“Why do you drown?”Cyrus shouted, to his three captured crew. “You are water klops, bred for thesea.”
The deckhands staredaround at one another, waiting for the others to reply. Cyrus glared at the trio,his anger rising. The bald klops finally caved.
“Been on land toolong,” he said, his lopsided eyes shifting about nervously, “Gills are driedout. Need time to re-adjust. Batalha can never return.”
The grey fiend stuckout his purple tongue and drew a knobbly thumb across his gilled neck.
“More smoke up ahead,”Edward interrupted.
The white spider satcrouched on Cyrus’ shoulder. He pointed southwest with one of his seven long legs.Again, Cyrus searched the sea, and again he found a slim ribbon of smoke on thehorizon.
“Slow us down,” heordered, “Five degrees to port.”
The hune was leaving them a trail of breadcrumbs, but if thiswas how Knavish’s crew welcomed armed pursuers, how would they greet a defenselessone?
Chapter11
COLD BLOODED
CYRUS’ CREW CONTINUED ON into the moonless night. Not a singlestar shone in the dark heavens. The wind was cold and strong, blowing in fromthe icy north. Cyrus stood at the ship’s tiller; his furry hood pulled over histhick mane. He listened to the sea wash and chop against the hull of the boat. Thefatigued klops manned the lines. Like a distant dwindling candle, the burningwreck of a fifth attack ship smoldered in their wake. How many more vessels hadthey passed, Cyrus wondered? How many lay broken and dead at the bottom of the ocean?He continued to search the horizon for their next trail marker. All he saw beforehim was a black abyss. He was beginning to lose hope.
“There,” Edwardsaid, pointing southeast from within Cyrus’ collar.
Cyrus scanned the sea.He spied off the port side bow the tiny twinkle of torchlights. There was somethingstrange about the many lights. It was as if there was not one ship, but several.Had he come across the remains of Schlaue’s fleet sailing in formation? Cyrusthought not. He shifted course to intercept. Then he took a coil of rope and securedthe tiller.
“No lights,” hewhispered to the crew, as he dashed down to the main deck, “If any of you so muchas sneeze, I’ll cut out your fool tongues from your filthy mouths.”
The three villainscowered away. Cyrus moved towards the captain’s quarters.
“Fibian,” he said,opening the door.
The chamber was dim.The froskman was awake, dressed in his furs.
“I need you on thetiller,” Cyrus said.
“What is it, youngMaster?” Fibian asked.
“I don’t know.”
With his lone arm,the froskman reached into a wooden chest and buckled a knife and sword to hiswaist. He picked up a second sword and dagger and threw both to Cyrus. Cyruscaught them mid-air, then slid them within his belt. Fibian collected two loadedrifles from a crate. He handed one to Cyrus, then stepped past him through thedoorway.
“No morerecklessness,” the froskman said. “No more arrogance. You nearly blew up yourselfand Master Edward. You must be clever if you are to defeat the Warrior Witch.”
Cyrus grew angered.Who was Fibian to lecture him? They would be in league with a murderous slavequeen if the froskman had had his way.
“He’s right,” Edwardwhispered, from his collar, “We didn’t get this far on blind luck.”
Cyrus glared atFibian. The froskman mounted the bridge deck and grasped the wheel. Cyrus wasabout to slam the cabin door shut when he remembered the enemy was near. He tooka deep breath, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and moved towards the ship’sbow.
The lights were gettingcloser. He sensed somethingin his belly. The sensation was familiar.
“What is it?”Edward asked, skittering across his back.
“The Battle Hune,”Cyrus whispered.
They had found theirnew home. As they grew closer, the torches in the distance formed a delicate stringon the black sea.
“Sentry posts,”Cyrus said, “They’re guarding the wall, searching for approaching ships.”
“Why aren’t they attackingus?” Edward asked.
“Too dark,” Cyrus replied,“They can’t see us yet.”
“They’re not moving,”the blodbad whispered.
“The hune’s notlike a ship,” Cyrus said, “It’s been on the run day and night. It must need rest.”
Cyrus walked backto the main deck.
“Heave to,” he whisperedto the three klops, “This ship goes no further. Launch the skiff.”
The crewmendropped sails, then moved towards the rowboat at the aft of the vessel. Theyunfastened the skiff, then drew on rope pulleys to lower the craft into the sea.
Cyrus collected upa grappling hook and rope from the main deck. Then he motioned to Fibian. The froskmanstepped from the quarterdeck.
“Take Edward aboardthe boat,” Cyrus whispered.
He handed Fibian theblodbad and the grappling hook.
“What are you planning?”the froskman replied, his expression stern.
“We are taking thathune,” Cyrus said, equally as firm.
Reluctantly,Fibian shouldered the hook and line, then mounted the port side rail. Cyruswatched as the froskman descended the rope ladder to the craft moored below.
“Are you coming?” Edwardcalled up.
“Shhh,” Cyrus whispered,“Just be ready to push off.”
Once Fibian was aboard,Cyrus turned to his crew.
“Below deck,” he ordered.
The klops froze.
“Now,” Cyrus demanded,his square jaw held firm.
The three fiends loweredtheir heads and skulked towards the hold’s door.
“You will waitbelow until morning,” Cyrus said,” When you re-emerge, we will be gone, and theship will be yours. Understand?”
The three klopsstared at each other, confused. Cyrus opened the hatch, then shoved the villainswithin.
“Show your faces beforemorning’s first light,” he said, “and I’ll shoot them off.”
He slammed the holdclosed. His back twinged. He drew his dagger and drove it like a stake, hard intothe doorframe, jamming the door shut. Then he entered the captain’s quarters.
Within the shadowychamber, Cyrus moved towards several barrels stacked against the port side aft cornerof the room. He cracked open the first keg and poured a trail of fire powderfrom the stack to the bed of hay. He tossed the cask aside. Then he moved tothe stove and grasped a smoldering log. He threw the log onto the hay bed. Thicksmoke began to rise from the sod. Cyrus grasped two more daggers from an open crate.As he exited the room,
