“I too no longer take orders from that leprous monstrosity,” Moro spat, “I am my own master now.”
She waved her hand before her in a theatrical flourish.
“All this is my creation. A creation you’ve ruined!”
“You no longer serve the witch?” Fibian asked, “Why?”
“Because this is how she treats her subjects,” Moro said, pointing to her silk eye patch, “She used her blodbads to kill the hune alves, even the children. There was a young girl. I could not let the alveling die. Not like that.
“In time, Rorroh discovered that I had hidden the girl away within the hune’s forest and raised her as my own. For this minor indiscretion, she took my eye, right in front of the child. Then Rorroh gave the girl the same choice she gave the rest of her people, all those years earlier; join her army and become water klops, or die.”
Klops were fallen hune alves? Cyrus was so confused. Was Moro telling the truth? Was this another lie? What did all this mean?
“The girl chose to join,” Moro continued, “That was the person I sacrificed my eye for. That was the coward I raised as my own, a creature who would sell her own soul, become one of them, and for what? I vowed never to risk myself for the weak ever again, and I swore I would take more than an eye from the Warrior Witch.”
Fibian looked down at his mechanical hand.
“Was that your due for helping the boy?” Moro asked, gesturing to the artificial limb, “Was that your payment for aiding the weak?”
She grinned knowingly.
“You cannot kill the undead,” Fibian said, his voice filled with confusion, “You of all should know this. This boy is our only chance to rid the seas of her tyranny.”
“Oh, but I believe she can be killed,” Moro said, stroking Edward’s cage, “I’ve thought a great deal about her immortality, just as I’ve thought much about the prophecy. I believe both are lies, meant to discourage and mislead her enemies. She is dangerously powerful, but she can be destroyed.”
“How?” Cyrus asked, the pain in his body again taking hold.
“With steel and cannons and fire powder. With an army of willing slaves, ready to die on my orders,” Moro said, balling up her webbed hand into a fist, “I will turn the hune into a steel plated leviathan of death, with hundreds of cannons mounted along his shores, and I will create a horde of klops ready to man those weapons.”
Moro began to creep from behind the bed.
“And once I bring the hune out of hiding, the witch’s armies will rise up against me, and smash themselves against his shores. I will blast the Warrior Witch into so many tiny pieces that there will be nothing left of her to stitch together.”
Moro’s lithe frame shook with passion and rage.
“Join me,” she said to Fibian, “I have searched for you for so long. We were meant to rule this world. Our offspring were meant to rule this world, not the Warrior Witch, not that boy. Our people will be strong, cunning and beautiful. The witch is wretched and diseased, waiting to be conquered.”
“You would take her place if given the chance?” Fibian asked.
“It is my destiny,” Moro said, through clenched teeth.
Fibian seemed to look inside himself.
“Don’t listen to her!” Edward shouted, “She’s insane!”
The small spider’s mouth appeared swollen.
“Will you join me, brother?” Moro asked.
Fibian hesitated. Cyrus looked to the froskman, wondering what was going through his smooth head. Surely, he could see that Moro was mad.
“You must first hand over Master Edward,” Fibian said.
“Fibian?” Cyrus asked.
Fibian gestured for silence.
“No trades, no bargains,” Moro said, “If you want to rule at my side, kill the alveling. The blodbad stays with me.”
“There must be another way!” Fibian demanded.
“That is the only way you will prove your loyalty.”
“Please,” Fibian begged Moro.
She stared back at him unwavering. Fibian turned to Cyrus, a strange look of sorrow across his face.
“Fibian?” Cyrus said, stepping back.
The froskman grabbed him around the neck. He pulled Cyrus to his chest and pressed his knife against his throat.
“Fibian!” Edward cried.
“What are you doing?” Cyrus shrieked.
“As you wish, sister,” Fibian said.
Moro leaned closer, her smile growing wider with the coming kill.
In one smooth motion, Fibian shoved Cyrus to the floor and flung his blade at the queen’s head. Moro too became a blur. She dove across the bed and tossed a small ball to the ground. The dagger shattered against the wall. Then the room erupted into another fog of chalky fumes.
Chapter 37
CHILD EATER
“FIBIAN, WHERE ARE YOU?” Cyrus shouted.
The sound of iron grinding across floor was followed by light footsteps echoing down some unseen corridor.
“I am here,” Fibian said.
The froskman emerged from the haze and hoisted Cyrus off the ground.
“She still has Edward,” Cyrus said.
“We will have to use our wits if we are to defeat her,” Fibian replied.
Fibian helped Cyrus through the fog. Both coughed and stumbled their way across the lair.
“I think she escaped over that way,” Cyrus said, pointing toward the bookshelf, “There must be a secret exit or something.”
“I feel a draft,” Fibian said, “Over here.”
The froskman led them through the smoke, over to the bookshelf. Cyrus and Fibian felt along the shelf for an opening. They could find no entryway. Cyrus began to pull books off the shelf, looking for a handle or leaver. Nothing.
“Stand back,” he said.
Cyrus went to one end of the shelf and tried to tip it over. Fibian moved to the other. Together they brought the bookshelf crashing to the floor. Behind the shelf hid a narrow passageway that delved into the living rock. The air grew cold and clear as Cyrus and Fibian entered the passage. Fibian’s eyes lit the narrow corridor with a dim blue glow.
“Where does this lead?” Cyrus whispered.
The passage twisted east and opened up into another large chamber. The air smelled of rotten pork and burnt lard. Fibian stopped. He put his webbed hand to Cyrus’ chest.
Cyrus scanned the room, searching for Edward. The cavern was half the size of the great hall. Its floor was cracked and uneven. Water poured from the stone walls and collected in large pools throughout the cave. Oil lamps hung from iron hooks mounted to the walls, and a small cook fire glowed at its center. The largest water klops Cyrus had ever seen tended the fire. The creature was no batalha, for she was fat and helpless, like a beached whale. The glowing coals threw shadows over her layers of chins. Her black hair lay knotted, in thick nests, across her broad shoulders.
“Ah, come out of your fancy hall to visit little ol’ me, have ya?” the obese klops grunted, turning three fat rats on a spit over the fire.
Oil from the rodents dripped and fizzled into the fire.
Who was she talking to, Cyrus wondered? Then he saw her. Moro stood in the shadows beside several large wooden barrels stacked on top of each other. She inspected herself in a broken picture mirror set against the wall. Cyrus spied Edward’s glass jar glinting in her right hand.
“I do not have time for this, Vaca. Which one of these is female?”
Moro gestured to the many cocoon-like pods surrounding the water klops’ belly folds. Cyrus had seen others like them before, deep within the troll’s hideout. But the ones there had been frozen and shattered. These sacs had living forms shifting about within their wombs.
The massive female shuffled her rotund frame in seeming discomfort.
“What’s all the yelling and blasting been about?” Vaca asked.
She motioned to the large barrels beside Moro.
“Why did Knavish come for an entire barre
l of infant’s blood? What’s been going on out there?”
“I’ll ask you once more,” Moro snarled, “Which one of these is female?”
“Why? The little wenches is only good for eating, so long as I’m alive.”
The klops folded her stubby arms in defiance.
“Only one female to a nest, and don’t go trying to make trouble.”
Fibian pressed Cyrus back, then began to creep forward.
“I do not have time for this,” Moro said.
She placed Edward on a ledge beside an oil lamp, then moved towards Vaca and began to search the pods.
“Wait a minute…” Vaca said.
Her cavernous mouth fell open.
“Something bad’s happened out there,” she said, pointing towards the main hall, “Something horrible. You’re abandoning us, ain’t ya? You’re planning to steal a female, run away from here, birth a whole new nest for your precious battle hune. You’re leaving the rest of us to the wolves and trolls?”
“Not all of us,” a deep, rumbling voice said.
Thick, tattooed arms picked Cyrus up off the ground. General Morte! Fibian turned and sprang forward, blade in hand. Morte kicked the froskman in the chest, sending him backward.
“Fibian, look out!” Edward’s muffled voice cried.
Moro crossed the cavern in a flash and leaped onto Fibian’s back. Fibian crashed backward, crushing Moro between his back and the hard, stone wall.
General Morte threw Cyrus sprawling to the ground. Cyrus cracked his elbows and knees on impact.
“Guess you’ll be breaking that promise to your dead yeto friend,” the general said, grinning, “Bet you die squealing like a newborn.”
He uncorked his wineskin and drank deeply. Purple klops blood ran down his square chin. The muscles in his arms and chest swelled, and the veins in his neck bulged.
Cyrus rose to his feet, fear masking the pain in his bruised bones and broken fingers. He looked for a way past the general. To his left, the passage led back into Moro’s lair. To his right, barrels of baby klops blood blocked his way. On a ledge, just beyond the barrels, Edward clung, wild-eyed, to the wall of the glass jar. Cyrus peered over Morte’s shoulder. The two froskman rolled, kicked and sprang like feral cats.
“Cyrus, run!” Edward shouted.
Morte began to move forward, his blood-fed muscles rolling and bulging beneath his leather and armor. Cyrus circled off the wall, towards the passage he had entered through. Morte moved right and cut off his escape. Cyrus tried to rush between the general and the barrels. The brute continued forward but sidestepped left, blocking Cyrus’ way. With nowhere to turn, Cyrus gritted his teeth. He chopped at Morte’s toes with his broken half-sword. The batalha stepped back, slipping the blow, then continued his advance. Cyrus slashed at his knees. Again, Morte slid away, but this time he countered with a backhanded blow that caught Cyrus on the side of the jaw.
“No!” Edward cried.
Cyrus struck the rock wall with an armor denting clang. His head dashed off the jagged stone. Blood began to pour from his mouth and a gash in the back of his head.
“You break so easily,” Morte said, grasping Cyrus by his grimy blond hair.
He threw Cyrus crashing into the barrels. One tipped over, gushing gallons of blood onto the floor. Cyrus tripped and slipped over the bloody cask and picked himself up off the ground. His head was spinning and his arms and legs were sopping with blood.
“You don’t have to die, you know,” Morte said, sneering, “Join us. You’ll be my little pet.”
The batalha clutched at Cyrus’ neck. Cyrus slashed out wildly, blood blotting his eyes.
“Ghhaa!”
Morte withdrew his purple spattered hand. A thick klops finger fell to the floor. The general grasped his maimed limb and reeled back in shock.
“No!” he roared.
Cyrus saw his opening. He slashed at Morte’s foot a second time, cleaving off two toes.
“Gaaah!”
The general stumbled back, favoring his left foot. Cyrus lunged forward and shouldered Morte in the stomach. The brute tripped backward. Cyrus slashed at his belly, cutting deeply into his thick leather tunic. Morte crashed to the floor, purple blood leaking through the leather.
“Get back!” the klops shouted, struggling to his feet.
Cyrus dove at his downed adversary, his half-sword held high. Morte’s foot shot up like a bloody piston. It struck Cyrus in the chest and sent him crashing against the wall. Cyrus rolled to his side and gasped for breath. His lungs would not respond. His head was achy and dull and his body cried for air. A strong hand grasped his neck and lifted him off the ground.
“Cut off my finger?” Morte roared, “I’ll cut off your head!”
The general punched Cyrus in the face with his maimed hand. Cyrus’ mind exploded like cannon fire. Somehow, to his dismay, his consciousness maintained. General Morte buried his foot in Cyrus’ ribs. Cyrus screamed a breathless cry. His mind began to fade from lack of air.
“Having trouble breathing?” Morte asked, “Maybe this will help.”
The large klops limped over to the stack of barrels. He ripped the top off the nearest one. Then he walked back towards Cyrus. Cyrus held his hands up in surrender. He just wanted the pain to stop. He tried to beg for mercy. The words would not come. The general took Cyrus by the hair and dragged him over to the cask.
“How about some nice, fresh air,” General Morte snarled.
He plunged Cyrus’ head into the vat of blood. The liquid was oily and cold. Cyrus kicked and squirmed, fighting for air. The general pulled him out. Cyrus gasped, his lungs finally accepting the life-giving oxygen.
“Feel better?” General Morte asked, his words dripping sarcasm.
He forced Cyrus’ head back into the vat. Cyrus’ world became a bubbling, muffled vacuum of darkness. He clawed at the klops’ hand. He scrabbled against the barrel’s sides. His lungs were at their limits. He fought the urge to inhale klops blood. Something in his head popped. A high pitched ringing filled his mind. Morte pulled him back from the brink.
“What, the air here not good enough for ya?” the klops laughed.
He shoved Cyrus’ head below the surface a third time. Cyrus’ mind began to leave him. His world became a swirl of nightmares, real and imagined. Child Eater, the yeti had called him. He recalled Runa’s words, all those nights ago.
The savior will become an eater of children. They will sacrifice a part of their soul to defeat the Sea Zombie.
He thought of Moro’s tale, of how she had told him that the water klops were fallen hune alves, twisted and soulless. The ideas swirled before Cyrus’ eyes.
Child Eater. Infant’s blood. Water klops. Hune alves, twisted and soulless.
Cyrus felt his senses fall away. He was dying. It was over. The prophecy was not meant for him.
Child Eater.
Could it be? Is that what the prophecy foretold? Could Cyrus cross that line? Could he bring himself to drink the blood of the innocent, water klops or alveling? It was his only hope.
With all the focus he could muster, Cyrus exhaled his last breath. Then he drank deeply of the baby klops blood. The thick fluid tasted salty and bitter. It filled his throat and became heavy and warm in his guts. A glowing bliss engulfed his being. Was this death? Cyrus’ world shrunk away to a tiny pinprick. The ringing in his ears became a distant whine.
Chapter 38
COLD BLOOD
“CYRUS.”
Cyrus heard his name being called from another world.
“Cyrus!”
Or was it another room?
“You murdered him! You drowned him!” Edward’s muffled voice shrieked. “I’ll kill you for this. I’ll kill you!”
Cyrus felt his heart first. It beat within his chest like a distant drum. The drumming moved through his body, rising to his ears. His bones ached and his muscles knotted. His body began to spasm all over. Cyrus’ skin seemed to be pulling itself apart. He screamed
in agony. The cry never reached his lips. His stomach turned. He rolled to his side and heaved. Purple blood spewed across the floor. The pain ebbed away. Cyrus felt tight all over, bound up. He began to panic. He ripped at his klops armor, stripping away the leather and iron. Then he tore away his soiled, sodden furs. All that remained was his wool underwear. He felt warm, free. He could breathe. Large gusts of vapor jetted from his nostrils. He looked down at his hands. They seemed larger, much larger. He tore a strip from his sleeve and bound together his broken fingers. Cyrus studied his forearms and arms. They were knotted with lean corded muscles. Thick veins swelled beneath the skin.
Cyrus remembered Edward, trapped within a glass jar. He remembered Fibian, Tier, Moro. General Morte!
He looked up. Fibian and Moro were stalemated in battle, fighting for control of Fibian’s blade. Morte was coming to Moro’s aid. Fibian was doomed.
“Had enough, klops,” Cyrus shouted.
His voice was not his own. It was deeper, coarser.
“You’re alive!” Edward cried, from his jar on the ledge.
Cyrus looked to his best friend. Edward’s expression became confused.
“Cyrus? Is that you?”
General Morte turned. His toothy jaw dropped and his small eyes grew wide. He looked at the barrels of child’s blood, then back to Cyrus.
“You’re no klops,” the general shouted, “This can’t be!”
Cyrus lunged forward. His legs felt light, yet strong. Morte drew his broadsword. He swung at Cyrus with a wild, forehand slash. Cyrus slipped under the general’s blade, planted, and pivoted on his left foot. Heedless of his broken fingers, he drove his left fist into General Morte’s ribs, just above the bloody gash.
“Gahhh!”
Cyrus felt bones crack. The general’s stomach folded. Cyrus transferred his weight to his back foot. He plunged his right fist into the brute’s guts.
“OOhh!”
The general fell to one knee, dropping his sword. Cyrus readied another strike. The general rose up with a hooking punch of his own. He caught Cyrus under the jaw. Cyrus’ head rocked back, but the blow had little effect.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 34
