The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  ‘You talking about Neros?’ Torsten sneered, his shoulders dropping slightly.

  Fenn’s mind went blank. ‘I—No, wait…Who’s Neros?’

  Torsten visibly relaxed, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He let out a short bark of laughter. ‘Who’s Neros he says? That’s a question we’ve heard a few times over the past few days, haven’t we, Nadja?’

  The woman at the door nodded once. ‘Twelve times, sir.’

  ‘Mmhmm. Twelve times,’ Torsten repeated, leisurely turning back to Fenn.

  Fenn had no idea what “twelve times” meant, or why Torsten had changed his stance from aggressive to relaxed, almost lackadaisical. He swallowed. ‘A shadow it was, sir,’ he thought he should add the honorific, now he was on the back foot.

  ‘You saw a spirit. Nothing more.’

  ‘No! I’ve seen a spirit, and this wasn’t that!’

  ‘You were mistaken. It was a spirit.’

  Fenn continued to argue the point, angered at being ignored and dismissed. He racked his brain, trying to remember more details about the shadow creature to prove his truthfulness. ‘It was huge. It had amber eyes and long arms…and it felt…wrong. Like it shouldn’t be here.’

  Torsten’s jovial grin disappeared immediately, replaced by a tight-lipped grimace. ‘And you, boy? Should you be here?’

  Fenn stammered, unsure what to say, what was expected of him. His papers were in the pocket of his overtunic, thrown across the back of the chair Jisyel sat in. ‘I have papers. Stamped by the portmaster.’

  Torsten raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Fenn took that as permission to retrieve it, so he whipped around and darted over to the other side of his table. Jisyel and Calidra stared at him, Jisyel with wide eyes, Calidra with narrowed ones. Both were tense, braced as if for combat.

  Withdrawing the envelope, Fenn held it up to the Master Inquisitor, who took it without breaking eye contact. When Fenn defiantly stared back, Torsten scowled and briefly glanced at the paper. ‘Interesting. But a forgery. Laird Vantonen is several days dead, and could not have signed this paper. You dare travel through the Queen’s lands unwatched?’

  ‘S—Surayo?’ Sheer panic froze Fenn in place. He couldn’t think, let alone speak coherently.

  ‘I think you’re a clever one, boy. But you can’t fool me.’ Torsten drew his sword, cruelty glinting in his eyes as he grinned at Fenn. ‘You shall join the other twelve lost souls we’ve picked up, though I must say, you are the only one to have made it this far. Most have no idea who the queen even is.’ He curled his lip as if in disgust. ‘Nadja. Irons.’

  Fenn gasped. So there were others like him.

  ‘Fenn!’ Jisyel cried from their table.

  Before Torsten’s companion could move, one of the patrons by the bar stood up, the wooden stool scraping against the floor as he did so, attracting everyone’s attention. ‘Don’t bother, Nadja. Torsten, you should take a night off for once. It’ll do you some good.’

  Outraged, Torsten whirled around to face the man, his sword levelled at him. In the low light of the tavern, Fenn noticed a patch of rust dotted along the blade’s dull side. He might not have known much about his situation, but he was fairly certain swords had to be rust-free to be any good. Frowning, he looked at the man who’d spoken out against the Master Inquisitor, daring to hope at a possible escape.

  At the possibility that someone wanted to help him.

  The man had several golden hoops in his ears, a short, a deep scar across his left eyebrow and another across his cheek, and dark hair that grew thick down his neck. Even in the heat of the inn, he wore a heavy bearskin cloak that made him seem half-wild. He drank directly from a large bottle of red wine, which he placed on the bar before looking straight at the Inquisitor. ‘Put that away, Torsten. I ain’t here to cause trouble.’

  Torsten sucked in a breath and pursed his lips. ‘I had not expected to see you, General.’

  ‘Nor I you, but that’s how the world works. Full of surprises sometimes. And it’s former General, you know that.’ He gestured with his chin in Fenn’s general direction. ‘Lad’s with me. I’ve been summoned to Fellwood. Some training contract for the Laird’s youngest. Fenn’s my apprentice. Want to check my papers?’

  Torsten sheathed his sword so aggressively, he knocked his own drink off the table where it landed with a heavy clunk and rolled across the floor. Indignant with rage, but apparently unable to do anything about it, Torsten straightened his uniform. ‘Not necessary, Varlot. We’ll get back to work.’

  The Shadow

  Torsten

  Of all the countries of Tassar, Bragalia was the worst.

  It was a cesspit of differing bloodlines, pseudo-royalty, and a streak of stubbornness that would put a mule to shame. It didn’t help that the food was terrible and the wine was worse.

  The Porsenthian Emperors had greatly diminished Bragalia over the centuries, as they’d expanded their country further and further south. They’d won land against Bragalians of old after a number of violent skirmishes, all aided by the strength of Toriaken. Now, all that was left of the country were five weak cantons of even weaker Lairds—one of whom had recently died—who’d agreed to swear fealty to Porsenthia to save what was left of their lands.

  Even their military was poorly trained—a mish-mash of warriors sent by the various Lairds as part of their truce, whose drills, conduct, and competence varied widely. Being here, in this country, made him feel sick. It was a far cry from the orderly Porsenthia, where Queen Surayo reigned supreme and standards were higher.

  Bragalia was bearable at night, but even the heavy rain that had accompanied his arrival in Ballowtown brought with it an uncomfortable heat. It had been a necessary trip, though, by direct order of the queen.

  He glared at the lad, Fenn, as he chatted happily to Varlot. He wondered whether the boy had any idea how close he’d come to being locked up and brought back with the other prisoners. The fact he’d suggested they were hunting something had thrown Torsten off. Not even the other Inquisitors were aware of his true task. As far as anyone was concerned, there’d been an infection or illness running through Bragalia; people were turning up with no knowledge of who they were, where they were, or where they’d come from. In fact, they didn’t know anything at all. Lost, bedraggled amnesiacs without links to other people or places, and the Inquisitors had been sent to round them up for more thorough questioning. That was a job that awaited him back in the Porsenthian capital, and he was rather looking forward to it.

  There’d been no explanation for their appearances, nor why there were so many of them. And more were turning up all the time, much to his irritation.

  This sort of rounding up wasn’t the kind of thing he usually got involved in, but Queen Surayo had insisted he accompany the other Inquisitors—it was a solid enough reason for him to be there, if uncommon, while he investigated his true task: determining whether Porsenthia was in peril.

  Queen Surayo was a mage, and the workings of her magic were largely a mystery to him. She’d been convinced something approached the borders of her empire, but hadn’t been certain what, or even whether it was a threat. Torsten, of course, had been sent to investigate under the ruse of the other Inquisitors’ work.

  Torsten picked up the mug he’d knocked to the floor and sat back at the officers’ table.

  Fenn needed to be watched, as far as he was concerned. The lad had a forged paper, and anyone who had a forgery was up to no good. If he, too, was part of the lost souls appearing, he had more wits about him than most. That, in itself, usually meant trouble. And Torsten always had a good nose for finding trouble.

  He threw a glance over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at Varlot, who’d joined Fenn’s table. The women there were worth noting, too. The Porsenthian was nothing special, if somewhat aggravating with her loud voice and propensity to giggle. And judging by her high cheekbones, the Bragalian woman had some Olmese in her, too. His lip curled at the thought of those sandy
griffin-lovers, and an old scar under his ribs flared at the memory.

  ‘Sarron.’ He turned to the Inquisitor who’d come inside with him, who was currently inspecting the bottom of his third mug of ale, evidently as uncomfortable at the table with the Bragalian officers as Torsten was, and coping with it in the only way he knew how—unhealthily. ‘I want you to watch Varlot. Might be he is headed to Fellwood, but if he has an interest in Fenn, I want to know why. Keep out of sight.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sarron was young and inexperienced, but Nadja had vouched for him, and she was one of the few people in the world whose opinion he actually valued. So far, the young Inquisitor had done little wrong, but he’d also done little to impress. Perhaps this would be a task where he would show his usefulness. At least he obeyed without question, even if he had quite the taste for alcohol. Such things could be overlooked as long as he completed his job with the efficiency the Inquisitors were known for. This would be a fine estimator of that.

  Order given, Torsten returned his attention to the map spread out across the table. Of the eleven officers present, all but one were Bragalian, as was to be expected, and they meekly obeyed his orders and answered questions fully. The first two lost souls had turned up to the west of the Spindle Woods about a week prior, with several more picked up along the Bragalian border. Today, the port masters had rounded up another three, bringing their total captives to twelve.

  Although Fenn was out of his clutches, he was certain the boy was part of the same problem. Whatever that problem was. It seemed to be a Bragalian issue, one he didn’t care for. Or, perhaps, Fenn had been coincidentally and conveniently unlucky with his timings. Torsten wondered if too long spent in his role had made him paranoid, seeing problems and conspiracies when there were none.

  As he scoured the map, he thought of the queen’s words. Where she’d felt her magic stir, where she thought the threats might be coming from. There’d been rumours across this spirits-forsaken stinking pit of a country of a wild beast attacking. According to the reports, this beast had eluded sight and sound, leaving only death behind in a few remote areas. Torsten had assumed it was the mad ravings of someone cursed by a spirit, or who had perhaps sighted a corrupted spirit, and in their ignorance had neither the education nor common sense to realise what it was.

  Either way, he was certain this was a waste of his time. But he couldn’t disobey.

  The queen knew something and wasn’t telling him.

  He wondered if Fenn really had seen something, or if he’d allowed his imagination to run away with him as he’d hoped to bargain for his freedom. Torsten scoffed. If there was any truth to the rumours, the creature wouldn’t be in the middle of one of Bragalia’s biggest towns.

  Giving up on ale, Torsten poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the table. He wrinkled his nose at the sweetness of it, and continued to read the reports of Ballowtown’s officers, glancing at the map every so often to get his bearings when a town or village was mentioned.

  Varlot’s presence distracted him more than he would have liked. Their last meeting had been several years prior, on the battlefield under a sky of iron. Blood had slicked—

  No.

  He could dwell on the past another time. There were other matters which demanded his attention. He cleared his throat and addressed the officers. ‘We’ll see if the ships bring in any more people over the next few days. Then, we’ll head north with the stowaways you’ve picked up.’

  ‘What about that lad? Fenn?’ one officer asked. He acted the most senior at the table, the first to throw his opinion into conversation, and drank more heavily even than Sarron.

  Torsten hadn’t bothered to learn his name. ‘He’s in Varlot’s charge. I’ve no interest in dealing with the general. Neither should you.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ He sat back in his chair, deflating.

  ‘Not upset are you?’

  ‘He’ll be loose in Bragalia. You thought his papers were forged. Doesn’t that warrant some questioning? Even if you don’t take him back?’

  Torsten shrugged. ‘As I said, it’s Varlot’s business now. We’ll have more than enough of these lost souls to conduct a thorough investigation. Should more turn up after we leave, have them locked away and notify the Inquisitors immediately. I’ll ensure to keep a post at Spindleford to receive birds. They’ll be well positioned for speedier travel. Tonmouth, too, if we need eyes on the Salt Sea. If we can figure out where they’re coming from, we can put a stop to it. Might be some new smuggling racket from Olmir taking advantage of the empty seas. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough.’

  Thankfully, the officer agreed without argument, and Torsten decided it was time to retire for the evening. He’d had enough of Bragalian ale and wine for one night, and he needed to make his own report—easier done in seclusion than with so many eyes and ears close by. His iron dagger, issued by the queen, hung on his belt, patiently waiting. He ignored it. She knew where he was. She could wait on him for once.

  A bell rang out over the pouring rain, high and clear.

  Torsten turned his ear to the door, one hand already on his sword. To his left, Sarron got to his feet. Despite the amount of ale he’d consumed, he was steady. ‘The watchtower?’

  Two more bells, one much further away from the tavern, the other somewhere to the east of town.

  ‘Towers,’ Torsten corrected.

  ‘An attack?’

  Not replying to the Inquisitor, Torsten faced the table and drew his sword. ‘On your feet, officers!’

  Annoyed by their slow response, Torsten was already out the door, Sarron and Nadja on his heels, before most had roused themselves from their chairs. It wasn’t strictly speaking his job to help, but he wasn’t going to sit around and do nothing while trouble befell the town. He stood several paces outside the tavern door, multiple bells ringing and rain pelting the ground, as he assessed the situation. ‘Nadja, east. Sarron, west. I’ll go north. We sweep the streets and meet by the sea.’

  ‘Sir!’ Both Inquisitors drew their weapons and raced off into the dark streets.

  ‘Always drama where you’re concerned,’ Varlot’s voice was tinged with amusement.

  More people had crowded at the door, several spilling onto the street despite the rain and the obvious warnings sounding across Ballowtown.

  He didn’t have time for this. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful, General, and keep these stupid sea dogs inside and out of my way.’

  Torsten put on his helm and headed straight across the square, slipping between two buildings as he raced due north, following the sound of the nearest bell. What could possibly be cause for the alarm? Had another Laird decided to take Ballowtown by force? Bragalia was always criss-crossed with border fights and combative skirmishes. Getting caught in another would be more than a minor inconvenience. He needed to assert his authority and put a stop to it before it had a chance to get started.

  He heard footsteps behind him—several people had chosen to follow—but he paid them no attention. He had authority on matters of Porsenthian state and law, not whether some foolhardy Bragalian wanted to throw their life away in a silly warriors’ confrontation.

  Rain bounced off his helm, the noise echoing loudly, but he kept his breathing even despite the distraction, focussing on where he was going, and keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of violence. Most of the streets were empty—people always wanted to keep out of the rain—for which he was thankful. Fewer people to make a nuisance of themselves.

  Unlike most, Torsten welcomed the rain. His sword glinted in the low moonlight, eager to taste blood. It had been a while since he’d last fought, and he relished the idea. Perhaps being sent to Bragalia had its advantages.

  Skidding to a halt as the road ended, splitting off to his left and right as the expanse of the Salt Bay opened up ahead of him, Torsten took a moment to catch his breath. He could just about make out the wide bridge leading to southern Bragalia. It was cloaked in shadow, closed at
sundown, and built over one of the narrower parts of the strip of water.

  He was near one of the watchtowers, whose bell continued to ring, and several uniformed guards hurried out onto the street to greet him.

  Torsten didn’t hesitate in demanding an explanation. ‘What’s going on? Another canton attacking the town?’

  One officer shook her head. ‘No, Inquisitor. Some young lad came staggering along the waterway, his arm shredded. Screaming bloody murder.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I sent Foxel to take him to the—’

  ‘Not the lad, where was he attacked?’ Torsten glared at her.

  She pointed towards the dark cobblestone path that ran along the body of water. ‘Not sure exactly, but he came from over there. Babbling about a monster.’

  ‘Rubbish. Probably one of the large mountain cats, or a bear.’

  ‘With respect, Inquisitor, we’re nowhere near the mountains,’ she replied, not shying away from his dismissal.

  ‘There are hills to the north of Ballowtown, are there not?’

  She pulled a face. ‘He was scared out of his mind.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing he’s away from the situation, isn’t it? Get back to your towers. Keep civilians inside and off the streets.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we help?’ Another officer stepped forward, a longsword clutched in both hands. ‘It was one of our own what was hurt.’

  Torsten frowned at his poor grammar and shook his head. This could have been part of what Surayo’s magic had warned, and he decided to pull rank. ‘It’s part of official Inquisitor business. Get back to your posts.’

  They obeyed, reluctantly, the female officer scowling at him all the while, but he waved them away. It could have been a beast of the wilds, starving or sick, and had made a desperate attempt to hunt within the town. A lone boy would have made an easy target.

  ‘It felt wrong…Like it shouldn’t be here.’

  He gritted his teeth at the memory of Fenn’s words and hurried onwards, squinting in the rain now blowing directly into his face, driven by the winds across the water. A long minute passed as he jogged, the cold water to his right, buildings on the edge of Ballowtown to his left. It wouldn’t be long before he’d catch up with Nadja making her sweep towards him.