Fireborn Champion (36 page)

Behind him, the tall dune was a wall blocking the way they’d come. He watched as an invisible wave hurled trails of sand from the hill toward him. “That’s not right.” Iron kicked greyhorn, and it excitedly broke into a gallop. “Batbayar, the wind’s changed!”

The others took note. He passed Ayska and Kalila, Sander and Nephele, and finally caught Batbayar, Iron’s open mouth gulping air, heedless of the sand. “Something’s happening.”

Wind blasted their backs. Grains pelted his burnt neck, and he winced at the stings peppering his skin. Batbayar grunted and urged his mount onward. “Sandstorm,
arphanarat!
Priests, to this mountain. The desert hungers this day and if we do not find shelter, it will feast on us before the nightfall!”

Iron risked another glance behind him. The sky darkened behind the mighty dune wall. His pulse quickened. Sweat rolled freely down his temples. “Gods, it’s coming. Right now.”

“We’re not going to make it!” Nephele slapped her greyhorn, and it bounded forward.

“Oh, yes we will!” Sander followed her while Ayska whipped Kalila’s greyhorn with a reed to put the beast into a full gallop. Briefly, Iron’s eyes locked with hers. His stomach turned, and he looked away.

“Come, come,” Batbayar roared as the wind did its best to drown the man’s voice. “Do not look back. Keep your eye on this mountain and do not let your greyhorn slow!”

Wave after wave of hot wind slammed into them. First the waves came without form, then they came as veils of sand, and slowly, clear skies darkened.
 

Iron’s greyhorn whined. He patted its neck and leaned onto his stomach. They’d nearly reached the mountain’s shadow now. Just a little farther.
 

One glance wouldn’t hurt. Iron licked his lips and twisted around. His heart dropped. The desert was like a rug the wind rolled up, a roiling mass of sand so high, it could easily swallow the lonely mountain.
 

He cursed and looked away, gripping the greyhorn’s coarse fur. The sand had become so thick, he lost sight of the others.

“Into the cave!”
a voice rang out, echoing over weary rock and violent sand. Nothing much appeared through the chaos, so Iron pointed his mount in the voice’s direction.
 

A sound like a single, endless note of thunder filled his ears, coming from behind. Shaking, Iron twisted around. The wall had come to him—for him. It raged inches from the greyhorn’s hind.
 

“Gods, the sands,” he rasped.

Somehow, they did not consume him. Whether the greyhorn’s terror propelled it just fast enough or some other force slowed the storm, the desert did not overtake him. Iron stared at the raging sandstorm in wonder. He let go of his mount and reached behind him. His fingers pierced the mighty wall. Such power lay within that chaos, such might. He’d flown in a thundersnow and mounted a tidal wave. Now he’d touched a sandstorm that could bury titans.

Iron laughed and spread his arms wide to the storm, lifting his chin to a vanished sky. And then, the greyhorn barreled into darkness.
 

Surprised by the sudden black, Iron fumbled in his seat. He nearly slipped off the side, only just managing to grip the beast’s fur before he fell beneath it and its hooves crushed his ribs.

The chaos slowly faded behind him, the riotous thunder receding into the dark. His greyhorn moaned and slowed. Iron hacked in an attempt to clear sand clinging to every surface of his throat. He wiped his tongue across his teeth and peered into the darkness.

“Hello,” he called.

“Foolish
arphanarat,”
Batbayar hissed from somewhere ahead. “I told you not to look.”

“Did everyone make it?”

“I have arrived,” Nephele said, “wherever here may be.”

“And I’m right behind her,” Sander added.

He waited for Ayska. When she didn’t respond, a cold fear gripped his heart.

“We both made it.” Her voice echoed through the darkness, and the cold grip relaxed.

“Six is a good number,” a woman said. He recognized that voice—it was the voice that called him to the cave. “Six is a holy number. Yes, yes, very holy.”

The hiss and crackle of fire igniting came just before a torch blazed to life before his greyhorn. Bright flames illuminated a woman’s face and reflected off the arrowhead knocked on her crossbow, pointed at his chest. “Welcome.”

The strange woman’s torch flickered in the black, reflecting off the eyes of Iron’s companions. Somehow, not a single greyhorn had trampled her even though she stood in the midst of their herd.

Gold glittered beneath her eyes like tears staining her cheeks. Her hair clung in dark tendrils onto her temples. Red tinged the braid draped around her neck. Green eyes scorned the world before her, set above a sharp chin propping up the cherry slice of her lips. She wore a robe of white that flowed like milk and pooled around her feet. The crossbow she aimed at Iron didn’t so much as waver a hair’s width from its target.

“Six is a holy number indeed,” she said. “Enlighten me how you came upon this place?”

Iron glanced at Batbayar. The man hooked his thumbs around the straps securing the explosives over his chest. “We came by a Kerran who worships the Shining Child, but I cannot take all this credit. The sands, they threw us here with their angry storm.”

“Yes, I counted the days. Today was a storm day. Only fools would walk the sands on a sandstorm day.”

“Infernal Kerrans,” Nephele grumbled, sighing at the hidden ceiling.

“Quiet, hellcat,” the priest shot back.

“We’re fleeing Athe,” Iron said. He slid from the greyhorn and landed softly on the loose sand. The tip of her arrow followed him. He extended a hand and smiled. “I’m Iron.”

The woman’s gaze flicked to his fingers. “Are you righteous? Your number is holy, but you dress like criminals. The Kerran’s tattoos saved your life, but they haven’t endeared me to you. Your arrival is no coincidence; of this I have no doubt.”

“Bah!” Batbayar spit. “Of course we are righteous, woman.”

“You’re a priestess, aren’t you?” Iron asked.

Her lips pressed together. “The Kerran is one as well, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Batbayar slapped his chest. “I am servant of the Child!”

“And a priest I am,” Sander interjected with a slight nod. “A Sinner’s man to the end of my days.”

“I count myself among the ordained,” Nephele added, throwing her shoulders back. “A lady of the Gentle Lover. Everyone you see before has been touched by the Six.”

Ayska and Kalila sat quietly at the torchlight’s edge. Ayska idly drummed one of her curved swords but said nothing.
 

 
Iron nodded and stepped forward. The woman stepped back, thrusting the crossbow toward him as she considered her next move. He raised his palms and bowed. “I swear, we don’t mean you any harm.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then, she lowered her weapon in a few jerky motions. “It is not luck that brings so many priests together when so few remain. He was right to lead me to this place so I could count the days until you came. My name is Sigrid Ostergaard, Priestess of the Coin Counter, Patroness of Forgotten Memories and the Pallbearer of Long Histories.”

“I knew it,” Iron said. The gold beneath her eyes gave her away. Only those loyal to the Counter painted their skin with gold markings.
 

Most mortal folk despised the Coin Counter, not because he was a thing of greed or cold weight of pros versus cons—although his followers could seem that way—but because he remembered. Nothing remembered could be forgotten, and so every man and woman’s sins filled the pages of his ledger. The people of Urum hated the Coin Counter because he wouldn’t let them forget their faults.
 

Sigrid turned and began walking deeper into the cavern of shadows. “I will speak with you alone, Iron.”

Sander and Batbayar traded concerned glances. Iron shook his head and followed her. “She could’ve shot us in the dark. I’ll be okay.”
 

He glanced at Ayska. She stared at her hands and nothing else. Sighing, Iron followed Sigrid’s glowing silhouette into the cavern. Old stone had an odd smell, a stale scent that tired the air. The sand gave way to smooth rocks as her torchlight kissed a lake vast enough to hide its far shore. She slowed until he strolled beside her, and together they walked along the shore.

“I counted many days here. Many. I am glad to have company now. It has been—a long while since I spoke to the living.”

“And the dead?”

“The dead always listen, but they do not contribute much to the interaction.”

He chuckled at that little bit of wisdom. Sigrid spoke flatly and took care to pronounce each word. Oddly enough, it put him at ease. “So what brings a priestess of the Counter to the heart of the Simmering Sands?”

“Fate. Faith. Perhaps a mixture of both coupled with my common sense. Eloia is no longer safe for those loyal to the Six. After the Godfall, the serpents came to Athe and began their slaughter. Most attempted to leave by way of ship, but the alp governing Athe had set a trap. He oiled the waters and bottlenecked the ships fleeing the city around the titan island. Then, he ignited the water. A simple yet brutal plan to rid the Serpent Sun of its enemies.”

“I guess you could add a little luck to your fate and faith then.”

“I don’t believe in luck with gods around to stick their fingers in our destinies.” She puckered and stared at the dark stones as they walked over them. “I concluded only a fool would flee into the desert as only those who’ve crossed it know the safe route. The serpents wouldn’t follow me. Who would? Few care to make the journey to that empty land of Ker.”

Structures appeared ahead. He couldn’t quite tell what they were. Rubble? Ruins of a castle?

“This is more than just an underground lake,” he said.

“Much more. I arrived half-starved and nearly dead, but the Counter saw me through this trial. For my faith, he rewarded me with knowledge. So I stayed and carved a line in the rock each sunrise.” She motioned to the wall. A litany of scratches blanketed its face.

Her light finally revealed the odd structures. Iron sucked in his breath. “Bones.”

“Titan bones. Around a very interesting shrine I suspect they built.”

“But that’s impossible. Only one shrine survived the First Sun.”

Sigrid arched her brow suspiciously. “I was not aware of another, and Counters do not forget.”

His cheeks flushed, and he chuckled nervously. “It’s, ah, a previously undiscovered shrine to the Six the titans built. I stumbled on it.”

“It seems fate and faith guide your steps as well.” She led him into the bones.
 

Gods, those bones towered over Iron. Skulls that could be houses, hands that could crush houses, ribs and femurs that could build houses, all piled high and discarded like trash. The bones lay from one end of the cavern and spilled into the lake where they formed pale spires jutting from the still waters.

“This is creepy,” he murmured. “But I’d love to spend some time studying them.”

“You will have plenty time. The winds will clear the sands in a few weeks. Until then, the sandstorm has forcibly sequestered us in the mountain. Look, we have arrived.”

They rounded a broken skull three times the size of Iron’s old cabin. Her firelight illuminated an open area walled by decaying titan bones. He froze at the edge, unable to walk farther, for what he saw chilled his blood to ice and opened a nauseating pit in his stomach. “No.”

“Yes.” Sigrid thrust the torch forward. “This is why I waited here alone. My count was correct. You have come.”

Flickering gold washed over a tall statue of a man placed upon a granite pedestal. His arms were rubble at his feet, and the serpent that once coiled from his legs to his shoulder shattered halfway up his thigh, although the serpent’s head still sunk its fangs into the statue’s shoulder.
 

Like the statue on Rosvoi, this one mirrored Iron’s features. Behind his likeness, an obelisk towered toward the ceiling. A mix of constellations ran the length of the spire. He recognized the Mother’s stars first, and then the others beneath it. One constellation for each of the Six gods, running in a line to the statue’s head.
 

“The stars represent a specific positioning of the stars in the sky,” Sigrid said. “I spent months calculating the exact day and time, but I am patient if anything. Learning that I had to wait three hundred and sixty thousand, six hundred and twenty days? Now, that was quite an article of faith.” She chuckled awkwardly. “But I waited those nineteen years, and my perseverance has finally bore fruit, although you did arrive a few weeks before the alignment reflected in the stone. I assume a specific reason for such an early entrance.”

“You waited, um…”

“Nineteen years.”

 
“Right. You waited nineteen years because of what you found on a statue?”

“On the Serpent’s statue, no less. Now you understand why I pointed the arrow at you. I’ve spent my days here thinking I should kill you, but when I saw you, I reconsidered my position. Should I have?”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

“Enlighten me then, Iron. Who are you really?”

“You’re a logical woman. You know this answer.”

“I’ve been here nearly twenty years and hearing the truth from the source itself will bring some solace.”

“Sigrid.” Iron finally took his eyes from the statue and fixed his attention on her. “I think I’m the Serpent.”

Each of Iron’s companions held a torch. They eyed the statue of the Serpent with a heady mix of curiosity and disbelief. Iron lingered at the figure’s pedestal, sitting on the worn rock and fiddling with his fingers. On this journey, he rode storms, fought demons, and faced down a tribe of cannibals. Yet while he watched them stare slack jawed at his likeness, a new kind of fear crept up his spine like an old mold in humid air.
 

“Now you see the leopard for his spots,” he finally said.

“Or the serpent for his scales,” Sigrid said with a proud snort. Her chuckle quickly faded when no one joined her laughter.