Cyrus paused. His pointed ears were muffled under his fur cap. Was that snarling he heard on the icy wind? He narrowed his steely, grey eyes, trying to focus his senses.
“Wolves,” Fibian said, unshouldering his rifle.
The froskman’s gaze began to glow.
“Behind us?” Edward asked.
The blodbad looked like a snowflake crouched on Fibian’s shoulder. His swollen gums made him slur his words.
“Is this a trap?” Cyrus demanded, squeezing the klop’s neck.
“Bridge ahead,” Knavish wheezed, “Cut the ropes.”
“The pack won’t be able to follow us over a fallen bridge,” Tolva added.
The party began to bound down the treacherous trail. Howling cries echoed through the mountains. Cyrus peered over his shoulder.
Bang!
From the rear, Torin discharged his rifle into the advancing dusk.
“Faster,” he shouted.
“Move,” Cyrus said, shoving Knavish forward, “or I’ll break your legs and leave you for what follows.”
A large shape, all teeth, and fur sprang from a rocky outcrop.
Bang!
Fibian fired his gun. A large brown wolf yelped in mid-air, knocking Torin to the ground. The beast was dead on impact. It was nearly as big as the young yeti and appeared just as underfed. Fibian ran back and helped Torin to his feet. Another wolf appeared atop the stone crag. Tolva fired her weapon. The round sparked off of the granite precipice, inches from the beast’s jagged paws. The hunter retreated into the coming night.
“Let's move,” Tolva roared.
The six pressed forward, dashing around a gnarled bend, before arriving on a cramped precipice.
“The bridge,” Tolva shouted, “Where is the bridge?”
Cyrus spied the ancient, wooden stakes and the rotted anchor ropes of the collapsed cable bridge. Anger rose like a flame in his powerful chest. The bridge had clearly fallen decades ago.
“It’s a trap,” he shouted, grasping his rifle.
He raised his weapon to Knavish’s head.
“No, no, no!” the klops pleaded.
Cyrus pulled the trigger.
Click!
The rifle failed.
“Useless klops,” Cyrus snarled, throwing the defective gun aside.
He grasped Knavish by the throat and drew his dagger.
“Cyrus!” Edward shouted.
Eight massive, mangy wolves appeared on the surrounding mountainside. The largest was a black wolf with a silver muzzle. His dark lips wrinkled and quivered over his slathering, serrated teeth.
“Kill them,” Knavish ordered the beasts.
A large white wolf pounced from the rocks. She tackled Cyrus to the snow, knocking his blade to the earth. The monster snapped at his neck and gnashed at his gloved hands. The female’s hot breath reeked of rancid meat. Cyrus punched the demon in the thick nose and thumbed at her ice-blue eyes. The hellhound squealed and then bit at Cyrus’ head. Cyrus thrust his forearm into the creature’s crushing jaws. She chewed and twisted at his flesh, but could not penetrate his thick bear hide coat. The wolf snarled and shook her head, trying to wrench Cyrus’ arm from the socket. Cyrus held strong, his back pressed to the ground. He drew his sword and rose up on his elbow, plunging the saber into the wolf’s drawn belly. The beast yelped, then fell still. The sour stench of bile filled the air. Tolva dashed forward and pulled the bloody white wolf off Cyrus. He grasped his dagger and leaped to his feet.
Fibian defended their cliff-side flank. Torin had two wolves on his back, biting at his neck. The brown yeti twisted and stumbled towards the narrow cliff edge. He ripped one wolf off his back and hurled it into the dark abyss below. The beast’s howls were swallowed up by the wailing wind. The second wolf must have found an artery. Thick, bright blood began to pour from Torin’s throat. The big yeti fell to one knee.
“Torin!” Tolva cried, raising her rifle.
Fibian and Cyrus ran to his aid. Tolva could not get a clean shot.
Bang!
She fired over the wolf’s head. The beast paused. Torin fell to his side, clinging to the wolf’s fur. The wolf shook its thick head, ripping deeper into the yeti’s flesh. Torin struggled no more.
“No!” Tolva shrieked.
Cyrus and Fibian engaged the murderous monster. The beast snapped at their faces, protecting its kill. Fibian drew his crossbow. The wolf pounced. The froskman fired. The bolt shot straight down the raging beast’s throat. The demon collapsed dead at Fibian’s feet, a mass of fur and bone.
Two more wolves bounded from the darkness and leaped at Tolva. She kicked and punched at the snapping beasts. Cyrus spun around, sheathed his blades and drew his crossbow. Tolva wrestled with one wolf, while the other bit and tore at her ankle. Cyrus aimed at her feet. Tolva twisted and stumbled towards the pressing cliff edge. Cyrus fired. The hound clinging to her leg yelped, but would not let go. The big yeti turned and heaved one monster from the mountainside. The second got caught up in her footing. All three tumbled from the precipice.
“Tolva!” Edward screamed.
What was happening? Cyrus rushed to reload his crossbow. A big salt and pepper wolf gnashed his teeth, then sprang from the rocks. Cyrus fired his bolt. The projectile buried itself into the beast’s shoulder. The hellhound struck Cyrus in the chest, knocking his crossbow aside. He tackled Cyrus to the earth and snapped onto his outstretched arm. The two rolled towards the icy cliff. Cyrus punched a heavy fist into the wolf’s side. Ribs and tissue cracked and popped. The animal wilted. Cyrus grasped his dagger and plunged it into the beast’s lungs. The wolf yelped and released his bite. Cyrus rolled on top of the creature, clutching him by the tail and throat. Roaring with rage, Cyrus rose up and lifted the giant dog clean off of the ground. Emboldened by the power in his thick legs and wide back, he spun on his heels. He twisted away from the cliff and cast the wolf hard towards the mountainside. The flailing beast struck the stone outcrop below where the black wolf watched. The broken corpse slid lifeless down the icy cliff face, gathering in a shaggy heap in the snow.
“Come, mutt,” Cyrus cried, pointing at the big pack leader, “We could use more meat for the fire.”
He knelt down to retrieve his crossbow. Where was his crossbow? Something clicked to his right. Cyrus’ flesh tingled.
“I would be very careful,” Knavish said, holding Cyrus’ loaded weapon awkwardly in his bound hands, “My grip is precarious, and if panicked, I’m liable to release the bolt.”
Icy dread filled Cyrus’ belly. Two more wolves ventured down the craggy trail. Fibian held his sword at the ready.
“Drop it, froskman, if you want your friend to live,” Knavish said, his yellow eyes narrowed.
Fibian hesitated, then dropped his blade. Cyrus cast around for a way out. The two wolves blocked the lone route off of the cliff. The surrounding mountainside denied all other possible escape. Cyrus clenched his teeth. The only other way off of the precipice was to jump.
“Want to find the Battle Hune?” Knavish asked.
The klops’ lipless mouth twisted into a gloating grin.
“I’ll show you the way.”
Chapter 3
AND YET SO FAR
THE MASSIVE WOLVES continued on into the night, the icy terrain impossibly cold. The light from Fibian’s glowing eyes reflected dully off of the surrounding snow. The largest of the pack led the caravan down the blustery mountainside. The black wolf’s hackles seemed always raised. Years of dried blood stained the silver fur of his wrinkled muzzle.
Knavish gripped Fibian’s loaded rifle as he followed the black beast’s plodding steps. Cyrus’ crossbow hung across his hunched back, and Fibian’s mechanical arm dangled from his belt. He kept Edward trapped within a leather coin purse hung around his neck.
Cyrus trailed the lieutenant, bound and packaged like cargo and slumped over a loping brown wolf’s back. Fibian brought up the rear, his body trussed and draped over a thin grey beast.
&nb
sp; Knavish had struck a deal with the hellhounds. He had promised them a mammoth each, whatever those were, for an escort down to the skog village, whatever that was. The wolves had not replied in words but immediately began to carry out their side of the bargain.
Cyrus wrestled against his bindings, trying to formulate some plan of escape. He wondered for the hundredth time if his people were still alive, or if the crumbling fossil that sustained them had vanished into the sea. Cyrus reflected on the last time he had seen its shores.
Several months earlier, Cyrus’ village had collapsed, and his brother had died in the destruction. The misguided villagers had blamed Cyrus’ trespass over the Dead Fence for the cause of the disaster and had sentenced him to death for bringing a curse down on their homes. If it were not for Sarah Heiler risking all to help Cyrus escape, he would surely have hanged. He owed her so much. She often invaded his thoughts. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened since his escape, but would she understand?
He had been forced to venture out to sea in search of a new land, a new home. Instead, he had discovered that an ancient evil known as the Sea Zombie had corrupted his people’s hearts and caused his village’s downfall. With Fibian and Edward’s help, Cyrus had fought and defeated the Sea Zombie, yet the immortal witch still lived.
Cyrus again thought of the prophecy. Was it truly his destiny to destroy the Sea Zombie and scatter her ashes across the ocean? How was he to kill something that could not be killed, and how was he to reunite hune and alve, and save his people’s soul?
Cyrus had won the fight, but not the war, so the trio had fled north in search of the mighty Yeti Kingdom. Cyrus had hoped that the wise yeti would have knowledge of the hune’s whereabouts. Instead, the three friends had stumbled across the crumbled remains of a fallen ice fortress and were taken prisoner by its few remaining survivors.
Cyrus learned that a mysterious queen had destroyed the Yeti Kingdom and enslaved most of its population. Any knowledge of the hune had vanished with the slaves into the mountains. He had also uncovered more of his alleged prophecy. Child Eater, the yeti had called him.
Cyrus had decided on a new course of action: find the queen, rescue the yeti, and discover the mysterious hune’s secret whereabouts.
With Tier’s guidance, the rescuers had infiltrated the klops mine and driven its slaves to rebel. Cyrus had nearly been destroyed in the upheaval. He had had no choice but to fulfill his dark fate. Child Eater, they had called him, and drinking infants’ blood is what he had done. The klops blood had granted Cyrus size and strength beyond his wildest imagination. With his newly forged flesh, he had easily overpowered General Morte, beating the large klops to a pulp, before cleaving the mighty queen’s head from her body.
Cyrus had killed a defenseless woman, Fibian had claimed. What he had done, there was no coming back from, the froskman had said. Well, to hell with Fibian and his blind morality. The queen had taken so much from the yeti, so much from Cyrus. Look what she had done to Edward. Without his fangs, the spider had become a mere shell of his former self. He would never be the same. Cyrus wished he could kill the queen one hundred times over. He could no longer trust Fibian’s judgment.
The freed slaves had discovered Knavish trying to escape the mine through a secret tunnel. The yeti had pressed the lieutenant and learned that the cave led to a klops legion armoring the living hune. Finally, Cyrus had had a clear goal to his quest. So how had he come so far only now to be outwitted by a filthy klops?
They continued their trek until morning’s first light. Frozen slopes gave way to tree-dappled hills. Then the sparse trees thickened into dense forest. Cyrus counted three massive skeletons laying along the snowy path. Large, hooked tusks protruded from the animals’ boulder-like skulls. Klops bones and the remains of smaller creatures also littered the trail.
The wolf pack led Knavish and his prisoners to a cave den inhabited by a mountain lion. The wolves made their presence known, growling low. The big cat hissed as it emerged from the darkened crack in the rock. It took in the strange intruders, then prepared to pounce.
Bang!
The lieutenant fired his weapon and the wolves feasted.
The strange group of eight rested in silence within the den for most of the day. The wolves laid Cyrus and Fibian on the ground, bound up, against opposing walls. Edward remained trapped around Knavish’s neck. The klops spent much of his time inspecting Fibian’s mechanical hand, seeming to want to understand the yeti technology at play.
The cave stank of frozen meat, bones and animal musk. Cyrus tried to cut his ropes against the rock wall, but the surface was too smooth. He eyed his saber sheathed in the lieutenant’s belt.
Dusk arrived. The wolves continued on. The clouds shifted with the rising moon, and for once the sky was clear. They mounted a forested ridge, then descended into a steep valley. Cyrus saw the moon reflect off a large body of water. An inlet. The ocean.
He spotted tiny, twinkling lights along the northern shoreline, clustered together like a swirl of stars. The village, he guessed. Then he saw two islands off-shore, in the center of the bay, domed and wooded and speckled with small pinpricks of firelight. Cyrus had seen similar islands once before, as he fled his crumbling home. The resemblance was undeniable. Cyrus felt hope mixed with defeat. Again, he strained against his bonds, his sorrow and frustration pouring over. He was so close to saving his doomed village, and yet so far.
“Come, Child Eater,” Knavish said, descending into the slumbering valley, “Your hune awaits.”
Chapter 4
WOLVES AT THE DOOR
THE WOLFISH PROCESSION neared the village lights. Several dark lookouts crouched high above in tall, snowy trees. The sentries whistled and hooted warning signals to one another. If the klops were attempting to impersonate wildlife, they were failing miserably, Cyrus thought.
The wolves carried their prisoners past a large, tusked skeleton harnessed to an old, broken-down cart. Snow buried both carriage and bone, and bits of frozen meat dangled from the thick ribcage.
They neared the village wall. Cyrus felt a strange otherness in his guts as if a new sense was awakening. A squad of nine klops stood lopsided and silent at the gates. Breath jetted out of their gilled necks in thick gusts of vapor. Torchlights reflected off the iron of their armor and the steel of their rifles. The black and silver wolf began to growl his low bubbling threat. Lieutenant Knavish stepped forward, his arms raised in surrender.
“I bring news from the mine,” he said, “and prisoners. I must speak with General Schlaue immediately.”
The squad leader, a large batalha with tattoos staining the left side of his face, motioned towards the captives. Four klops stepped out of line and approached the beasts. The pack wolves carrying Cyrus and Fibian began to bare their fangs. The klops hesitated.
“We had a deal,” Knavish said.
The big wolf glared at his underlings. Something unspoken passed between the animals. The smaller wolves started to pant, sitting on their hindquarters. The four guards continued their task. They wrestled Cyrus and Fibian off of the shaggy hounds’ backs. The klops stared at the froskman, confusion spreading across their crooked faces.
“The Queen’s brother,” Knavish explained.
“The Queen has a brother?” one of the klops replied.
“She sent you?” the squad leader asked.
“I will explain all to the General,” Knavish replied.
If only I could get my hands free, Cyrus thought, I would smash these fools.
The starved beasts again began to growl nervously, ridges of fur rising up their spines. The four klops dragged Cyrus and Fibian roughly past the remaining guards and through the gates. The tattooed batalha led the way with Knavish at his side.
“The dogs?” the squad leader asked.
“We’re done with the dogs,” Knavish replied.
The batalha whistled a sharp, hooking note. Four loud cracks echoed through the valley. A sickening dread filled C
yrus’ stomach. He felt the hairs on his body rise.
“NO, NO, NO!” a klops cried out from behind the gate.
Then came the sound of gnashing teeth, shredding flesh and crunching bones. A great howl rang out. Cyrus turned, wide-eyed. Fibian stared back, concerned but not afraid. The black and silver wolf emerged through the gate, his shoulder wounded and bloody. A severed grey arm dangled from his snarling mouth. The beast threw the limb aside and bounded towards Knavish. This was their chance.
“Rifles!” the squad leader ordered.
“Fibian!” Cyrus cried.
He barged his large frame into the lieutenant’s hunched back, knocking the klops to the snow. The big wolf leaped forward. The four guards raised their weapons. The guns rang out. Their aims were true. Four spats of red stained the wolf’s brow. The hellhound fell face first to the earth, his thick muzzle plowing up snow. Fibian’s lone arm was tied tight to his body. He spun and heel kicked the tattooed batalha in the ribs. The big klops folded. Cyrus reached down and grasped Knavish’s rifle in his bound hands.
“Nobody move,” he ordered, raising the weapon.
The squad leader picked himself up off of the ground and backhanded Fibian across the jaw. Then he aimed a pistol at the froskman’s head.
“Drop it,” the brute ordered, “or we find out what makes his eyes glow.”
Cyrus refocused his aim at the batalha’s tattooed face. Knavish rolled to his side in the snow. He held the coin purse in his three-fingered grip.
“Drop it,” he demanded, “or I crush your tiny friend.”
The klops stared at Knavish, confused. Cyrus peered around at the surrounding enemy. Fibian shook his head no.
“Put it down, young Master,” he said.
“Put it down, or you all die here and now,” Knavish added.
Rage and dread filled Cyrus’ chest. He lowered his rifle and tossed it to the cold earth. Knavish rose up and punched him in the stomach.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 37