The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  The long corridor brought him into a wide room with barred cells on either side. He took a moment to glance around the eerily quiet dungeons. It was confusing. Why weren’t there any soldiers on guard or patrolling the halls? What had that explosion been?

  Silver glinted in the corner of his eye, and he grabbed one of the short swords in the racking against the wall. It was dull, with a chip along the edge and clearly in need of repair, but at least he could defend himself.

  With nothing to lose, he raced down another hallway, past a series of doors. One flew open to his right. He didn’t look, just kept running. Anyone could be an enemy here.

  ‘You! Stop right there!’ A deep voice bellowed.

  Apollo would have laughed, said something sarcastic over his shoulder, but he was too shaken after what Torsten had done. He wasn’t going to stop for anything, not after that miraculous escape.

  ‘Halt in the name of the Iron Crown!’

  Again, Apollo ignored him, darting down another corridor and sprinting for all he was worth. Footsteps chased him, getting closer with every step. He couldn’t outrun him.

  The sing of metal whistling through the air made him falter, and Apollo whirled around, bringing up his own sword to meet the blow before it struck his back.

  He’d never been good with a sword, and certainly was in no condition to fight after escaping torture. Apollo’s arm went numb the second both swords collided, the vibration drawing the strength from him. He managed to keep his grip and stepped aside, narrowly dodging the next blow.

  His opponent was a well-built man, tall, with a grizzled mustache. Although he wore a steel breastplate, he didn’t appear to be of high rank, nor an Inquisitor. ‘Drop your weapon and cease this!’

  ‘Not a chance!’ Apollo panted, staggering back, willing some strength back into his right arm. He was running out of energy, fast.

  With a roar, the man charged forward, sword levelled at Apollo’s throat.

  Adrenaline coursed through him. It was now or never. Apollo grimaced and darted forward, ducking at the last moment and driving his knee into the man’s groin. He kicked out, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him, and the soldier sank to the floor with a groan, his metal armour crashing loudly against stone.

  Heart thudding at the attention that noise would attract, Apollo picked a direction and continued down a new corridor until he reached a short staircase. A slight breeze whispered from the top of the stairs, and it was enough for Apollo. It had to be the right way to get out of this spirits’ forsaken deathtrap.

  He shoved the sword through his belt loop and leapt up the stairs, forcing his legs to keep working.

  A door greeted him at the top, angled steeply and built into the low stone ceiling. He shoved it open with his shoulder and stepped out into the cool, evening air, breathing heavily.

  The scent of damp fur and straw hit him. Water flowed somewhere out of sight. Horses whinnied. And in the distance, shouts. The ground was smooth flat stone, well-maintained with only a few weeds jutting out between the cracks. ‘The palace courtyard?’ Apollo gasped aloud, not quite able to believe his luck.

  Nestol thrashed around, violently slamming into the sides of its box, and Apollo adjusted his grip. He’d not been able to stab the thing to death. Whatever it was, there had to be a way of killing it.

  ‘Stations, people! Get arrows on those battlements! I don’t want an empty wall in sight!’

  Apollo crouched down, hiding in the shadow of the wall as a group of bowmen ran past, their weapons drawn and helmets firmly on and secured.

  Fuck.

  The palace was under attack.

  He didn’t need to guess by what.

  Apollo followed behind the bowmen until he reached the end of the wall and peered out into the courtyard. Everything was chaos. Officers barked orders. Soldiers scrambled to obey. Weapons and shields were brought forth, and the horns atop the gate blew out their high-pitched warnings.

  To his left, the three griffins were in their compound, flapping their wings and letting out their own cries.

  Icy fear lurched in his gut. They could fly. Would be faster than any horse. Perhaps he could convince one of them to help…

  Apollo didn’t allow any time to talk himself out of it. He darted across the courtyard, praying his legs didn’t give out on him, and approached the low wooden fence that surrounded the three huge griffins.

  ‘The Myr are drawing in!’ One griffin roared as he approached. It was the biggest of the three, with a mixture of brown and cherry-red feathers that appeared closer to black in the dusk. It raised itself onto its rear legs, its front talons flailing in the air as it flapped its wings. ‘Where is my Lady?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I have to get out of here.’ Apollo leaned back to avoid being savaged by the griffin’s talons.

  ‘We must ready for war!’ Another high-pitched shriek, and this time the other two griffins joined in the cry, the noise deafening so close.

  Something bright tore across the sky, lighting it up as if it were the middle of the afternoon. Apollo whipped around to stare—just in time to see a fireball hurtle across the walls of the grounds and slam into the palace wall. Stone crumbled, chunks of it crashing to the ground with another ear-splitting explosion.

  Again, the griffins cried out. More bodies appeared from side doors, many in uniform, most with drawn weapons. No-one paid Apollo any attention.

  The biggest griffin was nearly twice as tall as he was. But the other two were a fraction of the size, their shoulders just under his eyeline. He gulped. This was the biggest risk he’d taken so far. ‘I need to get this thing destroyed. It’s of Myrish origin.’

  ‘Why do you carry it, Porsenthian?’ the griffin snarled, stretching its wings out and lowering its head—its hooked beak mere inches from Apollo’s face. In the low light, the griffin’s orange eyes glowed like embers.

  The intensity of its gaze almost stopped Apollo’s breath in his throat, then Nestol thrashed around under its arm. ‘Can you kill it?’ He didn’t know whether the creature would be able to move quickly once he opened the lid, but a griffin had more chance of putting an end to the creature than he did with his chipped sword.

  ‘Of course.’

  That was some confidence from a creature who’d not even seen what Nestol was, but Apollo didn’t have time to argue. The entire Eastbrook military was gathering, and Torsten was already out. He could be spotted any second.

  ‘If you’re sure? Be ready, it might move quickly.’

  In response, the three griffins growled, talons raking up the dirt as they readied themselves to pounce.

  He had no idea what to expect, but was certain the griffins would be quicker to respond than he would be. Unlocking the latch of the lid, he gritted his teeth. He had no idea if he was doing the right thing, but he couldn’t let this creature continue to exist. Not after what it had taken from him.

  With shaking fingers, Apollo slid the box’s lid open.

  Nestol hissed like an angry cat, the sound somehow more insidious.

  ‘What is this?’ asked the cherry-red griffin.

  ‘Something that has to be killed!’ Apollo crouched low, blocking Nestol’s escape with his body.

  Fat on Apollo’s memories, the worm-like creature wasn’t as nimble as it had been when Torsten had set it on him. It writhed in the low light, body glistening as if covered with a translucent sheen of mucus.

  It rolled out of the box and flopped wetly onto the ground, body pulsating.

  The large griffin struck, its beak slicing directly into the creature.

  Apollo grinned as the sound of flesh tearing meant the griffin had hit its mark—but his joy was short-lived. Much like when he had struck it with a blade, Nestol simply peeled apart and knitted itself back together. ‘It won’t die!’

  Enraged, the griffin shrieked, slashing with its talons and gouging deep lines in the courtyard ground, but Nestol was impervious.

  ‘There’s gotta be som
e other way.’ Apollo shook his head.

  Two more fireballs streaked across the night, lighting up the entire courtyard again.

  Nestol hissed and curled up.

  Apollo reached forward, grabbed it, and threw it back into the wooden box with a shudder.

  ‘They come!’ one of the other griffins snarled, ‘from the sea.’

  Its words sparked an idea. ‘That’s it! The sea! We can drown this thing!’ Apollo locked the lid and hopped over the low fence surrounding their compound. ‘Please. Can you fly me there? I’ll drop this into the water and drown it!’

  The large griffin tilted its head, contemplating. ‘If it does not drown?’

  ‘It’ll be in Neros’s domain. If anything can kill it, that spirit can. And it’ll be away from the palace and Torsten.’

  ‘The Master Inquisitor had this?’

  Apollo nodded. ‘There’s no time! Can you fly or not?’

  The griffins turned to one another, communicating in clicks, squawks, and trills. They seemed to come to some sort of decision because the cherry-red one raised its head again. ‘Olvalthar will fly you. We will wait for our Lords and Lady. The Myr approach, fly swiftly.’

  Olvalthar lowered his head to the larger griffin, glossy cream and grey feathers shining in the firelight. ‘And you as well. I will destroy this Myrish creation and return to fight with you!’

  Apollo didn’t hesitate, despite how enormous the griffins’ talons were up close. With Olvalthar’s help, he threw himself onto the griffin’s back, awkwardly hanging onto the box the whole while. The griffin had been saddled, and there was a handrail, too, but the beast was larger than a horse, ungainly, and far less comfortable.

  Without waiting, Olvalthar leapt into the air, wings beating powerfully.

  Although the wind rushed past his ears with a scream, Apollo was able to peer over the side of the creature to the palace courtyard below. It was dark with gathered bodies, their cries along with the warning horns adding to the cacophony. Parts of the palace were aflame.

  Apollo gritted his teeth. Getting to Foxmouth on the back of a griffin would only take a couple of hours. He needed to figure out how to convince the griffin to take him. He held on tight, trying to come up with a convincing idea.

  ‘Look to the sea.’

  Apollo did as the griffin told him, and his mouth went dry.

  It was difficult to see the Myr at night—their true forms were mostly shadow—but he remembered the feel of the air when they were near, the cold, biting pain that accompanied them. It was the same icy presence that had been in that palace in Malnova. The same freezing terror he’d felt growing up whenever they’d raided.

  They were on the horizon, coming from the east. In the low light, they merged into one dark shadow that floated just above the sea—heading straight for Eastbrook.

  Every so often, a ball of fire would be hurled forward. Many missed the target, falling short and landing in the seawater. Others crashed into the cliffs, sending chunks of rock falling down. But some hit their target—the palace itself.

  His heart thundered as Olvalthar sped over the palace walls, over Eastbrook, and above the Lasseen Ocean. Any other time, he would have loved the rush of the experience. Wanted to bring Malora and Renys on a flight on griffin-back.

  But the rapture was pushed away by the growing malaise.

  The Myr were back.

  And he had been the cause of it. The catalyst that had allowed them to regain some of their power. He didn’t fully understand it, but he knew it was something to do with the key.

  Fuck. He needed to get to Malora and Renys and get them to safety. There was no time to lose with the Myr approaching Eastbrook.

  ‘Kill the creature!’ Olvalthar’s screeching voice was faint in the wind.

  Trying not to look over the edge now they were so high up, Apollo double-checked the latches were secure, then threw the box over the griffin’s side.

  It plunged into the water with a splash—Apollo had wondered whether he should try and dash it on the rocks, but Olvalthar had flown further out than he’d anticipated. It was now in Neros’s domain, and out of Torsten’s reach.

  Whatever happened, even if Torsten was able to catch up to him, he would know nothing. Even if he was the cause of the Myr’s resurgence, his family would be safe. They were more important than anything else.

  ‘It’s done.’ Apollo coughed, his throat dry and nose burning in the rushing wind.

  The griffin nodded and banked steeply, wings spread wide to allow the turn.

  Apollo held on tight. He needed to get away. Right now.

  Directly ahead lay the city, and Apollo’s breath caught. Toriaken was rising from the palace turrets. Apollo had never before seen The Spirit of Iron so close, and the dragon dwarfed the city of Eastbrook when he unfolded his wings.

  Something that enormous, that powerful, shouldn’t be able to move, let alone fly. He was a mountain of iron, the Myrish fire bouncing harmlessly off his dull scales, and he let out a deafening roar. The noise was so loud that Olvalthar dropped several feet in the air.

  Apollo gripped the handrail lest he was thrown off by the force of the dragon’s awakening.

  Olvalthar veered off to the left, away from the path of the incoming dragon—who was heading straight for the Myr on the horizon behind them. It wasn’t a moment too soon, because Toriaken took to the sky with an enormous leap.

  A hurricane blasted across them, several of the griffin’s feathers sent flying in the wake of Toriaken. The dragon moved faster than Apollo would have expected a spirit of his size, but the griffin was small, nimble, and managed to evade being caught directly in Toriaken’s winds.

  The dragon’s enormous tail whipped past them—a solid slab of iron that could crush fortresses with a single swipe. Apollo flinched as Toriaken soared overhead, goosebumps rising on his arms, and the griffin again was thrown off course.

  Shrieking, Olvalthar spiralled in the air, wings frantically beating to stay aloft and heading in the right direction.

  Apollo held back a scream of terror as dry land rushed up to meet them.

  The griffin let out another squawk, spinning in the air again as the last of Toriakan’s wind hit them. Opening its wings, Olvalthar gained some altitude, soaring high up and above the wake of the dragon’s passing.

  Faded colours flashed past as the griffin struggled to control its spin—green fields, dark green forests, a line of blue water, the grey and brown of Eastbrook, a line of steel water on the horizon.

  Then the colours were more vibrant as if lit up by the sun.

  Olvalthar righted, but the griffin’s head was low—it was clearly stunned. They were losing altitude fast, even though the griffin’s wings were extended as if gliding.

  Apollo turned to face the sea, towards the sudden brightness that had lit their surroundings. ‘Olvalthar! Fire!’ But his warning was too late, and the griffin was too weak. The Myrish fireball—one of several that had been hurled towards Toriaken and the town—tore through the sky toward them.

  He grabbed the griffin’s feathers and twisted, hoping to get the creature to react, to dive out the way or turn. But Toriaken’s power had been overwhelming, and Apollo couldn’t get Olvalthar to respond.

  He looked over the side and cursed. Even with his vision spinning, they were too high up. He’d risk death if he jumped.

  With one final prayer to any spirit that would listen, Apollo braced as the Myrish fire slammed into them and sent the pair crashing to the ground.

  27

  The Sea

  Calidra

  ‘I hope Fenn is okay.’ Jisyel was wrapped in a thick, fur-lined cloak to stave off the chill of the Polar Sea, and the wind was biting, but she looked out at the water, as if pulled by it.

  Calidra suppressed a shiver. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Jisyel turned away with a sigh, her face pale in the cold wind—not that she noticed.

  Calidra’s stomach lurched every time the ship cr
ested a wave, and she’d been huddled on the deck in the centre of the ship for the past hour. It was the only place where her sickness was tolerable. ‘Fenn will be fine, I’m sure. Selys is with him. That priestess won’t let anything happen.’

  ‘But Varlot and Inquisitors? What if—’

  ‘Stop worrying.’

  Jisyel pouted. She made her way over to Calidra, slumped down on the deck beside her, and threw her cloak out to cover both of their legs.

  Calidra savoured the wave of warmth from the thick material, and rested her cheek on Jisyel’s shoulder. She couldn’t see much from sitting on the deck, but she could just make out the tips of icebergs as they floated past. They groaned like old wood, the noise echoing across the flat, empty sea. It gave her goosebumps.

  She’d never been so far away from home before. Never been so far north. And she wondered how Malora had ended up somewhere so cold.

  Calidra tried to time her breathing along with the ship’s rocking. Some way of keeping in control of the nausea that fought for dominance. She laced her fingers through Jisyel’s hair, absentmindedly playing with it while the haunting sound of creaking icebergs reverberated.

  ‘Fenn looked ready to collapse.’

  ‘Jisyel…’ Calidra didn’t want to control what Jisyel talked about, but they were on a ship in the middle of the Polar Sea. Whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen, there was nothing they could do about it. ‘Talking about Fenn will only make you feel worse. We can’t do anything from here.’ She smoothed Jisyel’s hair. ‘I know you’re worried.’

  Calidra had known there was something off about Varlot. She’d had put it down to her own silly suspicions driving her thoughts. Perhaps a tinge of jealousy at the man’s strength and control. But after seeing how he’d reacted? What he’d done to Fenn? She’d been angry that she hadn’t pushed her concerns harder.

  She should have forced him to leave when they’d been in Fellwood. Yes, he’d helped her, but that didn’t give him a free pass to take advantage of Fenn. Probably to line his own pockets, too. She wrinkled her nose at the memory.