by AB Bradley
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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Batbayar Opani
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.
It was strangely calming, the Gentle Dance. Iron’s eyes opened to the world as his heart kept a measured beat. The wind, it supported him in a strong embrace that brought memories of that day he soared above the Everfrosts. There in that dingy alley facing death, a little piece of his soul clasped divinity.
He snapped his body straight and whirled to the side. Rotund Polsin’s broadsword whistled past Iron’s cheek. The thug grunted and tried swinging back, but his weight and the heavy blade had him at a disadvantage.
Iron vaulted onto his hands and launched a kick at the man. Polsin’s eyes widened as Iron’s heel smashed his ruddy nose and sent a spray of crimson droplets skyward with a hard crack. The man tumbled into the rubble, clutching at a nose gushing blood over swollen lips.
Without hesitating, Iron back flipped from his hands to his feet. Wyn’s shadow slipped over him. He caught the man’s dark sneer as his weapon angled for Iron’s throat.
That sneer vanished when Iron backhanded the sword and sent it flying against the wall. The man cursed and fumbled for the daggers protruding from his thick belt. Iron smiled and turned his palm into a fist. He spun, dancing beneath Wyn’s clumsy dagger thrust, and rammed his knuckled into Wyn’s jaw. Bone crunched. Wyn’s eyes rolled back into his head. Iron opened his fist and clenched the petty thug’s throat, feeling the pulse throb against his thumb.
He spun Wyn to the side and slammed him against the alley wall. Blood seeped from Wyn’s lips. He crumpled to the ground in a cloud of dust. He did not come to his feet again.
Iron wiped dirt from his palms. The Gentle Dance didn’t look so gentle with all the blood staining the ground and walls. He turned from Wyn and stared at Polsin, who hunched on the rocks, trembling like a thief caught stealing a prince’s horse. Palpable fear swirled in his bleary eyes. Only moments ago, he’d hardly considered Iron a threat. Now, the look in those eyes told Iron they thought him a monster.
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have,” Iron said. “I’m not…I’m not what you think. I’m not a killer. I just want my sword.”
Polsin scrambled higher over the rubble, waving a hand at him. A rock tumbled from its place and rolled to Iron’s feet. Polsin kicked Fang next to the rock. “Please—please, no. We didn’t know what you were, thought you might just be some stupid boy. Serpent be damned, you fight like an alp…”
The man spat out blood. He scrambled up the rubble, leaving his broadsword in the dirt. He paused at the top and scowled with poison in his eyes now that he believed a safe distance was between them. “The Serpent Sun will have you. They’ll flay you, and I’ll watch with a smile on my face. Then, when you’re dying, maybe I’ll break your fuckin’ nose. There’s no way out the Old City they don’t cover. You’re dead. Dead!”
Polsin spat a scarlet glob. Iron shielded his face, hearing the blood and spit splatter on his bracer. When he lowered his arm, the thug had vanished. With a sigh, Iron went for Fang. He halted and blinked. His sword no longer lay near the abandoned broadsword. “What in the hells? Who—”
“You’re young and look like you might break like dry grass beneath horse hoof,” a man said in a voice deep and measured as a drumbeat. “Thololchkik like them, they prey on the weak. They think themselves kings of Old City because Old City is kingdom of people brittle like dried grass. You maybe not so brittle, eh?”
The voice sent a jolt down his spine. Iron whipped around to find a man calmly inspecting Fang. He recalled the fellow from his entrance into the alley. The man had been little more than a snoozing beggar clinging to cool shadows. Now, Iron realized he’d never been a beggar in the first place.
The man wore a sleeveless tunic of rags overlapping one another like patchwork bird feathers. Two leather straps weighed by odd round gourds hung loosely over this tunic. His sunbaked skin from his knuckles to his brow was an intricate mural of unbroken tattoos save for a burn scar covering his left shoulder. Those tattoos gave the man’s true calling away because only one type of person wore them—the men and women who swore their lives to the Shining Child.
The beggar-turned-priest nodded at Iron and grinned, bearing a wide smile just as broad as his paddle of a nose. He lowered Fang and considered Iron from within the narrow folds of his dark eyes. “Not many mercenaries fight like a seasoned master of the Gentle Dance. Tell me, strange boy, how long have you served the Lover, and why risk life and limb in a pit of spiders and serpents?”
Iron shifted into stance and raised his hands. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. Give me my sword or end up like him.” His calm stare darted to Wyn slumped against the wall, blood pooling on the man’s tunic.
The tattooed stranger’s tongue poked through the crack between his teeth. He tossed Fang to Iron. “You are distrustful and angry, I see this. You are much like Chanathan horse in a pen, missing the rolling hills and open sky, eh? I am not your enemy. You are a priest of the Lover, yes? You should know a brother when you see one, especially when he wears the scripture of the Shining Child on his skin.”
Iron caught his sword and exhaled. Gripping it had become a habit, its weight a comforting pull at his side. Even if it was useless, it was his, and when a man has next to nothing, those few things long enough to stay with him become more precious than any diamond. “I’m not a priest of the Lover,” Iron said, securin
g the scabbard to his belt. “I’ve only been practicing the art for the few weeks it took to cross the sea from, ah, from where I came from. I’m hardly more than a novice, actually.”
“Hmph. You fight like Lover but lie like Sinner. Very mysterious little Chanathan you are. If you think yourself a novice, I have much sand to sell you.” The stranger thrust his hand toward Iron. “Batbayar Opani, Herald of Misplaced Purity and Advocate of Beautiful Dreams.”
Iron eyed the hand for a moment but eventually took it. “That’s quite a title, even for a priest. My name’s Iron.” He flinched. “Shit. I mean, Morin.”
Batbayar hooted, clucking his tongue. The man had a grasp like two glaciers crashing together. “You don’t wear false names well, Iron. If only you could lie like you could fight, then even this heretic High King Sol might fear you.”
“I’m a better liar than you think.” Iron flinched again. This man plucked truths from him like petals from a flower.
“Oh?” The priest released Iron and crossed his arms over a chest like a granite wall. “How unfortunate. The lies we’re best at hurt the ones we love the most.” He lifted his hand, palm facing Iron. “And that is why no servant of the Child may ever mutter falsehoods. We are the wardens of candor and honor guard of truth.” He lowered his hand with a sigh. “At least we were before the Godfall brought an end to my brothers and sisters, an end to my order. It is easy task to spot my people in a crowd. The tattoos are one sign, the truth we must tell, another.”
“You survived, and in Athe. In fact, I’d say it’s a little more than suspicious that a man who can only tell the truth who’s inked up like an experienced priest of the Child could survive more than a few days in a city where the people would only be happy to turn you in for a hot meal and a mug of ale.”
Batbayar winked and flashed that same tongue-and-teeth smile. “They have to catch me first. Serpents don’t slither in Old City much these days.” His look hardened as he wagged his finger at Iron. “Besides, don’t talk like thololchkik. Not all in the shadow of serpents slither like them. Good people live here. Good people that need wounds dressed, stomachs filled, prayers muttered. The Serpent Sun doesn’t own every soul on Urum yet.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got everything figured out. Good luck to you then, Batbayar Opani, and please stay safe.” He looked to the rubble and to Wyn’s unconscious form crumpled on the dirt. “Brother Caspran will come to the Old City. If you really are a priest of the Child, you’ll hide because he’ll kill you.”
Batbayar spit. “Vile hound.” He looked at Iron with a pained expression. “You think I lie?”
“I think it’s a little fantastical that you’re squatting in Athe being such a shining example of the Six. It’s just too convenient.”
“What you call convenience, I call fate. Maybe the Six meant old Batbayar to meet young Iron.”
Iron caught the thump of the man’s steps matching his as they filtered from the alley. An itch of irritation worked its way up Iron’s chest. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Have a good day, Batbayar.”
“I’m having decent one so far. I find a new friend who fights like no man should. He has the moves of a priest, so I wonder if I should not follow in his shadow and learn why.”
“You’re going to follow me no matter what I say, aren’t you?” He sighed and tapped his foot on the ground. “Maybe I need to stop being so paranoid and trust the signs.”
“I will follow you, yes! And you say Caspran comes? He comes hunting you?”
Iron frowned. Could this be another priest? Perhaps he should test the man a little. “Yes…”
“Well, this young man has made my home unsafe. I cannot stay here with alp in the streets. It is easy thing to hide from men. Amber eyes of alps pierce shadows. I must come with you now.”
“I’m sorry for putting you in danger.” Iron turned on his heel and forced a smile. “But you really have to understand how dangerous my life is right now. We’re only stopping in Athe on the way to…well, I don’t know exactly. I only know we’re passing through, and where we’re going probably isn’t any safer. Caspran follows me. He wants me. You’d only be putting yourself in greater danger. So logically, it’s better for you to stay here. Are you really sure you want to follow me now?”
Batbayar pursed his lips and cocked his head.
“Thought so.” Iron turned his back on the man. Maybe Batbayar wasn’t the person Iron thought he was.
A strong hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him still. “There’s a shadow in your heart. You fight with the fury of a priest, but toward the ones they worship, you direct your anger. What has poisoned you to them?”
“Nothing.” His jaw tightened. “Everything. You worship gods with secrets. I happen to know a few of them, and I don’t like what I found out. They’re gone anyway. Echoes of something that’s past.”
“Gods may fall but they’re never gone. They’re like—”
“Spare your breath. I’ve heard it before.” Iron sighed and wrested himself from Batbayar. “It’s a long ride over the desert and I don’t have time for sermons.”
“You wish to cross the sands?” Batbayar clapped as his gap-toothed smile flashed. “I know the way. I am Kerran, the mighty horse riders. I have broken Chanathan steeds. I have crossed the sands. I know the way. I can take you. Men who wander the desert will die there. You need a guide. This is a true thing. Without a guide, the sands will drown you.”
“They won’t—” Iron’s pace slowed. You’re from Ker?”
“Yes, where all mighty things are born!”
Ker. Thrallox had traveled there and found the serpent charm hanging from Iron’s neck. Whatever waited in Ker held the secret to Sol’s power. Still, he didn’t trust this priest. It just made him more suspicious. “No, I don’t need a guide. I’ve got—”
“Faith?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing but blind luck. You need a guide. The path through the desert is a secret the sands have whispered to precious few. The sands move and flow like a mighty sea. The desert at sunset may not be the one at sunrise. You need a guide, or you die. Simple as that.”
Iron pressed his lips together and exhaled through his nostrils. “I could just ask you how to do it. If you really are a priest of the Shining Child, then you have to tell me the truth.”
The priest’s tongue wriggled from his lips as he snorted a laugh. “I cannot lie, but I can keep quiet. No, I will keep the way a secret. You take me, and I will get you across this desert. If you don’t, you better bring ten carts for water and ten more for food. The desert is hot and hungry for men.”
“Oh, you think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
“Not just any fool survives in a serpent’s den, eh? Come, we go find these friends you spoke of and introduce them to their guide.”
Iron searched the man’s eyes. They were so dark, so deep and kind. For some reason, it infuriated him. Why did everything Batbayar said have to make so much…so much sense? “I don’t trust you. Everything about you is too convenient. But…my life’s full of convenient companions lately. Welcome to the group, Batbayar. I’ve got my eye on you.”
Batbayar’s smile melted beneath the desert sun. As his frown set in, his dark eyes drifted over Iron’s shoulder. “Long I wait for boy called Iron. Many deaths of innocents I have seen. The Shining Child gave me this mission on the day my master anointed me. I will not fail the ones I loved and lost because of the anger in your heart. I will come with you. I will guide you. You have no choice now. I have no choice now. We are bound together, as we always were.”
“I’ve always got a choice, but I’ve seen enough to know that even fallen gods can have some echo on the world. Maybe that echo brought you to me—I don’t know.”
“No, Iron, your skull is thick and your ears closed. We must run now.” Batbayar’s eyes remained fix behind Iron.
“What—”
“Run!” The priest pointed. A shadow fli
tted overhead and broke the blazing sun with a flash of black. Iron squinted and turned, following the man’s gaze. A bird landed on a broken arch spanning the alley’s exit. Its snowy feathers betrayed its breed.
“Caspran,” Iron said.
“The serpents come to Old City,” Batbayar growled. “Athe will burn today.”
The bird screeched, drowning the low thrum of the bustling city. Not a heartbeat later, the sky tore apart with cackling swifts.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Swiftly Now
Shrill screams ripped through the dusted sky. Iron shielded his face as birds dove into the alleys and lanes, thrashing at the terrorized people clustered in rags wherever the shade fell. Batbayar stormed behind him, batting away swifts that pitched within reach, their talons leaving little more than scratches against his tattooed skin.
“We’ve got to find my friends!” Iron called through the chaos.
“Trust your instincts. Don’t let this alp’s birds confuse you!” Batbayar swatted a swift into a wall, the bird’s neck snapping with the impact.
Iron tore frantically through streets rapidly thinning of their occupants. Carts and crates and baskets brimming with rags lingered in the feathery storm, abandoned by their owners. His shin slammed into a splintered box. Iron cursed at the pain lancing through his leg but stumbled on, backhanding a swift clawing at his cheek.
Caspran moved so gods-damned quickly. Everywhere Iron travelled, the cursed alp lurked just behind him, waiting for Iron to make progress. The priest told him he’d return once Iron learned the truth. But the timing of his return, that was more than skill or luck or some combination of both. There was a logical answer staring him in the face: One among his friends betrayed the others. One among them kept Caspran on their trail. And because of them, he would have to face the murderous alp again.
I’m not ready for this. He hated admitting it, but in his heart he knew it to be true.
