Edward could not help them now, Cyrus knew. The tiny spider would be washed overboard if he tried.
Boom!
The hune continued its relentless barrage of cannon fire against the pursuing fleet. A smaller attack ship began to overtake Schlaue’s vessel on its starboard side. Lightning flashed from the heavens. It struck the smaller ship’s riggings. The mainmast splintered like split firewood and the wind carried off the vessel’s mainsail. The ship fell dead in the water. The crippled craft began to veer off course, obstructing Schlaue’s vessel’s path.
“No!” Cyrus cried.
The ocean started to smash against the broken boat’s starboard hull, rolling the vessel to port. Crashing waves washed crewmen overboard as the listing craft began to take on water. It started to break up amidst the angry sea. Schlaue’s ship attempted to course correct, but if the helmsman tacked too hard, he risked the same fate as the sinking vessel before them.
“Brace yourself,” Fibian shouted, over the screaming wind.
Cyrus closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Another wall of frigid ocean crashed over the bowsprit. Both prisoners were plunged beneath the sea.
Crack!
Underwater, the bowsprit struck something hard. Popping, splintering, grating noises filled Cyrus’ pointed ears. His bones vibrated and his teeth jolted within their sockets. They were colliding with the sinking ship. Cyrus and Fibian would be crushed!
Cyrus fought the urge to cry out. He needed all the air in his chest that he could manage. His bindings became impossibly tight, forcing all the oxygen from his lungs. He watched helplessly as precious breath bubbled from his lips. He felt the ropes begin to cut him in two. No! Something pierced deep into his back. He tried to scream, but his breath was spent. Then suddenly,
POP!
He was free. Something large and crusted struck him in the side. His pierced back stiffened and seared. The large object pushed past him like a charging bull. Cyrus bumped and grated along what could only be the ship’s barnacled hull. The pain was too much. Cyrus began to grow dizzy. Then the abuse stopped, and once again he was free, drifting alone, untethered. He opened his eyes and peered about. All was bitter and black. Cyrus’ body filled with panic and anxiety. His stiff back stung. He needed air, but which way was up? Cyrus kicked and clawed at the sea. His furs were the only thing sustaining his body heat, but they were like lead weights wrapped around his bulky frame. Cyrus’ limbs grew exhausted. His thoughts began to fade. Tiny stars started to swirl in his vision, like dying fireflies.
Two glowing blue spheres appeared out of nowhere in the murk. Cyrus sensed a strong hand grip his collar. Then he felt himself dragged through the icy gloom. Finally, he broke the surface, gasping for air. Fibian held him up under the armpits with his good arm.
“You have a large splinter in your back,” the froskman said, “We must get you out of the water.”
Cyrus coughed and sputtered, sucking in the wintry night air. His consciousness returned to him in fragments. His lungs were raw and his chest was weak. The words, “A large splinter in your back” repeated in his groggy mind. He felt around his back for the shaft of wood, but could not reach the wound. Cold and shock began to numb the pain.
Cyrus spotted Schlaue’s ship, rising above them on a massive wave, leaving them in its wake. He could not assess the vessel’s total damage, but the boat was still seaworthy. He suspected that only the bowsprit was lost, destroyed in an underwater collision with the lightning-struck ship. Schlaue would have lost several jibs, but his craft would continue on.
“Edward!” Cyrus gasped, his voice hoarse, “He’s still aboard.”
The sinking attack ship passed near. The ocean filled with the boat’s crew.
“Master Cyrus,” Fibian replied, “quickly.”
Cyrus looked around. Another ship bore down on them. It cleaved the back of a frothing wave, then started to course correct to avoid the sinking vessel’s remains. Fibian kicked towards the boat with his powerful legs. The swimming klops began to follow. The froskman pressed through the vessel’s wake. Cyrus reached out and grabbed the netting hanging from the attack ship’s rail.
Boom!
Cannon fire whistled overhead. Cyrus shook the fog from his mind. The net was slick with sea moss and barnacles crusted the hull. Cyrus and Fibian pulled themselves out of the clinging sea. They rocked and crashed against the side of the craft. Cyrus’ wet furs felt like a coat of bricks. He looked over at Fibian. The froskman too still wore his black bear furs, but his webbed feet were bare. He had been forced to abandon his boots in the ocean.
The shipwrecked water klops drew near, desperately swimming through the rough waters. Fibian motioned upwards. Cyrus ignored the stinging pain in his back and climbed with fearful purpose. If the stranded crew boarded the boat, Cyrus and Fibian would be prisoners once more. That was not going to happen.
Even with his lone arm, Fibian reached the ship’s railing first. Cyrus clambered up beside him, his limbs still weak. They had to find a way to cut the netting loose. Both peered over the rail. A large, armored batalha stood on the quarterdeck, shouting orders to his crew. A small klops manned the tiller. Four deckhands ran about the main deck, managing the ship's sails. A sword hung from the captain’s hip.
Cyrus took a desperate breath. How were they going to overpower the crew? If only he could get that sword. He looked to the door at the base of the quarterdeck. How many klops hid below deck, he wondered?
“Master Cyrus!”
Fibian’s warbled voice barely reached his ears amongst the clawing wind. The froskman nodded towards the sea. Cyrus looked below. His nerves spiked. Several of the shipwrecked klops clung to the netting beneath. One grasped Cyrus by his bearskin boot. The fiend snarled, enraged, his gilled neck flaring. He clenched a blade within his tiny, pointed teeth. The klops grasped the knife and stabbed at Cyrus’ calf. Cyrus pulled his leg upward. The creature missed, burying his dagger deep into the side of the hull. Cyrus kicked down with all of his might and struck the villain’s nose. The klops’ misshapen face exploded in purple blood. The creature fell backward, knocking several crewmen with him into the sea.
Cyrus reached down and wrenched the blade from the hull. Fibian mounted the deck. Cyrus passed the froskman the knife, then hoisted himself over the ledge. Fibian began to cut the netting from the rail. The ropes were thick, but the froskman was strong. He slashed the lines away like unwanted vines. The climbing klops shrieked as they fell to the raging sea below. Two hangers-on still clung to the edge of the ship. Cyrus’ mind became quick with desperation. He planted his feet and unleashed two hip rolling hooks. Both klops were cast back into the freezing ocean. Cyrus searched the dark waters beyond. The foundering villains gurgled and sputtered, struggling to keep their heads above the waves. Many vanished below the surface, fighting for breath. But klops breathe water, Cyrus thought. So why were they drowning?
The pain in his back surged. He fell to one knee. The water from his furs rained down at his feet. Cyrus grasped the railing and pulled himself back up. He heard a deep, guttural roar above the wind. He turned. The captain drew his sword and shouted to his crew. Cyrus needed more time!
“Do not move,” Fibian cried, stabbing his knife into the ship’s rail.
The froskman put his shoulder to Cyrus’ back. Cyrus felt Fibian grasp the painful splinter in his ribs. He cringed and held dearly to the handrail.
“Do it,” he shouted, snow and seaspray stinging his face.
With his lone hand, Fibian wrenched a bloody, foot-long stake from Cyrus’ back. Relief and agonizing pain filled Cyrus’ system. His mind grew light. Again, he fell to one knee.
The four deckhands converged on the intruders. Fibian hurled the bloody stake at the first crewman. The spike pierced the klops’ heart. The second villain drew a pistol.
“Fibian!”
Bang!
The froskman ducked the bullet. Then he lunged forward, kicking the klops hard in the throat. The scoundrel f
lew backward, dropping his weapon and crashing into the foremast. He clutched his neck and writhed on the ground as he choked to death on his crushed windpipe. Fibian grasped the fallen pistol and engaged the remaining two fiends.
The large, powerful captain lumbered towards Cyrus, sword in hand. He growled like a charging bear as he swung his blade high overhead. Cyrus ripped Fibian’s blade from the railing. He forced all pain and fatigue from his mind. Under the weight of his heavy furs, he sprang forward, beneath the batalha’s chopping blow. He crashed into the captain’s waist and tackled him hard to the deck. The batalha’s sword went flying. Fear fed Cyrus’ rage. He pushed past the klops’ tree trunk legs and straddled his armored chest. Then he raised his knife high into the air. The captain bucked and threw Cyrus forward. Cyrus posted on his hands and kept his base. The dagger fell from his grip. The captain rolled and struggled to gain the advantage. Cyrus wrestled him down. The batalha grasped the fallen blade and stabbed at Cyrus’ chest. Cyrus caught the klops’ wrist and twisted.
“Gaaaah!” the batalha cried.
The weapon tumbled from the brute’s broken grip. The captain clawed at Cyrus’ face with his good hand. Cyrus forced the batalha’s thick arm aside and clutched the villain’s head by his long, greasy mane. Cyrus gritted his teeth as he smashed the klops’ skull hard into the floor. He thought of Tier. His rage took hold. He bounced the beast’s cranium two, three, four, five times off the moldy deck boards. The klops gurgled blood, then grew limp.
Cyrus rose up and towered over the dead captain. He glared at the helmsman. The smaller klops shook with fear, his face more white than grey. The door below the quarterdeck banged open and three common-class klops emerged from the hold. They looked to Fibian. The froskman clutched a bloody pistol and brooded over four dead crew. They turned to Cyrus. The Child Eater reached down and gripped the captain by his collar and britches. Cyrus snarled as he hoisted the burly brute high overhead. His bloody back spasmed. He ignored the pain and hurled the beast into the sea. The big batalha struck the waves and sank below the surface under the burden of his heavy armor. Cyrus’ legs wobbled. His head grew dazed. He grasped the ship’s railing and took a deep breath. His mind began to clear. He picked the captain’s sword up off the deck and rounded on the three newcomers.
“You have two choices,” Cyrus shouted at the cowering crew.
He drew himself up to his full height and converged on the klops.
“Bow down, or die.”
Chapter 7
RUNNING DARK
CYRUS STOOD AT THE RAIL of the quarterdeck, glaring ahead.
“Southeast,” he shouted to the helmsmen, “We must intercept Schlaue’s ship.”
They had to rescue Edward. The general’s vessel was still within their reach, but the Battle Hune was pulling away in the storm. Cyrus could barely see the island fortress before them on the dark horizon. He searched his senses. Whatever connection he had had with the giant was gone. The hune’s capture would have to wait.
Fibian stood poised on the main deck, guarding the three klops as they managed the lines. Waves battered the prow of the ship. The sea washed over their feet.
Cyrus’ furs were soaked through, but they still held in enough heat to fend off the cold sickness for now. His injured back throbbed, yet he could already feel his body heal at its new, uncanny rate. Thank the Angels for that, he thought.
Several attack ships began to overtake them on their starboard and port sides. Cyrus wore what klops armor he could find to disguise his true nature. Fibian did likewise, removing armor and boots from two of his victims. Both imposters pulled their thick hoods over their heads.
Cyrus’ ship began to lose ground behind General Schlaue’s hobbled craft. How? Cyrus looked up into his boat’s riggings. The fore- and mainsails were half-shredded. Cannon fire from the hune.
“Curses,” Cyrus shouted, “Replace both those sails now!” he said to the klops.
Fibian ordered the three deckhands into the hold. Crewmen from the surrounding ships began to raise signal flags.
“What are they doing?” Cyrus shouted.
“They’re asking if we’re still in the hunt,” the helmsman replied, trembling.
Cyrus moved to the tiller and shoved the klops aside.
“Signal the ships we’re fine,” he said, “If any try to board us, you’ll be the first I kill.”
The helmsman bowed low, then rushed down to the main deck. Fibian and the three deckhands emerged from the hold. One at a time they loosed lines and dropped the two damaged sails. The ship began to lose power. It fell behind the fleet. Cyrus fought to control the vessel's course, struggling to keep the prow turned into the waves. Water started to crash over the starboard rail. The ship began to list.
“Move, you greasy frogs,” Cyrus cried, “or I’ll gut you and leave you for the fish!”
The klops finally replaced the shredded sheets, then set the sails. The ship regained full wind power, but the sea had the leverage now. Cyrus fought the tiller and shouted orders. Fibian and the four klops wrestled lines as waves crashed over the ship’s starboard. A large swell broadsided the boat. Seawater scoured the main deck. Fibian and the four klops clung to the fore- and mainmasts. The sucking sea dragged at their legs. The helmsmen lost his grip on the boat and the rushing water carried him pitching towards the ship’s port side. He struck the gunwale hard, then tumbled overboard. The thrashing wind devoured his desperate cries as he fell to the churning ocean.
Slowly, Cyrus nosed his prow back into the raging waves and regained control of his ship. He tried to relax his injured back. He looked to Fibian, then to the three remaining klops. All appeared whole. He glared ahead. Again, he sighted Schlaue’s vessel to the southeast. He set his course. Edward, still be alive.
Cyrus had lost complete sight of the hune. The fog began to swallow Schlaue’s ship whole.
“Jettison the cannons and anything else not tied down,” Cyrus cried, battling the tiller.
Once more Fibian ordered the three klops below deck. The deckhands began to emerge from the hold, carrying smaller gauge cannons. One at a time, they tilted the artillery over the side of the ship. Once they had scrapped all eight guns, they started to heave barrels of fire powder and other assorted cargo overboard.
“The landing craft,” Fibian shouted, gesturing to the skiff fixed to the quarterdeck.
“We’ll keep the landing craft,” Cyrus replied,” and save some of the fire powder and guns.”
Their vessel began to gain ground. The storm grew slack. Lanterns started to glow at the fore and aft of Schlaue’s boat. The general was losing his way in the thickening fog.
“No torches,” Cyrus whispered, “We run dark.”
Cyrus stalked the hamstrung craft into the murky haze. Schlaue began to lag behind his fleet, blind to what followed.
“I have you now,” Cyrus whispered.
Then the Child Eater trimmed his sails and moved in for the kill.
Chapter 8
SABOTAGE
FOR NEARLY AN HOUR, Cyrus stalked the enemy craft deep into the fog. If not for Schlaue’s oil lanterns, it would have been impossible to track the general’s attack ship.
The night was waning. It would be dusk soon. Was there enough time to rescue Edward? Would the fog cover hold? Cyrus finally drew within two ship-lengths of his wounded prey.
The storm passed, the snow ebbed, and the sea settled to a thick chop. Cyrus eased his vessel in behind Schlaue’s aft.
“Young Master,” Fibian whispered, climbing the steps of the quarterdeck, “This plan is foolhardy.”
Cyrus ignored the froskman’s warning.
“At least let me be the one to retrieve Master Edward,” Fibian continued.
“Bring us right up on her stern,” Cyrus said, “If we’re spotted, do what you must.”
“But Master,” the froskman replied, taking the wheel, “you know I am better suited to the task.”
He gestured to Cyrus’ wounded back.
“Not this time,” Cyrus said, making his way down to the main deck.
His nerves were quivering with fear and anticipation. He grasped a keg of fire powder, a length of rope, and a grappling hook. Then he marched towards the bow. The enemy vessel cruised ahead, shrouded behind a thick curtain of fog. Through the haze, Cyrus saw what looked like a light glowing dully within the stern windows of the captain’s quarters.
He had thought much about how best to infiltrate Schlaue’s ship and where Edward would most likely be hiding. Cyrus needed to board the boat somewhere secluded, somewhere unseen. Edward, he thought, would be hiding somewhere warm, somewhere sheltered, and with little traffic. Schlaue would be on the hunt, leading his crew from the quarterdeck. Any klops not managing the lines would likely be asleep in the hold, or busy repairing the bowsprit. Cyrus prayed he knew what he was doing.
With the dead captain’s sword sheathed to his hip, Cyrus tied one end of his rope around his waist, then secured the other end to the barrel of fire powder. The three klops watched bewildered as he mounted the bow-rail and grasped the riggings. Schlaue’s vessel loomed several yards off their prow. Cyrus waved Fibian in closer. Any drastic change in course on the enemy’s part would be catastrophic. Cyrus focused his mind. Then he readied the grappling hook.
“Wait,” Fibian whispered.
Cyrus turned. The froskman stood at the rail.
“Who’s manning the tiller?” Cyrus asked, angered and nervous.
He looked to the quarterdeck. The fattest of the three klops helmed the wheel.
“At least take these,” Fibian said, offering Cyrus two loaded pistols.
Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 39