The air smelled ofburnt kerosene, fire powder, and charcoal. The ocean sizzled and steamed aroundthe massive carcass. Dark, rich blood leaked from the beast’s white eyes and greysmoke continued to spew from its nostrils. Schlaue walked around to inspect thedragon’s wound. Its armored belly had burst, exposing shattered ribs and searedorgans. Schlaue made his way over to the serpent’s left claw. Using his armsand legs, he prised open its oily talons. Within the dragon’s death grip, it helda tiny, green glowing orb. Schlaue snatched up the slick sphere and peered intothe stone’s womb.
“All for nothing,”the large klops spat, casting the stone into the sea, “The witch knows we’rehere.”
He peered up intothe surrounding mountains and clenched his fists.
“I must warn the Queen,” he said, his gills flaring, “TheBattle Hune is ready. This war can-not wait.”
***
FAR OFF TO THE SOUTH, an oily blackship sailed on a bitter easterly wind. Behind the craft a fleet of long, barbedvessels knifed through the rolling ocean. The Sea Zombie stood at the tiller ofher decaying boat. A black hawk perched on the tiller’s wheel. Rorroh sensedthe stone within her rotting robes. With her resurrected left hand, she drewthe orb from her pocket and held it to her failing eyes. A crooked smile splitacross her torn face.
“I have you now,”she said, her spidery hand closing tight around the stone.
“To the north,”she ordered, her voice still hoarse.
The hawk leapedfrom its perch and flew towards the fleet. The Sea Zombie scratched at the newlysewn stitches holding her severed head to her corded neck.
Soon Rorroh wouldsteal the lost hune for herself; then she would murder the renegade, Moro, andher traitorous water klops. Finally, when all hope of an alveling uprising wasdefeated, she would take Cyrus LongBones’ soul, and the sea would be foreverhers.
Chapter2
THE LONG WAY DOWN
THE CLOUDS WERE A GHOSTLY GREY, themountainside was powdery white. The stunted,snow-crusted trees that grew from the frigid rocks were wind-scraped andresembled bent dwarves.
Sixteen-year-old CyrusLongBones led his water klops prisoner down a twisting, gnarled pathway in search of the living islandknown as a hune. Cyrus needed the hune to rescue his stranded people. Only his cunningcaptive, Lieutenant Knavish, knew the way.
“This had better not be a trick,” Cyrus said, tugging hard onKnavish’s bound wrists, “Lead us astray, and I’ll throw you off this mountain.”
Cyrus wanted badly to kill the klops.Knavish had slaughtered yeti dear to him. His every living breath was an insultto their memory. Cyrus fantasized about casting the devious villain head-first fromthe dizzying cliffs. He felt the warmth and power of his fortified flesh. Hecould easily hurl the oily creature one-armed from the mountainside.He stared hard at the back of the batalha’shead. Would the filthy creature be so bold as to lead them into a trap? Could he be that foolish after what Cyrus haddone, after what he had become?
Do it,Cyrus thought, balling up his thick fists, giveme a reason.
“Easy, Cyrus,” Edward whispered, crouched onFibian’s shoulder.
“Without the Lieutenant, we are lost,” thefroskman warned.
Knavish said nothing. He just continuedforward, stumbling down the icy trail.
Cyrus was growing tired of Fibian’sconstant counsel. One snake in the grasswas enough. If Fibian had had his way, Moro wouldstill be alive, waiting to stab them in the back.
An eight-foot-tall, cream-coloredyeti named Tolva led their way down the mountainside.A gangly, brown-furred yeti named Torin broughtup the rear. The unlikely group ofsix had spent several weeks within the captured klopsmine, making preparations for theirjourney and recovering from their injuries. To Cyrus’ pleasant surprise, theinfant klops blood had not only gifted him with strengthand size, but also a froskman-like ability to heal.
His bruised shins had purpledand faded like a morning’s red sky. His burntflesh had peeled and recovered in only afew nights’ rest. His fingers were not as straight as they had once been, but after aweek in splints, the bones had fused and were as strong as Fibian’smechanical grip.
The yeti had supplied Cyrus and Fibianwith black bear furs to survive the elements, arifle and crossbow for long-range battle, and a sword and dagger for when bulletand bolt would not do. Food was scarce withinthe slave mine, but still, the yeti had provided salt meat and waterskins to see them on their way.
Cyrus wished that moreof the yeti had joined their endeavor, but the giants were sick and wounded and had been away from theirfamilies for far too long. They had problems oftheir own to attend to. Torin and Tolva were young and their captors had murdered their kin. Theirhearts were full of anger and revenge, and they were happy for the excuse to killmore klops.
The group had been hiking for two days. The meager daylight was beginning to dwindle.
“There it is again,” Tolva said,“Do you hear it?”
Cyrus paused. His pointed ears were muffled under his fur cap. Wasthat snarling he heard on the icy wind? He narrowed his steely, greyeyes, trying to focus his senses.
“Wolves,” Fibian said, unshoulderinghis rifle.
The froskman’s gazebegan to glow.
“Behind us?” Edward asked.
The blodbad looked like a snowflake crouchedon Fibian’s shoulder. His swollen gums made him slur his words.
“Is this a trap?” Cyrus demanded, squeezing the klop’s neck.
“Bridge ahead,” Knavish wheezed, “Cut the ropes.”
“The pack won’t be ableto follow us over a fallen bridge,” Tolva added.
The party began to bound downthe treacherous trail. Howling cries echoed through the mountains. Cyruspeered over his shoulder.
Bang!
From the rear, Torin discharged hisrifle into the advancing dusk.
“Faster,” he shouted.
“Move,” Cyrus said, shoving Knavish forward, “or I’ll break yourlegs and leave you for what follows.”
A large shape, all teeth,and fursprang from a rocky outcrop.
Bang!
Fibian fired his gun. A large brownwolf yelped in mid-air, knocking Torin to the ground. The beast was dead on impact. It was nearlyas big as the young yeti and appearedjust as underfed. Fibian ran back and
