Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  Cyrus inspected the iron cannon. The gun was mounted to a wooden base that rolled on metal wheels. A housing for a second cannon was built above the first. It seemed that Knavish had fled the slave village before the artillery’s installation could be completed.

  “They’re coming,” Edward whispered, “I can smell them.”

  Cyrus’ flesh prickled and his neck knotted with tension. He turned and searched the snowy forest at his back. The barren ground reached out several yards from the wall before giving way to frosty grey grass. Thick vegetation began to dominate the grass as it neared the shadowy woods. A strange clicking sound came from the tangled forest. There were just one or two clicks at first. Cyrus unshouldered his rifle and aimed into the trees. Fibian sighted his weapon over his maimed forearm. The clicking sounds became crackling, popping noises. The tall grass began to crawl. Cyrus and Fibian pressed their backs against the cold, hard wall.

  “Blodbad!” Edward hissed.

  Then several milky white eyes burst forth from the snowy spider’s bristled fur.

  Chapter 13

  THE SPIDER KING

  A BROOD OF BLACK, hairy spiders stepped to the edge of the grass, illuminated by the torchlights’ glow. They stared at the interlopers across the barren no man's land, their many eyes shining and dark. The horde looked to be five hundred in strength. What had Moro said about the island’s blodbad, that they had become twisted halfbreeds?

  The spiders looked to be a third larger than Edward, and their fur appeared more coarse and shaggy. The skull-and-bones-shaped mark on their backs was distorted and red. Dark grey stripes lined the sides of their thick abdomens. Whatever spider they had been crossed with must have been fierce.

  Edward crawled to the top of Fibian’s bald head.

  “I am the rightful heir of the fallen King Fedor,” he cried, his voice growly and swollen, “Who here would challenge my claim?”

  Cyrus stared at Edward, bewildered. The wintry blodbad was furious, monstrous, possessed. What had come over him?

  The halfbreed horde clicked and rubbed their front legs in reply. It seemed their crossbreeding had cost them the power of speech. The largest of the black spiders stepped forward onto the barren earth and bared his dripping fangs. Cyrus sighted the spider with his rifle.

  “No,” Edward demanded, “This is my fight.”

  “But your teeth,” Cyrus replied, “You’re defenseless.”

  Edward did not respond. Instead, he leaped from Fibian’s head, falling the five-plus feet to the hardened ground below. The white blodbad hit the earth with a bounce and rolled towards his enemy. Then he sprang to his feet like a mechanical trap. The brood hissed their contempt. Edward rose up on his rear legs and hissed back. He bared his shiny, square teeth, exposing his swollen, blackened sockets. His fur bristled, and his many eyes stared out, crazed.

  The halfbreed’s king rushed forward and met Edward head on. The big arachnid too rose up on his back legs and flashed his mandibles. Several brown, jagged teeth surrounded his long, dark fangs.

  The enemy spiders encouraged their leader with clicks and pops. The inky blodbad started to circle Edward, trying to expose his flank. Edward shuffled to his right, countering his opponent's footwork. The giant leaped forward and bit at Edward’s face. Edward sprang to his left, revealing his enemy’s side. He snapped at the brute’s legs and ripped several black hairs out with his blunt teeth. The large blodbad retreated. Edward spun a rough sheet of silk. He threw the sticky mask at the king’s face, blinding the halfbreed. The horde hissed their disapproval. Cyrus had never seen Edward fight this way before.

  Edward scrambled forward and lunged at his helpless enemy. He bit deep into a leg joint, breaking the shell-like skin and drawing blood. The large blodbad hissed in pain and leaped backward. Finally, he brushed the sticky sheet from his eyes. Then he barreled hard into Edward, knocking the smaller spider onto his back. Edward kicked and squirmed, but the king spider was too fast. He pinned Edward to the ground, belly up.

  “No!” Cyrus shouted, stepping from the steel platform.

  The large arachnid flexed his fangs. Cyrus aimed his rifle. There was no clear shot.

  “My fight,” Edward said, struggling.

  The halfbreed plunged his venomous fangs into Edward’s abdomen. Then the brute’s torso began to convulse.

  “Aaah!” Edward shrieked.

  Cyrus and Fibian rushed forward.

  “Back!” Edward cried.

  Dark venom leaked from the wounds in his stomach. Edward twisted and writhed in agony, fighting to push the big spider off. The black arachnid withdrew his fangs and rose up on his hind legs, victorious. The surrounding spiders hissed and clicked excitedly. Edward curled up into a still, white ball.

  Was Edward dead? Was it over? The small spider had yet to turn to sand. The larger blodbad grew still as if waiting for something to happen. The surrounding brood became silent. What was going on?

  “Master Edward ingested the witch's blood,” Fibian whispered, “She is immune to the blodbad’s toxin.”

  Cyrus stared at the froskman incredulously. The big king spider shook and shivered, enraged. He stretched wide his forelegs. The brood began to click and pop. Their war cry grew to a crescendo. Their hulking leader flared his mandibles and extended his fangs.

  “Stop!” Cyrus shouted.

  The halfbreed threw himself upon Edward a second time. The small spider sprang to his feet and rolled to his side. The big blodbad bit hard into the earth. Edward leaped forward and snapped onto the giant’s right fang. He dug his seven, spiny legs deep into the brute’s face. The big blodbad shook, trying to pry Edward free.

  CRACK!

  Edward bit and snapped the dripping fang from his enemy’s face. The king spider kicked Edward away and retreated, favoring the bloody socket. Edward quickly spun a band of silk. The larger blodbad recovered from his shock and grew furious. He started to charge Edward; his lone fang bared like a bull’s horn. Edward fell to his back and stretched his silk sling across two rear legs. With his forelegs, he loaded the halfbreed’s broken fang into the makeshift slingshot. Edward stretched the sling to its maximum. The king bore down on him, ready to strike.

  SNAP!

  The slingshot lashed out like a whip. The projectile pierced the blodbad’s belly. The black spider crashed into Edward, landing on top of him. The creeping horde shifted forward. The two combatants tumbled along the ground, then grew still.

  “Master Edward?” Fibian asked.

  No one moved.

  “Edward…” Cyrus whispered.

  The large blodbad slowly shifted. The hair on his body fell out. His torso and legs grew brittle and cracked. Edward burst free from under the brute’s weight. Like burnt charcoal, the halfbreed crumbled to pieces around the smaller blodbad’s snowy body. The king’s toxin seemed to have been diluted by his cross-breeding, but it was still lethal.

  Edward pushed his face into his enemy’s remains. Then he drew out the dead spider’s broken fang. He stepped atop the defeated champion and held his battle trophy aloft. The blodbad spiders shuffled backward and bowed low, clicking their submission. Cyrus stared at Edward, lost for words. What other mysteries could this strange spider possibly possess? The king was dead. Long live the King.

  Chapter 14

  LAYING WITH RATS

  “YOU OKAY?” Cyrus asked, peering down at Edward in the torchlight.

  Fibian moved forward and collected the small spider off the defeated king.

  “They’re with us now,” Edward said, dreamily.

  He wrapped the broken fang in web and stowed it away within his fur.

  Cyrus watched as Edward’s breath gusted out in tiny clouds of vapor. The spider stared off into the distance, as if under a spell. The hair on his body grew smooth, and his many eyes retreated beneath his snow-white coat.

  “What was all that?” Cyrus said, “King Fedor? The slingshot?”

  “I could smell them,” Edward whispered, absently
, “could sense them. It was all instinct, I guess, like Drache.”

  Cyrus recalled the hulking dragon dissolving to sand right before his eyes, and the quivering Edward that Fibian had found within the monster’s remains. Edward’s resilience seemed bottomless.

  Cyrus peered down the steel wall, in the direction of the hune’s fore wall. He guessed that Knavish would be captaining the island from somewhere in that direction. He spied the many lights lacing the fourteen-foot-high metal perimeter. They would have to avoid those torchlights if they were to reach Knavish unseen.

  Cyrus glared at the two scoundrels lying at his feet. They had to cover their tracks. He knelt down and grasped the unconscious guard’s dagger from his belt.

  “I wouldn’t want you to disgrace yourself,” he said to Fibian.

  Then he dragged the poisoned blade across the back of the klop’s neck. The knife drew a thin line of purplish blood. The fiend twitched, gasping his last breath, then moved no more. His body grew pale and still. The froskman glared at Cyrus with an expression of resigned disapproval. Cyrus clutched both soldiers by their armored collars and dragged them bodily off the platform. He took care to avoid the unnerving mass of cruel black spiders gathered in the snowy grass as he walked towards the woods. He hurled the sentries into the brambles and out of sight. Then he spied a freshly cut trail peering out of the forest’s edge.

  “There’s a footpath this way,” Cyrus whispered. “It must lead to Knavish.”

  Fibian extinguished the two torches in the snow and walked towards Cyrus. He crossed through the center of the blodbad army with Edward perched on his shoulder. The pool of black bodies parted, clearing a path for their new king.

  “Follow me,” Fibian said, his eyes bright.

  The froskman delved into the narrow trail. Cyrus cocked his rifle and followed.

  At the edge of the path, hewn barbed creepers bled frozen yellow poison. Dark, decaying leaves carpeted the frosted earth. Tiny sickles of ice dangled from the crooked tree limbs beyond. Above, the tangled forest canopy weighed heavy like a hangman’s gaze.

  As they crept through the woods, Cyrus was mindful of the unsettling click and pop of the blodbad horde following at their heels. The arachnids’ chatter came from left and right. The spiders traveled through the thorny underbrush, avoiding the open trail. Red-eyed mice and hunch backed rats scurried from the brambles. They clambered over the intruders’ feet, fleeing the skittering brood.

  The frigid footpath penetrated inland. The glow from Fibian’s eyes fell upon a dead klops frozen by the side of the trail. The corpse looked relatively fresh. A victim of the mutiny, Cyrus guessed. His grip on his rifle stiffened.

  The interlopers carried on towards the center of the island. Cyrus began to smell a fishy, manure stink. Lights started to flicker beyond the dark woods. The froskman’s eyes became dull. Edward hissed. The army of blodbad grew silent. Cyrus and Fibian crept along the path until they reached the source of the torchlights. They took cover behind a thick thorn bush and spied a small klops barracks through a stand of trees.

  Large leather and wood tents littered a recently cut clearing. Many of the big, tusked boars snored and snorted in frosty makeshift mud pens. Near the stinking beasts, the klops had thrown up a dozen or so leather shelters to hang their many silver-scaled fish. Wooden barrels stood scattered throughout the settlement open to the sky to collect snow and rain. The klops used the reservoirs for drinking water, Cyrus suspected.

  A ring of torches marked the garrison’s boundary line. Cyrus searched the edge of the clearing for another trail leading to the battlement’s fore wall. A cook fire burned in the center of the camp. Two klops roasted a boar’s leg over the flickering flames.

  “There is a footpath several yards ahead,” Fibian whispered, “along the southern perimeter.”

  “Can we reach it unseen?” Cyrus asked.

  “Don’t worry about those two,” Edward said.

  Cyrus and Fibian shared confused looks; then both pressed forward along the camp’s western verge. Slowly, the footpath revealed itself in the darkness. Cyrus prayed that their black furs would camouflage their movements against the shadowy night.

  “Who goes there?”

  Cyrus fought the urge to flinch. A small, bent creature stepped from the trees. The klops held a poison-tipped spear at the ready. Cyrus grasped his dagger from his belt. The blade struck the fiend's forehead. The klops struggled to scream. A second knife protruded from his windpipe. He fell to the earth, clawing at his neck. Cyrus turned to Fibian. The froskman stepped forward and retrieved his weapon from the dead scoundrel’s throat. The two guards looked up from their fire.

  “Garb, what you doin’?” one asked, “Drink too much did ya?”

  When Garb did not respond, both rose to take a closer look. From Fibian’s shoulder, Edward hissed into the night.

  “Ouch!”

  “What in!”

  The villains grabbed their ankles. Then the pair became charred clumps of coal within their tumbled armor.

  “Well done, Master Edward,” Fibian whispered.

  The froskman sheathed his blade and ducked into the darkened footpath. Cyrus stepped forward and drew his dagger from the dead guard’s skull. He wiped the knife off on his furs and peered over his shoulder. The horde of blodbad started to click and pop at his flanks. Cyrus’ flesh crawled as he pressed into the forest.

  They trekked cautiously through the twisted trees, their senses charged. A feral cat, hunting rats, hissed from the high branches. Then a wild pig snorted somewhere out in the woods. The three intruders delved deeper into the night and discovered two more frozen klops lying face down along the edge of the trail. Both had poisoned knives buried in the bases of their necks. Rats chewed at their frigid fingers.

  “What they deserved,” Cyrus whispered.

  They continued on through the dark forest in silence. How far did this trail lead? Cyrus wondered. Suddenly, he heard several klops voices up ahead. Torchlights started to filter through the woods. Fibian’s eyes dulled. He and Cyrus ducked low and leaped from the path. They took cover behind a broad tree trunk. Cyrus peered from behind the trunk and ventured a look.

  Beyond the forest’s edge stood the steel fortification, yet this portion of the wall was taller, sterner. The armored battlements were similar to the port side defenses, but the wooden structure built within was three times the size of the sentry post before. Both gun stations below were complete with twin cannons. Two-person gun teams manned the artillery, awaiting orders.

  Cyrus’ heart pounded with uncertainty and the desire for revenge. He spied the hunched shape of Knavish slouched in a large captain’s chair, beneath the steel roof of the wooden bridge deck.

  “Admiral Knavish, no enemy contact from either the starboard defenses nor the aft fortress,” a small klops said, standing on the wooden walkway to Knavish’s right.

  The creature looked down the length of the starboard wall through what looked to be a yeti-made spyglass.

  “We’re getting incomplete reports from the port side wall, Sir,” a klops said, standing on the rampart to Knavishes left.

  He too peered into a leather and copper scope.

  “Signal them again,” Knavish ordered, “I want to know what the confusion is about.”

  A third klops drew two torches from an iron drum mounted to the parapet. He signaled the port side sentry posts. The creature swirled the torches in the air, then slashed them through the night. One after the other, the lights further along the wall began to repeat the pattern. Then the pattern changed.

  “There’s a cannon, mid port side, not responding,” the spyglass klops replied.

  “I want a squad there now,” Knavish demanded.

  A large, pale batalha, standing next to Knavish, kicked something at his feet.

  “To the barracks,” the brute ordered.

  “Right away, Chief Sauer,” a small klops yelped, leaping up from the bridge deck.

  The runner scram
bled, stumbling, down the wooden steps.

  An overwhelming dread filled Cyrus’ stomach. How would they navigate, or even defend the giant hune, Gabriel, without a crew?

  Fibian raised his rifle. Cyrus grasped the froskman’s barrel.

  “We need them alive,” he whispered.

  “It is too risky, young Master,” Fibian replied, “They are backstabbers.”

  “We can’t defend the hune without them,” Cyrus argued.

  “When you lie with rats, you die with rats,” Fibian countered, his expression grave.

  “We have no choice,” Cyrus said, stepping from behind the tree, “Edward, the gunners.”

  The runner dashed across the barren shell, onto the snowy grass. Like a shadowy demon, Cyrus marched through the murk and raised his gun. The klops sensed something and hesitated.

  Bang!

  The lead round sparked as it punched a hole through the klops’ iron helmet. The runner fell dead. The officers on the bridge turned, drawing their pistols.

  “Put your weapons down, now!” Cyrus ordered.

  His voice was deep, bold, and booming, and betrayed none of his trepidation. He stepped into the torchlight. His smoking rifle rested over his thick shoulder. Fibian defended his flank, his weapon aimed high.

  “Ah, the Child Eater and his pet,” Knavish said, swiveling in his chair, “You are out-manned and out-gunned. It is you who should put your weapons down.”

  “Edward,” Cyrus said.

  The spider hissed from Fibian’s shoulder. The two gun teams jumped as if shocked. Then they fell from their stations and crumbled to coal. Confused, Knavish rose from his seat and leaned over the bridge’s wooden rail. He spied the remains of his gunners below. The three communications officers trembled within their armor. Chief Sauer snorted restlessly.

  “The halfbreeds are bred to protect us,” Knavish said, incredulous. “You turned them? How?”