The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Neither said a word.

  Much of western Bragalia was flat, with only the hills further south and the mountains further north breaking up the landscape. While it made the trek over the fields easier, the sun beat down mercilessly overhead, and it didn’t take long before both Calidra and Varlot were struggling. Their pace slowed, and sweat dripped down Calidra’s shoulders.

  Her head was full of worry for Jisyel and Fenn, and the distraction slowed her down even more. She’d decided to hurry to Fellwood, omitting another stop in Vaelar, on the assumption that Jisyel and Fenn were already at her home, waiting for her. Even if they weren’t, she’d be in a better position to at least do something about it.

  She grunted as her calf twinged in pain at the steep incline.

  ‘Not having a tough time are you?’

  Calidra grimaced. ‘Like you aren’t, too?’

  ‘This? This is nothing!’ Varlot laughed and hefted his axe higher across his back as if it weighed the same as her own dagger. ‘When you’ve spent three days fighting the Myr in high summer, then you get to complain.’

  ‘Three days?’

  ‘Without cover, mind you.’

  There were only a handful of conflicts against the Myr in recent memory, and only one sprang to mind at his description of a battle in the open in the middle of summer. It had scarred Tassar like nothing before, leaving the land itself dead and withered. ‘You were at the Battle of Marlrush?’ She nearly stumbled on a thorny plant jutting out from the dry grass and managed to catch herself before she fell.

  Varlot snorted. ‘You do realise I was one of the Generals in the Porsenthian army, right?’

  ‘Of course. But I thought…’

  ‘You thought what?’

  Calidra wasn’t sure. The Battle of Marlrush had been one of the last, largest confrontations on this continent between The Iron Crown and the Myr, almost a decade prior. And it wasn’t as if she’d kept tabs on Porsenthian personnel while she’d been away from home. That was her father’s job, not hers. ‘I’m not sure. I thought that battle was after your time.’

  ‘Hmph. It was my last major conflict. I left shortly after.’

  Calidra didn’t want to linger on her lack of knowledge, so she shifted the conversation as the sloping ground eased. ‘What was it like? That…confrontation. Queen Surayo was there, wasn’t she? With Toriaken?’ She remembered all the household staff had been talking about it. A great victory against the Myr, if harshly won.

  For a long time, Varlot didn’t say anything, and Calidra wondered if she’d insulted him somehow. Dark mountains lined the horizon, mist wreathing their peaks.

  ‘I remember…The skies were black with arrows. Death rained down on everything. Our army. The Myr.’

  A cold shiver ran up Calidra’s spine at his words, and she remembered the chaotic fighting in Ballowtown from the other night. She’d never seen a creature like it, spirit or animal. And no matter his position, Torsten was an arse whose words she had no reason to believe. ‘Did they all die? The Myr?’

  ‘Most. The rest fled not long after Toriaken joined the fray. Nothing can stand up to a spirit that powerful. Not even the Myr.’ He shook his head and heaved a long sigh. ‘That lad, Fenn. Reminds me so much of my son.’

  It was the second time he’d mentioned it since Fenn and Jisyel had fallen into the bay. She didn’t know how he could make the connection—he’d only met him for a few minutes. ‘Does he really?’

  ‘He’s got that same fire in his eyes. Got courage. Not many will stand up to Torsten, even grown men! Good lad, he is. Will be good to see him again, soon. Put a blade in his hand and make sure he can defend himself properly next time.’

  Calidra chewed her bottom lip. Both Jisyel and Bellandri had been happy to give Fenn a chance. So had Varlot. But she’d always been suspicious of people and hadn’t been completely sure of Fenn, either. Now that she’d learned there were others like him…

  Her mind wandered back to the dying child in Meadowhill.

  No memory. Constant head pain.

  Were they related? The same as the lost souls the Inquisitors had been after in Ballowtown? The same as Fenn? Was he destined to worsen over the coming days, until he died screaming? ‘That poor child.’

  Varlot snorted and continued on up the grassy slope.

  Calidra couldn’t abide his rudeness. ‘What’s that for? She’s so young! It’s hardly fair.’

  ‘Oh yes. Very sad. I don’t know why that stupid woman kept hold of her.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You were the one who didn’t want Torsten to take Fenn. Why is it okay for that little elthian to be chained up by the Inquisitors?’ Calidra hurried to catch up to him, her calves burning at the sudden exertion.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘What did you mean, then?’

  Varlot and Calidra crested the hill and peered down at the rolling plains before them. To their right, a long, narrow river flowed down from the mountains, cutting the plains in two with a line of azure. To their left, the grass continued all the way to the horizon, turning brown as it did, until it ended at the Salt Sea. Directly ahead, at the foot of one mountain, Fellwood awaited them. And beyond the mountains lay Porsenthia, and all the power of The Iron Crown and her Inquisitors.

  A cool breeze ran across the grasses, making them sway.

  ‘Better off killing her.’

  Varlot spoke so harshly that it took Calidra a few seconds to realise he was talking about the girl. It took all her effort not to let her mouth hang open. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

  ‘She’s suffering. Lost her brother already, by the sound of it. Why keep her alive? Just another mouth to feed.’

  Calidra couldn’t believe it. ‘And what if Fenn ends up that way? Would you kill him, too? Or what if it had been your child?’

  Varlot paused and faced her. ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Why not? What happened to your son? You’ve said Fenn reminds you of him. So tell me.’

  ‘You’ve never killed anyone, have you?’

  She didn’t like him skirting around her question. ‘What difference does that make? It’s not right to—’

  ‘I have. Countless people. I’m pretty well acquainted with it, as a matter of fact.’

  Calidra narrowed her eyes, one hand already on her dagger. She didn’t know what she meant to do with it, but she refused to let some Porsenthian speak to her in that tone without consequence.

  Varlot scoffed. ‘Like that butter knife would do me any harm. What I’m trying to tell you is sometimes…sometimes it’s better they don’t suffer. Four of my closest friends. Brothers, really. One had an arrow through his lung. Couldn’t breathe. Every movement filled his chest with more blood. Lying there on the battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of our friends, the Myr skulking between bodies, looking for more of the living to slaughter.’

  ‘That’s…that’s awful…’

  ‘Another had his skull caved in by Myrish magic. Top of his head was a bloody pulp and he was missing half his jaw and one eye. Still talking. Told me he could see the bloody spirit world. Could see his Ma standing beside us, calling for him.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Third had a blade of ice slash through him. Myrish magic, tougher than steel, it is. Even iron. Carved him open throat to thigh. You’ve never seen so much blood come out of a man, let me tell you.’

  ‘Please. No more—’

  ‘You say I should’ve kept them alive? In agony? Delirious? Until help got there? If help got there? On the hope that they might survive? Suffering all that time, some begging for release?’

  Calidra didn’t say anything. She found she couldn’t look away from his hard stare.

  He continued, wearing a smirk of grim victory. ‘Of course not. I gave them mercy. Same as what I’d have given that girl if the woman hadn’t been there. Would you have done that? Given her peace from her suffering?’

  Calidra dropped her hand from her dagger, her fing
ers trembling.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  She tried to think of something to say. But no matter how hard she tried, nothing would be appropriate after Varlot’s admissions. How could anything she say match up to what he’d been through? He’d lived through war. Battles. Death. Probably had to face choices no-one should ever have to.

  Suddenly feeling small and insignificant, as if her own troubles weren’t worth considering, Calidra opened her mouth to mutter an apology when a shadow fell across them, freezing her in her tracks. They’d left Meadowhill under a cloudless sky, and that hadn’t changed through the morning. She looked up, startled.

  The creature was upon them before Calidra even understood what was happening. A surge of darkness swallowed her, and her shriek of surprise was instantly snuffed out. Something slammed into the side of her head, knocking her so hard to the ground her vision danced.

  Before she had any time to register pain, there was a weight on her neck—pressing her cheek into the ground. She couldn’t breathe. Panic flared, and she scrambled for her dagger—the only thing she had to hand.

  Hot, acrid breath filled her nostrils and she gagged. Combined with the weight on her neck, the dusty grass being shoved in her face, and the disgusting smell, Calidra was choking.

  The creature’s snarls were thunder in her chest, driving away everything else.

  Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger and she yanked it out of its sheath. Without the time or energy to take in a breath or gather her strength, she shoved it as hard as she could into the thing above her—its massive weight pinning her body to the ground. Whatever it was hardly flinched at the dagger, and Calidra twisted the blade, forcing it into the creature as deeply as she could.

  Something sharp cut into the meat of her shoulder as she fought back, but she ignored the hot, wetness dripping down her arm. She still couldn’t see who—or what—she fought, couldn’t do anything but think of surviving.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone.

  Bright light flooded her vision as the darkness left her and she found herself staring up into the blue sky. Coughing, she got to her feet, one arm on her shoulder, as she looked around for her attacker.

  Varlot was locked in combat with the creature; his axe had already taken a chunk out of its flesh.

  Her stomach dropped. It was another of the shadow-like creatures, though not as large as the one from Ballowtown. It had six limbs, each ending in a single, hooked claw, and a wide, flat head, its mouth a gaping hole.

  Compared to Varlot, the muscular man in the bearskin cloak, the creature appeared weak, frail almost. He passed the axe from one hand to the other, stepping around the creature and pushing it away from Calidra. Varlot darted forward, his axe a flurry of furious blows. Every strike found its mark, and a particularly heavy thrust spilled dark ichor from the creature’s flank.

  It let out a shriek that cut through the air, then charged at Varlot, slashing its front appendages like a pair of deadly scythes. Varlot parried one, scooting under the creature’s guard and smashing the flat of hix axe into the creature’s other legs.

  With another ear-splitting cry, it tumbled to the ground.

  Varlot swung again, the force of his blow so great that he severed one of the creature’s legs. More ichor spilled, steam rising from it.

  Another sharp cry pulled Calidra’s attention from the battle.

  Something low rumbled through the air, and only when it passed under the sun did she recognise the shape. ‘A griffin!’

  Varlot had his axe clutched in both hands a second later, the blade held up defensively, and he backed up to Calidra. ‘Attack from above, too?’

  As he spoke, the griffin descended towards them, enormous feathered wings sending gusts of wind with every powerful beat. Its legs were outstretched, talons open as if to pluck them where they stood.

  Calidra and Valot leapt backwards as the griffin’s talons slashed into the creature’s hide, gouging deeper than the axe had.

  It let out another cry of pain so loud it shook Calidra’s bones. She covered her ears, wincing at the noise.

  Unperturbed, the griffin hovered in place, its front claws raking down the creature’s body with such aggression that it was invulnerable. More black ichor coated the ground, and still the griffin attacked, darting forward with its curved beak to pierce one of the creature’s legs.

  With one, final, scream of fury, the creature withdrew into itself, spun in a circle, then raced away—darting for the horizon.

  Calidra leaned heavily against Varlot, panting for breath.

  ‘I thought there weren’t any griffins in Bragalia!’

  ‘There aren’t any wild ones,’ she clarified. Seeing the creature brought a flood of emotions. Her mother kept a pair of griffins, originally brought with her from Olmir, who roamed their villa and grounds as if they owned the place. They were a smaller, more delicate subspecies bred for companionship—the beast that flew above them was far larger; a war breed that had greater strength and intelligence.

  The griffin turned its orange eye on them and flew low, swooping in close.

  Varlot raised his weapon and pushed Calidra away with his free hand.

  ‘Lower your axe, Varlot.’

  ‘Are you mad, woman? Look at the size of the talons on that thing!’

  ‘Easy! Easy!’ A voice called, somewhat muffled above the creature’s movements.

  Calidra leapt to the side, giving the griffin more room to land. It was tall, easily eleven feet high at the shoulder, and yet it landed with a surprising amount of grace—the ground hardly trembled under it. Black feathers shimmered almost purple under the bright sunlight, shifting cleanly into smooth, dark fur and two massive hind paws. The talons that protruded from its forelegs were each longer than Calidra’s dagger, and its massive, curved beak looked like it would have no trouble tearing her apart.

  ‘Careful down there!’

  She peered around the griffin’s menacing beak, trying not to look at its deep orange eyes, to the rider atop its back.

  ‘Watch it! That thing nearly crushed us when it landed!’ Varlot pointed his axe squarely at the griffin, who ignored it.

  ‘Lath, would you mind?’

  The griffin let out a sharp cry, part-snarl, part-shriek, and slowly knelt its forelimbs—enabling the rider to more easily slide out of his harness and down the massive creature’s side to the ground.

  He was young, younger than Calidra would have expected for a griffin rider, with smooth, tawny skin, high cheekbones, and green silk robes that instantly made him recognisable as Olmese. His bare arms were muscular—as would be expected in his role—but the rest of him was lean and athletic under the light scale armour across his chest and torso. Compared to Varlot’s decades of experience, he seemed only just out of training. But he wore two golden torcs around his left wrist and Calidra realised he was no ordinary messenger. It should have been obvious from the size of the griffin he rode, but the torcs signified his status as a warrior—those were only given for duelling victories or bravery in battle.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said you nearly crushed us!’ Varlot raised his voice.

  ‘Forgive me if you were afraid. Hailathlyl hasn’t had any accidents in years.’

  ‘Afraid?’ Varlot repeated, voice rising.

  ‘Varlot, calm down. We aren’t in any danger now.’ Calidra checked the wound on her shoulder. It was shallow, her thick cloak taking most of the damage. As long as she kept it clean, she’d be fine.

  Griffins were enormous predators, rarely seen outside of Olmir, and almost never in Porsenthia. She imagined it was Varlot’s first time seeing one up close, and privately smiled at his disquiet. She nodded to the rider, a broad smile across her lips. ‘Welcome to Bragalia, friend. Your timing was excellent.’ It had been too long since she’d last been in Olmir, let alone seen any griffins, and she was awe-struck by the creature.

  ‘Thank you for your welcome. I’d hoped not to encounter on
e of those creatures.’ The rider crossed one arm over his chest and inclined his head. ‘I had not expected to see anyone in the open. Bragalia won’t remain safe for long.’

  ‘We saw another of those…creatures in Ballowtown. But that one was smaller. Are there more of them?’ Calidra asked, quickly deciding that if she had any more bad luck, then she really had been a fool to leave the Isle of Salt. For all its discomfort, it was at least out of the way of the dangerous problems that were apparently constant occurrences on the mainland.

  Varlot, too, had become attentive, and even sheathed his axe to better pay attention.

  ‘Unfortunately. Their numbers are growing, but their movement is slow. We have time.’ He stroked the griffin’s side affectionately, earning a low purr from the creature—Hailathlyl, she remembered. The rider continued, ‘We travel to Fellwood. My brothers and sisters have flown to the other cantons. Several more are on their way to Eastbrook.’

  ‘To speak with the queen?’ Varlot surmised.

  He nodded, grave, and his easy smile faded. ‘Yes. Though it pains us to speak with the Iron Queen, we must. The Myr have returned.’

  The Journey

  Fenn

  It was the first time Fenn had seen death up close. Certainly the first time he remembered it. Who knew what he’d seen or done in his past, before he’d awoken on the Isle of Salt in the middle of a muddy bog. Nothing from before then had come back to him, and the harder he tried to remember, the more his head throbbed. As much as not knowing ate at him, and worrying about what important knowledge was lost, he tried not to think about it.

  Right now, it was easy not to think.

  Selys had provided him with more explanation of the state of the Bragalian people in the past few minutes than anyone else had thus far. Before she could explain more, she and a handful of other priests and priestesses underwent one of their daily rituals—performing rites on the dead.