The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  Six steps to close the distance between us. Lugh’s knife flashes out toward Goodfellow’s side. The sword goes up, blocks, and Lugh feints before trying again.

  Stop moving away from me. Stay. Wait for me to protect your back. We’re supposed to do this together.

  Another block. Goodfellow has a second of an opening. He pushes hard and Lugh seems to come back to himself. He retreats two steps, fleeing from the iron with a grimace on his face. Goodfellow laughs. A vine sprouts, an unfair, magickal advantage, a Seelie trick. Lugh makes his choice. He blocks the sword instead of the vine and the thorns rip across his arm, digging in deep enough to leave his blood speckling Aage’s chair. Another vine appears at his feet and wraps around his ankle. One moment, he’s standing. Then, the vine flicks his foot out from under him and he falls; Goodfellow moves in for the kill and we both shout—

  My axe reverberates with the strength of Goodfellow’s blow, but the wrapped haft holds. Below us, Lugh slashes at his ankle with his knife, kicking and fighting his way free of the vine cutting deeper into his skin.

  Goodfellow growls and throws his weight against me, as if he can somehow slice through me to reach Lugh. I will not let that happen. I grit my teeth, hold his glare, and push back with all I have.

  He staggers away, just enough for me to drag Lugh behind me. Lugh struggles to his feet, limping, bleeding freely from his ankle. His mouth is tight with pain, but his eyes are clear. He keeps a hand pressed to my back, promising me he’s here. It grounds me and helps wipe out the hum from the belt as I fight off the transformation.

  I forget the battle at our backs. Lugh will warn me if I’m needed. I focus all my attention on Goodfellow—the shadow man brought to light at last—and take slow steps backwards toward Cybel and Armel.

  Goodfellow follows. His boots squelch over the wooden floor. He has to move at our slow pace, his eyes holding mine instead of looking toward his feet. If he gives me a hint of an opening, I’ll drive this axe through him. Lugh’s grip on my shirt grows more insistent. We’re nearly to the Hunt. Not much farther.

  Goodfellow realizes it too. He starts to move. It’s little more than a twitch of his arm, but I adjust my grip, bringing the axe up for a better defense. Like that, he stills, watching and waiting for the next opportunity. I won’t give him one. I know this game better than anyone. Aage taught it to me, tested me with it, and because of him, I can pin Goodfellow in place with an unwavering stare for as long as Lugh needs to get to safety. I will not lose.

  The battle sounds have died out. Lugh tugs hard at my shirt.

  “Keir,” he whispers, “they’re all watching you.”

  Of course they are. They’re waiting to see the human fuck up, waiting for their chance at Lugh. Too bad Goodfellow hasn’t found any way around me. His sword tip keeps moving, dipping and rising and dancing side to side without intent. He can’t hold my gaze. He inspects me without finding an easy way to exploit a weakness. I won’t break first. Not against a coward, a murderer like him.

  “Keir—”

  “Go.” I shrug Lugh off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  It’s not a lie. Where Lugh goes, I go, Goodfellow’s best-laid plans be damned.

  “Don’t make me wait,” Lugh whispers. The pull on my shirt vanishes, and I set my feet harder when Goodfellow’s eyes light up. If he’s going to try anything, it will be now.

  Try, he does. He comes at me time and again, forcing me to meet him blow for blow. And each time, I drive him back without giving any ground. My arms ache by the time he swears and flings his sword aside. He stands across from me, sweaty, flushed, furious, and holds his arms out at his sides.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he calls out and his hands flex.

  I don’t wait for the vines to come. I turn tail and run like a coward. The remaining Northerners spring to life behind me, following me down the hall, even as the clash of combat reaches a fevered intensity. Some race out the exit ahead of me, weapons drawn in my defense. Thorburn, hair plastered to his head with blood, grabs my arm before I can get out the door.

  “Poet, take this,” he demands. He pulls his ornate armband free, and presses it against my chest until I take hold of it. “Reach our lands. We’ll fight for you.”

  Cries of Hold the arch! and A little longer! ricochet down the hall. Thorburn pushes me away. “Go! Go!”

  I obey. The cries behind me mingle with wretched moans, wet hacking, and I ignore it all, ignore the weight of those deaths on my shoulders. Lugh’s outside with the Hunt and he told me to hurry.

  Thick, wet flakes of snow plummet to the ground. Goodfellow’s forces haven’t spilled out the main doors, a lucky break for the Northerners around me. Voll is among them, blood-drenched and battle-weary. She spots me and I’m so grateful to see her alive, I almost miss what she’s shouting to me from the stables. “Go,” she yells. “We’ll find you!”

  More warriors spill into the courtyard. Voll points behind me and orders again, “Go!” The Northerners rush to the stables and I pray to the gods they can escape in time. I would stay to help them, but I have another duty.

  The Hunt are astride their horses, weapons drawn. Lugh holds Dubh’s reins for me and I swing myself up in the saddle. The path is messy, so I only risk one sideways glance at Lugh. He moves in unison with Liath, focused in spite of the silent tears flowing down his cheeks, and I mourn with him as we ride away from our defeat.

  * * *

  We ride through the fall of night. Drest casts ghost lights ahead of us, and we push on until the sun illuminates the newly fallen snow. Cybel is the one who draws us to a halt in a sheltered grove and forces us to dismount to care for our horses and to choke down a handful of dried venison. I wish he had let us go on. Stopping means thinking through everything we saw in the hall. It means acknowledging how utterly fucked we are.

  Drest’s face is drawn and haggard from his exhaustion. Armel has already pulled out the map, but his fingers trace over the lines in distracted patterns. And then there’s Lugh. In the new daylight I can’t avoid the sight of his reddened skin and the tear tracks down his cheeks. I don’t know when he started crying again, but his grief is too deep and raw to stop now. All I can do is pull him to me and wrap my arms around him. The belt’s power fell quiet some as we rode, but pressing my nose to the crown of Lugh’s head and smelling blood and sweat reawakens a surge of emotions I can’t afford to give in to now.

  “What do we do now?” Drest asks.

  Armel frowns. “We can’t stay here. We don’t have any allies.”

  Cybel ignores them both and points at me. “What’s on your arm?”

  Lugh pulls away and I have to bite back my protective growl when he frees himself from my embrace. He lifts a hand to my bicep. His fingers trail over the twisted golden cords of Thorburn’s armband. “This isn’t yours,” he murmurs.

  “Thorburn’s,” I say.

  Drest swears, Armel closes his eyes and swallows, and Cybel steps closer to me, gaze fixed on the piece. “Thorburn’s?” he asks.

  “When we were fighting our way out of the hall, he gave it to me,” I explain.

  “What did he say when he handed it to you?” Cybel asks.

  “He said to take it and head north.”

  “No,” Cybel says. “What exactly did he say?”

  I frown. It’s odd of him to push like this, especially over something so unimportant considering our current circumstances. I force myself back to that moment, to the panic in that small space, and say, “‘Take this. Reach our lands. We’ll fight for you.’” And then, since it might also matter, I add, “And as Voll and the others were getting their horses, she told me they’d find us.”

  Cybel used to stare at me the same way when I was a boy and was trying not to lie about sneaking out with Lugh at night to explore the Wylds. It doesn’t matter if I’m grown now, or if I’ve fought more
than enough battles at Cybel’s side to prove my trustworthiness, his inspection is as cutting as I remember. After what feels like forever, he turns away from me and marches back toward Armel, holding out his hand for the map. “We wait.”

  He’s met with instant protests, but ignores them and focuses on the map instead. “We had the advantage of ghost lights,” he says. “Voll and the others will need more time.” He glances up at the sky and the still falling snow. “At least it hasn’t started in earnest,” he grumbles. “They’ll find our tracks.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” Drest protests. “If they can find our tracks, Goodfellow and his followers can too.”

  “Let’s start a fire,” Cybel says. “We’ll be here for a while and might as well keep warm.” When no one moves, he finally looks up from the map. His glare is threat and promise combined. “Fire. Now.”

  While Armel and I gather what’s needed for the fire, Lugh sends a raven with a warning to Queen Mab. He’s done by the time the fire’s going. Cybel was right; despite the danger of smoke being seen, the warmth helps knock out the chill of the night’s ride. We argue over the few tasks we have to complete before Voll and the other Northerners arrive. Cybel refuses to let me act as lookout. Drest offers to go instead, leaving Armel and Cybel puzzling over the map. Lugh uses the time to clean and bind his wounds. The punctures over his ankle are the worst. Every movement of the joint makes the punctures gape. He grits his teeth against the pain, packs the wounds with more herbs, and rebinds the bandages until he can hobble and mount Liath with obvious discomfort, but no serious limitations. I sharpen every weapon I can get my hands on and check my father’s axe for any signs of injury from the fight with Goodfellow. I’m putting everything away when we hear Drest’s call. Friends have arrived.

  It’s a larger force than I expect, too many to fit in the grove with us. The huscarls end up huddling around our fire, murmuring quiet greetings to us all, even Lugh, who seems surprised by their continued use of his title. Jensson, Kermode, Voll, Jokinen, and Resnik are the only survivors of Goodfellow’s coup. Olofsdotter and Thorburn fell holding the hall so the rest could escape. The news makes the golden ring around my arm weigh heavier.

  “We need to leave quickly,” Kermode warns. “Goodfellow was organizing a group to follow us.”

  “Not the main army?” I ask.

  Kermode shakes his head. “No. He and Bouchard are moving on the Seelie sídhe as we speak.”

  Lugh says nothing, but I see the panic in his eyes when he looks at me across the fire. If Goodfellow takes the Summer Court, he’ll march on the Winter Court next.

  “Are you certain?” Cybel asks.

  “One of Olofsdotter’s men heard it as he escaped. Bouchard’s army is already on the Summer Court’s doorstep. They were simply waiting for Goodfellow’s command to begin the assault.”

  Drest frowns. “Then who’s following us?”

  “A smaller group. Maybe twenty? All young and lean and hungry.” Kermode scuffs the toe of his boot against the snow and glares into the dying fire. “The kind with something to prove.”

  “Probably some of the young fighters from the villages,” Lugh murmurs to me. “The ones I saw in those visions.”

  Probably. Young zealots willing to follow Goodfellow’s commands would be the easiest people to convince to chase us through the Wylds.

  “We need to plan our route back to the North,” Jokinen says. She nods toward Armel’s map. “We don’t want word of what happened at Krigsmöte spreading and ruining our chances for escape.”

  “Why are you doing all of this?” Lugh asks quietly. “You know who we are now, who I am.”

  To my surprise, it’s Jensson, who rules one of the smallest territories, who speaks up for the group. “You’ve protected our lands long enough to become legend and earn your title. Our thegn trusted you,” he says. He stands and brushes snow off his cloak. “For as long as Keiran trusts you, we will as well. His wishes are ours now.”

  “Wait,” I whisper. “What does that mean?”

  Jokinen cocks her head and gives me a funny look. “Do you not wish us to protect the seidhr?”

  “No, I do, of course, but...” I trail off. All eyes fix on me and my growing panic makes the belt hum. I glance at Lugh, whose expression is marred with pain-tight lines around his eyes. “Why do my wishes matter?”

  “Why, he asks.” Resnik chuckles and starts to kick snow into the embers. They hiss and sputter and the noises grate against my already thin nerves. Once they’re completely covered, Resnik reaches into a pocket and draws out a finely wrought brooch. The snarling wolf heads of Aage’s crest catch the faint light and my stomach bottoms out.

  “Breoca made sure we had this,” Resnik explains as he draws nearer to me. He moves slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid I’ll lash out at him. I can’t promise I won’t. “Goodfellow killed Aage in an unfair fight and claimed the Iron Crown. But you—”

  The crest’s sightless golden eyes stare at me accusingly.

  “You defeated him.”

  “The challenge,” Lugh breathes and steps forward to take the brooch from Resnik. He wipes his thumb over it to remove a smear of blood, and looks back to me.

  “No.” I step back, balking at the horrifying thought. I could reach down now, brush my fingers over the belt, and run from this. I could escape still.

  The huscarls look to each other with concern. Cybel holds up a hand to keep them from speaking, gods bless him. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want them to look at me like that, like I’m some kind of savior. I’m not. My duty isn’t to the Sluagh, it’s to Lugh. It’s to the man watching me with loving eyes and a resolute expression, who moves closer with the brooch extended before him like an offering. The man I only now dared to claim for myself, and who will be lost to me forever if this is true.

  “Keir,” Lugh says softly, “you forced Goodfellow to throw away his sword because he couldn’t defeat you. You bested him in a challenge before all the Assembly. You’re the only person alive who could challenge his claim to the Iron Crown because, by law, it’s yours. You can command your army to take up arms in the battle to come.” In the war to come, he doesn’t say, but we’re both thinking it. No Sluagh in the North will follow a thegn who takes what he wants without honor. To validate Goodfellow’s method of claiming power would destroy the few laws their society lives by. I honored their traditions. They’re willing to follow me into battle against Goodfellow, will probably fight beside the Winter Court if it ends his supposed rule. If I take the thegnship, Lugh will not return home a failure. But, if I take the thegnship, Queen Mab will have every excuse to separate us permanently on diplomatic grounds.

  “Please,” I whisper, “don’t make me do this.”

  Lugh shakes his head, his mouth twisted with a sad smile. “You always wondered what the gods’ plan was for you, Keir. Now we know.”

  He reaches out and clasps my hand tightly, cutting off access to the belt. He won’t let me run from this, and I wish I could hate him for it. Instead, I close my eyes and try to breathe through the nausea. Lugh doesn’t move away, simply stands there, holding my hand. When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me with an ancient patience.

  He has to know the truth. “I didn’t mean to,” I whimper.

  “I know,” he assures me, “I know you didn’t. But we can’t undo the past.”

  His hands are steady when he reaches up and fastens the brooch to my cloak. It glitters there against the dark blue wool, a golden reminder of my new status, of my responsibility to the people of the Wylds. Lugh presses a hand over my heart and smiles up at me. “To your people in the North, I’m the Horned King and I still serve the Sluagh’s thegn.” He steps back and drops to a knee in front of me. Behind him, the rest follow suit, and I know my fate is sealed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lugh

 
Three days of peace is all they give us. We knew Goodfellow’s forces would catch up sooner rather than later. The discovery of my raven, message still attached to its leg and an arrow through its breast, confirmed how close they were to us, how prepared they were for our attempt at escape. Still, I didn’t expect the first small group to burst out of the trees in this narrow valley passage and knock me from Liath’s back.

  My head snaps against the ground and the world explodes with white light. Frightened horses and shouting and weapons clashing ring through the fog as I struggle to my feet. My ribs and back burn and spark when I try to lift my spear, but at least my vision returns. It’s chaos. Voll and Jensson bark commands at their warriors in an attempt to defend the sparse line from the unexpected assault. Cybel, Armel, and Drest have already dismounted and moved to circle me. Too late, I understand the attack’s true purpose.

  The six riders have separated Keiran from us and taken him by surprise so utterly he hasn’t had time to draw an axe. Dubh shies as they close in, swords raised, but his nervousness has nothing to do with them. Keiran’s hand hovers over his belt. I step forward, needing to close the distance between us, and our gazes meet just as Dubh rears up and throws him.

  My heart leaps into my throat and I think I shout something because the Hunt and the Northerners all look that way at once. Keiran’s on the ground. Two of Goodfellow’s men dismount and move in for the kill. Of course they would. Keiran is the only risk to Goodfellow’s dominion over the Wylds. Why would they hunt the thegn’s seidhr when they could hunt the thegn himself?

  Keiran shakes his head and drags himself up onto his hands and knees. He doesn’t draw a weapon. He finds me, watches me even as he reaches to unleash Mother’s magick, and I need him to know it’s okay to put his own life above mine. To use the belt, consequences be damned, because more than anything else, I need him alive.