“Did you not tell them we would slaughter their families if they disobeyed?” the queen asked.
“Yes, my Queen. They no longer believe this to be true. They are demanding we free the prisoners locked in the dungeons, or they will attack the main hall.”
“Fools,” the queen hissed, “Abandon the search for the intruder. I want archers posted outside the main doors. Use the perimeter cannons. Blast those mangy beasts into ragged pieces. Do not cease fire until they are dust.”
“Yes, my Queen,” General Morte replied, “And your private guard?”
“They are to wait here for my orders.”
The guards took up position at the foot of the throne, shoving the smaller klops aside. General Morte bowed and marched back through the massive doorway.
The queen was about to destroy the yeti. Cyrus had to stop her. Rescuing Edward would have to wait. He had to find a way to smash the cliff cannons.
“Firing stations, “Lieutenant Knavish shouted, “form up and follow me.”
The lieutenant bowed to the queen, then turned and led his small group of klops towards the main gate. Two runners ran along the eastern and western walls and ducked into the hallways to the left and right of the fortress doors.
Cyrus made his way along the western edge of the throne. He stepped out of the shadows and attached himself to the tail end of the group. His brow sweat under his jagged helmet. He dared not look back to see if the queen had taken notice of a taller klops straggling from the shadows. He noticed the several barrels of lamp oil stacked against the western wall.
The platoon marched out of the gates in a ragged line. It was a starless night sky. Yeti and klops voices shouted and clashed off in the darkness. Cyrus guessed it was late evening. He figured he must have been in the dungeons for nearly twenty-four hours. The hallways on each side of the great doors led to narrow stairways. The stone steps must lead to the cannons, Cyrus thought. He took a deep breath and slipped left into the shadowy corridor. The rest of the platoon marched out of the gates.
Cyrus hid in the shadows, his good hand white-knuckled around his crossbow. His shins ached and his nose throbbed. No one came for him. He advanced slowly up the stairs. The passage was unlit. He had to squint to see his footing.
Boom!
The mountainside shook. A great flash of white, like lightning, shone through the doorway above. The cannons! The yeti camp. It had begun.
A second cannon thundered in the distance, then a third and a fourth. Cyrus hurried his pace and reached the top of the stairs. A thick wood and iron door stood open to his right. When locked, it appeared impenetrable, but the runner had left it open.
“What you doing creeping around here?” a whiny klops voice asked.
Cyrus followed the voice to his left. A small guard stood in the corner, at the top of the stairs. How had Cyrus not seen him? He did not dare raise his crossbow. He just angled it upwards from his hip. The bolt struck the guard in the belly. The creature began to shriek. Cyrus dropped the empty crossbow and buried his knife in the klops’ throat. He left the creature in a quivering mass in the darkened corner.
Cyrus stepped through the doorway and arrived at a parapet carved out of the mountainside. He mounted the parapet and looked out over the mine.
The air smelled oily and acrid. Great explosions of white detonated from all around the cliffs. Below, in the eastern corner of the mine, mud, iron and wood erupted in great bursts, as cannon fire impacted the ragged yeti camp.
From his vantage, Cyrus could see that the cliff cannons had been mounted in a horseshoe shape above the north end of the mine. Cyrus found himself at the center of the bend. He looked up. Thirty or forty feet above, he saw two large holes in the rock face issue gray smoke. Where exactly did those chimneys lead, he wondered?
BOOM!
To his right, crouched within a rocky bunker, two cannon guards watched their handiwork and squirmed with delight. Below, yeti hid under large sheets of armor. Others lay dead in the snow. Cyrus watched as the cannon guards focused their attack on a group of yeti nearest the great hall’s entrance. The yeti were mounting an attack on the stronghold’s gates. The barrage of cannon fire bounced off the armor plating, rattling the giants beneath. Sparks spattered, sizzling through the night. Archers on the ground picked away at the group’s flank, with only a handful of yeti able to protect themselves with smaller sheets of iron.
Cyrus crept along the parapet and dropped down into the bunker. The noise of his leather soled feet hitting the floor sounded like little more than falling clumps of snow. Cyrus grabbed the first creature by his armor-plated spine and heaved the fiend over the edge. The water klops kicked and screamed his way to an organ rupturing death. The second dropped his torch and reached for his poisoned blade. He grasped only thin air. Cyrus drove the knife under the klops’ jaw and into his skull. The scoundrel twitched and kicked, before crumbling into a pile of armored filth.
Cyrus climbed back onto the parapet. He made his way to the next cannon. He dropped into the bunker and moved towards the cannon guards. Both lay stone-still slumped against the cannon. Cyrus crept closer, his knife at the ready. Warm klops blood melted the fallen snow. What had happened here? Was this a trap?
Cyrus felt a mechanical arm wrap around his chest, then a blade pressed against his throat.
“Is that Master Cyrus I smell under all that stink?”
Fibian’s voice was unmistakable. Cyrus pushed the knife away and turned.
“Thank the Angels,” he said, removing his helmet.
Fibian stood before Cyrus, a rope over his shoulder, and dressed in loose furs. The froskman looked pale and weak.
“Your face,” Fibian said, his brow lined with worry.
“They killed Tier,” Cyrus said, looking away, “Ungur double-crossed us, led us into a trap. They tortured and threatened me. They said that if I didn’t tell them everything, they would kill Tier. I gave in. I’m sorry. They know everything, including who you are. They killed Tier anyway.”
Fibian’s shoulders slumped.
“Tier’s death was not in vain,” he said, deep sadness in his tone, “The yeti believed her words to be true. After we received word you three were taken, the elders met. They took counsel with Vinter and me. We told them they had to fight. We told them we had to free you. Then the klops began to search the yeti camp, bullying and killing yeti. That is what finally ignited the revolt, but they need our help.”
“There’s more,” Cyrus said, “Gammal’s dead, and the hune is lost. All this was for nothing.”
Fibian looked at Cyrus without saying a word.
“And the queen,” Cyrus continued, “She’s a froskman. She claims to be your sister.”
Fibian’s eyes grew wide and bright.
“She is their leader?” he asked, “She has done all this?”
Cyrus nodded yes.
“What is she up to? Where does all this lead?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, “and I don’t care. I made Tier a promise, and I intend to keep it. We need to take out these cannons, and we need to find Edward.”
He moved to disable the next bunker.
“Wait,” Fibian said, “I have an idea.”
The froskman pointed to the next gun. Cyrus and Fibian watched from a distance as the guards loaded their artillery.
“Do as they do,” the froskman said.
Cyrus and Fibian began to mimic the guard’s actions within their own bunker. Fibian loaded a paper parcel of powder down the weapon’s barrel. Cyrus loaded a lead ball. Fibian pushed a powder-coated wick into a small aperture at the rear of the cylinder. Cyrus picked up the dropped torch and lit the fuse. Fibian aimed the weapon at the cliffs across the mine. The fuse fizzled and sparked.
BOOM!
The artillery bucked like a spooked horse, its muzzle flashing white-hot. The centermost cannon on the opposing cliff burst into two. Munitions erupted in the bunker, raining down rubble and klops flesh into the oily pit below.
The surrounding cannon guards looked about frightened.
“Again,” Fibian shouted.
Cyrus and Fibian fit the weapon with another fuse. They turned the cannon on the klops to their left. Fibian flashed his eyes and made sure they noticed. They gave the creatures time to retarget their artillery, then lit their own empty cannon. Fibian grabbed Cyrus by the collar and pulled him back up onto the parapet. The klops’ weapon discharged. Cyrus and Fibian dove down behind the parapet’s three-foot wall. The abandoned cannon exploded into a mess of flame and steel, scattering the two dead klops across the night. Cyrus’ ears rang. He peeked over the small wall. The remaining cliff guards looked about terrified. Unsure who had killed their kin, they pointed their cannons at the guards across the quarry. The targeted klops re-aimed their artillery in defense.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” a distant klops voice shouted, from the western bunkers.
“What are they hollering?” a cannon guard asked, from the eastern line.
“They are about to fire!” Fibian shouted, his voice contorted and klops-like.
The guards began to panic.
Cyrus and Fibian ran down the parapet, diving behind the wall as far from the cannons as possible. Behind them, all-out war waged amongst the cliff cannons. Cannon guards tried to destroy the others before they too were blown to grimy bits. Powder satchels detonated with deafening blasts. Several klops leaped from their perch. Others tried to flee from their bunkers, back up onto the parapets. All fell to their doom or were scattered across the cliffs.
In the end, only one piece of artillery stood ready to continue its assault. Cyrus and Fibian crept across the parapet like cats on the hunt and dropped into the bunker.
The klops stood shaken and confused.
“We have to tell the Queen,” one klops whined.
“We have to stop the yeto,” the other countered.
The second klops aimed the cannon at the group of yeti trying to break through the door guard. The first cursed, then lit the wick. Fibian pounced on the second guard’s back, piercing his skull with a poisoned blade. He followed the creature to the floor and chucked the knife at the remaining klops. The blade struck the creature in the gills. The scoundrel clawed at his neck as he melted to the floor.
Cyrus rushed to the cannon and adjusted its aim. The artillery erupted, shaking the cliffs as it blasted a hole in the queen’s door guard, four soldiers wide. Cyrus’ heart leaped. The yeti began to force their way through the gap.
“They need our help,” Fibian said, picking up a klops crossbow.
“We can’t leave this one intact,” Cyrus replied.
He began to load several parcels of black powder into the weapon’s barrel. Then he loaded it with four lead balls. Fibian fitted it with a wick and lit the fuse.
They jumped from the bunker and dove behind the waist-high wall.
BOOM!
The cannon bucked, its barrel splitting like a cracked pea pod.
Cyrus peered down into the pit, watching the clashing yeti and water klops below. Many yeti lay dead in the slush and mud. Cyrus thought of Tier. He thought of his brother Niels.
“We need to get down there, help them break down that door,” he said.
“We must use stealth,” Fibian replied, shouldering the crossbow, “We will pick away at the klops from the shadows.”
“There’s no time for that,” Cyrus said, taking Fibian’s rope.
He secured one end to the ruptured cannon, then threw the other end over the cliff wall. He began to rappel down into the mine.
“Wait,” Fibian shouted from above.
Cyrus ignored his cry. He had waited enough. He had klops to kill.
Chapter 33
SUPERIOR NUMBERS
CYRUS DESCENDED INTO THE BLACKENED pit far below. Among the machinery and slag, yeti wielded klops swords and scrap metal. Oil fires burned in puddles throughout the snow. Smoldering cannon holes pitted the earth.
Cyrus hid behind a pile of mis-shaped iron and looked beyond. The klops were beginning to encircle the yeti, forcing them down into slushy quarries. Archers picked away at the giants from their flanks. If Cyrus and Fibian did not do something soon, the yeti revolt would be over before it had started. There was one broad-backed batalha standing over a quarry, opposite Cyrus’ hiding place. His aim was especially true. Cyrus remembered his promise to Tier. Die!
Cyrus flew out of the darkness and drove his shoulder into the brute’s back. The batalha’s fiery bolt shot wide. It arched over the yeti and struck an eastern platoon. The big klops spun around, raging.
“You clumsy fool!” the beast shrieked.
Cyrus grabbed the soldier by the beard. His broken hand throbbed. He buried his blade into the batalha’s belly.
“Gahhh!”
The klops grasped Cyrus by the helmet and threw him to the ground. Then he lifted a heavy steel and leather boot and dropped it down on Cyrus’ head. Cyrus had just enough time to cover his face and roll. The foot smashed the earth beside his head. Cyrus looked up, blinking and confused. The batalha was stumbling backward, gurgling blood. He clutched an arrow piercing his neck. Another arrow punched him in the head. Cyrus looked towards the cliff, from where the attack had come. Two blue eyes glowed in the darkness. Fibian. The large klops crashed dead into a puddle of slag and slush.
Four more batalha broke off from the eastern flank. Cyrus mimicked the dead klops beside him.
“I saw blue lights,” shouted one of the brutes, “Something’s loose around here. Spread out and find it.”
The foursome began to scour the edge of the cliffs. Cyrus held his breath as the beasts crept near. Three continued to walk past. The fourth stopped right above Cyrus. He kicked and prodded Cyrus’ side.
“AAAHHHRRR!”
Like a ghoul from the grave, Cyrus rose up and buried his blade in the creature’s stomach. The batalha squealed like a wild boar. Then he grabbed Cyrus by the throat. He clubbed him in the metal faceguard with a brick-like fist. Cyrus’ eyes rolled and his ears rang. He felt his nose and cheeks bruised and bloodied inside the iron can. Fading, he clutched his knife. He stabbed the klops’ wrist. The brute pulled away, grasping his injured arm.
Cyrus fell to the ground, gasping for air. Furious and clumsy, he stabbed the klops through the foot. The batalha hopped, tripped and fell to the snow. The creature rolled and groaned in agony. Cyrus lunged and grasped forward, climbing on top of the brute.
“This is for Tier!” he roared, as he buried his blade in the villain’s throat.
“Traitor, get em!” one of the remaining three beasts said.
They came around a mound of snow and dirt, raised their bows and took aim at Cyrus.
Thwack!
A black bolt struck the farthest klops in the arm.
“I’ve been hit!”
Two blue lights flashed out of the night. Fibian landed on the beast’s back. Using his blade, he opened the klop’s neck, gill to gill. The second batalha turned and fired. Fibian flipped off the first batalha’s back. He took the arrow, mid-air, on his mechanical arm. Gripping his bow with his steel claw, he released a missile of his own. The arrow struck the klops between the eyes. The creature fell dead.
The last klops lost his nerve and retreated back between the leather tents, towards his platoon.
“Cave weirds! Cave weirds are attacking us!” the creature shouted, stirring the troops.
Fibian leaped over to Cyrus and helped him to his feet.
“Are you all right, young Master?” Fibian asked.
Cyrus’ seared flesh felt raw and his ankle throbbed. He removed his helmet and spat blood.
“I’m okay,” he said, feeling his fractured nose.
“You cannot fight out of anger,” Fibian said, pulling the arrow from his yeti-made arm, “We must fight with strategy if we are to defeat a force of superior numbers.”
Cyrus nodded. Fibian was right. He was going to get them both killed if he continued on like this.
The froskman picked up two klops bows and handed one to Cyrus.
“We must pick up as many arrows as we can find,” Fibian said, charging the pump on his metal arm.
The two friends collected the quivers off the three dead batalha and divided up the arrows.
“The night will be our ally,” Fibian said.
He retreated into the shadows cast by the large klops tents. Cyrus secured his helmet and followed, ducking low.
The pair stopped at a large boulder, near the eastern edge of the mine, and looked out over the battlefield. The yeti had reinforced their positions within the pits but were making no headway. Their defenses resembled beetle shells. The armor plating flickered and shimmered with the movement of the giants beneath. Arrows were no longer enough to weaken the yeti defenses. Smaller water klops were sent in with sword and shield to harass the giants. The shells shifted open. Several hairy yeti thrust out and stabbed the klops with spears. The giants then dragged the fiends within the bellies of the iron beasts. With each counter-attack, the klops struck the yeti with arrows, spears and rocks, weakening their numbers.
“We must inspire fear in the klops,” Fibian whispered, “Target the largest, most visible in the frontline. Make sure the rest see.”
Cyrus knelt down, leaning out from behind the rock. He chose his targets carefully. He held the bow as best he could with his left hand. With his right, he nocked an arrow and drew it to the corner of his mouth. He targeted the largest klops he could find in the frontline. The missile sang over the troop’s heads. It went wide of its mark, sinking deep into the lower back of a large, fat klops. The brute hollered and screamed, groping helplessly at his surrounding comrades. Fibian released his own arrow. A second klops suffered the same fate but to the back of the neck. The witnesses looked over their shoulders, towards the encompassing darkness. Blind terror took hold.
Cyrus and Fibian continued their assault on the eastern line. The platoon captains lost control of their soldiers. The yeti seemed to sense this. They emerged from their pits, taking ground on their eastern flank.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 31
