The Iron-Jawed Boy and the Siege of Sol Read online

  The air was stale too, saddened by the loss of sound and that had once thrived here. There was always something so sad about ruins. The idea that all things, no matter how grand or illustrious, can and will see their ends.

  How very depressing.

  I walked right, down the spacious stone streets of Olympus. Buildings built into the mountainside rose on either side, their wonder not lost on me. I could not help but note, however, the amount of varying objects littering the road. Every other step I took, my foot landed on some gold trinket, or sandal, or some other item of clothing. There were even miscellaneous pieces of armor: a tarnished, silver helmet; a breastplate emblazoned with the lightning bolt of the Old God of Greece who once ruled its pantheon. It was as though whoever had lived here had left in quite a hurry.

  But it fed the rumors I had always heard growing up.

  They said the Greeks had abandoned Olympus, that in a matter of hours they had fled its once-protective walls. But no one truly knew why. The gods who had left vanished soon after their departure. The true reason Olympus was abandoned had died with them, along with the line of Greek blood.

  But there was one thing everyone was certain of: something horrible had happened here. And the evidence of this was everywhere I looked. No wonder no one had visited the mountain since it had been left behind.

  Feeling the mountain still moving beneath my sensitive feet, I walked past what appeared to be a great library on my left, and stopped. For in the corner of my elvish eyes, I caught a glimpse of something I should not have.

  Another living being. Or so I thought.

  My gaze drifted to the right until I was looking straight, and there, standing down the street, was a tall creature bound in rotted bandages. It had the build of a man, but the long hair of woman, locks which drifted in a wind that did not exist. And its eyes...they were a coal black, piercing as they gazed upon me.

  I hesitated for a moment, my words caught at the back of my mouth. But in a blink, the being disappeared and reappeared twenty yards down the street, still looking at me. Slowly, eerily, it raised its left arm until it was pointing at the building to its side.

  I swallowed. But in spite of my nerves, I gathered my courage and started down the street to what I convinced myself could only be an apparition of Olympus. Though what kind, I was incredibly unsure.

  When I reached where it stood, its arm still out, the apparition vanished in another blink, only to reappear beside the doors to the building. It remained silent, even as I neared once more.

  The apparition bowed me into the building, the great iron doors opening with a deathly creak. It was a sound that would have called up the hairs on my arms had I any speak of.

  I stepped inside, but only the faint strands of light coming in through the opened doors lit my way, so there was not much to see. The apparition appeared at my side in another blink of the eye. It stared into the darkness with me, silent as ever.

  It was so close I could see the dried blood that stained its bandages in more areas than one should be stained. Its hair was long and still blowing in a non-existent wind, but it looked brittle and dead to the touch. And its face...well, there was not much to see there, since bandages too, covered that part of its body—from its head to its mouth.

  “What are you?” I asked calmly, looking ahead into the empty room.

  With a voice hoarse and airy, the being replied through the bandages over its mouth: “I am what this world calls a Manifestation.”

  “Of what are you a Manifestation?” I asked.

  It, too, looked at me. “Of sadness,” it replied. “Great, terrible sadness. I was left by the gods who once dwelled on this mountain, to warn the future of what happened to them.”

  “Is that why you brought me here?”

  It nodded.

  “And this place...what is it?”

  “A tomb,” it said. “A tomb for many.”

  I got a sudden chill, as the skin beneath the Manifestation’s bandages ignited with burning, purple light, bathing the inside of the chamber. My breath caught in my throat. My tongue dried in an instant. My heart had nearly stopped beating. For before me, strewn about the walls of the room...were hundreds of bodies.

  They were piled on top of one another: males, females, children. They wore the finest of clothes, some the finest of armor. But from their eyes and ears and mouths leaked a black, glistening fluid.

  “The Sickness washed over Olympus in two days,” explained the Manifestation, its light still illuminating the tomb. “Only, it wasn’t a sickness at all. It was a poison unlike anything the Old Gods had seen or expected.”

  “Th-these are the Old Gods?” I asked, my eyes unblinking as they washed over the bodies in horror.

  “They are,” it replied.

  But as my eyes narrowed on the bodies and the fluid, I realized their skin was as smooth and perfect as porcelain. No decomposition? It was not possible...

  “How are they not reduced to bones?” I asked. “It has been so long.”

  “Those affected by the Sickness leak the fluid from their mouths and eyes, and their bodies do not decompose,” said the Manifestation. “They are not to receive such a merciful ending. That was how the poison was designed.”

  “And who designed it?”

  “Much like the Guardians were designed by a pantheon, so too was the Sickness,” said the Manifestation. “It was brought from the North, where the jealous gods there desired the ending of the gods here. But while the vicious snow and ice in the North bred an even more vicious pantheon, they were blinded by their jealousy and anger. And so, they did not expect one of their own to betray them.”

  I drew my gaze over the bodies; over a woman with a headdress not too dissimilar from the Queen’s; over a god whose hand was coiled around a silver, yet tarnished trident. The Norse had long waged wars against the Greeks, this was known. But to design a weapon capable of taking out an entire pantheon...it was unheard of.

  “Upon the implosion of the Norse pantheon,” the Manifestation went on, “the Sickness claimed the lives of almost every god on Olympus. And those who managed to avoid its deadly grasp were hunted down by the same one who had brought the Sickness to Olympus’s gates.”

  “Who?” I asked breathlessly. “Who did this?”

  “The Sickness rode on winds of ice and snow,” said the Manifestation. “Carried by the brittle hands of an old, wrinkled woman.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE THUNDER LORD

  The rain fell in tiny drops now, as the Solians parted before the Chancellor walking in front of me.

  His guards kept close at my side, their hands tight around my arms as they followed their ruler through Sol. Not a single word was spoken along the way. Not from the gossiping old women, nor from the usually excitable children. They knew what was happening, and so they just watched, their faces heavy as they looked upon me. It was strange, really, being surrounded by so much fear and it not being directed at me, but for me. This time, I wasn’t the monster. The Chancellor was.

  How often had this happened for the people of Sol, to already wear my fate in the grim lines of their mouths and in their lowered, heavy brows?

  Perhaps the Chancellor is a harsher ruler than we had known.

  Chancellor Mythborne trudged up a hill that led to the fifth Terrace of Sol, which was marked by a spacious courtyard. The Yard. Red buildings encircled the oval-shaped lot of black tile. Though, under the light of the Moon seeping through the Forever Clouds, they appeared a bruised and beaten purple.

  “Chain him up!” the Chancellor demanded, pointing to the two columns that rose in the middle of the courtyard.

  The columns were twice as tall as me, and thicker than any I’d seen, with big chains hanging from their sides. As I was yanked closer to them, I could make out the designs etched into their sides. Humans carrying large bricks of stone up an incline that wrapped all the way up the columns. And being lashed as they did.

  I swallowed hard. T
he guards pulled my arms outward and the cuffs around my wrists detached from each other. They locked the two manacles attached to the columns into the holes in my cuffs, and then pulled the chains tight, spreading my arms.

  As I stood there, flanked by the columns, the citizens of Sol crowded the courtyard and encircled me. Still, they were quiet, so hushed that all I could hear was the slight shuffling of their sandals and the trickle of rain from nearby gutters.

  The only relief I had came from the light kiss of the rain, but even that was not enough to ease my roiling stomach.

  The Chancellor stepped in front of me, his hands locked behind his back, his eyes harsh on me. “Guards!” the Chancellor shouted.

  The crowd parted before me, and from out of the voids walked a man and a woman. They were tall—nearly as tall as Illindria. They were as heavy in white armor as the other guards, and when they stopped before me, they pulled two whips from their belts. But they weren’t just any ordinary whips. No—instead of leather, their tails were made of five tendrils of thin copper.

  “Wha-what are those?” I asked, unable to hide the panic in my voice.

  The Chancellor smiled smugly at me. “Your punishment. Had them specially made just for gods like you.” He nodded at the soldiers and they walked around the columns until they were out of sight behind me. “Citizens of Sol! As your Chancellor, I am saddened to have to do this on such a happy day for us. We have our new buildings, a new harvest, beautiful gardens and even rain. But I find it imperative, in times like these, to make certain no missteps are taken. By anyone. And our beloved new pantheon is not excluded from this! Our dear Thunder Lord here has taken one such misstep, in endangering my child, and now he shall receive a punishment befitting any brave human.”

  I gritted my teeth and washed my eyes over the crowd. Their beautiful Markings glowed blue, lighting the rain as it fell upon their shoulders. They had not replied to their Chancellor. In fact, none of them were even looking at him, their gazes laid heavy upon me instead. How many times have you seen this before? I wanted to ask. But I saw Solara, and her urgent eyes broke through my thoughts. I must not show them any more fear than I already have.

  That’s what an Endari would do.

  The Chancellor took several steps back. “Guards!” he cried, staring at me with disdain. “Begin.”

  I closed my eyes, and with the rain washing down my face and through my hair, I heard the crack of a whip first, and a moment later, as though delayed, felt the copper lash against my back. Light flashed in the courtyard, thunder following, lightning being pulled from my back as the whips retreated. Another lash, another boom of thunder, and another stream of burning lightning flowed out of my skin through no volition of my own. Each strike was like a thousand daggers flying into my skin, and as the lightning was pulled out, it was like a hot pan being held against my flesh. Again and again they whipped, and again and again, the courtyard was filled with the flashes of electricity.

  I wanted to hate the Chancellor in that moment. But I couldn’t. Even in my extreme pain, in my screams, something deep in me still remembered what it was like to have everything taken from you. To be a victim. I could not hate him then. He was just a kid when Thornikus had swallowed his home in ice. And, in this life, I would be the one to allow him the revenge he so desired.

  The rain flooded down from the clouds above as the anger and agony surged through my body. Another whip and my vision was clouded, drowned in a painful haze. I looked over the crowd, at the faces of children guarded by their mothers’ hands. I missed Mother now more than ever. My Father. Vinya. My old life. The time before I was a god. Even as strong as Mother was, she would’ve cried at the sight of this, I knew. Sink down to her knees and sob. But I’m doing it for a reason, Mother.

  It’s for you, I thought. It’s for Vinya. And Father. And everyone who’s been hurt by these gods: Illyrian or Endari. I must suffer for this all to work. And it will work. I know it will.

  One more whip cracked against my skin, but this time I only cringed. I saw Mearic’s face looking on with unmistakable tears in his eyes. I saw Spike’s malevolent grin. The Chancellor’s unblinking gaze, the memories of his parents’ death reeling in his eyes like a play for all to see.

  Then, I caught Solara’s face once more. And saw her clenched jaw.

  “Chancellor Mythborne!” Her voice cracked over the courtyard louder than any of my thunder. “I do believe this god has received enough lashes, do you not? After all, it was he who brought you rain.”

  The soldiers stopped, and the weight of the crowds’ gaze fell upon the Chancellor. He looked surprised by her words, his mouth open.

  “Well, I think—”

  “I think the memories of your past are tainting the present,” she growled. “Now, if you’d please let my fellow god down, your gracious and benevolent pantheon can continue helping your city rather than entertaining it.”

  The Chancellor balled his hands into fists, but before he could open his mouth, Solara interrupted.

  “And if you don’t agree with me, perhaps you should consult the faces of your citizens and ask them if they’d like to see more.”

  He swallowed, glimpsing at the frightened faces around him, and Mearic, who refused to look at him. “Very well,” he grumbled, suddenly wilted. “Unchain the Thunder Lord. He has seen enough punishment for today.”

  “For his entire time staying here, I’d say,” Solara added, crossing her arms.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HAND OF THE MOON

  The Sickness rode on winds of ice and snow. Carried by the brittle hands of an old, wrinkled woman.

  I had returned to Illyria within the night, but the words of the Manifestation repeated again and again in my head. It was like some sort of endless reel, along with the whispers of those forsaken voices.

  Save us. The Sickness rode on winds of ice and snow. Can’t hear. Can’t feel. Carried by the hands of an old, wrinkled woman.

  It was nearly too much even for my fortified mind to handle.

  I stood on the balcony outside my bedroom chambers, the light of my beautiful Moon washing over me. I could feel its power rushing through my veins, empowering my abilities. Feeding me with endless power. It was my only source of sanity now.

  My mind continued to work through the distractions, the gears turning like the ones in my own temple. I knew who had concocted the Sickness now, who had plagued the pantheons of this world for ages. She was old and wrinkly and rode on winds of ice and snow.

  Lady Borea, the Frost Queen.

  It made perfect sense. She was so power-thirsty she had sacrificed everything to gain it and keep it. Of course she was the only one to survive the Sickness that swept through Illyria those many years ago. And of course no one would ever suspect the old, brittle woman to do it, however persnickety she might be.

  But why?

  I could understand her reasoning for poisoning the Greeks. They were the competition of the Norse: in gold, in power, in worship and followers. They had better land, better Thrones. But to poison her Norse family as well? And then her Illyrian one many ages later?

  As I gazed out over the sleeping city of Illyria before me, I realized I had left Olympus with more questions than I was able to answer. If those thousands of years ago, Lady Borea was somehow “old” and “brittle” when she brought the Sickness to Olympus, how old was she really?

  Save us, pleaded the voices, a bit of sorrowful moaning in the background. Can’t see. Can’t feel. Can’t hear.

  Then, the voices pulled me from my thoughts and did something they had never done before.

  Instead of playing in both ears, they suddenly switched to my right.

  Save us, they pleaded once more.

  I turned to my right then, and as I gazed upon a grand palace of sandstone atop the highest hill in the south, the voices switched back to both my ears. Can’t hear. Can’t see.

  I looked ahead again, the voices switched to my right ear. I turned to their
whisperings, looking to the south and at the palace once more, and the voices filled both my ears again. They were calling me to them. And where I now looked, at that towering, squared building to the south was the home of Lady Borea.

  That was it. That was all I needed.

  In seconds, I had rushed into my bedchambers and plucked my silk, purple cloak from one of the four-posters of my bed. I rushed back to the balcony, swung my cloak on and drew the hood over my elven ears. I breathed deep, and when I looked at the Moon, its light shimmered over my body until it shimmered no longer. In its wake, there was no elf, no goddess, no teenage girl to be spoken of. Only thin air...or so I would have the world think.

  Invisibility was among the first abilities I had learned the Moon could lend me. Though I had to remain in its gentle rays, or I would be as visible as before.

  My focus surged and a veil of kinetic energy washed over every inch of my body, lifting me from the balcony. I flew over Illyria, over the rivers of turquoise tile and countless buildings, until I found myself above Lady Borea’s palace. I descended upon the middle of the fortress, where a domed roof of glass awaited my arrival.

  Save us! The voices grew so strong, so loud they were screaming. So cold! Can’t hear!

  I landed on the roof, looked to my left and right, and pulled at the latch attached to the window. I propped open the glass and a gust of chilled air rushed up from the inside of the chambers. I swallowed, and slipped through the opening with my heart in my throat. And when I landed, my feet crunched on snow. At first, all I could see was the snow made visible by the circle of moonlight coming through the dome of glass above. But with only a thought, the moonlight grew brighter and brighter, until I could see the entire room around me.

  It was massive. About half the size of the Hall of Thrones. Its floors were veiled in snow, its rounded walls lined by towering marble columns. And in the center, stood an aviary. Its walls rose as woven iron, meeting at the top in a twisted spire. I approached, each step crunching through the snow, which fell lightly from the ceiling.