Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
Chapter 37

BATHED IN FIRE

LETTING HIS ANGER DRIVE HIM, Cyrus rounded on the Sea Zombie. He marched over to her and kicked her to the ground.

“How dare you!” the witch wailed, her poisoned hand shaking uncontrollably.

Cyrus weaved around a table and rack and drew a short-sword from the wall. Again, he looked to Edward and Fibian. Both lay stone still. He walked back to the cowering witch, wringing the handle of the sword. She looked cold and waxy, dripping with sweat. He kicked her in the stomach.

“That’s for my island.”

The witch wheezed and fell to her side. He kicked her in the ribs.

“That’s for Edward.”

Cyrus heard bones crack. Rorroh curled up in a fetal position. He kicked her in the head.

“That’s for Fibian.”

Rorroh’s head snapped back, her costume nose flying across the room. She slumped to the floor, blood dripping from her mouth. Cyrus stood over her like a hunter over game. He lifted her head, exposing her neck.

“And this,” he said, bringing the blade to her throat, “this is for Niels.”

The Sea Zombie clutched his arm with her remaining hand. She squeezed so tight, his wrist snapped. Cyrus cried out, dropping the sword.

“And that is just the beginning,” the witch growled.

She threw an elbow and struck Cyrus in the head. His face exploded in crimson pain. He fell to the ground and grasped his broken nose. Rorroh rose to her full height. With her wooden nose missing, her rotten, boney septum whistled and seeped. Her torn robes draped from one knobbly shoulder. She ripped off her sodden rags and threw them aside. Her sagging chest panted with yearning. Her drooping belly billowed and heaved. Her wiry legs rippled and flexed.

Cyrus struggled to his feet, favoring his broken wrist. Rorroh sprang forward, naked and crazed. She kicked him in the gut. Cyrus flew back over a table, planting on his broken wrist. Lightning pain flashed through his arm. He gasped for air. Rorroh threw the table aside as if it was made of straw. She kicked Cyrus in the mouth. His jaw shattered and his vision flashed white. As he came to, face down in the dust, he tongued his bloody mouth. Two of his teeth were broken. Rorroh stomped down on his ankle, snapping the bone. Cyrus tried to shriek but had still not recovered his breath.

Rorroh grasped him by the roots of his hair and jerked his head up.

“First, I’m going to gut your froskman friend,” she said, brown spittle flying from her lips, “then I’m going to dissect the blodbad spider. And you’re going to watch it all.”

Rorroh released her grip, bouncing Cyrus’ skull off the floor.

“And when you beg to see no more, I’m going to chew out your eyes and leave you for the klappen.”

She walked over to a wooden slab table and began to set out various knives and stained instruments.

Cyrus writhed in agony. He wished for sleep. He wished for darkness. He wanted the pain to stop any way possible.

“You know,” Rorroh said, looking over her humped shoulder, “I can understand the froskman’s betrayal. I was never sure how much hate to put into their souls. Too much and they become arrogant and unruly. A fine trait for a dragon, but not for a deadly spy and assassin. But how you were able to corrupt the blodbad’s way is truly a mystery.”

Cyrus slowly regained his breath. He tried to stand, but his wrist and ankle screamed. With great effort, he looked around. Fibian lay across from him, the short-sword near his side. What was Cyrus going to do? He could not fight. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Master,” Fibian whispered.

Struggling, Cyrus looked up. Fibian stared at him through blackened slits. How was he talking with a lacerated throat? The froskman coughed up a trickle of blood, then opened his remaining hand. The vial of dragon’s blood rolled out.

Cyrus remembered Drache’s words. All dragon’s blood will give you is a slow, agonizing death. Rorroh turned in their direction. Cyrus swept the vial up off the floor.

“Believe…” Fibian whispered.

Cyrus coughed and twisted in pain.

Rorroh drew a long, slender spike from the table. Then she stalked over, picked the froskman up by the wrist and skewered his remaining hand to a wooden pillar. Fibian did not shriek. He just dangled like a cut of meat, his head lolling.

“Have you ever seen swine gutted and cleaned before?” Rorroh asked, wielding a long, skinny blade.

It was now or never, Cyrus thought. The pain was too much; he was going to faint. He uncorked the vial. The air seemed to snap and the blood within began to glow and boil.

Fibian raised his head.

“He is starting to believe.”

Rorroh looked at Fibian, confused, then turned to Cyrus.

“Dragon’s blood? No!”

Cyrus made a small prayer; then, cringing, threw back the elixir. The blood tasted of sugar and kerosene. It seared his mouth. The burning coursed down his throat and into his legs. Cyrus began to seizure and sweat. What was happening? His broken ankle made a cracking noise like a split rock. The agony caused him to convulse, and his back snapped. His wrist, nose, and jaw too twisted and cracked. Cyrus felt as if he had swallowed molten steel. His skin grew red. He started to tear at his clothes. He let out a throat-ripping scream. Then he emptied his stomach with a violent convulsion. Cyrus was dying. All went black…

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