Rorroh grasped him by the roots ofhis hair and jerked his head up.
“First, I’m going to gut your froskmanfriend,” she said, brown spittle flying from her lips, “then I’m going to dissectthe blodbad spider. And you’re going to watch itall.”
Rorroh released her grip, bouncingCyrus’ skull off the floor.
“And when you beg to see no more, I’m going to chew out your eyes andleave you for the klappen.”
She walked over to a wooden slab table and began to set out various knivesand stained instruments.
Cyrus writhed in agony. He wished for sleep. He wished for darkness. Hewanted the pain to stop any way possible.
“You know,” Rorroh said, looking over herhumped shoulder, “I can understand the froskman’sbetrayal. I was never sure how much hate to put into their souls. Too much andthey become arrogant and unruly. A fine trait for a dragon, but not for adeadly 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 andankle screamed. With great effort, he looked around. Fibianlay across from him, the short-sword near his side. What was Cyrus going to do?He could not fight.
“Master,” Fibian whispered.
Struggling, Cyrus looked up. Fibian stared athim through blackened slits. How was he talking with a lacerated throat? The froskman coughed up a trickle of blood, then opened hisremaining hand. The vial of dragon’s blood rolled out.
Cyrus remembered Drache’s words. All dragon’sblood will give you is a slow, agonizing death. Rorrohturned 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 spikefrom the table. Then she stalked over, picked the froskmanup 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 goingto faint. He uncorked the vial. The air seemed to snap and the blood withinbegan 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. Theblood tasted of sugar and kerosene. It seared his mouth. The burning courseddown his throat and into his legs. Cyrus began to seizure and sweat. What washappening? His broken ankle made a cracking noise like a split rock. The agonycaused him to convulse, and his backsnapped. His wrist, nose, and jaw tootwisted and cracked. Cyrus felt as if he had swallowed molten steel. His skingrew 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. Allwent black…
Chapter 38
THE SEA ZOMBIE
DARKNESS. The world was silent. Wasthis death? Cyrus strained to move. He felt detached from his body. He openedhis heavy eyes. He was blind. Then colorbegan to creep in at the edges. He started to hear dripping water. He feltaround with his hand. He was lying on cold, solid ground. He looked up. Hisvision cleared. Rorroh was eyeing him, frozen as acorpse. Behind her, Fibian still hung by his hand. Thefroskman had the distinct look of hope on hisbattered face.
Cyrus rose to his feet. His ankle felt strong. He held his wrist androlled 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 soslowly. She stabbed at his face with her long, narrow blade. Cyrus easily guidedthe blow away with his right hand, gripping her shoulder with his left. Withhis left leg, he swept her feet. She crashed head-first into the wall.
Rorroh scrambled and gained herfooting, a large gash over her right eye. She looked at Cyrus, shocked andconfused. Or was it fear? She drew a long-sword from the mantel on the wall.
“I’ll split you in two!”
She came at Cyrus swinging the blade with expert timing. Cyrus read hermovements 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 wasamazed at how easily he could predict her patterns. The sword felt like afeather 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. Cyruskicked 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 cankill me?”
She sprang back to her feet, wielding her long-sword as if she was awhirling 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 wrenchedat the handle as if it were a stubborn root. Using his momentum, Cyrus shiftedhis weight to his rear foot. His blade whistled through space. He hacked intothe witch’s wrist, severing her remaining hand.
“NOOOOO!”
Rorroh fell from her sword, black bloodjetting from her stump. Cyrus carried his motion into a spinning, backhandedslash. He cleaved through Rorroh’s sinewy neck. Herhead spun into the air; then struck the ground, heavy and wet. Blood sprayedthe room. The witch’s headless corpse kicked and thrashed at tables and chairsas if fighting off a swarm of wasps. Then it careened into a wall and crumpledinto a grey, writhing pile.
Cyrus dropped his sword and stepped back. What had he done? He looked athis hands, his chest. Blood covered. What had come over him? He stared down atthe empty vial that had once contained Drache’s blood.He had saved his friends’ lives. He had believed. Fibianwas right. The legend was true.
