Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “No trick,” Cyrus said, knocking the butt end of his rifle against the hune’s shell. “This giant is meant for us, and we for him.”

  He led his unlikely recruits up the tiled beach and towards the armored wall. He halted before the exterior of the aft bridge and looked up towards the bridge deck. A broad batalha glared down at him. Knavish stepped to Cyrus’ side.

  “Captain Oks,” the admiral said, “The Child Eater stands before you. Open the gates.”

  The klops atop the wall did not move. Instead, he stroked his long, braided mustaches. Cyrus’ anxiety rose. Was this a double-cross? He fought to hide his trepidation. He began to formulate the most likely source of an ambush. Finally, Oks nodded his head ever so slightly. Grinding, clanging noises came from behind the wall. Then a thick hatch door creaked open. Cyrus studied the low passage.

  “What are you waiting for?” Knavish asked.

  Quietly, Edward’s tiny guard passed through the hatchway. The three arachnids signaled their king.

  “A small ambush awaits within the gate,” Edward whispered, huddled within Cyrus’ collar.

  “Were you aware of this?” Cyrus asked Knavish.

  The hunch-backed klops looked frightened but also confused.

  “Of what?”

  “I guess these klops must learn the hard way,” Cyrus growled.

  He raised his rifle one-handed.

  Bang!

  Captain Oks’ head snapped back in a cloud of purple mist. Then the big klops fell dead onto the bridge deck.

  “Bahh!”

  “Gahhh!”

  Bang!

  Two klops yelped from within the gates. Someone discharged a weapon. Then two charred statues, armed with pistols, fell across the passage’s threshold.

  Cyrus looked to Knavish. The admiral appeared frightened and bewildered.

  “I had no part in this foolishness,” he pleaded.

  Cyrus turned to his beleaguered alvelings. They stared back terrified and confused. He reloaded his rifle.

  “Follow me,” he demanded. “Your new home awaits.”

  He ducked through the hatchway with Knavish on his heels. The air smelled of mud and tar. Edward’s guard leaped onto the cuffs of his fur britches and returned to their post atop his shoulders. His skin crawled with disgust.

  He peered about the wall’s interior. From the top-mounted twin cannons to the steel-roofed bridge, the aft defenses were a rough copy of the head fortress’ fore bridge, only broader in scale.

  Before the dark woods, among the tall grey grass, awaited a platoon of thirty frightened klops and four nervous batalha. The fifty or so alvelings slowly filed in through the hatchway and stood apprehensively behind Cyrus’ back.

  “Where is your Chief Mate?” Cyrus demanded.

  Several anxious klops looked towards the aft bridge. Cyrus followed their gaze. Atop the battlements stood several lookouts. On the bridge deck, two small officers stepped back from a fat batalha.

  “You, get down here,” Cyrus ordered.

  The chubby, Chief Mate stared at his dead captain, strewn across the parapet. Then he glanced down at the two would-be assassins crumbling on the ground.

  “Now!” Cyrus shouted.

  The klops slowly descended the stairs and approached the Child Eater, bent and shaking.

  “Why did Captain Oks prepare such an ambush?” Cyrus asked, his rifle resting over his shoulder. “He knew the consequences. Did you not receive our warning? Was Oks given other orders?”

  Cyrus glanced at Knavish. The Chief Mate wavered.

  “Answer me!” Cyrus demanded.

  “He- he received your communication,” the Chief Mate replied, “but he thought he could outwit you. He thought that once others of your kind were aboard the hune, the giant would not dare submerge. He planned to take your corpse, and these new prisoners, and deliver them as peace offerings to the Warrior Witch. I told him it was foolish, but-”

  Bang!

  Cyrus swung his rifle off of his shoulder and shot the Chief Mate through the chest. The fat batalha flew back, dead, sprawling across the hard ground. Klops and alvelings alike recoiled, horrified. The villagers stared at Cyrus as if he were a demon. The klops quivered with raw terror. Good.

  “This is the best you could do?” Cyrus shouted, “This is the plan you came up with? You klops are adequate fighters when well led, but without a true leader you are helpless. You need a savior, a Dragon Eater, a Queen Slayer, one who fought the Sea Zombie and survived.”

  An audible gasp passed through the crowd.

  “Look how under-crewed you are,” Cyrus continued, “You barely have enough men to defend your wall, let alone reload and re-supply your weapons, and the Warrior Witch knows this.”

  Cyrus gestured to his haggard alvelings.

  “I have brought you reinforcements. Under my command, we will hunt down the Sea Zombie and defeat her once and for all, but we must do this together.”

  The klops grunted. The alvelings gasped, appalled.

  “The Sea Zombie, you say?” Mayor Hoblkalf asked, looking like a large shriveled potato in his son’s arms.

  “That is right,” Cyrus replied, turning on the old fool. “I never believed her to be real until you ordered my death. I learned shortly afterward how real she truly is.”

  He looked towards the villagers.

  “We were once a tall, proud people, but the Sea Zombie changed all of that. She poisoned our island and left us for dead, withering in the middle of the sea.

  “You must understand, she wants us lonely. She wants us miserable. She wants us to fight amongst ourselves, but I have faced the Warrior Witch, and I have prevailed. I cut off her head and both hands. Yet still she lives, and she is coming for us. She is coming for all of us!”

  Cyrus pointed a thick finger at klops and alves alike.

  “We can no longer hide. We can no longer bury our eyes. We must join together and fight. We must use powder and steel, alve and batalha, and we must blast the Sea Zombie’s wretched body from the bloody seas, for a fate far worse than death awaits us otherwise.”

  Cyrus stared sternly at his kin. He could see by their stunned expressions that they had understood little of his warning. Maybe that did not matter. Maybe what they had to learn could not be taught, but one way or the other they would grasp the truth of their circumstances, or they would die…

  A familiar click and pop came from the dark woods beyond. The klops platoon parted way. A brood of blodbad four times larger than Edward’s tribe emerged onto the grass. The largest of the arachnids pushed through the horde and scrabbled out onto the barren shell.

  “I’ll handle this,” Edward said.

  The white spider spindled down Cyrus’ body, then skittered out onto the middle of the tiled earth. The big queen advanced, charging Edward like a mad crab. Edward extended his forelegs. The giant halted inches from the small, furry blodbad. The halfbreed reared up on her hind legs and bared her fangs. Edward felt for something within his fur. The large queen paused, then set all eight legs back on the ground. She seemed to study Edward, appeared to sniff at his forelegs. Without warning, the queen bowed, then retreated within her brood.

  Again, Cyrus glanced towards the alvelings. They stared at the spider army in revulsion. Edward crawled back atop his best friend’s shoulder.

  “They’re with us now,” he said.

  “What did you do?” Cyrus asked.

  “I showed her the dead King’s tooth,” Edward replied, “she is larger than he was, but also wiser.”

  “So, we have our army, it seems,” Cyrus said, taking stock of the many strange creatures surrounding him. “Now all we must do is teach them to fight like one.”

  Chapter 22

  WITCH’S DICE

  ONCE ALL ONE-HUNDRED-AND-EIGHTY or so alvelings were aboard the Battle Hune, Cyrus summoned Fibian to the tail fortress and installed Chief Sauer as captain of the head fortress. Knavish, to the hunchback’s dismay, would remain aft under Cyrus
’ watchful eye.

  Cyrus began to familiarize himself with the shell’s defenses. He soon learned that the forty-four wall guns had only enough munitions for a few skirmishes. The steel fortifications themselves were strong but would be difficult to defend with a crew so meager. To make matters worse, a length of the starboard exterior wall still required completion.

  Next, Cyrus inspected the island’s interior. Within the tangled forest he found many of the ancient alveling homes still standing, though most of their roofs had fallen in and all were overgrown with vines and creepers. The klops had converted the old town hall into barracks, but the newly-arrived villagers began to claim the other surviving structures for their own makeshift homes. Food and water remained in limited supply on the Battle Hune, so groups of alves started to construct wooden rain harvesters, and roast dunklewood nuts to supplement their overburdened reserves.

  The surrounding sea was cold and bitter, and the crumbling islands were a grim reminder of what was to come, so on the fourth day Cyrus ordered Gabriel south towards milder waters.

  The morning departure was a bleak affair. Cyrus, Fibian, and Edward stood somberly on the aft bridge deck and bid farewell to Uriel, as her broken remains receded over the vast horizon. Gabriel’s grief was especially deep, and his heavy sorrow cast a crushing shadow over Cyrus’ soul.

  Once at sea, the klops and alvelings fell into a routine of battle training and hune restoration. Cyrus made it a part of his morning ritual to walk the parapets and oversee his crew’s progress.

  On the sixth day he, Fibian and Edward came across a team of gunners training two of the mayor’s men in cannon operations. The klops were not batalha, and the men were nearly double their size.

  “You swab out the belly of the barrel, like this,” a dark klops said, shoving a wet mop down the throat of the cannon.

  “Looks like woman’s work to me,” a bald alve snickered, elbowing his bearded cohort.

  Cyrus saw that the man wore a strange necklace of roasted dunklewood nuts around his neck.

  “Maybe these two is women,” the bearded brute laughed. “They’re all so ugly, how can ya tell?”

  “Who you calling ugly?” a skinny klops asked.

  “Don’t get your skirts twisted,” chuckled the bald man.

  “Let's see how funny you are without tongues,” the dark klops cried.

  Then both gunners drew poisoned knives.

  “Enough!” Cyrus shouted.

  The klops and alves froze. Slowly, Cyrus lumbered down the wooden stairs and approached the two pairs. Edward crouched on Cyrus’ shoulder, ready to pounce. Fibian stood back several paces, defending their flank. Cyrus snatched the barrel mop from the skinny klops. Then he rounded on the alves and shoved the mop handle into the bald man’s hands.

  “Go on, if you’re so smart,” Cyrus demanded, towering over the two, “load and fire that weapon.”

  The men looked from Cyrus to the powder kegs. Then their gaze fell upon the flintlock and the lanyard. The bearded man fumbled with a shrapnel round and a sheet of parchment.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Cyrus shouted. “You know everything. Fire that cursed weapon, and you better not blow your fingers off.”

  The mayor’s men looked at each other, then to the earth.

  “Not as smart as you thought, eh?” Cyrus said, glaring at the alves. “Now shut your fool mouths and listen to these two. They’ve seen more battles than you’ve had loaves of bread, and by the looks of you two, you’ve had more than your fair share of bread.”

  The klops smirked, their chests swelling.

  “Cyrus,” Edward hissed, from his collar.

  Cyrus looked to his spider and froskman companions. Both stared over his shoulder. He turned towards the woods. Several alves clearing the forest stared back at him, appalled. Llysa stood cowering amongst them.

  “Take their side,” one grey alve scoffed.

  “Demon Lover,” another mumbled.

  “Who said that?” Cyrus growled. “Which one of you is brave enough to say that to my face?”

  The villagers turned away, grumbling, and continued their digging and weeding. Llysa retreated further into the forest.

  “That’s what I thought,” Cyrus said, sneering.

  “Easy, young Master,” Fibian warned. “You are walking a treacherous line.”

  Cyrus kicked at the base of the cannon. Would Fibian’s counsel never end? What did the froskman know? What did any of them know?

  He turned and made for the parapets.

  “Cyrus,” a girl’s voice called out.

  He looked back. Sarah Heiler emerged from the woods and stepped into the clearing. Cyrus straightened his furs and brushed back his long, thick hair.

  “Thank you for our home and the extra food rations,” she said, “but they’re too much.”

  She had scrubbed clean her grey dress and mended its torn seams.

  “Are your parents feeling better?” Cyrus asked, trying to regain his composure.

  “Yes, thank you,” Sarah replied, “but there are others who need your help more.”

  Her cheeks had regained their youthful glow, but she was still so thin.

  “We’re going to need a strong, healthy doctor if we’re going to survive the coming battle,” Cyrus countered, “and I can’t have your father worrying about his family.”

  “Still, no more, Cyrus, please,” Sarah said, “help the others first.”

  “They’re being taken care of, don’t worry,” Cyrus assured her.

  Sarah paused, seeming to consider his words. Then she stepped closer.

  “What you did to the Mayor’s men, back on Virkelot,” she said, looking to the ground, “I want to learn to fight like that.”

  Cyrus considered Sarah’s request. He had never really imagined her a part of the fighting, but that was foolishness. Anything could happen in what was to come, and she would need to defend herself. Still…

  “Fibian here is the best fighter around,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the froskman. “He could start teaching you in the mornings if you’d like?”

  Sarah stared apprehensively at the tall grey creature standing before her. She studied his dark flesh, his glowing blue eyes. Her gaze fell to his two strange hands, one metal, one webbed. Then her attention returned to Cyrus, and the spider crouched on his shoulder.

  “People want to know where all these creatures come from, Cyrus,” she said, searching his square face and pointed ears, “They want to understand how you returned to us so- so different.”

  “I’ve already told them more than they can handle,” Cyrus said, “but know this, Fibian and Edward have sacrificed much to deliver us this hune.”

  Sarah pursed her lips, still unsure.

  “How are the fields coming?” Cyrus asked, changing the subject.

  “There are others who know far more about soil and orchards than myself,” Sarah replied. “Shouldn’t one of them be in charge?”

  “Let the farmers farm,” Cyrus replied, “I trust you to lead. Make their jobs easier. Organize their schedules, listen to their advice, solve their labor and supply problems.”

  Sarah still looked uncertain.

  “Are you sure it was a good idea putting Hoblkalf and your stepmother in charge of village planning?” she asked. “They’re always gossiping and spreading rumors about you three.”

  Cyrus looked off into the woods to where he had last seen Llysa.

  “Just the ramblings of bitter has-beens,” he said. “The work will keep them busy and out of trouble.”

  But if by chance they did attempt mutiny or some other treachery, Cyrus thought, who could blame him for their banishment or death? A subtle smile creased his dry lips. Fibian stared grimly at the big alve.

  “Be careful, young Master,” the froskman said. “When you roll the Witch’s dice, you pay the Witch’s price.”

  Cyrus glared back at Fibian, equally as grave.

  Chapter 23

  BEASTS AND DEM
ONS

  FOR SEVERAL DRIZZLING days the Battle Hune sailed south through steely, white-capped seas. Many of the alvelings on the wall began to spy the strange perimeter islands that had secretly imprisoned their homeland for so long. They witnessed creatures prowling the wooded shorelines and heard devilish cries echoing across the waters. Their doubts and fears grew.

  Slowly but surely the newly-constructed rain harvesters began to replenish the island’s dwindling water reserves. Artillerymen started to gather scrap metal and improvise makeshift munitions to bolster their exhausted stockpile. Cannon and rifle reports continued to ring out across the island as the alvelings practiced firing procedures. A handful of bridge officers taught several villagers the Battle Hune’s communication systems. The alves began with simple greetings relayed back and forth between the two fortresses, then advanced to more complicated battle orders and firing coordinates.

  Cyrus grew satisfied with how his plans were proceeding, until one rainy afternoon, as he huddled under a leaky grey tarp in the middle of the forest. The mayor sat in his son’s arms before a makeshift desk, and went over designs for his newly-proposed village. Cyrus noticed that the old man and his son wore more of those strange strings of roasted dunklewood nuts around their necks.

  Llysa assisted Hoblkalf, handling the several charts and maps strewn across the table. Sarah represented the farmers and questioned land distribution and zoning regulations.

  Cyrus grew bored with the discussion and began to watch a mixed detail of alves and klops clear nearby forest. The klops chopped, burned and dug out the stubborn tree roots. The alves stood about laughing and smoking grumpweed pipes.

  “Who’s in charge over there?” Cyrus shouted.

  He abandoned the meeting and marched out into the rain. A large, red-faced farmer stepped forward. Rainwater poured off of the wide brim of his oilskin hat.

  “I am, young LongBones,” the older farmer said, defiantly.

  Cyrus noticed several strings of dunklewood nuts around the man’s neck and ankles. The farmer gripped a heavy ax in his two thick hands.