Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  The alves began to murmur. The klops looked around confused. Cyrus considered Fibian’s words. Would the villagers understand? They could sense Gabriel’s mind, feel his warmth. Would they see the truth? Llysa began to whisper into the mayor’s ear.

  “Lies, all lies,” Hoblkalf shouted. “How can you trust a murderer and a blue-eyed demon? This is clearly further evidence of the Sea Zombie’s meddling. Look at the child, his size, his strength, the company he keeps. He has been shot through the belly and still lives. He is no alve. He is a monster bent on murder. Ask his stepmother. Ask his dead brother.”

  “Enough,” Cyrus shouted. “No more lies.”

  He drew his rifle and aimed it at the mayor’s head.

  “Fibian, no,” Edward cried.

  Cyrus heard a hammer cock. He turned. Fibian was pointing his loaded pistol at Cyrus’ head.

  “How dare you point that thing at me,” Cyrus growled.

  “You have gone too far, young Master,” Fibian said, tears forming in his large, blue eyes. “I will not let you become that which you so despise.”

  Even when tortured, the froskman had not wept.

  “Don’t you see?” Cyrus argued, “this is self-defense. They’ll just kill us in our sleep.”

  “The prisoners are coming with me,” Fibian said. “I will not let you murder your own kind, not like this.”

  “If you leave now,” Cyrus said, gritting his teeth, “there is no coming back.”

  Fibian took a deep breath, never taking his aim off of Cyrus.

  “As you wish,” he said, a single tear rolling down his dark face.

  He began to move away from the crowd, keeping himself between Cyrus and the prisoners. The tattooed batalha clutched his broadswords, growling low. Four more of the big klops joined his side.

  “Let them go,” Cyrus ordered, “her as well,” he said, pointing to his stepmother.

  “No!” Llysa shrieked.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Hoblkalf scoffed.

  “Dad, you can’t stay,” Lars said, gesturing to the noose. “He knows.”

  Hoblkalf began to cough.

  “Very well,” he said, adjusting his monocle, “but this proves nothing.”

  “Let them out the aft gate,” Cyrus commanded the batalha. “They can take one boat, but if they refuse to leave, or if they try to return, shoot them dead.”

  “Cyrus,” Edward gasped.

  “As you wish,” the batalha growled.

  “It should have been you!” Llysa screamed. “You killed Niels! You deserve what you got!”

  Lars took his father in his arms and grasped Llysa by the elbow.

  “Please, Mrs. LongBones, we have to leave.”

  Then Cyrus watched as the five batalha escorted the seven back-stabbers towards the Battle Hune’s tail. Rorroh had been right. The froskman was weak.

  Cyrus turned his back on the traitors and glared at his frightened people. They stood in shocked silence, not daring to utter a single word. Good, Cyrus thought. No more conspiring. No more insubordination. They would finally do what they were told.

  His gaze fell upon Sarah. She appeared heartbroken as if she had lost someone dear to her. He thought of the boy who had drunk the dragon’s blood, and of the fool who had watched Tier be murdered. Maybe she had lost someone dear to her. Maybe certain people needed to die.

  Chapter 26

  CURSES ON THE WIND

  IT HAD BEEN FOUR DAYS SINCE Cyrus had last seen the outcasts. He stood at the wall of the aft bridge, searching the angry sea before him. Wind and water battered the island’s shoreline. His wounded belly ached. The cold air aggravated his mended side. Edward sat, balled up, within his fur jacket, watching his best friend’s back.

  Cyrus began to walk the wall and inspect crew and weapons alike. At first, he noticed that there were areas of the battlements that the black spiders avoided. Then he saw that many of the alvelings still wore the roasted dunklewood charms. Cyrus ripped the baubles from their necks and warned them against further betrayal. The alves cowered away in fear. The blodbad slowly returned. Was his crew prepared for what was coming? Again, Cyrus searched the dark waters beyond.

  “They were last seen sailing northwest,” Edward said, his white fur blowing across his broad face.

  “Towards the perimeter islands,” Cyrus replied.

  “Do you think they’ll be okay?” Edward asked.

  “Fibian will.”

  Edward began to speak, but something made him hesitate. Cyrus waited.

  “Maybe we could send word,” Edward finally said, “tell Fibian you’ve changed your mind.”

  “It would make me appear uncertain,” Cyrus said, rubbing his injured stomach, “The villagers now fear me, but if they sense weakness, any weakness…”

  “This is bad, Cyrus,” Edward said, crawling into his collar. “Without Fibian…”

  “Fibian gave me no choice,” Cyrus said, losing patience. “We need order if we’re going to destroy Rorroh. Once she’s dead, we can figure out the rest, but until then -”

  Cyrus felt panic in his chest.

  “Gabriel!”

  The battle horns sounded. Ragged black birds swept the trees. Cyrus’ body tensed. Electricity crackled in his stomach. He ran to the parapet and searched the horizon. A fleet of dark ships loomed west of the Battle Hune’s starboard shore.

  “Rorroh,” Cyrus said, pounding the rail.

  His guts aching, he ran as best he could along the wall towards the bow bridge.

  “Ready your rifles and artillery,” he shouted to the crew, “Keep your powder dry. Speed of reloading will be everything. Don’t waste a single shot. Hold your fire until ordered.

  “Keep your torches lit and your eyes open,” he shouted to the lookouts. “Communication is what keeps us alive.”

  He ran the length of the starboard wall and stormed onto the fore bridge. The tattooed-faced batalha who had exiled the seven outcasts sat upright in the captain’s chair.

  “Sergeant Kron, has the head fortress been alerted?” Cyrus asked.

  “They alerted us,” the tattooed sergeant growled, rising from the seat.

  “Any reports?” Cyrus asked.

  The batalha shook his wide head no.

  “Run to the fallback wall,” Cyrus ordered. “Have the workers double their efforts. Leave nothing to chance.”

  The batalha grunted, then bounded down the wooden stairs and vanished into the forest.

  Cyrus scrutinized his communications officers, then considered his two gun teams. The crew appeared frightened, but ready. He ordered sentries on both fortresses to report in at five-minute intervals. The first dispatches started to arrive. There were no further developments. He looked west to Rorroh’s fleet. The ships were mirroring the Battle Hune’s southerly course, but they were also keeping their distance. Thirty anxious minutes passed, then forty-five, then one hour. Nothing had happened. No one had tried to engage. What was Rorroh up to? What was she waiting for? Was she attempting to keep them on edge, exhaust them before her initial attack? Well, two could play at that game. Rorroh’s fleet was reliant on wind power; the Battle Hune was not. Cyrus closed his eyes.

  Northeast, into the wind, he said.

  Slowly, the giant began to change course. The bridge crew grasped railings and posts, fighting to keep their footing. They would be backtracking, Cyrus knew, but they would also be forcing Rorroh’s fleet to tack hard into the wind. By the time the enemy was in a position to strike, they would also be exhausted from a long night’s sailing.

  “Is that the best you can do, sea witch?” Cyrus growled.

  It was not.

  ***

  IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT. The sky was a deep, starless expanse and the sea was a vast, empty abyss. Nothing could be seen beyond the glow of the wall’s torchlights, and all that could be heard was the crashing of the waves.

  Off the starboard coast of the tail fortress, a small black vessel intercepted the fleeing Battle Hune on
its northeasterly course. The hune was exactly where their mistress had said it would be twenty-four-hours earlier.

  The boat made landfall before an alveling sentry post. Like phantoms, two armored nagen slipped from the skiff and lobbed two dark orbs over the wall. Emerald smoke spit from the spheres, dizzying both the lookouts and the gunners alike. The nagen then scaled the walls and unarmed all four alves before either pair could utter a single warning.

  A second boat struck land beside the first. A nagen with an antlered helmet leaped ashore and held the line. Under cover of night, six alves snuck from the craft and crept up the beach towards the steel battlements. At spear point, the coughing gun team opened the hatchway. Then the six outcasts stepped back within the fortress’ walls. Words were exchanged, and promises were made. Finally, the armored nagen returned to their vessels and vanished like smoke into the night, leaving the outcasts and the Battle Hune’s alveling crew to their own devices.

  ***

  CYRUS WOKE to a feeling of panic and dread. He cast around for his bearings. He was slouched in the captain's chair of the fore bridge, surrounded by a crew of a half-a-dozen klops.

  “What time is it?” Cyrus demanded.

  “Just after midnight,” Sergeant Kron replied.

  “Cyrus, you okay?” Edward asked.

  The spider stood watch on his best friend’s shoulder. At least six halfbreed blodbad clung to the bridge deck all around.

  Cyrus searched himself. Was the fear a part of a bad dream? No, it was Gabriel. The hune was terrified. Cyrus leaped to his feet and searched the sea. He could see nothing beyond the wall’s torchlights. Rorroh’s fleet was running dark. Had she caught up to them? Impossible.

  “I want status reports, now,” Cyrus ordered.

  The signal klops waived their torches. Lookouts down the lines responded.

  “All clear from the head fortress,” the port side officer replied.

  There was a delay from the starboard wall.

  “What’s the news?” Cyrus demanded.

  The communications officer continued to search the length of the wall. The klops and alve riflemen along the parapets stared back confused. Cyrus was growing impatient.

  “The tail fortress is all clear,” the starboard officer finally responded.

  Something was not right. Cyrus rounded on Sergeant Kron.

  “Assemble a batalha squad, now,” he ordered, “We need to search the tail fortress immediately.”

  “For what?” Edward asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 27

  THE WITCH’S FOG

  CYRUS REMAINED VIGILANT on the deck of the fore bridge, waiting for the search party to report in. His eyes were sunken and deep. His stomach ached. Edward slept, curled up on his shoulder. His communications officers sat leaning, half-asleep, against the bow rail. Tattooed Sergeant Kron stood like a statue at Cyrus’ side.

  The Battle Hune continued on its northeasterly course. The cold, starless night was becoming a bleak, foggy morning. Cyrus searched the hazy sea for the enemy. He saw only ghostly, white-capped waves crashing against the barren shore.

  A bald, middle-aged alve came dashing from the forest, sweaty and frightened. He clambered up the wooden stairway.

  “What do you want?” Cyrus demanded.

  The runner stared horrified at the big, black spiders clinging to the bridge.

  “Speak,” Cyrus ordered.

  “The- the fallback wall is complete,” the shaky alve replied, “also, the batalha report nothing suspicious.”

  Cyrus glared at Sergeant Kron. The big klops stared back blank-faced. Something was not right. Gabriel had sensed something.

  “Where is the squad now?” Cyrus asked.

  Several rifle shots echoed across the island. The alve froze.

  “What’s happening?” Edward cried, springing to life on his best friend’s shoulder.

  Cyrus sensed Gabriel’s fear. Then a flock of ragged black birds passed overhead.

  Boom!

  The unmistakable sound of cannon fire came from beyond the fog.

  Crash!

  The first round struck the steel battlements, just below the bridge deck. The wood structure shook but held strong.

  “The witch is attacking,” Sergeant Kron shouted.

  Cyrus pushed the squad of batalha from his mind. He had to prioritize potential threats. His crew came first. He needed to keep them focused.

  “Everyone, stay calm,” Cyrus shouted. “We are protected behind eight inches of steel. If the enemy can hit us, we can hit them, and they are made of wood.”

  He moved to the rear railing where several loaded rifles were stockpiled.

  “Ready the explosive rounds,” he shouted to the gun teams below. “Watch for cannon reports, then target their muzzle flashes in the fog.

  “Relay those orders to the rest of the gunners,” he shouted to his signal klops.

  The officers began to wave their torches high overhead. The incoming rounds struck the wall and shore alike.

  How had the fleet caught them in the night? It was impossible to sail that fast into the wind, or was it?

  The Battle Hune began to return fire from the tail fortress’ starboard wall. The teams fired mostly shrapnel and lead artillery, using their few explosive rounds sparingly.

  Reports from the head fortress had yet to come in. Too much fog. The port side wall of the tail fortress started to engage. The thunder of cannon fire raged all around.

  “Cyrus, look,” Edward shouted.

  Landing craft began to emerge from the fog. The boats were loaded with bearded rock klops garbed in leather and steel. Black birds circled their rafts overhead. Cyrus swallowed deep his panic.

  “Order the riflemen to protect this wall,” he cried.

  Nearby klops and alves on the parapets started to fire upon the intruders. The signal teams relayed Cyrus’ order down the lines. Several of the large calloused enemies began to fall, but many more reached the defenses. They tossed black spheres and grappling hooks up over the wall. The iron hooks held. The grenades exploded into clouds of green gas. Cyrus caught the scent of a familiar burning weed. He began to grow dizzy.

  “Don’t breathe the witch’s fog,” he shouted, masking his face behind his fur collar.

  Green haze started to blanket the wall. The shabby birds fled towards the head fortress. The alves began to cough, covering their faces with their hats and sleeves. The halfbreed blodbads collapsed, tumbling from their many perches.

  “Cyrus…” Edward moaned.

  The snow-white spider fainted. Not again! Cyrus grasped his best friend from his shoulder and tucked him into his tunic.

  An iron hook struck the fore rail of the bow bridge. Cyrus’ mind raced. He grabbed one of the loaded rifles from the rear of the bridge deck and moved towards the rampart. A large, bearded rock klops mounted the wall. On his head sat an iron helmet adorned with two twisted goat horns. Cyrus pressed his gun barrel to the beast’s chest.

  “Bang!”

  He blew the brute clean off of the battlements. Then Sergeant Kron drew his sword and hacked the line free. Cyrus looked down the length of both walls. Riflemen and signal teams alike slashed at the intruding cables.

  The fog and smoke started to shift, revealing more invading landing craft. The second enemy wave brought tall, lean nagen in silk and steel armor. Behind them, Rorroh’s attack ships could be seen just beyond the thinning haze.

  “Target those vessels,” Cyrus shouted. “Use the explosive rounds.”

  His orders were unnecessary. The fortress’ gunners began to batter Rorroh’s fleet with cannon fire. Smoldering projectiles arched across the sea. Cyrus watched as one ship’s mainmast splintered and crashed to the deck, taking its riggings with it. Another vessel took an explosive round to the stern. The shell must have struck the ship’s powder kegs. The rear of the boat erupted into a ball of fire, showering the surrounding fleet in shards of timber.

  Riflemen gun
ned down a handful of the masked intruders aboard their boats. Others leaped ashore with bullets sparking off of their sleek armor. They sped across the beach, casting aloft their own grappling hooks.

  Cyrus looked back and found the bald alve crouched, shaking, near the rear of the bridge. He tossed his spent gun to the runner. The man attempted to catch the weapon, but fumbled it, dropping it to the floor.

  “Another rifle,” Cyrus demanded.

  A silk and steel demon climbed upon the parapets. The middle-aged alve’s eyes widened. Quickly, he threw Cyrus a fresh gun. Without hesitating, Cyrus caught the weapon and spun.

  Bang!

  The bullet ricocheted off of the intruder's sneering facemask. With two searing slashes, the nagen killed all four communications officers.

  “No!” Cyrus cried.

  The alve grasped another loaded rifle. With a flash of his left arm, the silken demon hurled a black dagger. The weapon skewered the runner’s neck. The alve dropped to the floor, clutching the blade’s bloody hilt.

  Sergeant Kron drew both of his broadswords. He roared as he charged forward. The nagen’s rat-like eyes widened beneath his helmet. The batalha slashed vertically with his right sword, then horizontally with his left. The intruder sidestepped the first attack, then ducked the second. Cyrus dove for the dead alve’s loaded rifle. The wiry nagen spun into a crouch, his bladed staff whistling about him. The knife edge clipped Cyrus’ hair, then struck Kron between his belly plates. Blood gushed from the klops’ armor, and the big batalha fell.