Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  The pool struck Cyrus in the side with a concussive slap. His surroundings became a ringing torrent of swirling bubbles and muffled thunder. Fighting for clarity, he pumped his limbs. He felt trapped in frigid oil.

  When his senses gathered, he found himself floating upside down and heavy with clothing. Bewildered, Cyrus kicked and clawed his way through the churning water, away from the crashing steel. His breath was running out. His hands grasped stony bottom. He lifted his head and broke the surface. Cyrus stood at the edge of the pool in waist-high water.

  “Edward?”

  He felt around his neck. Where was Edward?

  Metal smashed against stone. Cyrus turned towards the ruckus. Fibian sailed past his head and struck a tree on the riverbank. The froskman clattered to the earth like a bundle of broken kindling.

  “No.”

  Cyrus splashed through the water and ran to Fibian’s side.

  The froskman was groaning, clutching his chest where Rorroh’s blade had penetrated his heart. Cyrus heard the dragon nearing behind him. He turned, his nerves electric, and drew his blade. The dragon towered over him, ribbons of water streaming off his serrated, iron frame.

  “You’re coming with me,” Drache snarled.

  He swiped at Cyrus with a steely claw. Cyrus ducked. The dragon missed, catching only Cyrus’ fur hat in his talons. Drache hunched low, exposing his bleeding stump.

  “Or would you rather I eat you whole?”

  Cyrus was not going back to that twisted Rorroh creature no matter what. But what was he supposed to do? Run? Fight back? Both were suicide. He had to do something. He felt his heart beat as if it were going to explode. Desperation took hold. Like a trapped mouse, he turned and fled for a small opening between two trees. Maybe he could lose the dragon in the underbrush. A massive claw smashed the earth, blocking his path. Cyrus cut right, bolting along the water’s edge. He searched for another gap in the vegetation. A second claw struck down in front of him, cutting off his escape. He turned and began to backtrack. The dragon’s tail nearly crushed him. Cyrus was cornered. His lungs drew quick, shallow breaths. He thought of Rorroh’s slavering maw and her amputated hand. What parts of him would she cut off in retribution? His mind became feral.

  “So, you wish to be eaten alive, do you?” Drache asked, closing in.

  Again, the serpent hunched low, baring his fleshy stump. I’m not going back! Cyrus sprang at the beast like a barn cat. With his knife held high, he dove at the dragon’s exposed flesh. A hulking, armored head struck Cyrus in the ribs. His world exploded into a massive swirl of stars. Then he crashed back into the shallows, his side screaming and his thoughts scattered. Like dropped coins, he tried to collect his wits as he crawled drunkenly through the water.

  “Enough of this foolishness,” Drache growled.

  Cyrus felt steel clamps grip him around the body, squeezing the wind from his already battered chest. Panic cleared his vision, and he found himself face to face with the raging serpent.

  “I would kill you myself,” Drache snarled, “but she will triple any torture I could think of.”

  “You could have been free,” Cyrus wheezed, his blond hair plastered across his face, “why betray us?”

  “I crossed the Vann Witch once,” Drache said, shaking his head, “Never again.”

  The dragon turned to give flight.

  “Please don’t,” Cyrus begged, “I’ll do anything.”

  He looked around in desperation. The tree where Fibian had lain was bare. The froskman was gone. Had he abandoned him? And where was Edward? Dead in the water?

  Drache twisted and roared. Fibian appeared on the dragon’s snout. Thank the Angels, Cyrus thought. Fibian un-shouldered the bow and nocked an arrow. The dragon whipped his head, but Fibian clung to the beast’s bloody scales and held on. Lowering himself down to one knee, the froskman drew the string and fired the projectile point blank into the beast’s eye. The arrow hit the lid and shattered on impact. Again, Drache reeled and shrieked. Fibian nocked another arrow. Drache’s tail whipped past his head. The froskman ducked. He fired a second arrow close range. To Cyrus’ dismay, the second splintered as well, but Fibian was not about to give up. He nocked a third arrow. The dragon’s claw caught him clean in the back. Fibian went sailing, head over heels, through the air.

  “Noooo!” Cyrus screamed.

  Then, to both Cyrus and Drache’s surprise, the froskman loosed his bolt mid-flight. The arrow shot straight amongst the roiling havoc and struck Drache in the exposed right eye.

  “Gaaaaaarrrrrr!”

  The dragon dropped Cyrus and clawed at his damaged face. Cyrus landed in the shallows and watched as the beast shrieked and roared, splashing and stumbling through the churning pool. He beat his wings and swung his tail, splitting trees and stone alike. Then, with his good eye, he again caught sight of Cyrus. Cyrus scrambled to his feet.

  “I’ll rip you and the froskman in two!” Drache shrieked, the shaft still protruding from his bloody socket.

  The dragon began to charge. Cyrus tried to flee, but the serpent closed the distance. Cyrus fell and curled fetally. Drache shrieked, then jerked to a halt. He towered over top of Cyrus, frozen as if struck by lightning. Then, like a crumbling statue, the beast began to tip. He splashed into the water with a mighty crash, causing plates and scales to fall into jagged heaps amongst the churning silt. His head fell last. Cyrus winced and drew his legs in as the serpent’s skull smashed down at his feet. A wave of frigid water washed over Cyrus’ body, chilling him to the bone.

  “Angels,” he cried out, as he scrambled away from the yawning, jagged mouth.

  He spotted Fibian lying in the grass, covered in the dragon’s blood. He rushed to his side.

  “Fibian, you okay?” Cyrus asked.

  “I will live,” Fibian said, his vibrant voice sounding weak, “Where is the dragon?”

  “Dead, I think,” Cyrus said, “You killed him.”

  Fibian’s eyes lit up, full of confusion.

  “Where’s Edward?” Cyrus asked, searching his collar and pockets, “We have to find him.”

  He looked to the pool. Edward must be somewhere in there.

  Like a barn collapsing, a great groaning came from inside the dragon. Then the serpent’s armored sheets started to separate and slide into disjointed piles. Sand poured out from cracks in the armor and from Drache’s nose and mouth.

  “It takes much more than a single arrow to kill a dragon,” Fibian said, looking suspicious.

  The froskman rose from the ground and leaped into the water, making his way towards the serpent’s carcass. Cyrus followed.

  “Well if you didn’t kill him, who did?”

  Fibian waded over to the dragon’s head, then beyond to the severed stump. Both the skull and stump were hollow husks bleeding a fine, golden silt. Fibian began to sift his fingers through the sand spilling from the severed neck.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Cyrus pleaded, “We have to find Edward.”

  The froskman poured sand from one webbed hand to the next, seeming to study each grain.

  “I believe I already have,” he finally said, with a look of worry.

  He held his right palm up to a beam of dwindling sunlight. There, within a small mound of sand, lay the unconscious Edward, his black hair on end, and the yellow mark on his back ablaze.

  “Oh Edward,” Cyrus moaned, “What have you done?”

  Chapter 26

  WITHOUT ANCHOR

  CYRUS TOOK EDWARD FROM Fibian’s open palm.

  “Edward, wake up. Edward?”

  Cyrus rubbed his best friend’s back. The spider did not stir. If Edward dies, I’ll be all alone in the middle of King knows where. He looked to Fibian.

  “What do we do? Will he live?”

  “I think so,” Fibian replied, collecting the spent arrow from Drache’s eye and gathering up Cyrus’ fur hat, “He just needs a little time to recover.”

  The dragon’s carcass shifted and groaned a
s scales and sand settled within the bubbling pool.

  “What happened?” Cyrus asked, making his way over to the shore, “How did he end up buried inside the dragon’s remains?”

  “We will have to wait until he wakes to find out,” Fibian said, “Come, we must build a fire to avoid your blood running cold. And while on the subject of blood,” the froskman pulled the pinky-sized, glass vial from around his neck.

  “What is that?” Cyrus asked, dreading the answer.

  The vial was blood smudged. Cyrus inspected the swirling liquid within. He swore he could almost see fiery phosphorescence dance and spark against the glass tube.

  “Dragon’s blood,” Fibian replied.

  “You took it from Drache?”

  Cyrus stepped back.

  “It was not difficult,” Fibian said, gesturing to his blood-spattered body.

  “You don’t expect me to drink that, do you?” Cyrus asked.

  “There may come a time, young Master, when you do not have a choice.”

  ***

  WHEN THE GLOW OF THE SUN vanished, and the moon began to rise, Cyrus and Fibian were sat around a crackling fire, drying themselves in its warmth.

  “Come on, Edward, wake up,” Cyrus said, shivering in his underwear, petting the spider curled up in the palm of his hand.

  The flames toasted one half of Cyrus’ body, while the night air froze the other. His clothes were drying beside him along a log.

  “Give him time,” Fibian said, “He is still breathing. He will be alright.”

  “What are we going to do?” Cyrus asked, desperation in his voice, “We’re trapped on this island, and Rorroh must know we’re nearby.”

  “Our plan remains the same,” Fibian said, inspecting the remaining arrows, “Tomorrow we will make for that fishing village to the west. There we can find a boat and head north in search of the yeti ourselves.”

  “Won’t sailing north be dangerous?” Cyrus asked, “And what if Drache was lying about the yeti?”

  “Sailing north will be very dangerous,” Fibian said, “But I believe the yeti to be real, and staying here within reach of the Warrior Witch is sure death.”

  Cyrus could not think of an alternative. He just sat beside the licking flames, his belly grumbling as he studied the sleeping spider balled up in his hand.

  “You do not think you can defeat Rorroh, do you?” Fibian asked, his eyes aglow in the darkness.

  “How could I?” Cyrus said, “She’s immortal and far more powerful than I am. I don’t even know how to fight.”

  “It is true that no mortal hand will ever take her from the seas,” Fibian replied, “but it is your destiny to end her reign over this world. You will destroy the form in which her tainted soul rules. You will cast her adrift to wander the oceans without harbor or anchor. And you will do this because you have love in your heart, and all she has left is hate.”

  Cyrus stared at Fibian for a long moment.

  “Love?” he finally asked, “Love? How the Angels will love help me against an ancient, ax-wielding witch with black magic, immortality, and monsters on her side? Are you insane?”

  “What if Rorroh appeared right here and now?” Fibian asked, “What would you do?”

  “I would run,” Cyrus said, his skinny arms goose-pimpled.

  “What if you were back on your island and Rorroh stood between you and your home?”

  “She could have it,” Cyrus replied, “I would still run.”

  “But what if Edward were inside the home?” Fibian added.

  Cyrus thought about that. His breath quickened. He could not just leave Edward to die.

  “And what if Edward was not alone?” Fibian continued, “What if your brother was alive and at his side?”

  Cyrus felt a bubbling anger rise in his belly.

  “My brother is dead,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

  “Even now you can sense the great strength love lends you,” Fibian said, “You will defeat her because of your love for Edward, and because of the love you feel towards your people.”

  “My people tried to kill me,” Cyrus shouted, “I hate them. I’ll never risk my life to help them!”

  But what about Sarah? Cyrus thought, surely she doesn’t deserve to die.

  He heard a small coughing noise.

  “Master Edward has decided to join the conversation,” Fibian said, his voice calm.

  “Edward, are you okay?” Cyrus asked, holding the spider close to his face.

  “What happened?” Edward asked.

  “The dragon tried to double-cross us, and we crashed. I lost you during the fall. Then Fibian found you near the dragon’s dead body.”

  Cyrus saw Edward’s confusion turn to fear.

  “Do not be afraid, little one,” Fibian said, “You did the right thing. You saved Master Cyrus’ and my life.”

  Edward said nothing. He just shook ever so slightly in Cyrus’ slender palm.

  “What are you talking about?” Cyrus asked, “What did Edward do?”

  His best friend would not look him in the eye. Cyrus turned to Fibian. The froskman stared knowingly back.

  “Wait,” Cyrus stammered, “Are you saying that Edward killed the dragon?”

  “You did, did you not?” Fibian asked Edward.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Edward finally said, “After the crash I found myself clinging to Drache. He was trying to kill Cyrus. I was terrified, and then I became angry. I lost my temper. I don’t remember much after that.”

  “My guess is that the blodbad in you took over,” Fibian said, “You bit into his exposed scar tissue and killed him.”

  “You killed a dragon,” Cyrus said, bewildered, “I never would have thought that possible.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Edward started to cry, “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” Fibian said, “You saved our lives.”

  Cyrus saw Edward in a whole new light. A killer. A hero. He owed him his life. But Cyrus could not help the fear he felt.

  “Am I evil?” Edward asked, his round eyes watery.

  “No,” Fibian replied, “You are unique among your kind. Be proud of that fact, for even now, the Warrior Witch’s wrath works against her in you.”

  Cyrus flushed with shame. He wanted to give his best friend a hug, tell him that everything was going to be all right, tell him he loved him. But something held him back. They had to focus on getting to the fishing village. They had to escape north and elude Rorroh.

  “You did good,” Cyrus finally said, stroking Edward’s back, “You did really good.”

  A cold shiver ran up Cyrus’ spine, as the yellow skull on the spider’s body glared back at him.

  Chapter 27

  THE HUNT

  THE NEXT MORNING THE TRIO crept through the chattering forest, heading west for the fishing village, and the boat that would carry them north to the Yeti Kingdom. Cyrus’ dried clothes were crusty and stiff, but he welcomed them warmly after a cold night in his ragged underwear.

  He took a sip from his canteen. Fibian had filled it several steps upstream from where the dragon’s sandy carcass lay. The water was cool and clean tasting, but it did not satisfy Cyrus’ grumbling belly. He poured a drop into his open hand for Edward to drink. The tiny spider crawled from his shoulder, down to his palm. Would the blodbad spider ever bite and kill him, Cyrus wondered for the hundredth time? His hand shook ever so slightly.

  Fibian signaled for silence and ducked low. In a tiny clearing ahead, a small boar rooted in the soil. Fibian un-shouldered the bow and beckoned Cyrus closer. Then he handed him the weapon.

  “You want to grip the bow just below the middle of the shaft and pull the string back to the corner of your mouth,” the froskman whispered, his grey coloring blending with the shadows.

  “What? I don’t know how to shoot an arrow,” Cyrus whispered.

  “It is time you learned,” Fibian said, pushing the bow back into Cy
rus’ hands.

  Cyrus took the weapon and nocked the arrow like he had seen Fibian do. Then, keeping his left arm firm and straight, he raised the bow. With his right hand, he drew the arrow to the corner of his mouth. Both arms shook.

  “Aim down the arrow shaft,” Fibian whispered, “and when you release the string, let your right hand fall back to your right shoulder.”

  Cyrus was not against killing animals for food. He had helped Llysa, and his brother kill many chickens and pigs in the past for supper. But he realized now that he had never delivered the killing blow.

  “Good,” Fibian said in his ear, “Now trace a line up the boar’s front leg, four inches above his armpit. That is where the animal’s lungs are. That is where you want to put the arrow.”

  “How do you know so much about killing and weapons and stuff?” Edward asked.

  The spider was crouched on Cyrus’ shoulder, staring down the arrow shaft.

  “I do not know,” Fibian replied, “That is just the way the Warrior Witch made me.”

  Cyrus was certain he was not made for this. He aimed his arrow above the boar’s armpit. His belly again grumbled, and his hands began to sweat.

  “Relax and loose the arrow,” Fibian whispered.

  Cyrus was starving, but could he really kill this helpless animal? The boar smelled something and looked up.

  “Now,” Fibian said.

  Cyrus released the missile. The boar bolted. The arrow struck dirt. The wild pig snorted and squealed as it vanished into the underbrush. Fibian rose to his feet and held a hand out to Cyrus.

  “It was a good shot. You would have hit it, had you not hesitated.”

  Cyrus took the froskman’s hand and stood straight.

  “Sorry,” he said, handing the bow back, “I’ve only really killed rats and flies, stuff like that.”

  Fibian un-slung the quiver and handed it to Cyrus.

  “You keep them. It is time you learned to kill more than rats and flies.”

  They spent the rest of the morning trekking through the forest, foraging for fruit and nuts, always on the lookout for game. Fibian spotted some footprints and dropped to one knee.