The water rushed over Rorroh, frothing and bubbling as it clawed at her rotting body and robes. The river became a stream. The Sea Zombie regained her footing.
The sound of squawking and shrieking came from above. Rorroh peered up into the sky. The light hurt her eyes. She shaded them with her hand. It was mid-day, but there was no sun. Even so, she had been in the dark for far too long. Her ancient eyes needed time to adjust. Squinting, she could see hundreds of dark birds circling her ship. Further above them, the long, menacing form of a single-headed dragon glided across the sky, guarding the heavens.
She made her way to the ship’s port side railing. She inspected the breach in the hull. Seawater rushed from the ship’s innards, spilling green toxins into the sea.
“My Queen, what are your orders?” a dry whisper of a voice asked.
A large, twin-mast ship, slightly larger than Rorroh’s, entered the bay from the east. Ten oars on each side extended out of the hull, powering the vessel.
“Who goes there?” Rorroh wheezed.
“Captain Greves, my lord,” the voice said.
Rorroh’s eyes began to adjust. At the bow of the longship stood a tall creature, his long snout hidden behind a black, polished mask.
“How many ships have you brought me?”
“Eleven, my Lord.”
Captain Greves’ mask was painted to look like a sneering beast, but what lurked beneath, Rorroh knew, was far more repulsive. His black, rodent-like eyes stared at her unwavering. Rorroh could sense his loathing beneath the mask.
She peered around at the surrounding vessels. Like hers, the boats had dual masts, but only two sails. At their bows, the keels extended out into a barbed point, perfect for piercing the hulls of enemy craft.
Rorroh looked beyond the bay, to the horizon. The sea was calm, but she could smell a storm on the rise.
“My ship needs repairs,” she said.
“I will gather a work detail immediately,” Greves replied.
He tapped a long-bladed staff on the deck. The ship’s oars retracted into the hull. Then the beat of marching footsteps came from within the ship. A shabby black hawk landed on Captain Greves’ leather-wrapped forearm.
“My Lord,” he said, “A fleet of ships advances from the south.”
“Land klops,” Rorroh said.
She grinned broadly, accentuating her torn cheek.
Greves’ cabin door crashed open. Twenty tall nagen emerged from the deck below. All were dressed in loose-fitting steel and silk woven armor.
Rorroh nodded towards the black hawk.
“I want them searching the sea for a giant shelled creature. The hune is the size of a small island and grows trees on its back. Tell them the one who finds it will be dearly rewarded, all others punished. There is no time to delay.”
She looked down at her handless right arm.
“As long as the alveling lives, none of us are safe.”
*
Greetings, adventure seeker, from the treacherous, frozen north.
It’s your independent, underdog author here, Jeremy Mathiesen, hoping that you’ve enjoyed Cyrus LongBones and the Yeti Kingdom.
Reviews are how I get the word out and keep this old, dusty typewriter tapping. If you could click here and leave just a couple of words, I would be mightily grateful.
Cyrus LongBones and the Battle Hune
By Jeremy Mathiesen
Text copyright © 2019 Jeremy Mathiesen All Rights Reserved
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
To Gi Gi and Co Co
You monkeys make me a better person
Chapter 1
A PORT IN A STORM
IT WAS MIDDAY. The sky was thick with dark, heavy clouds. On a thin, rocky peninsula, flanked by a jade sea, lay a meek, broken-down village of thatch roofed huts. Snow layered the frozen earth. Dried cod hung from birch racks in many of the frigid hovels. White-furred ape-people tended icy pens of fat, wooly boars. A large batalha-class klops with a distended belly and wide, cannonball shoulders lumbered past a roaring bonfire.
“Move those beasts,” the brute ordered, scratching at the scar of his missing left ear, “We need the northern wall sealed by nightfall.”
Several small ape-men guided four massive mammoths along a snowy shore. A patrol of common-class klops trailed the pack animals. The long-trunked hulks reeked of must and manure. The crooked klops stank far worse.
“Move, skog,” the one-eared batalha barked.
One of the kinder skog’s mammoths carried a large plate of armor in its powerful tusks. The batalha shoved hard on the beast’s hind quarter.
“Don’t make me break out the whip,” he said, drinking deeply from a wineskin.
The slave skog pulled hard on the animal’s harness. The creature’s course changed little. The large klops wiped infants’ blood from his blistered lips, then peered out over the snaking inlet.
A thrust of mountain pressed out of the sea, defending the eastern portion of the bay. Across the water, to the south, stood another wall of mountainous white. To the west, the fjord wound around dizzying cliffs of snow and ice, then ventured out to the ocean beyond.
Several of the brown- and grey-furred mammoths stood on a stone jetty, loading dual-mast ships with iron and steel. Past the boats, in the center of the bay, brooded a large, forested island. A fourteen-foot-high steel wall encircled the island’s shoreline. Wooden scaffolding webbed a portion of the northern defenses. Klops clung to the haphazard framework like tiny black insects. Above the battlements, a thick plate of armor swayed from a tall wood and iron crane.
A shrill squawking came from above. Then a flock of black birds dropped down through the clouds and began to circle the armored island. The one-eared batalha drew a spyglass from his belt. He held it to one uneven eye. The birds did not belong this far north.
“Rifles!” the klops shouted.
Several common-class klops rushed into a cluster of leather tents near the shore. The soldiers reappeared with wood and steel rifles.
“General Schlaue, what are your orders?” a short, hook-nose klops asked.
“Sound the cannon, raise the alarm,” the one-eared batalha cried, “and load those rifles.”
“You heard the General,” the hook-nosed klops shouted, “load ‘em with buckshot.”
The small creature unshouldered a bow and quiver. He lighted a wrapped arrowhead on a nearby fire, nocked the flaming arrow and pulled back the bowstring. The missile arched into the sky. A moment later, a cannon boomed in reply out over the harbor, sounding the alarm.
General Schlaue ran to the shoreline and aimed a pistol into the flock.
BANG!
The rest of the nearby klops followed his lead. Gunfire echoed off the cliffs. The shore became hazy with puffs of white smoke. Kinder skog and mammoths alike looked around in fear and confusion.
“Spies! Get as many as you can!” Schlaue ordered.
The klops discharged and reloaded their rifles repeatedly. The birds were small and far away. Only a few fell to the rifle fire.
“Blast them with cannons!” Schlaue demanded.
The hook-nosed klops drew two black flags from his leather belt and waved them in the air. Shouts traveled across the water from the vessel's crows nests. Hatches in the sides of the hulls rose like stiff eyelids. Then large iron barrels emerged through the openings. The crews moved themselves and their loads to one side of the many ships. Their cannons tilted skyward. Gunners labored to lift their artillery’s aim higher. The ships’ weapons began to boom and buck, tilting the vessels further to one side. The gunners had loaded the cannons with nuts, bolts and small bits of jagged scrap metal. Clusters of the shabby black birds were ripped from the sky. The air filled with the sweet, acrid scent of fire powder. Klops shouted in celebration.
“Keep them firing!” Schlaue ordered.
The hook-nosed klops stood before the harbor and swirled
a single flag. The cannons continued to boom in loud scattered coughs.
The clouds grew dark. A shrill, thundering shriek echoed across the heavens. Klops and kinder skog hunched low, frantically searching the sky. The boom of the cannon fire halted, but still the squawks of the circling birds carried on.
“Keep firing,” Schlaue demanded, “keep firing!”
A blazing meteor fell out of the clouds and crashed into the bay. An explosion of sea lifted into the air as high as the tallest mast.
“What was that?” a klops cried.
A massive, gleaming, white form exploded from the sea. It broke through the spine of a ship as it took flight heavenward. The boat split in two, erupting in flames. Gunpowder ignited onboard the crippled vessel, and its cannons began to fire off into the surrounding fleet. The burning and mangled crew shrieked as they leaped into the icy waters.
“Dragon!” soldiers cried, running for cover, “Dragon!”
Schlaue stood his ground and reloaded his pistol. The hook-nosed klops ran past. The general grasped the coward by his iron back plate.
“Signal the Battle Hune,” General Schlaue growled, his yellow eyes ablaze, “Fire at will.”
“But the cannons are untested,” the hook-nosed klops protested.
“I said, fire,” Schlaue raged, shoving the small klops back towards the shore.
The serpent was a single-headed dragon. It spat a torrent of hellfire into a ship’s rigging as it twisted towards the beach. The general raised his pistol towards the flying hulk. The dragon seemed to stare Schlaue straight in the eyes.
“Come, lizard,” Schlaue said, under his breath, “Do your worst.”
The dragon’s course changed, zagging towards the batalha.
“Closer,” the general breathed.
The dragon’s mouth started to open. A red-hot glow bloomed within its throat.
“Closer.”
The pistol kicked in Schlaue’s grip. The lead pellets sparked off of the beast’s armored brow. The serpent spiraled off course, swooping low along the shore. It lit several thatched huts on fire, then banked left and set off back across the sea, torching a second ship.
Schlaue looked to the walled island. Cannon barrels now peered through hatches in the defenses. The jagged ivory dragon set itself on yet another wooden vessel.
“We’re going to lose the whole fleet!” the hook-nosed klops cried.
“If the Battle Hune can’t take on a puny dragon, how do we expect it to defeat the Sea Zombie?” Schlaue growled.
Boom!
The walled island fired. The round came up short.
“The dragon is out of range,” the hook-nosed klops cried.
“They’re finding their range,” Schlaue replied.
A second cannon reported. The round hit the ocean far past its mark.
“They missed again,” the small klops shrieked.
Schlaue said nothing. The dragon set a fourth ship alight. The vessel’s gunpowder ignited, rupturing the boat’s hull like a burst organ. The serpent moved onto a fifth ship.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three of the Battle Hune’s cannons barked in succession. Schlaue watched the three smoking projectiles arch through the sky. The first ball skimmed the dragon’s neck, the second clipped its wing, the third punched the steel beast in the side. The dragon shrieked in agony, struggling to stay airborne. The rounds did not penetrate its tough armor.
“We’re doomed!” the hook-nosed klops cried.
The serpent’s wail of pain slowly turned to a shriek of murder. It began to raggedly flap towards the shoreline. The large, walled island seemed to turn almost imperceptibly, following the dragon’s crippled flight.
“They have its range,” Schlaue said, grinning.
The dragon started to spit fire.
Booom!
A single cannon rang out from the island fortress. The smoldering projectile glowed dully as it arced overhead. The dragon’s course was lurching and unpredictable. General Schlaue feared the shot might miss its target. The round struck the beast behind its left shoulder and exploded on impact, black smoke and matter erupting from the serpent's ribs. The dragon jerked, belching out a massive ball of fire. More hellfire burst forth through its mouth and nostrils as flames blew back into its serrated face. It began to flap and flounder, struggling to gain altitude. Black smoke issued from its ruptured guts. The giant let out a deep, guttural cry, then started to half glide, half spiral towards the frozen earth. It skimmed the sea and then crashed headfirst into the shallows. The ground shook. Smoke and scalding vapor spewed from its extinguished muzzle. A wave of blackened, bloody sea water washed over the general and the hook-nosed klops. The smaller klops shrieked and ran towards the tents. Schlaue waded into the frigid sea to inspect his prize.
The air smelled of burnt kerosene, fire powder, and charcoal. The ocean sizzled and steamed around the massive carcass. Dark, rich blood leaked from the beast’s white eyes and grey smoke continued to spew from its nostrils. Schlaue walked around to inspect the dragon’s wound. Its armored belly had burst, exposing shattered ribs and seared organs. Schlaue made his way over to the serpent’s left claw. Using his arms and legs, he prised open its oily talons. Within the dragon’s death grip, it held a tiny, green glowing orb. Schlaue snatched up the slick sphere and peered into the stone’s womb.
“All for nothing,” the large klops spat, casting the stone into the sea, “The witch knows we’re here.”
He peered up into the surrounding mountains and clenched his fists.
“I must warn the Queen,” he said, his gills flaring, “The Battle Hune is ready. This war can-not wait.”
***
FAR OFF TO THE SOUTH, an oily black ship sailed on a bitter easterly wind. Behind the craft a fleet of long, barbed vessels knifed through the rolling ocean. The Sea Zombie stood at the tiller of her decaying boat. A black hawk perched on the tiller’s wheel. Rorroh sensed the stone within her rotting robes. With her resurrected left hand, she drew the orb from her pocket and held it to her failing eyes. A crooked smile split across her torn face.
“I have you now,” she said, her spidery hand closing tight around the stone.
“To the north,” she ordered, her voice still hoarse.
The hawk leaped from its perch and flew towards the fleet. The Sea Zombie scratched at the newly sewn stitches holding her severed head to her corded neck.
Soon Rorroh would steal the lost hune for herself; then she would murder the renegade, Moro, and her traitorous water klops. Finally, when all hope of an alveling uprising was defeated, she would take Cyrus LongBones’ soul, and the sea would be forever hers.
Chapter 2
THE LONG WAY DOWN
THE CLOUDS WERE A GHOSTLY GREY, the mountainside was powdery white. The stunted, snow-crusted trees that grew from the frigid rocks were wind-scraped and resembled bent dwarves.
Sixteen-year-old Cyrus LongBones led his water klops prisoner down a twisting, gnarled pathway in search of the living island known as a hune. Cyrus needed the hune to rescue his stranded people. Only his cunning captive, Lieutenant Knavish, knew the way.
“This had better not be a trick,” Cyrus said, tugging hard on Knavish’s bound wrists, “Lead us astray, and I’ll throw you off this mountain.”
Cyrus wanted badly to kill the klops. Knavish had slaughtered yeti dear to him. His every living breath was an insult to their memory. Cyrus fantasized about casting the devious villain head-first from the dizzying cliffs. He felt the warmth and power of his fortified flesh. He could easily hurl the oily creature one-armed from the mountainside. He stared hard at the back of the batalha’s head. Would the filthy creature be so bold as to lead them into a trap? Could he be that foolish after what Cyrus had done, after what he had become?
Do it, Cyrus thought, balling up his thick fists, give me a reason.
“Easy, Cyrus,” Edward whispered, crouched on Fibian’s shoulder.
“Without the Lieutenant, we are lost,�
�� the froskman warned.
Knavish said nothing. He just continued forward, stumbling down the icy trail.
Cyrus was growing tired of Fibian’s constant counsel. One snake in the grass was enough. If Fibian had had his way, Moro would still be alive, waiting to stab them in the back.
An eight-foot-tall, cream-colored yeti named Tolva led their way down the mountainside. A gangly, brown-furred yeti named Torin brought up the rear. The unlikely group of six had spent several weeks within the captured klops mine, making preparations for their journey and recovering from their injuries. To Cyrus’ pleasant surprise, the infant klops blood had not only gifted him with strength and size, but also a froskman-like ability to heal.
His bruised shins had purpled and faded like a morning’s red sky. His burnt flesh had peeled and recovered in only a few nights’ rest. His fingers were not as straight as they had once been, but after a week in splints, the bones had fused and were as strong as Fibian’s mechanical grip.
The yeti had supplied Cyrus and Fibian with black bear furs to survive the elements, a rifle and crossbow for long-range battle, and a sword and dagger for when bullet and bolt would not do. Food was scarce within the slave mine, but still, the yeti had provided salt meat and water skins to see them on their way.
Cyrus wished that more of the yeti had joined their endeavor, but the giants were sick and wounded and had been away from their families for far too long. They had problems of their own to attend to. Torin and Tolva were young and their captors had murdered their kin. Their hearts were full of anger and revenge, and they were happy for the excuse to kill more klops.
The group had been hiking for two days. The meager daylight was beginning to dwindle.
“There it is again,” Tolva said, “Do you hear it?”
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 36
