Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

“Rifles! Get as many rifles as possible. I want soldiers formed up and ready to fire. In twenty minutes, we open the gates. We will cut down the yeto like trees in a forest.”

  Cyrus and Fibian pushed through the clamoring, thirsty horde in the direction of the gates. The enemy smelled of sour gas and skunk cabbage, and their breath reeked of lamp oil and rotten fruit. Cyrus looked up and spied the candle-lit chandelier. That would do. He bumped into something and found himself staring straight into the yellow eyes of a short, pock-faced klops. Cyrus looked down and pressed further into the mob.

  “Oy, wait a second,” the klops shouted.

  Cyrus’ nerves triggered and his flesh prickled. He continued through the crowd.

  “I said wait!” the fiend shrieked.

  Cyrus gripped his dagger.

  “Just you wait a minute!”

  He felt a sharp hand clasp his left shoulder. Cyrus spun around.

  “That’s my mates helmet you’re wearing, you stinking thie…”

  Cyrus buried his blade in the klops’ ribs as far as he could manage. The creature lurched. Cyrus repeated the action in rapid succession. The villain reeled, then slumped forward, drooling over Cyrus’ shoulder. He shucked the klops off. The body slumped to the floor. Cyrus looked back. Fibian met his gaze. The froskman’s expression seemed to suggest that no one had seen, or cared. He motioned Cyrus forward. They came to the center of the hall. Cyrus paused beneath the large chandelier.

  “The gates,” he said to Fibian, gesturing towards the south end of the hall, “Wait for my signal, and be ready.”

  Several klops began to push in around them, loading single shot rifles. Each rifle had a black tipped knife fixed to the end of the barrel. The klops looked thick and burly, their mouths stained with purple blood.

  “Form up, you mangy rats!” a large batalha ordered.

  The small group began to fashion a ragged, jostling line, facing the gates.

  “Be careful, young Master,” Fibian whispered, “and hurry. If the klops prepare their counter attack...”

  The froskman did not need to say more. He pushed into the mob, his head low, pressing towards the doors.

  Chapter 35

  THE GATES

  CYRUS SLIPPED THROUGH THE RANKS of the hostile water klops, his bloody knife in hand. He prayed the barrels of lamp oil still sat against the western wall. He reversed his grip on the dagger and held its blade hidden against his wrist. Then he moved towards the wall, piercing enemy canteens as he went. Dark, syrupy liquor spilled to the floor.

  Cyrus pushed through the crowd. The barrels were where he had last seen them. A thick rope, supporting the chandelier above, was secured to a cleat on the wall, left of the barrels.

  Cyrus stood with his back to the containers. With three quick jabs, he punched cracks in the nearest barrel. Noxious fumes filled his lungs, as the golden oil emptied onto the ground.

  “What’s that smell?” one klops asked, turning towards Cyrus.

  Cyrus’ hand jutted out in a flash. Purple blood poured from the enemy’s throat as he fought to scream. Two more turned towards the commotion. Cyrus gripped the barrel and tipped the container over. An amber slick gushed over the klops’ feet. Cyrus rushed to the chandelier’s rope.

  “We gots a traitor,” a klops shouted.

  Several villains armed with crossbows and rifles turned towards Cyrus.

  “I gets his legs,” a fat, half-turned klops said, grinning.

  They took aim. Cyrus fumbled with his knife. With all his might, he chopped at the cable, loosing the crystal fixture. The villains fired. Cyrus dropped the blade and gripped the rope tight. As the large chandelier crashed to earth, it pulled Cyrus high into the air. Lead bullets and poisoned arrows smashed the stone wall. The flaming chandelier hit the ground in a glass-shattering crash. It crushed several klops under its burden.

  Like a pack of hellhounds, flames leaped from the fallen candles and dashed across the floor. Fire pounced on the backs of the nearby klops, eating at their punctured canteens.

  Woosh!

  The fire reached the tipped barrel and an explosion of flame ignited the surrounding mob. Panic and confusion broke out within the hall.

  Cyrus swung above the flame and chaos, dizzy. He felt several bullets zip past his body. He let go of the rope and crashed towards the floor. He smashed into a raging group of klops. All were knocked off their feet. Cyrus crawled below the black smoke, dazed and ill, hiding within the churning mob.

  “Where did the traitor go? Find him,” he heard a klops shout.

  “I can’t see anything. Stamp out the fire!” another cried.

  Cyrus pushed to his feet and made for the eastern door. Why weren’t the yeti pouring through?

  Cyrus arrived at the door. He found Fibian fighting two door guards. The froskman stabbed one in the belly. Cyrus drew his sword and hacked a leg off the other. Fibian finished him on the ground.

  “The door!” Cyrus shouted.

  He and Fibian rushed to the small side hatch. A heavy wooden latch rested across the entryway. With his good hand, Cyrus fought to lift the wooden plank. Fibian nudged him aside. Using his superior strength, the froskman tried to move the lumber. The timber was thick and jammed in place.

  “Get him, he’s trying to open the door!” a small klops shouted.

  Amid the confusion, his words seemed lost in the shouts and cries. Cyrus pounded at the bolt with the handle of his sword. The latch held fast. The small klops scrambled over and grabbed a batalha.

  “Get off me,” the batalha grunted, smacking him away.

  “You fool, look!”

  The small klops pointed to Cyrus and Fibian, hacking at the wooden catches holding the latch in place. The batalha grabbed his partner. They charged towards Cyrus and Fibian. The latch began to jostle within the loosened hooks. Cyrus kicked the bolt free. The batalha clubbed him to the floor. Cyrus laid on his back stunned, his arm and side aching deep. He shifted. Was anything broken? His flesh felt raw and bruised, but the klops armor had absorbed the brunt of the blow. He looked about for Fibian.

  “What in blood and bones are you?” the batalha asked, kicking off Cyrus’ helmet.

  “It’s the boy, and the blue-eyed creature the Queen has been searching for,” the smaller scoundrel squawked.

  The second batalha struck Fibian to the floor. His helmet too was gone.

  “Well, they’re dead now.”

  The batalha stepped on Cyrus’ chest. Cyrus felt his ribs bend and his spine pop.

  “Please no,” he wheezed.

  The brute wound up to strike. The small door flew off its hinges and crashed into the smaller klops, making a mess of his head and chest. Three arrows found their way through the entrance, into the batalha’s back and club arm. The brute groaned like a twisting tree as he collapsed on top of Cyrus.

  A wave of yeti poured through the gate. Cyrus shoved and kicked his way from under the creature’s heavy frame. He fought to catch his breath. His broken hand throbbed and his body was exhausted and stiff.

  “Form up and fire!” Knavish’s voice shouted.

  Rifle fire began to cut down the yeti infiltrating the hall. The yeti countered quickly. They began to emerge through the door holding large sheets of armor. The lead balls pinged off the iron plates. Several yeti lined up behind the giants holding the shields. The gunfire began to ebb. The klops had been unable to gather enough rifles in time. Yeti emerged from behind the thick plates, cutting down klops with their swords and clubs.

  “To the south end of the hall. Everyone!” the queen shouted from her throne.

  Her voice became a high-pitched beacon of warning.

  “Do not let them open the main gates!”

  War broke out within the fortress as the two sides crashed headlong into battle.

  A tanned female emerged through the door, wielding swords in each hand. Cyrus and Fibian rose from the floor. Cyrus’ eyes met Ungur’s. For a moment, she looked unsure. Then her expression turned to des
peration. She charged Cyrus and Fibian, swinging her blades like a steel tornado. She was going to murder them in the fog of war, rid herself of two witnesses with knowledge of her treachery.

  She slashed at Fibian with a low arching stroke. Fibian flattened himself to the ground. He tried to mount a counter-attack. The second blade narrowly missed his rising head. Cyrus spied a rifle on the ground and moved to grab it. Ungur turned and swung at him. He rolled to the side. The sword smashed the stone floor beside him. Ungur thrust out with the second blade, driving towards Cyrus’ heart. Cyrus parried the blow with his own sword. The steel cracked the floor to his right. Fibian leaped for Ungur’s back. She swung at him with a backhanded blow. Fibian raised his own sword in defense. The strike cut him out of the air and sent him sprawling to the earth.

  “No!” Cyrus shouted.

  He rose up and hurled his sword at Ungur’s back. She spun and batted it out of the air.

  “You should never have come here, Child Eater,” Ungur roared, charging forward, “How many yeti must die for your village?”

  “Just one more,” Cyrus cried.

  He dove for the klops rifle, grabbed the weapon and rolled, coming up on his knees. He pointed the gun at Ungur. She stopped short and froze. Cyrus snarled and pulled the trigger.

  Click…

  The gun misfired.

  “You never can trust klops craftsmanship,” Ungur chuckled.

  She continued forward, raising her swords high. Cyrus leaped to his feet and charged. Ungur slashed at Cyrus, but he was inside her range. Her strokes were awkward and stunted. Cyrus buried the rifle’s bayonet in her belly. Ungur looked down at him in shocked wonder. She dropped her swords and clutched the rifle.

  “No,”

  She withdrew the blade and stared at its poisoned tip.

  “Child Eater!”

  She reached out and clutched at Cyrus. He ducked and circled away. Then the giant crashed to the ground in a jumble of bone and muscle. The yeti lay motionless beside several of her kin, joining them in their endless slumber.

  Cyrus rose to his feet and ran to Fibian’s side.

  “Are you all right?” Fibian asked.

  “I think so,” Cyrus said, helping Fibian to his feet.

  The froskman’s sword was broken in two, and his breastplate had a large gash in it. Blood leaked from within.

  “It is only a flesh wound,” Fibian said, “It will heal.”

  “We must open the gates,” Cyrus said, leading Fibian forward.

  Together they found swords and followed the yeti into battle. Fibian moved slowly at first, but once he had recovered from Ungur’s blow, he began to attack the enemy with delicate mastery. Cyrus fought with a mix of fear and rage. He overcommitted on several blows, stumbling and slashing through the assault. Fibian kept to his back and fended off many of Cyrus’ would-be attackers.

  “The wheels, those operate the gates,” Cyrus shouted to two nearby yeti.

  He pointed out the two door cranks. Several batalha guarded the cranks with swords and spears. The yeti smashed through them as if they were dry tinder and overtook the mechanisms. Again, the doors opened with a grinding moan, but this time instead of water klops pouring over the threshold, a horde of angry yeti rushed the gates.

  “There is no retreat,” the queen shouted, “Fight, you fools, fight!”

  The klops’ spirits seemed to break, but, with no other choice, they were forced to battle on. The yeti challenged the largest klops first, letting several smaller fiends sneak through the lines.

  “We must get to the queen and find Edward,” Cyrus said to Fibian.

  “This way,” Fibian said, cutting a path through the smaller klops, taking refuge along the western wall.

  Cyrus stabbed, parried and slashed with a rage that only a lust for revenge could provide. The smaller klops withered and fell with relative ease. Battle fever took hold. With each kill, Cyrus grew stronger, surer, the fire in his eyes greater, wilder. Death had arrived, and it had a name. Cyrus LongBones.

  Chapter 36

  THE QUEEN’S CHAMBERS

  CYRUS HACKED AND STABBED his way along the western wall, keeping one eye on the queen. He watched her, high upon her throne, as she reached into her robes and withdrew a small object. She threw the object to the floor. The throne erupted in a billow of white smoke. Someone grasped Cyrus by the shoulder. He spun and thrust, screaming in fury. Fibian parried his attack.

  “Master Cyrus?”

  Fibian’s face was creased with worry. He looked at Cyrus as if he were a stranger. Cyrus looked down at his hands, his chest. His yeti furs and klops armor were dripping with purple blood. He held his hands up in surrender. Fibian nodded and clasped his shoulder.

  “Are you all right, young Master?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cyrus said, regaining his composure.

  His lungs burned and his eyes filled with sweat.

  “Quick,” Fibian said, “the queen is escaping. We must find Edward.”

  He grabbed Cyrus’ collar and pulled him stumbling into the fog. Cyrus kept close to Fibian’s heels, unable to see further than his hand could reach.

  “There’s a door in the northeast corner of the hall,” he shouted, “She must have escaped into there.”

  Cries of pain and anger surrounded them as hulking forms clashed within the haze.

  They reached the northeast corner. Cyrus and Fibian felt along the stone wall.

  “It is here,” Fibian whispered, “but the door is locked.”

  He began to work the keyhole with a narrow dagger. Scuffling creatures started to clamor close through the cloud.

  “Hurry,” Cyrus breathed, looking back.

  “This blade will not do,” Fibian said.

  “Move over,” Cyrus replied.

  Fibian stepped back. Cyrus charged forward. With an overhand blow, he struck the door’s handle with all his might. His sword shattered in two, leaving him grasping a jagged half-blade. The door’s handle fell to the floor. Lousy klops craftsmanship, Cyrus thought.

  He kicked the door. It cracked open an inch. Cyrus ran at the door, driving his shoulder into the timbers. He burst through the threshold and entered a large, chandelier-lit chamber. Crimson silks draped the walls and red-patterned carpets cloaked the floor. He looked across the den. A gaunt figure stood before him. He raised his broken sword in alarm. The bruised and bloody form was his own, reflected off one of the many mirrors throughout the lair. What had he become?

  His gaze fell upon a ceiling-high bookshelf, mounted to the far wall. Beside the shelf rested an oak dresser littered with pieces of gold jewelry. On a table in the center of the room sat a small turtle skeleton.

  Someone had modeled grass and trees on top of the skeleton’s skull and in the middle of its back. Around its head, it wore an iron-plated mask. As the plating approached the forest on the top of its head, the armor curved upwards, forming a defensive wall. On its back, the metal plating protected the exposed portions of the turtle’s shell. The armor there too curved upwards as it neared the forest, creating a protective barrier. Within the iron walls, small apertures had been cut. Model cannons peaked out of those holes, ready to defend the turtle’s shores.

  Cyrus saw movement to his right. Beside a large red-silk four-poster bed, the queen rummaged through a dresser drawer. Fibian stepped in front of Cyrus.

  “Do not come any closer,” the queen ordered.

  “What have you done with Master Edward?” Fibian asked, the hum in his voice strained.

  The queen whirled on the spot, a glass orb in hand. Edward clung to a branch within, staring terrified at his companions.

  “He is mine now,” Moro shouted, “a key member of my new army. Stay back, or he is dead.”

  “Edward!” Cyrus cried, pushing forward.

  Fibian held him back.

  “Get me out of here,” Edward cried.

  His voice sounded muffled and strange as if he had been punched in the mouth.

  The queen
studied the newcomers.

  “Is that what you call him, brother?” she asked, her voice thick with disdain, “Master Edward?”

  Moro removed her silk mask. Her lone eye shone brightly.

  “It is we who are the Masters. No one else,” she snarled.

  “I remember you,” Fibian said, “It is like a feeling or smell. I do not remember where or when, but I remember.”

  “The Warrior Witch sent you,” the queen said.

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Why?”

  “I am no longer in league with the witch,” Fibian said, “This boy is the savior of legend.”

  “You believe this boy to be the Child Eater?” the queen asked, her voice thick with doubt.

  “He escaped his crumbling hune, drank dragon’s blood, and claimed Rorroh’s head in single combat. I serve the chosen one now.”

  “If you defeated the Warrior Witch and cut off her head, where is she now?” Moro asked.

  “I left her in pieces within a castle, on a southern island overrun by klappen,” Cyrus said. “I cut her down, just like I cut down your Councilor Agulha, same as I’m going to do to you!”

  “Perhaps you would like to try?” Moro said.

  She stepped forward and presented herself unarmed. Cyrus gripped his broken sword and pressed towards her. Fibian put his mechanical hand to Cyrus’ chest.

  “That is what I thought,” Moro said, with a dark grin, “So much for your chosen one.”

  “And what about you,” Fibian asked, “Should you not be with your hune?”

  Moro watched the newcomers with a narrowed eye.

  “The hune is close,” she said, her voice playful.

  Cyrus’ belly fluttered.

  “You knew all along?” he blurted.

  This changed everything. There was still hope. Their efforts had not been in vain.

  “Where is it?” he demanded.

  “That is of no concern to you, Child Eater.”

  Moro spoke the name with thick sarcasm.

  “Why are you here in the mountains?” Fibian asked,” What has the witch ordered you to do?”