Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 16

  A silver chandelier loomed overhead, glowing with candlelight. Cyrus spied a large golden picture frame on the wall. The canvas had been torn out.

  “I hear whispers,” Edward said, in a hushed voice.

  Cyrus drew his knife and stepped forward. He caught the whiff of dung and wondered if it was the pelt. Then he noticed a dark, mud-like substance staining the floor. Ahead and to the left, a rat skittered out of a darkened passageway. It vanished under a tattered red rug. A klappen followed close behind, scrabbling in the wreckage. It looked up and sensed Cyrus. Cyrus felt exposed. He kept his face low, hidden under the wolf’s muzzle. The monster took no notice and continued its hunt. Cyrus pressed forward, his blade ready. Another of Fibian’s shrieks rang out. It seemed to come from the next room. Cyrus flinched. The klappen peered up, roused by the reaction. Cyrus felt his breath quicken. After several burning moments, it returned to its search, but it now watched the intruder from the corner of its eye.

  “Walk like it does,” Edward whispered.

  Cyrus hunched low and bent like an old man. If this thing exposed them, there would be no escape. He continued in the direction of the screams, trying to avoid the creature without appearing conspicuous. The klappen’s path began to meander closer. It started to sniff the air and seemed to scrutinize Cyrus’ trousers and boots. It walked so close that Cyrus could have kissed it. It passed on in search of its tiny prey.

  Cyrus continued along the hallway, picking up his pace and looking over his shoulder.

  “No,” Edward hissed.

  Cyrus bumped into something bony and sour. His headdress fell as he spun forward. A klappen two feet taller than himself shrieked in rage. It must have followed its kin through the left, side passage. It snapped at Cyrus’ face. Cyrus ducked low and to the side, slashing at the creature’s throat. He cut it across the nose. It squealed and clutched at its eyes. The first klappen abandoned its hunt and whirled to attack. Cyrus dove through the passageway. To his relief, he found the threshold defended by double doors. He slammed the doors tight, securing them with a bar of timber.

  “What now?” Edward said, panicking.

  The doors began to shake and shudder like mad drums. Cyrus spun about looking for an escape. A single wall torch illuminated the chamber and the air stank like a well-used outhouse. In the center of the room, a stairway descended to another pair of doors. Something warm and heavy slopped onto Cyrus’ shoulder. A half-eaten rat fell at his feet.

  “Cyrus,” Edward whispered, desperation in his voice.

  Wood beams creaked overhead. Cyrus looked up. At first, he thought he saw a ceiling of golden stars. Then he realized that the wavering points of lights were reflections off of many, many pairs of eyes. One of the klappen bared its teeth and shrieked like a demon. Cyrus staggered back, then sprinted down the stairs. He barged his way into the cell beyond. He turned and bolted the cold, steel lock. He pressed his shoulder to the doors and waited for the inevitable battering to begin. No attempt to breach the room came. Cyrus placed an ear to the wood. Silence. Then something spoke.

  “Run…”

  Chapter 34

  THE OLD WOMAN

  CYRUS TURNED IN THE DIRECTION of the voice. The chamber was cold, dank and ill-lit by dying candles weeping over craggy ledges and grimy countertops. He smelled something sweet, yet foul in the air. Then it struck him. It was the scent of fear.

  He searched the darkness. Several rusted manacles draped against the damp walls, and the odd meat hook jangled overhead.

  “Fibian,” Edward cried.

  At the room’s center, Fibian lay strapped to a thick, wooden chair.

  “Angels,” Cyrus gasped, “What happened?”

  Candlelight illuminated Fibian’s sharp features. He was haggard, a ghost of himself. His face was bloody and battered, his nose broken and eyes swollen. Deep lacerations outlined his brow and cheekbones. The way he sat, Cyrus suspected his ribs were broken.

  “Run,” Fibian repeated, wheezing, “Before she returns.”

  He moved his head, gesturing to the rear of the room.

  Cyrus rushed to Fibian’s side. He began to unbuckle the leather straps around his wrists. Long dried blood stained the chair’s deep grain.

  “No, go - now,” Fibian coughed, blood spattering his lips.

  Cyrus unstrapped the froskman’s ankles, contemplating their escape. The only way out was the stairway, but that was suicide. Yet if they stayed…

  Cyrus hefted Fibian out of the chair and hauled him to the double doors. He was amazed by how light the froskman felt. Fibian still had the vial of dragon’s blood around his neck.

  “Get ready to run,” Cyrus whispered.

  “No,” Fibian begged.

  “Cyrus,” Edward pleaded, digging his seven legs into his friend’s shoulder.

  Cyrus unbolted the steel lock. Something heavy clicked behind them. Cyrus turned. Beyond the shadows, a hidden door in the back wall began to edge open. Then a long, spidery hand reached through the crack. Cyrus’ legs grew weak. A bald, crooked, old woman emerged through the passage.

  “The Sea Zombie,” Edward gasped.

  The witch’s white powdered face and wooden, costume nose were spattered with dried blood. She grinned like a snarling wolf. The rip in her membrane-thin cheeks exposed dark, decaying gums.

  She began to move forward with a cripple’s gait, but Cyrus was not fooled. He knew crushing strength hid beneath the grey, tattered robes. The small, bulbous-eyed Aghamore groveled at her side.

  She looked at Cyrus through black, oily eyes, their deep sockets drilled into jutting cheekbones.

  “Murderer…” she said in a breathless whisper, “Thiefff!” she spat, as she raised the blackened stump of her maimed right arm.

  Cyrus felt his insides turn liquid. All strength left his limbs.

  Chapter 35

  RETRIBUTION

  SHAKING, CYRUS DREW HIS KNIFE.

  “Did you know I can still feel it?” Rorroh asked.

  Black bile dripped from her narrow chin.

  “Did you know that my hand still lives in the belly of some sea creature? Even now I can feel it crushing the fishy’s cold innards.”

  Cyrus’ muscles tensed. He dug his toes into the ground, preparing for the onslaught. Then he felt the knife stripped from his grip. Fibian shoved him aside.

  “For the last time, run!”

  The froskman leaped at Rorroh, brandishing Cyrus’ blade. Aghamore intercepted the attack, drawing his own knife. Fibian slashed out but overcommitted. Aghamore parried the blow and sliced Fibian’s side. Fibian countered with a backhanded stab but was again easily parried. Aghamore went for the throat but cut only shoulder. Fibian stood cringing, holding his ribs.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus cried.

  “Giving you time to escape,” Fibian said, breathing heavily.

  Aghamore lunged forward and stuck Fibian in the belly.

  “Heal from this,” the water klops squealed, jerking the knife upwards.

  Fibian winced, then clutched Aghamore by the throat. Aghamore panicked, releasing the blade. Fibian squeezed so hard, Aghamore’s bulbous eyes looked about to explode. Then, in a fit of rage, Fibian hurled the water klops into a wooden beam. Dust shook from the ceiling. The creature slid motionless to the floor, painting the beam red.

  Fibian drew the klops’ knife from his stomach and rounded on Rorroh. His hands quivered.

  “Cyrus, help him,” Edward begged.

  Cyrus stood paralyzed.

  Wielding two knives, Fibian rushed Rorroh. The froskman’s usually sure-footed movements were awkward and forced. Rorroh slipped back, out of reach. Fibian flung Cyrus’ knife at Rorroh’s head. The action came out of nowhere, hidden by the deft roll of his shoulders. Still, Rorroh caught the weapon with ease. Fibian continued his advance as Rorroh worked her way back around various torture apparatus. Fibian picked up a chair and flung it at the witch. It shattered against her blocking forearm.

  “Fight me,
” the froskman roared, through bloody teeth.

  Rorroh stepped forward and, from within her cloak, flung a fistful of powder in his battered face. Fibian was momentarily frozen. Rorroh lashed out with Cyrus’ blade and slashed the froskman’s throat.

  “No!” Cyrus screamed.

  Fibian clutched his neck, blood bubbling from his lips. With one last gasp, he reached for her robes, splitting the hem of her right shoulder. She grasped his wrist and forced his arm to a butcher’s block.

  “Seeing as you choose to fight his battles,” Rorroh spat, gesturing to Cyrus, “maybe you would like to pay his debts as well.”

  Rorroh held Cyrus’ knife high in the air.

  “Fibian,” Cyrus cried.

  Fibian made a fist, trying to tear his arm free. Rorroh wielded the weapon like a seasoned butcher. She chopped Fibian’s right hand off, mid forearm.

  “Fibian,” Edward cried.

  The froskman’s body slid formless to the floor.

  What’s happening? Cyrus thought. What has Rorroh done?

  The witch stood panting, her front covered in arterial spray.

  “Did he tell you the company you keep?” Rorroh asked Cyrus.

  She tossed the bloody hand and knife to the floor. Cyrus stared at the weapon. It was his, the knife he had found in Jim OddFoot’s dwelling. She had cut Fibian’s throat with it; mutilated him with it. And Cyrus had just watched.

  Cyrus’ world began to spin. It could not be. This could not be happening. How could she have done that? And how could he have just watched? Cyrus felt compelled to run. But he also felt something else. Anger. He let the anger rise and take over. He welcomed the sensation.

  “Fibian told us of Mor Hav’s army, and about the blodbad spiders. He told us what you are.”

  “Ahhh, but he did not tell you everything because even he did not know all.”

  The witch began to giggle and cough.

  “Did you know your people were once a proud and happy folk, and that your little ssspider friend’s kin helped change all that?”

  She wiped at her bony cheek, smearing blood and white makeup.

  “What are you talking about?” Cyrus demanded.

  Rorroh hobbled forward, her flesh reeking of spoiled meat.

  “I am talking about revenge, boy. I am talking about murder. I loved the Angel King. All I wanted was to serve at his side. I, the most beautiful creature in all of creation. And for that, he turned me into this.”

  She stood before Cyrus, bald, hunched and twisted, her tattered robes hanging from her fleshy bones.

  “So, I took what was most precious to him, and I drained them of all that was good and righteousss.”

  Her neck cracked and popped.

  “Your people were once tall and vibrant, and your island strong and full of life.”

  Confusion added to Cyrus’ rage.

  “Do you understand, boy? You are living proof of your kinsmen’s long forgotten glory. You are a throwback to what they once were. Your people are the tortured descendants of the once proud hune alves.”

  “That’s impossible,” Cyrus whispered.

  His hand drifted to the point of his right ear.

  “Is it?” Rorroh asked, “Your village was built on a giant shelled creature called a hune. And that hune had a name, Uriel. Uriel loved and cherished your people as if they were her own. And your people adored her as children do their own mother. Uriel traveled the oceans, delivering the hune alves to the most beautiful places in all of creation. And the alves farmed, fed and cared for the giant. They lived in balance and harmony, a most happy and charmed family, and the Angel King’s dearest creation.”

  A look of mock pity contorted Rorroh’s gangrenous face.

  “It was in these creatures that I decided to begin my revenge on the Angel King.”

  Rorroh clenched her remaining fist so tight, Cyrus thought the knuckles might burst.

  “Long ago, I waited until the hune crossed over a large reef. Then I had my blodbad spiders poison the giant.”

  “No,” Edward gasped.

  “The hune died a slow and painful death,” Rorroh continued, “her flesh turning to sand. But the giant did not sink, and your people were left stranded and heartbroken in the middle of the sea.

  “With the help of my armies, I surrounded and terrified the hune alves until they built a giant wall around their village and, having farmed and cared for the hune their whole lives, their hands became restless, and they began to cut and dig at the earth like rodents.”

  Rorroh clawed at the air with her remaining fingers.

  “Why didn’t you just kill us and get it over with?” Cyrus asked.

  Rorroh hissed, “I do not want your lives, I want your soulsss. I have found a flaw in the Angel King’s design. I have fooled your people into self-imprisonment, and I have driven them to self-destruction. Always, they could have done as you did and left the island to find fertile land, but they have let their fears be their undoing. Rather than sacrifice and fight for what is right, they have lost all courage and been fooled into misery and self-loathing. And with the fall of your village, your people will beg to join my army, and I will be so very close to making this Kingdom mine.”

  Rorroh stood triumphant, her black eyes wide and frenzied.

  Cyrus gritted his teeth.

  “That’s not true. You haven’t fooled me.”

  “Yes, but you are a coward. You abandon friends and family to save your own skin. Your life is forfeited. Your soul is mine.”

  Cyrus felt as if Rorroh had ripped out his heart. He shut his eyes tight, wanting to hear no more.

  “There is another detail I have yet to mention,” Rorroh continued, “Something else that makes my plan truly ingenious. Like I, whenever the Angel King created a female, he also created a male.”

  Cyrus looked up and gasped, “The hune?”

  Drache had told the truth.

  “That is right, boy, there were two. Two hune, and two villages of hune alvesss. When I killed the female, I let the male live.”

  “There’s another village of hune alves?” Cyrus asked.

  “Not quite,” Rorroh said.

  A craggy smirk split across her face.

  “Gabriel still lives, but his people are long dead. I had my blodbad poison them the same time they killed Uriel. The poor hune is miserable and alone. He searches the oceans for another village to again make him whole, but he is growing weak, and I fear very soon, his sorrows may drag him down to a watery grave. If only your people and Gabriel could somehow unite.”

  Rorroh began to cackle, delighted by her own twisted brilliance.

  “Where’s the hune now?” Cyrus asked.

  “It does not matter,” Rorroh replied, “He was last seen in the Northern Sea; impossible to follow. Only once has he come near your village, and with Drache’s help, he was easily turned away.”

  Cyrus’ mind spun. His people had once prospered on the back of a giant, living creature? And there was another of its kind, still alive, that could rescue Cyrus’ village, unravel Rorroh’s lies, and untwist their narrow minds? And the only thing standing in their way was Rorroh?

  Cyrus looked to Edward. Where was Edward? Cyrus searched his shoulder, his collar, his pocket. Where was Edward?

  Cyrus noticed something small and fuzzy lower from the ceiling. It dangled by a silvery thread over Rorroh.

  “Edward?” Cyrus whispered.

  The witch’s expression turned from hatred to confusion. She looked from Cyrus and found a black spider, with a yellow mark on its back, crawling along her hand. Horror and rage filled the arachnid’s face, and his hair stood on end.

  “Is this what you made me for?” Edward seethed, “Is this what you want?

  The spider’s eyes shut, and his brow began to swell. Like fishhooks, he dug his seven long legs deep into the Sea Zombie’s flesh. Edward’s eyes flashed open, milky and white, along with six smaller eyes that bulged from beneath his fur.

  “
NO!” Rorroh screamed.

  Chapter 36

  BE AFRAID

  RORROH TRIED TO SHAKE THE SPIDER OFF, but Edward was fastened to her like a lock. A hiss began to emit from his throat. His jaws creaked open.

  “Let go!” the witch shouted.

  She reeled back and whipped her hand through a shelf of jars and beakers. Glass shattered and sprayed the room like sparks, but the Sea Zombie was unable to dislodge the blodbad spider. Two needle-like teeth began to extend from Edward’s gums, each dripping black venom.

  “I promise, I will see you both ripped limb from limb,” Rorroh snarled.

  Like a steel trap, Edward bit deep into the witch’s hand. His body began to convulse, as he pumped ounce after ounce of boiling toxins into her diseased flesh. Around the bite, Rorroh’s skin started to dry up like paper; then turn to sand. She fell to one knee, crippled with agony. The poison started to spread further up the Sea Zombie’s arm. It reached her shoulder and advanced towards her chest. Cyrus’ heart began to lift. The witch was dying.

  Rorroh fell to her other knee and held out her decaying hand. Like salt, the first layer of flesh started to sprinkle the floor. She fought to make a fist and, uttering a language Cyrus had never heard before, focused all her attention on the wound.

  With great effort, her body seemed to battle back against the transformation. The veins in her arm bubbled and swelled with black blood, and her skin turned from a yellowish-grey to a dark, blistering purple.

  The witch’s blood erupted into Edward’s throat, and his stomach began to grow. His eyes whipped forward, and he started to choke. Clutching his belly, Edward released the bite, moaning as he tumbled to the floor. He bounced to a stop and curled up into a ball. Then he began to shiver uncontrollably, vomiting black bile.

  Cyrus watched as his best friend’s hair turned from black to white and the yellow mark on his back faded to blue.

  “Edward!” he screamed.