Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  Fibian tapped Cyrus on the shoulder, gesturing for him to follow. The pair circled back towards the fortress doors, keeping to the cliffs. They found cover behind a large stack of iron plates. Fibian pointed to the line of archers, protected by the front line, picking away at the distant yeti.

  Cyrus’ and Fibian’s arrows thrummed out of the murk. Their projectiles found gaps in the archers’ armor. Purple blood spilled across the snow. Several archers spun and blindly returned fire. Some killed their own in the confusion. Several arrows rained down on Cyrus’ and Fibian’s position. Fibian caught one with his good hand. Four more shattered on the small iron plate Cyrus slid over his head.

  Cyrus and Fibian fired the last of their arrows. The klops’ northern line lay in disarray.

  “Let’s go,” Cyrus said.

  He crawled from his cover and collected a short sword from a lifeless klops laying in the snow. The enemy weapon felt poorly weighted. He did not trust its iron.

  “One moment, young Master,” Fibian said.

  The froskman dressed in the dead klops’ headgear and chest piece. Together they crept past cold blacksmith’s stations and mounds of raw ore. They delved into a line of smaller klops, doing their best to blend in. The fiends were too preoccupied arguing over orders to take notice of two stray soldiers. With the swiftness and guile of a pickpocket, Fibian punctured livers and pierced kidneys. The dying klops spread further panic among the troops.

  Cyrus mounted a mound of crushed rocks and peered across at the yeti line. The yeti had broken into two advancing groups. One pushed northwest, the other northeast. Both forced the klops back towards their hall. The giants struck out from behind their defenses, killing the enemy three at a time.

  Cyrus watched as the white yeti, Vinter, broke rank. He charged four storming, frontline batalha. He roared in rage, his long beard blowing back across his shoulders. The klops struck out at the giant and circled the snowy beast. Vinter parried their thrusts using an iron club. He countered with a sweeping blow of his own. The bludgeon struck the brutes in the midsection, breaking arms and ribs alike. Vinter howled in fury and finished the klops off with four brutish blows.

  Crack!

  Something punched the white giant in the chest and sent him stumbling backward.

  “No!” Cyrus cried.

  He watched in helpless misery as Vinter collapsed to the ground.

  “No,” Fibian echoed.

  Cyrus looked towards from where the noise had come. Behind the frontline archers, Lieutenant Knavish stood, hunch-backed, on a large rock, above his troops. He held a black, oily rifle, similar to Tier’s, in his four-fingered hands.

  Fibian stabbed a klops in the neck, stripped him of his crossbow, and fired it at the lieutenant. Knavish ducked low, narrowly avoiding the projectile, and abandoned his perch.

  “We must help Vinter,” Cyrus shouted.

  He pulled his mask off and dropped his disguise. He began to cleave his way through the line of smaller klops with reckless haste. The villains fell in twos and threes. Cyrus reached the front line. Seven batalha surrounded him. There was nowhere to run.

  “What in Kingdom is this?” one of them shouted.

  “I don’t know, but we best kill it,” another said.

  Cyrus slashed at their bellies. The brutes kept their distance. They stabbed at Cyrus with rangy thrusts. Their black blades glistened with poison. A barrel-chested batalha grew overzealous and left his right leg exposed. Cyrus hacked with a desperate blow, taking the limb off at the knee.

  “Gaahhh!”

  The strike threw Cyrus off balance and he fell forward. Two more batalha reached out and grabbed Cyrus by the arms. They held him kicking and squirming off the ground.

  “Do him!” one of the batalha shouted.

  “Release him!” Cyrus heard Fibian’s voice shout.

  There was something strange about the froskman’s voice. It sounded almost feminine. Fibian stood before the six batalha, unmasked, and with one eye shut.

  “My Queen?” one of the batalha asked, looking unsure.

  The rest lowered their weapons, confused.

  With their guards down, Cyrus kicked and pulled free of the two batalha. Fibian cast his blade at the nearest brute, sticking him in the throat. He leaped at the second in line and drove his mechanical hand repeatedly into the beast’s face.

  Cyrus picked up his sword and chopped at his captor’s feet. The two klops leaped away, favoring their missing toes. Cyrus looked to Fibian. The froskman stood panting over his unmoving foe. His artificial arm dripped with purple blood.

  The remaining four batalha stood before Cyrus and Fibian, broadswords in hand. The creature’s faces were grim and grizzled.

  “You ain’t the Queen,” one said.

  “You’ll pay for what you’ve both done,” another said, spitting in the snow.

  Together, all four raised their swords.

  Thwack, Thwack, Thwack, Thwack!

  The klops’ heads were knocked off their bodies and flew into the night. Their frames crashed to the earth. Behind them stood a massive black yeti with a graying beard. The giant saw Fibian in the slush. He swung his steel club overhead.

  “We’re friends!” Cyrus shouted.

  The club thundered down and crashed to the earth. Fibian narrowly dodged the blow.

  “We are here to help,” he yelled, holding his hands up in surrender.

  “That’s no water klops,” an older, hunch-backed yeti said.

  Cyrus recognized him from Dr. Lege’s tent.

  “It is the stranger that held council with the elders. The one that told us of our families, hidden away in the forest. He is the reason we are fighting.”

  Beside the hunch-backed elder, another giant strode forward. It was Ungur, holding two broadswords. She saw Cyrus and her eyes shifted about. Cyrus’ blood boiled. He pictured Tier, dead within the dungeon. Ungur had betrayed them. She had caused Tier’s death and Edward’s capture. He could not kill her here. It would cause too much confusion and infighting.

  The black yeti grunted his annoyance and waged further into the klops’ line. Ungur and the elder followed. Cyrus watched the traitor leave. She dared not look back. When all this was through, Cyrus would have his revenge. Twelve more battle-frenzied yeti stormed past.

  “Vinter,” Fibian said.

  He sprang to his feet and dashed across the smoking battlefield. Cyrus followed.

  Arrows darted overhead. Wounded klops crawled through the slush. Cyrus and Fibian found Vinter lying in the snow, a bloody hole in his chest.

  “Vinter, are you all right?” Fibian asked, kneeling at his side.

  The giant looked to Fibian, then Cyrus, his face pained and weary.

  “Ah, the strangers who brought us our Tier,” he whispered, “You escaped, little one, and what of Tier?”

  Cyrus felt tears rise. He gently shook his head no. Vinter grimaced. He groped at his wound. It was near his heart. The injury was fatal. The white yeti closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.

  “Is what you and Tier said really true?” he asked, “Are our families safe?”

  “Yes, all of them,” Fibian said.

  Vinter grinned, relaxing into the snow.

  “That is good,” he breathed.

  Cyrus brushed the yeti’s fur from his eyes.

  “They’re retreating into the main hall,” a deep yeti voice shouted.

  Cyrus looked up. The two yeti lines were converging into one. The giants had forced the enemy to open the great hall. The yeti battered the klops back within the massive steel doors.

  “Do not let them close the gates,” another yeti ordered.

  “The water klops are disengaging,” Fibian said to Vinter, “You have done it.”

  Vinter did not answer. Cyrus looked down. Fibian cupped the giant’s face and gently shook his head.

  “Vinter?”

  Nothing. He put his head to the yeti’s chest.

  “Vinter…”

  The
gusty breath had ceased within.

  “He is gone,” Fibian said, rising, “He is the reason the elders listened. He is the reason they began to revolt.”

  Again, Cyrus thought of Agulha, the queen, General Morte and Ungur. Tier and Vinter were dead because of them. Edward was captured and in danger because of them. Cyrus had nearly been murdered because of them.

  “They won’t get away with this,” he growled.

  A grinding moan rolled through the quarry, as the hall doors closed to a crack. Two explosions detonated in the cliffs.

  “The tunnel leading to the cliff cannons!” Cyrus said.

  “The queen has collapsed them,” Fibian replied, “It is what I would have done.”

  Cyrus punched the earth.

  The klops fell into full retreat, battling against one another to squirm back within the breach. The yeti gave chase but were unable to hinder the door’s progress. The gates shut with a thunderous crash, echoing throughout the mine. A handful of villains were cut off outside. The yeti slaughtered them as they beat desperately against the iron doors.

  “We need a way in,” the black yeti shouted, “We must finish them off while we have the advantage.”

  Cyrus looked to the cliffs. The bleeding klops were not going to get away with this. He had an idea. He rose to his feet and ran towards the black yeti.

  “We can get you inside!” he shouted.

  Several giants raised swords and clubs.

  “Let them through,” the black yeti ordered.

  Cyrus walked to the giant’s side. Fibian joined him.

  “We’ll open the gates,” Cyrus said.

  “How?” the black yeti asked.

  “Never mind that,” Cyrus said, “Just be ready.”

  Fibian pulled Cyrus aside, away from the yeti’s prying ears.

  “How do you plan to open the gates?” the froskman asked.

  “From the inside,” Cyrus said.

  “And how do you plan to get inside?” Fibian replied, “They’ve shut the gates, blown the tunnels.”

  “We’ll use the chimneys,” Cyrus replied.

  Fibian looked up at the mountainside, at the rock wall that rose far above the fortress doors. On the eastern and western faces, four small chimneys puffed white smoke.

  “You are a skilled climber,” Fibian said, “but you will not be climbing anything with that hand.”

  His eyes were full of fear.

  “That’s why we need rope,” Cyrus said, “lots of rope.”

  Chapter 34

  THE CHIMNEY

  CYRUS AND FIBIAN STOOD on the western parapet, opposite where they had first attacked the cliff cannons. Both were dressed in klops disguises and had armed themselves with small daggers and klops swords.

  The night air bit at Cyrus’ face as snow swirled and drifted into the mine. He peered over at the destroyed cannon bunkers. They were nothing more than black pits of smolder and smoke. The tunnel stairs leading from the cliff cannons were now rubble, but that would not stop them.

  Cyrus held the coils of rope he had gathered from around the mine. Fibian carried the bent and bound bars of iron they had formed into grappling hooks.

  Cyrus peered up at the chimneys.

  “The one on the left isn’t smoking,” he said, “It must be the one that leads to the dungeon fires.”

  “What if the dungeons are locked?” Fibian asked.

  “When the mine was being overrun,” Cyrus said, “and they had to lock the gates, the queen would have wanted a hostage by her side, for protection. She’s probably realized I’ve escaped. There will be no reason to lock the dungeons now.”

  “What about Edward?” Fibian asked.

  “That’s why we have to hurry.”

  Cyrus secured the ropes to the two grappling hooks. Fibian took both hooks in his good hand.

  “Stand back,” he said to Cyrus.

  He cast both hooks high up the rock face. Both dropped down the chimney. Fibian pulled on the ropes. The hooks bit into the stone lip and held fast. Fibian pumped the lever on his mechanical hand, then began to climb the line. The crab-like claw made a subtle hissing noise with each grasp of the rope.

  Cyrus followed Fibian’s lead. He was able to find decent footholds, and the rope held strong, but his wounded hand screamed with each grip. He could only use it to hold the rope for mere seconds, just long enough to reach the other hand higher up the line. His healthy hand began to cramp, being forced to bear the brunt of his weight.

  Fibian reached the chimney first. He pulled himself onto the lip and reversed the grappling hook’s hold. Then he gathered up his rope and threw the length down into the passage. Cyrus watched as he vanished into the mountainside.

  Cyrus reached the lip of the chimney. His arms ached and his hands had grown numb. He hooked his right leg on the chimney’s edge and pulled himself on top. Cyrus gasped for air, sweaty and steaming within his furs. He stared down at the mine far below, at the broken yeti and klops bodies strewn about the mud and snow. Fear and doubt began to creep in. Could he and Fibian really infiltrate the queen’s fortress, sneak past her guard of ferocious batalha, and open the gates? He thought of Edward, and of his promise to Tier. Anger clouded his fear. He peered into the blackened shaft. It smelled of charcoal and fire and all things grimy and black. Below, he could see Fibian’s eyes cast a blue glow on the befouled walls.

  Cyrus reversed his grappling hook, gathered up his line, and cast it down into the passage. Then he followed Fibian deep into the bowels of the living rock.

  Fibian’s eyes lit their way down the narrow shaft. The tunnel bent east. Cyrus and Fibian abandoned their ropes. The passage carried on downward at a sharp angle and they half crawled, half slid down the shaft.

  The passage forked. Fibian guided himself right. Cyrus followed. Fibian slipped out of sight. All went black.

  “Ahh!”

  Cyrus felt his stomach rise into his chest. He was falling. He landed on sharp, clanging metal. Ash and soot-filled his nose. He sneezed and looked about.

  “Excuse me, young Master,” Fibian said.

  The metal shifted beneath Cyrus. He realized he had landed on top of Fibian. Cyrus clawed and rolled his way out of an iron furnace and tumbled onto a rough, stone floor. He drew his dagger and scrambled to his feet. He peered about the room. A single oil lamp burned on the wall, near the doorway. Two klops lay dead within the threshold, wedging the door open. To his right was an iron cell, broken open. They had done it. They had found their way into the dungeon. Fibian rose up behind him.

  “This is where they held me captive,” Cyrus said, gritting his teeth, “This is where they killed Tier.”

  “You must focus your anger,” Fibian said, drawing his sword, “We must find Master Edward. We must open the gates.”

  “This way,” Cyrus said, unsheathing his own sword.

  He led the way to the door. Within the hallway lay the other two dead klops. The cold air was beginning to stink with their rot, or was that just their smell? Cyrus looked down at Agulha, at the mess he had made of the old klops. He turned to Fibian. The froskman stared back at him, his expression grave.

  Fibian had not been there. He had not seen Tier murdered. How could the froskman understand?

  Cyrus continued forward towards the dungeon’s exit. Muffled shouting and bickering came from beyond the iron door. The klops sounded frightened and confused.

  Cyrus grasped the door’s handle and paused.

  “We’ll make our way to the south end of the hall,” he whispered, “There’s a small door near the eastern edge of the gate. I’ll create a distraction. You open the door.”

  “What will be the distraction?” Fibian asked.

  “Remember how you first saved us on Rorroh’s ship?” Cyrus said.

  Fibian nodded, then grasped Cyrus by the shoulder.

  “Keep your head down and good luck, young Master.”

  Cyrus edged the door open and peered through the crack. The muted tones became e
ar-ringing shouts. Cyrus sheathed his sword and drew his knife. He crept through the doorway. No guards stood in his way. His guess had been right. Why would klops lock, or protect an empty dungeon? He looked back. Fibian gently shut the door behind them.

  With their heads down, Cyrus and Fibian pressed into the expansive gallery. Water klops shoved and stumbled past, bickering over petty squabbles. Many drank brown liquid from leather canteens. The tightly packed, churning crowd forced Cyrus and Fibian towards the throne.

  “Move, runt.”

  A tall, hunch-backed batalha grabbed Cyrus by the head and shoved him aside.

  “Lieutenant Knavish,” he seethed, under his breath.

  “Councilor Agulha has been murdered, and the boy has escaped,” Knavish shouted, mounting the throne’s stairs.

  Cyrus looked up at the towering seat. He stared in fear and wonder as the queen’s cloaked figure descended the great stairs. At the foot of the steps, six of the queen’s guards scooped mugs of thick, purple liquid from a stained barrel. In front of them, small klops shoved and pushed as they awaited their turn to receive their portion of drink. Cyrus watched as one klops hungrily guzzled down the syrupy liquid. The creature dropped the mug and clutched his belly. He sputtered and coughed. Then his shoulders began to bulge. His chest armor popped open and a muscled torso swelled. He ripped off his helmet and bit at the air. His jaw filled and his head grew. He seemed to rise a full two inches in height. Cyrus wondered how many doses would it take to turn the fiend full batalha?

  “Find the boy!” the queen ordered, “Search every last corner of this place. And bring more child’s blood. I want as many runts turned as possible.”

  General Morte climbed the stairs, pushing Knavish aside.

  “But my Queen,” he said, taking a swig from his canteen, “too many batalha leads to revolt.”

  “We are about to be overrun,” the queen shouted, “We cannot hide in here forever. We must take back the mine before it is too late.”

  General Morte grasped a nearby batalha.