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

by Nikolas Lee

  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.

  Ion lost his footing, feeling the reins slip from his hand. It was like he was watching in slow motion as he was thrown from his chariot, his steeds surging down the road beside Vasheer, only to disappear down the wrong street.

  Ion fell to the ruthless cold of the sidewalk, the last thing he heard being a cackle of Vasheer’s before he turned another corner. Silence took its place, while Ion lay there, defeated, feeling the cold against his skin. He slowly looked up, but stopped.

  Standing only an arm’s reach away were two tiny feet.

  There was the boy with the creepy smile. Except this time, he wasn’t wearing a smile. His eyes were solemn as he looked down at Ion. Disappointed. The boy’s arm rose, and all but one of his fingers curled back to point at something across the street.

  Ion rose from the snowy earth and hesitantly turned. On the sidewalk across the way were more frozen humans. They were smaller. Younger...

  Children.

  “You killed them,” said the boy. “You killed them all.”

  “W-what’re you talking about?” Ion hissed.

  The boy walked over to the columns of ice, snow crunching under his sandaled feet.

  He stopped beside one of the children. “Come. See.”

  Ion approached, his heart fluttering with each step. The column of ice held a small girl. Her hands were raised above her head, as if to brace for the worst. And her eyes...they were so frightened.

  “Touch. See,” said the boy.

  With a great breath, Ion reached out, and when his hand touched her icy one, his vision was consumed by clouds of green, like a drop of blood in water. Then, it was swept to the side, and through a haze, Ion saw a vision play out before him as real as real could be. Screams filled the air—horrible, hopeless screams. Men, women, and children were running through the streets, all of them desperate to escape what lay in the distance. The road was rumbling, and a mighty roar overcame the hopeless screams. Ion turned, and there, thundering toward him, was the storm that had chased him all through the Race. But it was different. For the wall of wind and ice and snow devouring the city in the distance...it was being lead by something. Someone atop a chariot. And when the man leading the storm came into view, Ion realized he was no man at all.

  He was a boy. A bald-headed, gray-eyed boy.

  The girl with the frightened eyes ran right through Ion, and when she whirled around to face the storm, the wall of ice and snow consumed his vision. The clouds swept away, and suddenly Ion was standing in the Hall of Thrones, Othum before him, eyes so serious. “You did well, Thornikus,” he said, his voice mightier than what Ion was used to hearing. A glimpse of what Queen Onyxia had missed about him. “The White City is ours, and all because of you.”

  The vision ended with a flash of green light, and Ion fell to his knees, all of it dawning upon him at once. He looked up at the boy—the boy that only a bit ago had been riding upon the hungry storm like a wave, leading it through the White City.

  “You’re...you’re Thornikus, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded.

  “This storm,” Ion said. “It’s yours. It’s...it’s mine. I did this. I killed them all.”

  The ground began to shake then, and all Ion could hear was the rumbling of the storm. He knew it was only moments away, raging down the street. But he didn’t turn to meet it. He didn’t need to.

  This is all my fault. All my doing.

  The winds raged past him, barreling hard into his side. But he didn’t budge an inch. All around him roared the storm, yet the rains now pelting his skin didn’t freeze him. The wind tossing the cars left and right didn’t move him. The rains—they were warm on his skin, like...like a summer rain. And the winds were gentle, trailing gingerly over his face and arms and legs as though in worship.

  He closed his eyes to take in the feeling, and when he opened them, Thornikus grabbed his hand.

  “They bred you for destruction,” he said. “Bred you for death. Now you must bring death to them. Destroy the Illyrians, Ionikus Reaves. Do
what I could not.”

  Ion felt the rage take hold of his arms, his legs—every movement he made from this point on. He opened his arms as if to embrace the storm raging around him, and the winds hoisted him into the air, spinning him only once to face the street he’d last seen Vasheer turn down. He felt his pupils expand until his eyes were black, felt the winds gather behind his back. With only a thought and the gritting of his teeth, Ion shot down the street atop the fastest winds he’d ever conjured.

  He flew around the corner, the storm smashing into the buildings in his wake, the sound of breaking glass and grinding car metal screaming through the air. And there, in the distance, was Vasheer riding in his chariot. He’d heard the roar, and was looking back in horror.

  And Ion smiled at his fear.

  With a crack of thunder, Ion flew past Vasheer, the wall of whirling winds crashing into Vasheer, sucking his chariot out from underneath him. Ion landed upon the cold street and spun back around, his winds lowering him gently to the road.

  Kill him, the voice of Thornikus slithered through his head. Kill the Bright One.

  The winds battered against Vasheer as the god attempted to stand.

  “Stop this at once, Guardian!” Vasheer shouted over the winds. “You are bound to do as I say! To protect me!”

  Instead, Ion rose two feet in the air and in thrusting his arms and legs forward, threw a torrent of rain at Vasheer, pelting the god from head to toe and freezing him in his place. The rain continued as Ion held his position in the air, icicles dripping from Vasheer’s raised arms and from the five blades growing out his head.

  Kill him, hissed Thornikus. Kill the Bright One.

  The rain continued until Vasheer had been lost beneath several inches of ice. All gods need to breathe, said Thornikus. Only a little longer, then.

  The winds screamed, the rains continuing to shroud Vasheer and the streets in ice. There came a whistling, and Ion was struck hard on the back, launching him into a frozen car nearby. Through the torrents of wind and snow appeared Lillian, powering through the fury of the winds. Her once-pink skin had cooled to a lifeless white. Her lips weren’t moving, though her voice came to Ion crystal clear.