The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  ‘Inquisitors, all the way out here?’ Selys drew her glaive. ‘Not when we’re so close to safety!’

  ‘But they aren’t coming from Nethal or further west. Maybe they won’t know about…what happened?’ Fenn asked, standing his ground. He didn’t want to draw his sword and appear as a threat.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Selys acknowledged, though she didn’t sound convinced.

  There was no point in running. The group had spotted them, and mounted as they were, could easily catch up. Better to appear cooperative.

  Fenn chewed his lip nervously. Although his curse had been removed, they’d still consider him a lost soul without his memory. He prayed to Neros that the Inquisitors would listen to Selys.

  ‘Good day, Inquisitors.’ Selys bowed her head as they approached, the horses’ hooves a roar after so long in the empty tundra.

  ‘You!’

  Fenn backed up as one Inquisitor pushed his way past the front of the group. There was no mistaking his arrogant sneer. ‘Master Inquisitor Torsten.’

  ‘Out causing trouble again, I see?’ Torsten got down from his horse and strode towards him, a dark look in his eyes. A deep cut grazed his left cheek, and his uniform looked like it had been punctured by a dozen needles. Through the holes in his cloak, Fenn saw blood lined his right arm. The sight was a far cry from impeccable intimidation he had been in Ballowtown.

  Selys glared at him. ‘Fenn is my apprentice. We’re on our way to Toriaken’s Shrine. I have papers—’

  ‘Oh, he is, is he? First an apprentice to Varlot, and now an apprentice to a priestess? Fenn, you must be an expert in combat after your training. And with a spirit on your side, too? What another convenient lie.’ Torsten spat, ignoring Selys, his gaze locked on Fenn. ‘I should have dealt with you much sooner. Now, what have you done?’

  ‘I…I haven’t done anything.’ Fenn was genuinely confused by the accusation. Torsten might have had an instinct for those flouting the rules, but he had no idea what the Inquisitor thought he’d done. Nor did he understand why Torsten was so full of rage. It wasn’t the cold, calmness he remembered from before.

  ‘Priestess. You’re injured?’ Another Inquisitor got off his horse. He was younger than Torsten by at least a decade, with sandy-coloured hair and a stocky frame.

  The third Inquisitor, a woman with dark, braided hair stared at Torsten with narrowed eyes. She kept quiet, observing proceedings atop her piebald horse.

  Fenn watched them carefulley, certain he’d seen both somewhere before, but unable to quite place where.

  ‘You have medicine?’ Selys asked the sandy-haired Inquisitor,.

  ‘Sarron, stay out of this. I will deal with Fenn, first,’ Torsten snapped.

  ‘I thought we were looking for that thief Apollo, sir?’ Sarron asked, frowning. ‘And this priestess has a wound on her shoulder. We must offer her aid.’

  ‘The Myrish traitors take precedence.’

  ‘How can you be so sure he’s a traitor?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Torsten’s voice allowed no argument. The sword in his hand flashed and he squeezed the hilt until his knuckles whitened.

  Sarron frowned, backing up to where his colleague watched. ‘Is it just me, Nadja, or is he behaving more strangely than usual?’ Though his voice was low, Fenn caught the words, which mirrored his own thoughts. Clearly they and the other soldiers weren’t sure about Torsten’s orders, but didn’t have the courage to question them.

  Torsten glowered at Fenn, unaware or uncaring of his comrades’ uncertainty. ‘And you, Fenn? You escaped my grasp once before. Looks like Varlot isn’t here to protect you this time!’

  The same rust spot he’d seen before was on Torsten’s sword. Fenn was about to comment on its strangeness when the fire in his chest roiled, sending spikes of pain along his limbs. He clutched his chest with a grimace, trying not to sink to the ground. Appearing weak in front of the Master Inquisitor was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Torsten lunged before Fenn knew what was happening. Through sheer luck, he sidestepped the strike, stumbling backwards in the slushy snow.

  ‘Torsten! Is this necessary?’ the third Inquisitor asked, getting off her piebald horse. She and Sarron stood together on the edge of the battle.

  Fenn couldn’t pay her any attention. His own sword held up defensively across his chest, he blocked Torsten’s barrage of blows one after the other—backing away from him after each strike. After the fifth or sixth blow, his arms went numb, and his grip on his sword faltered.

  Torsten grinned with grim satisfaction and pressed the attack, striking at Fenn’s legs.

  With a yelp, Fenn tripped over, dropping his sword as the edge of Torsten’s blade slashed into the meat of his thigh.

  ‘That’s enough. The lad is disarmed,’ said Nadja.

  Torsten ignored her. He stood over Fenn, the tip of his rusty sword ready to strike.

  Fenn stared up at Torsten, breathing hard. The Inquisitor’s gaze flickered, pupils widening, but his eyes were unfocused. ‘I know what you are. I know you have the Myrish magic inside you,’ Torsten hissed, his voice low. ‘After what happened to the palace, I’m not taking any chances. Every one of you traitors will be killed on sight.’

  ‘No! He’s with me!’ Selys screamed.

  Torsten didn’t bother to turn and face her, more intent in savouring his victory. ‘The Myr dared to attack our coastline. I shall make it my personal goal to ensure not a single Myr-touched person is allowed to live.’

  Fenn grimaced as pain laced up his leg, his own hot blood staining the snow underneath him. He turned his head, eyes widening when he saw Selys.

  ‘Torsten!’

  Fenn didn’t know who shouted, but the warning held enough urgency to grab the Master Inquisitor’s attention. Torsten whirled around in time to be struck by a wave of fire shot from Selys’s body. The flames burst in all directions, scorching the ground and melting snow—leaving the grass underneath blackened.

  Selys’s action gave Fenn time to scramble to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled towards the priestess.

  ‘You are not getting away from me again!’ Torsten fumed. ‘Miroth!’ He raised his sword, which lit up like the sun. A plume of fire shot forth, charging towards Fenn and incinerating anything that hadn’t already been burned.

  Fenn dropped to his knees as the crackle of flame exploded around him, burning the hairs on his arms.

  Selys strolled forward, snow melting under her feet with every step. ‘Torsten. By order of Neros, you will leave Fenn alone or suffer the consequences.’

  Torsten spat. ‘You stand in the shadow of the Iron Crown! You are under the control of the Porsenthian Empire! You belong to Queen Surayo, and you will obey our rule. This boy is Myr-touched. Only death awaits him!’

  Fenn swallowed, getting to his feet with difficulty. What had happened to Torsten? He was acting like a man possessed. He’d been cold and cruel, yes, but this was something else. ‘I’ve done nothing! I’m trying to help the Iron Crown!’

  ‘Sure you are.’ Torsten dismissed him with a wave. ‘My only goal is to rid the world of the Myr. Your magic poisons everything. Steals life. It cannot be allowed to remain.’

  Before Selys could get any closer, Torsten sent another plume of smoke careening into her.

  She halted in place, as if caught between bracing for the attack and diving out of the way. Fire slammed into her, the force of it knocking her off her feet.

  ‘Selys!’ Fenn cried in panic, and the fire in his own chest surged.

  ‘Do not repress me. Fight back. Miroth is weak and I am stronger.’

  ‘Who…who are you?’ Fenn gasped, as the voice in his head spoke louder than ever before. It was the same voice he’d heard in the deadlands, who’d urged him not to give up. To stay strong. It was warmer than the Myr’s voice had been in his visions. Stronger and more righteous. ‘You’re…the fire?’

  ‘I will be your armour.’

  Fenn had no idea what was going on. Kne
es weak, he faced Torsten. ‘But…but Torsten is an Inquisitor!’

  ‘I said I would watch over you, tainted one. Raise your sword. Let me defeat this weakling.’

  Fenn did as commanded, although he wasn’t sure how much of the action was his own. Sword pointed at Torsten, he exhaled once. Heat and energy built in his chest, so powerful it was as if he was lifted off his feet.

  Power raced through every vein, every muscle, and even the wound in his thigh faded to nothing, as fire exploded from him. He thought it would hurt. Thought there would be the smell of burning, the choke of soot, but the fire was pure and clean and alive.

  It flew through him, through his fingertips, through the sword, and straight into Torsten’s side.

  The Master Inquisitor screamed, throwing up his shield at the last minute and blocking the rest of Fenn’s fire.

  ‘He does have a spirit!’ one soldier gasped.

  ‘Torsten! He was telling the truth!’ Sarron yelled.

  ‘How could he be Myr-touched if he has a dragon spirit?’

  Torsten lowered his shield. ‘He is in league with the Myr! Can’t you see? Are you blind? Stupid? I’d recognise that filthy stench anywhere!’

  Fenn responded with another plume of fire. He wasn’t conscious of his movement, as if something deep within controlled every action, every breath. But the fire was greater than Torsten’s and broke through the Inquisitor’s defences. Flames caught Torsten’s arm, burning through the uniform and singing flesh underneath.

  ‘Torsten! I’ve seen enough. We need to report back to the palace! What if you’ve angered Neros through your misguided actions?’ It was Nadja. She raced across the battle, heedless of the flames, and grabbed hold of Torsten. She tore away his burning sleeve and dragged him backwards through what was left of the snow, dousing the fire.

  ‘Nadja. Don’t be fooled by Fenn’s lies! It’s some Myrish trickery!’ Torsten’s gaze was distant, his voice, desperate.

  ‘I know what I see, Torsten. Fenn is certainly blessed. And you’ve hurt a Priestess of Neros. We need to get back to Eastbrook. Leave Apollo wherever he is, and aid the queen against the real threat.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sir. It is my opinion that you need these injuries seen to if nothing else.’

  ‘Apollo started everything. We must find him! That boy is part of it. You mark my words!’

  Nadja shook her head. ‘Sarron. Help Torsten back to the palace.’

  The sandy-haired Inquisitor bowed at her order, and hurried over to Torsten. The Master Inquisitor continued to shriek incoherently.

  Nadja frowned at Selys and Fenn, who were crouched beside one another, panting. ‘I apologise for our conduct here. Tensions are high with the Myr, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I hope your spirits are able to see we are only human, ruled by our emotions and fears, and forgive us for our transgression.’

  Fenn didn’t know what to say, too stunned by the power flowing in his veins.

  Selys nodded. ‘Thank you, Inquisitor. I will ask Neros to be merciful.’

  Nadja bowed, then got back onto her horse. With Sarron aiding Torsten, and the scent of burning flesh filling the air, the group headed off, down the rolling hills and into the distance.

  Selys spun to face him. ‘Fenn, what in Neros’s name was that? You’ve been blessed this whole time and never said anything? How in all of Tassar did I not see?’

  Fenn gasped as the surge of energy left him. He sank to his knees. ‘I think…I think the Myrish curse had something to do with it?’ His breaths were ragged. Now the fire had died down, the pain in his thigh flared. ‘Covered it up somehow. I didn’t realise…until very recently…’

  Darkness overtook his vision as Fenn collapsed onto the blackened ground. In his mind, the dragon spirit laughed.

  31

  The Aftermath

  Calidra

  Calidra was drowning.

  Cold, dark, seawater was the only thing she’d known for…how long? Hours? Days? She was lost in a shapeless, murky void of green and black. It was all-encompassing. The cold sucked the strength from her body, stiffening her limbs, making it harder to move or think, let alone swim.

  She stared up at the surface, startled at how the light played through the water, giving the world above a strangely dream-like quality. Light drifted across the surface; orange and red fire from burning ships, pink and yellow sunlight, white-hot flames from Neros. It all blurred together in a haze of delirium.

  Bubbles gushed up from her mouth and nose. From her frustrated, weak flailing.

  The surface edged away from her.

  No.

  She was sinking.

  Thoughts of Jisyel, Malora, and places from her childhood floated into her mind’s eye. Places she’d never go again. People she’d never see again.

  The panic that had been suffocating up until that point melted away, and aside from the cramp building in her arms and legs, she was…peaceful. She couldn’t hear anything other than the low thrum of the water swelling around her, and Calidra wondered why she’d ever feared it before.

  Something exploded above the surface, the sound muted. A shockwave rippled through the water, its pressure jarring. Distantly, she knew she needed to keep swimming, to get back to the surface before she ran out of breath. But she simply couldn’t anymore. The stress, shock, and sheer, unrelenting terror had left her numb.

  She no longer felt the cold.

  No longer felt much of anything…

  Suddenly, she was flying up—shooting headlong towards the surface. Lights grew brighter, forcing the darkness and cold away, lost behind her. Water splashed, white foam spraying over her face, and Calidra could breathe again.

  Her focus sharpened, and with it returned the cold, the biting pain, the searing heat of her lungs desperate for air. And the realisation Jisyel wasn’t with her. She had to find her.

  ‘Mama! You got another one! Big fish!’

  Calidra coughed, her eyes stinging in the salt water. A small boat floated above her, big enough for perhaps five or six people, if they all squeezed up together. It had a small mast and a wide sail, neither of which were on fire.

  Two figures peered down at her, obscured by the dazzling sunlight above.

  Calidra struggled to keep her head above the water, and when she slipped under, something yanked on her collar to keep her where she was. She tried to take a deep breath, but only managed to cough.

  ‘Ren, mind yourself. I’m trying to get her into the boat!’ A woman said, her accent distinctly Bragalian.

  Calidra was confused. She’d been in the Lasseen Ocean beside Foxmouth. Had she floated so far south she’d reached the gulf between Bragalia and Olmir? Her memories were fuzzy after the ship had collapsed on top of her, with significant stretches of time completely blank.

  Before she could give it any more thought, something sharp tugged on her collar again, hauling her towards the boat the woman and the little girl watched her from. Calidra yelped as she was pulled, then her fingers were scrabbling against the side of the boat.

  ‘No, not there! You come up here!’ The girl pointed to a short ladder as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Calidra shuffled along the boat’s side, water slapping into her face, then she heaved herself up. Every movement was agony, weighted down by her sopping wet clothes, and when she finally collapsed into the boat, she retched.

  The girl crouched beside Calidra and peered down at her for a few seconds. ‘You shouldn’t swim so deep.’ She pushed some of Calidra’s hair out of her face. ‘Pretty lady.’

  ‘Ren, get back. Give her some space.’

  At—presumably her mother’s—orders, the girl backed away from Calidra. ‘She been swimming too long, mama.’

  ‘I’m sure she has. Come and sit down, help me get the next line ready.’

  Calidra heard Ren sit down as instructed, gleefully opening boxes and reaching in for supplies.

  ‘I’m sorry about Renys. She’s so inq
uisitive. Are you hurt? Other than the water you took in, I mean. I’m surprised you’re still conscious!’

  Calidra didn’t even have the strength to lift her head. She tried to look up at the woman, but retched again, spewing up seawater and bile. Suddenly embarrassed, she shuffled forward and vomited over the side of the boat, emptying whatever was left in her stomach into the Lasseen Ocean. ‘Where…?’

  ‘We’re on the edge of the Polar Sea, just north of Foxmouth,’ the woman said. ‘I’d head further south for more supplies, but who knows if the Myr are still there. It’s been two days since the attack, but I’m not taking any chances.’

  The Myr.

  So it had been real.

  Calidra had hoped her mind had cracked, that she’d imagined the enemy or it had been part of some terrible nightmare.

  ‘You’re the fifth person we’ve picked up today, and you won’t be the last.’

  Calidra remained leaning over the boat, not trusting her stomach under the swell of the waves. Over her shoulder, she said, ‘Have you found a woman called Jisyel? Jisyel Herbst? A Porsenthian?’

  ‘Possibly? All of the people we’ve found so far have been Porsenthians, aside from you. Most of them sailors. No-one’s been awake, though.’

  Calidra’s head thumped and she vomited again—this time there was more substance. Shaking, she didn’t fight it, just let the sickness wash over her, as awful as it was to experience. The woman’s voice was comforting. It wasn’t often she was able to hear the accent of her homeland, especially not so far north in Porsenthia. ‘You…you’re a long…way from home,’ Calidra muttered in between bouts of retching and coughing.

  ‘Married a Porsenthian who hates the heat.’

  Calidra laughed, then grimaced when her stomach twinged. ‘I understand that…My partner is Porsenthian, too.’

  ‘Oh? Where from?’

  ‘Isle of Salt.’

  ‘Yeesh.’ The woman laughed goodnaturedly. ‘I guess you don’t care for curses?’

  Calidra shrugged as much as she could while leaning over the side of the boat. Her view was limited to a mash of green-blue water churning up underneath the hull, broken up by the occasional splash of white foam. Neros was no longer in view, thank goodness, but the sea was rough and choppy—no doubt a reflection of the spirit’s mood at being attacked. Debris littered the water—boxes, barrels, and sacks were scattered among bits of burnt ship. Wood, sails, and anything else that could float drifted past.