Cyrus LongBones and the Curse of the Sea Zombie
Chapter 32

NO GOING BACK

HAND OVER FOOT, Cyrus climbed the rock face. He dared not look down. He focused only on his breath and the next place he would wedge his hand or foot. Several times his grip slipped. Cyrus kept his composure, and his three points of contact, and continued on undaunted.

Cyrus reached the foot of the castle, exhausted. The climb had not been as treacherous as the Himmel Horn, but it had still taken all of his determination and focus. His forearms quivered, and his fingers bled.

Where castle wall met cliff face the earth had eroded, exposing the fortress’s foundation. Cyrus forced himself to steady his breath. He studied the wall above, plotting out the next leg of his climb.

“You see any guards?” he asked Edward, his voice strained.

“None,” Edward replied, from the top of Cyrus’ cap.

So far, their guess that the seaside flank of the castle would be least defended had paid off. The castle’s builders too must have thought that no one would dare scale that wall of the fortress, for the mortar between the brickwork had been poorly filled, making for rough handholds. Cyrus’ knees shook. He climbed the brick face as if it were a ladder.

Cyrus finally reached the battlements. He could barely feel his arms and his hands were grimy with bird droppings.

“Come on,” Edward whispered, “we’re almost there.”

A shriek echoed deep within the castle’s innards.

“Fibian!” Cyrus gasped.

His heart ripped. Was Fibian dying? Was he being tortured? Cyrus had to hurry.

Fear strengthened his grip, and he pulled himself over the ledge. He crouched low within the rampart’s walls, his chest heaving. The adrenalin ebbed, and his muscles started to knot. He peeked over the inner wall. There was a small courtyard below with a trap door at its center. The door was open…

Cyrus smelled dung and realized that the ground was slick with a sort of muck. A snorting, snarling sound came from the stone stairs leading from the courtyard to the battlements. Cyrus’ mind raced. He unshouldered his bow. A rat as big as a sheepdog hobbled onto the rampart. Its teeth were yellow shanks, its eyes red pits, and its tail arched and lashed like a whip.

“Kill it,” Edward cried, leaping from Cyrus’ hat onto his bow arm.

The rodent was only a few yards away. It sighted the intruders and hissed. Cyrus drew an arrow. He took a deep breath and pulled the nock to the corner of his mouth. His fingers stung and his arms shook. The rat began to froth, loping forward like a mad boar. Cyrus exhaled; then, at point-blank range, released the arrow. The missile struck the beast between shoulder and neck, penetrating the lungs, and probably the heart. It crashed snout first to the floor, its rear legs twitching.

“Thank the Angels,” Cyrus sighed.

He doubled over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“It has a collar,” Edward said, his black, fuzzy form crawling down Cyrus’ forearm.

“Some sort of watchdog,” Cyrus said, stepping on its skull and jerking the arrow free.

He looked at his dung-stained pants and hands, then at the rampart floor. Had that lone creature created that much waste?

More hissing came from each side of Cyrus.

“We’re surrounded,” Edward said, his two eyes wide.

From the rampart’s north and south corners came two more of the grotesque monsters. They were about thirty yards away. Could Cyrus make the stairs? They spotted their downed comrade and came at the trespassers in a frenzied rage. Cyrus nocked the arrow he was holding. He shot at the rat to his right. The target was too far. The projectile missed, shattering against the stone floor.

“Hurry,” Edward said, scurrying up Cyrus’ arm, “the other is coming.”

The rodent to his right was now mere yards away. Cyrus fired a second arrow. The shaft punched through the rat’s skull, dropping it like a sack of flour. The second creature closed in from behind and shrieked. Cyrus clutched his knife and spun. The rat lunged at his groin. Cyrus kicked it in the nose. It snapped at his hand. Cyrus cut it across the face. It bit into his sealskin boot. Cyrus stabbed it in the ribs and, with his free hand, grasped its collar. He pulled the beast from his boots and hurled it over the battlement. It vanished from sight, falling to the sea far, far below.

Cyrus fell to his knees, winded and shaken. Without Fibian’s protection, he had killed his attackers. He felt only relief and fear. Would he be so lucky next time?

Another scream rang out deep within the fortress.

“We have to hurry,” Edward said.

Cyrus picked up his bow and made for the stairs. There were three other matching stairways leading down from the north, south and east ramparts. As Cyrus descended the steps, a fourth rat appeared on the far staircase. Cyrus froze. So did the rodent. Cyrus grasped an arrow. The creature began to sprint forward. Cyrus nocked the arrow and pulled. There was something odd about the way this beast ran. It was not snarling and frothing like the others.

“It’s making for the trap door!” Edward shouted, from Cyrus’ shoulder, “It’s going to warn others.”

No! They would lose their only true weapon; the element of surprise. Cyrus took aim and breathed deep. The creature was at least forty yards away. Cyrus fired. The arrow arched through the air, more towards the door than the rat. The rat dove for the hatch. The arrow missed its lungs, but pierced its tail, pinning it to the door’s wood frame. Cyrus hesitated. He had not actually thought he could make the shot.

“Quick, kill it,” Edward shouted.

Cyrus pulled another arrow and ran for the door. The tail whipped and snapped, then became still. Cyrus and Edward reached the hatch and found the tail still pinned to the frame, but no rat. The creature had pulled free from its appendage, leaving a bloody trail in its wake.

“What do we do now?” Edward asked.

“We go after it.”