by L. L. MacRae
Torsten had often encountered snakes on the far side of the lake, hiding underneath rocks and waiting to strike at unwary animals. Although it was very clearly a dragon—blue light emanated from every one of its scales and it watched Torsten with eyes of liquid silver—it reminded him of the venomous snakes he’d always been sure to avoid.
‘Y—you called me…brother?’ Torsten squeaked, frustrated at his weak voice. This was a spirit. Something that people worshipped. But he didn’t know any that were as small as this one. ‘Are you sick, too? You’re so small.’
The dragon bristled, its under-developed wings flapping uselessly. ‘You and I. Need help.’
‘I don’t need help.’ It was an instinctive response, one he muttered multiple times a day. A defensive mechanism.
‘You bleed.’
Torsten lifted his palm. The cut was deep, and red coated most of his fingers. Only after seeing it did he feel the pain, and he winced again. His knees, too, had been skinned, and the cool breeze on his legs made the scrape sting.
‘I don’t need help,’ he repeated, even as tears pricked his eyes. If any of the other village children were there, they’d start pointing and laughing at him for crying. But up here, on the rocks surrounding the lake, far from the village, there was no-one to see him. No-one to laugh and jeer at his tears.
He chewed his lip, biting down almost until he pierced skin.
‘I can stop that. Bleeding. If you help me.’
‘You’re a spirit, aren’t you? Why do you need help?’ He sank down to the ground, half-crouched, half-squatted, chin resting on his knees, and stared at the blood that dripped down his shin. His skin was dirty, the grime accumulated over the past few days. Torsten picked at it, keeping his bottom lip from quivering, fighting desperately to stop the tears before they fell.
He was afraid. Of the children. Of the pain in his body. Of the spirit, even if it was small and sickly like he was.
‘I am. Of the lake. I know this. But…I am new. To this world. I do not understand. You creatures. The way you behave is. Strange. To me.’
Torsten glanced at the dragon curled up around itself, glowing gently in the sunshine. Sharp, hungry-looking fangs poked out from its lips. He didn’t know what the spirit’s problems meant, or why he should be concerned with them. ‘So what?’
Another hiss. ‘You are one. Of them. Yet you are apart. We are brothers, you and I. We can. Help each other.’
He didn’t understand why the creature spoke so haltingly, but he supposed the dragon was right. He was apart from the other children of his village. He’d always been excluded from their games, or been picked on. And for no good reason, either. ‘Can you stop that happening?’
Torsten didn’t explain what he meant, but the dragon nodded, as if it understood exactly his problems. ‘My power. Will be yours. If you help me. And I will learn. What you know. About this world. We will be bonded. As brothers should be.’
Torsten’s attention drifted from his scabbing knee to his shoes, which were leather and peeling away. He rubbed at a clump of dried mud above his toe. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut, still fighting tears.
‘We will be friends.’
That made him pause. Friends? He’d never had a friend before. Not a real one.
‘Would you like that?’
He pressed his chin deeper in between his knees, crouching lower to the ground, refusing to speak in case his voice cracked again. There was a particularly stubborn lump of dirt on the end of his shoe. Some of it got under his nail, and he frowned, bottom lip poking out.
‘I would like. To be your friend. Brother.’
Torsten wavered, listening but holding back his reaction. Then, dirt removed, he nodded. The gesture was so small he didn’t think the dragon would be able to see.
But it reacted immediately—lunging forward with all the speed of a striking snake. It passed through Torsten, muffling his sudden scream with its wings. Every one of its claws, small but tremendously sharp, punctured the boy’s flesh.
Then everything was fire.
When Torsten had awoken, the broken moon had already chased the sun away, and night blanketed the lakeside. His breath misted in the air in front of his face, and a thin layer of frost dusted the tops of the rocks, but Torsten hardly noticed the cold.
There was no sign of the dragon, but his chest burned with a warmth that had never been there before. And, along with the fire, was the knowledge of the spirit’s name: Miroth.
Eventually, he followed the river down from the lake back into town, where he found several villagers searching for him, flaming torches held high. Even the boys who bullied him mercilessly were out looking, annoyance on their faces while worry lines etched the adults’.
‘Look! There he is!’ One boy pointed, waving his torch to alert the others.
The cry went up quickly, shouts staggered through the streets and even the trees surrounding the growing village. ‘Torsten’s here!’
‘The lad’s safe!’
‘Everyone get back, he’s okay!’
His mother, so rarely able to offer him any time given the new babies, ran to him and clutched him close to her apron. She held him tighter than he’d ever remembered, and told him how glad she was that he’d returned home safe, that she loved him and never wanted to see any harm befall him.
In the days that followed, with Miroth whispering in his ear, Torsten was able to put a stop to the bullying—suddenly able to physically overpower the other boys. He pushed back when they started on him, giving them a real fight instead of cowering as they were used to. When he threw the first boy to the ground, the others attacked him as a group.
He was able to beat each of them—even breaking the leg of one boy three years his senior.
No-one knew it had been Miroth.
But Torsten’s reputation began to grow that day.
And over the following months, Tonmouth realised a new spirit had formed out of their lake. Miroth never spoke of his bond to Torsten, nor Torsten of his, but in becoming a somewhat unwitting priest—the first to receive the spirit’s boon—he’d given the newly fledged spirit access to a fountain of information that made him formidable.
Miroth grew in size, accelerated by the shrine built in his honour, until he was as powerful as any other lake or forest spirit.
The constant illnesses that had plagued Torsten as a boy disappeared; he was able to breathe clearly, able to run for longer, and never again caught a fever. Muscle grew as his body filled out, and with it, a harsh severity. He no longer permitted anyone to push him around, and rarely gave newcomers the chance.
Torsten shuddered. His breaths were ragged and his chest was tight. He’d been standing by the altar for some time, lost in the memories of the past. It was a memory Miroth loved reliving—when he had become something. When they had become bonded brothers.
Today, some thirty years after Miroth’s emergence, the lake had spoiled—water from the Salt Sea entering the lake and poisoning it of life—crippling Miroth and reducing his power.
Torsten could understand why the spirit preferred to take on the appearance of his younger, more powerful self, instead of what he had become. Could understand why the dragon forced him to relive the memory every time he visited.
As powerful as spirits were, and even though he drew strength from his bond with Torsten, they were ultimately bound to their domains. Whenever it was damaged—or destroyed—they vanished.
Miroth only just clutched onto the essence of life, and Torsten knew the spirit would be angered at having had its power drained when he’d called upon it in Ballowtown.
But that was done, now. In the past. The only thing to do was move forward.
Images flickered and died as Miroth reached the end of the memory, light fading, replaced by the pale moonlight from above. Torsten sucked in a deep breath as the spirit ceded control, now satisfied after reliving the memory.
‘Miroth. It has been too long.’ To
rsten sank to one knee in reverence of his spirit. Respect always had to be given.
‘Brother. I felt your need of me. You took. Much.’
‘For which I am grateful. As ever.’ Torsten stood. His left hand throbbed, a memory of the old wound twinging as it was prone to do in Miroth’s presence.
‘You still carry. The iron dagger,’ Miroth stated. The spirit was vaguely corporeal, barely more than thick fog lingering around the rusted sword plunged in the altar.
‘The Iron Queen is powerful. Toriaken is invulnerable.’
‘Water. Rusts. Iron.’ The snarl from Miroth set the hairs on the back of Torsten’s neck standing up. ‘You came. To mock me? After I aided you? I am already weak.’ Twin pinpricks of silver flashed with the spirit’s anger, and a cloud of smoke floated into the chamber. The hint of the dragon’s tail lashed back and forth, passing through the altar several times.
‘It was necessary, my lord. And Iron is a tool. I must use all tools available to me.’ Torsten kept his voice low. He placed his hands behind his back and paced, slowly circling the altar. Moving helped him feel safer. Miroth was unlikely to hurt him—in truth, Torsten didn’t think the spirit was capable of it—but he felt the dragon’s anger, disappointment, and hurt as keenly as he felt the stones underfoot. They shared emotions, sometimes thoughts. ‘I have come to restore you of the power I took. And I need knowledge.’
Miroth’s own movement quietened, and the spirit watched Torsten with every fibre of his focus and attention. ‘Restore?’
‘Yes, my lord. I always keep you at the forefront of my mind.’
Torsten nearly staggered with the wave of adoration that flooded him.
Miroth sent wave after wave of joyous rapture. ‘Yes, yes. Brother, you are always kind. Always considerate. Come closer, please.’
Hurrying to obey, Torsten crouched low beside the altar, as if he were that eleven-year-old boy again, conspiring with a newly fledged spirit—the first to ever lay eyes on it.
Pressure filled the chamber as Miroth’s excitement grew. The dragon, more mist than scales, swirled around the altar, and wind rushed through Torsten’s hair. A few loose pebbles rolled around in the strong breeze, rattling against the chamber walls.
When it died down, Torsten grinned. ‘My lord. Can you take power from this? It…I think it is another spirit. One far inferior to you.’ Holding out his left hand, he slowly opened his fist to reveal the tooth of the Myrish creature flat on his palm.
‘Inferior creature!’ Miroth repeated, a distinct note of amusement in his voice. As the spirit came closer, more of its body became physical. A long, narrow snout, a short, slender neck, webbing between the small spines across its jaw and back. Scales of dusty blue and silver lined the dragon’s body, and Miroth kept its small wings tucked tight against its sides.
Nostrils twitching, Miroth lowered its head to Torsten’s palm, holding still for several seconds. Then, the dragon recoiled. ‘The Myr.’
‘Yes. I killed one of their spirits. There is power in their bodies. Magic.’
‘Power.’ Miroth lunged forward, snapping at Torsten’s hand.
Resisting the urge to flinch at the dragon’s fangs scraping against his skin, Torsten stood once Miroth had devoured the tooth, and waited with bated breath.
Dust blew up around the floor as Miroth spun around the small chamber, then a flash of orange glinted in the moonlight as he brought forth flames. The dragon let out a roar, the sound somewhat strangled—Miroth had never been particularly vocal—and a crack of magic flooded the chamber for an instant.
Torsten was quite sure everyone in Tonmouth had felt it.
Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Miroth stilled, opening his wings to fill the chamber as the mist dissipated, and the dragon spirit truly appeared, glorious and powerful.
Torsten sank to his knees again, this time of his own volition, sharing in Miroth’s jubilation of having his strength restored. It wasn’t enough, of course. Miroth’s domain remained poisoned and dying, draining away a little more each day, but he was no longer an echo of himself. At least, until Torsten needed to call upon his power in battle again.
‘My lord…’ Torsten’s voice was breathy. ‘You are magnificent.’
‘I am always magnificent, brother.’ Miroth’s soft, halting voice had faded, replaced by a stronger one that snarled with confidence.
Torsten smiled and the earlier tightness of his chest lifted. ‘That you are, my lord. What can you tell me about the Myr?’
Pillars of steam streaked from Miroth’s nostrils and the delicate webbing between his horns quivered. Miroth sat down, the chamber trembling at the movement, and contemplated. ‘I see now. The Myr are again on the rise.’
‘What? How could you possibly know that?’ He didn’t mean the words to come out so accusatory, but he couldn’t fathom Miroth’s certainty. All he’d devoured was the tooth of another spirit, and Miroth remained cooped up in its own shrine. He couldn’t remember the last time the dragon had ventured outside.
Confusion cascaded through his mind until Miroth abruptly cut them off with another snort of fire. ‘What I ate, brother? What you killed? It was something the Myr only sent out at the height of their power. Something not seen in Porsenthia in over five years.’
Torsten was certain his heart stopped beating. Goosebumps had risen on his arms, and every old injury and wound he’d collected over his forty-three years ached with dread. Whatever Miroth knew, whatever the dragon spirit was about to say, Torsten knew it couldn’t be possible.
‘One of their most loathsome creations. A Myrish death spirit.’
11
The Matriarch
calidra
Extending his hand in the traditional Porsenthian greeting, the griffin rider nodded at Varlot. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am Amsel Bala Uben.’
Calidra couldn’t stop her eyebrows from raising. Bala was her mother’s original surname, before she’d married her father and taken Vantonen. She knew her mother had siblings, though she hadn’t met them all. And while Bala wasn’t a hugely uncommon Olmese surname, she couldn’t get past the idea that Amsel could be related to her—a cousin, perhaps?
And more than that, Uben was often added to the names of those of very high standing, even royalty. Was Amsel a prince?
Though clearly ruffled by the appearance of the griffin, Varlot took Amsel’s hand in his own—almost crushing the other man’s fingers judging by the sound of popping joints—and shook it once. ‘Varlot Keir. Olmese, huh?’
Amsel brightened. ‘The Varlot Keir? Of Porsenthia? I am honoured to be in the presence of such a famed warrior.’ He grabbed Varlot’s hand with his other, as if to show his reverence. ‘Yes! I live in Ordana, the capital. You should—’
‘Never wanted to go to the desert, to be honest. Too hot.’ He gestured to his broad body and heavy bearskin cloak, his wide smile doing enough to explain his words. Just like everyone else who had been excited to meet him, Varlot was clearly unfazed at being recognised by Amsel.
Although she, too, was drawn to his charismatic nature, she couldn’t hide a noise of frustration at Varlot’s rudeness at who she thought might be royalty.
If Amsel noticed, he didn’t say anything about it. ‘Ordana is only on the edge of the dunes. And if you think Olmir is just a desert, you’re an uneducated fool. We have desert, yes, and oases, forests, even snow to the north.’ Amsel’s easy smile hadn’t left his face, and he watched Varlot with clear amusement. ‘It’s the perfect training ground for any warrior, and of course, the only place in all of Tassar where we have such magnificent creatures as Hailathlyl.’ To prove his point, he scratched the enormous griffin under her chin, where her feathers were soft and smooth.
She purred appreciatively.
‘Consider me told,’ Varlot muttered, but much of his earlier frustration appeared to have left him. ‘Can’t blame me for being worried. Not every day a thing like that comes crashing down on you!’
Cali
dra let out a held breath. She hadn’t been entirely sure whether Varlot would have attacked Amsel or his griffin, which would have ended very badly for them both. ‘Neither of us expected a griffin or rider here,’ she said, trying to clear the air. ‘Or whatever that creature was, to be honest. I am Calidra Vantonen. You said you were travelling to my home, Fellwood?’
Amsel took a step back, then scrutinised her. ‘Cal…Calidra?’
She nodded, suddenly unsure.
Hailathlyl snapped her beak and nudged Amsel none-too-lightly. ‘Her blood is the same. She is one of Furyn Bala’s daughters.’
‘It talked!’ Varlot gasped, his hands held up in a peaceable gesture. Credit to him, he didn’t back away, but he was clearly alarmed at the talking griffin.
The griffin turned her head and stared at him, before snorting and nuzzling Amsel.
‘Yes, this is Hailathlyl. She is my companion,’ Amsel said.
‘Hai…hai…haith?’ Varlot tried to sound out the name.
‘Hai-lath-lyl,’ Amsel said, speaking each syllable slowly. ‘She is one of the finest, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t mind a good horse, Amsel. A griffin might be a bit much!’ Varlot laughed, easing into conversation with the other warrior, any discomfort quickly fading.
Calidra, unsurprised at the griffin’s speech, trembled at the mention of her mother’s name. She’d always thought it had been spelled with one superfluous letter, and those unpleasant childhood memories were never far from the surface.
She balled her fists. ‘I am. My father, Laird Vantonen, passed away. I’m on my way to the funeral.’ She kept her voice flat, without emotion. Precise and to the point. Calidra knew she wasn’t talking to her mother—not yet, anyway—but her defences were back up, and speaking in a monotone voice, without showing any emotion, any weakness, was one of the first and easiest ways she could protect herself.
