Fireborn Champion

by AB Bradley

  Iron glanced at Ayska. She sported leather straps wound from her wrists to her shoulders, hiding the scars of slavery marring her arms. If she realized he watched her, she didn’t acknowledge it. Ayska only had eyes for those slave ships.

  They coasted to a dock and filtered off their vessel. Sander moored it with a rope dripping seawater. Here the ocean reeked of old fish intermingling with the stench of labor and cries of merchants selling urchins and oysters and prostitutes selling love and flesh.

  “I thought Sol didn’t like whoring,” Iron said.

  Sander winced at the word, clenching Iron’s arm and pulling him close. “High King Sol would rather keep his soldiers happy during wartime.” Sander’s words came out dripping with a false Rabwian accent. “You can’t expect men to conquer when they’ve got tits on the brain. Remember his title here and keep your head down. Let me do the talking. You just watch Ayska and make sure she doesn’t do something that’ll force our hand. Sound good, Morin?”

  Morin—the false name Sander gave Iron. It was a common Rabwian name for third born sons. Iron hated it. It sounded too much like moron. “Can’t we go with Alanoir or something? Morin sounds stupid.”

  “That’s the thing about names. We don’t get to pick our own. The real ones are ones we’re saddled with, like them or not. You think I like Yilbabib? It sounds like something a baby gurgles right before it shits.”

  Iron chuckled more for his master than from amusement. Sander slapped him on the back and jaunted to Nephele. Ayska spoke with Kalila in hushed, warm tones. She patted her sister on the arm and headed down the dock, Kalila trailing behind. Iron picked up his pace until he drew side by side with Ayska.

  “You can already taste the desert, can’t you?” she asked in an exaggerated Rabwian accent.

  “It’s dry. I can feel the sand on my tongue.”

  “Wait until we get out of the city. You wake with sand in your hair, under your nails, on your lips—sand is breath in the desert. It’s why we do not bury our dead. The sands bury them for us. The waves of the Simmering Sands might not be as fast as the sea’s, but the desert is constantly moving. There are even sandstorms so powerful, they reshape the land and bury mountains.”

  They paused at the shore. Ahead, a few dozen men sparred with long spears collared by crimson feathers. A captain barked obscenities at them that could have made Sander blush. One of the soldiers twisted his ankle and stumbled, giving his opponent an opening. The soldier brought his spear down against the wobbling man’s shoulder, slicing a gash that painted his arm slick red.

  “They don’t practice with blunted weapons?” Iron asked, blinking in surprise.

  Ayska shook her head and led them away. “The High King believes real weapons make real soldiers. If they face death here, they’ll be hardened when the battles come. It also culls the weak ones out and gives the ones who make it into his ranks a sense of pride they’re above the rest. Its brutal, but when you fill your legions with mercenaries and slaves, you need brutal methods to beat the loyalty into them.”

  She pulled a coin from her vest—the serpent coin Caspran tossed her so long ago. She flipped and caught it. “At least we’ve got a free pass into the city. This should keep any guards off our backs if we’re stopped, as long as we stay together.”

  “I guess I’ll have to be on you like ice on Everfrosts. For our safety of course.”

  “Four our safety,” she repeated with a grin.

  Iron watched from the corner of his eye as the soldier thrust his spear down at his wounded opponent’s chest. The bleeding man grabbed the spear’s shaft just where it connected with the blade and jerked it aside, leaving his unsteady opponent wobbling on his feet.

  Steel flashed in the man’s other hand as he vaulted from the ground, burying the serrated blade beneath his unprepared opponent. The twisted ankle must have been a feint. The man intended to take a slash on the shoulder so his adversary became overconfident. It was an excellent strategy. If Sol’s footmen fought with that much skill and cunning, no wonder Urum feared them.

  He fixed his attention ahead as Ayska led their party into a narrow lane crammed with men and women wrapped in loose clothes and hoods embroidered with intricate designs. They glowered from within their cowls, their eyes hard and unwelcoming. Memories of Ormhild came rushing back, sending a shudder down his spine. Cities reminded him of snow leopards: beautiful and mysterious from a distance but all claws and fangs up close.

  The pungent stench of sunbaked trash and human waste accosted his nostrils. Iron grimaced and tried breathing through his mouth. That helped, but only a little. “Where are we heading?”

  “The city sinks into a basin,” she said, muscling past a grizzled man with one arm. “Or rather, it spills into it. Old Athe was built in the basin but that plague I mentioned forced them from it. The survivors thought it cursed so they founded the Athe you see along the shoreline. When Sol—”

  Sander cleared his throat. Ayska glanced over her shoulder and smirked. “When the High King set his eyes on conquering Urum, that meant building an army that could do it. That meant more bodies in the New City than the city could handle. Those with money, prestige, power, or rank remained on the coastline where the sand is thinnest and winds coolest. Everyone else was pushed into the Old City, a humid, dark, hot pit where the sand collects misery and the weakest cling to a pitiful life.”

  “Sounds lovely. Tell me again why we’d want to go there?” Iron asked.

  “We’ll need desert greyhorns to cross the sands. Horses can’t make the trip, and if we try to procure our mounts under the nose of the serpents, we’ll have eyes on us we don’t want. So, we’ll look for what we need where not even the serpents want to slither.”

  Iron glanced up at the crack of sky between the tall adobe walls. The sun blazed in the strip of blue. He squinted at the burning disc, feeling the heat on his cheeks. Desert sands wedged on the cracks of his lips and plastered his tongue. He’d gone from a world of ice to one of fire. The thought didn’t bring any comfort.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sermon at the Arch

  One winding lane threaded into another like the twisted knot of an inexperienced sailor on rough seas. Smoke rose from squat chimneys. The stench of sweat and and filth hung as thick as greyhorn soup. The closer Iron and his companions came to the old Athe, the more uncomfortable Iron became with the crowd. Their looks, their harried steps, their angry shouts and curses that punched the air like boulders thrown against a mountainside—it all accosted and confused his senses.

  Iron kept a firm grip on Fang. His eye patch did its best to obscure his vision, which did little for his sense of security in this river of flesh and sweat-stained linen.

  Ayska took a sharp turn onto a wider lane. They followed her lead, Iron noting the shops and taverns deteriorating as the road dove down a steep grade. It was this slope that pushed the New City down and revealed the ruins of the Old City.

  All roads seemed to lead to—or from—the Old City. Shoved into a basin with massive cliffs surrounding them on all sides but one, the repopulated ruins meshed together in a series of endless broken walkways, crumbling adobes, and patchwork tents that cropped up like clusters of blisters over the brick. Fires dotted the buildings and whispered streams of smoke into a sky that quickly cleared it. The sheer enormity of the basin gave Iron pause. The first Athe must have been a sight to behold before the plague sent it to an early grave.

  “Anyone with half an imagination can see how beautiful it was,” Sander said, nudging Iron.

  He nodded at his master while he stroked his chin. “And they just abandoned it because of a superstition.”

  “A wise man once said getting men to abandon something they think is cursed is approximately as difficult as turning snow yellow when you piss.”

  “You thought of that a few days ago and have been dying for the chance to use it on me since then, haven’t you? I can see it on that grin, master.”

  “I’m le
ss a mystery than I supposed! C’mon, you have to admit it is funny.”

  Iron rolled his eyes and ignored the question. “Why do the people in the Old City just try and survive instead of leave? Why not just go elsewhere?”

  “I doubt they’d be there if they had another choice. How is a beggar to pay their way across the sea? How is a soldier crippled by a wound supposed to cross the sands? The ruins are little more than catacombs for those waiting for the day they die. Watch your back when we get down there. The dead have nothing left to lose and if the serpents don’t bother with the Old City it’s likely petty thugs who rule the roads.”

  Sander swept past Iron and took up residence in Nephele’s shadow, something Iron noticed the man doing more and more these days. Ahead, Ayska had Kalila’s hand and gently guided her sister down the lane. Iron couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy twist up his throat. He swallowed it down, ashamed, but its echo remained, whispering thoughts about Ayska’s hand.

  The lane spilled into a wide plaza ringed by old arches broken and smoothed by the relentless heat and desert winds. Here the masses gathered like packed snow, all facing a figure situated on a platform.

  He couldn’t tell much about the figure aside that it was a woman. She wore a white robe untouched by the drifting sands and hid her face behind a pale mask bordered by gold twists and spikes. A strong gust whooshed through the plaza and tossed a long band of her white hair around her.

  Iron halted in the crowd, his gaze transfixed. He recognized hair that white. Caspran had it. The priestly ghost in Spineshell had it. This was no human preaching to the people. This was an alp of the Serpent Sun.

  A few people muscled around him like irritated salmon fighting a stream. Most packed tighter as they poked and prodded Iron toward the stage in an attempt to listen to her speech. As he drew near, her muddled words gained clarity, echoing off the sandstone arches and booming through the plaza.

  “…And so shall the next Sun rise and crown the Serpent’s head. Your High King shall rule above all others, and through his will, he will make a new Urum.” She swept her arm toward the Old City. “This is the Urum of today. We are all beggars, whores, thieves, and cripples cursed by the legacy of the Six. They have made a world of pain and suffering for us. They have watched from their eternal feast while the world and the evils in it visit their brutality on you.”

  Murmurs of agreement ricocheted through the crowd. Iron had to hold his tongue to keep from joining them.

  “We do not deserve this,” she said, clenching a fist. “No! We deserve an eternal feast, a paradise of our own making, here on Urum. Through your High King, we will build one! There shall be no war, no poverty, no disease, no pain. The old will fade to darkness, and only the light of the new shall remain.”

  Whistles and claps resounded through the crowd. A few praises of adoration for the Serpent and the High King followed.

  “But be warned, good people of Athe. While the Six are dead, not all those who bent a knee to their statues have cast away their faith beneath the Serpent’s glory. They lurk in the shadows, waiting for the time when they can hatch their holy war and keep us from our paradise. They would harm your High King. They would keep us all in the ruins if the old if they could.”

  Much of the crowd booed. Iron swallowed and crossed his arms.

  “So should you see one loyal to the Six, do not hesitate to speak, to shout, to cry out for righteous punishment. The Serpent Sun swells in number by the day. Your High King’s loyal soldiers increase in numbers by the hour! Should you suspect, should you doubt, should you so much as even wonder, tell us! Tell us and you will help ensure our paradise!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers. The priestess bowed and pivoted, her cloak billowing around her. Conversation erupted in the masses as people dispersed, eager to hunt the enemies of the Serpent. If he hadn’t witnessed firsthand what the alp could do to innocent men and women, Iron would have cheered along with the rest of the New City.

  At least his master hadn’t shouted any obscenities at the woman, and Ayska kept from launching herself at the stage to try and kill the priestess. He turned to the lane to follow them. No sign of Sander, Ayska, Nephele or Kalila remained in the crowd. A lance of terror shot up his spine. He wiped his palms on his vest as as he frantically searched the crowd. Stupid! Why did you have to listen to that demon?

  Bodies, bodies, everywhere. They pressed him farther from the arches walling the Old City from the new. He tried shoving his way through the crowd and got curses as his reward. Progress came slowly, but it came. He shoved his way to the nearest arch, and the crowd thinned. He’d be safe on the other side.

  Sweat stung his eyes. Sand clung to his skin. He wiped his brow and cursed under his breath. A cluster of people stood before him and the Old City. Teeth clenched, he muscled through them despite their protests.

  The masked alp stood not three yards away. Two soldiers walked beside her wearing breastplates branded with the gold serpent and shiny greaves clasped around their shins. In their hands they carried polished swords glimmering in the hot sun.

  Iron froze hard as the granite peaks of the Everfrosts. For a moment that spanned a lifetime, he stared blankly in the shadowed eye slits of the woman’s mask. They had him. Everything he’d gone through, everyone who died—he just failed them. High King Sol would take him, Ayska would die, and Iron would suffer.

  But then, the woman turned and casually strolled up the road. It was like his existence didn’t even register. She motioned to one of the soldiers. The man promptly marched to her side.

  “Brother Caspran has just arrived,” she said. “He tells me the Fireborn may already be here. Flood these streets with your men. You know who to look for. We must not fail in this, or it will be your head on a pike if you’re lucky. If you aren’t, you’ll find yourself dinner for our glorious High King’s dragon. Do you understand?”

  The man’s eyes widened as he nodded. Fat beads of sweat rolled down his temples. Iron doubted the heat caused all of it. Iron watched them walk toward the New City. As they went, the crowd split apart like wood beneath a sharpened axe.

  He exhaled, pressing his palm against his chest. Without another thought, he darted through the archway. So Caspran had arrived. They should have seen his fleet of galleons if they’d sailed so close to their catamaran. Then again, the alp’s ships did surprise them on Spineshell. The Serpent’s magic probably hid it. Maybe Caspran had even been on the galleon they passed, watching Iron. That thought sent a shudder down his spine and quickened his step. Athe started smelling less like a city and more like a trap. Grasping Fang brought some comfort to his nerves, so he wrapped his fingers around the grip and set his gaze ahead.

  A cluster of dirty children feathered in rags giggled and ran in circles through the lane. One brushed past him. Another skirted beside him. Fingers not his own prodded his pocket.

  “Hey!” Iron swung around and grabbed the boy’s wrist.

  A little scar cut a line from the boy’s eyebrow to his temple. His bright eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean nothin—”

  “Right. You think I was born yesterday? I know pickpocketing better than you think.”

  “Sorry, sir. I was just—I’m sorry. Just hungry is all.” He wriggled out of Iron’s grip and darted into an alley.

  Iron smirked and headed down the lane. To think a few kids could pull one over on a man trained in the ways of the Slippery Sinner. He almost laughed at the thought. His hand went to rest once again on Fang. His fingers waggled over empty air.

  Panic twisted his stomach. Fang no longer hung at his side. “That first kid! Dammit!”

  Tricked by a feint. Maybe he wasn’t as good a Sinner’s man as he thought. Iron cursed and sprinted back toward the children. He saw his target immediately—a girl, lanky for her age with matted hair black as a moonless night and eyes to match. She gripped Fang in her arms and twirled into an alley.

  “Get back here,” he roared, sprinting a
fter her. A little magic would have brought him on her heels and that would’ve been that, but that blasted Sinner’s Oath…

  He followed her around another turn that ended abruptly in a tall pile of rock and rubble that once was an arch over the alley. The little girl held the sword where the rocks spilled onto the ground. A beggar snored beside her. Two men stepped over the stones and cast long shadows down the lane. They leapt from the rubble, wearing smiles that said they were expecting his visit.

  The girl handed Fang to one of the men. He stood a head taller than his partner and grinned with a fat lower lip that was just crooked enough to note. Freckles dotted his face. Sweat shimmered on his bald head.

  “Not much of a sword, even for a mercenary,” he said, turning to his partner. “Ain’t that right, Polsin?”

  His partner eyed Fang. The man had a belly far too swollen for his frame, and his bulbous nose sported a web of scarlet veins. “Looks like little more than trash, Wyn. Why’s a merc like this one so worried about a bad blade?”

  “It’s a family weapon,” Iron snapped.

  “Family? Where you from, exactly?” Wyn asked.

  “Eloia. What’s it look like?”

  Polsin snorted, his belly heaving. “Dressed like that? Sailin’ in on a catamaran ain’t nobody going to recognize? There’s not many who live to tell the tale of the dark happenings on the Rosvoi Islands, but you’re not the first to survive them and you won’t be the last.”

  “That’s right. I survived it.” Iron lifted his chin. “And I killed their chief. I stuck that sword into his skull and tossed his mask onto the fire. They won’t be having any more of those feasts. So if you want to make sure you have another meal, you’ll give that sword back.”