The Iron-Jawed Boy Read online

  The

  Iron-Jawed

  Boy

  The Sky Guardian Chronicles

  _____________

  Book One

  Nikolas Lee

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE IRON-JAWED BOY

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Parthenon Publishing House

  Copyright © 2013 by Nikolas Lee

  Cover art by Danica Paige

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First Printing: July, 2013

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition: July, 2013

  ISBN: 0615819753

  ISBN13: 9780615819754

  Dedicated to the strongest woman I know—my grandma.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ATTACHMENT

  The fog had rolled in within seconds, breathing past the sails and masts that towered around the courtyard of the docks. Ion had never seen a fog move so quickly, but Father had always said that’s how it worked down here. “One moment the harbor’s as clear as glass, the next, the fog’s so thick you can’t see your own toes.”

  But the fog wasn’t thick enough yet, and Ion could still see the ten ships that encircled the courtyard, their moans and groans definitely not making the fog any less creepy. If only it had been thicker. Maybe then Ion wouldn’t have been able to see the faces of all those crying kids and frightened mothers forming four lines in the courtyard, or the shackles tight around their wrists, or the guards walking up and down the lines in their shimmering, purple armor. Or, most importantly, that turquoise statue of Sea Queen Nepia at the front, her menacing golden eyes dissecting the crowd. The Tempest—her five-pronged spear—was hoisted into the air, ready to summon the seas upon any who dared challenge her or the other Illyrian gods. The sight of her alone was enough to make Ion stay in line. But the others weren’t so compliant.

  Ion’s first grade teacher was at the front of his line, her face streaked with tears, her husband cradling her close. He had a small cut above his left eyebrow, where a guard had smacked him good with the butt of his spear. Everyone had gone quiet then. Moments before, the courtyard had been alive with shouts and cries, alive with the demand to know why they’d all been taken from their homes and brought here in iron restraints—iron restraints adorned with orange, glowing glyphs. It was smart of the guards, really. Everyone here was a Caller, a human who could use the elements in whatever way they desired. But the magical shackles and their burning glyphs made sure that couldn’t happen. Why, if Ion hadn’t been cuffed he would’ve thrown walls of wind every which way. Air Callers never go down without a fight, Father always said.

  But staring down at his shackles, Ion knew there’d be no fighting today.

  “Ionikus Reaves!”

  Ion chewed on his lip, not wanting to look up.

  “Ionikus Reaves!”

  Hands latched onto Ion’s shoulders and suddenly he was staring into his mother’s eyes. Her cheeks, too, were wet with tears, and her once bright blue eyes were dark with fear.

  She forced a smile and said, “Honey, they’re calling you. Just do as he says, all right, and everything will be fine.”

  Ion nodded, swallowed hard, and stepped out of the line so the guard on the platform beneath the statue of Nepia could see him.

  “Ionikus Reaves?” the man asked, looking down from his roll of parchment. Armor covered every bit of flesh the man had, all but his lips and stupid, beady eyes. But however stupid and beady they were, Ion got lost in their darkness until the man replied with a scolding, “Well, are you, or aren’t you Ionikus Reaves?”

  “Y-yes, sir. That’s me.”

  “Good,” said the guard. “Now, step into the line with the other kids on your left. Everyone twelve and under in Line A.”

  Ion looked over at the line. It was full of screaming, crying little kids, some so young that regular, non-Caller women had been ordered to hold and care for them. Ion joined the line, looked over at Mother, and she nodded. Oceanus, Ion’s thirteen-year-old sister, stood in front of Mother, looking just as afraid on the outside as Ion did on the inside. Ion wondered if his freckled cheeks were just as flushed as hers. Father’s freckled cheeks would have been as freckly as ever—no flush, no redness. He’d be strong. Where is he? Ion thought. He hadn’t seen him all day. Had the guards really not found him yet?

  By the time the guard at the front had finished reading off the names of the Callers younger than thirteen, a man in full armor—iron armor studded with rubies—marched down the middle of the courtyard, took to the platform at the front, and swung quickly around, his cape fluttering. The quiet crowd had gotten even quieter, but the ships looming nearby groaned impatiently.

  The man in the ruby-studded armor plucked a scroll from his belt and quietly unraveled the piece of paper. He cleared his throat and said, “Today, in the summer of the year 2300, I, General Tirius of the Isle of Eldanar, proclaim that by decree of the Illyrian gods—Elder and Minor—that all Callers of Eldanar are to be drafted and transported to the Americas to aid in the war effort against the rebel forces of the Outerworld humans. Any Callers who refuse to take up arms will hereby be named a traitor and will thus see the full wrath of the Illyrian gods.”

  Gasps washed over the crowd, and then the courtyard filled with shouts and cries like before, only so many people were talking that not a bit of it made sense.

  The general continued on, yelling over the Callers. “It is by the benevolence of the Illyrian gods that all Caller children under the age of thirteen be spared of the draft to work as laborers for Protea, our shining island capital. May the blessings of the Old Gods be with you, Callers! Signed, your King, Skylord Othum, Elder of the Illyrians.”

  Ion felt his throat dry up like one of those Outerworld deserts he’d read about in school. When he looked over at his mother in the line beside him for one of those comforting, assuring nods, she broke from her line and embraced him.

  She smelled of the lemon cookies she’d been baking before the guards had taken her from the house, and her arms were as warm as the sun’s rays. “Listen to me closely, Ion,” she whispered, fighting back more tears. “I love you more than all the stars in the sky, than all the grains of sand on the earth. The Americas are a long way from here, Ion, but remember I’ll always be in here.” She placed her hand on his chest where his heart drummed nervously. “You understand?”

  Ion nodded.

  “You there!” called a man over the enraged cri
es of the Callers.

  Hands wrapped around Mother’s arms and she was yanked from Ion’s grasp.

  “Get back in line, Caller!” growled General Tirius, shoving Mother back into the line with Oceanus.

  “I was just saying goodbye!” Mother cried.

  Recognition flashed through the general’s eyes, and his hands latched around Mother’s hair. “Where’s Atrius, Alena?” The general asked, angrier than a four-horned Rhynodon with a thorn in his foot. “I know you know where he’s hiding. Give him up! Give him up now!”

  She stared daringly into his eyes, lips sealed shut. Mother would never tell, and the general knew it. He spun on his heel, his cape stirring the air around him, and wrapped his hands tight around Ion’s arms.

  “Where is your father?” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth. “Where is Atrius?”

  The general’s eyes were big with fear. As they should be. Father was an Air Caller you didn’t want to make angry—all those shiny, gold medals he’d won in the Caller arena battles said that much. And if the Eldanarian guards hadn’t found him yet, they’d be in for one windy day.

  “Leave him alone!” Mother said, Oceanus holding her back. “He doesn’t know where Atrius is!”

  “Calm down, Mother,” Oceanus pleaded.

  But General Tirius wouldn’t stop. He shook Ion hard. “Tell me where your father is, Caller, or I’ll make sure your family gets a front-of-the-line position in combat.”

  “I-I don’t know,” Ion said. “I-I really don’t!”

  “Liar!”

  Mother sobbed in the background. The general’s grip grew tighter and tighter. Tears welled in Ion’s eyes as the rings on the man’s fingers dug into his flesh. Ion’s cheeks went hot. All he wanted to do was throw this stupid general across the courtyard with the biggest, mightiest wind he could imagine. If it weren’t for these shackles, he thought. But a breeze blew by as if to overlook Ion’s magical restraints, and with an angry thought of Ion’s, the breeze whirled into a gale. Winds whipped in every direction, pulling at Ion’s tunic and stirring the fog like Mother did her super special tomato soup. The winds howled as they tugged at the general’s cape and stung at his beady little eyes. But when the skies opened above and a man with a bushy beard and wrinkly forehead descended from above, Ion knew these winds weren’t his.

  General Tirius slowly turned, but before he could even see Father, the winds responded with a deafening scream, and the general was sucked up into the fog, his yelp the last anyone heard of him.

  Father landed before Ion, but was silent. His face was cold and emotionless, and Ion wasn’t sure whether he should hug him, or be just as afraid as the general had been. A glint of light reflected off a small strip of iron in Father’s hand. It was curved in the middle to make a blunt V, and was riddled with nicks and dents.

  Two guards raced down the lines toward Father, their armor clanking with each step, electricity the color of sapphire building at the ends of their spears. Father looked at them, and with a sweep of his hand, a blast of wind chucked them off the courtyard and into the waters of the bay.

  Father turned back to Ion, but said nothing still.

  “F-father?” Ion asked.

  No response.

  “Atrius, w-what’re you doing?” Mother cried, wringing her hands as more guards and their clanking armor charged.

  Father looked down at the strip of dull metal in his hand, and then said, “I’m sorry, Ionikus. But it must be done.”

  Before Ion could react, Father shoved the piece of metal up against Ion’s jaw, and as he held it there, a twinge of pain shot across Ion’s face, followed by a skittering feeling like spiders crawling across his skin. The iron crackled as it molded to the shape of both Ion’s jaw line and the tip of his chin, sewing itself to the flesh like a badge to a shirt. When the hissing and crackling came to a halt, Father stepped back and the winds settled.

  “W-what have you done?” Mother asked. “What have you done to our baby?”

  Ionikus ran his fingers along the iron that now landscaped the bottom half of his face, terrified and speechless at how leveled it was with the skin that surrounded it. But it felt like ice against his flesh and weighed it down just as well, and when he gave it a panicked tug, he yelped at the pain that shot through his face.

  Father stared, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “The attachment is complete,” he said. “They’re going to take me now, Ion, but you’ll be safe. So long as you have that jaw.”

  Electricity hissed at the tip of the guards’ spears, and when the shock came, Ion’s vision went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SERVING THE DREADFUL

  A flood of cold rushed over Ion’s body and he sprang from his bed, thoroughly drenched and gasping for air. An old man no taller than a dwarf stood at Ion’s right, staring at him with tiny, angry eyes, a dripping bucket hoisted over his head.

  His nose was wrinkled with anger, but all Ion could see was the deflated wart that hung from the tip of it. “Dreaming of mommy again?” growled the man.

  “N-no, Dread,” Ion replied. “No dreaming—j-just as you’ve asked.”

  “Just Dread?” he said through rotted teeth.

  Ion lowered his head. “Sir Dread. My apologies.”

  “Five months you’ve lived here, Caller, and yet not a single day has passed where I haven’t had to reprimand you for something.” Sir Dread leaned in close. Ion could smell his fishy morning breath. “It’s four in the morning—where should you be?”

  Ion swallowed. “I-I should be in the kitchen, m-making you breakfast, Sir Dread.”

  “Right,” said Sir Dread. “Now get up and get to it!” He ambled back to the door of the basement as quick as his knobby knees could take him, then slammed the door behind him.

  Ion sighed and sat down on his bed, which wasn’t so much a bed as a cot, and looked miserably around the basement, which wasn’t so much a basement as a stone box—windowless and unbearably hot. He peered into the sad little mirror hanging on the wall across the way and ran his fingers across the strip of iron attached to his jaw, the scarce candlelight of the basement glinting off its nicks and dents.

  “You’ll be safe now,” Father had said, “so long as you have that jaw.” But so far, the jaw hadn’t saved him from anything. Ion wasn’t even sure how it stayed attached in the first place. He knew only that it had clung to his jaw for five months now, yet still felt as heavy as the first day—the day of the Detainment.

  By the time Ion had awakened from the shock of the guard’s spear, he’d already been purchased in the Eldanarian Forums for a mere fifty Cogs. The rest of the Caller children capable of work were either sold like he was, or shipped off to the orphanage. It seemed none of the regular non-Caller folk cared what was happening. Then again, if the gods didn’t care, why should anyone else?

  Ion couldn’t decide if he was happy to be a slave, safe behind the Emerald Peaks—those towering mountains that encircled Eldanar—or jealous of the Callers who were off training and battling. Sure, he’d be fighting against his will, but at least then he’d see some action—folding Dread’s laundry was the worst.

  Ion threw on a raggedy, gray tunic passed down to him from the last servant of Sir Dread’s, and laced up his sandals. Stupid Illyrian gods. They were to blame for all of this.

  Ion breathed deep and pushed the angry thoughts aside, just as he did every morning. His thoughts didn’t matter now, angry or not. He was a slave—a servant of Sir Dread, the Supreme Judge of Protea—and as such, Ion was to move only when told to move, to eat only when told to eat, and most importantly, to keep his stupid thoughts to himself. “I care not for the dramas of lesser folk,” Dread had always said.

  With no more time to waste, Ion rushed up the staircase outside the basement and into the kitchen. The kitchen smelled of fresh fish and warm bread. Two rather plump nymphs toiled away at the countertops, frantically trying to piece together a meal.

  One of them looked up from h
er cutting board and glared scornfully at Ion. Pieces of her curly, golden hair clung to her sweaty forehead, and a circle of sliced carrot hung from her bulbous, furry chin.

  “Well,” she snorted through a mouth lined with bark teeth, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Good morning?” Ion feigned a smile. “Okay, fine—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to oversleep, honestly.”

  The other nymph turned around from her countertop, a mist of flour showering the kitchen floor as she did. Twigs and leaves sprouted out of her head, strands of black hair flowing in between. Her face was also sweating, but was a bit fatter than her sister’s, like a sponge full of water.

  “How dare you leave us to make breakfast!” the nymph cracked like a whip, flashing her mouth full of bark.

  “I didn’t mean to, Violet!” he urged, while they both rolled their eyes and returned to their work. “Sir Dread had me washing his linens all night! I don’t think I went to bed until—“

  “Enough!” Rose hissed, measuring slices of carrots with a ruler she seemed to draw out of thin air. “We don’t care to hear your sob stories, Caller. You are to wake up with us at three in the morning, every morning, to prepare Sir Dread’s breakfast...”

  “You were late,” Violet continued, “and so tonight you will be washing our linens and cleaning this kitchen from top to bottom.”

  Ion almost opened his mouth to protest, but knew better. Nymphs were in charge in this household.

  Violet and Rose, like the rest of their kin, were the offspring of nature; they’d just walk out of trees or lakes as babies and start planting flowers, building streams, and even birthing breezes, depending on the type of nymph. Violet and Rose were of the wood nymph variety, but like all nymphs, they were protected from slavery by the laws of Eldanar.

  Dread simply came home one day with Violet and Rose at his side, introduced them as the new “House Managers”, and that was that. Ion had always thought it peculiar, though, that any nymph would serve Dread voluntarily, even as nasty as Rose and Violet were (watching them eat was like watching a couple vultures devour their first meal in weeks). But Ionikus wasn’t allowed to question, unless, of course, he was asking Sir Dread how he got to be so “dashingly handsome”.