Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Angels,” Edward breathed, hidden within Cyrus’ jacket.

  Cyrus recognized the twisted face and tattooed arms. It was the large klops they had crossed when first entering the mine. The one that had cut off his kin’s arm and eaten it. He was the biggest of them all. The gills in his neck flared and the veins in his arms swelled.

  The four batalha at their flank began to advance, snarling. Ungur raised her arms in surrender and started to march forward. One of the four batalha knocked Cyrus’ helmet from his head and shoved a rifle barrel into his back. Cyrus stumbled, then followed Ungur’s lead. The remaining three brutes prodded Tier with their weapons and cursed her in some crude klops tongue. She growled and swatted at the klops, but finally succumbed to their demands.

  The largest klops led them through the chamber, across a smooth granite floor. The four riflemen brought up the rear. To their left and right, set into the living rock, four yawning fireplaces burned with halved trees. Several large barrels, reeking of lamp oil, sat stacked against the eastern and western walls.

  Cyrus peered up. He had never seen a ceiling so high and so grand. The candlelight from the many crystal chandeliers was barely enough to expose the massive wooden beams supporting the mountain above.

  At the back of the hall stood a towering throne, cut from the living stone. The seat’s many black steps began narrow at the foot of the chair, then fanned out as they descended to the floor.

  “My Queen, we have visitors,” a tall, bony klops said, standing on the first step.

  The hunch-backed creature stood just under six feet, with oily white hair growing from the back of his tight scalp.

  A stranger, coddling what looked to be a newborn baby, sat atop the lofty throne of white cushions. The queen, as the water klops called her, was clearly female. Her silhouette was long and delicate in her flowing black gown, yet her facial features were difficult to detect behind a lengthy dark veil.

  The queen rose and began to walk down the narrow stairway. Her strides were like a big cat’s, creeping through tall grass.

  On closer inspection, Cyrus found that the queen’s dress looked rather old and worn. The edges of the gown were frayed and its train was full of small tears. Her hands too were covered in tattered spider silk gloves, yet the queen could not hide the fact that, unlike her four-fingered klops, her hands had five fingers. All were slender and webbed. She seemed to have eyes only for the creature in her arms, as she approached Cyrus and the others. Finally, her attention turned towards her captives. The queen’s posture slackened and her confidence seemed to wane.

  “What is this, General Morte?” she asked, a subtle trill accenting her throaty voice.

  Cyrus smelled sweet perfume.

  “Spies, conspiring to free the slaves,” the largest klops answered.

  Behind the veil, Cyrus swore he could see a blue glow. Its hue seemed unnatural somehow.

  “Well done, General,” the queen said, a hint of caution in her tone.

  She passed the small creature in her arms over to General Morte. The general took what looked to be an infant klops and held it by one leg. The baby began to wail like a feral cat, its tiny gills flaring.

  “Do not eat it here,” the queen demanded, “It sickens me to see you barbarians feast.”

  The newborn’s teeth were long and pointed like barbs, and its flesh loose and wrinkly like an old man’s throat. Cyrus covered his ears, horrified by the child’s cries.

  “Thank you, my Queen,” the general said, bowing and turning to leave.

  “Councilor Agulha,” the queen demanded.

  The old klops moved to his mistress’ side. The queen whispered into his large, whiskered ears.

  “Bring the imposter to me,” Councilor Agulha ordered.

  Two of the four batalha lowered their rifles and clutched Cyrus by the arms.

  “No, let me go!”

  They carried him forward and forced him to his belly. The councilor kneeled down and grasped Cyrus by the jaw.

  “It is not wendigo or yeto,” he said, inspecting Cyrus’ teeth.

  Cyrus twisted and recoiled. The creature’s webbed fingers felt like greasy, leather tongs.

  “You obviously talk?” Agulha said, “Who are you, and where do you come from?”

  Cyrus’ heart pounded and his mind whirled. He was speechless, staring into the creature’s milky, blue eyes.

  “If you do not talk, I will be forced to make you,” Agulha said.

  What could Cyrus tell him? Where was he supposed to start?

  “Very well. Break his arms.”

  “No!”

  Cyrus felt the two batalha begin to crush his wrists. His shoulder joints started to separate. He felt Edward scramble free from his jacket. Death was near.

  “Aaah!”

  The first batalha’s grips loosened.

  “What, no!” the second klops shrieked.

  Cyrus felt both brutes disengage. Then he felt himself showered in sand. His hands became fists.

  “Witchery,” the old klops shouted.

  Ignoring his ankle, Cyrus sprang from the pile. He grasped an arrow from his quiver and tackled Councilor Agulha to the floor. He pressed the arrowhead to the klops’ sinewy neck, breaking the skin.

  “Please, no, I am unarmed!” the councilor pleaded.

  Cyrus hesitated. He had never killed a defenseless foe before.

  Using the distraction, Tier kicked one of the remaining two batalha in the stomach, disarming him. Then she grasped the klops’ rifle and pulled him to her chest. The second batalha fired. Tier used her captive as a shield, the round penetrating the klops’ heart. She returned fire. The lead ball ripped open the beast’s throat.

  All four klops lay dead on the floor, two shot dead and two reduced to mounds of sand.

  “Do it,” Tier ordered Cyrus, “Or next time it may be you at the end of his blade.”

  Again, Cyrus hesitated. Ungur picked up a fallen rifle. Tier dropped her empty gun and collected a loaded one off the floor. She moved towards the queen.

  “Get on the ground,” Tier demanded.

  “I do not think so,” the queen said, holding her head high.

  “Do it, or I’ll put a bullet clean through your face,” Tier said.

  “Get down, or I’ll turn you to sand like I did the others,” Cyrus bluffed, still kneeling on Councilor Agulha.

  “I would like to see you try,” the queen replied.

  Cyrus felt Edward crawling within his collar, getting ready to pounce.

  “Enough of this,” Tier said.

  She pulled the trigger.

  BANG!

  In a flash of black silk, the queen ducked the bullet and pounced on top of Cyrus. Her left hand darted towards his shoulder. With her right, she pinned his neck to the floor. She held the squirming Edward to his face.

  “Don’t hurt him, please!” Cyrus begged.

  “If you want me to keep my end of the bargain, yeti,” the queen said, “You will hold your friend at bay.”

  Cyrus looked around, confused. Ungur raised her rifle to Tier’s chest. A look of shocked understanding fell across the blonde yeti’s face.

  “You did this?” she growled, “You betrayed us? You led us knowingly into this trap?”

  “You cannot help us,” Ungur snarled back, “You were only going to get us killed. You were going to get my father killed!”

  “We came all this way to help you,” Cyrus shouted, “We survived klops, trolls, those half-dead wendigo to help you. This is how you repay us?”

  Cyrus felt as if his guts had been ripped out. This was his village betraying him all over again.

  “An albino blodbad, here?” the queen seethed, “How?”

  Edward was trapped between the queen’s index finger and thumb. She held him upside down like a helpless beetle.

  “That is not all,” Ungur said, “There is a fourth in their party. He left my tent before I could lead him here. He’s somewhere out in the mines, spying.”
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  “Another alveling?” the queen asked.

  “No,” Ungur said, “He is the same size, but gray, with webbed hands and glowing blue eyes.”

  “Blue eyes?” the queen asked.

  She seemed to turn inwards. Was she afraid, Cyrus thought? She refocused her gaze.

  “Where do you come from?” the queen shouted into Cyrus’ face, “Did she send you? Did the Warrior Witch send you?”

  Cyrus stared wide-eyed at the queen’s silk mask. Then he looked to Edward, clawing and twisting helplessly in her grip. How should he answer?

  “You may refuse to talk now,” the queen snarled, “But that will change. Take these two to the dungeons. The spider stays with me.”

  Councilor Agulha picked himself up off the floor and brushed out his ragged brown robes. Then he reached into a pocket and withdrew a whistle. With all the breath he could manage, he sounded the instrument. Four smaller water klops, armed with crossbows, came shuffling through a passageway to the far left of the throne.

  “Councilor Agulha, what are your orders?” the first klops asked.

  “Blindfold these two and take them to the dungeons for interrogation. Do not remove their blindfolds, and do not harm them until ordered.”

  “No!” Cyrus blurted, “Leave me alone.”

  “Stop it,” Edward cried, “Let him go!”

  The four klops held Cyrus down, wrestling him as they covered his eyes with a mildewed rag. How did the queen know so much?

  “What are you going to do with Edward?” Cyrus shouted.

  He felt himself being hauled off by the arms. He kicked and squirmed across the polished floors.

  “Cyrus,” Edward yelled.

  “What’s going to happen to Edward?” Cyrus screamed.

  He felt himself dragged down sharp steps, into the cool entrails of some dark hollow. Edwards' voice cried after him. Then a heavy door crashed shut, and Edward’s voice was heard no more.

  Chapter 27

  MORO

  THE KLOPS DRAGGED CYRUS down an icy corridor. The air was frigid. The sound of skittering rats echoed all around. Cyrus was hauled through a doorway and down several stone steps. The klops shuffled and whispered as they locked an iron shackle around his neck. He shifted to find comfort. The klops pushed his back against a cold rock wall.

  “Let me go!” Cyrus shouted.

  He kicked at several large rodents scurrying across his legs. His surroundings sounded muffled and dense. Water dripped nearby. The klops’ footsteps receded. Then a door crashed shut with a bang and a heavy clank.

  “Let me go, you bastards,” Cyrus demanded.

  He pulled at his cold chains. The manacle jangled against the metal anchors. He tried to get a sense of his surroundings. The room smelled of rock dust and rat droppings.

  “They do not take kindly to name calling,” a tired, yet kind voice said.

  The words seemed to vibrate, similar to Fibian’s speech.

  “What? Who’s there?” Cyrus asked.

  “My name is Moro. I am a prisoner, like you. But I have been down here for far, far too long.”

  Cyrus ripped the blindfold from his eyes and looked about. A spike of adrenalin flushed his body. Was he back on the klappen island, within Rorroh’s torture chamber? He blinked and looked again. The room was not the same, but it was similar.

  The klops had shackled Cyrus within an iron-barred cell. Chains and pulleys dangled from the frozen walls. A single oil lamp burned on a wall, nearest the exit, supplying the room’s meager lighting.

  “What is your name?” the creature calling herself Moro asked.

  “I’m Cyrus. Where are you?”

  In the darkness, a lean shape shifted before Cyrus. A single blue sphere began to glow.

  “What in Kingdom?” Cyrus gasped.

  A dark gray form sat chained to the iron bars, across the cell. The creature was female, long and slender, similar to Fibian, yet her features were softer, her edges more curved. She wore a leather eye patch over one eye. The other glowed like the moon.

  “A froskman…” Cyrus whispered.

  She must have been freezing, for she was garbed in meager tattered gray rags.

  “I am a froskman,” the creature said, “but how do you know that name?”

  “I- I’ve heard of your kind during my travels,” Cyrus said, wishing he had held his tongue.

  “And where do you come from?” Moro asked.

  “An island, far away from here.”

  “You must miss your home dearly,” she replied, “I know I do.”

  Moro began to weep from her lone eye. She wiped her tears away with her webbed hand. Unlike Fibian, she had rather long eyelashes, and her lips were fuller. Even bald, wearing an eye patch, she was beautiful, Cyrus thought.

  “How long have you been down here?” he asked.

  “I am not entirely sure. It feels like years,” Moro said, “For centuries I was guardian of a creature called a hune. That is until the water klops captured me and took me prisoner.”

  That made some sense, Cyrus thought. Like Fibian, it was her job to watch the second village of hune alves. Once Rorroh poisoned the alves, it was probably Moro’s duty to continue to monitor the hune. Did she still serve Rorroh?

  “Where’s the hune now?” he asked, “Is it still alive?”

  “You know of such creatures?” Moro replied.

  She studied Cyrus’ face.

  “My people are stranded on the remains of one, because of a monster known as the Sea Zombie.”

  “The Warrior Witch? Here?” Moro asked.

  Her lone eye blazed like a white star.

  “No, not here,” Cyrus said, trying to calm Moro’s terror, “The last time I saw her was a while ago, on an island far from here.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “With the help of my friend, Edward. He’s been captured by that queen. I need to get him back.”

  “You and your friend alone were able to escape the Warrior Witch?”

  Moro did not sound convinced.

  “Barely, yes,” he lied.

  “Have you heard of the alveling prophecy?” Moro asked, “Have you ever seen dragon’s blood?”

  Cyrus slowly shook his head no. Of course, she knew of such things. She probably knew most of what Fibian knew. Cyrus would have to be careful.

  “We were just lucky, I guess, and Edward is very powerful.”

  “Not too powerful for the queen though.”

  Moro’s eye seemed to burrow into Cyrus’ soul.

  “We were double-crossed by a coward,” Cyrus said, thinking of Ungur.

  How could he have been so stupid? How could he have fallen for such a clumsy trap?

  “What has become of the hune?” he asked, shaking off the anger.

  “I do not know. Dead maybe,” Moro replied.

  Her gaze drifted to the chalky floor.

  “And what of the hune alves?” Cyrus asked, “Are they truly dead?”

  Moro looked rocked by the question.

  “The Warrior Witch told you of such things, then let you escape?”

  Cyrus nodded, feeling exposed.

  “She murdered most of them long ago,” Moro said, “It was my duty to guard the lone hune in the years following.”

  “Most?” Cyrus asked, “She said she murdered them all.”

  Moro closed her lone eye and slowly shook her head.

  “She gave them a choice, die, or join her army. Most chose death. That is how I lost my right eye. There was a small girl. She was so young, so innocent. I couldn’t let her die like that. I took her and hid her away from the Warrior Witch. I thought that if I could just save one of them…”

  Moro looked to the floor, a single tear running down her face.

  “The Warrior Witch found us, took the girl, then took my eye for my treachery.”

  She looked up at Cyrus, accusingly.

  “No one crosses the Warrior Witch and gets away whole.”

  “Are the water
klops following the Sea Zombie’s orders now?” Cyrus asked, “Is she the one controlling them?”

  “I do not know,” Moro replied, “You are sure no one else aided you on your journey? No one else that could help us escape?”

  “No, I wish,” Cyrus lied.

  “That is bad news,” Moro said, “When the torture begins, you will want something to give them to ease the pain.”

  “Torture?” Cyrus said.

  He knew it was probably coming, but still, some part of him was in denial.

  The chamber’s iron door crashed open. Agulha and three water klops, armed with crossbows, marched down the stone stairs.

  “Be brave, child,” Moro said.

  “No, get back,” Cyrus shouted.

  He raised his legs, threatening to kick. The klops unlocked the cell and barged in. They whipped Cyrus’ legs away with iron shackles and pushed past.

  “Wait, no, what do you want with me?” Moro shrieked.

  Cyrus watched, confused, as they unlocked the froskman and re-shackled her hands behind her back.

  “I have nothing more to tell you. Please no!”

  Cyrus wanted to help. He wanted to stop the klops, but he just sat there as they dragged Moro kicking and screaming from the cage. Fear and shameful relief washed over Cyrus. It was Moro, not him, that was being pulled into the grips of some unthinkable torment.

  “Give them what they want!” Moro shrieked, “Or they will kill us both!”

  Chapter 28

  MORE TENDER THE MEAT

  FOR AN HOUR, the screams echoed down the corridor. Cyrus strained against his chains. What were they doing to Moro? Were they going to do it to him as well? He pulled and jerked at the shackles. The iron was too strong.

  The screams stopped. Cyrus watched the chamber door. Much time passed. No one came. Was she still alive? His head began to slump.

  The door crashed open. It hit the wall with a rattling echo. The three water klops dragged the beaten and exhausted Moro back within the cell.

  “What have you done?” Cyrus shouted.

  The chalky klops snorted in reply. Agulha watched from the entrance as the three klops threw Moro against the bars and shackled her neck. They pushed, kicked and slapped Cyrus as they exited the cell, locking it tightly behind them. Then they mounted the stairs and left the room. Agulha slammed the dungeon door and secured the lock. Cyrus and Moro were alone.