The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Hand of the Moon (Book 2, Sky Guardian Chronicles) (12 page)

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.

“Don’t do this, Ion. Don’t let him take over.”

The elf doesn’t understand!
said Thornikus
. These Illyrians are not who they say they are. They made you freeze these humans—innocent men, women, and children. It’s their fault. And they must suffer
for it
.

Ion outstretched his arms and the winds plucked him from the street, rising high into the air.

He looked down at Lillian, rage pulsing through his system with each beat of his heart.
She stands in your way, Ion
.

Kill her
.

Kill the Blood Guardian
.

Don’t listen to him
! Lillian screamed.
You’ve entered Consumption, Ion. Your emotions are controlling your powers, allowing Thornikus into your mind, your thoughts. He
is
anger. He
is
destruction. And you
must
refuse him
!

She’s lying
! said Thornikus.
She fights for the Illyrians
!

Lillian stepped forward, and with a panicked, angry point of Ion’s finger, a wave of rain washed down the streets, bathing Lillian in ice and freezing her where she stood. The sound of grinding metal rang in Ion’s ears as the iron lampposts of the street bent to the will of the winds. A car flew through his vision, smashing through a brick building across the way.

He’s wrong, Ion
, said Lillian, her voice weaker now, more faint
. I fight for
you.
I know you’re hurt. I can feel your pain as if it were my own. But killing me, killing the Illyrians—it won’t solve your problems. Your rage is clouding your judgment.

Lies!
shouted Thornikus
. All lies!

Ion bared his teeth and sent another wave of rain down upon Lillian.

Fight your anger, Ion,
said Lillian, her voice so soft now
. Fight it just as Vinya would do.

Vinya
, Ion thought, shame lapping over him in an instant. He’d...he’d nearly forgotten about her.

No!
shouted Thornikus, sounding so suddenly petulant.
Don’t lose focus! Don’t...let her...win...

The cold of the snow bit at Ion’s skin, and the winds lowered him to the street. He looked out at the raging walls of snow and ice and sleet. Colder and colder it felt. So loud, too.

What would Vinya do
? asked Lillian.

As Ion felt his pupils retract to their normal size, the winds dissipated in seconds, as if called away by an unheard voice. The Sun broke upon the streets, glimmering over the icy statues of Vasheer and Lillian.

“She’d...fight,” said Ion.

All the power that had pulsed through Ion was leached from his body in a flash, and when his vision went black, he fell backward. The cold of the snow the last thing he felt.

The sound of a victory horn the last thing he heard.

THE CRESCENT MANTLE

“
Hello
?” came a singsong voice. “
Sky Guardian
? It’s time to wake up, my dear boy.”

Ion opened his eyes to a haze of white as though he was still looking through the blizzard of the White City. When the haze faded, however, he made out the wrinkles of a face, saggy jowls, and heavy bags under cold, blue eyes.

“Lady Borea?” Ion gasped.

“Oh, he’s awake!” cheered the goddess.

Ion saw another face—one almost as wrinkly as Lady Borea’s, but squared and male.

“Thank the Triplets!” said Othum.

Ion felt his strength slowly return as a few hands helped him to sit upright.

“The Consumption you entered will have you feeling a bit under the weather,” said Lady Borea, while Ion realized one of the hands supporting him was her old, bony one. “But since this isn’t your first encounter with it, I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Consumption?” Ion asked, and suddenly it all came flashing back to him—the rain, the snow, the wind, the voice of Thornikus, and the things he called for. “Lillian! Where’s Lillian?”

“Right here, Ion,” she answered, the owner of the other set of hands holding him up.

“Lillian.” Ion breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I? I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m okay, Ion,” she said, helping him to his feet with Lady Borea. “Better than
you’re
doing right about now.”

Ion stood on wobbly legs, the world spinning as he regained his senses. The usual crowd of elves, dwarves, and giants stood before him, watching in worried silence.

Ion swallowed and turned to Lady Borea, to the mighty gods of Illyria who stood in a line behind her, and Oceanus and Theo who stood behind them. Oceanus and Theo looked at him with consideration, empathy, understanding perhaps. But the same could not be said for the other Illyrians. Eos and Ezra, Soldune, Helia—their noses were high, their lips set solemn and straight. Their faces as severe as their judgments. Ion dared not even look in Vasheer’s direction.

Othum’s face was as considerate as Ion’s fellow Guardians, but the sight of it brought back the flood of Thornikus’s angry thoughts.
They bred you for destruction
, he’d said.
Bred you for death
. There were questions to be answered. Questions about his creation, about the destruction he’d been commanded to cause. But when he rounded back on Lady Borea, he quickly remembered they’d have to wait.

The naming of the next Hand was upon them.
And the massacre that will follow
.

Ion bowed to the gods. “I’m sorry, my Illyrians. For my Consumption. For losing control.”

“
Sorry
?” cried Vasheer. The god stepped out of the line of Illyrians, teeth bared. “Well isn’t that nice? Did you hear that, citizens of Illyria? Your Sky Guardian is sorry he nearly
killed
the gods he’s bound to protect. Well, I for one do not accept your apology! Your little...
freak show
out there could’ve—”

“Good
Triplets
,” Lady Borea shouted, all the attention shifting to her, “I knew you were a fan of the dramatics, Vasheer, but could we take it down a notch for just
one
moment? Sure, the Sky Guardian entered Consumption and nearly fatally wounded a teammate of his, and not to mention a member of the Illyrian pantheon. But he did put on a good show, did he not, citizens?”

The crowd erupted with applause and whistles.

Lady Borea’s hands fell upon Ion’s shoulders, as he tried to withhold his disdain. “Vasheer doesn’t have to accept your apology, because I do.”

Ion stared at her, amazed, astonished, completely blown away at how great of an actor she’d come to be. How many times had she put on this show before? How many gods had been slain by her hand, by her tricks and schemes? Ion pulled his shoulder away, daring to flare his nose at her.

She narrowed her eyes on him, and he did the same.

“Grandmother, I insist you stay out of this,” Vasheer’s voice pulling them out of their moment. “I mean, you can’t honestly crown him the winner of the Race. He practically cheated!”

“Wait...
winner
?” Ion squeaked.

“Indeed,” said Lady Borea. “When you fell to the streets after you left Consumption, you were an inch from the finish line, unbeknownst to you. And then of course you fell backward and the Race had been won. But, unfortunately, your victory means no Future Hand has won more than one event.”

“So—” Ion began.

“It came down to a vote,” said Othum behind them.

Lady Borea walked back to the line of Illyrians, taking her place in between Othum—who was suppressing a smile—and Lady Nepia, her blue skin deep and dark, her hand wrapped tightly around the diamond-pronged Tempest.

 
“While Lord Vasheer displayed great bravery in his slaying of the Sea Witch,” said Lady Borea, “and Lord Thoman revealed to us his passion in his capturing of the Moon Bow, our Sky Guardian here valiantly won the Race. But only one god can be named the next Hand of the Moon.” She paused, gaze sweeping over the waiting, watching crowd. “And with a three-fourths vote, that god...will be Lillian Monroe.”

The crowd gasped so loud it was as though the island itself inhaled.

Ion looked at Lillian.
Everyone
looked at Lillian. He couldn’t believe it.
She
couldn’t believe it. Her mouth and eyes were wide open, the faded pink color draining from her long ears.

“This can’t be!” Vasheer screamed.

“How could you do this?” shouted Esereez.

“This is most irregular!” Thoman cried.

“
Quiet
!” An angry rap of Lady Borea’s staff sent a shockwave through the ground. “I
will
have
quiet
.” She took a calming breath. “Out of all our competing Future Hands, there wasn’t a single one who showed the grace, consideration, and kindness that the late Vinya and the Moon Goddesses of Old have always shown.”

Lady Borea let her eyes—suddenly much gentler—fall upon Lillian. “In the Fight, you were the only competitor to defend another, shielding Ion from the flying squidlings. It was a selfless act, and one Vinya would have proudly done. In the Retrieval, you set aside your desire to claim the Moon Bow, and saved Ion from a deadly fall instead. And in the Race, you stood beside Ion and fought what could have been your death at the hands of rain, ice, and snow, just so you could coax Ion out of the disastrous maze of Consumption.”

Lady Borea held out her hand to Lillian, and Lillian hesitantly approached. Anticipation strangled the audience.

Lillian placed her pink hand on Lady Borea’s. “We know now you are the true Hand of the Moon, Lillian Monroe. But are you willing to accept such a position? Becoming an Illyrian, becoming the Goddess of the Moon, comes with a great deal of responsibility. Agree to it, however, and immortality, power, and a Throne will all be yours.”

Lillian thought, chewing on her lip. Queen Onyxia rolled her eyes in the background. Ion couldn’t imagine what Lillian was thinking. Immortality? Power? A seat amongst the gods of Illyria? Would she accept?
Could
she accept?

Then she answered, “I do. I want to be the Hand of the Moon.”

The crowd erupted behind Ion, their hoots and hollers and whistles surely carrying to all ends of the island. While Othum boasted his uncontrollable, goofy grin, Lady Borea managed a smile as well.
Was this what she was planning?
Ion wondered. Was this the moment she and Helia were waiting for? The tension gripped at Ion, his muscles tight beneath his skin. He watched the other Illyrians, analyzing how very unimpressed they were by the decision. They were quiet. Solemn. It was to be expected, though. Lillian didn’t have Illyrian blood—she was a servant of the gods, not
one
of the gods. How could they ignore that, them with their rules and guidelines and judgments?

How long would they stay silent?

The Skylord stepped forward and bowed before Lillian. “We are pleased to welcome you into the Illyrian family, my dear child. But before we can
officially
name you the Hand of the Moon, you must perform one last task.”

Lady Borea and Othum parted like two opening doors and Ion saw they were standing before another edge of the island, where a long, narrow bridge of stone stretched a coliseum field away to a small island hovering off the mainland. Two monstrously tall nymph statues flanked the end of the bridge on the small island, their hands holding great jars out of which poured waterfalls, orange in the light of the setting Sun.

“That is the Terrace of the Moon,” said the Skylord, “and
that
is your temple.”

Othum pointed to the cylindrical building of stone rising out of the island, five terraces surrounding it, each filled with water that cascaded down to the next until it had fallen off the island completely.

“Your last task is called the Summoning,” said Lady Borea. “Go to your temple, sit upon your Throne, and insert the Bow of the Moon into the holder at its side.”

Lady Borea rapped her staff against the stone floor and an elf heavy in armor walked out of the crowd. He knelt before Lillian, presenting to her the Bow of the Moon. Lillian looked to Lady Borea, who gave her a reassuring nod, and Lillian took the interlocking deer antlers of the Bow. She regarded it with awe, her mouth slightly agape.

“And just
one
last thing,” said Lady Borea.

The goddess opened her withered old hand, and a glimmering diamond within rose from her palm. It floated over to Lillian, everyone watching quietly, anxiously.

“The Eternity Diamond,” said Lady Borea. “Among the last of its kind. It grants you the gift of immortality once the Summoning has ended.”

The glittering jewel stopped at the center of Lillian’s forehead and hovered there, rotating in its place. Then, a blinding, silvery light spread out from inside the Diamond, and when it faded, a set of grand silver plates fit only for a god sat upon Lillian’s shoulders. They shimmered like no other metal Ion had seen. Two crescent moons grew out of the ends of the shoulders, linking with a full moon that rose behind Lillian’s bald head.

Lillian took it all in, running her fingers over the plates.

“The Crescent Mantle you now wear comes from the hidden power within the Diamond,” said Lady Borea. “It must be worn during each Summoning of the Moon, which will occur once a month. Now, begin your march to the Terrace, Summon the Moon and restore the Balance. Guardians—as the new Hand of the Moon, Lady Lillian will require an escort for her first walk to the temple.”

Oceanus and Theo nodded and quickly took to Lillian’s side. But Ion hesitated. This was it—what Lady Borea had been planning all along. It was after the naming of the Hand, and the Guardians were the ones chosen to die.

“Something wrong, Sky Guardian?” Lady Borea asked.

 
He stared into her cold blue eyes, jaw clenched but unsure of what to say or do.
Kill them all
, she’d said.
But why
?
Why would she want us dead
?
What are we walking into
?

“Sky Guardian!” Lady Borea snapped, jowls jiggling in her anger. “I
demand
you escort the Hand of the Moon!”

Ion found Lady Helia’s gaze bearing down upon him behind Borea.
My murderer
. Was she about to take his life again?

“Ionikus Reaves!” Othum boomed, stepping forward. “You heard the Lady!”

 
“Apologies,” said Ion, battling Lady Borea’s glare. “I think I’m still recovering from the Race.” He bowed, and took to Lillian’s side. She regarded him with concerned eyes, and with a great breath, she took her first step on the narrow bridge.

This was it. The march to the end.
I have to say something
.

Lillian
, he thought, looking at the elf as they proceeded down the bridge.
Lillian, if you can hear me,
you must know something
.

Her voice filled his ears, smooth as silk.
You have the loudest thoughts I’ve ever had the displeasure of catching,
she said
. So if you think I don’t already know of Lady Borea’s plans, you’re sorely mistaken.