“I bring news from the mine,”he said, “and prisoners. I must speak with General Schlaueimmediately.”
The squad leader, a large batalhawith tattoos staining the left side of his face, motioned towards the captives.Four klops stepped out of line and approached thebeasts. The pack wolves carrying Cyrusand Fibian began to bare their fangs. The klops hesitated.
“We had a deal,” Knavish said.
The big wolf glared at his underlings.Something unspoken passed between the animals. The smaller wolves started to pant,sitting on their hindquarters. The four guards continued their task. They wrestledCyrus and Fibian off of the shaggy hounds’ backs. Theklops stared at the froskman,confusion spreading across their crooked faces.
“The Queen’s brother,” Knavish explained.
“The Queen has a brother?” one of the klopsreplied.
“She sent you?” the squad leader asked.
“I will explain all to the General,” Knavishreplied.
If only Icould get my hands free, Cyrus thought, I would smash these fools.
The starved beasts again beganto growl nervously, ridges of fur rising up their spines. The four klopsdragged Cyrus and Fibian roughly past the remaining guards and through the gates.The tattooed batalha led the way with Knavish at his side.
“The dogs?” the squad leader asked.
“We’re done with thedogs,” Knavish replied.
The batalha whistled a sharp,hooking note. Four loud cracks echoed through the valley. A sickening dread filled Cyrus’ stomach. He felt the hairson his body rise.
“NO, NO, NO!” a klops cried out frombehind the gate.
Then came the sound of gnashingteeth, shredding flesh and crunching bones. A great howl rang out. Cyrus turned,wide-eyed. Fibian stared back, concerned but notafraid. The black and silver wolf emerged through the gate, his shoulder wounded and bloody. A severedgrey arm dangled from his snarling mouth. The beastthrew the limb aside and bounded towards Knavish. This was their chance.
“Rifles!” the squad leader ordered.
“Fibian!” Cyrus cried.
He barged his large frame into the lieutenant’shunched back, knocking the klops to the snow. The bigwolf leaped forward. The four guards raised their weapons. The guns rang out. Theiraims were true. Four spats of red stained the wolf’s brow. The hellhound fellface first to the earth, his thick muzzle plowing up snow. Fibian’slone arm was tied tight to his body. He spun andheel kicked the tattooed batalha in the ribs. The bigklops folded. Cyrus reached down and grasped Knavish’s rifle in his bound hands.
“Nobody move,” he ordered,raising the weapon.
The squad leader picked himself up off of the ground and backhandedFibian across the jaw. Then he aimed a pistol at the froskman’s head.
“Drop it,” the brute ordered, “or we find out what makes his eyes glow.”
Cyrus refocused his aim at thebatalha’s tattooed face. Knavish rolled to his side in the snow. He heldthe coin purse in his three-fingered grip.
“Drop it,” he demanded, “or I crush your tiny friend.”
The klops stared at Knavish, confused.Cyrus peered around at the surrounding enemy. Fibian shook his head no.
“Put it down, young Master,” he said.
“Put it down, or you all die here and now,” Knavish added.
Rage and dread filled Cyrus’ chest. He lowered his rifle andtossed it to the cold earth. Knavish rose up and punched him in the stomach.
“You’ll pay for that, Child Eater,” the lieutenant spat, grasping Cyrus by the neck, “You’ll pay for that andmuch more.”
Cyrus clenched his teeth, fear tempering his anger and frustration.He needed Edward free. He wanted Knavish dead. He needed to board that hune. Everythinghe desired was within his reach, and yet… He fought back the terror and despaircreeping in at the edges of his mind.
The tattooed batalha thrust the butt end of his rifle into Fibian’s side. The froskmanstumbled forward. Then the squad leader drove both prisoners ahead.
The cold air began to smell of fish oil and dung. Theodd fire burned here and there throughout the village,illuminating blacksmiths’ forges andstacks of armor plating. Several thatch-roofedhuts began to appear along the snowy trail. The shelters’roofs were gabled and ran straight to the earth. Snow and weed covered bothhovel and ground, and Cyrus could not tell where the earth stopped and the roofsbegan.
In a clearing beside the shacks sat a pen of giant tusked creatureswith snouts like thick leather hoses. Their ribcages protruded through their woolyflesh, and they looked about wearily with big, soulful eyes.
The three prisoners neared the shore. The otherness in Cyrus’ stomach grew stronger. He looked out to sea. A fleet of twin-mast attack ships loomedwithin the harbor. Beyond the wooden vessels,in deeper waters, lay what could only be the hune,massive and unmoving. The giant shelledcreature faced away from the village. Cyrusstudied its forested body. Its shores were protected by a wall of steel, similar tothe Dead Fence. Torchlights burned around thewall’s perimeter. Was the hune alive? Was it thegiant, Gabriel, that Cyrus felt?
The tattooed batalha hauled theprisoners towards a large leather tent standingamongst a pavilion of similar, smaller huts. Thesounds of laughing, shouting, squabbling klops came from within.
What would these villains do once they foundout that Cyrus had murdered their queen, that their mine had been destroyed? Hefelt cold sweat soak the insides of his furs.
A small, wooly white creature cowered infront of the tent. Its face was swollen and red blood stained its fur.
“Saltfish and pork,”the tattooed batalha ordered, “and wine.”
The ape-like creature fled off into the night.
The klops shoved the prisoners throughthe flaps of the large tent. Cyrus stumbled within. He kept his face stern. The raucous voices dissipated. Cyrus quicklyscanned his surroundings. A coalpit burned in the center of the tent,warming the shadowy room. The stuffy air smelled of rancid fish oil, rotting cabbageand spilled liquor. Dark, contorted facesglared at Cyrus through the glow of the embers. He did not meet their eyes but did not avoid them either.
This was their end, he knew. They had comeso close
