Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Come here, my little pet,” Cyrus said, grinning.

  Morte grew enraged. He followed his first strike with a second hooking blow. The shot connected with the side of Cyrus’ jaw. He rolled with the punch and continued to smile. Morte snarled and threw a third punch. Cyrus ducked the blow, switched his footing, and delivered a left overhanded strike. The general’s face exploded with blood and spit. He grabbed his nose and lifted his chin. Again, Cyrus switched his footing, but this time he threw an overhanded right. His fist collided with the end of Morte’s raised chin. The general stiffened like a corpse. He teetered. Then, like a dying tree in a forest, he began to tip. Cyrus kept his feet moving. He picked up Morte’s broadsword and whirled the blade overhead. Cyrus unwound a hacking blow that cleaved through Morte’s armor, nearly cutting the water klops’ torso in two. The batalha’s body fell to the floor with a wet thud.

  “Cyrus, Fibian!” Edward shouted.

  Cyrus looked over. Moro had her back to him and was mounted on Fibian’s chest. Fibian’s mechanical hand was missing. Moro wielded Fibian’s knife. She pressed the dagger to her brother’s throat.

  “Why have you chosen to serve a hune alve?” Moro shrieked, “You are better than them. You are better than all of this.”

  She cast Fibian’s knife aside.

  “Join me. We are meant to be together. We are meant to defeat the Sea Zombie, to rule the oceans.”

  Cyrus crept towards Moro, staying within her blind spot. She rose off of Fibian and pulled him to his feet.

  “Together we will create a race of froskman, superior to all other races. A race of super beings that will rule all.”

  “We can be together,” Fibian said, wiping blood from his cracked lips, “but you must stop all this evil. Join us. Help us defeat the Warrior Witch. The prophecy is real. The alveling will save us all.”

  Moro paused, seeming to contemplate Fibian’s words. Cyrus froze, behind her left shoulder. He caught Vaca’s gaze. The fat klops turned away, terrified, her flesh sweaty and pale. Cyrus looked to Edward, clinging to the wall of his glass jar. In the flickering lamplight, Edward’s face appeared horrified.

  “Please, join us,” Fibian said to Moro, his large eyes pleading.

  “But how? I have come so far.”

  Could she join them after all of this, Cyrus asked himself? Could they trust her? He thought of Moro’s story, of how she had lost her eye, defending a helpless alveling girl. There was some good in her somewhere…

  Then he thought of Tier, beaten and defenseless, murdered on Moro’s orders. Hate began to burn his being. He thought of all the yeti Moro had slaughtered, of all the klops children she had fed to her batalha. She planned to take Edward from him, take Fibian from him. She was going to kill Cyrus, probably feed him to her klops army. There was no good left in that vile creature. She was broken, ruined, twisted by Rorroh’s ways. Cyrus recalled Tier’s dying wish.

  Promise me you will kill them all.

  And Cyrus had promised.

  An image of his stepmother flashed through his mind. Ungrateful bastard, she had called him, right before she struck him in the mouth.

  His body grew tight with rage. He lifted the klops broadsword with two powerful hands.

  “NO!” Fibian shouted, reaching out with his remaining hand.

  Cyrus drove the sword through Moro’s back.

  “AAhhh!”

  Moro shrieked in pain and surprise. Cyrus put a foot to her shoulder blade and pulled the sword free. She turned, unarmed, towards Cyrus, clutching her wounded stomach.

  “I’ll destroy your entire village for this!” Moro shrieked.

  Cyrus was already in motion. He slashed out with a two-handed blow, hewing the queen’s head from her narrow body. The light in her remaining eye winked out, and her frame fell limp to the floor.

  “Not like this!” Fibian shouted, his eyes wide, “What have you done?”

  He looked mournfully at Cyrus, studying his face, his hands, his entire body.

  “What have you done? You cut down a defenseless woman. What have you become!”

  “She murdered Tier!” Cyrus shouted back, “She was going to murder you. She was going to murder us all. How many yeti has she killed just today? She fed klops their own young. She should have known better, and you were going to forgive her? You were going to let her join us?”

  Cyrus looked towards Edward. The tiny white spider would not meet his gaze.

  “I did what I had to, to survive,” Cyrus shouted, “So we all could survive.”

  “She was the only one that had knowledge of the hune’s location,” Fibian retorted, “All the rest are dead. Who can help us now?”

  Cyrus stared at Fibian, fists clenched. Realization washed over him. How were they going to find the hune?

  “What you did, there is no coming back from,” Fibian said.

  “Who says I want to come back,” Cyrus countered, shame and anger colliding.

  He threw down his sword and turned to leave the room. He caught his reflection in the broken picture mirror. He immediately grew dizzy. It could not be. He inspected his bloody reflection. He appeared larger, much larger. He had a man’s frame. He stood well over six feet, and his chest and shoulders had grown thick and broad. He walked closer and studied his facial features in the fractured glass. His broken nose was broader and longer, and his jaw was wider, more square. He bared his teeth. His eye teeth were pointed and fang-like. His brow had grown thicker too, and he had the beginnings of a beard. His hair had become darker, like it had been infused with iron, and his eyes were no longer blue, but the color of steel.

  He looked back at Edward and Fibian. They stared at him as if he were a ghost. He turned his back on them and ducked his head as he entered the passage, returning to Moro’s lair.

  Chapter 39

  TRAP DOOR

  CYRUS’ SKIN GREW COLD. He stepped out of the passage and crossed over the fallen bookshelf. The sound of battle had ceased within the fortress. A great yeti roar of victory echoed throughout the chamber.

  Cyrus found a large bearskin blanket on Moro’s bed. He pulled it off the bed and wrapped it around his shivering shoulders. Then he walked to the door and entered the hall.

  The room stank of blood, booze and burnt flesh. Dead klops, large and small, littered the blood-stained floor. Yeti walked through the bodies with rifles in hand. They drove their bayonets into any klops still breathing. Several yeti looked over at Cyrus and paused. Cyrus stared back, his eyes moving from one giant to the next. The creatures did not seem so grand anymore. The large black yeti with the silver beard approached. Cyrus did not move. The yeti looked him up and down, then held out his hand.

  “You kept your word. You opened the gates. We owe you much.”

  Cyrus grasped his large mitt and shook it.

  “My name is Stark,” the yeti said.

  He passed Cyrus a skin of water.

  “You look weary. Warm yourself beside the fire. We will continue on after the queen.”

  “She’s dead,” Cyrus replied.

  Stark stared at him for a long moment. Cyrus could not read his expression. The yeti finally nodded his head and clapped Cyrus on the back.

  “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Stark continued on, shouting orders throughout the hall. Cyrus stared at the surrounding furry beasts. The giants nodded to him, then carried on with their tasks.

  Cyrus found a block of wood beside the nearest fire. Outside, a thick fog had become trapped within the mine. Greasy, black smoke mingled with the clean, gray mist. Cyrus sat on the block, warming his bones, and drank deeply from the waterskin.

  Had it all been in vain? They had come all this way to find Gammal, to find the hune, and now the one person who could have told them of the hune’s whereabouts was dead, cut down by Cyrus’ hand. He had rescued his best friend, but all hope of saving his village was gone.

  They had weathered the North Sea and survived the mountains. They had infiltr
ated the klops mine and freed the yeti, but for what purpose?

  He had become the eater of children, just as the prophecy had foretold. He had crushed Agulha, nearly cleaved Morte in two, and decapitated Moro. He had kept his promise to Tier. Now Cyrus found himself friendless and lost.

  A snow-white spider appeared on his shoulder. Edward looked up at him with round sad eyes.

  “I saw the look on your face,” Cyrus said, still not used to the base in his voice, “You think I’m a murderer. You think what I did was wrong.”

  “No,” Edward said, his mouth bruised.

  The small spider’s voice was quiet and unsure.

  “I would have done the same. I tried to do the same. She held me down and ripped out my teeth. I’m no use to anyone any more.”

  Cyrus’ heart sank. He had saved his best friend, but not soon enough. He looked over at the tiny spider, at his swollen mouth, his white fur, his seven legs. Had Edward not lost enough? Cyrus wanted to cry, but he was done being weak.

  “She said the blodbad on the surviving hune have become twisted feeble half-breeds,” Edward continued, “She was going to use me like cattle, try to breed back a pure race.”

  “You saved me from that hell. I was just shocked by it all. You’re not a boy any more. At least not physically. And that look in your eye. You’ve changed, and I’m worried.”

  Cyrus said nothing. He stared down at his wool socks. The big toe on his right foot poked out of a hole in the muddy stocking.

  “I know how you feel,” Edward said, sorrow in his tone, “The guilt, the remorse. She would have killed us all, sooner or later.”

  “That’s just the thing,” Cyrus said, peering into the fire, “I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel regret; I don’t feel remorse. I would do it again right now, kill every last one of them. They deserve what they got. I hope they burn in hell.”

  “And that is exactly what the Sea Zombie wants,” Fibian said.

  The froskman approached Cyrus and Edward from behind.

  “She wants you hateful and callous. She wants your blood to run cold. Only love will wipe her from the seas. If your heart turns black, your soul is hers, and she has already won.”

  “You sound like one of those stale fairytales the preacher would tell the children, Sunday morning,” Cyrus said, still watching the fire.

  Fibian stepped between Cyrus and the fireplace.

  “Universal truths always sound simple and commonplace. What is uncommon is people strong enough to believe and act on those truths.”

  Cyrus stared up at the froskman, anger rising in his chest. Who was he to lecture Cyrus? If Fibian had had his way, they all might be dead.

  Fibian stared back at Cyrus. Neither’s eyes wavered.

  Stark called out from the northeast corner of the hall.

  “Come, you two; you will want to see this.”

  * * *

  CYRUS AND FIBIAN FOLLOWED STARK into Moro’s chambers, through the secret passage, and past Vaca. Stark looked back several times at Edward, resting on Cyrus’ shoulder.

  “He’s our friend,” Cyrus said, “and one of the reasons we made it this far.”

  The yeti grunted, looking unsure.

  “You can’t leave me here like this, you can’t,” Vaca moaned, chewing on her roasted rat, “Take me to the sea. You will never see me again. I’ll never come back.”

  The small group ignored the female klops.

  “What will happen to her?” Edward asked, pity in his voice.

  “Maybe starve,” Stark said, “Maybe the wolves will get her. We have our own sick and injured to worry about.”

  Cyrus looked into his heart. He felt nothing for the foul creature. She had willingly fed her children to the queen’s army. She deserved whatever she got.

  Cyrus unhooked an oil lamp from the wall. He used the lantern to pick his way through the puddles and uneven stones. They delved deeper into the cavern, venturing down a northern passage that led to a dead end. There, two female yeti armed with crossbows had a tall, hunch-backed klops on his knees. It was Lieutenant Knavish. He had survived the battle.

  “We found him trying to escape,” the black and white females said.

  “Escape where?” Cyrus asked.

  Four boulders lay in a group on the damp floor.

  “We found him trying to move these rocks,” the dark brown female said.

  With great effort, the females shoved the boulders aside. Cyrus shone his lamp on the cleared cave floor.

  “Sneaky little runts,” Stark said, “We always wondered how they got the armor out of the mine unseen.”

  “This is where they took the armor?” Cyrus asked, his hopes rising.

  “There’s a large passage that leads to the mine, back that way,” Stark said, nodding his head to the south.

  The klops had embedded a pair of iron doors into the stone ground. The two female yeti heaved the hatches open. The doors crashed to the floor in an ear-stabbing thunderclap. Mud and muck splashed the group’s feet.

  “Where does it lead?” Fibian asked.

  He dropped to his hands and knees and ducked his head into the wide tunnel.

  Knavish said nothing. Stark motioned to his kin. One grabbed the klops by the neck. The other held the crossbow to his head.

  “We have killed all but the female klops,” Stark growled, “Don’t think we’ll hesitate to kill one more.”

  “And what if I tell you where it leads?” Knavish asked.

  “We’ll let you live a little longer,” Stark said.

  The klops looked around at his captors, seeming to weigh his options.

  “Southwest, down the mountainside and to the ocean,” he said, staring Fibian in the eye, “There is a slave village there that provides us food.”

  “And a giant shelled creature?” Cyrus asked, “A hune?”

  Knavish’s eyes shifted between Cyrus and Stark. The klops nodded his head.

  “It’s nearly fully armored,” he said, “and over half its cannons are assembled and equipped.”

  “We could use its defenses for ourselves,” Edward said.

  “We can make more cannons, in time,” Stark said, “We owe you that much.”

  “The hune is not well,” Fibian said, “We need to get to him as soon as possible. The defenses as they are will have to do.”

  Thank the angels, Cyrus thought. All was not lost. He still had a chance to save his people.

  “If you want to live,” Cyrus said, clenching his thick fists, “You will lead us to the hune.”

  Knavish’s eyes shifted about like a cornered rat. Again, he nodded his head in agreement.

  “You will need new clothes, weapons and equipment,” Stark said.

  “Can you help us with that?” Cyrus asked.

  The yeti nodded.

  “The minute we set sail, the Sea Zombie’s minions will be on the hunt for us,” Fibian said, “Of that I am sure, and she knows our final destination.”

  “Good,” Cyrus replied, “We’ll find out if Moro’s theory was true. We’ll blow Rorroh’s armies into a thousand pieces, then blast her body into a thin red mist.”

  “Have you learned nothing, young Master?” Fibian replied, his anger rising.

  The two friends stared at each other, unblinking. The room grew still.

  Chapter 40

  THE RISE OF A QUEEN

  RORROH STOOD AT THE TILLER of the Angel Queen. Several glowing pink and green lobsters clung to the sunken vessel, illuminating the dark waters. The ship rocked and groaned with the swaying current, along the craggy sea floor.

  A large purple squid came into view at the edge of the pink and green glow. It held in its coiling tentacles a bunch of floating kelp. The Sea Zombie sneered, nodding her newly stitched-on head towards the ship’s starboard. Venting a cloud of black ink, the squid jetted towards the ship’s railing. It slipped, spirit-like, over the edge and into the murk.

  Rorroh grasped a pink lobster clinging to the cabin wall, and fol
lowed. She waded through the sea as if caught in a slow windstorm. She leaned over the starboard rail and dropped the lobster overboard. The glowing crustacean drifted to the seabed, illuminating not one, but four squid. All four worked busily to fasten thousands of kelp bulbs to the underside of the hull. The kelp heads rocked and swayed, filling the sea with their eerie, ethereal tones. Rorroh peered up into the scorched sails. Her neck was stiff and the stitches itched. Several thousand more bulbs floated from the ship’s rigging.

  The vessel began to creak and moan. Then, ever so slightly, it started to pull free from the clinging sea floor. At the ship’s four corners, four thick ropes grew taut, keeping the Angel Queen from rising prematurely. Rorroh signaled the squids. The four creatures raced to their moorings. They bit the lines with their sharp black beaks.

  SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, SNAP!

  The cut lines recoiled into drifting, tangled bunches. Then, like a corpse from the grave, the vessel began to rise.

  Rorroh wondered where first to begin her hunt for the alveling. The hune, she decided. That was their most logical destination. But even she, the Sea Zombie, had lost track of the giant turtle. Both my froskman have become traitors, she thought, both I made too powerful for their own good.

  She wondered where Moro had taken the hune, and what the traitor planned to do with it. It did not matter. Once again, she would find the renegade and make her pay. Then she would find Fibian, the blodbad, and the alveling, and exact her revenge. All who had crossed the mighty Vann Witch would suffer for their insolence!

  The sea grew brighter. Rorroh was nearing the surface. She reached into her robes and withdrew her glowing green orb. Right on time, she thought, as she peered into the stone’s womb. She moved to the ship’s tiller. Above, she could see the gray of the sky. Many large forms blocked her view. The Angel Queen broke the chopping waves. The surrounding waters became a torrent. The boat twisted and moaned as the escaping sea attempted to drag Rorroh overboard. She held to the tiller with all her might, using her newly attached left hand. The leeches bolstering the arm’s mending sensed the strain. They twisted their barbed tendrils deeper into her flesh and bones, securing the limb.