How had Cyrus overlooked the guns? Was there anything else he had overlooked? He took the weapons and stuffed them into his belt.
“Just watch your back,” he said, pointing at the three klops, “They’ll slit your throat the first chance they get.”
“You do not have to do this,” the froskman replied, “There are other ways.”
Cyrus turned his back to Fibian. The ship was in reach. The froskman ordered the three klops to ease sails and match speed. Cyrus steadied his nerves and took a deep, shaky breath. Was Fibian right? Was there a better way? It was too late for those thoughts. It was now or never.
Cyrus threw his keg of powder from the bow. The rope caught, and the cask hung from his waist. He began to swing the grappling hook high overhead. Then he hurled it towards the ship’s aft. His back panged, but his aim was true. The hook crashed through the stern window of the captain’s quarters. Cyrus hauled on the line. The hook snagged and held. He inhaled another lungful of the wintry night air. Then he gritted his teeth and leaped from the bowsprit. The icy wind raced past his pointed ears. The rope grew taut. He swung like a wrecking ball from ship to ship. He slammed side-first into the stern of the enemy craft. His ribs ached and his head reeled. The wooden cask bound to his waist skimmed and smashed across the waves below. His arms burned red hot. Hand over fist, he pulled himself up the length of rope.
Above, a klops voice shouted, “Intrude -!”
The warning cry was cut short. Cyrus looked up. A crooked body tumbled from the broken window of the captain’s quarters. The corpse struck Cyrus in the shoulder, nearly breaking his thick neck. Then it fell into the sea. Cyrus spied Fibian’s blade stuck firmly in the dead scoundrel’s skull. At least the froskman’s aim could still be trusted.
Cyrus reached up and grasped the window ledge of the captain’s quarters. The cask of fire powder still dangled from his waist. Cyrus looked within the broken window. The room was empty. He prayed that no one had heard the klops’ scream.
“ALARM, ALARM! ENEMY AT OUR STERN!”
The warning cry came from the quarterdeck above.
“Man the port side cannons,” Schlaue’s voice ordered, “Hard to port forty-five degrees.”
Cyrus’ ship was undefended. He had to find Edward, and quick.
Cyrus punched his gloved hand through the window’s remains and cleared the broken glass. Then he pulled himself and his keg into the room. Shards of jagged glass clung to his furs. He looked about the chamber.
The room stank of compost and rotting shellfish. An iron stove flickered with firelight against the starboard wall. In the center of the cabin stood a chipped wooden table strewn with several stained maps and charts. Along the port side wall rested a makeshift bed of damp hay.
Cyrus drew his sword and cut the barrel of fire powder from his waist. Schlaue’s vessel veered to port. Cyrus lost his footing. He crashed hard into the starboard wall. He clutched his back and regained his composure. Then he sheathed his sword and drew both pistols.
“Edward, you here?” he whispered loudly, “Edward, it’s Cyrus.”
He hunted beneath maps and behind barrels. He tore apart the bedding and ripped open several chests. Where was Edward? Cyrus started to panic. He heard footsteps shuffling on the deck above. If Edward was not there, he would have to search the entire ship. That would be suicide, yet where else could the spider be? Reluctantly, Cyrus made for the door.
“Cyrus?” he heard a small voice whisper.
The words were slightly slurred.
“Edward?” Cyrus replied.
“Over here,” the voice said.
Cyrus ducked under jangling pullies and hooks and followed the voice to a rickety wooden shelf. The tiny white spider was on the shelf’s top ledge, between two coils of thick rope.
“Edward!” Cyrus said, relieved.
The door crashed open. A small klops stood confused in the threshold. Cyrus’ body tensed, ready to strike. He masked his face under his fur hood.
“Who goes there?” the klops asked, “Where’s Malbock?”
Cyrus aimed his pistol from the hip.
Bang!
The klops flew backward dead against the starboard wall. Cyrus threw the spent weapon to the floor. Then he ran to the door, kicked it shut, and began to barricade it behind heavy casks and iron chests.
“INTRUDERS!” a high, warbled voice shouted from the main deck.
Curses! Fists began to pound on the door. Cyrus ran to the shelf and grasped Edward.
“Thank the Angels!” Edward said.
“Don’t thank them yet,” Cyrus replied, placing the small spider on his broad shoulders.
The fists against the door were replaced by what sounded like a battering ram. The barricade began to give. Cyrus clutched his keg of fire powder and placed it in the port side fore corner of the room. He cracked open the tar-sealed cask. Dry fire powder poured from within.
“What are you doing?” Edward asked.
“Blowing up this ship.”
The pounding beyond continued, the barrier shifted and the door cracked open. Cyrus ran to the room’s starboard wall. He kicked open the stove door and grasped a smoldering log from the fire. With his gloved hand, he threw the log onto the big table. The stacks of maps and charts ignited. The barricade toppled, and the door crashed open.
“Cyrus!” Edward cried.
Boom!
Outside, Schlaue’s cannons started to rage. Fibian! Several common-class klops poured through the doorway, armed with poisoned knives and pistols. Cyrus drew his sword and hurled it at the mob. His blade skewered the first three through the door.
Bang!
One of the dying klops squeezed off a gunshot. The bullet smashed into the aft wall. Four more klops pushed past the three dead crewmen and stormed the room. The table began to burn. The flames started to blacken the roof beams. The four klops advanced, skirting the fire. The first fiend drew a pistol. Cyrus kicked the weapon from his hands and the gun clattered to the floor. Then, with one arm, he grabbed the villain by the head and hurled him through the shattered, stern windows. The creature screamed as he vanished into the haze. A second klops took his place. He stabbed at Cyrus’ belly. Cyrus parried the thrust with his gun barrel and drove his forehead into the creature’s narrow jaw. The klops crashed to the deck senseless. The remaining two fiends stood terrified, knives shaking in their three-fingered grips.
“Fire!” one of them shouted, “The ship’s on fire!”
“You!”
General Schlaue barged into the room.
“You should be dead!”
The one-eared batalha kicked the remains of the barricade aside. Then he shoved the quivering klops from his path. Infants’ blood poured from a loose keg rolling across the deck boards.
“I’ll keelhaul you for this!” the batalha roared.
Cyrus retreated towards the broken, stern windows. The ceiling was on fire. He heaved the blazing table on its side, blocking the general’s path. General Schlaue batted the blockade aside and charged forward. The flames were spreading. Cyrus had to get off that doomed ship!
He leaped for the sea. Schlaue caught his ankle and tripped him up. NO! Cyrus fell to the deck. He rolled to his back and cocked his gun.
Bang!
The bullet ricocheted off of Schlaue’s breastplate. The general dove at Cyrus, knocking his weapon to the floor. Cyrus gasped under the weight of the klops’ heavy burden. The general rose up and clubbed a thick fist at Cyrus’ head. Cyrus shifted and grasped the big klops’ leg. Schlaue twisted and sprawled. Together, they wrestled to their feet, locked in a bear hug. Both struggled to gain the advantage.
Acrid smoke filled the room. The two smaller klops stood terrified, unwilling to join the fray. Cyrus and Schlaue coughed and sputtered as they rammed like bulls off the quivering walls. The fire now engulfed a third of the room.
“Fire in the Captain’s Quarters!” a klops voice shouted from the quarterdeck.
“Get us out
of here!” Edward cried, from Cyrus’ shoulder.
Schlaue tripped up Cyrus’ right foot, throwing him towards the flames. Cyrus clung to the general and maintained his footing. He shoved hard against the batalha. The klops dropped to his right hip and pulled Cyrus over the top of him. Cyrus pitched towards the stern windows. His back struck the bloody, wet floor. No! Stinging pain shot up his side. The straw bed was on fire. The flames were nearing the barrel. He had to get off that ship. Again, the general dove on top of him.
“I’m going to rip you in two!” the klops roared.
Two more batalha entered the fiery room armed with blades and buckets of water. They had to choose, their captain or their ship. They began to battle the blaze. If they got the flames in hand, Cyrus and Edward were doomed! Yet if they did not…
Cyrus spotted on the floor the loaded pistol he had earlier kicked from the dead klops’ hand. More villains pressed into the chamber, forming a bucket brigade. Two wielded handguns.
“Move, General,” one shouted, “we have the shot.”
“He’s mine,” Schlaue raged.
“Edward, take cover!” Cyrus cried.
The general crashed on top of Cyrus, pressing the wind from his lungs. Cyrus’ back spasmed. He ate one of Schlaue’s thundering punches. Then he counter-attacked, stabbing his thick fingers knuckle-deep into the brute’s bulbous eyes.
“Gaaahhh!”
Schlaue grasped his face.
“I can’t see!” he roared.
Cyrus snatched the gun off of the deck. Then he gripped Schlaue’s collar and kicked out his left knee. The batalha lost his balance. Cyrus pulled the brute into him like a big shield. Then he aimed his pistol over the klops’ shoulder at the keg of fire powder.
“He has a gun!” a high-pitched voice screamed.
“Hold on!” Cyrus shouted, cocking the hammer.
Then he took a deep breath and unleashed hell.
KA-BOOOOOM!
Chapter 9
THE BRINGER OF DOOM
CYRUS’ BULLET ripped through a klops leg before hitting its target. The keg erupted.
KA-BOOOOOM!
Schlaue’s body struck Cyrus like a charging troll.
Wooosh!
Heat and light enveloped his senses. His world became engulfed in silence as the blast hurled him reeling through the air. He felt glass tickle at his ears. Time slowed. Seconds became minutes. He tried to gather his scattered wits. Where had the sea come from?
Like a stone, Cyrus struck the stinging ocean and plunged deep into its frigid depths. An atmosphere of stabbing ice assaulted his flesh. His mind grew painfully clear. The silence in his ears became a low drone. He opened his eyes and peered about the murk. Fiery debris scattered the surface above and a burning glow bloomed beyond. Cyrus’ lungs began to flag. He kicked towards the fresh air and broke through the waves. He looked about. Smoldering wreckage strewed the choppy sea. How was he still alive? He rubbed the brine from his irritated eyes. His ears and face burned. The air smelled of cannon fire, charred wood, and tar, and desperate screams filled the growing dusk. Cyrus looked ahead. Schlaue’s ship was ablaze. The heat from the fire seared his face.
“Edward!”
He searched his collar. A tiny white snowball clung within the collar of his furs. He grasped the furry blodbad and placed him on his head.
“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked.
The small spider coughed and sputtered.
“It’s Schlaue,” he finally replied.
Cyrus searched his surroundings.
“Angels,” he gasped.
A large, blackened, one-eared batalha bobbed, face-down, dead in the sea. The general’s armor and leather had been blown clean off of his back, along with much of his grey skin.
“Young Master, quick,” Fibian’s warbled voice cried.
Cyrus turned in the sea. Their rescue ship was approaching. He swam past shattered timbers, sinking chests and bits of floating klops. He grasped the netting hanging from the boat’s rail. His hands were numb and his wounded back ached. He struggled to pull himself out of the frigid sea. Fibian climbed down and helped him up the rope ladder. Once aboard, the froskman sat him against the mainmast and cloaked him in furs.
“Master Edward!”
Fibian took the velvety blodbad and bundled him up in a warm quilt.
“You survived.”
“Barely,” the white spider said, shivering.
“The ship?” Cyrus asked, trembling uncontrollably.
“Minor damage,” the froskman said, curtly, “We were fortunate, this time.”
They passed the enemy craft on the ship’s port side, giving the vessel a wide birth. Cyrus stared at the doomed wreck. The boat was a torrent of fire. The quarterdeck was nonexistent. The surviving crew battled in vain against the raging blaze. Without their tiller, the ship was lost. Even if they managed to extinguish the inferno, the klops would be at Mor Hav’s mercy. Cyrus climbed to his feet and limped towards the ship’s stern.
“Set a course southeast, for where we last spied the Battle Hune,” he said, his voice choked, “and mind their cannons,” he added, gesturing to the sabotaged vessel, “They may still hold powder and lead.”
The three klops nodded, then began to scurry about the main deck.
Cyrus pulled off his seared gloves and stared at his quivering blue hands. He forced his massive hands into thick fists. His fingers ached. His hair was singed, his furs were scorched, and his ears rang, but somehow he was alive. Despite Fibian’s warnings, he had climbed aboard General Schlaue’s vessel and had stolen Edward from right under their noses. He had been shot at, stabbed at, and blown up, yet he was still alive, and Schlaue was not.
Cyrus looked over his shoulder, to the ocean beyond. He was hunting a weaponized island, surrounded by a hostile, renegade armada armed to the gills with cannon and fire powder, and he was pursuing this treacherous fleet aboard a hijacked, defenseless ship, crewed by three backstabbing klops.
Cyrus was in over his head. He had been lucky so far, but sooner or later his luck would run out. What if Edward had been killed in the blast? How could he ever forgive himself? It was time to turn back, cut his losses, live amongst the yeti. Who could judge him? Who would dare stand in his way? He thought of Niels, and of Sarah.
No!
Those were the Sea Zombie’s words. Those were the fears and doubts that she had sown in his mind. Cyrus would not entertain such cowardly thoughts. That was exactly what his enemy wanted, what his enemy needed.
Cyrus clenched hard his chattering teeth and buried his overwhelming fear deep within his chest. He thought of his beheading of Rorroh, and of his slaying of the froskman, Moro. He recalled the serpent, Drache, and of his warm dragon’s blood. He was not the Child Eater prophesied; he was the Dragon Eater of legend. He was the killer of klops and the bringer of doom. These were odds that he and he alone could overcome. He would not fear what came next. What came next would fear him.
Chapter 10
BREADCRUMBS
CYRUS AND EDWARD recovered from their ordeal within the captain’s quarters of their klops attack ship. They lay slumbering on a bed of hay, blanketed in a warm quilt of tattered furs. Against the starboard wall, an iron furnace warmed the dingy room. Cyrus’ singed clothes hung from several hooks dangling overhead, drying beside the stove’s warmth.
“Cyrus?”
Cyrus started to rouse from a dreamless slumber.
“Cyrus?”
He rubbed his red eyes and stretched out his bruised and battered body. Edward’s voice was becoming more distorted, more strange.
“You all right?” Cyrus asked.
His throat burned and his voice was hoarse.
“I thought you and Fibian were gone for good,” the spider said, stepping across Cyrus’ broad shoulders.
“We would never abandon you.” Cyrus replied, groaning, as he raised himself up onto one arm, “The collision broke us free of Schlaue’s prow. In the confusion, we captured
this ship.”
Cyrus’ face felt sunburned and his back twinged, but his body was healing, and fast. Edward pursed his lips. The spider had developed the habit ever since the loss of his fangs.
“What you did back there,” he said, “you came back from the dead. You flew in out of nowhere, in the middle of the sea, and took out an entire ship’s crew, single-handed.”
Edward looked confused, and a little frightened.
“What choice did I have?” Cyrus asked, sitting up, “I couldn’t leave you.”
“That klops blood,” Edward said, “What exactly did it do to you?”
Cyrus rose to his feet.
“It saved my life,” he said, ducking low under the cramped ceiling.
His head grew light. He grasped a chain hanging from the wooden beams overhead and steadied his balance. Then he took a deep breath and cleared his groggy mind. He glanced around at the many chests and kegs stored about the room. He twisted his injured back and rubbed his stiff neck. His stomach grumbled with hunger. When had he last eaten? Carefully, Cyrus moved towards the iron hooks and pulled on his dried furs.
“Your back,” Edward said, bewildered, “What happened?”
Cyrus felt where the splinter had pierced his body. The wound had closed as if stitched shut. Thick scabs fell away, revealing fresh scar tissue beneath.
“Smoke on the horizon,” a klops voice shouted from the quarterdeck beyond.
Cyrus finished dressing, then stepped out onto the main deck. Edward crawled within the warmth of his hood. The sky was cloudy, the day was dark and the fog had cleared. The air smelled of ice and salt. It was early afternoon, Cyrus guessed. The ocean was choppy, yet manageable. Two klops wrestled the lines. The fat crewman manned the tiller. Fibian stood at the bow rail of the quarterdeck. The froskman’s furs were caked with ice. Dark circles ringed his bright blue eyes.
“There,” Fibian said, pointing southwest with his good arm.
Cyrus moved to the bow and searched the horizon. Sure enough, a thin thread of dark grey smoke rose in the distance.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 40
