Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Fibian,” Cyrus shrieked, his eyes and nose running, “NO!”

  He was losing Niels all over again.

  Chapter 30

  SACRIFICE

  CYRUS AND EDWARD WATCHED helplessly as the klappen dragged Fibian’s limp body into the forest. Only a handful of the diseased creatures remained to observe the two fugitives as they drifted out with the ebbing tide.

  “Is he dead?” Edward asked, his voice wavering.

  The small spider began to shiver on Cyrus’ shoulder.

  “He can’t be,” Cyrus said, wiping tears from his eyes.

  He looked down at the klappen blood all over his hands.

  “Rorroh stabbed him through the heart, and he survived. He just can’t be dead.”

  Fibian had received the chest wound rescuing Cyrus and Edward from Rorroh. Now her crazed minions were carrying the froskman away, and there was nothing Cyrus could do about it.

  “What do we do now?” Edward asked, huddling into a furry ball.

  Cyrus could not think straight. Fibian was supposed to take them north, to the safety of the Yeti Kingdom. But Drache had double-crossed them and led them straight to Rorroh. Why had they trusted a dragon? What choice had they had? Had Edward really killed the beast?

  Now they were stranded alone in a leaky boat, off the shore of some unknown island. And Rorroh’s ship was nearby, within a secluded cove, overlooked by a looming, cliff-top castle. What would Rorroh do once the klappen got Fibian inside the castle walls?

  “This can’t be happening,” Cyrus said, rubbing his damp eyes with the heels of his hands.

  He fought back the urge to cry. Why had Fibian sacrificed himself? Cyrus was no legendary savior. He was just a boy. He just wanted to live in peace.

  Fibian was mad. Maybe he deserved to die. If Cyrus and Edward tried to save the froskman, both would be captured and murdered. Sure, Cyrus had managed to defeat one klappen, but Fibian and Edward had helped. Cyrus had slashed the creature’s throat. There had been so much blood. Cyrus’ stomach began to roll. He forced the thought from his mind.

  Rorroh would surely kill Fibian, but not before she first had her revenge. She was going to boil me alive, Cyrus thought, what will she do to Fibian? He recalled Niels’ cold body lying limp on the log. He could not lose another brother. It was all too much.

  “We can’t just sit here,” Edward said, “We have to do something.”

  It was like the day Virkelot caved in all over again. Was Cyrus really going to stand by while another person he cared about died? Deep anger rose in his belly. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists.

  “We are going to do something,” Cyrus said, “We’re going to get Fibian.”

  Chapter 31

  THE FORTRESS

  CYRUS AND EDWARD DISCUSSED their rescue plan while the slender boat danced with the tide. The small group of remaining klappen monitored their prey from the shoreline. The night grew long. Cyrus and Edward slept little. Then morning broke, and the sun began to rise. The fugitives watched with relief as the grotesque creatures retreated to the protection of some dark dwelling. Probably the castle, Cyrus thought. The hairs on his neck prickled.

  “It’s time,” he said, taking a deep breath.

  Cyrus began to paddle back towards the beach. His eyes were scratchy with exhaustion. Was this a good idea? The morning sun was hidden behind grey clouds, and the wind swept west. Their craft hit the beach with a sandy crunch. Cyrus watched the trees for an ambush. Fibian never told him what happened to klappen if they were caught out in the daylight.

  “I think they’re really gone,” Edward said, crawling on top of Cyrus’ hat.

  Cyrus hopped out of the boat and slowly made his way up the shore. The beach was littered with their dead and battered foes. Under the light of the grey, morning sky, the carcasses began to smoke and smolder. The stink brought Cyrus to his knees, heaving. So that is what sunlight did to klappen.

  “Try to hold your breath,” Edward said, “The faster we’re done, the sooner we can leave.

  Cyrus wiped his mouth and rose to his feet. He made his way towards the huts. There, where Fibian had made his last stand, was the bow and quiver. Cyrus picked them up and inspected each. Both had been trampled and roughed up, but they would work.

  “Thank the Angels,” Cyrus whispered, “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  Next, he moved towards two bodies with arrows through their chests. Cyrus crouched down beside the nearest. He caught a whiff of the smoking body and threw up in his mouth. Coughing and spitting, he held his breath. Then he grasped the shaft near the entry wound; twisted and pulled. Wet muscle and tendon bit and snapped at the arrow, but finally, it tore free. He inspected the projectile. It stunk of burnt, putrid meat, but it would fly true.

  In the end, Cyrus collected sixteen arrows in total. He cleaned them all as best he could in the ocean. Then they climbed back into their boat and set off north in the direction of the castle.

  The beach seemed to span the coast for miles, watched over by a dark jungle that might harbor all sorts of spies or assassins. Finally, sand and tree gave way to sheer, towering cliffs. Seabirds squawked and circled above, darting into cracks in the rock. Waves crashed against stone, sending sea spray into the air. Cyrus’ hands and face grew coarse with sea salt. Around every corner, he hoped and feared he would spot Rorroh’s ship. Then, at mid-day, they did…

  Amongst the cliffs was a secluded bay with a narrow mouth and wide belly. Cyrus’ eyes fixed on Rorroh’s vessel. It appeared black and lifeless. Was there movement within? Cyrus could see nothing obvious, but there was no way of telling what eyes may be spying from which crack.

  “Over there,” Edward said, crawling across Cyrus’ shoulder.

  How had Cyrus missed it? Within the bay, set into the stonewall, the sea lapped at a massive, steel gate.

  “This must be how she entered the castle,” Edward said.

  The gate was as tall as thirty men, and half as wide. It was very thick and crafted to look like a shield. It was rusted and encrusted with barnacles near the water line.

  Cyrus peered up at the fortress, high upon the cliff. He wished entering the castle would be as easy as knocking on the massive door and stepping through, but he knew that would be as suicidal as attempting a frontal assault. He saw no weakness in the gate, and it would take a lifetime to cut through that steel.

  “You think whoever created this place cut a tunnel through the rock from sea to castle?”

  “It seems so,” Edward said.

  Cyrus shook his head in disbelief. How many armies would it take to complete such a task?

  He paddled past Rorroh’s ship, giving it a wide berth, and over to the cliff below the fortress.

  “Are you sure about this?” Edward asked.

  Cyrus had the rope, bow, and quiver of arrows strapped over his shoulder and around his chest. The small spider crawled along the equipment, inspecting it all for flaws.

  “It’ll be fine,” Cyrus said, “I just have to remember what Fibian taught me.”

  He wished he felt as confident as he pretended to be. He checked his boots, made sure his knife was secure and tucked his hair under his cap. Then Cyrus reached out and grasped the stone wall. Was he really going to climb up the sheer rock face to save Fibian? He could still turn and leave, paddle out to sea and hope for the best. He gripped the face with his other hand, then wedged his right boot into a crack. Cyrus peered down at his left foot still in the boat. The craft gently bobbed with the sea. Cyrus withdrew his foot and jammed it into the crevice. The small craft began to drift away.

  “There’s no going back now,” Edward whispered.

  Cyrus relaxed and took a deep breath. Then he loaded his weight onto his legs and, keeping at least three points of contact with the cliff, began to scale the rock face.

  Chapter 32

  NO GOING BACK

  HAND OVER FOOT, Cyrus climbed the rock face. He dared not look down. He focused only on his
breath and the next place he would wedge his hand or foot. Several times his grip slipped. Cyrus kept his composure, and his three points of contact, and continued on undaunted.

  Cyrus reached the foot of the castle, exhausted. The climb had not been as treacherous as the Himmel Horn, but it had still taken all of his determination and focus. His forearms quivered, and his fingers bled.

  Where castle wall met cliff face the earth had eroded, exposing the fortress’s foundation. Cyrus forced himself to steady his breath. He studied the wall above, plotting out the next leg of his climb.

  “You see any guards?” he asked Edward, his voice strained.

  “None,” Edward replied, from the top of Cyrus’ cap.

  So far, their guess that the seaside flank of the castle would be least defended had paid off. The castle’s builders too must have thought that no one would dare scale that wall of the fortress, for the mortar between the brickwork had been poorly filled, making for rough handholds. Cyrus’ knees shook. He climbed the brick face as if it were a ladder.

  Cyrus finally reached the battlements. He could barely feel his arms and his hands were grimy with bird droppings.

  “Come on,” Edward whispered, “we’re almost there.”

  A shriek echoed deep within the castle’s innards.

  “Fibian!” Cyrus gasped.

  His heart ripped. Was Fibian dying? Was he being tortured? Cyrus had to hurry.

  Fear strengthened his grip, and he pulled himself over the ledge. He crouched low within the rampart’s walls, his chest heaving. The adrenalin ebbed, and his muscles started to knot. He peeked over the inner wall. There was a small courtyard below with a trap door at its center. The door was open…

  Cyrus smelled dung and realized that the ground was slick with a sort of muck. A snorting, snarling sound came from the stone stairs leading from the courtyard to the battlements. Cyrus’ mind raced. He unshouldered his bow. A rat as big as a sheepdog hobbled onto the rampart. Its teeth were yellow shanks, its eyes red pits, and its tail arched and lashed like a whip.

  “Kill it,” Edward cried, leaping from Cyrus’ hat onto his bow arm.

  The rodent was only a few yards away. It sighted the intruders and hissed. Cyrus drew an arrow. He took a deep breath and pulled the nock to the corner of his mouth. His fingers stung and his arms shook. The rat began to froth, loping forward like a mad boar. Cyrus exhaled; then, at point-blank range, released the arrow. The missile struck the beast between shoulder and neck, penetrating the lungs, and probably the heart. It crashed snout first to the floor, its rear legs twitching.

  “Thank the Angels,” Cyrus sighed.

  He doubled over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “It has a collar,” Edward said, his black, fuzzy form crawling down Cyrus’ forearm.

  “Some sort of watchdog,” Cyrus said, stepping on its skull and jerking the arrow free.

  He looked at his dung-stained pants and hands, then at the rampart floor. Had that lone creature created that much waste?

  More hissing came from each side of Cyrus.

  “We’re surrounded,” Edward said, his two eyes wide.

  From the rampart’s north and south corners came two more of the grotesque monsters. They were about thirty yards away. Could Cyrus make the stairs? They spotted their downed comrade and came at the trespassers in a frenzied rage. Cyrus nocked the arrow he was holding. He shot at the rat to his right. The target was too far. The projectile missed, shattering against the stone floor.

  “Hurry,” Edward said, scurrying up Cyrus’ arm, “the other is coming.”

  The rodent to his right was now mere yards away. Cyrus fired a second arrow. The shaft punched through the rat’s skull, dropping it like a sack of flour. The second creature closed in from behind and shrieked. Cyrus clutched his knife and spun. The rat lunged at his groin. Cyrus kicked it in the nose. It snapped at his hand. Cyrus cut it across the face. It bit into his sealskin boot. Cyrus stabbed it in the ribs and, with his free hand, grasped its collar. He pulled the beast from his boots and hurled it over the battlement. It vanished from sight, falling to the sea far, far below.

  Cyrus fell to his knees, winded and shaken. Without Fibian’s protection, he had killed his attackers. He felt only relief and fear. Would he be so lucky next time?

  Another scream rang out deep within the fortress.

  “We have to hurry,” Edward said.

  Cyrus picked up his bow and made for the stairs. There were three other matching stairways leading down from the north, south and east ramparts. As Cyrus descended the steps, a fourth rat appeared on the far staircase. Cyrus froze. So did the rodent. Cyrus grasped an arrow. The creature began to sprint forward. Cyrus nocked the arrow and pulled. There was something odd about the way this beast ran. It was not snarling and frothing like the others.

  “It’s making for the trap door!” Edward shouted, from Cyrus’ shoulder, “It’s going to warn others.”

  No! They would lose their only true weapon; the element of surprise. Cyrus took aim and breathed deep. The creature was at least forty yards away. Cyrus fired. The arrow arched through the air, more towards the door than the rat. The rat dove for the hatch. The arrow missed its lungs, but pierced its tail, pinning it to the door’s wood frame. Cyrus hesitated. He had not actually thought he could make the shot.

  “Quick, kill it,” Edward shouted.

  Cyrus pulled another arrow and ran for the door. The tail whipped and snapped, then became still. Cyrus and Edward reached the hatch and found the tail still pinned to the frame, but no rat. The creature had pulled free from its appendage, leaving a bloody trail in its wake.

  “What do we do now?” Edward asked.

  “We go after it.”

  Chapter 33

  RUN

  CYRUS DASHED DOWN the stairway, nearly breaking his ankles. The stairs twisted like a corkscrew, ending in a long, torch-lit corridor. The air was cool; the torches few and far between. Cyrus squinted, adjusting his eyes.

  “Edward, you see anything?”

  “It looks like the passage leads left,” Edward said, clutching Cyrus’ shoulder.

  Cyrus moved quickly and quietly along the stone flags, doing his best to avoid the thick trail of blood. He reached the brick bend and peeked around the corner. In the torchlight, he made out two klappen crouched over a still shape on the ground. The creatures hissed and clicked. Had the rodent spoken before it had died? Could it speak?

  “Edward,” Cyrus whispered, “What if you crawl over there and bite them?”

  “I- I can’t,” Edward replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t just ignite it like a match,” Edward stammered, “It’s not something I control. It’s a reflex. Something’s trying to kill us, and it just happens.”

  One of the klappen rose and turned in their direction. It wore a wolf’s head on its crown. The remainder of the pelt draped its shoulders like a cape. The second creature hissed and bared its broken teeth.

  Willing himself to stay calm, Cyrus crouched to one knee, drew an arrow and charged his bow. He steadied his shaking hands and aimed for the center of the one on the left. It moved. Cyrus fired. The klappen yelped, then dropped. The other fiend shrieked. His heart pumping, Cyrus pulled another arrow. The creature charged.

  “Hurry!” Edward shouted.

  Cyrus raised his bow. The creature struck him to the ground. Edward cried and the bow split. Cyrus tried to scramble away. His back hit something solid. The klappen barged forward and clutched Cyrus’ throat, lifting him up the wall. It was grey and gaunt and covered in coarse, dark hair. It bared its black fangs and glared at him through pale orbs. Its breath reeked like compost. With a machine-like grip, it began to crush Cyrus’ neck. Cyrus felt his eyes bulging, and his vision began to fade. Fibian’s lessons flashed through his mind. With precious seconds left, he drew his knife and stabbed it into the creature’s armpit. The klappen gasped and flinched, its knees buckling, but
still, it squeezed. Cyrus again punched the blade into the reeking pit. The villain screamed, its fingers biting into Cyrus’ neck. Cyrus slashed the inside of the fiend’s exposed forearm, severing tendons and veins. The grasp broke, and the monster fell against the wall, shuddering. It clutched its wounded arm and slid down the brickwork wheezing. A smear of brown blood illustrated its descent. Then its head lolled and it moved no more.

  “You okay?” Edward asked.

  The spider’s voice seemed to come from somewhere ahead in the darkness.

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, catching his breath, “where are you?”

  “I got knocked to the ground. I’m at your feet.”

  Cyrus felt along the cold stone. He found Edward. The tiny spider’s usually soft fur bristled. Cyrus collected him up and then reached for his shattered bow. It was irreparable. He discovered his fleece cap lying at his feet. He brushed back his greasy hair and replaced the hat. Another of Fibian’s cries echoed down the corridor.

  “We have to hurry,” Edward said.

  Cyrus gritted his teeth and continued on. He passed the klappen with the shaft through its chest. It still wore the wolf pelt.

  “A disguise,” he said.

  He removed the headdress and placed it over his cap.

  “It stinks like a rotting corpse,” Edward said, fleeing into Cyrus’ shirt pocket.

  They sped down the passage and descended several stairs that opened into an even larger hallway. Pillars lined the corridor and rubble littered the floor. The ceiling above had partially collapsed exposing a darkened chamber. Cyrus stepped into the corridor. He felt as if the hallway behind him was closing in. There was no turning back…