by AB Bradley
Sweat rolled in cool lines down his back as he worked his way to the target. Sander’s lessons on stealth peppered his thoughts. Make each breath steady. Always keep an eye on the prize, but never forget what might guard it. Step lightly and evenly. Don’t leave a trace.
Two broad-shouldered guards stood at the ramp’s base. They held tall spears with feathery necklaces. The men bore no expression, but their eyes looked longingly at the festival unfurling beyond their station.
A head on approach would have been the end of Iron, so he skirted around the skull and came to the shadow it cast at the mountain’s base. He paused there in the dark, the rhythmic drumbeat vibrating through the air. He pressed a hand to the skull and stared at its painted surface.
Did this titan kneel to the Six? Look where it got him if he had—a hollowed throne for a madman. Did that titan curse the Six as the desolation took them? Did they wonder why, even after defeating Freidon, their Sun ended for a new one? Maybe one day Iron’s skull would be set before another’s throne, a relic of the Third Sun passed.
He shook his head and emptied the angry thoughts from it. Now wasn’t the time to be a philosopher. He planted his foot just where the mountainside began its steep climb. He scaled and scrambled as best he could, ascending until he stood just above the skull’s crown.
He’d need both hands for this, so he sheathed Fang and cracked his neck. Long days sparring with his master and hours spent learning the quiet footfalls all Sinner’s men knew by heart rushed through him as his pulse picked up its pace. He wiped the sweat from his brow and bent his knees.
One. Iron inhaled. Two. Iron exhaled. Three!
Iron sprang from the mountainside. Wind whooshed through his ears as he arced over the giant skull. For a brief moment, his heart sang with the thrill of flight and the memory of the thundersnow, but just as quickly as his freedom came, gravity lassoed his ankles and hurtled him toward his destination. He leaned forward, toes landing first on the titan’s chalky brow. He rolled his feet back and let his knees bend with the impact, wincing as they quietly absorbed the landing.
He huffed, hot breaths puffing from his lips. Iron fell to his stomach in case one of the Goshgonoi happened to look toward the skull and see a black figure scurrying across it. He shuffled closer to the brow. This would be the most dangerous part of his plan. Should anyone look to the skull, they’d see the him slink into the eye socket. If luck was on his side, the twisting fire and noxious liquor would pull their senses elsewhere.
His fingers clasped the ridge where the brow and crown met. He took a deep breath. Here we go.
Iron pushed off the ridge and scrambled down the brow, sliding over its steep face. He glided over the hump where eyebrows once grew and clasped the ridge of the eye socket. Iron flipped, holding his grip on the bone, and came to a headstand on the inside of the brow.
His hands trembled. Blood rushed to his head as he pressed his feet against the titan’s forehead. He closed his eyes and let his heartbeat slow before he opened them again and scanned the throne room.
Various skulls—both human and animal—decorated the skull’s interior. Torches placed along the wall washed the bone in flickering golds and stained the white with swaths of black. A throne of bone and horn stood on a wooden platform just within the shadow of the titan’s jaw. His target, Thrallox, sat cross-legged on the massive throne. In his lap, he had a large coconut filled with the purplish liquor.
Smoke percolated where Iron balanced. It stung his eyes and burned his lungs. Tears wet his lids, and the stifling heat beaded sweat on his brow. A strand of his hair fell loose, a single bead of sweat weighing its tip. Iron watched in horror as the bead swelled into a bulbous drop too heavy for his hair to hold.
No, no, no. Please. Gods be damned, don’t do this to me.
The sweat wobbled on his hair. Then, it plunked into the mad chieftain’s drink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hail to the Chief
Despite heat suffocating his lungs, despite sweat soaking his tattered clothes, and despite smoke stinging his eyes, Iron froze, stiff and hard as an Everfrost mountain. He watched Thrallox’s cup of liquor ripple from the sweat that slipped from him and landed in the chieftain’s drink. He waited for Thrallox’s dark eyes to glance up, the wicked man’s mouth opening in a shrill scream that would bring his guards and their spears into the throne room.
Thrallox rubbed the rim of his drink with a dark thumb. The man lifted the cup. He took a swig and thrust his hand forward, spouting something slurred in the rough and tumble tongue of the Goshgonoi. Then, the chieftain returned the cup to his lap.
Iron managed a quiet sigh of relief. More sweat gathered on his brow. Sander taught him better than to test luck twice in a single day.
His arms trembled with the weight of his body. Iron shuffled achingly slowly to the edge of the eye socket. Satisfied he had a good angle, he pressed his feet against the bone for leverage.
With no more sound than a butterfly’s wings flapping, he flipped from the wall and landed in a whoosh of smoke behind the throne. The dark vapors curled around him in trails before returning to their slow escape from the skull’s eye sockets.
Iron wiped sweat from his palms and swallowed his fears. He unsheathed Fang and angled the blade’s point at the back of Thrallox’s throne. Feet angled to the side in Shade Stride’s ready position, he inched toward the man. Torchlight toyed with Iron’s shadow, stretching an assassin’s outline against the wall.
The easy part of his plan ended then. Now, he had to think of a way to learn a madman’s secrets. He came to the back of the throne and paused.
Thrallox wore a mask painted to mimic the titan’s skull. His mask lacked a lower jaw, showcasing an umber skin carved with deep lines. He wore a collar of azure feathers over a sagging chest and swollen belly. His gangly arms held loose skin, and broken, yellowed nails capped his fingertips.
The chieftain reeked of sweat and sour wine. The man’s breaths came heavy, and unintelligible words tumbled from his lips.
Nephele said he wasn’t like the other Goshgonoi, Iron recalled. He’s educated. Learned. Speaks Common. He’s heard of the broken circle, but how? There’s some clue on this island, and he knows where I can find it.
Iron’s own knowledge was the key to unlocking Thrallox’s secret. The man thought himself a god, so maybe Iron could play to that. He situated himself behind the oversized chair. If he angled just right, the chieftain would have to move around the throne to see him.
Fang cast a calming blue against the bone and horn comprising the great seat. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. So maybe he couldn’t use magic. A thief had other skills. Hopefully Sander’s lessons wouldn’t fail him now.
“Oh great Thrallox, Lord of Creation.” Iron’s voice echoed as a soft whisper throughout the skull, like it came from everywhere and nowhere at once, like it was the smoke itself.
The chieftain froze. He twisted to one side and peered around the room. Iron angled to the opposite side, making sure every inch of him hid within the throne’s shadow. Thrallox spun to the other side and glared into smoke. Once again, Iron angled in the opposite direction.
“Do not fear, Thrallox,” Iron whispered. He watched the madman through a gap in the horns. A lump traveled down Thrallox’s neck. His eyes had a glassy sheen—one Iron recognized in the eyes of men who’d had their fill of spirits. Those eyes darted left and right, searching for the ghostly voice.
It terrified and thrilled Iron all at once to be so close to this monster, yet so completely hidden and without the aid of any of the Sinner’s magic. Fang’s glow was brighter and purer than any meager torch—the fact that it lit the room and remained unseen spurred a grin that would have made his master roll his eyes.
There’s a fine line between arrogance and bravery. Iron’s smile died as he recalled his master’s words.
“Who are you?” Thrallox asked in surprisingly well-practiced Common.
At least the chieftain hadn’t ca
lled the guards. Good.
“Are you worthy, Thrallox? Are you the one who will rule the world, who will feast on the Six and take their power? The circle is broken, but you, you can fix it, oh mighty one. But how?”
Thrallox’s jaw tightened. “You are a spirit like them?”
“I am more than them. I am your hope and desire. I am your path to power.”
“Tell me, Shadow, why you come to me on this holy night of feasting. I do not trust smoke that whispers. No, not on this holy night.”
Iron searched frantically for the next thing to say, blurting the first words that came. “I have come to crown you if you prove yourself worthy. Convince me you can mend the circle, Thrallox, and you will sit on the throne of thrones. It is you who will be High King, not Sol. It is you who will rule the heavens, not the Six.”
The chieftain spit. “Sol! His Serpent Sun thinks they are so powerful. He thinks I bend to him. He does not know my true spirit. He does not know my secret wonder. Yes, the circle is broken, but I am strong and I will mend it! I am the true Serpent!”
“You’ve guarded the secret well.”
“Yes, it is a sacred secret, but I have the key that found it!” He yanked out a bone charm hidden within his feathery necklace. Carved in a circle with a face of writhing serpents, it glowed the same calming blue as Fang. “I will become the Serpent, and then I will feast on Sol and bathe in alp blood while the Six flee before my might. Yes, once I mend the circle, I will be the new and only god of Urum.”
“And how will you mend it, oh mighty Serpent-to-be?”
“I sailed to the lands of soft men and learned their teachings. I traveled south over the Simmering Sands and found the plains of the horse riders. It was there the Serpent came into the world, it is there the vision came to me. I ate the stars of the Six. I became stronger than them. It was a holy sign of what’s to come. Yes, very holy.”
So Thrallox saw the same vision Iron experienced that night in Skaard. The two came to very different conclusions about it. At least Iron had teased his first clue from the chieftain. South of the desert bordering Eloia was where this all started. The land of Ker, if he remembered his geography correctly.
“Yes, I found it when it was lost to all others. Even my ancestors forgot it, and this has been our home since the Third Sun rose. How could I not be the child of prophecy, when I found this charm and when my very home hides the titan’s shrine?”
That pricked Iron’s curiosity. He edged closer to the throne. “Ah, noble Serpent-to-be, you speak of Asgeron’s shrine made in the dying days of the first war.”
“Was that his name, Shadow? Asgeron?”
Iron cursed himself for revealing more than necessary. “I know all names. Tell me, blessed Thrallox, how this holy shrine could have gone so long undiscovered?”
The chieftain’s eyes narrowed behind the mask as his bottom lip swelled. “You know all names but not all places? How is this, Shadow?”
“Why, I am a shadow, great chief, and shadows have no eyes to see and only ears to hear.”
“I would not tell even a shadow my secret. You must want the power. You wish to be the Serpent!” He stuffed the charm back into his necklace. Interesting.
Iron grit his teeth so he wouldn’t ram the sword through the man. “I am a shadow. I cannot be a god. I am a guide and adviser, if you wish. But we can have no secrets if you want my knowledge.”
“I am Thrallox. I need no shadow’s knowledge.” His glittering eyes searched the darkness. They scanned the skull’s walls. And then, they slid over the gap in the horns. Thrallox’s eyes slowly widened as he connected with Iron’s gaze. The chieftain’s mouth opened in a scream. Fang easily darted between the gap in the horns and found the man’s throat.
In his lifetime, Iron hunted many things. He’d never hunted a human, much less hurt one. Fang, it pierced flesh so easily. Thrallox’s neck barely resisted the metal tip.
Blood spurted onto steel and rolled from the wound down the chieftain’s belly. Thrallox gagged. His arm whipped to the side, spilling his drink. In that moment when the man realized he would never be a god, Iron saw the terror replace surprise in his eyes. He knew a void came for him.
Thrallox gurgled and spat. Then, his head lolled and went limp.
Iron stared at the corpse crumpled on his sword. Thrallox’s body slumped against the throne. Its empty eyes pulled Iron to them.
“I’m sorry,” Iron said, yanking his sword from the man’s throat. He didn’t know why he apologized to a shell—and a cannibalistic madman at that—but the assassination he just carried out opened a pit of guilt in his stomach, nearly as big as the gash in Thrallox’s throat.
Iron’s whole body shook. He swallowed bile and turned from the throne. His shadow towered on the skull’s wall before him. The silhouette held a dripping sword in its hand.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he murmured.
After a few calming breaths, he returned his attention to the body. Calm as he could muster, he wrenched the mask from the chieftain’s face, taking care not to look again at the empty eyes. Then, he searched the feathery necklace until he found the serpent charm. It glowed in his palm and thumped like a heartbeat.
Frowning, he turned the charm around. Depending on where it faced, the rhythm changed. He twisted left, and it slowed. He twisted right, and it quickened. Iron slowly turned until he faced the mountain behind the skull. The charm thumped so rapidly he wondered if it would start sweating. More than just a key, this charm was a guide.
Not a single thump or creak of wood sounded from his footfalls as he flitted toward the two guards. Both men had their backs to the throne and swayed with the rhythm of the drums. Those spears of theirs stood several heads taller than them. Iron would need the element of surprise, or they’d poke and prod him until he bled out.
He paused on the ramp. Both men were in reach. He could even see the sweat glistening on their wide shoulders. One of the guards had a scar on his lower back from an accident or perhaps a fight. The man survived that—he probably wore it proudly. Now, he would die without a fight.
Each beat of Iron’s heart thundered in his ears. Shade Stride came on instinct. He thrust Fang through the first guard’s back and ripped it from the flesh as he kicked the back of the man’s knee.
The guard grunted and fell forward. Iron grabbed his throat and twisted the man toward the second guard. Iron’s fleshy human shield took a spear to the belly. That man died.
The corpse’s knees hit the ground. Iron whipped around, bringing Fang down on the second guard’s spear and shearing the blade from the shaft.
Their eyes met. The Goshgonoi’s stare begged for mercy. Iron tightened his jaw. And if you hadn’t shown up, he would’ve happily feasted on your friends tonight.
Iron lifted his chin. His opponent realized mercy wouldn’t come, and so his pitiful gaze became a feral snarl. Shade Stride worked well avoiding the sorry thrusts of the broken spear.
The shaft came at Iron’s face. He bent backwards and slapped it aside. He danced forward. Fang could bite the man now.
The guard’s eyes widened with terror. Iron saw the killer reflected in them.
Fang buried in the man’s chest. Like the chief and the one before him, the guard fell with more a whimper than a roar, dead before his body hit the ground.
There Iron stood, heaving, Fang in one hand, skull mask in the other, bodies crumpled around him. Thrallox’s blood had oozed down the ramp and stained it red.
They’re cannibals. They deserved this. He kept telling himself these things, but the words brought no comfort. Killers and cannibals shared the same table, and now he’d taken a seat with them that he could never leave.
Iron shoved the guilt down and walked calmly between the hundreds of flickering torches between the skull and the bonfire. So drunkenly entranced the tribe had become, not a single one noticed his arrival.
They danced. The drums beat.
As Iron approached the last line of torche
s, not even luck could hide him any longer. First, one tribesman stopped mid swallow and stared, liquor dribbling down his chin. A woman noticed Iron next and halted her dancing. Soon, the revelry died. Even the drums ceased their beating. Only the crackling fire broke the silence.
Iron lifted the skull mask before the tribe. “Thrallox is dead!”
He tossed the mask into the flames. It popped and crackled and threw a curling tail of smoke into the air.
With that, he spun and sprinted toward the jungle. For a moment, the Goshgonoi were silent. Then, they screamed, and the drums beat a different rhythm.
“Your turn, Nephele,” he whispered. “Don’t fail me now.”
Iron twisted through the first line of trees and nearly hung himself on a low vine. It would take too long to scale the mountain behind the skull throne.
He clutched the serpent charm, letting its pulses guide his steps. Iron would circumvent the mountain and take the long way, and there, luck willing, he would find some answers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Enshrined
Iron’s flight to the westward shore spanned deep into the night. He and his pursuers matched each other. Iron, for his training in evasive tactics thanks to Sander’s stewardship, and the Goshgonoi for their deep knowledge of the island. He darted through the jungle, crossing perilous cliffs, bounding over rushing waters, and melting like ice in summer into the deepest shadows. Each time the cannibals’ shouts and garbled cries died away and he relaxed, the voices of pursuit would rip through the air or send a flock of colorful birds tearing from their perches, crying to a glittering sky.
Following the serpent charm’s pulses took longer than he liked. Calling the terrain unfriendly did it a disservice. More times than he could, he nearly broke his ankle or fractured an arm swinging from from slick jungle plants and clawing over sharp rocks.
Fang served him better in its sheath so there he kept it. In his other hand, he clutched Thrallox’s charm, using its vibrations as a guide to the secret Rosvoi held.