“If I kill an alveling,” he asked, trying to buy time, “any alveling, you’ll let everyone else here live?”
“I will even gift them the hune,” Rorroh said, her neck cracking as she leaned closer, “and you will become an Angel amongst men, immortal, destined to rule for all eternity.”
This was all a trick, Cyrus knew. Once he had killed one of his own, Rorroh’s wager with the Angel King would be won, and their game of souls would be over. Cyrus guessed that the witch had orchestrated this trap from the very beginning, but what choice did he really have? Someone had to die, or they were all doomed. She had painted him into a corner with only one way of escape. Could he do it? If only there was another way. Cyrus took a deep, shaking breath, then held out his hand.
“Don’t!” Sarah screamed. “Please.”
Rorroh stepped forward, stretching out her own spidery grasp. Her demon’s grin stretched even wider.
“No,” Hoblkalf shouted.
The mayor leaped forward. He grabbed Sarah around the neck and pressed a blade to her throat. Cyrus shifted his pistol’s aim from Rorroh to the mayor.
“I know what you’re planning,” Hoblkalf cried, his face a sweaty scowl, “but it won’t be me. Take your witch of a stepmother instead!”
“No!” Llysa shrieked, still cowering behind the old woman. “It was Mayor Hoblkalf that killed Niels, remember? He wouldn’t listen. He ordered your death. He organized the mutiny. Kill him.”
“She beat you your whole life,” the mayor countered, “hated you, celebrated your banishment. The mutiny was her idea.”
“He threatens the woman you love,” Llysa cried.
Sarah’s eyes grew wider.
“Don’t you understand, m’ boy,” Hoblkalf retorted, “I give you the very excuse you need to do what you’ve always wanted.”
Cyrus turned his gun on Llysa. His choice was made.
“Don’t do it,” Sarah wept, “she’s not worth it.”
He reached out and grasped Rorroh’s offered hand. Her flesh felt cold, leathery, mere sinew and bone.
“Cyrus,” Fibian warned, “you will be enslaved.”
Cyrus’ heart banged in his chest. He felt his knees grow numb. He shook her hand hard.
“Then it is a deal,” Rorroh said, cackling.
Her grey flesh flushed with glory. She drew back her dead, decaying limb, only she could not pull it free. Cyrus clung dearly to the witch’s grip.
“What are you doing?” Rorroh said.
Again, she attempted to pull free.
“Let go,” she demanded.
Cyrus squeezed tighter, the muscles in his forearm bulging.
“I said let go,” Rorroh snarled.
The sea slug mending her arm stretched and strained.
“This was not the deal,” Rorroh screamed.
“This is exactly what you bargained for,” Cyrus replied, his voice cold and distant.
Then the Dragon Eater cocked the hammer of his pistol and aimed it at his own heart.
“NO!” Rorroh shrieked.
BANG!
Chapter 35
ALL LIGHT FADES
SARAH WATCHED as Cyrus’ pistol discharged into his chest.
“CYRUS!” she heard herself cry.
Fire and smoke erupted between him and the Sea Zombie. Cyrus’ legs gave out. He fell backward, still clinging to the witch’s wasted hand. The Sea Zombie stumbled forward, her hood falling back over her bald, blistered head. She could not free her grip.
Instinctively, Sarah stripped Hoblkalf’s knife from her neck. He did not resist. Instead, he just stood dumbfounded as if he had woken from an impossible dream. Sarah pushed the old man backward and rushed towards Cyrus.
The Sea Zombie continued to try to wrench her hand free, but Cyrus’ grip would not yield.
“Cyrus!” Sara cried.
She ran to his side, heedless of the Sea Zombie, and lifted his limp head onto her lap.
“Cyrus, don’t go, please!”
She slapped his face, trying to rouse a response. Nothing. She looked to his chest. Dark blood stained his tunic.
“Cyrus!”
How could he have done this? How could he have left her, given up like this? Surely there had been another way. She pressed her ear to his breast. No heartbeat.
“Why?” she screamed.
“NO!” the witch shrieked.
Sarah looked up, tears streaming down her face. The Sea Zombie began to tremble, her head and shoulders quivering. Static crackled in the air. A green glow began to shine from behind the witch’s eyes. The emerald light started to shoot out in shards from her pointed ears, her torn mouth, and from behind her painted costume nose. The witch’s back arched as if possessed. The muscles in her chest started to quiver. The spasms slowly moved through her shoulder, then down her rotting arm and into her dead hand. The trembling passed into Cyrus’ arm. Sarah stepped back, horrified. The quivering made its way through Cyrus’ shoulder and into his chest. A turquoise beam of radiant light sprang forth from the wound in his heart. Bright blue rays then flared from his mouth, ears, and nostrils. Finally, his eyes sprang open, shining with the eerie blue glow. Some sort of explosion of white light separated Rorroh’s hand from Cyrus’ grasp. A warm wind blew back Sarah’s hair and her ears popped, then rang. The witch was cast backward into a puddle of mud. All light faded. Cyrus remained sprawled out on the ground, his eyes again shut. He lay as still as the dead. The villagers gasped, then shuffled away. Fibian stepped forward.
“Cyrus?” Edward whispered, from the froskman’s shoulder.
“Cyrus,” Sarah said, moving back to his side.
She touched his cheek, checked his neck. His skin felt cold. She sensed no blood flow. She lifted his eyelids and searched his pupils. Blank, vacant. Sarah began to weep.
“No. Please, no.”
Cyrus let out a gasp of breath.
“Oh, thank the Angels,” Sarah said, “are you there?”
She searched his body. Was he breathing? She put her ringing ear again to his breast. She could hear the faint sound of air passing through his lungs. His chest began to swell and his heart started to beat. Sarah looked to his face. Cyrus’ eyes opened.
“It worked,” he gasped.
Chapter 36
NO MORTAL HAND
IT WAS COLD, impossibly cold. Cyrus searched about. All was black and empty. His soul was black and empty. He attempted to move. He felt submerged, surrounded, imprisoned in cold, dark oil. He tried to remember what had brought him to this lonely, desolate place. His memories were vacant, lost, forgotten. No! It could not end like this. It would not end like this. He thought of Sarah, of the children, of Gabriel. Something inside him shifted. He felt himself wrenched from the depths of the icy pit. A blue glow shone beyond. Then, like a cannonball, he was hurled forth into light.
Slowly, Cyrus’ eyes focused. Before him rose a beautiful, fair-haired angel with stony grey eyes.
Sarah! It had worked. His plan had worked. He had killed himself, a pure creation, and had been made immortal, just as the witch had promised.
He held still for a moment, listening to the many beings surrounding him. He felt their hearts pumping, heard their breaths held in anticipation. He sensed the blood coursing through their veins. His mind flushed with Gabriel’s warmth. What - happening? the giant asked.
Cyrus rolled to his side and sat up from the earth, resurrected. He ripped open the front of his tunic and grasped his bloody chest. There was a ragged scar on his left breast, but no wound. How was that possible?
“Oh, Cyrus, you’re alive,” Sarah said, hugging him tightly.
“No,” Rorroh gasped, her voice hoarse and weak.
The witch clambered to her feet, awkward and shambling.
“Kill him,” she ordered her minions, “kill him now!”
The villagers shrieked and screamed. The girl with the ice-grey eyes clung to her doll and peeked from behind the gates. Sarah stumbled backward, frightened. The h
orde of villains began to close in.
Slowly, Cyrus picked himself up off of the ground and rose to his full height. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He sensed his body, his lungs, his fists. He flexed his back and cracked his neck. He felt electric, fortified, humming like a spring-loaded trap. He turned and glared at the impending enemy onslaught.
“Behind me,” he said to Sarah, acting as her shield.
A large, crusted rock klops attacked first. He slashed at Cyrus’ head with a heavy broadsword. Something in Cyrus activated. Unarmed, he caught the ruffian’s wrist with ease. He stepped between the brute’s feet and turned, driving his hips into his attacker’s beltline. Like a mechanism Cyrus ducked and twisted. The klops grew weightless, hurtling over his right shoulder. Tendons burst and neck bones caved as the barbarian spiked the earth face first. The beast lay dead at Sarah’s feet.
“Young Mistress,” Fibian cried.
He reached out and grabbed Sarah’s wrist, pulling her from the fray.
Next, a dragon-masked nagen sprang towards Cyrus, whirling his bladed staff around his body with practiced ease. Cyrus’ vision narrowed. The demon thrust his spear into his chest. Cyrus slipped the blow, grasping the weapon’s shaft with his left hand. With his right he snatched the dead klops’ broadsword off of the ground. Cyrus wrenched the nagen’s lance from his grip. The creature stumbled forward, losing hold. Cyrus then threw his weight into the attack, hacking at the villain’s throat with a heavy, backhanded chop. The sword struck the nagen’s armored neck plate. Sparks flew, steel bit deep into steel and the saber shattered. The nagen clutched at the shard of blade buried in his gushing throat. His knees gave out and the assassin collapsed dead to the earth.
Three more rock klops continued the assault. They surrounded Cyrus on three sides. The first chopped with an ax at Cyrus’ head. The other two leaped at his ankles. Cyrus ducked and spun, slashing out wide with the nagen’s lance. He sliced leather, wool, belly, and throat. The three klops fell back, gurgling, and clutching their gaping wounds.
Five more nagen surged forward, encircling the Dragon Eater. Cyrus rose up from his crouch and glared down at the armored demons. Warm klops blood dripped from his bristled face. How many were willing to die? A tempered rage filled Cyrus’ heart. He took a deep breath and felt his mind grow still.
All five nagen pounced, stabbing at Cyrus with their bladed staffs. Cyrus parried three of the attacks. Two pierced his back. The assassins tried to wrench their blades free. Cyrus spun and sent the villains sprawling. He ignored the strange sensations in his back. A nagen stabbed at his head. He ducked the thrust, dug his feet into the earth, and heaved. He drove the blunt end of his staff straight through the villain’s faceplate, puncturing metal and skull alike. The soldier stumbled backward, the staff skewering his steel helmet. The demon gripped the bloody shaft, trying to jerk it from his head. Then he pitched sideways and crashed dead to the earth.
With the two spiny spears still protruding from his back, Cyrus pivoted on his toes. He slipped a slashing blow, loaded up his right hip and punched a second nagen in the chest. Silk, steel, sinew, and bone gave way to Cyrus’ fist. His knuckles shattered the demon’s spine. His arm plunged through the creature’s back. The villain convulsed, then slumped over Cyrus’ shoulder. Cyrus twisted and hurled the corpse at the remaining three assassins. The body struck the trio hard and knocked them to the ground. They rolled away and clambered to their feet, staring horrified at their dead companion. A large, grizzled rock klops barged through the crowd, wielding a loaded rifle in each of his three-fingered grips.
“Die, Child Eater!” the barbarian roared.
Bang! Crack!
The brute shot Cyrus in the belly and chest. Blood spurted from his flesh. Cyrus peered down at the wounds. He poked at each smoking hole with a thick finger. The pain was subtle, otherworldly. He looked up at his would-be killer with an expression of grim fascination. The klops dropped both weapons and began to panic. He stared down at the dead nagen with the bloody pit in his chest. Then he peered at his surrounding comrades. They all stepped back from him as if he was diseased. He glared wide-eyed at Cyrus. His body trembled. The Dragon Eater strode towards the klops.
“The prophecy, no!”
The calloused brute turned and dashed for the woods. His alarm became contagious. Several more minions too began to retreat towards the trees. Even the squawking black birds leaped from their perches and climbed high into the sky.
“Get back here!” Rorroh cried.
Cyrus rounded on the witch, bloody and hulking. Rorroh began to gather her strength, readying her body for attack. Cyrus reached back and wrenched both staffs from his thick ribs, tossing them aside. Then he drew a remaining pistol from his belt.
“Have you learned nothing, Child Eater?” Rorroh asked, her flesh clammy and grey.
The witch produced a black, dripping blade from beneath her torn robes.
Cyrus thought back to when he had first met Fibian. He recalled the corporal’s words.
“She is not called the Sea Zombie in vain,” Cyrus said, staring Rorroh straight in her oily black eyes. “She has been cursed to wander the ocean, lifeless and wretched. No mortal hand will ever take her from these waters.”
Cyrus emphasized the word mortal. Then he raised his pistol and aimed it at the Sea Zombie’s head. Rorroh’s face grew horrified as understanding took hold. Only immortal could kill immortal, but was Cyrus now truly immortal? It was time to find out.
He cocked the hammer of his weapon. The expression of terror on Rorroh’s face did not fit her decaying features. She was not ready to die. Her guise shifted from fear to rage and anguish. She raised her dagger and began to pounce. Every cell in Cyrus’ body grew still. His finger tightened on the trigger. His gun roared. Smoke and flame erupted from his pistol. The Sea Zombie’s rotten head snapped back on her stitched neck. Black, bloody matter ruptured from her skull. Then her head flopped forward. Her eyes locked with Cyrus’, lost and confused. She had not seen this coming. She had been so desperate to defeat the Angel King that she had overlooked this possible counter.
Children shrieked, nagen hissed, and rock klops gasped. The witch dropped her knife and fell backward. As she struck the earth, her stained robes enveloped her emaciated body. Cyrus threw aside his smoking pistol and picked up one of his cast-off spears. He stepped forward and stabbed at Rorroh’s cloak. He struck only mud and dirt. He drew back the tattered hood. The skeletal remains of a long-dead woman lay beneath. The bones were yellowed and scarred. A ragged hole marred the skull’s forehead. Around the remnants, ancient dust and soot lay.
The heavens above shifted. Shafts of warm sunlight shone down through the clouds. Cyrus had done it. The Sea Zombie was dead. He peered around at the remaining enemy. He saw only their leather and armor backsides as they fled off into the forest.
Cyrus’ body lost all strength. He fell to his knees, exhausted. He felt Gabriel’s relief wash over him like a warm bath, sensed the hune’s overwhelming joy. He looked to the alvelings. They too seemed to sense the giant’s presence, hugging each other and weeping, grateful to have survived.
Fibian walked to Cyrus and put his webbed hand on his shoulder. Edward scurried down the froskman’s arm and onto his best friend’s back.
“A savior will rise up from the most unlikely of places,” Fibian said, recalling the words he had spoken not so long ago. “They will destroy the Warrior Witch’s armies and scatter her ashes to the sea.”
“You did it,” Edward said, grinning wide, “you saved us all.”
Sarah rushed over and searched Cyrus’ body. She felt his chest, pressed along his ribs and his back.
“How?” she asked. “How is this possible?”
Cyrus felt his wounds. His injuries began to throb but were already healing.
Rorroh never healed. What did this mean? Was Cyrus now an Angel, immortal, or an undead Demon, cursed to wander the oceans for all eternity? Did the Angel King see his death as su
icide or sacrifice?
Sarah took Cyrus in her arms.
“Thank you,” she said, tears welling in her big, grey eyes, “for coming back.”
Cyrus held her close.
“You came back first,” he said.
He looked into the distance, over Sarah’s shoulder. His gaze fell upon Rorroh’s remains. This was truly over. They had won.
Through red, bleary eyes he saw what looked like greenish grey vapors rise from the hole in Rorroh’s skull. The apparition drifted into the air in a thin thread of swampy smoke. The face of an impossibly beautiful woman formed within the gaseous haze. The angel stared at Cyrus with a look of coy amusement. Then the fog twisted and the vision became a rotting, haggard demon’s grin. Cyrus blinked and shook his head. The illusion thinned, then vanished into the trees.
Chapter 37
THE FINAL ENDING
SLOWLY, cautiously, the villagers began to scour the island for any remaining invaders. They found only the dead. The witch’s black birds had devoured the entire blodbad brood, the water klops had been wiped out by either ally or foe, and Gabriel sensed that all aboard the head fortress had suffered similar fates.
They searched the shores for signs of the enemy fleet. Several foundering attack ships still burned along the hune’s port side, but the undamaged vessels were nowhere to be seen. Rorroh’s defeated minions had fled back to whatever dismal waters they inhabited to prey upon the vulnerable that crossed their paths.
The alves began to burn the dead, and dismantle the hune’s fortifications. Then they started to use the salvaged metal and lumber to help build their new village. The cannons and weapons were stripped and entombed within a steel armory. The villagers continued to heal Gabriel’s lands, as the hune set a course for warmer waters. Slowly, Gabriel’s children began to grow strong.
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