Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “You’ll pay for that, Child Eater,” the lieutenant spat, grasping Cyrus by the neck, “You’ll pay for that and much more.”

  Cyrus clenched his teeth, fear tempering his anger and frustration. He needed Edward free. He wanted Knavish dead. He needed to board that hune. Everything he desired was within his reach, and yet… He fought back the terror and despair creeping in at the edges of his mind.

  The tattooed batalha thrust the butt end of his rifle into Fibian’s side. The froskman stumbled forward. Then the squad leader drove both prisoners ahead.

  The cold air began to smell of fish oil and dung. The odd fire burned here and there throughout the village, illuminating blacksmiths’ forges and stacks of armor plating. Several thatch-roofed huts began to appear along the snowy trail. The shelters’ roofs were gabled and ran straight to the earth. Snow and weed covered both hovel and ground, and Cyrus could not tell where the earth stopped and the roofs began.

  In a clearing beside the shacks sat a pen of giant tusked creatures with snouts like thick leather hoses. Their ribcages protruded through their wooly flesh, and they looked about wearily with big, soulful eyes.

  The three prisoners neared the shore. The otherness in Cyrus’ stomach grew stronger. He looked out to sea. A fleet of twin-mast attack ships loomed within the harbor. Beyond the wooden vessels, in deeper waters, lay what could only be the hune, massive and unmoving. The giant shelled creature faced away from the village. Cyrus studied its forested body. Its shores were protected by a wall of steel, similar to the Dead Fence. Torchlights burned around the wall’s perimeter. Was the hune alive? Was it the giant, Gabriel, that Cyrus felt?

  The tattooed batalha hauled the prisoners towards a large leather tent standing amongst a pavilion of similar, smaller huts. The sounds of laughing, shouting, squabbling klops came from within.

  What would these villains do once they found out that Cyrus had murdered their queen, that their mine had been destroyed? He felt cold sweat soak the insides of his furs.

  A small, wooly white creature cowered in front of the tent. Its face was swollen and red blood stained its fur.

  “Saltfish and pork,” the tattooed batalha ordered, “and wine.”

  The ape-like creature fled off into the night.

  The klops shoved the prisoners through the flaps of the large tent. Cyrus stumbled within. He kept his face stern. The raucous voices dissipated. Cyrus quickly scanned his surroundings. A coal pit burned in the center of the tent, warming the shadowy room. The stuffy air smelled of rancid fish oil, rotting cabbage and spilled liquor. Dark, contorted faces glared at Cyrus through the glow of the embers. He did not meet their eyes but did not avoid them either.

  This was their end, he knew. They had come so close and yet were so far. He prayed for the strength to master his terror. He did not want to give these pathetic wretches the satisfaction of seeing him suffer in death.

  A big-bellied klops with wide shoulders rose up from a wooden throne. He stood like a king before the coals. The batalha was missing his left ear.

  “What is this?” the brute asked.

  “General Schlaue,” the tattooed klops replied, “Lieutenant Knavish brings prisoners and news from the mine.”

  The horde of klops began to whisper. Knavish stepped forward and bowed low before the general.

  “Silence,” Schlaue barked.

  The room again grew still.

  “What message do you bring from our Queen?” the general asked.

  “I am sorry to say, General,” the lieutenant said, firmly, “but our Queen is dead.”

  The hunch-backed klops peered around at the surrounding mob.

  “And I bring you the murderers who did it.”

  Chapter 5

  A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

  MORE THAN AN HOUR PASSED within the reeking tent. Cyrus was surprised to still be alive. The klops seemed more afraid than angry at the devastating news. Their minds went first to self-preservation. They squabbled endlessly over how to handle their newfound situation, but Cyrus knew that once a course of action was decided, talk would turn to retribution. His blood ran cold.

  “Our Queen is dead, and the slaves have overrun the mine,” Knavish argued. “There will be no more armor, no more weapons. We have also lost the female, so there will be no more soldiers, no more infants’ blood, and no more batalha. What we have here is all we have. It would be foolhardy to challenge the Warrior Witch in such a weakened state, and without our Queen I see no reason why we should try. We do not want an enemy like the Trollman at our necks.”

  There were scattered grumbles of support from the surrounding klops.

  “We have all we need,” General Schlaue countered.

  The glowing red coals lit the batalha’s wide, misshapen features from beneath.

  “And it is she that does not want an enemy like us at her neck,” he said, pounding a thick fist down on his wooden throne, “We have the Battle Hune. We have the attack ships. We have all the soldiers we need. We have cannon and fire powder and batalha. We will bear down on the Trollman like a white on a whale, and we will blast the witch from the seas, in the name of our Queen.”

  A larger rumble of support broiled throughout the mob.

  “But what if we joined her?” Knavish argued, “We bring her these prisoners. We bring her the Battle Hune. Think of all the riches and power she would lavish on us. We would never have to look over our shoulders again.”

  More mumblings of encouragement came from the soldiers.

  “We do not have to look over our shoulders now,” Schlaue shouted, “We kill yeti, we kill dragon. We will hunt down the Warrior Witch and slay her too. Then we will have all the riches and power we desire.”

  “But General,” Knavish said.

  “But nothing,” Schlaue roared, “Might is right! We will do things my way.”

  The one-eared batalha rose up from his chair and drew his blade. Lieutenant Knavish bowed his head low and stepped backward. Many klops roared their support, but others looked around afraid. Schlaue had won, but Cyrus saw what the general could not. A dark shadow spread across Knavish’s long face as he lowered his gaze. It was the same expression he had worn upon the mountains before the wolves had descended. The hunch-backed klops turned and retreated towards the exit. He neared the two prisoners. Cyrus felt compelled by an impulsive urge. As Knavish passed, he acted as if shoved and bumped into the lieutenant. With his bound hands, Cyrus stripped the coin purse from the klops’ neck. Knavish paused. Cyrus stiffened. The slender batalha grasped his wrists and held them out waist high. He looked down at the leather pouch held within Cyrus’ grasp. Then he looked to Cyrus. He seemed to consider something. Cyrus’ hair began to tingle.

  “Take as many with you as you can before you are slain,” the lieutenant whispered.

  Then the fiend pressed through the horde and ducked out of the tent. Cyrus stared confused down at the purse still held in his hands. What was the crooked klops playing at? Cyrus pretended to scratch his bristly chin, then he stuffed the pouch down his collar. This was not over, Cyrus knew, and Knavish was not through.

  ***

  SEVERAL HOURS PASSED in the night. Cyrus and Fibian sat with their arms bound to their sides, leaning against opposite walls of a dirt-floor hut. Hundreds of small, silvery fish dangled overhead from thin horizontal poles in the roof. A tiny fire burned in the center of the room, barely able to cut the frigid night air.

  Cyrus could not sleep with the cold, the stench, and so much dread hanging over him. Would he again be tortured? Would he or his friends be killed? Cyrus’ head ached with fear and anxiety.

  He felt Edward shift within the purse stuffed in the collar of his furs. He dared not reach for the pouch. He did not want to bring about unwanted attention.

  Why had Knavish left him Edward? Surely the devious klops wanted them all dead. General Schlaue had ordered his guards to hold them within this hut until further notice, but to what end? Cyrus’ system shivered with tension.<
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  He searched for an object to cut his bonds. Nothing. He considered burning the ropes over the fire. The armed guards standing watch at the door made that plan unlikely. He and Fibian made several attempts to communicate, but every time they tried, they roused the brutes’ attention. Cyrus had already received one rifle butt to the head for speaking.

  Boom!

  The sound of a cannon rang out over the slave village. Cyrus grew taut, like a drawn bow. He heard the voices of confused, groggy klops emerge from their quarters. Their bewildered words turned to frightened cries.

  “ALARM, ALARM!” a high-pitched, raspy voice shouted.

  More soldiers began to rush past the hut. Cyrus heard the words, “Battle Hune,” cried several times over. Four batalha entered the shed and lifted Cyrus and Fibian up off the floor. Cyrus twisted and kicked against his captors.

  “Where are you taking them?” one of the door guards demanded.

  “Lieutenant Knavish and a quarter of our force have stolen the Battle Hune,” one of the batalha growled, “We're going after the deserters, and these prisoners are coming with us.”

  No! Cyrus thought. The hune was gone? He searched his feelings. The odd otherness he had sensed before barely registered. He could not lose the hune a second time.

  The batalha dragged Cyrus and Fibian out into the cold night air. The sky remained clear. Millions of stars stared down at the peculiar scene. Klops gathered up armor and weapons and ran towards the stone jetty. There they boarded landing crafts loaded with saltfish and casks sealed with tar and pushed off towards the attack ships.

  There was a strange void in the inlet. Where once there had loomed two large islands, there were now still waters. But wait, the island was not gone, it had simply moved. Cyrus could see it escaping on a westerly course, passing behind a bend in the mountainous fjord. It left a ghostly green glow in its rather large wake. Cyrus watched as several of Schlaue’s vessels set sail and began their pursuit.

  The four batalha dragged Cyrus and Fibian down the snowy shore. They passed clusters of large tents, the odd dying fire, and a handful of confused, white-furred slaves. The big klops threw Cyrus and Fibian into a rowboat. Cyrus fell face first into an inch of ice water pooling on the floor of the craft. He spat and rolled to his side, kicking at the surrounding klops. The villains kicked back, then dragged the boat into the sea. Fibian lay in front of Cyrus with his back to him. Cyrus searched for a way to untie the froskman’s good arm. It was impossible.

  “I have Edward,” he whispered.

  “I know,” Fibian whispered back.

  Using his mouth, Cyrus fished the purse from the collar of his tunic. He looked up at his four tormentors. All four stared ahead, their eyes on their destination.

  “You okay?” Cyrus whispered to Edward.

  “What’s going on?” Edward’s muffled voice replied.

  “I’m getting you out of there.”

  Cyrus began to chew at the pouch’s leather string. He could feel the knot loosen. The boat bumped something hollow and large. He quickly hid the purse. The klops looped ropes around his and Fibian’s ankles. Then both were hoisted feet-first into the air.

  “Let go of me!” Cyrus shouted.

  He watched the batalha spin far below as he swung high overhead. His head and stomach swirled. Crewmen reached out with long iron hooks and pulled the prisoners aboard a large wooden vessel. The klops dropped their captives like caught fish onto the oily deck. Cyrus’ head struck wood. Stars burst before his eyes. His body folded over his shoulder and neck. His muscles spasmed in searing pain. General Schlaue towered over the fallen prisoners.

  “Tie them to the bowsprit,” the general ordered, his face grim, “and stow that infants’ blood in my quarters.”

  Six klops hauled Cyrus and Fibian up off of the splintery deck boards and dragged them towards the bow. Cyrus watched as two klops carried a heavy wooden barrel through a small door below the quarterdeck. A metal smokestack poked out of the cabin’s roof. The iron chimney coughed grey smoke into the air.

  The ship was grimy and ill-maintained. Most vessels in the fleet flew moldy yellow sails, but this ship’s sheets were a dark blotchy red. The crewman dragged Cyrus and Fibian up a short flight of steps to the ship’s bow. Extending from the bow rail, out over the sea like a long tusk, was a wooden beam. Taut cables ran from the beam up into the vessel’s riggings. What torture was this?

  “I’ll kill you,” Cyrus shouted, “I’ll kill every last one of you for this!”

  The batalha tied gags around Cyrus’ and Fibian’s mouths. It took another six klops to lash them to the bowsprit like raw meat on a spit. The boat set sail. Only a handful of klops remained to guard the village. The rest were aboard the vessels, pursuing the hune.

  An east wind carried the fleet out of the dark inlet. Cyrus watched apprehensively as the sea raced far below. Beyond, a creaking groan moaned across the waters. Cyrus looked ahead to the fleeing Battle Hune. Its crew was jettisoning a tall iron crane from the fortress’ aft. The metal beast tipped over the wall. It broke in two as it struck the top of the defenses. Lumber splintered and iron twisted. The top half of the machine sheared a stretch of scaffolding from the unfinished battlements. Then the large mechanism crashed into the water. It roughly dragged its scraping bottom half with it up over the steel wall and into the sea. The ocean bubbled and frothed in the hune’s wake as it digested the towering contraption whole.

  Cyrus’ terror grew. He could not die like this. He fought like a caged beast to break free. The icy breeze numbed his face. The ropes securing him to the bowsprit cut at his body. He tried to talk to Fibian, but the gag around his mouth choked his words.

  Steep, snowy mountains rose up on both sides of the winding passage. Where snow could not gather, veins of green vegetation grew within the rocky crags.

  Ahead, on the southern side of the fjord, the mountains receded into a barren peninsula. The sea raged and crashed into the weather-worn rock. The calm waters of the inlet mixed and roiled with the rough waves of the open ocean. The hune was already beyond the point, heading out to sea. Cyrus watched, his heart quickening, as the first of the fleet’s ships struck the unguarded open waters. The vessel was gaining on the hune. It attacked the raging swells, bow-first, sending two large sheets of sea spray into the air. The boat fell into a steep trough. It knifed into an oncoming wall of water. For a moment the bowsprit appeared submerged beneath the sea. The ship cast aside two more sheets of ocean. Seaspray swept the deck. The boat crested the swell. Three puffs of white appeared from the aft of the hune’s steel-plated wall.

  Boom, boom, boom!

  The wind carried the smoke and sound west. The first cannon round struck the sea to the port side of the gaining vessel. The second blast tore through the ship’s stained sails. The third shot punched a ragged hole in the boat’s bow, just below the bowsprit. The wounded craft slid down the wave’s back into another steep trough.

  Cyrus turned wide-eyed to Fibian. General Schlaue’s ship was moving faster than the rest. It would be their turn soon to challenge the hune. The froskman glared back at Cyrus, his blue eyes ablaze.

  Chapter 6

  THUNDERHEAD

  THE WIND AND WATER whipped at Cyrus’ face. The ship heaved like a mad seesaw. Schlaue’s fleet relentlessly pursued the escaping hune. The snowy shores became a distant fog on the horizon.

  Boom!

  The ocean exploded to Cyrus’ right. His muscles grew taut with panic. His clenched jaw ached and his nerves were frayed. How much longer could he go on, tied to the prow of this junk heap, being tossed around on the open ocean, target practice for that filthy klops, Knavish? He fought back the urge to vomit. He half hoped the next shot would be a direct hit.

  Boom!

  Cyrus felt his eardrums swell as the cannonball passed close to his head. His body surged with tension and exhaustion. He felt something move within the collar of his furs.

  “Where are we?” Edward’s shocked voice cried.r />
  The blodbad’s words were slurred. Cyrus attempted to shout behind his gag. He felt Edward crawl up his neck and around his ear. The seven-legged spider somehow unfastened the rag binding his mouth.

  “You got free,” Cyrus said, breathlessly.

  “You loosened the cinch,” Edward replied, crawling over to Fibian, “It took a while, but I was able to squeeze through the opening.”

  Had that been Knavish’s plan, Cyrus wondered? Had the klops left him Edward, hoping that together the three captives would somehow frustrate General Schlaue’s pursuit? Knavish had released a lion to rid himself of a rat. Cyrus would make the lieutenant pay dearly for that mistake.

  After a moment’s effort, the tiny blodbad had Fibian’s gag off too.

  “Master Edward, our bonds,” the froskman said.

  Boom!

  The vessel to their starboard erupted in flames.

  “Quickly,” Cyrus shouted, turning away from the blast.

  Edward skittered up Fibian’s body and onto the bowsprit. Moments passed.

  “I can’t do it,” the snow-white spider called down, “The rope’s too thick and the knots are too tight. I need something sharp.”

  “Then find something sharp,” Cyrus cried.

  Edward retreated down the bowsprit. Then he vanished over the ship’s railing and onto the deck.

  A far-off crash thundered across the heavens. Cyrus looked southeast. There, in the distance, an angry sky roiled and brewed. The hunted hune set a course for the impending black tempest. Electricity flickered and glowed within the storm’s bitter womb.

  ***

  FIRST CAME THE DARK SKIES and driving snow. Then the sea began to rage like a cruel drunk. Finally, thunder and lightning struck down, piercing ship and sea alike. Cyrus and Fibian were doomed.

  Their vessel climbed mountainous waves, cresting mighty peaks, before plummeting into steep, churning troughs. Water repeatedly crashed over the bow, plunging Cyrus and Fibian beneath the icy sea. Cyrus shook uncontrollably with signs of cold sickness. He was forced to time his breaths. His breathing grew more ragged and panicked with every dive. He struggled to replenish his lungs between each submersion. When would this torture end?