by L. L. MacRae
If only he’d known he was dealing with something Myrish, he’d have kept his Inquisitors away to begin with. Fewer eyes to see and fewer mouths to gossip. Why hadn’t the queen been honest with him if she’d truly been concerned that the Myr were returning?
Perhaps she’d not believed it possible.
She’d been too afraid to give it words.
At least he now knew it was something Myrish—but what, exactly, he couldn’t say. He’d fought his share of them while they’d been at war, but their spirits were so numerous, so vast and ever-changing, constructs of pure magic, that he’d never learned the differences between them.
They all died the same way.
Toriaken and the Porsenthian military had made sure of that.
Even he’d assumed Surayo was mistaken, and worried over nothing. He hadn’t truly expected to see the presence of any danger, let alone the Myr. Perhaps her magic was not as flawless as she’d led everyone to believe. Her threads of farsight weaved across her empire like a spider’s web, waiting for the tell-tale touch of their enemies.
Torsten had no real understanding of how it worked, but the mage queen hadn’t done wrong up until now.
Before he could do anything else to contribute to his queen’s Myrish cover up, he needed to travel north. He’d not expected to be thrown into battle, nor call upon Miroth’s strength to survive it, and that power had to be restored. That was more important than anything else, and he weathered Nadja’s confused scowls and questioning glances as they left Ballowtown behind far sooner than they’d expected.
After a few hours on the road, Nadja broke the silence of the carriage, ‘We’ve left days earlier than we were scheduled.’ It wasn’t a question, no doubt her words were strategically chosen to avoid his rebuke.
Torsten replied, ‘We’ve rounded up the lost souls from Ballowtown. No need to stay in Bragalia longer than necessary.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Nadja gave him a sharp nod, then returned her gaze to the window, unwilling to speak further.
Over the bumpy terrain, their journey was far from smooth, but they’d covered a decent amount of ground already that morning. They’d left the hills surrounding Ballowtown far behind, and the high Bragalian Mountains loomed to the east. Once past their shadows, they’d be back on Porsenthian soil, and he would be able to breathe a sigh of relief.
Another bump over the dusty land sent a shiver of pain down Torsten’s back and he winced. These cross-country trips were getting to be more of a hindrance every time. As a crown dependency, they were as safe in Bragalia as they would be in Porsenthia, but the land was scattered and chaotic, ruled by Lairds—little more than warlords with more gold, sense, or man power than their rivals—which always made discussions tense. Violence was a constant threat to Inquisitors, and with all the lost souls suddenly appearing, Torsten had his work cut out to maintain order among the people, whether Porsenthian or Bragalian.
Torsten had left Sarron in Ballowtown, having tasked the young Inquisitor with trailing Varlot. Torsten had given him strict instructions to report only to himself, even if it meant waiting until they returned to Eastbrook before getting an update. He’d sent Sarron on the mission partly to test the Inquisitor’s skills, but also because he wanted Varlot watched. Having the former General back in the open had thrown his normally infallible demeanour, and he wanted to know what the man was up to.
Harder to kill than a cockroach, Varlot had survived more than his fair share of battles against opponents—both Myrish and otherwise. But he’d quit the army unceremoniously after being found attacking other soldiers after one too many drinks. It had been allowed to slide up until one new recruit had ended up paralyzed from the neck down. Even Varlot’s proficiency on the battlefield hadn’t saved him from a dismissal.
The recruit had been the queen’s cousin.
And yet, Torsten was only a Master Inquisitor because of Varlot.
Had Varlot not been dismissed, Torsten would never have been chosen for the promotion.
Although Varlot was prone to violence, especially after a drink, he hadn’t been responsible for the soldier’s paralysis.
Torsten had. One of his questionings gone wrong in his overzealousness.
He folded his arms and pushed away those memories of his past, and warmth flooded his chest to help ease the darkness away. Reminiscing was never a good thing. What mattered was what lay ahead of him.
Torsten and the other Inquisitors were fortunate that Queen Surayo was linked with Toriaken, the Spirit of Iron. It meant most communication with her was not done via written reports sent by pigeons, ravens, or horses, as was the norm in other countries. Instead, they had a direct link to their queen which negated the need for such slow, primitive communication.
Tinebás hung at his hip, the tiny spot of rust glinting dully in the light that streamed through the carriage window. On his other hip was sheathed a slender dagger, identical to all those given to Inquisitors or high-ranking palace or government officials. Forged of iron, it was heavy, crude, and more ornamental than a functioning weapon.
But it was their link to the queen through her spirit, when called upon.
Her way of keeping tabs on them, on obtaining information as quickly as it was learned, without straining her magic or being too invasive—making it a useful tool for quick messages and sharing information. It had been part of why the Porsenthian Empire had been so formidable over the centuries, and Surayo, the current Supreme Ruler and Queen-Empress, had followed in her parent’s footsteps to keep her people in line and safe from the Myr.
Torsten held in a snort.
She would be expecting a report by now. The previous night, in fact, and she never appreciated lateness. He folded his arms and shifted on the slightly padded seat, ignoring the incessant weight on his hip. She could wait for now.
Leaning his head back to rest on the wooden board, he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. If he wasn’t careful, the carriage movement would lull him into sleep. It would not do to lose focus while in Bragalia.
The creature had been destroyed, of that he was sure. There weren’t many things that could survive the direct flames of a spirit, even a young one like Miroth. But he wondered if there were others, slinking into Porsenthia and hiding in the shadows. The thought of it made his skin crawl. Those creatures back again, scuttling in the darkness, bringing death and misery everywhere they went. No. It had to be just one Myrish creature.
The idea that there could be more of these things…
He shuddered, ignoring it for now. Miroth’s need was more pressing. Once he’d visited the shine, things would—
‘Torsten, sir?’
Nadja’s query brought Torsten’s attention back to the carriage. He glanced out the window first—in case some threat was hurtling towards them—before looking at his comrade.
‘Shouldn’t we have spoken with Queen Surayo?’
Torsten narrowed his eyes slightly, but Nadja held his gaze. She was experienced and efficient enough to be considered for promotion to Master Inquisitor, and she knew her worth. ‘Our orders—’
‘Come from me, do they not?’
Nadja nodded.
‘We are following my latest orders. Nothing else is your concern.’ Torsten’s voice was clipped, hardly concealing his frustration.
‘The sooner we’re back in Porsenthia the better,’ Nadja said, unfazed by Torsten’s annoyance, ‘I don’t like the reported sightings of the Myr.’
‘Nonsense,’ Torsten said. ‘The Myr wouldn’t dare set foot on our land. Not while Toriaken breathes.’
‘Perhaps. But the reports are what they are.’
‘You believe some foolish peasants’ account of what they saw over Queen Surayo’s magic? Over Toriaken?’ Torsten lifted his chin. ‘She would sense the moment any Myrish magic set foot on the continent.’
Nadja shifted, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Most reports are not without merit.’
‘The same thing as in Ballowtown, I’m su
re. Possibly a plague or some disease that’s taken hold of a few wild creatures. Or a corrupted spirit causing issues. With the Laird of Fellwood dead, the Bragalians are on edge, looking for any reason to turn to violence. What if they burned down a forest or poisoned a lake? Spirits tend to take offense to that sort of thing.’ It wasn’t completely unheard of. Spirits grew mischievous or bored with people, and often impacted Tassar in strange or frightening ways when their domains were harmed. Even Miroth behaved unpredictably at times, and Torsten was bonded with him. ‘Our job is to investigate those lost souls and bring them in for questioning. If the Myr were here, you’d know.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘Even if it were true, we have the queen’s magic, the Porsenthian forces, and Toriaken himself. Nadja, curiosity is useful, but do not let it become a burden. We are safe.’
They stopped and set up camp after six hours on the dusty road, their small caravan of three horse-drawn wagons parking in a loose circle, the Salt Sea far in the distance to the west. Queen Surayo had sent five Apprentice Inquisitors alongside himself and his two comrades to investigate the amnesiacs, most of whom busied themselves with tending the horses, getting a fire going, and cooking food. Three of them sorted out the lost souls they’d collected, ensuring they had fresh water and something to eat.
Torsten didn’t bother himself with the prisoners. They were traitors, each and every one. Part of some conspiracy against the Iron Crown, he was certain of it.
Either that, or they were pretending to know nothing so they could take advantage of the Inquisitors’ generosity. If the rules were completely up to him, he’d have them chained and flogged until they began speaking sense. Surayo had too much of a soft touch, regardless of what the general populace thought.
‘Have a message sent to Tonmouth so they are aware of our arrival,’ Torsten addressed Nadja. ‘I want them to be ready to receive us. No delays.’
‘Yes sir.’
Torsten cast his gaze skywards, squinting at the bright sun. He couldn’t put her off any longer.
The other Inquisitors set up camp with practiced efficiency while Nadja made her way to their supply of red pigeons, parchment already in hand. Everyone had their role, and they worked together like cogs in clockwork. As they didn’t need direct supervision or additional orders, Torsten made his way across the clearing, heading up a gentle slope. Here, grass grew in thick tufts, dryer than in Porsenthia, but a far cry from the brown scrubland further south. That, alone, made him more comfortable. He was on the edge of home.
Once he was a suitable distance from camp, Torsten knelt down beside a hedgerow, careful to avoid thorns and jutting branches, and pulled the ornate iron dagger from his belt. A ruby had been pressed into the hilt, and he rubbed his thumb against it briefly. Even in his gloved hand, the dagger was warm—though he was never sure if it was Toriaken or Surayo. In one, smooth movement, he plunged it tip-first into the soil, tapping into the spirit’s magic.
Toriaken was powerful, could split his consciousness across anything made of iron, but he still had to be called upon. If he spent all his awareness across every instance of iron in Tassar, he’d never be able to fight. This was a direct link to the spirit—to Queen Surayo herself—in a way that did not drain the dragon’s power too much.
Torsten only just had time to scramble backwards before the blade lit up, light bursting forth in a barrage of flaming sparks. It fizzed like molten steel plunged in cold water.
Despite the shower of fire, none of the dry grass caught—it was an illusion, nothing more.
‘You’re late.’
The woman’s voice that emanated from the fire was laced with barely suppressed anger, lowering her regal tone into a warning snarl.
Carefully pushing his face into a mask of impassivity—it was never a good idea to show weakness or vulnerability in front of a spirit—Torsten took a breath and waited for the illusion to complete. It didn’t take long. Over his many years of service to the Iron Crown, he’d seen Toriaken form from the iron dagger hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. Even so, his heart often skipped a beat at the sight of the enormous spirit forming on the grass beside the blade—looking at him with the queen’s eyes, and speaking with the queen’s tongue.
Toriaken, the Spirit of Iron, was one of the most powerful dragons in all of Tassar. At more than two hundred feet in length and with a wingspan twice as long, Toriaken dwarfed practically every other dragon in existence. Yet the one before him now was a shadow of that greatness; hardly a quarter of the size, but no less imposing.
Unlike most spirits, who were bound to their domains—a forest, a mountain, an ocean—Toriaken’s domain covered almost every inch of the world. Everywhere iron could be found, deep within the ground, gave the spirit power. His soul had been bound in a sword by one of Queen Surayo’s ancestors, and the spirit had served her bloodline ever since. While his true form and power remained by the queen’s side at all times, he had enough influence over the iron given to the Inquisitors that he could see and hear through it when required to do so.
It was this ability that enabled Queen Surayo’s eyes and ears to cover all of her lands through her Inquisitors, or anyone else that carried one of the many iron daggers she used for long-distance communication.
Though only an illusion, an echo of Toriaken’s real power, the cinereous dragon which stood in front of the iron dagger towered above Torsten, scales glinting dully. Steam poured from his nostrils with every breath, misting around his bulky body and blown by a wind that Torsten could not feel. Six thick horns protruded from the back of his head; two more from his lower jaw; and a twin line of sharp ridges jutted out along his spine, running all the way down to the enormous, spiked club at the end of his long tail. Toriaken peered down at the Inquisitor, waiting.
If Torsten were to be brave—or stupid—enough to approach, he would walk straight through the apparition. But the dragon was so vast that even a mirage was an impressive sight. It demanded reverence.
‘There was an incident in Ballowtown,’ Torsten said by way of explanation. He was certain not to apologise for his lateness, which he knew was rude, and not something he’d permit from anyone else, but he enjoyed keeping the queen hanging on his words. She was more powerful than he by far, so he took whatever opportunities for control he could get. And considering she’d sent him away to investigate something she’d not even shared the details of—any Myrish creature could easily kill an individual—he was less keen than usual to be forthright with her for the slight. He straightened up and put his arms behind his back. ‘No Inquisitor deaths, though a couple of the townsfolk were injured. We left early this morning and it’s possible they will live.’
‘And…? What incident?’
Torsten knew she was asking whether her fears had been correct. He wondered whether she’d suspected it was the Myr all along, and decided not to tell him. He’d been sent to investigate in the dark, like a lamb to slaughter. If he hadn’t been so good at his job, he would’ve probably died.
He held the queen in the palm of his hand. To tell the truth, that the Myr were back, would reveal a chink in her supposedly infallible iron armour. To lie would reassure her, and turn her attention away from himself while he conducted his own investigations on the scope of the problem. If a few more Bragalians died while he did so, it was a small price to pay.
He decided to stroke her ego while skirting the details. ‘In truth, I’m not sure, your Majesty. The creature was not one I am familiar with. Some old spirit, perhaps? But the citizens and officers of Ballowtown agree it was some rabid animal. A bear or wild cat is the story being circulated. They do not look to you with any suspicion.’
‘As well they should not!’ Toriaken replied with Surayo’s voice, the reply a little too sharp, giving away her fear.
Torsten held back a smile.
‘You destroyed it?’
‘I did.’ Torsten kept his arms stiff. He had a sudden urge to grab hold of the tooth in his po
cket he’d claimed from the creature, and inspect it. ‘As we speak, we’re on the edge of southern Porsenthia. It shouldn’t be more than a few days until we return to the capital. There was, however, some truth to the reports of an influx of people without papers. Seems there are over a dozen of these lost souls wandering around.’
‘In Bragalia?’
‘Yes, though I wonder whether there will be others in Porsenthia soon, if not already..’
‘Hmm.’
Torsten said nothing more while the queen thought. As long as she was slightly off-kilter, she was less formidable, and that gave him the breathing room he wanted. Once he’d worked out the significance of the threat, he could adjust his actions accordingly.
After a moment, the dragon lashed his tail. ‘I must act as if our enemies are moving against me. If the Myr have recovered…that is my greatest concern. I had thought the last major strike in Malbosh would have put a stop to them for good. The armistice should still be in effect and there are none of their artefacts left to give them strength. I wonder…’
There it was. Admission. ‘There is nothing to wonder, my queen. Things are as they should be.’ His forehead glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Perhaps if he had been in the presence of Surayo herself, she’d be able to see through his dismissal. But she was hundreds of leagues away, speaking with her magic through the spirit of a dragon, and that meant he could get away with more. She had less chance of picking up minute details that might give away his white lies.
‘Are they?’ Toriaken fixed his attention on him, his deep blue eyes vast and empty as midnight.
He rolled his shoulders. ‘Should anything change, I shall of course inform you. Otherwise, we will return to Eastbrook with the lost souls we’ve collected. I would be more interested in the Bragalians and the Olmese flouting your rules than about what’s left of the Myr.’
‘Perhaps. I wonder if these…lost souls…have anything to do with the disturbance I felt.’
‘You are certain about your magic?’