Cyrus felt hissenses fall away. He was dying. It was over. The prophecy was not meant forhim.
ChildEater.
Could it be? Isthat what the prophecy foretold? Could Cyrus cross that line? Could he bring himselfto drink the blood of the innocent, water klops or alveling? It was his only hope.
With all thefocus he could muster, Cyrus exhaled his last breath. Then he drank deeply of thebaby klops blood. The thick fluid tasted salty andbitter. It filled his throat and became heavy and warm in his guts. A glowingbliss engulfed his being. Was this death? Cyrus’ world shrunk away to a tinypinprick. The ringing in his ears became a distant whine.
Chapter 38
COLD BLOOD
“CYRUS.”
Cyrus heardhis name being called from another world.
“Cyrus!”
Or was itanother room?
“You murderedhim! You drowned him!” Edward’s muffled voice shrieked. “I’ll kill you forthis. I’ll kill you!”
Cyrus felt hisheart first. It beat within his chest like a distant drum. The drumming movedthrough his body, rising to his ears. His bones ached and his muscles knotted.His body began to spasm all over. Cyrus’ skin seemed to be pulling itselfapart. He screamed in agony. The cry never reached his lips. His stomachturned. He rolled to his side and heaved. Purple blood spewed across the floor.The pain ebbed away. Cyrus felt tight all over, bound up. He began to panic. Heripped at his klops armor, stripping away the leatherand iron. Then he tore away his soiled, sodden furs. All that remained was hiswool underwear. He felt warm, free. He could breathe. Large gusts of vaporjetted from his nostrils. He looked down at his hands. They seemed larger, muchlarger. He tore a strip from his sleeve and bound together his broken fingers.Cyrus studied his forearms and arms. They were knotted with lean cordedmuscles. Thick veins swelled beneath the skin.
Cyrus rememberedEdward, trapped within a glass jar. He remembered Fibian,Tier, Moro. General Morte!
He looked up. Fibian and Moro were stalemated in battle, fighting for controlof Fibian’s blade. Mortewas coming to Moro’s aid. Fibian was doomed.
“Had enough, klops,” Cyrus shouted.
His voice wasnot his own. It was deeper, coarser.
“You’re alive!”Edward cried, from his jar on the ledge.
Cyrus lookedto his best friend. Edward’s expression became confused.
“Cyrus? Is thatyou?”
General Morte turned. His toothy jaw dropped and his small eyesgrew wide. He looked at the barrels of child’s blood, then back to Cyrus.
“You’re no klops,” the general shouted, “This can’t be!”
Cyrus lungedforward. His legs felt light, yet strong. Morte drewhis broadsword. He swung at Cyrus with a wild, forehand slash. Cyrus slippedunder the general’s blade, planted, and pivoted on his left foot. Heedless ofhis broken fingers, he drove his left fist into General Morte’sribs, just above the bloody gash.
“Gahhh!”
Cyrus feltbones crack. The general’s stomach folded. Cyrus transferred his weight to hisback foot. He plunged his right fist into the brute’s guts.
“OOhh!”
The generalfell to one knee, dropping his sword. Cyrus readied another strike. The generalrose up with a hooking punch of his own. He caught Cyrus under the jaw. Cyrus’ headrocked back, but the blow had little effect.
“Come here, mylittle pet,” Cyrus said, grinning.
Morte grew enraged. He followed his first strike with a second hooking blow.The shot connected with the side of Cyrus’ jaw. He rolled with the punch and continuedto smile. Morte snarled and threw a third punch.Cyrus ducked the blow, switched his footing, and delivered a left overhandedstrike. The general’s face exploded with blood and spit. He grabbed his noseand lifted his chin. Again, Cyrus switched his footing, but this time he threwan overhanded right. His fist collided with the end of Morte’sraised chin. The general stiffened like a corpse. He teetered. Then, like adying tree in a forest, he began to tip. Cyrus kept his feet moving. He pickedup Morte’s broadsword and whirled the blade overhead.Cyrus unwound a hacking blow that cleaved through Morte’sarmor, nearly cutting the water klops’ torso in two.The batalha’s body fell to the floor with a wet thud.
“Cyrus, Fibian!” Edward shouted.
Cyrus lookedover. Moro had her back to him and was mounted on Fibian’schest. Fibian’s mechanical hand was missing. Morowielded Fibian’s knife. She pressed the dagger to herbrother’s throat.
“Why have youchosen to serve a hune alve?”Moro shrieked, “You are better than them. You are better than all of this.”
She cast Fibian’s knife aside.
“Join me. Weare meant to be together. We are meant to defeat the Sea Zombie, to rule theoceans.”
Cyrus crepttowards Moro, staying within her blind spot. She rose off of Fibian and pulled him to his feet.
“Together wewill create a race of froskman, superior to all otherraces. A race of super beings that will rule all.”
“We can betogether,” Fibian said, wiping blood from his crackedlips, “but you must stop all this evil. Join us. Help us defeat the WarriorWitch. The prophecy is real. The alveling will saveus all.”
Moro paused,seeming to contemplate Fibian’s words. Cyrus froze,behind her left shoulder. He caught Vaca’s gaze. Thefat klops turned away, terrified, her flesh sweatyand pale. Cyrus looked to Edward, clinging to the wall of his glass jar. In theflickering lamplight, Edward’s face appeared horrified.
“Please, joinus,” Fibian said to Moro, his large eyes pleading.
“But how? Ihave come so far.”
Could she jointhem after all of this, Cyrus asked himself? Could they trust her? He thoughtof Moro’s story, of how she had lost her eye, defending a helpless alveling girl. There was some good in her somewhere…
Then hethought of Tier, beaten and defenseless, murdered on Moro’s orders. Hate beganto burn his being. He thought of all the yeti Moro had slaughtered, of all the klops children she had fed to her batalha.She planned to take Edward from him, take Fibian fromhim. She was going to kill Cyrus, probably feed him to her klopsarmy. There was no good left in that vile creature. She was broken, ruined,twisted by Rorroh’s ways. Cyrus recalled Tier’s dyingwish.
Promise meyou will kill them all.
And Cyrus hadpromised.
An image ofhis stepmother flashed through his mind. Ungrateful bastard, she had calledhim, right before she struck him in the mouth.
His body grewtight with rage. He lifted the klops broadsword withtwo powerful hands.
“NO!” Fibian shouted, reaching out with his remaining hand.
Cyrus drove thesword
