by J. M. Briggs
The Iron Realm
Book One of the Iron Soul Series
J.M. Briggs
© 2014 by J. M. Briggs
All rights reserved. No unauthorized reproductions permitted except for review purposes.
Published by J.M. Briggs
www.authorjmbriggs.com
Printed in the United State of America
First Printing 2015
ISBN 978-0-9967826-2-3
Dedicated to Mom, Dad and James who I have the privilege of loving, liking and respecting. Thank you for all your support in this adventure and putting up with my long tirades about this book.
1: Growing Magic
2: Welcome to Hatfield
3: Myrddin
4: The First Day
5: The Second Day
6: Lady of the Lake
7: The Third Day
8: The Fourth Day
9: The Sídhe Ride
10: Soccer and Swords
11: All Hallows Eve
12: Changes Wrought
13: Mages Gather
14: Sahmain Ends
15: Light in a Childe’s Hand
16: The Triskele
17: Circles of Friends
18: Changeling Child
19: Drops of Water
20: The Monomyth
21: Almost Human
22: The Tree of Reality
23: Of Dreams and Visions
24: The Wandering Priest
25: Alignment
26: Howls in the Dark
27: Song on the Wind
28: Healer’s Touch
29: Revelry
30: Blood on the Tor
31: Prisoner of the Sídhe
32: Rebirth
33: Cave of the Sword
34: Awakened Mage
35: The Iron Soul
1
Growing Magic
Magic. The word alone conjures images, sounds and ideas from the mind. The belief in magic and the practice of harnessing its strange energy has been present in humanity since the very beginning. There is a reason for this. A reason why, even in an age of science, magic and the unknown that it encompasses is always present at the fringe of human thought. And there are a few in this world who know that reason. And there is a place that was about to become a new haven for it.
Ravenslake, Oregon is a small city tucked away on Oregon's Highway 20 with a land grant university that justified its existence. The University of Ravenslake provided the majority of jobs to the town and its student population made up the bulk of the residents. While a pleasant town with an attractive main street, decent small mall and two small movie theaters, it wasn't what one called vibrant. In the summer the city was a ghost town that survived on some tourism, students that stayed in the area and the teachers who spent their summers enjoying activities on the small lake that gave the town its name or the nearby forest.
Main street retailers switched out their stock come August as the tourists departed and the students returned to the collection of brick buildings that dominated the center of town. The large box store on the end of town was putting all its back to school supplies at the front of the store with cheap furniture and appliances for the college students just to the right of the pens and binders. The faculty of the university was returning from their summers to prepare for the students and the administration hall clock was receiving its annual maintenance.
Bookend Coffee was a favorite of the students of the University of Ravenslake and the employees were scrubbing the shop in anticipation of the start of the school year. The coffee shop had the distinction of being right at the edge of campus and having a large loft over the café area where students could sit and read. Years ago the owner had started a shelf of free books on the understanding that others would bring a book to replace it. At Bookend this concept had grown until six shelves of old and worn paperback books lined the three walls of the loft sitting area. Today the loft was completely empty save for one woman sitting at a small table and glaring at the empty chair across from her.
A few of the students that had already returned to town had climbed the stairs to the loft with their coffees and pastries only to turn around and rush back downstairs at the sight of the woman. She was beautiful with long dark hair plaited over one shoulder and with an air of experience despite appearing to be barely middle aged. It was known that she was at least fifty, but her hair remained dark brown and her face largely remained wrinkle free outside the frown lines between her green eyes. Her hands raised her cup of coffee to her lips and she sipped slowly as she kept eying the chair across from her. In front of her was an open three ring binder holding a printed academic paper on Hildegard of Bingen with bright red notes all across it. A red pen sat at the top of the binder just waiting for her to find the next mistake.
Footfalls on the stairs made her look sharply over at the stairway up to the loft, but she quickly returned her attention back to her paper. Setting down her coffee, she picked up the pen and made another notation before turning the page. The newcomer reached the loft and strode towards her table without hesitation.
“You're late,” she informed the newcomer as she looked up at him after capping her pen very deliberately.
He was older than her with soft white curls that had a ghost of auburn color in places and a short neatly trimmed beard. His brown eyes warmed at the sight of her and he looked her over quickly, checking for any sign of injury and irritation.
“Oh stop mothering Merlin,” the woman huffed with a roll of her eyes. “I'm quite alright.” Her voice carried a slight accent to it that might have been British or maybe even French, but was too faded for certainty. “It is quite rude not to call and inform me that you will be late.”
“My apologizes Morgana,” he replied with a sheepish, but wide smile as he plopped down into the chair across from her. Setting his coffee down, he twisted to unshoulder his satchel and sling it across the back of the chair. Then he raised his coffee to her in a silent toast before taking a long drink from it. “Lovely,” he announced a moment later as he set it on the table. “But it is nice to know you care.”
“Don’t fish for compliments Merlin, its unbecoming for a man of your age,” Morgana informed him sternly. “But you have news for me, Merlin. I would hear it.”
The man continued to smile and continued as it he had not heard her. “But really my dear Morgana le Fey, you must call me Ambrose.” His brown eyes locked with her green ones. “You only call me by my old name when you are irritated with me. My name doesn't blend in this time as smoothly as yours.”
“And Ambrose is such a common given name,” Morgana remarked with a raised eyebrow. Smirking when another student backed down the stairs of the loft instead of coming up, she took a sip of her coffee and turned her attention back to him. “Ambrose,” she huffed, “You missed the first of your department meetings and sent only coded messages. People were asking me where you were. You'd better have a good reason.”
“Indeed,” the older man replied as his smile fell away. “I'm afraid that the news is not good.” When Morgana opened her mouth to ask, Ambrose held up a hand and shook his head. “Please Morgana,” he asked softly. “Give me a moment.”
Morgana paused and nodded, her stern expression softening. Silence descended around them, weighing on the pair like a thick fog. Looking over at him, Morgana studied Merlin with concern. He was wearing his standard professor look of jeans teamed with a dress shirt and tweed jacket with an elegant silver triskele pin on his left lapel. Nothing had visibly changed, but for the first time in a long time Morgana could see him as he had been so long ago, in a long simple robe with a bronze triskele talisman hanging from
his neck and wielding a great twisted wooden staff in his hand.
Then their eyes met and Morgana felt a rush of magic, the greatest force in her life that had been so still and silent for many years.
Suddenly she could smell the woods, feel the morning mist on her face and feel the wind in her long loose hair. The sound of birds chirping as a small animal moved through the underbrush overwhelmed her. Magic weighed down upon her, pulling her further into another place and another time.
Then it was gone. Morgana took a shaky breath and found Merlin standing next to her chair with a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she met his wide eyes.
“I'm sorry,” he told her. “That was-”
“It's alright,” Morgana told him quickly, trying to recover from her own discomfort. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and gestured for him to retake his seat. Her fingers fiddled with the silver triskele pendant that hung around her own neck. “We've both felt…. it growing stronger. Just tell me what you found.”
Merlin retook his seat and nodded. He took a breath before he spoke, “The gates are failing. I checked all of the Old Places and it is the same all across the isles. They won't hold much longer.”
“The gates are iron,” Morgana protested weakly. “The Sídhe… they can't just-”
“It's been almost three thousand years and even enchanted iron may rust.” Merlin interrupted gently. “We always knew that the gates might not be a permanent solution. When iron was common it worked, but you have to look hard in the modern world to find iron. Everything is steel and plastic now.”
“So they are returning?” Morgana questioned, dropping her eyes to her hand. It was shaking. She quickly pulled it off the table and clutched her hands together in her lap. “When they find me… when they find us both…”
“We still have some time,” Merlin reminded her, his voice soft. “Do not despair Morgana,” he commanded her. “And the signs say that the soul will return to us soon.”
“Merlin…” Morgana look up at him and shook her head. “The Old Ones are waking up. It is not just the Sídhe we must contend with. The eldest of the old spirits are stirring. While you were in England I checked on some of their resting places and it is the same. There is movement and I can feel their power rising.” Morgana gestured around with her hand. “This new age calls to them. I don’t know why, but soon they will be waking.”
Merlin's eyes widened and he paled slightly. They both fell silent and Merlin stared into his cup of coffee, seeking answers in the swirl of coffee and cream.
“Then we face both the ancient forces. It is no wonder that magic is growing stronger. It would seem that the war is to resume.”
“How can you say that so calmly?” Morgana hissed. “We barely survived the Sídhe on the Isles and you can't have forgotten when they broke through into the Norse lands. We were lucky not be at war with those Old Ones at the time. To face both at the same time-”
“You and I have both faced Old Ones with success in the past,” Merlin reminded her, raising his hand. “Perhaps it is a sign that the soul is ready, that the time has come.”
Morgana opened her mouth to speak, but failed to make a sound. “You are such an optimist,” she whispered as she slumped back in her chair. “We've been hoping for the end of this for three thousand years with nothing to show and yet you still say that every time the soul is reborn. We don't even know for certain that there is an ending to all of this.”
“I have to believe in that,” Merlin told her. “Everything else I once believed has been stripped away by the ages.”
Morgana studied him carefully across the table, detecting something more in his thoughts. He fiddled with his hands and kept his eyes on his cup.
“What else do you know?” Morgana questioned with a sigh. “What more could there possibly be?”
“I have also detected the presence of reincarnations of Gwenyvar and Luegáed,” he admitted without looking up.
Morgana's body tensed and she clenched her teeth as all traces of sorrow vanished into a rage. “That's it then,” Morgana growled as she glared at Merlin. “We might as well kill the Soul once we identify it and try with the next reincarnation. With the rising levels of magic we could-”
“Morgana,” Merlin scolded as he looked up at her sharply. “How can you even suggest-”
“It always goes the same way when they are near,” Morgana hissed in low voice. “And you know it. They always betray him and cause a downfall at the critical moment. If he dies quickly then we can at least get him back in another nineteen to twenty-years if we use our magic. That might still give us enough time-”
Merlin's grey eyes were cold as they studied her, but she refused to squirm under the gaze. Morgana lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely.
“Sometimes,” Merlin told her slowly, “I forget how…. pragmatic you were raised to be.” He shook his head sadly as the chill faded from his eyes to be replaced with weariness. “Your 'foster mother' did you no favors.”
“Merlin,” Morgan uttered in a quiet voice. “It is always the same. They are cursed to repeat those events when together. Gwenyvar and Luegáed, Guinevere and Lancelot, whatever you want to call them will betray him when it will hurt him the most and cause the most damage. There is a reason why when the humans began to tell the King Arthur story they wound those tales together. That betrayal is buried so deep and runs so true that they still knew it even after hundreds of years. Need I remind you of-”
“It could be different this time,” Merlin interrupted. “We have to believe that things can get better.”
“You are too optimistic old man,” Morgan scoffed, but her shoulders sagged in defeat. “But have it your way if you wish. The Soul has been through this song and dance before and this time will be no different.”
“Ah Morgana, even the Soul is not an island. Like all humans it is affected by the world it lives in. He is shaped by his time and place in the world.” Merlin smiled and nodded to himself, “And the right person can change everything.”
Morgana raised one of her dark eyebrows as she considered the man across from her. “You've been reading too many of your own myths Ambrose,” she declared. “Of course I suppose being a literature teacher doesn't help.”
“Oh and as someone who is three thousand years old you can tell me just how accurate the history books are,” Merlin teased with a smile. “My dear Morgana, you teach another form of literature, whether you like it or not. At least my version is honest about what is fiction.”
“There are days that I hate you,” Morgana informed Merlin with a soft sigh. “I will give it a year.”
“Give what a year?” Merlin asked her with a tilt of his head.
“The new form of the Soul,” she said calmly. “It has a year to show some promise despite Gwenyvar and Luegáed's presence, if not then I will exercise my pragmatism.”
“You know I will not agree to that.”
“I know, but I don't need you to,” Morgana replied. “We both also know that if things go badly that you will not stop me,” she told him as she met his eyes with a cold glint of determination.
Merlin swallowed, but said nothing more on the subject. Giving him a moment, Morgana returned her attention to the paper in front of her after collecting her red pen. After watching her for a moment, Merlin reached into his bag and pulled out a worn hardcover book. He flipped the book open to the midpoint, but watched Morgana scowl at the paper in front of her for another moment.
“Graduate student?” Merlin finally asked.
“Yes,” Morgana told him as she made another red note without looking up. “He doesn't hold much promise either.”
2
Welcome to Hatfield
Excitement filled the air of the Hatfield freshman dorm corridors even as the smell of sweat and the heat of too many bodies made it difficult to breathe. One tall blonde girl maneuvered her way through the corridor, with a duffle bag in one hand and a backpack over one shoulder, leaving
the man and the woman following her far behind as she strode to one of the doorways that lined the hallway. The number 321 was marked on the door in shining letters. Grinning with excitement, the girl pulled a single metal key from the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door.
Her smile fell only the tiniest bit as she stepped inside and examined her new dorm room. It was smaller than television shows and movies made it seem like it should be. But it was filled with sunlight from the large window directly opposite her that looked out over the lawn between the university's dorm buildings. Only the fact that her roommate already had a magenta bedspread with white floral designs and matching pillows and boxes stacked by the door prevented the room from being identical on both sides.
Desks stood on either side of the room next to the window and flush against the twin beds that were each against their own wall. Closer to the door were chests of drawers with flat tops and mirrors hanging above them to make them suitable vanities. Stepping further into the room, the girl saw that small closets were built into the wall closest to the door creating a narrow entry space. The right side of the room was empty of boxes and any sign of her roommate as though the invisible line had already been drawn right down the middle of the space. She tossed her duffle bag on the bed and shrugged out of the backpack, before placing it gently in the desk chair on her side of the room. The noise outside in the hallway fell away for a moment as the young woman took in a long breath. This was finally it.
