Cyrus LongBones Box Set

by Jeremy Mathiesen

  “Do you enjoy being out in the rain, Landman?” Cyrus asked, letting his anger show.

  Farmer Landman looked back at his four alve companions and gave them a knowing grin. All wore similar dunklewood nut charms.

  “I remember a time when you was about yay big,” the farmer said, holding his hand up to his chest. “You came running through town, crying like a wee baby cause your mama had spanked ya for being a useless bastard. So cute you was. That was about a year ago, I reckon.”

  Landman’s four cohorts chuckled. The laboring klops froze.

  Cyrus considered beating the old man’s red face purple, but Sarah was there. Yet if he let the insubordination stand…

  “I asked, do you enjoy being out in the rain?” Cyrus repeated. “Do you enjoy starving? Do you enjoy freezing at night?”

  “Is that a threat, StrangeBones?” Landman asked.

  “Do you enjoy your children being out in the rain, cold and hungry?” Cyrus continued, squaring up to the old fool.

  He stood toe to toe with Landman. At his full height, farmer Landman barely reached Cyrus’ shoulder. Cyrus glared straight into the old man’s grey eyes. Landman wavered. Cyrus looked scornfully at the ax in his shaking hands.

  “Because that’s what’s going to continue if you don't get to work,” Cyrus growled. “This land will grow our food, and its lumber will build our homes, but only if you work it!”

  “We’re happy to work,” Landman shouted, his fear and anger pouring over, “but not alongside them!”

  Hate and rage quivered in the old farmer’s limbs as he pointed at the klops.

  “Not alongside beasts and demons! No matter what you do, we won’t work with those abominations.”

  The klops’ bulbous eyes grew fierce, and their slit nostrils flared. Cyrus grabbed Landman by his sodden jacket and ripped the ax from his grip.

  “Then you can dig their dung holes,” he shouted, spit flying from his lips.

  He threw the old man to the muddy earth.

  “Same as the rest of you,” he hollered at the other four.

  Two of the farmers, the Tiller twins, mumbled curses as they glared sideways at Cyrus.

  “Ain’t how you treat your own kind,” bow-legged Mr. Aker murmured.

  Then he and the skinny farmer, Landwirt, helped Landman up off of the ground.

  Cyrus watched with frustration and rage as the five alves retreated bitterly down the muddy path. Did they not understand what he was trying to do? Did they not realize what was at stake?

  He turned towards Sarah and Hoblkalf, crowded under the canvas canopy beside Llysa and Lars. The four alves stood frozen with apprehension. Cyrus sighed heavily. He threw the ax to the earth.

  “Back to work,” he ordered the four klops.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Hoblkalf ordered his son forward.

  “May I give you a word of advice, from one mayor to another?” Hoblkalf asked, sat in his son’s arms.

  “No!” Cyrus barked.

  Both father and son swallowed hard. Fibian and Knavish emerged from the woods.

  “Master Cyrus, the town planning will have to wait,” Fibian said. “The Admiral and I have been assessing the Battle Hune’s defenses. The wall’s exterior is complete, and the battlements will repel a large-scale assault, but only if we can relieve gun teams and keep supply chains open. If either factor is compromised, we will need an immediate fallback plan.”

  “We need to build a secondary wall right here,” Knavish said, gesturing with his webbed hands to the surrounding clearing. “It will have to be large enough to defend the fifty klops and the hundred-and-eighty alves occupying the tail fortress.”

  Hoblkalf opened his wide, codfish mouth to speak.

  “What did you have in mind?” Cyrus asked, interrupting the old man.

  “If the wall is overrun,” Fibian said, “we open the hatchways.”

  “But that will only let the enemy in faster,” Hoblkalf blurted.

  “It will create pinch points, narrowing our soldiers’ focus of attack, and allow others to retreat,” Fibian explained. “We will also have to sabotage any abandoned artillery. The cannons cannot fall into enemy hands.”

  “We will need lines of retreat defined, drilled and boobytrapped,” Knavish added.

  “Agreed,” Cyrus said, soberly, “Instruct the batalha on your plans, then have them train the klops and alvelings alike.”

  “Perhaps the villagers would appreciate instructions from one such as yourself?” Hoblkalf interjected. “It may go far in soothing any possible misgivings.”

  “I don’t care about their misgivings,” Cyrus snarled. “If they want to live, they’ll do what they’re told. Now stop your petty scheming and build me that wall.”

  Lars stumbled backward, nearly dropping his father.

  “There’s no need for that tone,” the mayor protested.

  “Enough politics, enough talk,” Cyrus demanded. “We need to start operating like a steam-powered war machine if we’re going to survive what’s coming.”

  Knavish snorted his approval.

  “The mayor may have a point,” Fibian countered. “There have been whispers of foul play and rebellion amongst the newcomers.”

  “Let them gossip and plot,” Cyrus said, nodding in the direction of the five farmers. “In the end, they’ll do what they’re told. They’re as cowardly as the klops they despise.”

  “These are your own people you speak of,” Hoblkalf argued.

  “These people are nothing like me,” Cyrus said, turning his back on the group. “Not any more.”

  ***

  SARAH WATCHED MOURNFULLY as the young man she had once rescued withdrew menacingly into the dark and dreary forest.

  “Don’t ever trust that boy,” Llysa whispered. “He was no good the moment he passed into this world and any kindness I ever showed him only made him worse.”

  Sarah looked to the muddy ax Cyrus had tossed. Could he again be saved?

  Chapter 24

  BLIND LOYALTY

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING the clouds cleared, the moon shone bright, and sheets of silvery stars speckled the heavens above. Cyrus, Fibian, and Knavish toiled alongside clammy klops felling trees and milling lumber and gusting alves digging holes and erecting foundation beams. The racket of hammer and ax work echoed throughout the forest, as creeping black spiders huddled in the dark shadows, guarding the wall’s progress.

  “We should give the workers a rest,” Edward said, crouched on Cyrus’ shoulder.

  The snow-white blodbad was flanked by his three guards.

  “Once the last post is secured,” Cyrus replied, testing the base of a thick beam.

  “The Warrior Witch could attack at any moment,” Knavish added.

  “But the villagers will be unfit for battle if they are fatigued,” Fibian argued, pumping the lever on his mechanical hand.

  “Another hour,” Cyrus said. “They can rest after that.”

  “Help! Help!”

  Lars Hoblkalf came running from the woods, brandishing a torch.

  “Come quick, Cyrus,” the mayor’s son shouted, sweat streaming down his red face. “It’s Sarah.”

  Cyrus’ stomach rolled.

  “What is wrong?” Fibian asked.

  “It was those creatures,” Lars said, pointing at Knavish. “She’s hurt.”

  Cyrus snatched up his rifle from a freshly-cut tree stump and began to run.

  “You won’t need that,” Lars said.

  “Just go!” Cyrus demanded.

  The aging alve turned and led Cyrus southeast along a narrow footpath. Fibian and Knavish followed.

  They twisted and turned down the overgrown trail, doing their best to avoid the barbed creepers snatching at their boots. Overhead, the forest’s canopy became tangled and thick. The air grew still and cool. Only Lars’ fire and Fibian’s eyes lit their way.

  “What’s Sarah doing all the way down here?” Cyrus asked, breathlessly.

  Lar
s did not reply.

  They arrived at a small clearing. In the dim blue and orange glow of fire and eyes, Cyrus saw a body in a grey dress lying still on the earth.

  “Cyrus!” Edward hissed, from his shoulder.

  “Sarah!” Cyrus shouted.

  He ran to her side. She lay face down on the earth, her head a mass of white hair. He grasped her arm.

  “No!” Edward cried.

  Bang! Bang! Crack!

  Three rifle shots flashed in the night. Cyrus looked up. Knavish fell. Fibian stumbled back, grasping his bloody neck.

  “Ambush!” Edward yelled.

  The body on the ground rolled over.

  “What in Kingdom?”

  It was farmer Landman wearing a woman’s wig. The bitter old man smiled a weed-stained grin. Then he pressed a pistol to Cyrus’ belly.

  Bang!

  Cyrus felt the wind knocked from his lungs. He fell backward, shocked and terrified. Edward and his guard leaped at the old man. Edward clawed at Landman’s eyes. The other blodbad scurried away like frightened roaches. Cyrus grasped his guts as they spasmed in agony. Was he going to die? He felt his body grow cold with shock. Landman swept the snow-white spider from his face and reached to reload his weapon. Desperately, Cyrus grasped for his fallen rifle.

  “NO!”

  Bang!

  The farmer fell back dead. Cyrus tried to rise, fumbling to reload.

  “They are gone, do not move,” Fibian said, rushing to his side. “How bad is it?”

  “They shot me,” Cyrus wheezed.

  Edward leaped off the dead farmer and climbed onto Cyrus.

  “Please,” the spider begged, “you can’t die. I tried to warn you.”

  Edward’s words sounded garbled as if he had a swollen tongue.

  “He has drunk klops blood,” Fibian said, his eyes ablaze. “If we can stop the bleeding, he may live.”

  “Your neck!” Edward gasped.

  Fibian pulled his webbed hand from his throat and pressed it to Cyrus’ stomach.

  “Merely a graze,” he said.

  The ragged hole was far worse than a graze, but the froskman’s system had already halted the bleeding.

  Cringing, Cyrus rolled to his side. He saw Knavish sprawled out on the ground. Warm, thick blood pooled around the admiral’s ruined head. Cyrus’ fear turned to fury. He had wanted the hunchback dead, but not like this.

  “Assasins,” he grunted, again attempting to rise. “They think they can do this to me? Where did they go?”

  “Ran off with Lars,” Edward replied, “but what came over the halfbreeds?”

  Fibian pulled a string of nuts from Landman’s wrist.

  “Whichever breed Moro crossed with the blodbad must have an aversion to roasted dunklewood nuts,” he said, hefting the charm in his mechanical hand. “It seems that at least some of our villagers have discovered that fact.”

  “If the klops find out…” Edward whispered.

  “This was Llysa and Hoblkalf,” Cyrus snarled, rising to one knee. “They’ll pay for this.”

  He pressed his furs to his wound.

  “We must tread carefully, young Master,” Fibian said, concern creasing his gaunt face, “or the whole island may turn on us.”

  “Let them try,” Cyrus said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll throw them to Mor Hav where they belong.”

  “Are we here to save or destroy?” the froskman asked. “Their minds have been poisoned. They are ignorant of the truth. Why would you expect blind loyalty?”

  “Because I risked everything for them,” Cyrus shouted, ignoring the piercing pain in his belly. “I, the one they tried to hang, saved their lives. They should be grateful! They should do what they’re told!”

  “But they do not trust you,” Fibian said, exasperated.

  “Then they will learn the consequences,” Cyrus said, darkly.

  He staggered to his feet and grasped Landman by the leg.

  “Get me Lars, Landwirt, and the rest of those filthy farmers,” he ordered, as he dragged the lifeless corpse back down the path.

  “What do you plan to do with them?” Edward asked.

  Cyrus did not answer.

  Chapter 25

  THAT WHICH YOU DESPISE

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Cyrus stood on a freshly cut stump in the middle of the worksite. The sun was low, masked by a thin layer of fog, and the scent of death hung in the cool dawn air. Several klops and many alves stood before him in two separate groups. At his feet lay a body draped in a stained blanket. Cyrus’ woolen top was torn and soiled with dark blood. A trickle of crimson had dried on his cracked lips. His head hung low from his wide-set shoulders, and his long, wet mane shadowed his brooding grimace. Edward hid within his sweat-stained collar. Children stared up at him as if he were a ghost. He gripped a coarse noose in one hand and held a loaded rifle in the other.

  “Lars Hoblkalf and at least three other conspirators attempted to murder Corporal Fibian and myself last night,” Cyrus shouted. “They succeeded in their attempt on Admiral Knavish.”

  Villagers gasped, klops sneered, and two batalha roared.

  “Impossible,” Mayor Hoblkalf blurted, cradled in the arms of a large, bearded alve.

  Llysa LongBones stood directly behind the old man, whispering.

  “These crimes will not go unpunished,” Cyrus shouted, blood and spit flying from his mouth.

  Lars Hoblkalf and four shabby farmers came stumbling out of the foggy woods. Behind them, Fibian, armed with a pistol, and a tattooed batalha, brandishing two broadswords, pushed them into the clearing. There was a fresh scar on the left side of the froskman’s neck. The prisoners had their wrists bound behind their backs and looked as if they had spent the night sleeping rough in the forest.

  “What is this?” Mayor Hoblkalf asked, with theatrical outrage.

  “Trial and execution,” Cyrus replied.

  “What proof do you have?” Llysa shouted, crouched behind the mayor.

  “If my word is not enough…” Cyrus raged.

  He tore open the front of his woolen top, exposing his broad chest and muscled stomach. Children shrieked, and adults reeled. A ragged, black pit marred the right side of his belly. The wound was mending, and his body had pushed the bullet out in the night, but the attempt on Cyrus’ life was still clear.

  “You need help!” a child’s voice cried.

  The little girl with the ice-grey eyes and the front tooth missing stepped from the crowd. She offered up her torn doll to Cyrus. Her parents quickly pulled her away.

  “She’s right,” Sarah Heiler said, pushing forward through the villagers.

  Cyrus held his hand up in silence.

  “Corporal Fibian has similar evidence on his neck,” he continued. “Unfortunately for the assassins, he and I are not so easily slain, not any more, but if that is not enough…”

  Cyrus kicked open the blanket, exposing the dead body lying at his feet.

  “Aaden, no!” an old woman screamed, her neck laced with roasted nuts and her head covered in a rag. “Murderer,” she shrieked, pointing at Cyrus, “Demon murderer. Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Lars Hoblkalf lured us into the woods under false pretenses,” Cyrus shouted, drowning out the old woman’s cries, “then farmer Landman and three cohorts ambushed us, shooting us down in cold blood.”

  Klops and alves looked around, bewildered.

  “Please, Cyrus,” Lars cried, “I really thought Sarah was hurt. They told me she was hurt.”

  Sarah turned, glaring incredulously at the mayor’s son.

  “Who told you?” Cyrus demanded, rounding on the middle-aged man.

  Lars bit his fat mouth shut, glancing at Llysa and his father.

  “Tell me, or I’ll have you all shot.”

  The four farmers stared at each other, their faces whiter than snow.

  “Then you were all a part of it,” Cyrus said.

  He cocked his rifle.

  “It was Lars’ idea,” scrawny farm
er Landwirt cried. “He schemed to get you and the other two alone in the woods. Then these three agreed to gun you down.”

  “Shut up, Emil,” Mr. Aker shouted. “You’re a liar!”

  “I told you rot-heads you were goin’ a get yourselves killed,” Landwirt yelled. “Now look at Aaden!”

  “You’ll regret this,” Aker sneered.

  “You rat-faced coward,” the Tiller twins growled.

  Cyrus nodded to Fibian. The froskman cut Landwirt free.

  “Lars, you're too stupid and cowardly to be behind all of this,” Cyrus said, glaring at Llysa and Hoblkalf. “Who put you up to it?”

  “I don’t know what farmer Landwirt’s talking about,” Lars chuckled nervously. “It was an honest mistake. I really thought Sarah was hurt.”

  “This is the second time you’ve betrayed me,” Cyrus said, raising his rifle. “There will not be a third.”

  Lars’ quivering mouth hung agape. Slowly he shook his head no.

  “As you wish,” Cyrus said.

  Gingerly, he leaped off of the stump and he threw his noose high over a thick tree limb.

  “I’m going to hang the assassins one at a time,” Cyrus shouted.

  “No,” Fibian said, stepping forward.

  “Lars Hoblkalf will be last,” Cyrus continued, ignoring the froskman. “If Lars gives up the ringleaders he will be pardoned, and his masters will be executed in his stead.”

  “Killing your own kind in self-defense is one thing, young Master,” Fibian said, coming face to face with Cyrus, “but cold-blooded murder? That is the very thing the Warrior Witch wants. That is why she offers you immortality. Do you not see? Do you not understand? From that there is no redemption, no reparation, no atonement!”

  “Get out of my way,” Cyrus said, towering over the froskman.

  “Cyrus,” Edward pleaded, crawling across his shoulder.

  “Do you know how your island of Virkelot died?” Fibian shouted to the surrounding alves. “Do you know why you fear the world beyond your Dead Fence?”

  The villagers looked around at each other, unsure of what was being asked.

  “You used to be a tall, proud, and vibrant people. You used to venture the seas on your beloved hune. You were the Angel King’s dearest creation, but you were also the focus of the Sea Zombie’s bitter envy. In her misguided quest for vengeance she murdered your hune, severing you from the very mother you held so dear. She tormented you until you imprisoned yourselves behind your Dead Fence, then she fed you lies and doubts so that those walls grew to ensnare even your minds. You have been manipulated and betrayed for far too long. It is time to break free of those wretched walls and claim what is rightfully yours!”