Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
Chapter 25

THE BLODBAD SPIDER

IT WAS JUST BEFORE LUNCH when Cyrus followed Fibian up onto Drache’s tail. The armor smelled musky and felt thinly of oil. Don’t fall, Cyrus thought, pulling his way up the dragon’s back. He clung, white-knuckled, to the spikes along the beast’s spine. The serpent’s scales shifted and scraped underfoot.

“We will fly on until nightfall, then replace a place to bed-down for the evening,” Drache said, stroking his beard, “It may take two or three days to reach the north depending on the wind.”

“Will the yeti definitely help us?” Edward asked, huddled inside Cyrus’ jacket collar.

“It would be in their best interests,” Fibian said, adjusting the bow and arrows slung around his chest.

The froskman walked across the dragon’s uneven body as if it was flat, solid ground.

“We both have the same enemy, and we both desire the same result.”

“Save your breaths until we are airborne,” Drache said.

The dragon rose to all fours and began to stalk towards the cliff edge.

“No, wait-” Cyrus blurted.

He sat behind Fibian, clinging to the serpent’s barbed spine as if he meant never to let go. Drache paused on the precipice.

“If you want to turn back, now is the time,” the dragon smirked, looking over his shoulder.

Turn back and go where? Cyrus thought. He set his face in a mask of stern concentration and fought back the urge to run.

“As you wish,” Drache said.

The rain had long since passed, but the sky was still dark, the wind moaning like a searching wraith. The serpent tipped himself over the edge. Cyrus’ world became a rushing mass of terror. The wind ripped at his ears; at the rope looped around his chest. His internal gauges spun like mad clocks. His stomach screamed of impending doom. Against all instincts, he fought back the panic, keeping his eyes shut and mouth bit tight. Was the dragon trying to kill them?

The wind in his ears calmed, and the descent began to slow. Then their course evened out, and Cyrus peeked an eye open. They were skimming the waves. The water was white-capped and dark as coal. Cyrus peered around for land. He saw only the Himmel Horn stabbing skyward behind them.

“Edward, you okay?” he asked, his voice thin and shaky.

“I think so,” Edward said, still clinging to Cyrus’ collar.

Cyrus looked out and watched as the dragon’s armor-plated wings pitched and beat against the grey sky, sheets of steel buckling and sliding over massive shoulder blades. How could this colossus fly with such little effort? Cyrus thought of the yeti and what those giants might be capable of.

“If the yeti stronghold was able to fend off Rorroh’s minions, do you think it will be able to protect us from Rorroh as well?” he asked.

“Perhaps long enough to ready you for what you must do,” Fibian said, “but make no mistake, Rorroh is a rising tide. No one but you can stop her.”

The froskman looked up towards Drache’s severed stump.

“Many have tried and failed, but no one has ever been able to defeat her. And no one but you ever will. We can help prepare you for what must be done, but it is you and you alone that will have to end her vile reign.”

Can’t he see I’m not a hero? Cyrus thought, Can’t he see I’m not the one? How could he be so clever and yet so wrong? Well, he’ll figure it out when he wakes and replaces Edward and I have fled…

Careful not to hurt his best friend under his collar, Cyrus pulled his cap firmly over his pointed ears and wrapped his scarf tight around his neck. The wind bit at his hands and face and his body ached with clinging tension.

They flew for several hours, passing strange volcanic islands and cloud-ringed peaks. Cyrus’ lids grew heavy, and he craved rest, but he dared not for fear of slipping from the dragon’s back and falling to his death.

They neared a distant island with high peaks and deep bays.

“We will bed-down here for the evening,” Drache said.

As the shoreline drew closer, Cyrus spotted an abandoned fishing village with several huts and boats along the water’s edge.

“I wonder where all the villagers have gone?” he asked.

The forests below were lush and green and as dense as the deepest, darkest sea. Drache followed the foaming coast to their unknown destination. In a shadowy cove, near the tree line, Cyrus thought he saw several strange people, narrow and bent, peering out from the woods. Were they the villagers from the fishing village?

“What is that?” Edward asked.

“Some sort of castle,” Fibian said.

Cyrus turned and saw a tall, spiny structure, looming over a jagged cliff edge. Below the cliff was a well-protected bay. And within the bay was moored an oily, black ship. Rorroh’s ship!

“Fibian,” Edward gasped, from Cyrus’ collar.

Fibian drew his blade.

“It is a double-cross!” he said.

“Wait, what?” Cyrus gasped.

His legs turned to jelly. He could not face Rorroh again. He had barely escaped the first time. And this time she would have a dragon. Drache veered left, his body flipping sideways.

“Aaah!”

Cyrus scrambled and grasped spine and scale, his hands slipping off the slick steel. Fibian sprang across Drache’s winding frame and leaped onto his head. He stabbed at the beast’s eyes and face. Drache roared, and his flight became erratic. Cyrus’ stomach felt full of snakes. He could barely hold on. Fibian’s going to get us killed before Rorroh even has a chance, he thought, fighting for a tighter grip. Drache dove for the forest, his body clipping the treetops. One caught Fibian in the chest. He came flying off Drache’s mantle, flipping and reeling through the air.

“No!” Edward shouted.

If they lost the froskman, they were done for. Cyrus had to duck as Fibian’s flailing form whipped past his head. Cyrus watched in shocked amazement as the froskman grasped hold of the dragon’s tail. Without missing a beat, Fibian again leaped and clutched his way along the serpent’s arching body. The dragon ducked into a narrow river valley, trying to knock Fibian off on either side of the wooded bank. This time Fibian sprang over to Drache’s severed stump. The dragon seemed to sense the danger. He shrieked and corkscrewed. Cyrus lost his hold and slipped backward.

“Cyrus!” Edward shouted.

Cyrus slid into a row of spines, spun and clung to the nearest he could grasp. He hugged the horn with all his might and watched as Fibian held his blade high. The froskman stabbed the exposed scar tissue of the serpent’s severed head. Blood sprayed the air. The beast shrieked and veered right, crashing through several trees. Pine needles, blood, and bark showered Cyrus’ face. Ahead, the river gathered into a large, frothing pool at the base of a crashing waterfall.

Fibian drove his blade into the dragon’s flesh a second time, cutting a deep trench into his hide. Roaring in pain and fury, Drache bridged and dove headfirst for the water.

“Nooo-”

The pool struck Cyrus in the side with a concussive slap. His surroundings became a ringing torrent of swirling bubbles and muffled thunder. Fighting for clarity, he pumped his limbs. He felt trapped in frigid oil.

When his senses gathered, he found himself floating upside down and heavy with clothing. Bewildered, Cyrus kicked and clawed his way through the churning water, away from the crashing steel. His breath was running out. His hands grasped stony bottom. He lifted his head and broke the surface. Cyrus stood at the edge of the pool in waist-high water.

“Edward?”

He felt around his neck. Where was Edward?

Metal smashed against stone. Cyrus turned towards the ruckus. Fibian sailed past his head and struck a tree on the riverbank. The froskman clattered to the earth like a bundle of broken kindling.

“No.”

Cyrus splashed through the water and ran to Fibian’s side.

The froskman was groaning, clutching his chest where Rorroh’s blade had penetrated his heart. Cyrus heard the dragon nearing behind him. He turned, his nerves electric, and drew his blade. The dragon towered over him, ribbons of water streaming off his serrated iron frame.

“You’re coming with me,” Drache snarled.

He swiped at Cyrus with a steely claw. Cyrus ducked. The dragon missed, catching only Cyrus’ fur hat in his talons. Drache hunched low, exposing his bleeding stump.

“Or would you rather I eat you whole?”

Cyrus was not going back to that twisted Rorroh creature no matter what. But what was he supposed to do? Run? Fight back? Both were suicide. He had to do something. He felt his heart beat as if it were going to explode. Desperation took hold. Like a trapped mouse, he turned and fled for a small opening between two trees. Maybe he could lose the dragon in the underbrush. A massive claw smashed the earth, blocking his path. Cyrus cut right, bolting along the water’s edge. He searched for another gap in the vegetation. A second claw struck down in front of him, cutting off his escape. He turned and began to backtrack. The dragon’s tail nearly crushed him. Cyrus was cornered. His lungs drew quick, shallow breaths. He thought of Rorroh’s slavering maw and her amputated hand. What parts of him would she cut off in retribution? His mind became feral.

“So, you wish to be eaten alive, do you?” Drache asked, closing in.

Again, the serpent hunched low, baring his fleshy stump. I’m not going back! Cyrus sprang at the beast like a barn cat. With his knife held high, he dove at the dragon’s exposed flesh. A hulking, armored head struck Cyrus in the ribs. His world exploded into a massive swirl of stars. Then he crashed back into the shallows, his side screaming and his thoughts scattered. Like dropped coins, he tried to collect his wits as he crawled drunkenly through the water.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Drache growled.

Cyrus felt steel clamps grip him around the body, squeezing the wind from his already battered chest. Panic cleared his vision, and he found himself face to face with the raging serpent.

“I would kill you myself,” Drache snarled, “but she will triple any torture I could think of.”

“You could have been free,” Cyrus wheezed, his blond hair plastered across his face, “why betray us?”

“I crossed the Vann Witch once,” Drache said, shaking his head, “Never again.”

The dragon turned to give flight.

“Please don’t,” Cyrus begged, “I’ll do anything.”

He looked around in desperation. The tree where Fibian had lain was bare. The froskman was gone. Had he abandoned him? And where was Edward? Dead in the water?

Drache twisted and roared. Fibian appeared on the dragon’s snout. Thank the Angels, Cyrus thought. Fibian unshouldered the bow and nocked an arrow. The dragon whipped his head, but Fibian clung to the beast’s bloody scales and held on. Lowering himself down to one knee, the froskman drew the string and fired the projectile point blank into the beast’s eye. The arrow hit the lid and shattered on impact. Again, Drache reeled and shrieked. Fibian nocked another arrow. Drache’s tail whipped past his head. The froskman ducked. He fired a second arrow at close range. To Cyrus’ dismay, the second splintered as well, but Fibian was not about to give up. He nocked a third arrow. The dragon’s claw caught him clean in the back. Fibian went sailing, head over heels, through the air.

“Noooo!” Cyrus screamed.

Then, to both Cyrus and Drache’s surprise, the froskman loosed his bolt mid-flight. The arrow shot straight amongst the roiling havoc and struck Drache in the exposed right eye.

“Gaaaaaarrrrrr!”

The dragon dropped Cyrus and clawed at his damaged face. Cyrus landed in the shallows and watched as the beast shrieked and roared, splashing and stumbling through the churning pool. He beat his wings and swung his tail, splitting trees and stone alike. Then, with his good eye, he again caught sight of Cyrus. Cyrus scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll rip you and the froskman in two!” Drache shrieked, the shaft still protruding from his bloody socket.

The dragon began to charge. Cyrus tried to flee, but the serpent closed the distance. Cyrus fell and curled fetally. Drache shrieked, then jerked to a halt. He towered over top of Cyrus, frozen as if struck by lightning. Then, like a crumbling statue, the beast began to tip. He splashed into the water with a mighty crash, causing plates and scales to fall into jagged heaps amongst the churning silt. His head fell last. Cyrus winced and drew his legs in as the serpent’s skull smashed down at his feet. A wave of frigid water washed over Cyrus’ body, chilling him to the bone.

“Angels,” he cried out, as he scrambled away from the yawning, jagged mouth.

He spotted Fibian lying in the grass, covered in the dragon’s blood. He rushed to his side.

“Fibian, you okay?” Cyrus asked.

“I will live,” Fibian said, his vibrant voice sounding weak, “Where is the dragon?”

“Dead, I think,” Cyrus said, “You killed him.”

Fibian’s eyes lit up, full of confusion.

“Where’s Edward?” Cyrus asked, searching his collar and pockets, “We have to replace him.”

He looked to the pool. Edward must be somewhere in there.

Like a barn collapsing, a great groaning came from inside the dragon. Then the serpent’s armored sheets started to separate and slide into disjointed piles. Sand poured out from cracks in the armor and from Drache’s nose and mouth.

“It takes much more than a single arrow to kill a dragon,” Fibian said, looking suspicious.

The froskman rose from the ground and leaped into the water, making his way towards the serpent’s carcass. Cyrus followed.

“Well, if you didn’t kill him, who did?”

Fibian waded over to the dragon’s head, then beyond to the severed stump. Both the skull and stump were hollow husks bleeding a fine, golden silt. Fibian began to sift his fingers through the sand spilling from the severed neck.

“We don’t have time for this,” Cyrus pleaded, “We have to replace Edward.”

The froskman poured sand from one webbed hand to the next, seeming to study each grain.

“I believe I already have,” he finally said, with a look of worry.

He held his right palm up to a beam of dwindling sunlight. There, within a small mound of sand, lay the unconscious Edward, his black hair on end, and the yellow mark on his back ablaze.

“Oh, Edward,” Cyrus moaned, “What have you done?”