Cyrus walked across the barren shell and climbed the crooked wooden stairs to the bridge deck above. His heart hammered in his chest. Fibian continued at his heels.
“It’s that white demon spider,” Knavish spat. “That’s how you did it. That’s how you control them. I should never have left you three alive.”
“Why, Admiral?” Cyrus asked, remaining composed. “It is Admiral now, right? We did what you wanted. The General’s dead. His fleet is no longer a threat. Only, you got a little more than you desired.”
The communications officers held dearly to their quivering pistols.
“I killed your runner because I didn’t need him,” Cyrus said, ignoring Sauer’s gun pointed at his head, “same as the gunners below. Do you want to know what happened to your guards manning the port side cannon? I didn’t need them either, but I need you five, as long as you make yourselves useful to me.”
He stared fixedly at each klops, his boldness rising. A black blodbad crawled across one of the smaller officers’ arms.
“Aaahh!”
The villain dropped his weapon and cowered back in terror. More spiders began to crawl over the bridge rails. The other two klops dropped their guns and raised their hands in surrender. Cyrus snatched the pistol from Sauer’s grip. The chief stood motionless; contempt smeared across his broad, blotchy face. Knavish glared at his bridge crew. Only Chief Sauer would meet his gaze.
“The ship, the explosion. A distraction,” the admiral sneered.
He looked Cyrus up and down. They were similarly sized. Knavish was small for a batalha, clever too.
“How may I serve you, Master?” Knavish asked, rising from his seat.
There was a suppressed disdain in the greasy klops’ tone.
“You can start by fetching my friend his arm,” Cyrus said, stowing Sauer’s pistol in his belt.
He clutched the hilt of his sword.
“If you no longer have it, your own will do.”
Chapter 15
NOT WHAT THEY SEEM
A RUNNER FLED to the barracks to retrieve Fibian’s mechanical arm. Cyrus stood on the bridge deck, trying to assess their predicament.
“We have much to discuss, Admiral,” he said, as he peered about the stark bridge.
He walked to the parapet and looked out over the vast sea beyond. He was taken aback by two large structures, bolted to the hune’s crown, like metal horns mounted to the giant’s head. The towers stood beyond the wall, at the cliff’s sloping edge, one at the bow’s port side shore and the other at the starboard. The strange twin towers were built of cable and steel and stood twice the height of the battlements. Metal cords ran from the woods, over the wall, to the tops of the structures, then down to what could only be Gabriel’s face. Small klops moved amongst the framework, silhouetted against the dawn sky.
“What are those…” Cyrus started to ask.
A strange shadow passed over the Battle Hune. Alarmed, Cyrus looked up into the sky. The shadows began to squawk and shriek. Then a flock of sickly black birds swooped down and skimmed the bridge’s roof.
A deep dread filled Cyrus’ system. He staggered backward, nearly losing his balance.
“Cyrus,” Edward cried, from Fibian’s shoulder.
Cyrus searched inside himself. The terror was not his own. Gabriel! Instinctively, he scoured the dark waters.
Night was giving way to day. Where the sky met the sea, there was a ragged line of dark ships on the horizon. An oily black vessel loomed at the head of the fleet.
“The Warrior Witch,” Fibian whispered, his eyes glowing bright.
“The Trollman,” Knavish said, grinning broadly.
Gabriel’s fright became Cyrus’ horror. He stepped from the parapet and grasped the hunch-backed batalha by the neck.
“Sound battle stations!” he demanded, glaring back at the signal officer. “If anyone steps out of line,” he said to Knavish, “it’ll be your head that rolls.”
“Alert the barracks!” Knavish ordered.
Chief Sauer grasped a black bow and two arrows from the corner of the bridge. The missiles were tipped with egg-sized spheres of wrapped goss. One after the other, the pale batalha touched the projectiles to a wall torch, then fired them high over the island.
POP! POP!
The salvo exploded above the trees, illuminating the dark forest in bright bursts of fizzling light.
“We go no further,” Cyrus demanded, mounting the battlements, “Heave to.”
The signal officer drew his torches from the metal drum and wielded them high overhead, first down the starboard line, then down the port side.
“HALT!” spotters cried, from the tops of the two steel towers.
Their voices were distant, muffled by sea and wind. Through a network of pulleys, the towers’ creaking cables grew taut.
Cyrus winced. Gabriel was in pain. The Battle Hune came to a slow, plodding stop. The bridge crew stumbled forward, metal and wood groaning beneath their feet. The forest’s trees swayed and the sea beyond the wall crashed and foamed against the shore.
The port side watch clung to a steel post and peered through his spyglass.
“The black ship is requesting parlay,” the officer reported.
Cyrus looked to Fibian. The froskman stared back, his expression grave.
“It’s a trap,” Edward said, scurrying across Fibian’s shoulders.
Cyrus sensed his mended jaw and the bones of his fused ankle. He stared down at his thick, calloused hands, gnarled and scarred.
“I accept,” he said to the signal officer.
He glared out to sea, towards the blockade. He had become the eater of dragons, the beheader of witches, and the slayer of queens. What had the crippled old lady become? Cyrus wanted to know.
***
THE DAWN SKY was grey and bleak. Wet slush rained from above. The three hijackers followed Knavish to the aft defenses, along the port side parapet. Chief Sauer and the communications officers remained on the fore wall, awaiting orders.
Knavish said that the aft shore was the only land low enough on the head fortress to receive a landing party. Cyrus took quiet inventory of the weapons, the crewmen and the quality of the defenses as he made his way to the stern.
He studied the port side tower and its heavy cables as he passed beneath the riggings. The steel cords crossed above the wall to a second, smaller tower within the hune’s defenses. Trees had been cleared at the edge of the forest, and in the middle of the clearing a massive wooden crank, like a ship’s wheel, had been mounted horizontally to a steel platform. The cables passed through a block-pulley chained to the platform’s base, then wound around the large spoked wheel. A team of klops waited nearby.
Sentries stared dumbfounded at their admiral and his escorts as they walked the length of the battlements. Cyrus stared at the cowardly klops with disdain. How was he to defeat the Sea Zombie with a crew so pathetic?
After their long trek they approached the aft bridge deck. The small bridge crew panicked and reached for their weapons.
“Stand down!” Knavish ordered.
The officers froze, staring about frightened and confused.
“Admiral?” a skinny communications officer asked.
“You will understand soon enough,” Knavish replied.
Cyrus pushed the klops aside and mounted the deck. The wooden structure was practically a mirror image of the fore bridge. Edward stood on Fibian’s shoulder, glaring at the quaking crew.
The fore bridge’s starboard lookout came running down the rampart.
“Your arm, Sir,” the small klops said.
The runner knelt before Fibian, his head bowed. He presented the froskman with his copper and leather limb.
“Thank you,” Fibian said, taking the arm.
Edward hissed low. The sniveling klops scurried backward. Fibian fit the contraption to his forearm, tightening the leather straps and pumping the metal lever. The cables quivered. The steel pincers snapped open, then shut.
A subtle grin spread across the froskman’s lean face.
Cyrus settled into the captain’s chair, his rifle by his side. He stared across the water at the tail fortress. He studied the shoreline, the woods, the steel defenses. Who was in charge beyond that wall? Was the crew aware of their new leader?
Knavish stood sullenly to Cyrus’ right. The meager bridge crew looked about, terrified, unsure of what to do next. The halfbreed blodbad skittered over the steel railings and dangled from the wooden beams.
Out to sea, the flock of ragged black birds enveloped the enemy fleet. A single strange longship broke off from the blockade. The waters grew calm with the coming morning. Under oar power, the vessel found shelter from the wind off the hune’s port side, between the two islands. Then a boarding party launched a small skiff from the ship, rowing towards the head fortress. Was Rorroh aboard that boat? Was that even possible? Cyrus had cut off her head and both hands…
“Alert the tail fortress and both lines,” Cyrus ordered. “Be on the lookout for a surprise attack. I want regular reports from each and every sentry post.”
The signal klops waved a single torch down the starboard wall, then two torches down the port side. Finally, he alerted the aft fortress.
“What is this?” a deep, angry klops voice cried.
Cyrus looked over his shoulder, towards the icy forest beyond. Ten batalha marched out of a snowy trail, armed with swords and rifles.
“I did not desert my Master for a coward leader,” a large batalha shouted, “and I will not serve a strangeling.”
“Deal with this,” Cyrus ordered, turning his back to observe the approaching landing party.
“Stand down, Sergeant Merke,” Knavish shouted, “Things are not what they seem. The Trollman approaches.”
The tall hunch-backed admiral pointed out to sea. The sergeant stared back confused, his underbite accentuating his dim expression.
“Have a look for yourself, Sergeant,” Fibian said, inviting the big klops up onto the bridge deck.
Merke lumbered towards the platform and mounted the stairs.
Cyrus rose from his chair and walked to the steel wall. He set his rifle against the waist-high parapet and beckoned the spotter for his scope. The creature quivered as he handed over the glass. Cyrus peered through the instrument and inspected the small rowboat as it approached. There were four shapes aboard the craft. One rower and three passengers. Sergeant Merke stepped onto the deck.
“How do we know that that is truly the Trollman?” the sergeant asked.
Cyrus handed back the spyglass.
“And why does that change anything?” Merke continued, aiming his rifle at Cyrus’ head.
“You asked what all this is,” Cyrus said, staring him straight in the uneven eyes. “This is a hijacking. You learn to serve strangelings, or you die.”
The batalha sneered and cocked his weapon. Cyrus nodded towards the rifle’s barrel. Merke glanced down at his gun. Three blodbad sat crouched on the barrel’s steel, ready to pounce.
“Ahh!”
Merke dropped the weapon. The rifle hit the deck.
Bang!
The bullet ricocheted off of the wall’s interior and buried itself in a wooden beam.
“Do you understand now?” Knavish asked, angered and annoyed.
The sergeant said nothing. He just searched his body for more of the black, hairy spiders.
Chapter 16
THE TROLLMAN APPROACHES
“SERGEANT MERKE,” Fibian said coolly, collecting the spent rifle off of the floor, “as long as you and your troop obey, your lives will be spared.”
Cyrus turned his back on the brute. There was no time for petty squabbling. The Sea Zombie approached.
The rowboat surfed the waves onto the hard, tiled beach. The moment the boat struck land, Cyrus felt Gabriel’s apprehension rise.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, trying to sooth the giant.
Gabriel’s fear enflamed his own sense of dread and unease. He fought to suppress the hune’s terror. Cyrus could show no weakness at a time like this.
A greenish-grey creature, as big as a batalha, leaped out of the boat and negotiated the barnacled shoreline. An iron sword hung across his broad back. His thickly muscled arms swelled as he hauled the craft ashore. The soldier’s skin was scaly and cracked like hard, calloused feet. His grotesque facial features were shrouded behind an iron helmet and braided white beard. A heavy fur vest covered his chest. Coarse hide britches warmed his legs.
“Rock klops,” Knavish sneered.
A tall, slender creature, dressed in silk and steel armor, stood at the bow of the skiff. The guard held a long, bladed staff and carried an air of menacing contempt. Beside him sat another of the burly, bearded rock klops.
A passenger cloaked in dark robes rose from the stern of the vessel. Cyrus recognized her movements immediately. Rorroh... Cold oil pooled in his guts. What was left of her beneath that cloak?
The large oarsman helped Rorroh slowly out of the boat. Then he escorted the frail-looking hag up the beach, towards the wall. The remaining two guards leaped out of the craft and took up positions at their master’s side.
Rorroh’s withered left hand dangled from her tattered sleeve. What witchcraft is this, Cyrus thought? He had cleaved that limb from her body months ago. She drew back her hood from her shrouded face. Cyrus’ body flushed with white-hot terror. There stood the Sea Zombie, emaciated and sneering. The oily, black eyes, the torn cheek, the wooden costume nose. It was as if their battle within the klappen fortress had never happened.
Fibian stepped towards Cyrus. Cyrus took a deep breath, mastering his nerves. You are the slayer of queens and the beheader of demons. He waved the froskman off. He was through being afraid. His enemies would now fear him.
“All hail the Warrior Witch!” the large oarsmen shouted, staring up at Cyrus, “ruler of the raging seas, giver of life, and dealer of death.”
“Clear this blockade, now, witch,” Cyrus ordered, his voice deep and true, “before I remove it from the sea like I removed your head.”
“Ssso, the boy has become a man,” Rorroh cooed.
Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Cyrus could just make out the coarse stitches holding her rotting head to her wasting body. How was any of this possible? She limped forward, shading her squinting eyes against the dull grey sky.
“I’ve never been one to put weight in propheciesss,” Rorroh continued, “Just fantasies and fairytales, if you ask me.”
“Fibian, Drache, the blodbad,” Cyrus replied, “all your sentinels surrounding Virkelot,” he grasped his rifle and rested the barrel over his shoulder. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to quash a fairytale.”
“Mere prison guards,” Rorroh countered, grinning at Fibian over Cyrus’ shoulder, “I only told the froskman of the prophecy to inspire a greater sssense of purpose and meaning in his lonely, petty task. There are so many prophecies floating about the sea, and each foolish tale contradicts the last.”
Cyrus fought the chill sliding up his spine.
“In one legend, a savior rises up from a weak and cowardly land to overthrow the Sea Zombie,” Rorroh continued. “In another, the chosen one sacrifices their very sssoul to overcome the Trollmann. There is even one that says a hero will rise up from a battered and broken land and rid the seas of the Vann Witch’s tyranny, but in doing so will become bitter and black-hearted, and will take her place among her hordes, haunting the oceans for all eternity.”
The Sea Zombie grinned broadly. The rip in her cheek exposed her decaying teeth and rotting gums.
“You can imagine my sssurprise when I learned that one of the prophecies was true, Child Eater.”
“Your lies won’t work here, witch,” Cyrus said, feigning boredom. “Your words are as twisted and toxic as your soul. If that is all you have to say, then be on your way.”
“We captured one of the traitor’s ships,” the tall, lean creature in the woven silk and steel armor interrupte
d.
His voice was a dry whisper. A sneering bearded mask decorated the molded metal of his faceplate. Sharp antlers adorned the crown of his helmet.
“Yesss, where are the yeti now?” Rorroh asked, leaning closer, “and what happened to the female froskman?” she said, looking fixedly at Fibian.
“The yeti are not your concern,” Cyrus replied, “and Moro is no more. I cut off her head, the same as I did yours, but she had the decency to stay dead.”
Rorroh began to cackle, pleasure seeming to flutter through her entire system.
“You have done well, Child Eater,” she said, “You have slain dragon, klappen, klopsss, and froskman. You have survived the sea and the north. I could use someone like you to help me defeat the Angel King. Join me. Claim your immortality. Rule the seasss by my side,” she offered up her rotted hand to Cyrus. “The spider, the froskman, your people, would all enjoy the protection of your position.”
Join her? What was Rorroh talking about?
“You would have me become like them?” Cyrus asked, gesturing to the cowering water klops. “Moro told me of what you did, the choice you offered the other hune alves, all those generations ago. Never.”
“You would not become like them,” Rorroh replied, “Not like them at all. Do not your ancient texts speak of the righteousss becoming Angels? If an alveling can become an Angel, why not a Demon?”
“Old wives’ tales,” Cyrus scoffed. “You bargain in bad faith, witch. Why would I want to become a lowly, sneaking Demon, hiding in the shadows?”
Rorroh’s hand clenched to a shaking fist.
“The only difference between Angels and Demonsss,” she shouted, “is that Angels murder their own by order of their King. Demons kill in self-defense, fighting their King’s oppression.”
“Angel has killed Angel?” Cyrus asked, incredulous.
“I alone did not rebel against the Angel King’s cruelty,” Rorroh sneered. “In war, soldiers die.”
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