4. The Iron Isle #3
At least that answers what chewed up and spat out the ship. But—
“How have we made it all the way to the North of Scelus in…” How long has it been? A few hours, a day or two at most? “…so little time?” I settle on.
Hunting down my marks has taken me to almost every corner of Virtus.
Anything up North and I’d be traveling for weeks.
Not being able to fly doesn’t help, but still, the distance to cross kingdoms and cover the continent is vast. Scelus is Virtus’s mirror.
Its hideous reflection and polar opposite.
But North is still North, and South is still South.
You’d be lucky to do it in a month by boat.
“Like I said… hellgates.”
The dizziness is back.
Hellgates, hidden islands, horned beasts that talk and walk and almost look like men…
I need to tell my father about this and soon, but I can’t very well take out the journal and start scribbling secret messages right here. Hopefully there will be a chance once we make it to shore, to whatever destination on the island they have in mind.
My eyes fix on the shoreline as the ship cuts nearer.
We’re close. So close that I can hear the clashes and clangs of weapons ringing out from the beach.
Squinting, I make out soldiers running drills, their boots pounding on the black sand.
The sharp smell of sweat mixed with the already pungent odor of sulphur and iron cling to the air.
My heart thuds as I watch the soldiers. How can they train like this? The air is hot and muggy. Not totally unbearable, but constant, like standing too close to a fire.
This is not at all like Virtus.
No pristine white marble, no sparkling glass towers, no immaculate cobbled streets.
This place bleeds purpose from every stone.
“What is this place?” I eventually ask, and it’s a relief to find my voice doesn’t shake.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Zaheer says.
The entire island is bordered by hulking volcanic mountains shrouded in fog and spitting ash. It rains down over the harbor, the beach, and the land beyond, where a city of canvas tents stretches along every road.
All roads look to lead to the same place. A bridge, and the bridge leads to what I have to assume is the island's beating heart.
A castle cloaked in shadow.
No, a fortress.
One so great that even from here, it makes Industria’s citadel look modest and quaint, despite it being anything but.
“What’s that?” I point to the fortress.
“That,” Zaheer says, his voice low, almost reverent. “Is Vulcaris.”
He pauses, letting the name settle in my mind.
The laughing one cuts through the silence. “Only the brave or the broken enter,” he says, but his voice is deadly serious now, the playful edge completely gone.
Phantom pains pinch and claw at the scar tissue on my shoulder blades and back.
You’re certainly broken enough, but are you brave?
“Not everyone leaves,” Zaheer finishes.
I gulp. “And that’s where we are going? To Vulcaris?”
The nephilim around me stare out at the fortress, all color drains from their skin as terror fills their eyes.
Brave or broken? For now, I’ll have to be both. If not for me, for them.
“Who lives there?” I press. The Iron Isle and its obsidian fortress do not look or feel like a home.
It looks like a war waiting to happen.
They’re preparing. Growing. Building and training their troops. That much is obvious. But whose army do they march in? Someone who does not want their plight known. Not yet.
And where do we fit into it?
The silent demon shifts a little beneath his cloak. I could have sworn he shakes his head. Just once, but the message will have been heard loud and clear.
Watch what you say.
He’s larger than the other two, though not by much. His hood covers his face completely, so I picture features of sharp, angular shapes, glowing red eyes, or perhaps deep-sunken obsidian black ones. And mangled twisted horns even more hideous than Zaheer’s.
If he has them, it’s not obvious. They aren’t jutting out from under the hood or causing ridges in the fabric. Then again, neither had Zaheer’s until he un-glamoured them. Either the silent one’s horns are not in proportion to his body, he’s hidden them with glamour, or he doesn’t have any.
I decide to imagine the first option, and he seems less intimidating somehow.
“Many people live there,” Zaheer eventually says, but he adds nothing more, which appears to make the silent one’s shoulders relax a little. I’d relax more too, if I had a sword like the one I spy tucked beneath his cloak.
Whatever, if they don’t want to tell us, I’ll have to assume my gut feeling is right. That the Sisters are behind this. They must be. I don’t believe in coincidences, and besides, I just know it. I can’t explain how, but my instincts are screaming it at me.
No matter what awaits us on shore, taking the girl in the alley’s place on this island will be worth it.
It will not amount to being another rumor or lead that will dissolve.
The Seven Sisters are here at this hellish war encampment, and I will do whatever is necessary to take them out—or die trying.