The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) (11 page)

“Of course, the other Illyrians are unaware of this unfortunate fact,” Lady Borea said, “but the Triplets only know how they’d react if they found out. I mean, you’re already so unstable with the abilities you naturally possess, and then with this added bit of juice...I don’t know if the Illyrians would allow such a force of nature to exist.” She ran her finger playfully over the large quartz that topped her staff. “
But
, being the only god who knows the true nature of your Seal, I’d be willing to keep this teeny, tiny secret between us...should you do something for me in return.”

Ion took a calming breath in a desperate attempt to center his thoughts. Here he was again, in the hands of yet another god. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Ah, I thought you’d say that!” she said. “Now, I love Vasheer dearly. Truly, I do. But he’s simply not fit to be the Hand of the Moon, and I think we both can agree on that, yes?”

Ion looked cautiously about the floor, eyeing all the shadows dancing by candlelight. He’d nearly forgotten that not even his shadow could be trusted.

“Oh, don’t worry about Onyxia,” said Lady Borea. “She knows better than to eavesdrop on my conversations. Besides, the Egyptian is probably already sound asleep in her bed—mead does that to you, you know.”

“If you’re sure,” he said with a swallow.

“Ion, what I need you to do is simple. Do
not
let Vasheer win the next event. The Queen needs no more power than she already has, and since the boy is clearly under her thumb, I think it unwise to give her anymore political sway. Are you following?”

“Yes, Lady Borea.”

She smiled. “And don’t worry, my child. If you succeed, I’ll make sure the Queen cannot follow through on her threats. Old God’s promise.”

Do these gods ever quit with their games?
Ion thought. It seemed a vicious sport now—one deity trying to outsmart, outdo, out power the other. Had this been going on since the creation of the pantheon? Since the time of the Old Gods?

“Fine,” said Ion. “I’ll see to it Vasheer doesn’t win. At least I’ll try.”

“Very well,” said Lady Borea, face lighting up. “
Now
, it just so happens you’re not the only one who requires time with the Lady of Frost today, so I’ll kindly ask that you see yourself out of the Vault before my next meeting begins.”

Ion clenched his troublesome jaw, and bowed.

“Remember, Ion,” said Lady Borea, “this stays between us.”

“Certainly, Lady Borea.”

Ion made his way to the exit, his steps just as heavy as his thoughts. Not only did Ion have an angry sister to deal with, a Tournament to fight in, his past lives stalking him, and a Seal attached to his face from some guy no one remembered, feeding him even
more
power he didn’t need, or more importantly, want, but
now
he had conniving gods pulling him this way and that.

After closing the doors of the Weapons Vault behind him, Ion turned the corner to find Lady Helia waiting around the bend, her white eyes bearing down upon him.

“L-Lady Helia,” Ion said, flinching away from her gaze.

He quickly bowed, but the goddess said nothing, instead walking past him and turning down the road he’d come from.
The road to the Weapons Vault
. Ion stood there, thinking. Helia was Lady Borea’s next meeting...

He turned and peered around the corner Helia had turned, sticking close to the sandstone building that had made it so. The doors of the Weapons Vault were closing, the smoky tendrils of Lady Helia’s robes disappearing behind them.

Cautiously, Ion approached, creeping through the foggy street until he was outside the Vault.
But how to sneak in?
He looked down, watching the fog breathe over his sandaled toes.
Maybe you won’t need to
.

He stepped back. If his powers were limited to his willpower and creativity, as Othum had said, it would only require a thought...
and the fog could be used as I wish
...

Ion breathed in and focused, feeling the fog sweep up his legs, bleed over his shoulders, and cool his fingers. What he was trying to do, he’d read about before in class. He’d never tried it before, but already he had learned how to create his own clouds.
Bending fog to my will can’t be much harder
. A low hum resounded through the street, and when Ion opened his eyes, and held his hand in front of his face...there was no hand to behold but a small shimmering of light.
Invisible
. His mind had bended the light reflecting off the moisture in the fog, making him nearly transparent.

Vinya would be proud.

Ion allowed himself a smile, and with a great lunge, landed quietly on the foggy roof of the Weapons Vault, no evidence of his existence to be seen. Slowly, he moved through the clouds, stopping before the single skylight he’d noted when he was in the Vault.

Lady Borea faced the prison of the Disease, staring blankly into the cell. Lady Helia stood silent much further behind her, those golden-armored hands of hers linked behind her back.

“Is everything as it should be?” Lady Borea asked.

“Yes, Grandmother,” said Lady Helia. “They have agreed to the terms and will be present during the naming of the next Hand. Just as you suggested.”

“Then it’s set,” said Lady Borea. “They’ve proven more trouble than they’re worth. Good riddance, I say.”

“Othum will not be happy, Grandmother. You know this.”

“Which is why, when the time comes, you must freeze me as well. The others must not be able to implicate me in the matter once the deed is done. Otherwise, we’d lose the grip we’ve fought so hard to keep.”

“As you ask, Grandmother.” Lady Helia nodded. “But...what of me and my fate?”

“We’ve discussed this already,” said Lady Borea. “We all must sacrifice something for the cause of the pantheon. Even if it be our freedom.”

“So you’re sure, then?”

She turned to Helia, lips drawn in a solemn line. “Yes,” she said. “Kill them all.”

THE FROZEN CITY

The Isle of Illyria came alive with the song of a thousand singing whales as it descended once more through a floor of clouds. Ion stood at the edge of the Silken Vale in almost the exact space as yesterday, the eyes of all the Illyrians and the watching citizens of the island on his back.

Kill them all
. The words plagued Ion’s mind like some incurable disease, as troublesome this morning as they had been all night while he lay in bed. Lady Borea and Helia were planning a massacre, right here on Illyria. And who was to be killed was anyone’s guess.

He looked at Vasheer, Esereez, Thoman, and Lillian—all standing in a line beside him, their expressions grave and focused.
Could it be the Future Hands?
Ion rubbed the cold metal of his jaw, its nicked surface catching on his skin. Could it be him and his monstrous jaw?
The other Guardians
?
The other
Illyrians?

The only thing that seemed certain was when.
After the naming of Hand
, Lady Helia had said.

The Isle of Illyria groaned as it continued to sink through the atmosphere, bringing Ion out of his thoughts. He was staring into an abyss of white clouds—so cold, so biting. And before long, he felt the kiss of sleet and snow upon his skin.

The Isle passed through the last of the clouds with a great breath of frigid wind, and the next battleground unfolded before his eyes.

There were sky-piercing towers rising in every direction, all of them closely huddled together—some toppled over onto others, all of them veiled in layers upon layers of shimmering ice. The streets, laid out in a massive grid, glimmered with ice as well. It seemed nothing here had gone untouched by the cold grip of winter.

“Welcome to the White City of the Icy Vale!” came Lady Borea’s voice. She was smiling—the sight of it was chilling to Ion.
How could she be so fake, and in front of her entire family?
“Take a good look at the last territory of the Tournament, Future Hands, for it’s through those icy streets below that you’ll be racing. Othum, my dear boy, shall we summon the chariots?”

Othum raised his hands, and lightning crashed through the clouds above. From each whip of electricity came a flash, and from that flash, came a flying chariot heralded by two black steeds. Five bolts of lightning for five chariots, which descended from the skies, hovering near the Future Hands off the edge of the island.

But...I don’t know how to drive
, thought Ion.

“Future Hands, man your chariots!” Lady Borea cried.

With the crowd of Illyrian citizens now cheering in the background, Ion stepped off the edge of the island and onto the golden platform of the chariot. His stomach sank as it wobbled to the left and right, as though it were floating atop a body of water. Anxiously, Ion clasped the sides, taking slow, steady steps toward the leather reins hooked around a knob at the front of the chariot. He loosed them and held the leather tight in his hands. The black steeds hovered there, never looking back at him.

“It’s also important to note,” Lady Borea said, “that the White City has quite a history. Known to the humans as Manhattan, it was the last standing metropolis of the Outerworld in the War of 2100. Before, of course, a terrible blizzard of ours swallowed it whole. And it’s that same enchanted storm system still haunts the streets of the White City, destined to keep the fallen grounds for its own. I strongly advise you avoid this storm at all costs, Future Hands. We cannot guarantee a full recovery for those who do not keep such things in mind.

“Your chariots will show you to your starting points, the track marked by floating lanterns. Future Hands—are you ready to begin the Race?”

They nodded, and with a signaling whistle from Lady Borea’s lips, the steeds took off, descending upon the White City as fast as was seemingly possible. Ion held onto the leather reins for dear life, icy wind stinging at his eyes, the sky-piercing towers of the city getting closer and closer until—
whoosh!
--they plunged in between two buildings. After a bouncing, clattering descent, they came to a halt beneath a great archway—one heavy with icicles as big and tall as Othum. Strewn about the streets behind the contenders were large metal boxes atop four wheels—some big, some small.
Cars
, Ion knew, like the ones he’d seen in Outerworld history books, distinguishable even under layers of ice and snow.

Lady Borea’s voice swept over the city. “The Race begins in ten...”

But Ion didn’t hear her announce, nine, or seven, or even six. The air had filled with horrible screams and howls then, and the street had begun to rumble, shaking Ion in his chariot.

The Future Hands turned hesitantly, and there, hundreds of feet behind them, the road had ended in a wall of roaring winds and whirling snow, of raging hail and freezing rain. While the storm tossed cars about as though they were as light as air, its blistering rains fell violently upon the streets like a million flying arrows, freezing the roads and walls and lampposts upon contact.

And it was heading straight toward the starting line.

A rap of Lady Borea’s staff came, and then, “
One
! Begin!”

Now it didn’t matter that Ion didn’t know how to drive a chariot, or for that matter, drive it well enough to win a race. There was a storm barreling toward him faster and hungrier than any monster he could have imagined, and Triplets be cursed if he was going to let it get any closer.

Ion whipped his reins as hard as he could—just as everyone else had—but while everyone else bolted down the street,
his
steeds were busy slipping on the ice beneath their hooves. And for a horrible second, he was in last place. That was until he realized Vasheer, two lanes over, was having the same issue, thrashing his reins as his steeds slipped and squealed on the ice. But with one more whip, both sets of horses gained traction, and Ion and Vasheer were rocketing down the street side-by-side.

The icy blue hues of the floating lanterns lining the streets flashed through Vasheer’s diamond spikes, painting rainbows against the surrounding buildings. But it was his sneer that got Ion’s attention—how his bared teeth seemed sharpened in the flashing light. He’d never looked more like Solara than he did now.

They reached a corner and the two pulled hard on their reins, the steeds sliding but quickly regaining their footing to dash left down the streets. As they turned, they came upon Lillian, who was going so slow in her chariot you’d think she was taking a leisurely stroll through the city. She was staring at the sidewalks beyond the blue lanterns, her brow heavy with confusion. Ion followed her gaze, at first only seeing the many strange columns of ice standing on the sidewalk. But he squinted harder, and realized with a horrible pang in his heart, that the columns of ice weren’t columns of ice at all...

They were humans.
Frozen
humans.

While Vasheer rushed past them, Ion suddenly found himself going as slow as Lillian, who came up on his right, brow lowered and wrinkled. She didn’t have to say anything, and he certainly didn’t need her telepathic powers to know what she was thinking either. Ion tightened the grip on his reins until his knuckles were white.

The Illyrians had done this, sentenced these people to an eternity of ice.

Ion heard Vasheer scream at his steeds up ahead, watching as he charged further down the road. Then came the noise of the hungry storm, its winds tearing around the corner behind Ion and Lillian.

“We have to move, Lillian!” Ion shouted.

“But—”

Ion could feel the cold wind at his back. “Now!”

The elf tore her gaze away from the frozen humans and whipped her reins, charging down the road beside Ion.

They turned down another road to find the three Illyrian brothers barreling down the street, their chariots side-by-side and so close to one another they were only one mistake away from going down together.

Vasheer reared his hand back, spheres of blue light materializing in his palm. He let them loose with a roar, and the steeds of Thoman’s chariot squealed as the balls of light exploded against the Overseer’s chariot. While Thoman tried to regain control of his now swerving vehicle, Esereez rammed
his
into the side of Vasheer’s, nearly launching the Bright One from his platform. Vasheer turned to him, face twisted with anger, and slammed the side of his chariot into Esereez’s, their wheels shrieking as they ground against one another. Ion and Lillian were quickly gaining on them. When the brothers came upon another turn, however, Vasheer somehow shot ahead and Esereez smashed his chariot into Thoman’s. The two barreled into the building at the end of the road, throwing Thoman into the cold streets.

Lillian and Ion turned the corner, narrowly avoiding Esereez and his brother before leaving them behind. Ion had spotted the broken wheel of Thoman’s chariot, and heard him scream when
he
saw it, too. The Overseer was out of the Race, but Esereez gave the reins of his chariot a few angry whips and he was off again.

The frigid air bit at Ion’s face as his chariot continued down the street, his skin so numb and his bones so stiff he didn’t think he’d be able to uncoil his fingers from around his reins when this was all over. The sound of hooves thundering upon the frozen streets roared in Ion’s ears, but another roar—one much louder and much hungrier took its place. Ion looked back—past Esereez and his determined steeds—and watched as the storm slammed into the corner they’d turned, devouring Thoman in its icy winds and rain.

 
He faced forward once more, unable to blink as he thought of all the horrible things going on behind those walls of snow and wind. Ion charged toward Vasheer with Lillian still at his side. With a
whoosh
of wind, they left the towering metal walls of the sky-piercing towers, and entered a park. There were trees.
So
many trees—all hanging so heavy under the weight of the ice.

Within seconds, Ion and Lillian were only a few yards behind Vasheer. Ion held his hand in the air, a tingle surging through his palm. But before he could summon any lightning, Vasheer had strapped his reins to the hook on his chariot, whirling around to Lillian and Ion. He was wearing a wicked grin, made madder by the flash of the passing lanterns. And when he looked to the heavens, through the dark, gray clouds came a column of screaming white light—straight from the Sun itself. It struck the earth before the Guardians and sped toward them. Ion swerved to the left, Lillian to the right—both scarcely avoiding the beam that smacked the Guardians with its blistering heat as it passed. Another beam penetrated the clouds, then another, and another, and another after that, each speeding toward the Guardians, each only barely missing them.

But Ion could hear Esereez’s chariot speeding up behind him. Fast. And the next moment, his horses wedged themselves in between the Guardians’, and when the next column of sunlight struck the earth, there was no space to swerve or dodge. The light was so bright as the beam struck Lillian’s chariot. Ion couldn’t even watch as it melted the left side of her golden platform, reducing her wheels to liquid. The steeds squealed and veered left in a panic, ramming into Esereez’s horses, their harnesses quickly tangling. There was a screech and a grinding of metal, and suddenly Lillian and Esereez were left in the dust, their chariots and reins and horses entwined.

“Lillian!” Ion screamed back at her.

The storm was further away than it had ever been, though it was barreling through the park nonetheless, ripping trees from the earth. When it reached Lillian and Esereez, Ion could do nothing but look ahead, ignoring the screams that came after.

She’ll be okay
, he thought.
It’s only a game, Ion.
 

But anger seized him, more sudden than a summer storm. Even with the blistering cold cracking his lips and biting at his skin, Ion’s jaw burned hot. He roared as he whipped his reins, and the steeds charged ahead so fast Vasheer hardly had any time to untie his reins from the knob of his chariot.

Ion pulled up beside him, vision red.

“You’ll never win this Throne, boy!” Vasheer shouted, the light of the passing torches flashing in his golden eyes. “It’s mine! It was destined to be mine from the beginning!”

With another
whoosh!
the two left the icy park and reentered the shadows of the sky-piercing towers, lanterns lighting the way.

Ion reared his hand back, rage coursing through his system. A tingle swept through his fingers, up his wrist, and down his arms. Just as green lightning began to leap off every inch of his arm, Vasheer raised his own hand—blue light flashing within his palm. Ion directed a single finger at the Illyrian, and when the bolt of lightning streamed from it, Vasheer let loose his own beam, the column of light colliding with the bolt in a deafening blast. The windows overhead shattered, glass raining down on them as heavy as a blizzard and lasting for what seemed like minutes.

They charged down the street, chariots side-by-side, roaring as bolt battled beam, the heat from the war reducing the ice and snow to water in their wake. The tingle in Ion’s arm slowly became a burn, as he watched the flesh of his hand turn an angry red. But Vasheer grinned, and when he jerked his reins to the right, his chariot slammed into Ion’s.