Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Are you all right?” Cyrus asked.

  The froskman looked up. Her back was slouched and her eye was dull. Cyrus studied the creature’s body for injury. Her brow was blackened and swollen, and her cheek was lacerated and bloody, but like Fibian, she was already healing.

  “What did they do?” he asked.

  “They wanted to know if I knew who you were and how you had gotten here.”

  Moro’s voice was shaky and weak.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “What could I tell them? I know nothing. It will only get worse for us the more you hold back.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell. I promise,” Cyrus lied.

  “I doubt the queen will believe that an alveling and a blodbad survived the Warrior Witch, sailed across the North Sea, and mounted the northern pass, unaided, just to rescue some yeti?”

  “Tier helped us up the northern pass,” Cyrus said.

  His words sounded pathetic.

  “If you cannot convince yourself of your own lie, how do you expect to convince the queen?”

  Cyrus could feel his will being tested. He would not betray Fibian.

  “It’s the truth, we’ve been very lucky,” he said.

  “I don’t think ending up here is what I would call luck,” Moro said, cringing as she shifted her body, “Do not make them do to you what they have done to me. Do yourself a favor. When they come for you, tell them the truth immediately. Save yourself the suffering.”

  “What are they going to do?” Cyrus asked.

  He heard footsteps coming from beyond the chamber door.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Moro whispered.

  Again, the door crashed open. Cyrus sat as still as he could manage, holding his breath. The three klops poured into the room, followed by Agulha.

  “Take the boy,” the councilor ordered.

  “No,” Cyrus shrieked.

  He ripped at his chains.

  “Come near me and I’ll kick your teeth out.”

  The klops tore the door open and swarmed Cyrus. They threw his legs aside like tangled weeds. Cyrus punched and kicked, his bruised ankle burning. The klops unlocked his shackle and chained his hands behind his back. Then they dragged him off like a mad dog, up the stairway, and out the chamber door.

  “Make it easy on yourself,” Moro called after him, “Tell them what they want to know.”

  “Please don’t,” an armored klops grunted, “The harder the beating, the more tender the meat.”

  Chapter 29

  STICKS AND STONES

  THE KLOPS DRAGGED CYRUS BACK through a long dingy hallway, past a staircase leading above, and into a second darkened room. The frigid hollow smelled of sweat and sour rot. Strange devices inhabited the shadows within.

  “Get out of the way,” the shortest klops ordered, pushing past Cyrus and igniting a wall lamp.

  The chamber was shaped much like the previous dungeon, but with a large iron furnace built against the far wall. A cauldron of steaming hot water rested on top of the furnace.

  “Move,” growled a klops in a steel helmet.

  The creature was missing all but one snaggle tooth.

  The three klops hauled Cyrus down the stone steps and passed a large iron casket propped upright against a blood-stained wall. Chains, ropes and pulleys hung from the ceiling. A frozen tub of water lay at the rear of the room.

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

  His breath was vapor.

  “Shut your mouth,” the helmeted jailer shrieked.

  He punched Cyrus in the nose.

  Cyrus’ vision exploded into stars. Then a fizzling pain erupted between his eyes. The third klops, a chalky-fleshed creature, shoved Cyrus to the floor and began to pull off his boots. The numbing sensation in Cyrus’ face slowly shifted to a throbbing ache. Blood filled his nostrils.

  Together, the three klops stripped Cyrus of his furs and forced him into a large wooden chair, clearly meant for a yeti’s hulking frame. The villains smelled of dung and coal. Cyrus watched through swollen eyes as they used thick leather straps to secure his hands and feet to the seat.

  “What’s going on? What is this place?” Cyrus asked.

  He tasted salty iron in the back of his throat. The shorter captor buried his fist in Cyrus’ belly. Cyrus spat blood. He struggled to suck cold air back into his lungs.

  “Leave him,” Agulha commanded.

  Cyrus strained to look towards the entrance. The tall weedy klops descended the stairs, wrapped in his tattered brown robes.

  “You three, tend the fire,” the councilor ordered.

  His face was long and drawn, and he had lengthy whiskers, like a catfish, growing from the corners of his wrinkled mouth.

  The three klops began to snicker as they shuffled over to the fireplace. Cyrus fought against his leather bonds, trying to slip his hands free.

  “Why are you here?” Agulha asked, his tone conversational.

  The three klops leaped back from the flaring furnace, oil in hand. The fire erupted into an inferno. The stench of kerosene filled the dungeon.

  “To find a new home,” Cyrus said, limiting the truth.

  Agulha moved to the north end of the chamber and stood beside the frozen tub of water. He removed his brown robe and draped it over a large wooden bed. The bed had ropes and winches on either side. Beneath, Agulha was dressed in stitched leather pants and a leather tunic. He extracted an ice pick from the wall and began to stab viciously at the ice.

  “I would rather you cooperated and avoided all the unpleasantness of this room,” Agulha said.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Cyrus sputtered, the blood beginning to ebb from his nose, “I come from a small island. It’s collapsing and will soon fall into the sea. I’ve come to find a new home. That’s all.”

  Agulha picked up a wooden pail from beside the tub and drew water from beneath the ice.

  “What happened to your hune, alveling?”

  Cyrus’ mind stumbled. Why was Agulha asking this? Did he suspect Cyrus of his need for the giant turtle? Had Moro talked? Had Edward?

  Cyrus said nothing. Agulha charged forward and doused Cyrus in freezing liquid.

  “Aaahhh!”

  The wind leaped from Cyrus’ lungs.

  “You will answer me, boy!” Agulha shrieked, clutching Cyrus by the jaw.

  Cyrus squirmed in his chair, struggling to regain his breath.

  “D- dead. It’s dead. For a l- long time, dead. That’s why I left.”

  “And the blodbad?” Agulha asked.

  “H- He’s my friend.”

  Agulha ripped Cyrus’ woolen underwear from neck to belly. Then he motioned to the three klops. The scoundrels scooped a bucket of steaming water from the cauldron.

  “No! What are you doing?” Cyrus shrieked.

  The chalky klops heaved the scolding water onto Cyrus’ chest. His flesh seared and his muscles thrashed.

  “Stop! I’m telling the truth,” he screamed.

  Agulha motioned the guards back. All three giggled with delight.

  “Blodbad are no friends to alvelings,” Agulha said.

  Cyrus looked down at his body. His skin was red, blotchy and raw.

  “He’s n- not a blodbad, not really. He’s the last of his kind. He grew up all by himself. I raised him, I guess. Everything he knows, he learned from me.”

  Agulha’s bulbous eyes flashed to the doorway. Cyrus twisted his head, following his gaze. The queen stood, shrouded in silk, watching just beyond the entrance.

  “The yeti that was captured with you,” Agulha said, “where did you find her? Where are her kin hiding?”

  Cyrus’ head reeled. He could not give up the others.

  “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  Agulha picked up a metal bar. He hefted it in his bony hands, then struck Cyrus across the shins.

  “Aaaahh!”

  Cyrus began to sob. His whole being was wracke
d with frozen agony.

  “Why do you lie to me, boy?”

  The councilor grasped Cyrus by his mousy blond locks.

  “Why act so foolish? What you do not tell me, the blodbad or the yeti will. Or they won’t, and you’ll all suffer the same agonizing deaths.”

  “I’m not lying,” Cyrus whimpered.

  Agulha threw Cyrus’ head against the chair’s thick back and walked towards the tub of water.

  “No, wait,” Cyrus pleaded.

  Agulha drew another bucket of ice water. He threw it over Cyrus.

  “Noooo!”

  Cyrus gulped for breath. His body began to shake uncontrollably. The councilor nodded to the three fiends. They scooped another jug of water from the steaming cauldron and poured it over Cyrus’ head.

  “Aahhhhh!”

  Cyrus twisted instinctively, the burning driving like a spike into his core.

  “Please let me go,” he cried.

  “No one comes to a frozen wasteland in search of a new home,” Agulha spat, “And even if one did, how could they make it past the Warrior Witch unaided?”

  “Warrior Witch?” Cyrus asked, cringing.

  “Do you pretend not to know of whom I speak?”

  Cyrus stared into Agulha’s misshapen face. He tried to gain a sense of his thoughts. He looked back at the queen.

  “Yes, the Sea Zombie. I know who you mean,” Cyrus sighed, sucking back tears, “She captured me about a month and a half ago, but she hadn’t counted on Edward, the spider, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about, child?” the queen demanded, stepping into the room.

  “That’s how he turned white. He bit and poisoned the Sea Zombie. He saved my life, but in the process, he swallowed her blood and became poisoned himself. I set fire to her ship and we sailed off, leaving her for dead.”

  Cyrus preyed they would believe the half-truth. The queen walked into the chamber, across the room and crouched down in front of Cyrus. She took Cyrus’ left wrist and spread out his hand.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to wriggle free.

  “Is what you say the truth?” she asked.

  Her voice had that strange trill.

  “Yes, I swear,” Cyrus said.

  She gripped his pinky. Then she broke it, bending it back over his hand.

  “Stop!” Cyrus shrieked.

  The sensation of bone and cartilage snapping felt wrong in a way that Cyrus had only experienced once before. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream for Niels.

  “Do you expect me to believe that a child and a blodbad outwitted the Warrior Witch?”

  The queen gripped Cyrus’ ring finger.

  “How did you really get past the witch? Did she send you here? Are you in her service?”

  Tears streamed down Cyrus’ bruised face.

  “In her service? Are you insane?”

  The queen snapped his second finger.

  “Nooo!”

  Cyrus kicked against his bonds, trying to run from the pain. He attempted to move his fingers back to their original form. The sting and throb of bones and tendons grinding together nearly broke his will.

  “I’m not in her service,” he coughed, “And we didn’t outwit her. We just got lucky. It’s the truth. Her ship is burnt, at the bottom of a faraway bay. I swear.”

  “No one else helped you?” the queen asked, grasping Cyrus’ middle finger.

  Cyrus was afraid to speak. He shook his head no. The queen held tight to his finger, searching his eyes.

  “I will look into these claims,” she said, “If I find even an ounce of deception in your words, it will not be your fingers I break next.”

  Without looking back, the queen rose up from the chair and crossed the room. She glided, like a spirit, up the stairs and walked out of the chamber. Cyrus sat shivering and sobbing in his own freezing sweat. His body felt battered and broken.

  Agulha motioned to the three klops. They hobbled over from the fire and began to unstrap his shaking limbs.

  “We have all the time in the world, boy,” Agulha said, stroking his whiskers, “No one can help you here. She’s going to crack your skull, then break your soul.”

  Chapter 30

  THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN

  THE THREE KLOPS hauled Cyrus out of the torture chamber and down the hall. Each step was agony on his twisted ankle and bone-bruised shins. They shoved him through the dungeon’s door. Rats scurried underfoot. Moro sat waiting within.

  “We’ve brought your little friend back, good as new,” the short fiend said.

  The klops opened the cell door and shackled Cyrus’ neck to the bars.

  “We’ll be seeing you again real soon,” the chalky klops sneered.

  His lips wrinkled like worms.

  The three klops locked the cell door and exited the room.

  “Are you all right?” Moro asked.

  Cyrus looked up from under his brow. His nose was swollen and his body freezing. He looked down at his purple crooked fingers.

  “How long is this going to go on for?” he asked.

  His voice was hoarse.

  “As long as they want, I’m afraid.”

  Moro peered about the shadows. Then she picked her collar with a steel wire.

  “I found it in the hallway,” she said, holding the wire, “But I can’t seem to open the cell door.”

  “You look better,” Cyrus whispered.

  “A benefit of my kind,” she said, moving to unlock his shackle, “But you already knew that.”

  Moro collected a dusty, wool blanket from the corner and shook it out. Two rats scattered from beneath the cloth.

  “This should help ward off the cold,” she said, wrapping Cyrus’ blistered body in the blanket.

  The wool smelled of dust and rat droppings. Cyrus sneezed.

  “Rest a while,” Moro said, “Recover your strength. You will need it.”

  She sat beside Cyrus, hugging his body to her chest.

  “Thanks,” Cyrus said.

  He leaned into her warmth, fighting back tears. They sat on the stone floor for some time. Moro gently rocked Cyrus, rubbing his arms to keep him warm.

  “Did you tell them all that they wanted to know?” she asked, breaking the silence.

  “I hope so,” Cyrus said.

  He tried to make a fist. His left hand was swollen stiff.

  “I am not the first froskman you have seen,” Moro said.

  Her voice was soothing.

  “Another watched over your island.”

  Cyrus did not answer.

  “You do not have to confide in me, but if he did help you arrive here, maybe he can help us escape.”

  Moro brushed Cyrus’ hair from his damaged face and placed his head on her shoulder.

  “What I mean to say is, maybe we can help him to help us escape.”

  “What makes you think you’re not the first I’ve seen?” Cyrus asked.

  “Froskman are a very rare and unique breed,” Moro replied, “Yet you were only surprised by my presence, nothing more. You even knew what I was by sight.”

  “Nothing surprises me much any more,” Cyrus sighed, “Even if there was someone out there that could help us, what could we do? We’re trapped.”

  “I am not sure just yet,” Moro said, “It depends on where the froskman is, and if there are any others with him.”

  Cyrus said nothing. He could not trust Moro. The klops might beat the information out of her.

  Several moments passed. There were footsteps at the door. Moro threw the blanket aside. She cuffed Cyrus, then slipped back into her own shackle.

  Agulha entered the room first. General Morte followed. The large general led a yeti by a chain and steel collar. It was Tier, hunched and disheveled. Her legs and wrists were bound in iron.

  The general jerked the chain hard. Tier stumbled down the stairs. The fur around her face was bloody and matted, and she walked with a limp.

  “What have they done?” Cyru
s asked.

  “It seems the same thing they’ve done to you,” Tier replied.

  She looked to Cyrus, then to Moro. Tier’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the froskman. Cyrus subtly shook his head no.

  The general dragged Tier to a strange wooden table resting near Cyrus’ cell. The table had chains, pulleys and a crank shaped like a ship’s tiller. He forced Tier to lie down on the contraption, her feet facing Cyrus. Then he cuffed her wrists and ankles and turned the mechanism’s tiller-like crank. The machine stretched Tier’s long body to its full extent. Agulha drew a long, slender knife, dripping with black oil, from his robes. He held it to her neck.

  “Ungur mentioned another,” Agulha said to Cyrus, “Who was the other in your party?”

  “Ungur turned on her own people,” Tier said, “She’s a traitor, you can’t trust anything she says.”

  “Shut up!” Agulha said, slapping her across the face.

  The councilor turned back to Cyrus.

  “Is the other an alveling like yourself?” he asked.

  The old klops stared unblinkingly into Cyrus’ eyes.

  “Or a froskman perhaps?”

  Cyrus hesitated. The queen was on to them. She had guessed too much. Cyrus had to try to confuse the situation.

  “There was another alveling with us,” he said.

  Councilor Agulha drew his whistle from his cloak and blew it. A moment later, the three small klops entered the dungeon carrying Fibian’s tanned furs. Cyrus’ blood turned cold.

  “We found these in the traitor’s tent,” General Morte snarled.

  Agulha selected a glove from the pile. It was Fibian’s custom-made glove.

  “Do alvelings have webbed hands?” the councilor asked.

  Cyrus did not know what to say. They were toying with him. He just sat there staring at the glove.

  General Morte fit iron knuckles to his right fist. He punched Tier in the face. The yeti stifled a moan. Then the general turned the crank several clicks. Tier’s spine stretched and her eyes reeled.