Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  Cyrus rolled and aimed his rifle at the creature’s unprotected armpit. The gun barked. The nagen jerked, then whirled forward. Cyrus leaped to his feet. The bladed end of the nagen’s staff licked his chin. The blunt end struck the rifle from his hands. Cyrus was defenseless! The creature spun again. A sharp heel punched Cyrus in the chest. His guts raged in agony. He crashed backward into his captain’s chair. The nagen whipped forward like a viper. Instinct took hold. Cyrus hurled himself sideways. The bladed staff split the chair’s thick back. Cyrus crashed to the ground and scrambled on his back towards the rear of the bridge. The creature wrenched his blade free and stalked forward. Blood leaked from his side. Cyrus reached for another loaded rifle. The demon slashed at his hand. Cyrus drew his sword. The nagen stabbed at his chest. He parried the thrust. The villain hacked at his legs. Cyrus rolled away and slipped, tumbling backward down the stairs.

  He crashed through the railing and landed face first on the tiled earth. Wet dirt smeared his lips. His sword! Where was his sword? Two silk and steel clad boots thundered down inches from his head. Blood spattered the ground. Cyrus twisted and looked up. The creature raised his staff, ready to strike. Cyrus could not die like this. He grasped the villain’s right leg. The limb felt stiff as iron. He kicked at his left ankle. The enemy stumbled backward. Then Cyrus rose up and crashed a left hook into the nagen’s wounded armpit. The intruder hissed, his breath stinking of acid. He tried to wield his staff, but Cyrus crowded the assassin, again striking him in the side. Blood spurted from the demon’s sneering mask.

  Two small klops sped from behind the stairs. They leaped atop the tall monster and began to plunge poisoned daggers between the villain’s armored plating. The nagen fell to the ground, wheezing, then moved no more.

  Cyrus stared bewildered at the two klops; then he glared at the twin-mounted cannons. One of the guns was unmanned.

  “Fools,” Cyrus shouted, “Get back to your station!”

  The klops looked at him stunned.

  “Now!” Cyrus roared.

  Then the two turned and rushed back to their posts.

  Chapter 28

  RETREAT

  CYRUS CHECKED HIS CUT CHIN. How was he still alive? He would have to figure that out later. Holding his stomach, he took a deep inhale and dashed back up the fractured stairway. He looked down the port side wall. Nagen and rock klops controlled the parapets, tramping across slain water klops. Black birds perched on the rails, pecking at the dead blodbads clutched in their talons. Cyrus searched the trees. The villagers were fleeing to the fallback wall.

  “Cowards!” he spat.

  He peered down the starboard battlements. There, again, the enemy stood unchallenged, slaughtering the half-dead water klops who crawled desperately across the boards. More black birds feasted on the large, furry spiders. The alves were nowhere to be seen. How had he lost the wall so quickly?

  “Retreat!” Cyrus shouted to anyone that could hear him, “Retreat. Run to the fallback wall.”

  A tall nagen scaled the port side defenses, feet from the bridge. A broad rock klops clambered onto the bridge deck itself. His slit nostrils flared. Cyrus’ flesh grew clammy and pale. He was dead if he did not flee. He collected up two loaded rifles from the rear railing, then rushed back down the stairs.

  “Retreat!” he shouted to the two gun teams. “Never mind the hatch, just run.”

  Cyrus peered over his shoulder. The nagen and rock klops loomed at the top of the stairway, glaring down at the four water klops below. Cyrus spun and fired both rifles single-handed.

  Bang! Crack!

  Both villains ducked behind the railing. The four klops grasped their weapons, then fled with Cyrus into the woods. He glanced backward. The nagen stood tall on the wall, a bow and arrow stretched between his wiry arms.

  Thwack!

  The arrow took one klops in the neck. The gunner fell dead.

  “Keep running,” Cyrus shouted.

  He stopped and dropped to one knee, reloading one of the rifles. The three remaining klops turned and gave cover fire.

  “No, run,” Cyrus shouted, adding powder to the firing mechanism.

  The rock klops lumbered down the stairs. The nagen ducked a bullet, then counter-attacked, dropping a second water klops. The gunner to Cyrus’ right tossed his spent rifle and began to load his bow. He nocked an arrow and fired. His poisoned missile struck the rock klops in the leg. The beast roared but continued on, obviously immune to the toxin’s effects.

  “Bloody Kingdom!”

  Cyrus stuffed a lead ball down the rifle’s barrel. His heart pumped flame. The callous brute was on top of him, his sword raised.

  Bang!

  Cyrus fired. Purple blood spurted out of the rock klops’ chest. Then the creature crashed to the ground. The nagen leaped off of the battlements and landed on the tiled earth below. Two more of his kin mounted the bridge deck above. The wiry demon nocked a fresh arrow and began to stalk forward.

  “Keep moving,” Cyrus shouted.

  Then he and the two remaining water klops ducked into the woods and out of sight.

  Chapter 29

  AMBUSH

  CYRUS AND THE TWO KLOPS fled down a twisting pathway, rushing past rotten marshes, hewn creepers, and crooked trees. Freshly slain klops littered the muddy trail. How had the enemy gotten so far ahead?

  Cyrus peeked into his tunic. Edward still slumbered safely within. He glanced over his shoulder. He saw flashes of the three nagen closing in beyond the woods and brambles. He and the two klops rounded a darkened bend and arrived at a newly cut clearing. Before them lay the would-be town center, and at the far end of the site stood the fallback wall.

  “Thank the Angels,” Cyrus gasped.

  But wait, there were several foot-long gaps in the twelve-foot-high wall. Why were the defenses not completed as reported? Several alves stood on the parapets.

  “Close up those gaps,” Cyrus shouted, “Ready your weapons. We have company!”

  The alves opened the gates. Cyrus and the two klops dashed for the threshold.

  Cyrus watched with relief as three men on the battlements aimed their rifles.

  Bang! Bang! Crack!

  Cyrus leaped through the gates. He crashed into a crowd of villagers packed within. He looked back.

  “No!”

  The riflemen had killed the wrong soldiers. Feet from the entrance, his two companions lay face-down dead in the mud. The three nagen broke free of the forest.

  “What have you done?” Cyrus shouted, “They were with us!”

  The gates slammed shut. Behind the doors lay a mound of dead batalha.

  Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!

  The surrounding alves pointed pistols and rifles up at Cyrus’ head. The villagers all wore the dunklewood charms. Had they lost their minds? He searched their faces. The adults were terrified but determined. Weeping children clung to their parent's legs, frightened and confused.

  “The enemy is coming for our heads,” Cyrus shouted, enraged, “point your cursed weapons at them!”

  The villagers quivered, but would not lower their guns. What was happening? Cyrus racked his mind. How had everything unraveled so quickly? Why were there so many dead klops on the trail? Where were the intruders that had killed them? Why were the nagen not attacking the gate? It was as if the enemy were in on the ambush…

  Cyrus studied the pile of dead batalha laying heaped against the wall. He counted eight bodies in total. All appeared shot through the back. He recalled Gabriel’s fear in the night, and the delayed report from the starboard defenses.

  Impossible…

  Yet it was all beginning to make sense.

  Cough, hack!

  “I tried to warn you, ma-boy,” said a familiar voice, from within the crowd of villagers.

  It can’t be!

  The alves parted way. Mayor Hoblkalf shuffled forward, shadowed by Cyrus’ stepmother. Llysa’s gaunt face had withered to a bitter, cruel scowl. The old man stood on h
is own two feet. He had been feigning weakness the whole time.

  “Tyrants people will follow for a time, true,” Hoblkalf said, wiping his monocle with a stained handkerchief, “but the first chance they get, they’ll stab you in the back, or trade you for their freedom, as it were.”

  Lars Hoblkalf, Mr. Aker, and the Tiller twins pushed through the crowd. Each was grim-faced, clutching a loaded weapon.

  “You bargained with that Witch?” Cyrus shouted.

  He felt rage bubble in his aching guts.

  “You gave us no choice,” Lars replied.

  “We were trapped between two evils,” the mayor said, with theatrical remorse, “One promised us tyranny and the company of demons. The other offered us freedom, and for such a small price.”

  “You fools,” Cyrus roared, “What did you do with Fibian?”

  “That blue-eyed demon abandoned us,” Llysa shouted.

  Her oily dark hair was plastered to her severe, clammy face.

  “Fled into the water as soon as the Sea Zombie approached,” bow-legged Acker snapped.

  “She treated us with a dignity and respect that you could never possess,” Hoblkalf replied, adjusting his tattered tie, “It was her man, Captain Greves, who returned us home late in the evening. A creature of few words, but very capable when given a task. Diplomacy was the only way, ma-boy. We never stood a chance against the Sea Zombie’s legions.”

  Again, Cyrus thought of the delayed report from the starboard wall. How had Holblkalf turned the villagers so easily?

  “You’ve bargained for your destruction,” Cyrus spat, stepping forward.

  Several gun barrels jabbed him in the chest.

  “She’ll come for me first,” he continued, glaring at the outcasts, “but mark my words, you’ll be next.”

  He jabbed a thick finger at the surrounding alves. His gaze met Sarah’s. She pushed her way to the middle of the mob, tears in her big, grey eyes.

  “Why did you come back?” she wept. “You don’t belong here.”

  Cyrus stood shaken as if struck by thunder. Had she known of the ambush? Had she been a part of it? Was Fibian right? Had he gone too far?

  Cyrus felt Gabriel shudder in horror. Then the flock of black birds swept down and perched in the surrounding trees. A low hiss came from beyond the wall. The gates exploded outwards, splintering off of their hinges. The alves leaped back, horrified. Beyond the broken defenses stood the Sea Zombie, bent and shrouded in her tattered robes. Her pointed hood hid all but her narrow chin and wooden costume nose. Black bile dripped from her cracked lips. Cyrus glared at the witch, frightened and enraged. How had she penetrated his fortress so easily?

  A large company of rock klops and nagen surrounded her.

  “Fetch him,” the witch wheezed.

  A single nagen detached himself from the company and stepped forward through the shattered gates. The alves stood back, their faces twisted in fear. The nagen grasped Cyrus by the collar and hurled him beyond the wall. He crashed headfirst into the mud and filth. Gabriel reached out, frantically probing his mind.

  Not now, Cyrus pleaded.

  He forced the hune from his thoughts. Rorroh’s minions surrounded him.

  The silk and steel nagen stalked forward. Cyrus could not be taken like this. He rose up and dug a left hook into the creature’s side. The villain ate the punch with ease, then countered with a teeth-rattling headbutt. Cyrus’ vision exploded. He found himself again face-down on the earth, choking on mud. He rolled to his side, ignoring Gabriel’s penetrating thoughts. The assassin neared. Cyrus coughed dirt, then crawled to his hands and knees. If only he could get to his feet. The villain kicked him in the stomach, then kneed him in the face. He fell to his side, sputtering blood and spit. The masked intruder kneeled on his spine and bound his wrists and ankles with thick rope. He hacked up more blood and earth as he struggled to break free.

  The children stared at Cyrus with shocked horror, their eyes red and swollen. The adults watched, cringing, with grim fascination. Holblkalf, Llysa and the four other outcasts beamed with smug vindication.

  “Kill him,” Llysa screamed, “Take him and kill him. For Niels, kill him.”

  Behind her, Sarah stood with a mixed expression of anger and despair. She turned her back on Cyrus and fled to the rear of the wall.

  Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut. He felt his plummeting heart shatter. He had done his best and Sarah had betrayed him for it. She was right. He did not belong here. Why had he come back? Why had he thought he could help these miserable, twisted people? He was no savior of legend. He was just a runaway who should have stayed hidden in the north.

  Two nagen lifted Cyrus from the ground and hoisted him onto their armored shoulders. Rorroh limped forward. The scent of rot and decay soiled the air.

  “There were barely any negotiations,” she whispered, stroking his chin with her blackened hand, “They sold you for baubles and trinketsss.”

  Cyrus stared at her torn, grey flesh. He studied her sinewy, stitched neck. Why had he thought he could destroy such evil?

  “Bind and cage the ressst,” the Sea Zombie ordered.

  “No!” Hoblkalf cried, coughing. “We had a deal. We delivered you the runaway. The island is ours. Leave us be.”

  “You bargained away the life of a pure creation,” the witch said, her oily, black eyes glistening within the murk of her moldy, frayed hood. “You all did. When you trade in flesh, you forfeit your soul. You are forever mine.”

  “No!” Llysa shrieked, “you promised.”

  The villagers began to huddle together, shouting and screaming. Rorroh’s minions converged on the gates, their weapons raised. Cyrus spotted the young girl with the ice-grey eyes, weeping and clinging to her tattered doll. Again, he shut his eyes tight, trying to block out the children's cries.

  “Poor boy,” Rorroh whispered, into his pointed ears, “you never stood a chance.”

  Cyrus began to drown in an ocean of despair. His failure was complete. The sea was forever hers.

  Chapter 30

  TORTURED SOUL

  RORROH LED A SQUAD OF SIX nagen down a muddy trail, towards the port side wall. Two of the tall assassins carried Cyrus on their shoulders as if he was a plank of lumber. The scent of blood and rot drifted on the salty breeze as rain threatened the sky above. He spotted more dead klops lying stiff along the gnarled pathway. The alves had shot their unwanted allies in cold blood through the back. How had Cyrus been so blind? How had he so wrongly underestimated the villager’s treachery?

  “It was merely a matter of time,” Rorroh croaked, peering from beneath her sour hood. “Your people are so easily led down the path of pride, hatred, and mistrussst. Why try to rescue creatures so crooked and feeble? You should have taken the hune for yourssself and left them to devour each other on their cold, crumbling island.”

  Cyrus thought of Niels, of Sarah. Her scorn was still fresh in his mind. You don’t belong here. Why did you come back? His heart broke all over again. Why had she betrayed him? He had wanted to return his people to their long forgotten glory. Where had he gone wrong? The slaying of Moro? She could not have been trusted, but had there been another way? Had the liberation of the klops slave mine clouded his judgment, corrupted his soul? Had drinking the infants’ blood doomed him for all eternity? How else could he have survived?

  He had risked all searching the north for Gabriel and had conquered the klops mine in the process. The quest had cost him his innocence, but had cost others so much more… He had been captured by wolves, dragged through klops-infested fjords, and mounted to the prow of an attack ship. He had destroyed his captors, taken Knavish’s crew hostage, and reunited his people with their long-lost hune. He had killed so many along the way, but had the ends not justified the means? He had brought his people weapons, allies, and knowledge of an enemy bent on their destruction, and still they had betrayed him. Why?

  Was his people’s salvation truly his only motivation, or had there been some other dee
p, nagging desire burning within the pit of his being? Had he not longed to rise above those who had mistreated him, had mocked him for so long? Did he not wish for some sort of reprisal, maybe for those who had wronged him to cower before his towering presence and beg for forgiveness?

  Cyrus squeezed his eyes tight. He shook his head in shame. Fibian had seen right through him. His ambitions had been selfish, impure, and the villagers had sensed it. Sarah had sensed it. Cyrus had not risen above his people’s corruption; he had waded eye-deep into it. He had thought that his suffering somehow entitled him to more, made him superior. He now saw the cunning and complexity of the trap that he had fallen face first into.

  He had lied to himself, told himself that he wished to rescue his stranded village when really he had wanted to dominate them, make them indebted to his martyrdom and sacrifice. He craved their esteem and worship, not their well-being. Bitterness, delusion, and fear had been his downfall. He was no mythical hero, no legendary savior. He was a mere boy, but surely it was not too late. Even a boy could die with some sense of honor, no matter the trials he faced.

  Rorroh and her sleek minions delivered Cyrus to the port side wall. Rock klops and nagen walked the battlements, securing the perimeter defenses.

  “Your orders, Mistress?” Captain Greves asked, ducking through a hatch in the steel wall.

  The lean monster’s beady red eyes glared behind his scowling mask, and his black armor glistened like a beetle’s shell.

  “Take him to my ship,” Rorroh wheezed. “Find out where the yeti are hiding.”

  No! Cyrus’ worst nightmare was coming true. He could not step back on board that ghost ship, suffer its torture. He began to kick and thrash against his bonds. He would rather die among the nagen than again be trapped within that hell hold.

  “Hold him still,” Rorroh choked.

  Captain Greves raised his staff. Something in the woods caught Cyrus’ eye. He looked towards the trees. A dark figure moved within the shadowy forest. Fibian?