Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Set a course to intercept,” Fibian ordered the helmsmen.

  Cyrus crossed back to the ship’s stern.

  “Get some rest,” he said to Fibian, climbing the quarterdeck.

  “Soon,” the froskman replied, straightening his back.

  “How many days has it been since you last slept?” Cyrus asked, “Since the yeti slave mine?”

  Fibian glanced at the enslaved klops.

  “I can handle them,” Cyrus said, ignoring the pain and fatigue. “You don’t have to watch over me.”

  Fibian hesitated.

  “If anything happens,” Edward said, “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Reluctantly, the froskman relinquished the quarterdeck.

  “It is good to have you back, Master Edward,” he said.

  Then he retreated somberly into the cabin below. Cyrus mounted the bridge deck and grasped the wheel, shoving the fat klops aside. The creature stared at Edward, huddled on Cyrus’ shoulder. Then the fiend spied the blue mark on the blodbad’s back. The klops started to quiver.

  “Saltfish and water,” Cyrus ordered.

  Relieved, the helmsman rushed down to the main deck.

  “Who are they?” Edward asked apprehensively, crawling within Cyrus’ collar.

  “It’s a big ship,” Cyrus replied, “We need all the help we can get. They’re what’s left of the crew.”

  Edward’s fur began to rise.

  ***

  THE DAY WORE ON and the sky grew darker still. Around dawn, Cyrus and his mismatched crew approached the smoking remains of a klops attack ship. Cyrus gave the sinking vessel a wide berth. The air smelled of fire powder and burnt tar. They passed the wreckage on their starboard side. The bow of the vessel appeared to have sustained significant cannon fire. The Battle Hune, Cyrus reckoned. All but the quarterdeck lay below the sea. Several grey bodies floated, bloated and distended, on the choppy surface.

  “Why do you drown?” Cyrus shouted, to his three captured crew. “You are water klops, bred for the sea.”

  The deckhands stared around at one another, waiting for the others to reply. Cyrus glared at the trio, his anger rising. The bald klops finally caved.

  “Been on land too long,” he said, his lopsided eyes shifting about nervously, “Gills are dried out. Need time to re-adjust. Batalha can never return.”

  The grey fiend stuck out his purple tongue and drew a knobbly thumb across his gilled neck.

  “More smoke up ahead,” Edward interrupted.

  The white spider sat crouched on Cyrus’ shoulder. He pointed southwest with one of his seven long legs. Again, Cyrus searched the sea, and again he found a slim ribbon of smoke on the horizon.

  “Slow us down,” he ordered, “Five degrees to port.”

  The hune was leaving them a trail of breadcrumbs, but if this was how Knavish’s crew welcomed armed pursuers, how would they greet a defenseless one?

  Chapter 11

  COLD BLOODED

  CYRUS’ CREW CONTINUED ON into the moonless night. Not a single star shone in the dark heavens. The wind was cold and strong, blowing in from the icy north. Cyrus stood at the ship’s tiller; his furry hood pulled over his thick mane. He listened to the sea wash and chop against the hull of the boat. The fatigued klops manned the lines. Like a distant dwindling candle, the burning wreck of a fifth attack ship smoldered in their wake. How many more vessels had they passed, Cyrus wondered? How many lay broken and dead at the bottom of the ocean? He continued to search the horizon for their next trail marker. All he saw before him was a black abyss. He was beginning to lose hope.

  “There,” Edward said, pointing southeast from within Cyrus’ collar.

  Cyrus scanned the sea. He spied off the port side bow the tiny twinkle of torchlights. There was something strange about the many lights. It was as if there was not one ship, but several. Had he come across the remains of Schlaue’s fleet sailing in formation? Cyrus thought not. He shifted course to intercept. Then he took a coil of rope and secured the tiller.

  “No lights,” he whispered to the crew, as he dashed down to the main deck, “If any of you so much as sneeze, I’ll cut out your fool tongues from your filthy mouths.”

  The three villains cowered away. Cyrus moved towards the captain’s quarters.

  “Fibian,” he said, opening the door.

  The chamber was dim. The froskman was awake, dressed in his furs.

  “I need you on the tiller,” Cyrus said.

  “What is it, young Master?” Fibian asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  With his lone arm, the froskman reached into a wooden chest and buckled a knife and sword to his waist. He picked up a second sword and dagger and threw both to Cyrus. Cyrus caught them mid-air, then slid them within his belt. Fibian collected two loaded rifles from a crate. He handed one to Cyrus, then stepped past him through the doorway.

  “No more recklessness,” the froskman said. “No more arrogance. You nearly blew up yourself and Master Edward. You must be clever if you are to defeat the Warrior Witch.”

  Cyrus grew angered. Who was Fibian to lecture him? They would be in league with a murderous slave queen if the froskman had had his way.

  “He’s right,” Edward whispered, from his collar, “We didn’t get this far on blind luck.”

  Cyrus glared at Fibian. The froskman mounted the bridge deck and grasped the wheel. Cyrus was about to slam the cabin door shut when he remembered the enemy was near. He took a deep breath, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and moved towards the ship’s bow.

  The lights were getting closer. He sensed something in his belly. The sensation was familiar.

  “What is it?” Edward asked, skittering across his back.

  “The Battle Hune,” Cyrus whispered.

  They had found their new home. As they grew closer, the torches in the distance formed a delicate string on the black sea.

  “Sentry posts,” Cyrus said, “They’re guarding the wall, searching for approaching ships.”

  “Why aren’t they attacking us?” Edward asked.

  “Too dark,” Cyrus replied, “They can’t see us yet.”

  “They’re not moving,” the blodbad whispered.

  “The hune’s not like a ship,” Cyrus said, “It’s been on the run day and night. It must need rest.”

  Cyrus walked back to the main deck.

  “Heave to,” he whispered to the three klops, “This ship goes no further. Launch the skiff.”

  The crewmen dropped sails, then moved towards the rowboat at the aft of the vessel. They unfastened the skiff, then drew on rope pulleys to lower the craft into the sea.

  Cyrus collected up a grappling hook and rope from the main deck. Then he motioned to Fibian. The froskman stepped from the quarterdeck.

  “Take Edward aboard the boat,” Cyrus whispered.

  He handed Fibian the blodbad and the grappling hook.

  “What are you planning?” the froskman replied, his expression stern.

  “We are taking that hune,” Cyrus said, equally as firm.

  Reluctantly, Fibian shouldered the hook and line, then mounted the port side rail. Cyrus watched as the froskman descended the rope ladder to the craft moored below.

  “Are you coming?” Edward called up.

  “Shhh,” Cyrus whispered, “Just be ready to push off.”

  Once Fibian was aboard, Cyrus turned to his crew.

  “Below deck,” he ordered.

  The klops froze.

  “Now,” Cyrus demanded, his square jaw held firm.

  The three fiends lowered their heads and skulked towards the hold’s door.

  “You will wait below until morning,” Cyrus said,” When you re-emerge, we will be gone, and the ship will be yours. Understand?”

  The three klops stared at each other, confused. Cyrus opened the hatch, then shoved the villains within.

  “Show your faces before morning’s first light,” he said, “and I’ll shoot them off.”


  He slammed the hold closed. His back twinged. He drew his dagger and drove it like a stake, hard into the doorframe, jamming the door shut. Then he entered the captain’s quarters.

  Within the shadowy chamber, Cyrus moved towards several barrels stacked against the port side aft corner of the room. He cracked open the first keg and poured a trail of fire powder from the stack to the bed of hay. He tossed the cask aside. Then he moved to the stove and grasped a smoldering log. He threw the log onto the hay bed. Thick smoke began to rise from the sod. Cyrus grasped two more daggers from an open crate. As he exited the room, he used one knife to spike the door shut; the other he sheathed within his belt.

  “What are you doing?” Fibian asked.

  The froskman crouched on the deck, beside the port side rail. Edward stared, confused, from his shoulder.

  “You’ll get back in that boat if you know what’s good for you,” Cyrus replied.

  He dashed to the rail and scrambled down the mesh rope. Fibian quickly followed. The rowboat bobbed and bumped below, against the hull of the ship. The three adventurers climbed aboard and pushed off to sea.

  “What was that all about?” Edward whispered.

  Cyrus slashed the mooring lines.

  “The sentries will spot our approach,” Fibian warned, “We will be blown from the water before we even step foot on the hune.”

  Cyrus ignored his companions and shifted to the center of the craft. He began to row southeast, distancing himself from the coming blast. He took care to mask their position, staying just beyond the glow of the wall’s torch lights.

  Reckless and arrogant? Cyrus thought. He would show Fibian and Edward what reckless and arrogant truly looked like. He would also show them how to take that hune.

  Chapter 12

  SOMETHING WAITS

  CYRUS, FIBIAN AND EDWARD coasted in silence off of the Battle Hune’s port side. Cyrus could just make out the island’s snowy silhouette in the inky night. He realized that there was not just one wall, but two. In front of them lay the giant’s head island, fortified by a relatively small perimeter wall. Two thousand yards off their starboard bow loomed the bulk of the hune’s shell. A much broader wall of steel defended the tail island. Cyrus decided to infiltrate the head fortress. That is where Knavish would be hiding. That is where he would be leading his crew. That is where Cyrus would take his revenge.

  He searched the sea for their doomed vessel. It drifted like a shadowy, ghost ship, several hundred yards off of their starboard. He saw Fibian and Edward exchange dubious glances. They did not trust him any more, but that did not matter. He did not need their trust. He would show them.

  Cyrus took the rope and grapple from Fibian and inspected the hook’s iron.

  “Brittle klops blacksmithing,” he murmured.

  He shoved deep the fear welling in his mind.

  “I don’t like this,” Edward growled, scurrying across Fibian’s shoulder. “What are we doing here? This is suicide.”

  A ridge of white fur rose up the spider’s back. Cyrus imagined the many cannons poking out of the fore and aft defenses. The two fortresses would be undermanned, he figured, he hoped. Cold sweat ran down his neck. He prayed his plan would work.

  Ka-booom!

  Off their starboard, a raging fireball erupted over the sea. The blast rose high into the sky, illuminating the damaged klops battleship below. Wood and debris rained down on the surrounding ocean. The aft of the vessel had suffered the same fate as General Schlaue’s ship, only worse. Fibian and Edward stared at the wreckage, dumbstruck. Then the froskman turned to Cyrus, appalled.

  “The klops. You locked them below deck?”

  “They would have given away our position,” Cyrus said, evenly. “They murdered yeti. It was the least they deserved.”

  “When you kill without honor,” Fibian countered, “it is yourself you disgrace.”

  Cyrus smirked. He could not hide his contempt any longer. Fibian had grown too old, too weak for this type of task.

  Cyrus spied movement on the hune’s fore and aft defenses. Shiny metallic forms moved off the walls. All attention now would be on the flaming ship. Cyrus’ senses prickled. He began to row with all his might for the head island.

  Boom!

  The Battle Hune’s aft fortress fired its first defensive round. The projectile came up short, striking the sea yards from the attack ship’s prow.

  Cyrus heaved with all of his might. His back ached, but they had to make landfall, and quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at the cliffs of the head fortress. He could see the wall clearly now. The cannons had yet to emerge from their wall hatches.

  “There’s something on the island,” Edward warned, “waiting for us.”

  Boom!

  Cyrus looked to his left. The second shot was a direct hit. It crashed through the bow of the ship’s hull. The vessel began to sink. There was no turning back.

  Cyrus, Fibian and Edward rode the rolling waves towards the steep shore of the head island. Cyrus stood at the rowboat’s bow and hurled the grappling hook up towards the icy plateau. The grapple clanged and clattered down the side of the giant’s head. If the hook failed, they would be dashed against the cliffside. It caught on a tiled crag.

  The waves smashed the landing craft against the island’s barnacled shell. Cyrus and Fibian leaped from the skiff, their rifles slung over their shoulders. They struck the cliff and clung to the twisting rope. The hook held. Thank the Angels!

  Hand over fist, Cyrus climbed the creaking, hemp rope. With one hand, Fibian effortlessly followed. Two-thirds of the way to the top, they reached the grappling hook’s point of purchase. The end of the line. Cyrus recalled the Himmel Horn and the cliffs of the klappen stronghold. He stuffed his gloves into his collar and gripped the naked tiles with his gnarled bare hands. The island’s frigid surface felt strong, somehow alive. Cyrus smelled something familiar, yet strange, like the scent of a childhood blanket, long forgotten.

  A bizarre sensation overcame him. He became racked with sorrow and sickness. He felt another mind, another soul. He sensed overwhelming dread and loneliness. The ancient spirit reached out and touched his heart, his soul. A deep heat filled his chest. The emotions shifted to bewilderment. Cyrus flooded with love and relief. The mind probed further. Cyrus found himself running through all the moments of his life, like skimming through a book. The other concentrated on the collapse of Cyrus’ village and the death of his brother. Then it skipped ahead to the klappen island and his battle with Rorroh. Finally, it sifted through his memories of Tier’s murder, his vengeful klops massacre, and his slaughter of Moro. The ailing spirit grew mournful and weary and drew away.

  “Gabriel…” Cyrus whispered.

  The living hune, Gabriel, was truly real.

  Cyrus fell out of his waking dream. Then he smelled the grimy salt of the wintry sea air. He looked about and found himself clinging to the cold, tiled cliffside of the hune’s crown. Thick tears ran down his face. The ocean washed and frothed below. Fibian scaled the cliff and rose up next to him.

  “We must move, young Master, “Fibian whispered.

  The froskman’s eyes were ablaze, searching Cyrus’ face. Cyrus looked to Edward, crouched on Fibian’s shoulder.

  “We don’t have time for this,” the blodbad said. “There’s danger near. I can feel it.”

  Cyrus clenched his teeth and rubbed the tears from his eyes. Humiliation turned to anger. He shook his head. Then he wrenched the grappling hook from the crag and climbed the remainder of the cliff.

  Cyrus crawled along on his belly and peered over the sloping precipice. The steel wall lay several yards ahead. Salt and ice stained the ground and tarnished the battlement’s grey exterior. The gun hatches remained closed.

  “We need to hurry,” Fibian whispered, creeping on his stomach next to Cyrus.

  Cyrus gathered up the hook and line. Then he and Fibian were on their feet, sprinting across the exposed expanse, praying the night would hide their intrusion
. The hatches began to creak open. No! The intruders reached the defenses and pressed their backs to its steel. Cyrus heard scraping, scrabbling sounds behind the wall.

  “I saw something,” he heard a wheezy klops voice whisper.

  “Better sound the alarm,” another replied.

  Curses! They were out of time. Cyrus’ plan would have to change.

  The two cannon hatches were mounted one above the other. Cyrus grasped Edward from Fibian’s shoulder and placed him within the lower hatch.

  “Stall them,” he demanded.

  Without hesitation, the seven-legged spider darted within. Cyrus then hurled the grappling hook over the wall.

  “Aaahh, get off, get it off!” the first klops voice cried.

  Fibian pounced upon the rope and flew cat-like over the barricade. Cyrus followed.

  “Nooo -”

  The second klops’ cries were cut short. Cyrus reached the top of the defenses. He climbed over the wall and dropped four feet down onto a wooden walkway. The walkway ran the entire length of the battlement’s interior. Fibian crouched over two unmoving figures on the ground below.

  Cyrus searched the defenses. The wall’s meager torchlights exposed the odd, shadowy form standing further down the ramparts. The guards were too far down the line to see or hear the intrusion. Cyrus suspected that more klops hid in the distance, below the walkway, manning the guns. To his left stood a small wooden platform, protected by a steel roof. Cyrus spied many similar sentry posts mounted along the parapets. Were there more klops hidden within those guard towers?

  He ducked into the overlook and descended a wooden stairway to the earth below. He arrived on a platform of cold, hard steel. Heavy bolts secured the wall’s base to the island’s tiled surface.

  The two klops lay motionless on the ground. The dead sentry had a bloody knife wound in his back. The one still breathing bled from a ragged gash on his forehead. Small bite marks scarred his neck. A pair of fallen torches burned on the ground beside the pair.

  Cyrus looked to Fibian. The froskman stood near the cannon, his rifle at the ready. Edward crouched on his shoulder. Purple blood stained the blodbad’s mouth. Edward had lost his poisonous fangs, but he could still bite.