Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
Chapter 31

THE FORTRESS

CYRUS AND EDWARD DISCUSSED their rescue plan while the slender boat danced with the tide. The small group of remaining klappen monitored their prey from the shoreline. The night grew long. Cyrus and Edward slept little. Then morning broke, and the sun began to rise. The fugitives watched with relief as the grotesque creatures retreated to the protection of some dark dwelling. Probably the castle, Cyrus thought. The hairs on his neck prickled.

“It’s time,” he said, taking a deep breath.

Cyrus began to paddle back towards the beach. His eyes were scratchy with exhaustion. Was this a good idea? The morning sun was hidden behind grey clouds, and the wind swept west. Their craft hit the beach with a sandy crunch. Cyrus watched the trees for an ambush. Fibian never told him what happened to klappen if they were caught out in the daylight.

“I think they’re really gone,” Edward said, crawling on top of Cyrus’ hat.

Cyrus hopped out of the boat and slowly made his way up the shore. The beach was littered with their dead and battered foes. Under the light of the grey, morning sky, the carcasses began to smoke and smolder. The stink brought Cyrus to his knees, heaving. So that is what sunlight did to klappen.

“Try to hold your breath,” Edward said, “The faster we’re done, the sooner we can leave.

Cyrus wiped his mouth and rose to his feet. He made his way towards the huts. There, where Fibian had made his last stand, was the bow and quiver. Cyrus picked them up and inspected each. Both had been trampled and roughed up, but they would work.

“Thank the Angels,” Cyrus whispered, “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Next, he moved towards two bodies with arrows through their chest. Cyrus crouched down beside the nearest. He caught a whiff of the smoking body and threw up in his mouth. Coughing and spitting, he held his breath. Then he grasped the shaft near the entry wound; twisted and pulled. Wet muscle and tendon bit and snapped at the arrow, but finally, it tore free. He inspected the projectile. It stunk of burnt, putrid meat, but it would fly true.

In the end, Cyrus collected sixteen arrows in total. He cleaned them all as best he could in the ocean. Then they climbed back into their boat and set off north in the direction of the castle.

The beach seemed to span the coast for miles, watched over by a dark jungle that might harbor all sorts of spies or assassins. Finally, sand and tree gave way to sheer, towering cliffs. Seabirds squawked and circled above, darting into cracks in the rock. Waves crashed against stone, sending sea spray into the air. Cyrus’ hands and face grew coarse with sea salt. Around every corner, he hoped and feared he would spot Rorroh’s ship. Then, at mid-day, they did…

Amongst the cliffs was a secluded bay with a narrow mouth and wide belly. Cyrus’ eyes fixed on Rorroh’s vessel. It appeared black and lifeless. Was there movement within? Cyrus could see nothing obvious, but there was no way of telling what eyes may be spying from which crack.

“Over there,” Edward said, crawling across Cyrus’ shoulder.

How had Cyrus missed it? Within the bay, set into the stonewall, the sea lapped at a massive, steel gate.

“This must be how she entered the castle,” Edward said.

The gate was as tall as thirty men, and half as wide. It was very thick and crafted to look like a shield. It was rusted and encrusted with barnacles near the water line.

Cyrus peered up at the fortress, high upon the cliff. He wished entering the castle would be as easy as knocking on the massive door and stepping through, but he knew that would be as suicidal as attempting a frontal assault. He saw no weakness in the gate, and it would take a lifetime to cut through that steel.

“You think whoever created this place cut a tunnel through the rock from sea to castle?”

“It seems so,” Edward said.

Cyrus shook his head in disbelief. How many armies would it take to complete such a task?

He paddled past Rorroh’s ship, giving it a wide berth, and over to the cliff below the fortress.

“Are you sure about this?” Edward asked.

Cyrus had the rope, bow, and quiver of arrows strapped over his shoulder and around his chest. The small spider crawled along the equipment, inspecting it all for flaws.

“It’ll be fine,” Cyrus said, “I just have to remember what Fibian taught me.”

He wished he felt as confident as he pretended to be. He checked his boots, made sure his knife was secure and tucked his hair under his cap. Then Cyrus reached out and grasped the stone wall. Was he really going to climb up the sheer rock face to save Fibian? He could still turn and leave, paddle out to sea and hope for the best. He gripped the face with his other hand, then wedged his right boot into a crack. Cyrus peered down at his left foot still in the boat. The craft gently bobbed with the sea. Cyrus withdrew his foot and jammed it into the crevice. The small craft began to drift away.

“There’s no going back now,” Edward whispered.

Cyrus relaxed and took a deep breath. Then he loaded his weight onto his legs and, keeping at least three points of contact with the cliff, began to scale the rock face.