Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
Chapter 38

THE SEA ZOMBIE

DARKNESS. The world was silent. Was this death? Cyrus strained to move. He felt detached from his body. He opened his heavy eyes. He was blind. Then color began to creep in at the edges. He started to hear dripping water. He felt around with his hand. He was lying on cold, solid ground. He looked up. His vision cleared. Rorroh was eyeing him, frozen as a corpse. Behind her, Fibian still hung by his hand. The froskman had the distinct look of hope on his battered face.

Cyrus rose to his feet. His ankle felt strong. He held his wrist and rolled his fist. The bone had mended as if never broken.

“I survived,” Cyrus said, his jaw whole and his words clear.

“No,” Rorroh cried.

She charged Cyrus like a rabid boar. Cyrus wondered why she moved so slowly. She stabbed at his face with her long, narrow blade. Cyrus easily guided the blow away with his right hand, gripping her shoulder with his left. With his left leg, he swept her feet. She crashed head-first into the wall.

Rorroh scrambled and gained her footing, a large gash over her right eye. She looked at Cyrus, shocked and confused. Or was it fear? She drew a long-sword from the mantel on the wall. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“I’ll split you in two!”

She came at Cyrus swinging the blade with expert timing. Cyrus read her movements as if reading her mind. He picked up his short-sword and stepped back. He ducked the first blow, parried the second and jumped the third. Cyrus was amazed at how easily he could predict her patterns. The sword felt like a feather in his hand. And when he blocked Rorroh’s strikes, they seemed to have no power.

The witch grew frustrated and attempted a brute, overhead swing. Cyrus kicked her in the chest mid-blow and again sent her sprawling to the floor.

“You think you can beat me?” the witch growled, wiping blood from her torn mouth, “You think you can kill me?”

She sprang back to her feet, wielding her long-sword as if she was a whirling tornado. She slashed at Cyrus’ neck.

“Now,” Fibian wheezed.

Cyrus parried the blow, directing its energy downward. Rorroh’s sword bit deep into a wooden table. She wrenched at the handle as if it were a stubborn root. Using his momentum, Cyrus shifted his weight to his rear foot. His blade whistled through space. He hacked into the witch’s wrist, severing her remaining hand.

“NOOOOO!”

Rorroh fell from her sword, black blood jetting from her stump. Cyrus carried his motion into a spinning, backhanded slash. He cleaved through Rorroh’s sinewy neck. Her head spun into the air; then struck the ground, heavy and wet. Blood sprayed the room. The witch’s headless corpse kicked and thrashed at tables and chairs as if fighting off a swarm of wasps. Then it careened into a wall and crumpled into a grey, writhing pile.

Cyrus dropped his sword and stepped back. What had he done? He looked at his hands, his chest. Blood covered. What had come over him? He stared down at the empty vial that had once contained Drache’s blood. He had saved his friends’ lives. He had believed. Fibian was right. The legend was true.

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