Fireborn Champion (24 page)

She nodded. “Simple. Clean. Effective. Try not to get killed.”

He followed her deeper into the island. The steady beat of tribal drums grew louder with each step.
Bad-dum. Bad-dum. Bad-dum.

Iron saw smoke first. It curled in a thick finger from the base of the island’s tallest peak, splitting in half the rising blanket of green before piercing the blue sky. Nephele pushed through a squadron of ferns lining a cliff overlooking a valley. She squatted on the outcropping, careful to keep herself hidden from the people below.

He followed her lead and took up residence in the shadow of another fern. At the cliff base, patchwork leather huts dotted the basin like fungus. They spread like the virus they were from one end of the valley to another. Just where the valley met the next line of mountains, a titan’s skull rested. The mountain rose behind it, and the valley spilled before it. A single bonfire roared in the camp’s heart.

“Thrallox will be in the skull,” Nephele whispered. “That’s where he has his throne. We’ve been traveling the better part of the day. He should be good and drunk by now. All of them should be, Lover willing.”

“Luck willing. I doubt dead gods will have much to do with our success.”

Nephele clucked disapprovingly and shifted from her position toward a sloping hillside blanketed in vegetation. “Didn’t we already have this conversation about gods and death? You shouldn’t be so quick to cast them off. They’ll come back. They always do.”

She launched into the forest, swift as a bolt of lightning whipping through the trees. Iron scanned the tribe and shook his head.

They come back on the graves of those who worshipped them.

Iron darted after her, and together, they slipped into the basin. The going was slower than he liked, but knowing Ayska suffered in that cage lit a bitter fire in him. He feared they’d arrive too late. He shuddered to think what that would mean, what he would see.

The watchful sun speared itself on the peak when they reached the basin floor, shattering into a halo of blazing lances on the mountaintop. Twilight came upon the tribe, that odd time where the sky bled and all good folk took second glances at the shadows.

Iron and Nephele crouched within the high grasses between the jungle and the tribe’s land. Most of the Goshgonoi clustered around the raging bonfire. They wore little more than leather loincloths, bones draped around their necks and clattering over their wrists. Their faces they painted in bright colors and swirling designs that Iron might have appreciated for the artistry had it not been worn by a people preparing his friends for dinner.

He placed a hand on Nephele’s shoulder and leaned to her ear. “Remember, wait for my signal.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the fire but gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement. Iron bent like a shepherd’s crook and dashed around the camp perimeter. This close, he made out the raucous laughter and rhythmic chanting complimenting the drumbeats. The Goshgonoi smiled wide, toothy grins and dipped hollow coconut shells into vats of a purplish liquid Iron assumed was the strong liquor they enjoyed before their grisly feast.

He scanned the drunken mob, searching for a cage, but the dancing, swaying mass and squat huts swallowed most of his view. Inhaling, he continued on his path. Darting behind hovels, pressing his belly flat on the high grass, inch by inch Iron crept through the village.

He bolted through two huts and slid onto the grass. Up ahead, the titan skull appeared, looming over the tribe just where the mountain met the basin. It had no lower jaw being half buried as it was. Bright swirls decorated the titan’s chalky bone while hundreds of thin torches littered the ground around the mouth, basking the yellowed teeth with the colors of a setting sun. A great ramshackle ramp ascended into the skull, and there it blended into shadow.

Fang glided from its sheath as Iron pulled the sword into the dense wetness stifling the jungle. Moisture beaded on the blade, its soft glow illuminating his arm. If anyone else could see the weapon for what it really was, he’d have a hundred cannibals swarming in a hungry state of mind. For now, he thanked Fang for its discretion.
 

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.

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 called 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.”