Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie

TREACHERY

THE TWO GUARDS HAULED Cyrus down the alleyway like a sack of rubbish.

“Where are you taking me?” Cyrus asked, dragging his feet.

“To the Mayor’s tent,” growled one of the guards, “where you’ll await execution.”

Cyrus could hear the mayor begin a lecture about the importance of following village law.

“Hoblkalf’s going to get us all killed,” Cyrus said, “I’ll only be the first,” he uttered under his breath.

And in some small way that made him feel better, as if it would absolve him of Niels’ death. But once he imagined the noose draped around his neck, all thought of absolution left his mind. He knew he would become helpless and cowardly and scream for release.

The wind started to pick up and blow debris off several shelters. He noticed one of the tents had ‘HQ,’ freshly painted above its door flap. He could not believe that it was in this patch-worked heap that he would spend his last hours.

“You ever seen somebody hang before, boy?” the tall, burly guard asked, “You wet your pants for the whole village to see.”

Cyrus imagined the coarse hemp squeezing tight around his neck. Wetting his pants seemed the least of his worries.

When they arrived at the tent, the guards shoved Cyrus head-first through the door flap. He hit the ground hard, trying to protect his bruised and lacerated ribs. He winced and yelped in pain. The tent smelled of mold and stale cigars, and at the back sat an extinguished, wood-burning furnace. Cyrus peered about for escape.

“Don’t even think about it,” the fat guard said.

Beside the furnace rested a pile of scavenged wood and to Cyrus’ left lay a mattress stuffed with hay.

The guards shoved him to his belly and pressed his face into the cold, damp earth. Then they bound his wrists and ankles in rope.

“No, stop!” Cyrus cried.

But the more he struggled, the more they twisted his limbs and knelt on his back. He remembered a time when he saw a farmer, with a blade in hand, go out to butcher a pig. The pig knew what was coming and began to squeal wide-eyed, running in terror. Cyrus could not get the image out of his mind.

The men rolled him onto his side and tied him to the furnace. How much longer did he have to live? He dared not ask, too frightened of the answer.

“We’ll be outside,” the burly guard said, “Keep whining, and there’ll be nothin’ left to hang when the time comes.”

Cyrus lay on the frigid earth, his hip and shoulder bones grinding against his skin. He stared at a few cases and satchels piled in the corner, thinking, was all this real? Wouldn’t someone come to rescue him? Didn’t someone care? But Niels was dead, and Edward was too far and too small to help. Llysa would not help. This would be good news for her. She would be rid of a long-suffered embarrassment and burden. Cyrus had nothing and no one left. It barely seemed worth feeling sorry for himself. That would only please the town folk more. How had he gotten himself into this mess? He only wanted to help the village, stop the cave-in. He only wanted Niels to be safe.

Cyrus heard digging and rustling sounds behind him. Then came what sounded like something large sliding into the tent. The shouts of the mayor’s speech had vanished. Was this one of the villagers back from the gathering? A small scrabbling came from near the furnace. Cyrus held his breath. His skin began to prickle. He tried to roll to his opposite side. He was tied too close to the furnace. He began to twist and struggle, feeling almost claustrophobic. A cold, slender hand clasped him over the mouth. A pale figure with long, lank hair moved over him.

“Sarah?” Cyrus gasped, into her palm.

She had the prettiest, grey eyes. She put a finger to her lips and began to untie his bonds. One of the guards uttered something outside the tent. Sarah froze. Cyrus clenched his teeth and stared at the door flap. The other guard chuckled in response. Sarah knelt like a statue for several moments. Then her hands began to shake as she continued to untie the ropes.

Once the restraints were loosened, she waved for Cyrus to follow her. Was this a trap? What was Sarah doing? Why would she risk her life like this? He watched as she crawled on her belly under the flagging side of the tent. Then he followed.

As he wriggled beneath the canvas, he found two of the tent posts unearthed. So that is how she had crawled in. Outside, on her feet again, Sarah began to thread her way around several shelters, keeping crouched and quiet along the way. Cyrus stood and looked over his shoulder. What would they do if he were caught trying to escape? Was there anything worse than being hanged? Sarah poked her head around a brown, water-stained tent and waved frantically. Cyrus ducked low and followed.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Sarah asked, as Cyrus neared.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…”

Cyrus did not want to admit he was half frozen with terror. And seeing Sarah now so worried and beautiful, her throat flexing with each desperate breath, he found himself unable to speak.

“Alarm, alarm! The traitor’s escaped!”

The cries came from behind them.

“Come on,” Sarah said, taking Cyrus’ hand.

They ran crouched through the makeshift village in the direction of a small stand of trees. Angry shouts echoed at their heels. When they reached the trees, they ducked low behind a thick thistle bush.

“Where are we going?” Cyrus asked, his heart punching at his ribs.

“You have to escape over the fence and flee. Sail your boat away from here. It’s your only hope.”

Sail his boat away? Where? There was no land around as far as the eye could see. It was suicide!

“Why are you doing this?” Cyrus asked, between gasping breaths.

“Because you risked your life to save mine,” she answered, her skin smooth and pale, and her cheeks aglow with life.

“Duck,” she whispered.

The two lay flat on the wet earth beside each other. The sound of several villagers trampling along the grass came from the opposite side of the bush.

“He could have gone anywhere,” a deep voice said.

“Probably had help from the Sea Zombie herself,” said another.

Cyrus could not tell if the damp all over his body was from the wet ground and drizzling rain, or from his sweating in terror. He could feel Sarah shift beside him. She felt warm like a small furnace.

“We gotta keep moving,” a third voice said.

The group continued on south along the field.

“Let’s go,” Sarah said, under her breath.

She hopped to her feet and helped Cyrus off the ground. They ran like hunted foxes through the woods, vapor gusting from their lungs and their eyes always over their shoulders. They came to the Ring Road and peeked out of the forest. The gravel street looked empty.

“Quick, while there’s still time,” Sarah said.

Cyrus’ ears caught something barely audible. He grabbed Sarah’s wrist just as she was about to spring out. He looked at her, pleading and wide-eyed, and pulled her behind a tree. Twigs snapped and popped under heavy feet along the trail behind them. Cyrus fell low to the earth and peered out. The two guards from the tent came stalking through the woods. One carried an ax; the other a heavy tree limb.

“If we lose him, it’ll be our hides for sure,” the fat one said.

“Then let’s be sure not to lose him,” the burly one replied.

Their faces were red and soiled and their shirts sweaty and wrinkled.

“I heard him here a minute ago,” the fat one whispered.

“Then he can’t have gone far.”

The burly guard nodded to his partner and the two split up. The burly guard made his way out onto the Ring Road and looked about. The fat guard stepped through the underbrush, slowly moving in Cyrus and Sarah’s direction. Cyrus pulled himself back behind the tree. He and Sarah would be caught for sure. Sarah put a hand on his shoulder, and he almost screamed. He looked back at her; his mind blank with fright. She pointed at herself and made a running motion with her fingers; then pointed at Cyrus and did the same in the opposite direction. She was planning on running off and leading the guards away so Cyrus could escape. No! She would be taking too big a risk. He heard the fat man shift behind the tree. He saw his meaty hand slide around the tree’s trunk. Cyrus grabbed a fist full of dirt and rose to his feet. Just as he saw the whites of the guard’s eyes peer around the trunk, Cyrus loosed the dirt into his fat mug.

“Ahhh!” the guard screamed, dropping his club and clawing at his face.

“What’s all that racket?” the burly guard shouted, from the road.

“It’s him. He’s thrown dirt in my eyes!”

Sarah stood up and began to move further into the woods. Cyrus grabbed her wrist. She pulled free and put a finger to her lips, then quickly ran into the forest. Cyrus heard the burly guard come crashing through the trees, towards his fallen comrade. If Cyrus ran across the Ring Road, towards the Dead Fence, the guards would hear or see him, and he would be caught. He began to crawl slowly away from the tree, through a bush and down into a roadside ditch.

“Where is he?” the burly guard asked, his voice full of rage.

“How am I supposed to know? He blinded me,” the fat guard whined.

Cyrus peered over the bank and through the bushes. He saw the burly guard come stalking around the tree. The man looked left; then right, then began to move in his direction. Cyrus readied himself to run as best he could. With the chipped and dinged ax, the man began to part the bushes above Cyrus’ head. Run, you idiot, he thought. But fear kept him frozen in place. The man’s sweating, dripping nose started to poke through the part in the brush. Cyrus bit back a scream.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

Cyrus panicked and grabbed his mouth, but quickly realized the cry did not come from his lips. It came from further in the forest. The burly guard turned and ran in the direction of the cry.

“What’s going on?” the fat guard shouted, stumbling blindly after his partner.

“I saw him, I saw him!” Cyrus heard Sarah say, just beyond the trees, “He shoved me over and ran that way!”

Cyrus held still, watching the woods and listening. Were the guards coming back? Was Sarah in trouble? He could not see or hear a thing. He stood listening for several moments. Then he began to make his way out of the ditch.

“Cyrus?” a voice whispered.

He turned and to his relief saw Sarah creeping out of the brush.

“Over here,” he answered back.

She slid down the bank and into the ditch.

“There’s no time. They’ll be back soon,” she said.

Cyrus took her by the hand and pulled her across the road. They raced through Hekswood Forest, splashing up mud and whipping past sharp branches. They arrived at a clearing and crouched beside a tree. There the vegetation stopped, and the Dead Fence’s dried and cracked earth began. Cyrus scanned the area for danger. The coast was clear. He looked to Sarah. She was afraid, wide-eyed and beautiful, with twigs in her hair and mud on her face.

“Cyrus, you have to go,” she said, “I know you didn’t do what the Mayor says, but they’ll never forgive you. You have to sail away and never come back. Go to Myrkur Island. You’ll be safe there.”

But Cyrus knew that that was not true. Myrkur was crumbling just like Virkelot. It would only be a matter of time before he found himself in a cold, wet grave. And there was the blue-eyed phantom to worry about as well.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Now we’re even,” she replied.

Cyrus looked into her eyes, unsure what to do or say next. Sarah dropped her gaze.

“You have to go, Cyrus.”

He looked to his feet, feeling a familiar sense of rejection.

“Thanks again.”

He paused a moment, his pointed ears burning, then turned towards the Dead Fence. He began to make his way across the cracked earth.

“Wait,” Sarah said.

Cyrus stopped and looked back. She came over and stood in front of him. She had the strangest glint in her eyes as if she was about to cry. She reached up and touched his blackened brow. Cyrus looked away, ashamed. Sarah seized him and hugged him hard, pressing her head to his chest. Cyrus froze like a petrified tree. Then slowly he raised his arms and hugged her back.

“Take care of yourself and be safe,” she said.

Cyrus did not want this moment to end. He smelled her hair and held the light warmth of her body.

“I will.”

He heard voices off in the bushes. The two separated as if caught in some unthinkable act. Sarah looked to Cyrus.

“Run!”

Then she sped off into the woods, away from the nearing cries. Cyrus searched the tree line. Nothing. With a charging jump, he began to climb the ten-foot-high fence.

“There he is!” the burly guard shouted.

By the sounds of the racket, there were several men on his trail. An ax struck the fence to Cyrus’ left. The blade hit the wood like stone and fell to the earth. Cyrus clambered to the top of the wall. Several rocks passed near his head, hitting trees and bushes far beyond. Cyrus looked back. Eight or nine men broke into the clearing, furious and armed. One heaved a pitchfork. Another threw a sharpened stick. Cyrus half jumped, half fell off the fence, landing on the forbidden side of the forest. The projectiles hit the top of the wall and came clattering to the ground around him.

“Run back to your Sea Witch, traitor!” one man yelled.

“She’ll do worse than hang you,” another shouted.

The men hit the fence like wild beasts, yelling curses and poking sticks through knotholes in the pickets. Cyrus scurried away from the wall on all fours. What if one of the men grew bold and followed him over? Cyrus rose to his feet and began to sprint for the shoreline. He had to find Edward.