Fireborn Champion (30 page)

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 less 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 after 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.”

Thrallox’s name gave them pause. Good. He
had
killed the man after all.

Wyn exchanged glances with his friend. He refocused his attention on Iron. Instead of mild amusement, he regarded Iron more like he might regard a cornered animal. “Thrallox is dead, huh? What did you say your name was?”

“I—Morin.”
 

Wyn arched a brow. Polsin tapped his fingers on the hilt of his weapon. “No last name?”

“No. Give me my sword back. My friends will be here any second. Trust me when I say we outmatch you in more ways than one.”

“Such a well spoken merc who has no last name.” Polsin looked to his boss. “Never met someone who didn’t deserve a last name speakin’ words like some poet. What you think, Wyn?”

“Well, the way I see it is this.” Wyn dropped Fang behind him and grabbed his own sword. “I knew your lot was suspicious when you came to port. When the serpents impounded your vessel, I thought you might’ve been thieves or even cannibals yourselves, but no, that’s not it, is it? You speak too sweet for a cannibal. You’re spies, maybe for those that love the Six. Even better then. They’d pay a king’s ransom for you.”

“They’ve impounded the ship?”

“As soon as you weren’t around to see it, those serpents just slithered all over it.” Wyn chuckled and unsheathed his sword. Sunlight flashed off the steel into Iron’s eye. “You’re a wanted crew, and maybe if Polsin and I here bring them your head, we’d get the coin to get out o’ this hell on Urum and back to our homeland.”

Polsin rolled his shoulders and pulled the broadsword on his hip from its sheath. Nicks and scratches from heavy uses gave the blade a hungry look. The little girl squealed and scrambled over the rubble. Now only the three men stood in the alley with a beggar snoring loudly to the side.

Wyn went into an offensive stance. “Leave his face pretty like it is. The serpent’s gotta recognize him, eh?

Polsin grunted and swung the broadsword in a figure eight.
 

With no weapon and facing two opponents in a narrow alley, he could either flee and lose Fang, or fight and maybe lose his life. That sword was a curse, but Iron would be damned before he let these two pigs take it from him before he discovered its secret.
 

Shade Stride would get him killed facing two opponents head on, and Loyal Stance required a weapon to be effective. So Iron bent his knees and shifted into Gentle Dance, rolling to the balls of his feet. “Here we go.”
 

Iron’s body twisted like a banner in a gale. Wyn the mercenary rammed his blade at Iron’s shoulder, but the steel sliced through air as his body spun below the sword.