The slender tusk-like mountain punctured the sea and pierced the heavens. Once, it had been a vein of molten rock that coursed through the throat of a mighty volcano. The giant had long died out and crumbled into the ocean, leaving the tempered horn of magma as its heir.
Cyrus awoke as the glow beyond the horizon began to warm the morning sky. He ate tidal nuts and drank rainwater from the canteen. If it had not been for Fibian’s ability to breathe underwater and gather food, he and Edward would have died days ago.
“How are we going to get to the top of that thing?” Cyrus asked, searching for a path up the sheer, rock face.
Edward crept hesitantly from Cyrus’ jacket pocket. He had not been himself since learning of his familial past.
“We climb,” Fibian said, his eyes glowing a soft blue.
A brisk, salty wind swept the boat, raising goosebumps on Cyrus’ flesh.
“I can’t climb that,” he blurted.
“It is quite simple,” Fibian replied, “I will show you.”
“No. No way. That’s insane. It’s thousands of feet,” Cyrus argued.
“There is nowhere else to turn, young Master. We are surrounded by would-be killers and assassins. If you want to escape these islands, you must face the rock, or you must face sure death.”
* * *
AS CYRUS CLUNG TO THE ROCK FACE, his knees shook and his biceps burned.
“Keep your body close to the wall,” Fibian called down.
The froskman made the climb look effortless, even with the bow and arrows slung over his back.
“Don’t look down,” Edward said, from Cyrus’ shoulder.
Cyrus peered between his legs and saw their empty craft bobbing on the waves hundreds of feet below. How had he come this far? How could he go any further? He would surely fall at any moment. He had to get down from this place! He reminded himself that he was tied to Fibian’s waist. His eyes studied the rope secured around his own midsection, then followed the line up to the froskman above. What if Fibian fell? That seemed unlikely. The dark creature scaled the sheer, black mass as if weightless, his long limbs and delicate fingers navigating the surface with cat-like grace. Still, there was always a chance…
“Keep moving,” Fibian shouted, over the buffeting wind,” You are gripping too tight. Keep your arms straight and relaxed and carry your weight in your legs.”
Remembering what the froskman had told him, Cyrus kept three points of contact with the rock at all times. He placed his hands and feet where Fibian’s had been and moved one limb at a time. He stood on a three-inch ledge; his hands jammed into a salty, horizontal crack. Cyrus began to sweat beneath his fleece cap. What if the dragon realized Fibian was insane? What if he discovered Cyrus was not the person from the legend?
“One step at a time,” Edward said, trying to encourage him.
Was Edward really a poisonous monster, Cyrus thought? What if the blodbad turned on him? Cyrus was completely vulnerable dangling on the side of a mountain. For the hundredth time, he was regretting his decision.
“Just because this dragon hates his master, you really think he’ll help us?” he asked, “Maybe we should turn back.”
“He more than hates the Warrior Witch,” Fibian called down, “He wants revenge. Revenge that only you can achieve.”
“He’ll risk his life for us?” Edward asked, the wind blowing his fur tight to his round face.
“Long ago, the Warrior Witch ordered the two-headed beast to patrol the borders of the Northern Sea,” Fibian said,” To watch for anyone trying to escape your island. The dragon’s other half, Kravel, agreed to the charge, but Drache, feeling it beneath him, refused. He turned on both Kravel and the witch. He bit off his other head and swallowed the Warrior Witch whole. That is when he learned of the witch’s immortality,” the froskman’s voice grew bleak, “For his insubordination, she took what was dearest to him. She extinguished his belly’s hellfire for all eternity.”
“She told you this?” Edward asked.
“The witch made sure all in her armies knew of the dragon’s treachery and punishment.”
“He bit off his own head?” Cyrus said.
He began to feel weak. He had to get down, away from this place. This was madness!
“We have to turn back,” he said, reaching below with one foot.
“Cyrus, what are you doing?” Edward asked, “You’ve gone all white.”
“Do not move, young Master,” Fibian called down, “I will come to you.”
“We have to find another way,” Cyrus said, the welt on his side aching.
He looked down, trying to guide his foot to the next hold. He saw their boat far, far below. It looked like a toy bobbing on the sea. Butterflies swarmed his belly. He dared not look below again. He reached out with his right leg, probing the stone. He felt nothing. His arms were growing stiff. He had no choice. He ventured another peek. Several gulls circled the mountain beneath him, squawking and bickering. He lost all equilibrium. I can’t climb down, he thought, his cheek pressed against the cold stone. I can’t make it to the top either. His entire body was flexed, trying to adhere to the mountain.
“Cyrus, breathe,” Edward cried.
“I am coming, young Master,” Fibian shouted.
A fierce desperation grew in Cyrus’ belly. His vision began to close in from all directions.
“Breathe!” Edward screamed.
Cyrus was losing his hold on the rock. He tried with all his might to regain his grip. His arms and legs would not respond. He watched as his hands slipped and the damp stone fell away. He did not care. He was happy to relax finally. He felt his stomach shrink as he plummeted to the ocean. Then he was swallowed by a cozy, warm dream.
Chapter 22
THE HIMMEL HORN
CYRUS AWOKE TO A SHARP stabbing sensation in his ribs. He opened his eyes. A large wash of grey lay before him. He felt movement. His blood ran cold in his veins. Cyrus’ eyes started to focus. He no longer smelled the sea. A large gull circled past, squawking. Finally, his surroundings became clear. He was climbing back down the mountain, away from the ceiling of cloud far above. But where was his fleece cap? And why was his hair on end?
“Holy Sea Zombie!” he gasped.
He was upside down. His breath shot out in steamy puffs. He began to squirm. An iron grip held him tight around the waist.
“Cyrus, you’re awake,” Edward said, “Thank the Angels.”
Cyrus felt the tiny spider crawling along his neck.
“Careful, young Master,” Fibian said, “We are nearing the mountaintop. We must keep quiet. The dragon will not appreciate our company. Not until I have explained to him our situation and offered our deal.”
Cyrus’ bearings adjusted. He was slumped over Fibian’s shoulder, thousands of feet above the sea, while the froskman continued his climb up the sheer, rock face.
Cyrus felt humiliated. He had lost his nerve, panicked; then fainted. All with Edward clinging to his jacket. The fall would have killed them both. Why had Fibian made him make this climb? Clearly, Cyrus was not strong enough, mentally or physically. A wave of shame and anger passed over him.
“We are here,” Fibian said.
Cyrus was carried over a ledge; then laid on the ground. He put a hand to his injured side. The scabs on his ribs were bleeding. He smelled dung and rot. He looked about. They were sat on a cliff, with several step-like stone outcrops leading further up the peak.
“Cyrus, you okay?” Edward asked.
The spider crawled down the sleeve of his jacket.
“I could have killed us both,” Cyrus said, fighting back tears, “And I’m supposed to be some savior? This is ridiculous. That dragon’s going to take one look at me and kill us all.”
“You did well, young Master,” Fibian said.
He placed Cyrus’ cap back on his head and handed him the coiled rope.
“There was a reason we were joined by rope, because of that very likely outcome. But you found the courage to
climb. And climb you did. You made it much farther than I would have expected.”
“You knew he would fall?” Edward blurted.
“Keep your voice down, little one,” Fibian warned, his blue eyes glowing bright.
“You knew he would, and still you made him climb?” Edward seethed, through bone white teeth.
“As I said, we had no choice. He had to climb as much as he could himself, for next time I might not be there to catch him.”
Edward’s eyes smoldered with hate. Fibian passed Cyrus the skin of water but kept the bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. The froskman sniffed the air.
“Come, the dragon’s den is near.”
Cyrus took a deep swallow from the skin; then poured a little water into his hand for Edward. The small spider took several sips.
“I don’t trust him,” Edward whispered, “We should get away from him.”
“I know,” Cyrus whispered back, “But we have to go along with this a little longer because I’m not climbing back down that mountain.”
“Is going to meet with a dragon any better?” Edward asked.
Cyrus did not have an answer to that. He placed the spider on his shoulder and followed the froskman up the stony steps.
The mountain was frigid and desolate, the coal-colored granite covered in what looked like gull droppings. Here and there Cyrus discovered the odd bone or ribcage scattered along the path. He spied a skull he swore was the remains of some massive pig with tusks. His guts twisted and his knees grew numb.
As they reached the top of the awkward, zigzagging steps, Cyrus saw a large, reptilian gull circling the peak, scavenging for food. Near the mountain’s summit, shrouded in cloud, the creature found a huge animal carcass strewn across a precipice. The corpse stunk like the worst outhouse Cyrus had ever smelled. He had to cover his mouth to avoid retching.
Squawking in hunger, the gull swooped down, landed on the bluff, and began to pick at what looked like a whale’s spine.
Cyrus felt the earth rumble. Fibian pulled him to the ground.
CRUNCH!
A massive, scaled claw stretched out of a darkened cavern and pinned the reptile to the charred rock, crushing it like a fly. Then, out of the cave emerged a great dragon, oily and jagged. His scales were like rectangular sheets of steel, and his beard was as white as lightning. Once, he had been a two-headed dragon, but a scarred stump was all that remained of his second head.
Cyrus wanted to scream; run in horror, but Fibian dragged him back behind a rock. He felt Edward scurry up his neck.
“Cyrus, we have to leave,” the spider whispered, deep panic in his words.
But go where? Cyrus thought. He held his breath and stood as still as the stone he peeked around.
With a coarse, cat-like tongue, the dragon lapped the gull off his claw and choked it down. Then, he sniffed the night air and stretched out his enormous wings. Thick, sword-like scales clashed on their tops. Beneath, membranes of black skin strained between long finger-like appendages. The dragon’s shoulder blades hitched and creaked as he limped towards the edge. Like a crashing bolder, he threw himself from the cliff, falling several stories, before engaging his wings and taking flight.
“Stay hidden and do not move,” Fibian whispered.
“Wait, where are you going?” Edward asked, crawling along Cyrus’ shoulder.
Fibian leaped out from behind the rock, climbed up around the peak and out of site.
“What’s he doing? Cyrus asked.
He searched the mountainside for the froskman’s whereabouts, but he had vanished.
“This is our chance, let’s go,” Edward said.
“Great and powerful Drache!” Cyrus heard Fibian shout.
The froskman’s voice carried far and wide on the wind.
“What in Kingdom?” Edward gasped.
The hulking mass of flying steel stretched out his wings and began to bank right. He climbed high into the sky, then formed the shape of an arrow and came hurtling towards the earth. Cyrus heard a shrill whistling coming from the meteor-like object.
The dragon again engaged his wings and roared like a windstorm as he skimmed the mountaintop.
“Who dares trespass on my mountain?”
The serpent began to circle the peak, his eyes probing the stone.
“I am Corporal Fibian of her Majesty’s Secret Army,” Fibian’s vibrant voice echoed,
“A traitor to the Warrior Witch, and once keeper of her island prison. And I am here to offer you a bargain.”
“What could you possibly offer me?” the dragon asked, swooping low, near Cyrus.
Cyrus ducked and circled further behind the large rock. He could feel the air pressure change as Drache’s mass swept past.
“I can offer you freedom. I can offer you revenge. Revenge on the Warrior Witch.”
“You think I am a fool?” the dragon growled.
“The legend is true,” Fibian shouted, “I can prove it.”
The serpent glided near the large precipice and beat his wings, kicking up dust and bone fragments. Cyrus felt the icy wind swirl and buffet the mountainside. The ground quivered as the dragon touched down in front of the cave.
“Show yourself, traitor,” the beast bellowed.
Fibian appeared on a cliff, above Cyrus. The froskman had the bow loaded, charged and aimed at the dragon. The laceration in his suit where Rorroh had pierced his chest yawned wide.
“This arrow is poison-tipped,” he shouted, “If you try to harm me or my companions, I will shoot you dead.”
Poison-tipped? Cyrus thought as he peered around the edge. This was crazy; Fibian was bluffing!
The dragon shook with a deep, rolling chuckle.
“You think that twig could penetrate my luxurious armor?”
“Your body is not entirely defended,” Fibian countered.
The dragon snorted a laugh but shifted his bulk to hide the scarred remains of his severed, second head.
“I will not hurt any of you,” Drache purred, “if what you say is true. Come out from behind that rock, oh chosen one, and let me judge for myself.”
Bloody Kingdom, Cyrus thought. He must have leaned out too far. His flesh grew hot and tingly. He looked up at Fibian. The froskman held the bow taught and nodded his consent. Cyrus balled his fists. Was he really going to expose himself to this monster? The beast would know for sure that he was a fraud. Did he have a choice?
“Don’t do it,” Edward warned.
“He knows we’re here,” Cyrus said, “Where are we supposed to go?”
He felt Edward crawl within his scarf, but the spider did not reply. Cyrus remembered the knife on his hip, not that it would do him any good. He looped the rope over his shoulder, put on his sternest face and stepped out from behind the rock. He felt naked and terrified as if the bow and arrow were trained on him. Slowly, he looked up at the mighty beast. Drache stared at him with cat-like eyes. Cyrus’ gaze wavered.
“So this is the mighty hero from legend?” the monster said, his thick muzzle exposing two rows of jagged and fractured teeth, “Looks like a frightened child to me.”
“He has already faced the Warrior Witch and survived,” Fibian said, “He cleaved off her hand and threw it into the ocean.”
“A ridiculous lie,” the dragon countered, shaking a scrap of gull from his beard, “He is a feeble boy.”
“He did what you could not,” Fibian said, “You already underestimated the Warrior Witch once. Do not underestimate her destroyer as well.”
The serpent’s eyes shifted to the froskman. Cyrus sensed an ancient anger burn within the beast. Fibian’s gone too far, Drache’s going to kill us, he thought. He felt his body grow electric, ready for flight.
“Revenge on the old witch, you say?” the dragon growled, “Then freedom would truly be mine.”
He seemed to turn inward as if weighing the risks, and the rewards.
“We will discuss this further inside,” he finally said.
He turned his back and ducked into his dwelling.
“But if I sense any lies, or if your plot is foolhardy, you will all be in my belly by nightfall.”
Cyrus looked to Fibian, bewildered. Fibian nodded back, a slight grin on his smooth face. Had the froskman’s plan actually worked?
Chapter 23
DRAGON’S BLOOD
CYRUS, EDWARD, AND FIBIAN crept down the large tunnel of the Himmel Garde’s lair. The din of dripping water and squeaking rodents echoed off the granite walls. Was this a trap? Was Cyrus walking to his death? His breath was rapid in his chest.
“What’s that smell?” Edward asked.
The tiny spider clung to Cyrus’ forearm, his face twisted in disgust.
“It smells like rotting chicken guts,” Cyrus whispered, fighting the urge to vomit.
They found the dragon curled up on a dark rock in the middle of his chamber. The blackened ceiling bore scars from his horned crown, and his legs dangled awkwardly off the foot of his stone bed.
“I discovered this cave years ago,” Drache boomed, “It was inhabited by a much smaller dragon. I claimed the dwelling as my own and called out the puny beast. The battle lasted mere moments, and in the end, I stood victorious over the whelp. I swept his carcass from the cliff like crumbs from a table.”
The dragon’s thick, steely face beamed with pride.
Was that some kind of threat? Cyrus thought. His legs quivered as he followed Fibian into the main chamber of the serpent’s abode. The dark grey of the froskman’s flesh and seal skin suit made him invisible, with the exception of his glowing, blue eyes.
“So tell me, child, how was it that a boy, a blodbad spider and a froskman came to face the Warrior Witch and survive?” Drache asked.
Cyrus looked to Edward. The furry spider stared back at him, his two eyes as big as coins. If Cyrus told the entire truth, surely all three of them would end up in the dragon’s belly. But if he lied and made himself sound heroic, would the beast be fooled? The image of Niels lying dead on a cold log infiltrated his thoughts.
“I discovered that my island was a giant, fossilized turtle shell,” he said, stealing his nerves, “I tried to warn the mayor, but he wouldn’t listen. The shell fractured, and my island caved in on itself. Many survived, but we lost the whole village. The mayor blamed me for the cave-in, saying that I brought an evil curse upon our island. He sentenced me to death, but I escaped.”
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