The Iron Realm (The Iron Soul Book 1)

by J. M. Briggs

  “Does it not bother you that you ran?” his mother challenged, it was the fifth time she responded in that way to his remark.

  “No,” he answered shortly, gripping the wooden hilt of the blade tighter.

  “It should,” his mother returned as she looked back to her loom. “I did not raise a coward.”

  “Should I trust her?” Myrddin questioned. “There have been plenty of priests thorough the Isles who did not approve of you bringing me into this world. You did that on Cyrridven's advice.”

  His mother's movements stopped suddenly and there was a sharp intake of breath that made Myrddin look towards his mother with alarm. Still sitting by her loom, her hands were shaking softly in her lap as she stared at her son as if she had never seen him before.

  “She told you her name?” Awena breathed, “A being such as that gave you her name?”

  Swallowing, Myrddin looked back to his sword quickly and kept his eyes low. His mother's side of the roundhouse remained still and silent. Outside the roundhouse the wind was picking up and Myrddin could hear the villagers moving about as dusk approached. Part of him wished to find some excuse to go outside for even a few moments to escape the heavy silence in his home, but it felt vital that he show his mother no weakness.

  The silence continued as his mother moved away from her loom and began grinding herbs and plants. Myrddin glanced towards the doorway quickly as a chill rushed through him, but the doorway was secured with a hide and fabric curtain. Focusing on his sword, Myrddin tried to ignore another shiver which passed quickly. But then there was another and then another much sooner after. Unable to shake the cold feeling despite sitting next to the hearth, Myrddin put aside the bronze sword and stood up to grab his cloak.

  “Myrddin?”

  “Just a chill,” he informed his mother quickly.

  “It is quite warm,” Awena disagreed, standing gracefully from her seat. Her earlier irritation and shock fell away as concern crept into her eyes. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No,” Myrddin assured her as he clasped the cloak securely around him. “I'm fine mother.”

  Despite his assurance, Awena crossed the room to him and inspected him. Myrddin was unable to contain a shiver as another spike of cold rushed through his body.

  “Then why are you shivering?” Awena questioned, her eyes narrowing.

  “I don't know,” Myrddin confessed. “Truly mother I don't know.”

  For a moment he thought that his mother might leave it there, but then a sudden scream from outside made them both turn towards the doorway. Another scream echoed through the village quickly followed by more. Myrddin glanced at his mother before lunging forward to grab his sword. It was not as sharp as he wanted, but it gleamed in the firelight and fit snuggly into his hand. Awena rushed to the doorway and pulled back the pelt as more screams filled the night.

  A fiery glow rose up from thatch roofs of the village as flames roared and villagers ran screaming. Myrddin's eyes adjusted quickly to the flickering darkness and he heard his mother gasp in horror as three strange horses with tall pale riders dashed through the village. One of the riders' strangely white horses reared before the flames, exposing its shimmering fur which glowed like a rainbow in the moonlight. Its rider tossed a lit branch onto a nearby thatch roof, increasing the reddish glow.

  The rider was taller than any man in the village with pale luminescent skin that had a fierce glow in the firelight. His long white hair glowed in the light of the flame with two long twisting horns rising from his forehead.

  “Sídhe,” his mother breathed fearfully.

  Myrddin couldn't look away from the rider. The screaming faded and the cold chill settled in his limbs, leaving him numb and starring dumbly as his village burned. Behind him, his mother was shouting to the other villagers and chanting words he'd never heard before. People began running toward their roundhouse and the Sídhe moved to intervene.

  Bronze flashed in the fire as an axe was thrown at the rider. It impacted into the creature’s chest, knocking him back on his steed, but then the Síd merely reached up and wrenched the axe head from its chest. Another man swung a sword at the horse, but the unearthly beast showed no pain.

  “Myrddin!” his mother screamed in his ear, shaking his shoulder. “Child I need you!”

  Her plea reached him through the chill and Myrddin turned to look at her, gasping for air. His mother was standing straight and tall behind him, her left hand raised with blood dripping from a cut across her palm and a dagger clutched in her right hand.

  “Mother!?” He gasped, moving quickly to her side. “What are you doing?”

  “The Sídhe cannot withstand the blood of our realm,” she told him, her eyes looking past him at a rider. “Quickly, fetch me a bowl.”

  He wanted to argue with her, to demand an explanation, but years of obedience won out and he rushed back into the roundhouse. Scooping up a small bowl, Myrddin scrambled back to his mother's side. Blood was pooling in her hand and she was carefully dripping it on the ground in a circle and a look of intense concentration.

  “My father taught me this,” she told him softly as he returned to her side. “Never thought I'd dare to use it, I don't have his powers. Call the others towards us,” his mother told him. “The closer they are the better.”

  Confused, but determined, Myrddin strode forward and shouted for the villagers to come towards his mother. More screams filled the night as one of the villagers tried to run towards him only to be knocked to the ground by a Síd Rider, and the infant she was carrying ripped from her arms. The Rider's horse reared, bringing its hoofs down on the woman's back with a sickening crunch. Myrddin shouted once again to the others, fighting back panic. In the firelight he could see his uncle Dewydd swinging his bronze sword at a rider to no effect as Candon scrambled towards him. More screams and more shouting filled the village as the smoke thickened around them.

  “Myrddin!” Awena called desperately.

  Spinning, Myrddin's throat tightened as he found his mother on her knees inside a circle of her own blood, her left wrist sliced open and bleeding into the bowl in front of her.

  “Mother!” He gasped, moving towards her.

  “Step over the line, be careful!” His mother snapped before raising her right hand towards him. It was shaking badly and her face was terribly pale.

  Myrddin obeyed and carefully stepped over the bloody line in the earth to join his mother in the circle. Taking her offered hand, he knelt in front of her, his eyes falling to the bowl that was filling with her blood despite his efforts not to look.

  “I need your power,” Awena gasped softly. “I did not inherit my father's magic.”

  Gasping, Myrddin nearly collapsed when a tugging pulled the air from his lungs and towards his mother. Their joined hands began to glow softly, his very skin giving off a white light that instantly drew his eyes. Around him he heard the villagers rushing past them, hiding beyond his mother's circle, but his eyes remained locked on his hand against his mother's as the glow intensified. Breathing became more difficult as his energy drained away, flowing from him to his mother and leaving him weaker every moment. Collapsing forward, he caught himself on his free hand, gripping the cold earth beneath his fingers with fear and desperation. z

  Hoof beats echoed off the mountains, the horses snorted and the villagers screamed as the riders rushed up the hill towards Myrddin. He ripped his eyes away from his hand, looking towards the Riders who were almost upon them. Awena tipped the bowl of blood, spilling the thick red liquid to the ground. She gasped out a few more words, her voice strained and weak, but her last word resounded through the air like a shout.

  Lightning flashed, the glow exploded into a blinding light and the earth around them shook as the thunder rolled. The circle of blood began to glow red around Myrddin and his mother before spreading outward like flowing glowing water, illuminating the earth all around them as it extended ever outward. The cry of a Rider made Myrddin look back at them in a
larm as they reached the top of the hill. The first horse reared as its hoof touched the blood and Myrddin gasped as the horse's leg began to turn into vapor. Eyes widening, the Rider leapt from the horse, but was unable to avoid the spreading magic. His foot touched the glowing liquid and he screamed as his own body turned to vapor.

  The second horseman sought to move his horse back, but was quickly encircled by the magic Myrddin's mother had conjured. Villagers cheered as the horse began to be turned into vapor and the Rider screamed as the rivers of glowing liquid surged up towards him as he sank to the earth when his horse melted away into mist.

  Moving backwards, the last Rider glared at the villagers, still clutching the screaming infant in its arms. Setting his eyes on Myrddin, he maneuvered his horse back.

  “You think this is a victory?” he asked the villagers, his voice echoing in the suddenly still night. The voice had a beautiful music quality that frightened Myrddin even as he felt lulled. “Your tricks, your blood and your realm will not hold us back forever.” He looked down at the infant and then smiled wickedly. “I shall gift this one to Queen Scáthbás. Remember the mother's death as you have nightmares of this child's fate.”

  The Rider spurred his horse back just in time to avoid the rivers of brightly glowing blood that were flowing down the hill towards the village, never running dry. Everything was still, the horses hooves echoing as the Rider fled and the villagers all watched too frightened to breath. When the hoof beats faded some cheered while others began to cry.

  “Awena!” A pained voice cried and Myrddin turned to see his uncle carefully stepping into the circle.

  His mother was collapsed on the ground, completely still with her hand still gripped in Myrddin's, but the once bright glow faded rapidly. Dewydd knelt beside her and gently pried her hand from Myrddin's before picking her up in his arms.

  “Sister?” he called softly. “Awena.”

  Swallowing, Myrddin studied his mother, his heart gripped with fear. Her face was white, her wrist and hand covered with her own blood and her breathing so shallow that he could barely detect it.

  “Mother,” he called, crawling towards her. “Mother, please?”

  Awena took a short, painful breath while she opened her eyes. Desperate brown eyes met dimming brown eyes, but his mother smiled softly.

  “My son,” she whispered. “So much power, they will not be able to return for years to this village.”

  “Sister,” Dewydd repeated gently. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing brother,” she replied in a warm weak tone. “There is no return from this.”

  “But mother, you're a healer,” Myrddin argued. “A priestess of the land.”

  “And now I go to join the ancestors,” she told him softly.

  “Myrddin, I love you and I …” her voice cracked and was too low from him to hear the rest even as her lips moved.

  Awena stilled in her brother's arms, her son's warm hand against her cooling cheek.

  “She joins the ancestors,” Dewydd informed Myrddin and the assembled village before turning his eyes on his nephew. “You are now the priest of the western mountains.”

  Myrddin stared at his still mother, unable to speak, but he slowly raised his fingers to close her eyes. The Priestess was gone; the link between the living and the ancestors had been shattered. He wanted so much to scream, to cry and mourn as a child for his mother, but already the weight was pressing on his shoulders. All around him, his village waited for him to speak. He was their priest now. He was their link and they needed him. Releasing a small breath, Myrddin softly whispered a goodbye to his mother and his childhood before rising to his feet.

  “Put out the fires, save what can be saved and then gather our dead,” he finally managed. “We will return them to the earth once the living are tended to.”

  Dewydd nodded solemnly at Myrddin before he lifted his sister into his arms and carried her into the roundhouse. The villagers remained for a moment to watch Dewydd until he vanished into the building before they started down the hill to the rest of the village. Taking in a long breath, Myrddin looked down at the blood circle that his mother had made and his eyes were drawn towards the bronze sword he had dropped when his mother reached for him.

  Hand shaking, Myrddin reached down and picked it up, gripping the hilt tightly. He looked over at the roundhouse for only a moment before he turned his attention towards the smoldering village. Then his eyes were drawn upwards, towards the high slopes of the mountain where one waited who could answer his questions. But that would have to wait.

  In three days' time, those who had survived were protected from the elements with new roundhouses. The night before Myrddin had sent his mother to the ancestors on a grand funeral pyre that burned all through the night. The few charred bone fragments that had been gathered in the morning were wrapped in her favorite shawl for transport to the plain stone circle at midwinter where the funeral ritual would be completed for her. It was a small comfort to Myrddin to know that his mother's strength had become a part of the world around him. She was a part of the realm now, watching them, guiding them and giving power to the earth to protect them. But as he collected his staff and supplies for traveling up the mountain, Myrddin acknowledged that he would have preferred she was next to him.

  A mist hung over the lake and the mountains were cloaked with low clouds as Myrddin began to climb down the valley towards the water. His staff clacked against the stones with every determined step and his cloak rippled around him in the breeze. Stopping at the water's edge, Myrddin glared out over the water and tightened his grip on his staff.

  “Cyrridven!” He shouted out across the water. “Show yourself Cyrridven!”

  Before him the water rippled and swirled as it had only days ago, rising from the surface of the lake to take on a human form. Today however, Myrddin was not in awe and watched as Cyrridven materialized from the water with indifference.

  “Hello Merlin,” she greeted gently with a soft sad smile, “I know what drove you to return. I am sorry, Merlin,” Cyrridven told him softly, moving closer to the shore. “Awena was a great daughter of the Earth and she lives on in you. She will join the ancestors and give her strength to the world.”

  Myrddin bowed his head slightly at her words, knowing that she spoke the truth. Even in his rage, he was unable to disrespect such an important truth. Cyrridven's compassion washed over him like a gentle wave, easing his anger and bringing his grief forth like a spring.

  “Is this my fault?” he asked her in a quaking voice. “When I refused to listen and fled, did I cause this?”

  “No,” Cyrridven promised him. “Even had you stayed that day and come every day hence, I would not have been able to teach you enough to change what occurred.”

  “How did you know?” Myrddin asked, looking at the rocks on the shore. “How did you know that the Sídhe attacked my village? That my mother was dead?”

  “I embraced this realm long ago and became connected with it. I felt the Sídhe ride,” Cyrridven explained gently, “I felt the Blood of Earth turn them back with the help of powerful magic and knew that it could only have been you and Awena.” Cyrridven shook her head, her hair floating gently in the air. “And I know the cost that Awena would have been called on to pay. The ritual that she used is powerful and needed more power than she could call upon without offering the realm her life in exchange.”

  “Why?” Myrddin asked weakly, unsure of which why he wanted answered first.

  “I told you that the new Queen of the Sídhe Scáthbás seeks power beyond merely the occasional torment of the Children of Earth. Her people have a vast empire across many realms, but it is not enough for her. She seeks to solidify her power by gaining mastery of this realm and begins by bringing human slaves and children back from Earth.”

  Her words were frightening. Everyone knew of the Sídhe and their tricks to trap adults or their theft of children who became their slaves in another darker world. Myrddin's thoughts turned
to the child that the Sídhe rider had taken and he fought back a shudder.

  “What is the Blood of Earth?”

  “The Blood of Earth is the blood in the veins of the living children of this world. Within the blood of humanity is something that is poison to the Sídhe. By combining her blood with your magic you mother was able to create a barrier around your village that saved your people and will last for some time.”

  “Something in the blood?” Myrddin repeated, “But I have both Sídhe blood and human blood, so how is that I live?”

  “You live because the world decided for you to live,”

  Cyrridven informed him with a smile. “You have a purpose dear Merlin. You are a Child of the Earth and were gifted with magic, but you also carry certain powers from the Sídhe. Merlin, you were born to protect this world.”

  “But I couldn't even protect my village, my mother had to die!” He argued, his anger flaring hot in his chest.

  “Then I will teach you, Merlin,” Cyrridven assured him. “I will teach you everything I have learned about the magic of your world and the Otherworlds. I promise you that when the time comes, you will be prepared.”