Fireborn Champion (29 page)

“You’re a lecherous old man, master.”
 

Ayska grabbed a small leather strap and turned to Iron, fastening it over an eye. “We need to hide that face of yours a little better. Can’t let Caspran catch a glimpse. You know, you’re the most handsome pirate sailing the Sapphire Sea I’ve ever met.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the tip of her nose. “And I’m hauling Urum’s most precious treasure.”

Sander echoed Iron’s earlier groan. “Pardon me, my stomach just upset itself on that ridiculous conversation. Nephele, would you mind helping me take off my pants?”

“
Sander Hale!
” The woman’s cheeks reddened and she stormed off.
 

“What?” He chased after her, yanking a pair of breeches from the pile of armor nearby. “I just need your help getting my armor on!”

Ayska rubbed the nape of Iron’s neck. “I’m going to help Kalila into her outfit. Keep an eye on the coast while we get ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Iron said. Her shadow melted from view as she went to find her sister. Iron knelt on the deck, his hands placed over the torn and tattered tunic he’d worn since the day Sander pulled him to Ormhild. He lifted the shirt before him. Wind rolled in waves over the fabric. It reeked of sweat, its hem mostly frayed tendrils swaying in the breeze.

This shirt had been with him since he’d left home. He flew in a thundersnow in it, met Ayska in it, received Fang in it, fought Caspran in it, ridden a tsunami in it, and killed Thrallox in it. Now, he had to let it go. Iron held the rough fabric against his nose and took a breath, closing his eyes. He smiled and opened them. One hand released the shirt, and it flapped around the other as if it knew its end approached and feared it.
 

“To new beginnings,” he said. Iron loosened his grip and watched as the dark fabric twirled away before vanishing into the sea. Iron bowed respectfully and exhaled, inspecting his outfit.

Ayska informed him Nephele’s costumes closely mirrored her native Rabwian. It made sense for a ship of Rabwians to make port just north of their tribal lands. Sander fashioned a cover story for them of four poor fools landing in the city in search of work. His master and Iron hailed from Eloia while Ayska and Kalila actually being Rabwian worked well. Only Nephele stood out among the group with her golden hair and light eyes, but what was any group of companions without one who didn’t quite belong? It gave their story an imperfection that made them more believable.

Like all travel over open water, distance readily deceived the eye. It took the better part of that morning to reach the titan and its sandy island. The skeleton towered on a granite pedestal, striking like a blunted spike from rough and foaming waves. All around it, similar pillars jutted from the water, promising a dangerous entry onto the coast for all who did not navigate the carefully laid path into the city.

The titan’s skull didn’t look to the horizon like the ones in Ormhild. This titan dipped its chin and scowled at its feet. The massive spear gripped in one hand, he thrust the tip into the sea as if fishing for men for dinner. The people of Athe had set long spears behind its skull that radiated out like a halo. Crimson banners affixed to the spears fluttered like makeshift flames around the bone. A few bay gulls cried out on its shoulder, angrily beating their wings against their breasts.

“It’s a mean one,” Sander said. He tugged on his leather hood, clearly uncomfortable in the clothes. He’d worn his Sinner’s raiment since Iron could remember. For a man of faith, switching outfits like this couldn’t have been an easy choice. The man wriggled his fingers through his glove and held his hand to the sky. “It’s different. I certainly don’t feel like myself.”

“None of us our ourselves these days,” Iron said.

“I’d say it could be worse, but really that’s a lie, and you and I are forced to hide the truth far too often these days. I pray we’ll be okay. Whether or not the Sinner slips us from a grisly fate is beyond me.”

Galleons appeared behind the rocks rising from the sea. Behind them, the faded, broken line of a city separated from the horizon. Iron pinched his chin and frowned at the city. “I’m worried what might happen if Ayska sees Caspran. He shouldn’t be here, but if he is…”

“He won’t be here. Why would he be? He’s probably scouring Spineshell for us or else thinks we sank with the ruins.”

“I just worry is all.”

“Welcome to the greater chunk of life I’ve been living with a certain boy who has a penchant for falling ass first into trouble,” he said, slapping Iron on the back. “Welcome to
life
, when it’s filled with people you care about.”

“Sander, my Oath.”

His master’s hand lingered on Iron’s back. Sander wrapped his arm around Iron’s neck and pulled him close. “You will not use magic here, Iron. I still hold you to your word, and in this place more than any other that word is sacrosanct.”

“I meant the other Sinner’s Oath. I swore I’d help her get revenge. If she attacks Caspran, I may be compelled to help her.”

Sander peeled back, frowning. “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. If it comes to that and things look bleak, I might release you. But trust me when I say things will have to look very bleak for me to release you.”

“Master.” Iron turned to Sander. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and pressed their brows together. “If you don’t release me and she dies because my Sinner’s Oath held me back, I will never forgive you.”

For some reason, the words didn’t surprise the man. He patted Iron’s cheek and smiled. “I know. I suppose I’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. Shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

By now, the jagged pillars had receded, leaving an open expanse of shallow seas between the titan and the shoreline. The broken, blurred line that was Athe sharpened into a city of adobe buildings stacked on atop another in crowded clusters. Every so often, a spindly tower bearing the banner of the High King rose amongst the squat stacks. Warm winds from the desert beyond the city carried dust with it, cloaking Athe in a beige veil.

Their catamaran passed a galleon moored just beyond the clear expanse. Its shadow swallowed their ship. On its deck, soldiers glowered suspiciously as they passed, each one in a long jacket emblazoned with a serpent eating its own tail. Iron went to the serpent charm around his neck. He’d kept it such a guarded secret he often forgot he even wore it. Somehow, it seemed better a secret.

The galleon didn’t harass them. Iron didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Sander shrugged when he asked and told him maybe both.

They sailed from the ship’s shadow and headed to port. Clanging, ringing, shouting—the sharp, chaotic racket of crowds and commerce drifted from the shoreline. Merchant vessels littered the docks, their masts flying banners of their home countries. Many smaller ones Iron recognized from his studies. He noted the smallest kingdoms closest to Eloia already sported the king’s banner above their own. Larger nations like Skaard, and to the east, Blail and Hine, still maintained their independence. For how long that would last, he didn’t know.

Other ships filled the docks as well and carried the telltale signs of a more wicked merchant, of one who trades in flesh clasped in irons. He tensed at the slaver ships, noting the chains and collars hanging from the masts. He spotted the oar holes used to power the ships swiftly from port to port where they would sell their men, women, and children to those disgusting enough to trade gold for another human’s freedom.
 

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.

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.