The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  ‘You…know my name.’

  Fenn ignored Selys’s curious glance and focussed on the creature in front of him. He tried to keep the pleading tone from his voice, but he was on his last legs. Perhaps naming the creature would make it obey. Even now, the edges of his vision dimmed as the cold mountain sapped his strength. ‘I was told you could help me. I’m going to die otherwise!’

  ‘Perhaps…you can help me, also.’

  Although the request surprised him, Fenn didn’t hesitate. Didn’t care to ask for details. If he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t live much longer. ‘I will, if I can.’

  ‘Fenn!’ Selys called.

  He raised his other hand towards her, gesturing for Selys to stay out of the conversation. Even if it was a poor decision, it was his decision to make. His risk.

  Perhaps he wasn’t so different from Varlot after all. He’d been backed into a corner with no way out, and as much as he pretended he was okay, Fenn didn’t want to die.

  His chest squeezed with sudden tightness, fire burning within him as he focused on the Myrish construct. ‘Please, Vermecio.’

  ‘I…can try. I have not the strength I should.’

  Fenn straightened and pulled his hand away. It was enough for him. If Vermecio couldn’t, he might well die on the mountain. ‘Then try.’

  ‘Fenn…’ Selys stepped over to him. ‘If this…if this doesn’t work? Will you forgive me for dragging you out here? I can see…I can see how weak you are. This trek was too much for you. I could tell even on the ship, and I forced you to keep going when you should have rested.’ She cupped his cheek in one hand.

  ‘Selys, if it weren’t for you, I’d never have had any hope to hold onto. Whatever happens, you have my thanks.’

  She chewed her lip, her uncertain gaze drifting between Fenn and Vermecio. ‘Fenn, you…you don’t even know what it wants. What if the cost is too great?’

  ‘If it doesn’t work, I’m dead anyway.’

  She nodded, her expression grim, and stepped back. ‘May Neros bless you, Fenn. I hope this works.’

  He put his hands behind his back and raised his chin. ‘I’m ready, Vermecio. What do I do?’

  ‘Sit.’

  Fenn did as instructed, with some effort, sitting cross-legged on the floor, in between two enormous spears of ice. Before he’d taken his next breath, the pressure in the chamber intensified. The writing on the floor flashed bright blue underneath him, and Vermecio let out another plume of swirling mist. He couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as shift his gaze or open his mouth. It felt like his body was filling with ice, rooting him in place, and he let out a startled grunt.

  A moment later, the thick, swirling mist passed through him. Ice covered every limb, all the way to his fingertips. The fire in his chest thrashed around.

  It was like being on the edge of the spirit world again, where his edges were blurring away, and the fire was the only thing he could focus on. His breath caught, and the same darkness as before lined his vision, the same sense of nothingness. What remained of his strength faded, his head spun with sudden dizziness, and he fell forward into the void.

  Much like when he’d been on the edge of the spirit world before, there was no fear. No pain. There was only peace. A sense of contentment. There was nothing to him anymore. No body. No mind.

  Fenn half-heartedly wondered where the other echoes were, whether he would join them as he crossed over, or whether he would simply…vanish.

  He’d been a fool. Calidra would certainly say so if she could see him now.

  But he’d tried.

  His throat tightened and he breathed. Fierce, freezing air filled his lungs with a gasping breath, and he opened his eyes.

  ‘Fenn!’ Selys’s voice sounded distant.

  He sat up, and with his next inhale, energy surged into his arms and legs. The next breath brought the world into focus, every colour bright and vivid, and Fenn sprang back to his feet in wonder. He clenched and unclenched his fists, amazed at the strength in his arms. His head felt lighter than air, and his muscles no longer twinged in frustration.

  He was alive. Truly alive.

  Vermecio had done it. It had chased away death.

  ‘Fenn! Are you okay? Say something!’ Selys appeared in front of him, a wide grin on her face, her blue eyes dancing in the reflected light of the ice cave.

  ‘Selys! It’s gone! The pain!’ He spun around in a circle, arms held wide. If it came to it, he was sure he could race back down the mountain and outrun a dozen Inquisitors if he had to. Fenn burst out laughing, the rapturous joy too overwhelming to keep inside.

  One thing remained, despite the pain lifting: the fire in his chest. It burned away merrily, somehow brighter than before. Strange, he’d thought that was a marker of his weakness, of being close to death. Why was that still there?

  ‘Can you tell me what happened, Fenn? Where were you attacked by the Myr? What did you see? Tell me everything!’ Selys asked excitedly.

  Fenn shook his head, trying to focus. ‘Oh! Yes, of course.’ He rubbed his eyes, thinking. He cast his mind back, over the past few days, to meeting Calidra and Jisyel on the Isle of Salt.

  Coming face to face with a dragon spirit.

  Before that, he’d been…he’d been…

  A dark fog settled in his mind, masking everything beyond the muddy bog in the forest.

  ‘No…’ His joy slipped away like draining water. ‘No, it…I can’t…No!’

  ‘Fenn?’

  He clutched his head with both hands and sank to the floor. ‘No! No! NO!’

  Selys was with him a moment later, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. ‘What’s wrong, Fenn? Whatever happened, whatever you saw, we can work through this! We can—’

  ‘No!’ He wailed. ‘They’re still gone. There’s nothing there!’ Fenn rounded on the construct, fear and rage charging through him like a furious storm. ‘Vermecio! My memories were taken by the Myr! Why didn’t you restore them?’

  Again, the bastion considered, more smoke pluming from its limbs. ‘I cannot.’

  Fenn went numb. He couldn’t believe it. After all this time, after everything he’d been through to reach this place. None of it had mattered. His eyes burned with the threat of tears.

  He’d been such an idiot.

  ‘But, help me, and I will be able to.’

  Startled, Fenn studied the creature, but there was no way to gauge any emotion from it. Defeated, he shook his head. ‘Really? What do you want?’

  ‘What I ask in return? Nought but a trinket.’

  He frowned,waiting.

  ‘A sliver of gold. A blade you cannot fight with. A bow from which an arrow cannot fire. Bring me this token, and I will have the power to restore your memories, Fenn.’

  His heart pounded as Vermecio spoke his name. And what did any of it even mean? ‘You want…three things?’

  ‘Only one.’

  Selys tapped the tip of her glaive on the ground, her gaze distant. ‘It must be some sort of riddle?’

  Fenn’s eyebrows knitted together as he tried to think through the waves of emotions cascading through him. His hopes had been crushed before, and he didn’t know if he could stomach it again.

  Gold. Blade. Bow.

  But…not weapons? He folded his arms, pacing the chamber, his breath misting in front of his face. ‘A blade…you can’t fight with?’

  ‘It wants one thing, correct? Is the blade part of an object?’ Selys suggested.

  ‘I should have known this wasn’t going to be as easy as just getting here and having everything answered.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair as if it would give his mind a boost of thought.

  ‘A bow, but you can’t shoot an arrow from it?’ Selys continued to tap her glaive. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I have to figure it out. Because…because once I bring it to you, you’ll be able to restore my memories, right?’

  Vermecio turned all three eyes on Fenn. Its mouth pulled back in a crooked grin, ex
posing several large, gleaming canines. The first emotion it had shown since they’d arrived. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know you can trust what it says?’ Selys said, studying the construct.

  ‘It restored my strength, didn’t it? I’m not in any more pain.’ It was a mild lie. The headache, fatigue, and weakness had gone completely. But the burning in his chest remained. He could cope with that. And if nothing else, the construct had certainly chased away the looming death. That was a bigger relief than he could put into words.

  He leaned against the wall, heedless of the cold seeping through his clothes, and thought. Faded light trickled in from the tunnel, and he wondered how far off they were from dawn. They should probably get some rest—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly.

  Fenn closed his eyes and exhaled. He was expecting voices in his head again—the Myr whispering to him, telling him to find Vermecio—but he was greeted by only silence. The peace was more than welcome—it was utter relief.

  Selys screamed.

  Fenn jumped and saw the priestess collapse. ‘Selys?’ He crouched by her, holding her up by her good arm. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Vermecio, but the construct hadn’t moved.

  The priestess gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could hardly breathe, sucking in tiny mouthfuls of air. ‘It’s…Ne…ros…Her…her fury…’

  Alarmed, Fenn backed away. They were nowhere near the Lasseen Ocean. It was leagues away. ‘Is something happening with the spirit?’

  ‘She…she…’ Selys writhed, her limbs jerking. She balled her hands into fists and hit the cave floor, sending up small plumes of icy dust.

  ‘What can I do? Selys? Selys! Talk to me!’

  But she didn’t seem to hear him.

  ‘The dragon of the sea,’ Vermecio said.

  As if summoned by the construct’s words, light flared from Selys’s body, throwing gold and pink across the ice in the cavern. It burst from her skin, her hair, her eyes.

  Fenn’s own chest burned with more frenzy than before, and he clutched it, sinking to one knee as a multitude of powers filled the cavern. ‘Selys!’

  She slowly got to her feet, fingers trembling as light pulsed from their tips. ‘I…see…Neros…’

  Fenn stood beside her, one hand holding onto the priestess in case she fell again. His own aches faded to a low thrum. ‘Are you okay?’

  She looked at him through glowing eyes. ‘Fenn. You are…I can see…’ Selys picked up her glaive and held it out to Vermecio. The blade glimmered in the light she threw off. ‘That should be destroyed.’

  ‘What? Wait! This is the only thing that can help me!’ Fenn stood in front of her blade, blocking her strike against Vermecio. ‘What’s with the light?’

  ‘Neros has chosen…Neros has blessed…’ Selys shuddered, her grip on her weapon loosened, and it dropped to the icy floor with a loud clatter. She slumped forward, her hair covering her face.

  Fenn kept a wary eye on her, not quite daring to move.

  When Selys straightened, the movement was awkward, jerky, as if something pulled her body to move in their own way. ‘This is a bastion of the Myr.’ She spoke with a voice that was not her own, deeper, more resonant. ‘The enemy.’ Selys raised a finger and pointed to Vermecio. It no longer trembled, instead sending forth sparks of light. ‘Our most ancient enemy. They are here again. In my domain. Approaching. They will only become stronger. It must die.’

  Fenn drew his sword. ‘Selys…?’

  Selys cocked her head at him like a bird. Her eyes were blank and unfocussed. ‘Why has my little brother touched you? Protection from their influence, perhaps?’

  ‘Selys, what are you talking about?’

  ‘My priestess will carry out this task. The Myr cannot continue to taint Tassar. All of their bastions must be destroyed. It is the only way.’

  Fenn’s mouth hung open. Selys was…Neros was speaking through her. ‘This construct has been here for centuries and done nothing. It’s only a spell, you told me so yourself! And it’s my only hope of getting my life back. Learning who I am, where I’m from! You can’t destroy it or I won’t get those answers!’

  ‘It is unfortunate. But one life does not matter when all of Tassar is at stake.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You wanted those answers too!’ Fenn screamed with panic, hardly aware of his own voice rising.

  The light disappeared with a crack, and Selys fainted.

  29

  The Hunt

  Apollo

  A rock digging into Apollo’s back was the first thing that woke him up.

  The second was the tickle of a feather just under his nose.

  He opened his eyes with a groan and stared straight up at a tangle of green leaves. It took him several seconds to figure out he was looking at a tree canopy, and from the unpleasant dizziness when he moved, he realised he’d hit his head hard.

  Through the leaves, a dark cloud loomed overhead, bathing him in semi-darkness. Apollo shivered, not wanting to get caught in the rain. It was an absurd thought, but the first one that came to mind.

  He sat up and awkwardly reached for the rock under his back. Wincing as he pulled it out, he realised in horror that his left arm was covered in blood.

  Shooting pains raced through his legs as he got to his feet, and he gasped when he looked at where he’d fallen. The tree behind him had been torn in half. What was left of the trunk was splintered—jagged edges sharp as blades stuck out in all directions. Leaves and vines had been shredded, and debris littered the woodland floor. Whatever plants grew in that spot had been flattened. ‘Spirits take me.’

  His neck twinged as he turned his head to get a better look at his surroundings. ‘Getting too old for all this…’ There was no sign of the griffin, although there were a slew of cream and grey feathers in among the leaflitter. The sight reminded him of when a local cat had caught a gull one morning, leaving nothing but feathers and a smear of blood just outside The Grumpy Fisherman.

  He hoped Olvalthar’s fate had not been so grim.

  ‘Olvalthar?’ Apollo called, shakily taking a step forward and clutching his bleeding arm. On closer inspection, there was a deep line gouged across his bicep—probably when he’d crashed into the tree, there were bits of bark and dirt studded around the wound—and it stung.

  He’d be in trouble if he didn’t get out of here quickly.

  If he’d survived the crash, the griffin had to as well. That creature was three times the size of him and built for battle. With another groan from his battered body, Apollo turned in a gentle circle, trying to follow the path of destruction while figuring out whether his legs worked properly.

  Olvalthar couldn’t be far.

  As he moved gingerly through the woodland, Apollo struggled to come to terms with what he’d seen from the griffin’s back only minutes before. The Myr. Here, on the edge of Porsenthia.

  The queen and Nadja had been right. What had he done?

  He’d thought it had all been about escaping his own death sentence. Starting a new life. In reality, he’d opened the door and unleashed the Myr back upon the world.

  Shit.

  So much for living the rest of his life in a quiet seaside town. He’d have to face the Myr again. Everyone would.

  Renys would have to deal with that freezing terror for the first time.

  Apollo gritted his teeth. He had to get them away. He had to get back to Foxmouth.

  The Myr attack on the palace had been a terrifying shock, but it had bought him a window of opportunity—and he wasn’t going to waste it.

  At least Torsten would be too busy defending Eastbrook to be on his tail. He didn’t want to think about what Torsten might do to Malora and Renys if the Inquisitor somehow reached them before he did. He doubted Torsten would be as forgiving as Nadja.

  Apollo took a few more shaky steps, his knees weak and trembling. If he could find the griffin, convince it to fly him to Foxmouth, he’d definitely beat Tors
ten there. It was a foolish thought, really. Olvalthar had only helped him because of Nestol, so there was no guarantee the griffin would help him again.

  Damn it all. He had to try.

  ‘Olvalthar? Can you hear me? Olvalthar!’

  Nothing replied. Not even birds sang in the trees.

  His tunic had been ripped, and a tattered wedge of fabric dangled at his waist. Apollo tore it off and wound it around his arm as tightly as he could. Leaving a trail of blood would only invite danger, whether it was an Inquisitor tracking him or some animal looking for an easy meal.

  Grasping his injured arm, Apollo shuffled forwards as quickly as he could, careful not to leave more damaged foliage in his wake. After the long horse ride, the torture, and the chaotic escape, he was about ready to drop from exhaustion.

  Trees surrounded him on all sides, and what little light filtered through the canopy didn’t reveal much about his location. As he walked, he considered just how far the griffin had flown them. There was a small patch of woodland between Eastbrook and Foxmouth—likely where he was right now. If that was the case, he only needed to head north to get home. It was a stroke of luck that griffin had taken him halfway there without realising.

  He tripped over a dead log, cursed, and kept moving. More than once, he checked over his shoulder to make sure nothing crept up behind him. As a boy, he’d lost his best friend to a forest cat that had snuck up on them, and he didn’t want a repeat of that experience.

  Apollo focused on the rhythm of his breathing as he stumbled onwards, looking for the griffin but mostly trying to get away from the site of the crash. After the initial shock had faded, he was left with his own thoughts. The Myr on the horizon, attacking Eastbrook. There had been so many of them, a mass of shadows moving towards the coast. They’d even shot him down from the sky—although he didn’t know if it had been a lucky strike or if he and the griffin had been targeted.

  It was the beginning of another war.

  One he was responsible for.

  He could head east, make for the coast. It would be much easier to follow it up to Foxmouth, but it would be easier for Inquisitors to spot him, too. He had to use the trees as cover for as long as he could, even if the going was tougher.