of stern concentration and fought back the urge to run.

  “As you wish,” Drache said.

  The rain had long since passed, but the sky was still dark, the wind moaning like a searching wraith. The serpent tipped himself over the edge. Cyrus’ world became a rushing mass of terror. The wind ripped at his ears; at the rope looped around his chest. His internal gauges spun like mad clocks. His stomach screamed of impending doom. Against all instincts, he fought back the panic, keeping his eyes shut and mouth bit tight. Was the dragon trying to kill them?

  The wind in his ears calmed, and the descent began to slow. Then their course evened out, and Cyrus peeked an eye open. They were skimming the waves. The wat
er was white-capped and dark as coal. Cyrus peered around for land. He saw only the Himmel Horn stabbing skyward behind them.

  “Edward, you okay?” he asked, his voice thin and shaky.

  “I think so,” Edward said, still clinging to Cyrus’ collar.

  Cyrus looked out and watched as the dragon’s armor-plated wings pitched and beat against the grey sky, sheets of steel buckling and sliding over massive shoulder blades. How could this colossus fly with such little effort? Cyrus thought of the yeti and what those giants might be capable of.

  “If the yeti stronghold was able to fend off Rorroh’s minions, do you think it will be able to protect us from Rorroh as well?” he asked.

  “Perhaps long enough to ready you for what you must do,” Fibian said, “but make no mistake, Rorroh is a rising tide. No one but you can stop her.”

  The froskman looked up towards Drache’s severed stump.

  “Many have tried and failed, but no one has ever been able to defeat her. And no one but you ever will. We can help prepare you for what must be done, but it is you and you alone that will have to end her vile reign.”

  Can’t he see I’m not a hero? Cyrus thought, Can’t he see I’m not the one? How could he be so clever and yet so wrong? Well, he’ll figure it out when he wakes and finds Edward and I have fled…

  Careful not to hurt his best friend under his collar, Cyrus pulled his cap firmly over his pointed ears and wrapped his scarf tight around his neck. The wind bit at his hands and face and his body ached with clinging tension.

  They flew for several hours, passing strange volcanic islands and cloud-ringed peaks. Cyrus’ lids grew heavy, and he craved rest, but he dared not for fear of slipping from the dragon’s back and falling to his death.

  They neared a distant island with high peaks and deep bays.

  “We will bed-down here for the evening,” Drache said.

  As the shoreline drew closer, Cyrus spotted an abandoned fishing village with several huts and boats along the water’s edge.