The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Another minute. Nothing, save the occasional slap of water as something underneath broke the surface—most probably a fish.

  He came to a halt. How far could a young boy have staggered while losing blood? Suddenly feeling foolish, he sheathed his sword and shook his head. Stupid Bragalians getting themselves worked up over nothing. It was wet out with the heavy rain. Probably the boy had slipped and hit his head, and was now babbling nonsensities.

  Torsten was annoyed with himself for jumping up so quickly, like an apprentice eager to impress.

  There wasn’t anything worth his time in this damned—

  Something shifted in the air, the rain rippling unnaturally. There was the metallic tang of magic on the back of his throat—but it wasn’t Toriaken, not any spirit he knew. It was something far deadlier.

  Surayo’s decision to send him into Bragalia suddenly became clear. ‘Miroth, I might need you,’ he muttered under his breath, squeezing the hilt of his sword and drawing it again.

  An enormous shadow darted towards his face.

  Torsten reacted instinctively, moving backwards as swiftly as the shadow attacked, then he stepped to the side and brought his sword up in a sharp arc—more to get the thing away from him than in any sort of trained manoeuvre.

  It withdrew with a low growl, and Torsten squared himself to face it. Hunkered down against the wet path, the shadow creature was easily the width of a carriage, and twice as tall, with long arms that dragged along the ground. He’d never seen a bear—any creature—of a size to match it. Was it…? It couldn’t be…

  ‘Foul spirit, why do you attack me so?’

  Two small lights appeared near the creature’s swirling black and purple centre, amber pinpricks that seemed to be eyes. ‘You are faster than the others.’

  Its voice echoed in his head.

  Torsten held his sword high, both hands grasping the hilt, ready to put more strength into his next blow. He had to be certain of what it was. ‘I have done nothing to you. Are you the spirit of some misbegotten river? Cursed to roam without a domain?’

  ‘I…’

  Whatever the creature wanted to say, it was lost as it surged forward again, letting out a shriek so low that Torsten thought his eardrums would burst. He slipped into his training—Inquisitors were expected to have the same competency as any individual in the Porsenthian army—and rushed to meet the creature with his own sword, Tinebás.

  Flesh and metal met in a shower of sparks, and Torsten fully expected to drive his blade deep into the creature’s gut, but it hit a hard, solid mass somewhere in its centre. The creature didn’t bellow in pain, simply moved forward, forcing Torsten back.

  It was stronger than he was.

  Yanking Tinebás from the creature, Torsten whirled to the side, letting his enemy’s momentum carry it past, while he swiftly arced his sword downwards for another strike on its legs. The edge caught onto something, cutting into flesh and spilling dark ichor onto the waterlogged road.

  It smelled of rotten flesh, fermented fruit, and death.

  Gagging, Torsten leaped backwards as the creature struck at him again, clawed appendages bursting from its body in unexpected places. He slashed at them, knocking them away or slicing a few before they reached him. More ichor fell, more stench filled the street.

  He’d never fought a spirit before. Most people didn’t live if they challenged one.

  The ichor. The shape. The smell of the thing…

  ‘Spirits take me, what is that?’

  Torsten turned to see Fenn, Varlot, and the women from the table. He spat a curse. ‘Get out of here you fools!’

  ‘Why? Looks like you could do with some help!’ Varlot said with a smirk, his axe in hand.

  Torsten was about to curse, then the creature was upon him again. He could spare them no more attention as he deflected another blow, stepping to the side, his sword raised high. The way it shrieked, he wouldn’t be surprised if it brought the entire town to them.

  He needed to get this mess under control, before anyone else saw the thing and jumped to their own conclusions.

  Attacking with violent fury, Torsten met its every strike with one of his own, countering whenever he spotted an opening.

  The creature circled him, darting in low and leaping high, swiping with ever larger claws that left enormous gouges on the road. Mis-timing one jump, it fell against the wall of the nearest building—a florist, Torsten realised—and crashed through the walls, sending buds and vases smashing in all directions. One ceramic pot flew through the air, and though Torsten avoided it, the pot shattered on the ground beside him, one shard nicking him just below the knee.

  Gasping in pain, though adrenaline kept the worst of it at bay, he darted away from the debris.

  It had been too long since he’d tasted battle, and although he’d always dismissed such tasks as grunt work, dusting off the cobwebs gave him a grim pleasure, even through the pain. He savoured the adrenaline, let it fuel his strength and desire to be victorious.

  Pulling itself from the collapsed wall and shaking off several ruined bouquets, the creature let out a low, keening whine, eyes searching for its target.

  Though Torsten was right in front of it, the thing decided to launch itself at Fenn and the others. The Bragalian pushed Fenn out of the way, stepping protectively in front of the Porsenthian woman. She held up a dagger to the creature in defiance. Varlot, too, stood ready to fight beside her, his axe raised.

  ‘Calidra!’ Fenn yelped, crouching down as the incoming creature bore down on them.

  The Bragalian, Calidra, slashed haphazardly at the creature with her long dagger—more for hunting than combat—driving it away from the other woman. Despite her poor choice of weapon, she moved confidently, every step planted as she pushed the creature back, unfazed by the slippery ground. Clearly, she was a trained fighter.

  Roaring at the new combatant, the shadow attacked Calidra, though she deftly avoided its strikes, always keeping it away from her companions. Varlot, too, stepped into the fray, shouting his own war-cry as he swung his axe as easily as Calidra thrust her dagger.

  Torsten’s eyes widened in sudden realisation. The Laird of Fellwood had several children, and he knew the eldest was named Calidra. It would explain why Fenn’s papers had been supposedly signed by Vantonen. This woman, Calidra, had to be the heir to Fellwood.

  He was never usually wrong, and the thought he’d made a mistake gnawed at him more painfully than the wound on his knee. Already, blood trickled down his shin. Another mistake to cover up.

  Torsten’s lip curled as the two battled fiercely. What had become of the spirit to make it act so? It was either corrupted beyond all hope or…or it was Myrish.

  That wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be possible.

  This needed to stop. Now.

  ‘You. Spirit!’ Torsten raised his sword to the creature. Hacking at it like it was some common beast was not going to be effective.

  ‘Torsten, you need help!’ Calidra called.

  He snorted. ‘I do not need help from the likes of you, Bragalian.’

  Before either of them could say anything more, the creature shot forward, sending forth multiple appendages, its claws digging into the ground, the fallen building, debris, anything it could reach. Torsten charged forward, slicing away as many of them as he could reach with devastating accuracy. Varlot appeared on the monster’s other side, his axe expertly slamming into its blind side and causing it to let out another shriek as it whirled around to face him. In the next moment, Calidra buried her dagger deep into the creature’s exposed flank.

  The shadow creature span in a circle, sending out great swipes of its claws to push its aggressors away, and let out another low bellow.

  Where was Nadja? If it was Myrish, if there was even a chance it could be, he needed the creature to die before anyone else saw it. And he wasn’t sure he could manage that without another Inquisitor fighting with him.

  Between the three of them, they subdued t
he creature—its attacks came less frequently, with less speed, and it didn’t take long before it tried to flee.

  Torsten stepped in front of it, panting heavily, and blocked its path. With a violent slash, he brought Tinebás down and sank it deep into the creature’s mass. Ichor burst from the wound in a shower that coated him with the dark ooze. Wrenching his sword to the side, he tore a gaping hole in the middle of the beast, and it shrieked again, rolling onto the ground as if in submission.

  Torsten took a steadying breath, doing his best to keep his hands from shaking.

  ‘You…filthy…’ The creature’s words came out as a wheeze, and it shuddered with the effort of speaking.

  ‘Get back from it! It’s not safe!’ Fenn called from several paces away. Although his eyes were wide with fear, he had an arm in front of the Porsenthian woman, blocking the creature’s way with his own body.

  Varlot spun his axe casually, as if they were in the training ring, not a life-or-death battle against an unknown spirit. ‘Nothing to worry about, lad. It’ll—’

  The writhing mass of shadows leapt to its feet with a suddenness that he hadn’t seen before. With another furious bellow, it barrelled towards Torsten, its movements wild and erratic. It pounced, crashed into him, and clawed frantically.

  Torsten lost his grip on his sword and punched the creature, aiming for what he thought were its eyes. In retaliation, it bit down on his arm. Whatever teeth it had dented his vambrace, but the metal was slick, and it couldn’t grip. Torsten grabbed hold of whatever he could reach—flesh, teeth, eyes—squeezing tightly. Its teeth pierced his thick leather gloves and Torsten pulled hard—until the creature released him with a furious snarl.

  He was back on his feet in an instant, sword scooped up in the same movement. It was time for this thing to die. Before he could drive his sword into it, one claw slammed into Torsten’s head, bouncing off his iron helm.

  It whirled around again, then charged at Calidra, knocking her violently to the ground. Her back cracked on the stones and she cried out. Caught between the creature and the churning waters of the bay, she raised her hand, dagger still grasped in her trembling fingers.

  It wouldn’t save her.

  The others ran towards her, desperation lending them speed, but the gap was too great.

  Metal ringing in his ears, Torsten thrust his sword forward, the tip aimed at the creature, already five or six feet away. ‘Miroth. I call upon your strength.’ Though the words were whispered under his breath, half-gasped more than commanded, the effect was immediate. Tinebás lit up like a torch, flames licking the metal with a blinding flash.

  The creature hesitated, as if sensing the spirit’s power.

  It was all Torsten needed.

  Fire plumed from the tip of his sword, shooting forward with such speed that it lit up the shadow creature instantly. The noise emitted from the creature was like nothing Torsten had ever heard before—a wailing howl that cut through to his bones—and he watched with grim satisfaction as it burned. It stumbled over, writhing, its body jerking as the fire sank deep into its flesh.

  The other woman hauled Calidra to her feet, who had regained sense enough to push the others away, even as they struggled in the chaos. ‘Back! Get back!’ Calidra pushed them, almost violently.

  With a final cry of anguish, the creature careened into the group, rolled over the edge of the road, and splashed into the churning waters of the Salt Bay. The wave it produced engulfed the docks in silt-rich, freezing water, and crashed into the bridge leading to the south of the bay. Stone and wood crumbled in the explosion, water was thrown up several feet high, then rained down in a splatter of drizzle.

  If the sound of battle hadn’t attracted attention, that explosion would.

  Torsten frowned, mildly annoyed he’d not managed to get a solid answer from the thing, then looked down at his hand to inspect the damage the creature had left on his armour. His fist was still closed where he’d grabbed at the thing’s face, and when he opened it, he saw one of the creature’s fangs, coated in the same ichor that covered the road.

  He smiled. Whatever secrets the queen had hidden from him, he’d have his answer soon enough.

  ‘Master Inquisitor!’ Nadja called from further along the road.

  He looked up and saw her sprinting towards him, her sword drawn, though the threat had passed.

  ‘I’ve never known your timing to be so ridiculously poor,’ he said. The fire had burnt off the gore coating his sword, and he sheathed it as the Inquisitor reached him.

  ‘I was held up. Trying to disperse the crowds itching to see what all the chaos was.’

  Torsten nodded. It wasn’t a good excuse, but he was in a better mood now the thing had been dealt with, and he had some evidence that he could investigate.

  ‘Jisyel!’ Calidra screamed, drawing his attention.

  The Bragalian and Varlot stood on the edge of the road, peering into the dark water. ‘Jisyel!’ Calidra called again, her voice pitched in obvious distress. Varlot stood beside her, axe forgotten on the ground as he paced alongside the bay, calling for Fenn and Jisyel.

  Torsten turned away from them and back to Nadja. ‘You kept the locals clear, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Most wanted to help. Word has spread that a young boy was attacked.’

  ‘Hmm. Has he said by what?’

  ‘No sir. He’s not of sound mind, from what they were saying. May not survive due to the amount of blood he’s lost.’

  Torsten’s mind whirled. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way. An unfortunate accident by one of those large cats that prowl the hills near here.’ In his periphery, Calidra waved at him, evidently trying to get his attention. Varlot had taken off his boots and was already waist-deep in the water, one arm clutching the edge in case he was swept away by the swift current.

  He frowned.

  ‘Sir?’ Nadja brought his attention back. She pointed at the black ichor that had settled in thick puddles on the road.

  ‘It was rabid.’ Torsten dismissed her querying look with a wave. ‘You and Sarron will get this mess cleaned up.’

  Nadja stiffened but did not object.

  Calidra stormed over to him. ‘Inquisitor! Why aren’t you doing something?’

  He scowled. ‘What’s the matter, woman?’

  ‘Jisyel’s gone! She and Fenn were knocked into the water when that…that…thing fell in!’

  Varlot pulled himself out of the bay with effort. He took several heaving breaths and leaned on his thighs, shaking his head as a puddle formed under him.

  Torsten couldn’t make out any details, couldn’t even see the water moving, it was too dark. ‘Go in and get her then, if you’re that worried. It’s not my problem.’

  ‘Not your problem?’ Calidra brandished her knife. ‘You’re the Master Inquisitor!’

  ‘Yes. And my problems have nothing to do with a lost soul and some random woman.’ He gestured towards Varlot. ‘Fenn is in his charge, if I recall rightly. Have him help you. And get yourself seen by a medic, you’re delirious. Wounds from a rabid animal ought to be addressed quickly. Besides, this area is now off limits by my orders.’

  She glared at him, a defiant, furious gaze that matched his own stubbornness.

  He ignored it. ‘Get moving, Bragalian, before I arrest you for trespassing.’

  The General

  calidra

  Jisyel was gone. She’d disappeared into the dark waters of the Salt Bay along with the shadow-like creature they’d fought—and Fenn, too. She stared out at it, desperate to jump in, but unable to get past her fear of water. It crippled her.

  ‘Keep my granddaughter safe.’ That’s what Bellandri had told her only hours before.

  Jisyel was certainly not safe.

  Calidra’s rising panic and dawning realisation of the gravity of the situation pushed out all logical thought. Her breathing hitched as the seconds ticked past.

  Varlot had tried to follow them into the water and quickly crawled back o
ut—the current here was too swift. Too dangerous.

  Torsten, bastard that he was, couldn’t care less. Had just told them to get out of his way and leave the area. The other Inquisitor with him, Nadja, she thought her name was, had offered a thin smile of condolence before carrying out Torsten’s orders and starting to clean up the scene of the battle. As if nothing had happened.

  As if Jisyel wasn’t gone.

  Only a day after they’d left the Isle of Salt.

  Calidra began to protest. ‘But—’

  ‘Orders are orders. As the daughter of a Laird, you should know that.’ Nadja brushed past her to reach a particularly thick puddle of dark ooze the creature had bled. She glanced back up at her, and with more kindness, said, ‘The other Inquisitors and I will be here the rest of the night, I expect. We’ll keep an eye out for your friends.’

  It was a dismissal. Kind and polite as it could be, but a dismissal all the same. Ignoring it would bring Torsten’s attention back to her, and after all the stories of the Master Inquisitor’s cruel nature, she knew irritating him wasn’t something she should do.

  But Calidra wasn’t sure she could even bring herself to leave, her gaze drawn back to the water, hoping to see a hand or body break the surface, swimming back towards them.

  Varlot paced nearby, but whatever sway he had over Torsten, he didn’t call upon it here. He approached her and gave a comforting smile. He’d tried to help. Braved the water when she couldn’t. And it was impossible to go after them. ‘Calidra, I’ll help you get back to the tavern. Looks like you took quite a beating from that thing.’

  She hadn’t even realised her injuries in the panic of losing Jisyel, and now he’d mentioned it, her bruised arms and legs thrummed with pain.

  Calidra knew Jisyel was a strong swimmer, but if she’d taken a hit to the head, or if the current was too swift, or if she tried to help Fenn—sweet, silly thing that she was, it was likely she would—she might end up drowning in her attempts. It would be just like her to die a heroic death. It had been chaos, with the monster crashing into them. Jisyel had grabbed hold of Fenn, tried to keep him safe, and the pair had been flung into the water as if they weighed nothing.