The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles)

by Nikolas Lee

  Immortality? Ion screamed in thought, nearly choking on his tongue. His eyes were wide as could be, but he turned to Lillian to find hers were even wider.

  “In the event of a tie,” Lady Borea continued, folding her hands in her lap, staff leaning against her throne, “the High Illyrians shall hold a vote to decide the winner. So, with that, I believe it’s time to begin the Fight.” Lady Borea looked to Nepia, and the Sea Queen nodded.

  Lady Nepia’s skin shifted to a deep, seething blue, and she slammed the Tempest to the floor. The five diamond prongs of the Tempest lit with a radiant green light and the ground began to rumble. As bits of rock and dust tumbled down from the ceiling, what sounded like a muffled scream ripped through the air outside the hole in the cliff side. All at once, the trembling stopped and silence fell.

  The Illyrians looked up and beyond, staring into the waterfall outside the mouth of the cave. A massive shadow washed down the wall of water seconds before a thick, gray tentacle crashed through the waterfall and slammed down onto the edge of the arena floor.

  The others turned in a flash, watching as another tentacle snaked its way up beside the first, then a third, then a fourth, until forty thick, colossal tentacles were slithering their way closer and closer to the center of the arena, each lined with hungry suckers and swiveling hooks. But they weren’t just slithering.

  They were pulling.

  “Future Hands!” Lady Borea boomed from her throne. “Meet the fallen warden of the Black Sea—a creature so tainted by the recent turn in the Balance that her once-dear friend, Our Lady Nepia, has sentenced her to this battle today—a battle we intend to make her last. Please allow me to introduce you...to the Sea Witch!”

  The tentacles gave one last heave, and up from the cliffs and through the falling water, came a monster an Othum-and-a-half tall. From her scalp grew tentacles as thick as the ones pulling her along the arena floor, each also lined with hooks and suckers. She was eyeless, with gills on her neck and two slits running from her slimy gray forehead down to her slimy gray chin. Thousands upon thousands of small, glistening orbs hung from her bulbous stomach, and when Ion squinted for a better look...he saw something moving inside of them.

  The Sea Witch stretched her neck out, taking in a deep, deep breath through her nostrils, exposing her mouth full of long, needle-thin teeth to the arena.

  “Let the Fight begin!” screamed Lady Borea.

  A roar came from Esereez two gods away. He threw his shoulders forward and twenty arms—each rippling with muscles—exploded out of his back.

  “Good luck, Bright One.” He bowed to Vasheer and charged toward the Sea Witch.

  The Witch’s tentacles sprang to action, swinging wildly about and coiling around Esereez’s arms. He growled, tore off a tentacle, then had to wrestle away a second and third.

  Thoman was next, racing toward the Witch as calm and quiet as a mouse. The storm of tentacles darted toward him, and when he reared his head back, a beam of red, seething energy came whistling out of his main eye, magnified by the thick lens in front of it, burning through the walls of suckers and hooks.

  “Get in there, Guardians!” Othum called from his throne. “Show the Witch the wrath of Illyria!”

  Ion gritted his teeth, focused his thoughts, and brought his feet together. The winds stirred, roaring as loud as the waterfall as they wrapped around his legs and waist. He threw his arms out, looked up, and the winds hoisted him into the air. But not five feet from the ground, something struck him hard on the side, and the next moment, he’d slammed into the wall across the way. The crowd gasped, Ion quickly smacking out the fire burning the side of his tunic.

  “There’ll be no flying today, Guardian!” said Vasheer from afar, a burning, hissing sphere of blue light hovering above his palm.

  Vasheer closed his hand and the sphere of light collapsed within it. Then, the Illyrian of the Sun drew two bronze sword hilts from off his belt. With a flick of his wrists, blades made entirely of heat shot out of the handles—their existence made known by the wavy corruption of the air, and the blistering temperatures they filled the arena with.

  Vasheer let out a roar and charged the Witch. Before he could reach her nearest tentacle, however, Ion rose to his feet, threw his hands forward, and from his fingertips streamed a thousand thin bolts of green lightning, which sizzled and cracked as they surged through Vasheer. The Bright One shook violently in his place, unable to move, while Ion fought the numbing feeling in his fingers to shock the god a little longer. But slowly, determinedly, Vasheer turned, thousands of volts of electricity pulsing through every inch of his body, his lip curled in anger.

  “N-nice t-t-try,” Vasheer spoke through his tremors. “B-b-but it’s g-going to t-take m-more—”

  And just like that, the biggest, fattest tentacle of the Sea Witch’s coiled around Vasheer’s waist and launched him into the nearest wall. He crashed into the stone with a great sickening thud, then fell to the ground.

  That worked out better than I thought.

  Just then, Lillian ran into Ion’s view, racing toward the Witch. A split second later, her speed multiplied until she was running as fast as an Outerworld cheetah. A tentacle swung toward her, but she leapt just in time, and landed a punch under the Witch’s chin. Lillian flipped backward through her uppercut, landed beside Ion, and the crowd exploded with rapturous cheers.

  The Sea Witch let out a blood-curdling scream that caused everyone in the arena to cover their ears, and the fat tentacle the Witch had used to throw Vasheer went flying through the air—detached from its owner—and fell to the floor. And there was the Bright One, standing before the squirming tentacle he’d severed, the black blood of the Witch sizzling on his blades of heat. He was panting hard, baring his teeth and wearing a disdainful look, which of course he was directing at Ion.

  “I don’t think he likes you very much,” said Lillian.

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  Esereez went flying by and crashed into a wall of the arena, and Thoman soon after, who was skipped across the stone floor like a flat rock on a pond. The Sea Witch rose high into the air atop her tentacles, and the spectators watched in horror as the air filled with the sound of a thousand pops! From out of the black orbs hanging from the Witch’s body exploded a swarm of slimy, black squid-like creatures.

  The orbs weren’t orbs. They were eggs.

  The offspring flew through the air like a volcanic eruption. One landed on Ion’s arm and dug its suckered tentacles into his skin, another latching onto his neck. Before any more could reach him, however, Lillian held up a hand and a wall of sizzling kinetic energy materialized before them, reflecting the onslaught of flying squid. As they bounced off the wall and splattered on the floor, which by now was covered in popped-egg goo, Ion quickly and painfully yanked the squid from his arms and neck.

  “Thanks,” Ion told Lillian, shaking off the black slime now slathered all over his hands.

  Lillian nodded, and with a flip and a kick, she propelled the wall of energy forward, flinging the hungry squidlings across the arena until the wall barreled into the Sea Witch.

  Ion raced past Lillian, sweeping the oncoming squidlings aside with bursts of angry wind. He cut to the right, avoiding the Witch’s tentacles as best he could, while keeping his distance from her offspring. He reared his hand back, and when the bolt of crackling green lightning appeared in his hand, he launched it into the Witch’s waist, then a second, a third, and a fourth—each bolt shaking the arena with a crack of thunder as it exploded against the monster’s side. She wailed with each explosion, though too slow to turn with Ion running around her.

  But a hand coiled around Ion’s ankle, and before he knew it, he was upside-down, staring into the face of the Inventor.

  “What’d you know—seems like you really were listening in class,” said Esereez. “So I guess I’ll apologize for this now.” He smiled, nodded, and tossed Ion into the abyss of whirling tentacles. The suckers latched onto every bit o
f skin and clothing they could find, reeling him in, closer and closer to the Sea Witch like a spider would its prey. He screamed, but a small tentacle swiftly wrapped around his mouth. He could hear the mass of tentacles thumping and slithering about, smell the dying ocean on the Witch, feel the tentacles squeezing him tighter and tighter, the swiveling hooks digging painfully into his flesh.

  The arms brought him upward, and suddenly Ion was staring at the eyeless face of the Sea Witch, her long teeth so sharp, her breath smelling of blood and fish.

  He screamed once more, but to no avail.

  Then the bald-headed, gray-eyed boy appeared on the Witch’s back, his arms around her neck as though she was his mother happily giving him a ride.

  “Kill her,” the boy said through his smile. “Kill her like you did Vinya.”

  Ion screamed and kicked in the grip of the tentacles, thrashing to escape both the Witch and the kid. But no matter how hard he squirmed, the voice of the boy still filled his ears, this time louder.

  “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her like you did Vinya!”

  Enough! When his eyes shot open, a stream of lightning blasted out of them, exploding against the side of the Witch’s face. She wailed and threw Ion across the arena. He landed on his feet, and watched as the Witch’s tentacles thrashed madly about, slamming Vasheer into Esereez, knocking Lillian into the nearest wall, and nearly flinging Thoman out the mouth of the cave.

  The Sea Witch stumbled backward toward the waterfall, to the left, then to the right, until finally she’d collapsed onto the arena floor before Ion. The tentacles hanging from her head were squirming like dying worms. But she wasn’t dead. Ion could still see her body rising and falling with each breath she took, however weak the breath might have been.

  He swallowed and looked up at the watching Illyrian gods. They were waiting for something, and Ion unfortunately knew what that something was. A battle we intend to make her last, Lady Borea had said. Ion saw Othum, how stricken with shock he was. And then, just behind him, there was Oceanus.

  “Do it,” she mouthed.

  Ion looked back down at the Witch, realizing how silent the arena was now. And with the audience’s attention now only on him, Ion nervously approached his fallen enemy. He knelt down to her head, and lifted it by the tentacles of her scalp. They wrapped around his wrist, so weak they were hardly noticeable.

  Ion knew what he was supposed to do now. What was expected of him.

  Watching her lay there so helplessly, though, Ion saw into a hidden part of her—the frail, shielded side, the side everyone had but almost never showed. Staring into her blank face, watching her nostrils flare feebly, a vision flashed through Ion’s mind. One of the chained cyclops who were sentenced to support the roof of the Hall of Thrones. Their punishment had been a horrible one.

  Did they deserve it? he wondered. Did she deserve this?

  He placed one hand on the emerald of his necklace and thought of Vinya. He recalled her smile, her warm, motherly hugs, how she always knew what to say. What would she do? Here? Now? Faced with this decision? And then he knew.

  Ion laid the Witch’s head gently upon the floor and stood. He looked up at the Illyrians, who wore faces that couldn’t have been more dumbfounded.

  “She already lost,” said Ion. “I won’t kill her.”

  A smattering of whispers washed over the crowd. Then, a great gasp.

  Ion turned to see Vasheer limping towards the Witch. “Move aside, Guardian,” he hissed, shoving Ion away.

  The Illyrian knelt down to her, and grabbed her by the tentacles of her head.

  Vasheer raised his heated blade into the air.

  Ion turned away before he heard the sweeping of the sword, before the smell of cooked fish filled his nose.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE QUEEN

  As the Future Hands once again formed a line before the watching Illyrians, the Skylord stood and threw his arms out as if to embrace the competitors.

  Lady Borea grabbed his arm, wagged her bony finger at him, and said, “Have you forgotten what I said earlier?” Othum sat down with his arms crossed over the diamond in his chest, while Borea smiled and turned to the contestants. “Future Hands—you have put on a grand show for us today, and I thank you for that. Lord Vasheer, please step forward.”

  Vasheer nodded and did proudly as he was told, back straight, head held annoyingly high.

  “You have proven your worth today, Bright One,” said Lady Borea, “to the citizens of Illyria, to the gods you call family, to your mother, your father, and your grandmother. Congratulations, you are the winner of the Fight!”

  The arena rang with cheers and whistles of the crowd. Flowers soared through the air to crowd at Vasheer’s feet.

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, bowing reverently. “I stand proud today as a god who—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lady Borea, waving her hand about. “Proud, honored, etcetera, etcetera. Save the speeches for after you’ve been crowned. A word of caution for the other Future Hands: should Vasheer win another event, the Throne of the Moon will be his. Tomorrow, at this same time, we will gather at the edge of the Silken Vale to herald the second event in the Tournament. That is all for today.”

  Lady Borea stood, bowed to the Future Hands, then made her way for the exit, her staff preceding each step. The other gods followed, until one by one, each had disappeared from the arena. Othum nodded at Ion—as if to stand behind Ion’s decision—before disappearing up the stairs. Once they were the only ones remaining, Ion and Lillian left the body of the Sea Witch to meet with the other Guardians in the stands.

  “What were you doing out there, Ion?” Oceanus snapped quietly, the retreating crowd bustling behind her. “You had the Sea Witch right where you needed her!”

  “I couldn’t do it, Oceanus,” Ion said. “She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Right, because she would’ve been so kind to spare you the same way,” said Oceanus, crossing her arms.

  “It doesn’t matter what she wanted to do to me!” said Ion, aware of the heat building in his jaw. “She didn’t deserve death! I mean, listen to what you’re saying! What about those cyclops holding up the roof to the Hall of Thrones? Do you think they deserved that, too?”

  “The gods know—”

  “Best, I know,” said Ion. “But right now, I think we’d do better not to be so sure.”

  Oceanus’s freckles set on a background of red. Though her fists were so tight at her side, they nearly glowed white. She sneered at him, whirled around, and vanished amidst the throngs of exiting Illyrian citizens, who eyed Ion as they passed.

  “At least she didn’t try to drown you this time,” said Theo.

  “Her thoughts sang of a different story,” said Lillian, before joining the crowd.

  Father appeared next at Ion’s side, bearing down on him with a proud kind of smile only a father could wear. “My little gladiator!” he cried before hugging Ion, also like only a father could. “The way you threw all that lightning and wind—a Caller Father couldn’t be happier!”

  “Thanks,” Ion said, allowing himself a smile. “Oceanus doesn’t seem to agree.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Father said. “I’m proud of you, and that’s all that matters.”

  As Ion climbed the grand stairwell to Illyria with Theo and Father at his side, he wondered if that was true—that Father’s pride was all that mattered. He chewed on his lip as he ascended, questioning whether or not he’d made a mistake, if he should’ve done the heinous thing Vasheer had. But why was he wondering this? Everything that was good in his heart told him he’d done the right thing, but there was this...this voice in the back of his head telling him different. Was it the pressure from Oceanus? From Othum? From the urging stares of all those watching Illyrians? His jaw felt heavy as ever, and his stomach was still roiling unbearably. He was feeling shame—shame about not doing what others wanted him to do, shame about not being the god he was supposed to be. He suddenly f
elt so...so not cut out to be a Guardian.

  And the boy! He suddenly remembered. How he’d clung to the back of the Sea Witch, those gray eyes staring so mischievously at him. Who was he? Why was he?

  Ion reached the top of the stairs, and an elven girl with white, braided pigtails and deep purple skin stepped in front of him.

  “Ionikus Reaves?” she asked, her little nose held high.

  “Yes?” Ion asked, Father and Theo walking ahead.

  “Queen Onyxia requests your presence in her chambers after the falling of the Sun,” she said. “Her room lies in the Twisting Keep atop the Eastern Rise. Knock thrice on the silver doors, and she will meet you within.”

  The girl turned before Ion could say anything and trailed off into the crowd, which by now was splitting off in three directions.

  Ion sighed, imagining all that mead, and the sneering and shouting Queen Onyxia would probably be doing. What he needed was time to think, time to sort out the reason for the boy’s appearance, Helia’s words, and what horrible thing the gods would have him do next in the Tournament. But he had no time. The Illyrians were now taking that, too.

  When the Guardians had returned to the Amethyst Manor, they sat around a table on the terrace, eating their usual dinner of sweets, while a team of elven nurses tended to Ion and Lillian’s minor scrapes and bruises. They smothered the wounds in some gooey, honey-like substance that smelled of lavender and that healed the cuts after being gently wiped away. Mother would’ve loved this stuff when I was growing up, Ion thought.

  By the time the elves had finished, night had set over the Isle of Illyria, and Ion was on his way to the Queen’s chambers, albeit nervously. The Eastern Rise—a great hill stretching along the eastern side of the city—loomed in the distance. Atop it stood the Twisting Keep, a monstrous building of sandstone with two grand statues flanking its sides—old men they looked to be, both laden in armor and wearing triumphant helms, one of their hands held out as if to speak of a warning for trespassers.