Cyrus LongBones Box Set Page 30

  “No!” Cyrus shrieked.

  The general punched Tier in the ribs. She wilted, but would not cry out.

  “They are going to kill her if you do not tell the truth,” Moro pleaded.

  “Tell them nothing,” Tier demanded, raising her head to look at Cyrus.

  Blood ran from her mouth. The general punched and clubbed the yeti. She teetered on the edge of unconsciousness.

  “Stop!” Cyrus cried, pulling against his chains.

  “Last time,” Agulha said. “Is the other in your party a froskman?”

  Again, Cyrus hesitated. Could he betray Fibian? Would it matter if he did? If the froskman did not want to be found, no one could find him. Would Cyrus watch Tier die?

  Agulha grasped Tier’s shaggy head and raised the knife to her neck. He snarled and thrust the blade forward.

  “Stop!” Cyrus demanded, “Don’t hurt her. I’ll tell you the truth. You seem to know everything anyway.”

  “We suspect,” Agulha said, “We must know.”

  “Don’t do it,” Tier demanded.

  “Do you want your friend to die?” Moro asked, “They have done it before.”

  Cyrus looked to Tier. She was broken and sick. She would not last the night without aid.

  “Will you help Tier if I tell you the truth?” Cyrus asked.

  “Of course,” Agulha replied, a smile crossing his wrinkled face.

  The expression seemed new and awkward to the old klops.

  “You can’t trust them,” Tier wheezed, “They will kill us both.”

  Cyrus took a deep breath.

  “His name is Fibian. He’s a froskman loyal to me. We came to find the yeti elder named Gammal. We hoped he could guide us to the second hune. My home is crumbling. The hune is my people’s only hope for survival.”

  “That weakling!” Moro spat.

  Instinct drove Cyrus away from the one-eyed froskman. Her voice was different. He had heard it before. Moro began to unlock her collar.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus asked.

  “You know of the alveling prophecy?” Moro said, accusingly, “Have you drunk the dragon’s blood?”

  Cyrus said nothing, shocked and confused.

  “Are you supposed to be the great savior of legend?”

  Cyrus stared at the enraged Moro, terrified.

  “It does not matter,” Moro sneered, “You are not leaving this room alive. Unlock the gate!”

  General Morte produced a key and opened the cell door. Then a second batalha entered the room with a cream-colored spider silk robe. Moro glided from the cell, head high, past General Morte, Tier and Councilor Agulha, and let the batalha wrap her in the flowing gown.

  “The Queen,” Cyrus said, fear and understanding overwhelming him.

  “General Morte, I want this mine locked down immediately,” the queen demanded, “Destroy all the yeti!”

  “But my Queen,” General Morte protested.

  “I want every last klops on the hunt for the trespasser,” the queen continued, “Scour the yeti camp. Search the cliffs. Do not underestimate him. If you do, you will die. He is cunning, ruthless and could be anywhere. Even in this very room. Make no mistakes. Find him and bring him to me.”

  “But my Queen,” Councilor Agulha said, “Any delay to our plans could be catastrophic.”

  “We have nearly three hundred cannons, and the battle armor is mostly completed,” the queen replied, “It will have to do, for if we do not find my brother immediately, he will delay us indefinitely.”

  She turned and ascended the stairs.

  “My Queen,” General Morte said, “The prisoners?”

  “Leave the alveling,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “We may need a hostage.”

  “And the other?”

  “Did I not say destroy all yeti?”

  “No,” Cyrus shouted, “You promised.”

  The door slammed shut behind the queen. General Morte’s smile was more of a sneer. He grasped Tier by the scalp and raised her head so that Cyrus could see her face.

  “Are you watching, boy?” Agulha asked. “This is what happens to slaves that cross the Queen.”

  The old klops stabbed the poisoned blade into Tier’s ribs. Tier winced in pain, spittle coming from her lips. She looked to Cyrus.

  “Kill them, kill them all,” she said, her voice growing weak, “Promise me you will kill them all…”

  “I promise,” Cyrus whispered, his voice cracking.

  Tears filled his eyes. He felt so heartbroken, so helpless. His whole body began to shake and sob. He watched the spark go out in Tier’s eyes.

  “Your little quest has been in vain, foolish child,” Councilor Agulha said, “The yeti Gammal is dead, murdered by my own hand. Any hope of his aid died months ago in this very room.

  “Did you really think you would find this hune creature here? Do you have any idea how big the North Sea is? How would yeti know of such a beast? And even if they did, how would they know where to find it? It could be anywhere, a hundred days sailing from the nearest harbor. How would the yeti track it? Why would they track it? Who concocted such a desperate plan? How could you be so stupid?”

  “No…” Cyrus whispered.

  He felt his soul snatched from his body. Gammal dead? No hune? He always knew their plan had been a long shot but not until this very moment did he see how unlikely their odds had really been.

  Cyrus’ legs grew numb. He slumped to the floor.

  “Look at ‘em cry,” the general taunted, “So weak. So easily broken.”

  Cyrus thought about his futile journey. He had failed himself, failed his people. He looked to Tier. He had failed her as well. He thought of Edward. Was his best friend still alive? And now the Queen was on the hunt for Fibian as well?

  “Would you like I let you out of here?” Agulha asked,” Make you my little pet? You could join us if you like? I’ll take very good care of you. Feed you the finest scraps from my plate.”

  Cyrus remembered his promise to Tier. Promise me you will kill them all. His sorrow turned to rage. It became like sunlight through a magnifying glass, focused and brilliant. He looked up at Agulha, the one he could have killed at the foot of the queen’s throne. The one he had spared. If Cyrus had not shown mercy, Tier might be alive.

  Agulha’s eyes met his. Cyrus visualized ripping the councilor’s throat out with his bare hands. The fantasy only made the hate grow stronger. The old klops stumbled back as if pulling away from a snapping beast.

  “Answer the Councilor when he’s talking to you,” General Morte demanded.

  “Never mind that,” Agulha said, visibly shaken, “Just get this dead yeto out of here.”

  Agulha stormed out of the room. Cyrus watched the old klops’ every step.

  “You may be feeling brave now,” the general said, loosening the chains and unlocking Tier’s body, “But give it time. We’ve seen how easy you break. Soon enough, you’ll be begging to be our little pet.”

  Chapter 31

  KILL OR BE KILLED

  CYRUS SAT WITH HIS THOUGHTS, cold and shivering, for several hours. The tears had stopped, but it would be some time before the heartbreak passed. Tier was dead because of him. He had let Agulha live because of some stupid sense of morality. He had let a killer live because of childish principles. Tier had been right; you kill the enemy before they kill you, regardless of fair play. There was no right or wrong. There was only kill or be killed.

  Edward knew this. He had not hesitated when killing the dragon, the klappen, even Tier’s mother, Runa, and Tier seemed to understand this. Cyrus never knew if Tier truly forgave them, but she had let them live when she could have killed them many times over. She had even saved their lives. Some part of her understood that, if Edward had not bitten her mother, Runa would have killed the three of them instead. Runa had ambushed them, set them up. They had had no other choice.

  They had escaped up the mountain. Been attacked by klops, kidnapped by trolls, hunted b
y wendigo, and what had Tier said to him in the bowels of the mountain?

  “Your weak heart’s going to get someone killed one of these days.”

  She was right. His weak heart had gotten someone killed. It had gotten Tier killed, and Ungur’s cowardice had imprisoned the three of them. The traitorous yeti had sentenced her people to death.

  Cyrus’ quest had been in vain. Gammal was dead. The remaining hune was lost to all. The prophecy was a sham. Cyrus gripped his head and shook with rage. How could he have been so stupid? He had let himself down, let his people down, he had let Sarah down…

  Yet Fibian was still alive, maybe Edward too, and Cyrus had a promise to keep. A new quest formulated in his mind.

  He clenched his teeth and jerked at his shackle. He was not going to rot in this cell, wait for General Morte, Councilor Agulha, or even the queen to decide his fate. He was going to find Fibian and rescue Edward. Then he was going to stop the yeti destruction, disembowel Agulha, decapitate Morte, and crush every last filthy klops he could find, and when the queen got in his way, he would cut her in two, or be killed himself.

  Cyrus studied his wounds. His nose was slightly fractured, but not broken. His shins and right ankle were badly bruised, but the chill air fended off the swelling. His chest was blackened and blistered, but he could fight. He felt along his broken fingers. They needed to be straightened. Tears began to form in anticipation. With his right hand, Cyrus gripped his left pinky. It felt like a cooked sausage. He pulled and straightened. Bone and cartilage ground together.

  “Gahhh!”

  Cyrus fought the pain, then slumped against the wall. He grasped his left ring finger and took three big breaths.

  “Aahhh!”

  He hit his head against the stone, trying to distract from the agony in his left hand. He gently moved both fingers. They seemed as straight as he could make them. He blew blood from his nose, then looked about the room. He needed clothes, but first, he would have to find a way of escape.

  Had the queen taken that metal wire? Cyrus scoured the floor. He found it near the cell door. She had dropped it in her haste to leave. He stuck it in the shackle’s keyhole. He jiggled the wire around for several minutes. How had she done it? He tried twisting and turning the wire. The neck cuff would not open. Cyrus lost his patience. He dropped the wire and began to pull and yank against the chains. The shackle’s chains ran through an iron eye plate screwed into the stone wall. The eye plate began to shift. Rock dust sprinkled to the floor. How many powerful yeti had pulled against this very chain?

  Thank Kingdom for sloppy klops craftsmanship, Cyrus thought. He pulled and yanked at the chains, working them first left, then right. Then he began to swing his arms in circles, always working at the four bolts securing the eye plate. The bolts grated and creaked. Cyrus’ hands began to bleed and his frigid body started to sweat. Bits of wall fell from behind the plate. The bolts loosened a millimeter at a time. Cyrus breathed heavily, but he never relented his attack on the plate.

  After an hour’s work, the plate pulled free. It fell to the floor with a dusty clang. Cyrus’ neck was still shackled, but at least he could still move about the room. His second problem was breaking out of the cell. He looked about the four walls. Two were stone; two were made of bars. He had to pick the lock or break through the bars.

  Again, he tried Moro’s wire. It was useless. He did not know how to pick a lock, any lock. Could he kick and break the bars? He tested each one. They all seemed too secure for him to break without aid. He looked outside the cell. Was there something he could reach that might help him escape?

  The wooden table! The one they had stretched Tier over. Cyrus looked about the cell. He had his blanket and the shackle that had once held Moro. He would have to rip Moro’s shackle from the wall as well. Could he do it? Hopefully, he had enough time to find out.

  * * *

  CYRUS TORE THE BLANKET into strips. Then he tied the strips together to make a rope. Using the rope, he snagged one of the wooden bed’s manacles. The act took over a half-hour.

  Cyrus pulled the rope towards him, bringing the chain and manacle with it. The chain was too short. The manacle could not reach the cell bars. Cyrus reached through the bars. He grasped the manacle and secured it to Moro’s shackle. Then he wrapped and tied Moro’s shackle chain to a cell bar. Together, they were barely long enough. Cyrus tied a loop at one end of his rope. He reached through the bars and cast the rope. After many attempts, he caught one of the prongs of the tiller-like crank. He pulled it towards himself.

  Click, click, click.

  As he carefully drew on the rope, the table’s tiller turned and the chain grew tighter. The rope pulled free. Cyrus repeated the process. The whole ordeal lasted over an hour. Iron and rock groaned and cracked. The chain moaned and creaked, growing ever tighter. Cyrus could not turn the tiller another click. He felt the manacle and chain secured to the bar. They felt like a single piece of solid steel. Cyrus inspected the bar. It had bent a great deal but had not come loose. Cyrus thought of General Morte. He kicked the bar with all his might. The bottom half snapped off like an icicle. The top half tore free, bringing a chunk of mortar with it. The cold had helped. The rock and iron were as brittle as glass. The clanging bar echoed throughout the room.

  Cyrus heard the scrabbling sound of klops footsteps. With his neck still shackled, Cyrus picked up the broken cell bar and ran for the door. He mounted the stairs and held the bar at the ready, poised like a spearman at the edge of a river.

  “What’s all that racket?” he heard the short klops shout.

  “Sounds like someone needs a cold shower,” the chalky klops sneered.

  The door’s lock clicked. Cyrus adjusted his grip on the bar, aiming the sharp end forward.

  “You better not be making any trouble in there.”

  The door kicked open. Cyrus thrust the bar forward. In one rage-filled blow, the spear pierced the first two klops’ skulls. The third klops fell back, his eyes filled with horror. Cyrus used his bare foot to unburden his iron spear. The helmeted klops scrambled for his crossbow. Cyrus kicked his wrist. His shin throbbed. The bolt shot wide, ricocheting off the hallway walls. Cyrus drove the bar through the klops’ chest, twisting the spike as he ran the fiend into the wall.

  There was shuffling to Cyrus’ left. He looked up. He could feel the warm klops blood on his face. Agulha stood shaking; his hands held high in surrender.

  “I am unarmed,” he said, pleading.

  Cyrus stepped forward. He plunged the iron spear into Agulha’s face and out of the back of his head.

  “So was Tier,” Cyrus snarled.

  He put a foot to the old klops’ chest and jerked the bar free. Agulha fell to the floor, stiff and quivering. Cyrus screamed with rage and stabbed the bar into Agulha’s skull several times over. The councilor’s head became purple pulp. Cyrus recovered his breath, then spit on what was left of the bony corpse. Warm blood leaked out onto the cold, hard stone.

  Chapter 32

  A PROMISE TO KEEP

  CYRUS FOUND THE SHACKLE key on the helmeted klops and unlocked his neck. He rushed down the hall to the second chamber. He had to find Edward and a way out of this place.

  Cyrus entered the room and found his clothes strewn across the floor. Shaking, he dressed in the furs. The pelts were warm against his bitter, bruised skin. He returned to the hallway and unarmored the first two skewered klops. The steel felt heavy on his fatigued body. He took the helmet from the last klops and fit it over his fur hood. Then he rubbed klops blood all over his pelts, adding to the caked on dark filth. His disguise was nearly complete. All he needed now were weapons.

  Cyrus took a crossbow and poisoned knife off the downed guards and made for the stairs. He reached the top step, took the knife in his right hand and opened the door. His blood pounding, he crept through.

  Two small guards stood at each side of the door’s exterior. One looked at Cyrus as if trying to place him. Cyrus snarled, shoving his blade in u
nder the helmet’s chin guard, piercing the klops’ brain. The fiend stiffened and exhaled. Before the other could react, Cyrus withdrew the knife from the first and buried it in the second’s eye. Both klops slid to the floor without a sound.

  Cyrus looked about. The base of the towering throne was to his left; the great hall’s western wall to his right. Roaring fires raged within the hall’s fireplaces.

  Several klops bustled and fretted at the foot of the queen’s throne. None had seen Cyrus’ deeds. Dancing shadows and a large pillar had covered his attack.

  “My Queen,” a fat batalha shouted, “Vaca is fed and her hatchlings are secure.”

  “Lieutenant Knavish, your soldiers cannot find the intruder anywhere?” a trill voice cried.

  Cyrus looked up. Four stories above, the queen rose from her white pillowed throne. She wore a black silk gown.

  “No, my Queen,” a tall, hunch-backed klops replied, “We have searched the hall, the cliffs, the southern gorge. But the newcomers have stirred the slaves. Their camp has been difficult to search. They are beginning to rebel.”

  The queen quivered with rage.

  “It is as I feared,” she spat, “Fetch me General Morte and my private guard.”

  Lieutenant Knavish motioned to a tiny white klops groveling near his feet. The small creature scrambled off like a beaten mutt through a small hatch in the massive doorway. Moments later, four guards turned two large cranks on each side of the great entrance. Wood and steel moaned as the scraping doors parted like the eyelids of a waking giant. Ten batalha marched through the gateway, led by General Morte. The general chewed the remains of a small white leg.

  “My Queen, your personal guard are ready and await your orders,” Morte shouted.

  Cries of pain and rage rang out beyond the gates.

  “What is going on in the mine? I thought I ordered the yeti slain!” the queen said.

  “We locked down the mine, but we thought it best to search the yeto quarters before we blast them to hell. We cannot hunt the intruder and lay waste to the camp at the same time. The yeto refuse to submit to our orders. Many on both sides have been killed in the standoff.”