by L. L. MacRae
Toriaken rumbled, a low growl that sent vibrations through the flagstone floors, even through the rug atop it. Torsten’s knee spasmed and he quickly straightened up to ease the discomfort.
‘Send them in. You and the others may leave us. Torsten, stay.’ Queen Surayo spoke in a quiet voice, yet her words were clear.
Scrambling to his feet, the man hurried to the wide double doors at the head of the room. He opened it and bowed low, his cape falling over one shoulder, as he waved the Olmese inside. Nadja followed them, then he and the others of the welcoming committee left, closing the doors behind them.
Torsten positioned himself at Queen Surayo’s right, slightly further away from Toriaken’s head.
The three Olmese bowed, arms across their chests, one knee bent slightly. Nadja remained by the door, watching proceedings impassively from her usual spot by the room’s main exit.
One of the Omese men said, ‘Most esteemed sovereign, it is our honour to be graced by your presence.’
‘A shame you bring worrying tidings.’ Surayo gestured for them to rise. ‘Please. Enlighten me.’
Lady Arbora stood and took another step towards the queen, before restraining herself. ‘This is the first time I’ve been to your capital city. To your palace. What you have here is truly magnificent, and Toriaken is as great as the stories say.’
Surayo inclined her head, acknowledging her.
Lady Arbora continued, ‘And I am aware of your magic, Queen Surayo. I know you have eyes and ears the length of your country. I know the great Toriaken guards your Empire’s borders. But your armour has failed. We are all in danger—the Myr have returned. Even now, they threaten Olmir.’
‘I never vanquished the Myr,’ Surayo replied evenly.
Lady Arbora’s eyebrow twitched. ‘You banished them from this continent. Although Olmir is not part of your Empire, we are allies. We benefited from the armistice. But these dark creatures are worming their way back. And they are more powerful than ever.’
Torsten snapped, ‘Lady Arbora! You speak treasonous words. It’ll incite panic among the people to spout such things.’ He put a hand on the hilt of his sword, hoping she understood the severity of her words.
The Olmese woman raised her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Perhaps it should incite panic. And while Porsenthia is our ally, we have our own king, Inquisitor. We may speak as we wish.’
‘My Master Inquisitor is correct, though. The Myr were defeated, weakened after suffering irrevocable losses,’ Surayo said, giving nothing away.
Lady Arbora replied, ‘They will be at your borders within a moon’s turn, perhaps less.’
‘They cannot break the peace treaty,’ Surayo replied, some of her irritation showing. ‘All the artefacts which gave them power are gone. They cannot rebuild what they were in only five years. In five millennia, perhaps.’
‘My queen is correct. You have no understanding of what she did to the Myr to reduce them so greatly. You are mistaken.’
Lady Arbora ignored Torsten and kept her attention on the queen. ‘Queen Surayo, I would not come here unless the news was real, the situation, dire.’
‘Surely you have had sightings? Reports of violent deaths? Disappearances?’ It was the first man who had spoken, stepping forward again. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and he had warm, brown eyes that pleaded with Surayo. Although his vocabulary was perfect, his accent was difficult to understand.
Queen Surayo turned to him. If it had been Torsten’s choice, he’d have told the man to be silent. But Surayo was not Torsten, and she did not admonish him for speaking. She slipped into the Ordonis dialect she’d clearly recognised and replied.
Torsten could only pick out a few words here and there, but it was a confusing, nasal accent that he’d never had the ear for. He waited with growing impatience as Surayo and the man exchanged a few more words, the other two Olmese nodding along at their conversation. He’d never known if he’d been astounded or envious of Surayo’s ability to speak more than one language, but he disliked being excluded.
Eventually, Surayo switched back into her usual, broad Porsenthian, and Torsten wondered what he’d missed.
Lady Arbora said, ‘Whether you believe it or not, the reality is true. You helped protect Olmir once from this threat. As it has risen again, we will fight with you. And if you will not have us in battle, allow us to aid your people—keep them safe, as Toriaken once kept our people safe.’
‘I agree to think on this. We acquired a number of artefacts from our last conflict with the Myr. I shall have our most learned mages study them for any sight of change, anything that might explain the things you claim to have seen. Until we make our decision, you are welcome to stay as guests.’
It was a dismissal, one the Olmese understood the moment Surayo spoke.
‘Might we patrol the skies with you, great Toriaken? That we might show you the things we have seen, the things we know?’ Lady Arbora tried one last time.
At her address, the dragon raised his head. Behind them, the three members of the Iron Guard shivered, the movement almost incomprehensible, and Toriaken’s image enhanced. In the blink of an eye, he shifted from mist to solid flesh—iron made living. ‘I have sensed no footsteps such as the Myrish magic in my domain.’
‘You accuse us of lying?’ Lady Arbora gasped.
Toriaken snarled. ‘Humans are so often afraid of things they see, of shadows in darkness. They run to us. Beg aid. If there is a plague in your lands, it is not Myrish. I would know.’
All three of the Olmese seethed at the response, but had the graciousness to hold their tongues.
Surayo waved one hand towards the door. ‘It is a long way to have flown, even on creatures as strong as your griffins. Rest. Eat. We will speak again once I have conducted my investigations.’
Torsten hated the fact his queen gave them hope. The possibility that she believed the Olmese’s ludicrous claims. Despite the truth of the matter, he considered it weak to show them that she could be bargained with. That she would listen and consider. As far as he was concerned, a ruler had to be firm. Especially as she was supposedly the Queen of Iron.
But he, too, held his tongue, unwilling to anger Toriaken or the queen. Not before he had all the facts for himself.
When the Olmese had left the room, and it was just Nadja, Surayo, Toriaken, and himself, Torsten shook his head. ‘Was that wise, my queen? If there is even the slightest rumour that the treaty has been broken—’
‘I will not risk losing our allies. Their warriors are renowned, as you well know. And I want to check the artefacts. Do whatever research I must.’ Surayo walked to the fire, and Toriaken shifted back into mist that floated around the large room. ‘I sensed a slight…tremble. The finest lines of my magic, agitated. It had been so long, and the sensation was so faint, that I thought I was mistaken. Perhaps I still am mistaken.’
‘There is no Myrish threat.’ Torsten stuck to his guns, especially with Nadja in earshot. He didn’t know the extent of Surayo’s magic. Didn’t know how long before she knew for certain they had returned. But he was unwilling to be truthful, that he had knowledge through Miroth of the Myrish death spirit, until he knew whether they were dealing with a desperate few or a full scale invasion.
He needed more time.
‘Who knows what lurks beneath the sands of Olmir. There could be some monster affecting them and, as the great Toriaken suggests, they are panicking over the worst-case scenario. No matter how unlikely it is.’
Surayo gently brushed her fingertips along the mantlepiece, the firelight making her glow. ‘What have I missed…?’
Torsten decided to change the topic. ‘The prisoners are in the dungeons awaiting investigation.’
‘Prisoners?’ Surayo turned back to him, her eyes glazed over as if she were far away.
Knowing her magic, she probably was. Surayo had once claimed to walk through the spirit world, Toriaken as her guide, to deepen her bond with the dragon and gain greater understandi
ng of the Guardians of Tassar.
Torsten said, ‘The lost souls from Bragalia?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Surayo blinked rapidly, coming back to herself. Her gaze sharpened. ‘Find out exactly what has happened to them.’
After pausing only to grab himself a plate of cooked chicken, which he wolfed down in a handful of bites, Torsten made his way to the palace dungeons, only one task on his mind.
It was far cooler down in the cells, which were shadowed and draughty. The dungeons themselves were in a block separate to the main castle, underground it in fact, buried within the foundations. Rarely were they empty, but even having this number of prisoners was unusual. All the lost souls had been locked up in one cell, in case they tried to influence or adversely affect any of the others already detained.
Taking the papers from the stack near the entrance, Torsten nodded to the gaoler. ‘I will get to work. Please ensure I’m not disturbed.’
‘Yes, Master Inquisitor,’ the gaoler replied, unbuckling a large ring of keys from his belt. ‘Shall I have food sent for you?’
‘No need. But I’d appreciate quiet.’
After the gaoler bowed himself out, Torsten thumbed through the papers, wondering where to start. None of the names meant anything to him, and he assumed the people on it would all share a similar story. He walked through the door and into the corridor leading to the cells, trying to work out some hidden meaning in the names. Some pattern he’d missed before.
By the time he reached the cell door, nothing had come to mind, so Torsten decided simply to start at the top and work his way down the list. ‘Ashothka? Which one of you is Ashothka?’
One man, in his late fifties or sixties, got shakily to his feet. He was thin and wiry, and looked like he’d spent much of his life outside.
‘Where are you from?’
‘I…don’t know, sir.’
‘The journey back hasn’t jogged your memory?’
‘No, sir.’ His fingers trembled where they clutched the bars. ‘Please, some food? We weren’t given much on the way and—’
‘You’ll come with me.’ Torsten unlocked the door and pushed it open. A dozen frightened faces looked up at him, but none dared make a break for it.
Obedient, Ashothka exited the cell and waited, gaze locked on the stone floor.
Torsten grabbed the short chain that dangled from his tied wrists and led him along the front of the cell down another, narrow corridor. They walked for about a minute, their footsteps the only noise, until Torsten reached a heavy, wooden door. He unlocked it, and pushed Ashothka inside.
The room was vast, circular, and empty—save one small, wooden crate beside the door. As Ashothka wandered inside, looking around with wary eyes, Torsten crouched by the crate and rested a hand on it. Something within rattled around violently at his touch. ‘If you don’t know where you are, don’t know where you’re from…I suppose you don’t know much about spirits, either?’
Ashothka whirled around, arms wrapped protectively around his chest. He said nothing.
‘Hmm. Have you heard of Nestol?’ Torsten waited for the flicker of fear to cross Ashothka’s face. Irritatingly, the man remained perplexed. It faintly annoyed Torsten. He preferred it when his prisoners knew what was coming next.
He ran his hand along the top of the crate, almost lovingly, despite the frantic movement within which jarred it. ‘Nestol is the Spirit of Pain. Well. Not a true spirit, but he might as well be. You should hear some of the survivors’ stories.’
Ashothka backed up until he was pressed against the stone wall on the far side.
Torsten looked down at the crate, speaking to it more than Ashothka. ‘Actually, it’s an old Myrish spell, would you believe? Taken as part of the war against them. Queen Surayo, for her faults, is quite the mage. She could see the usefulness of a spell like this one. She gave it life. And I am able to use it. It’s very effective.’
Ashrothka’s eyes widened as he understood.
There was the fear. The panic.
Miroth’s fire flickered in his chest and Torsten smiled, his thumb lingering on the latch that kept the crate’s lid sealed. ‘It’s perfect for torture. I can break bodies. Nestol can break your soul. Can delve into the depths of your mind and pull out every last secret, even the ones you don’t remember. Incredibly useful, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Please. Sir! I don’t know anything! I don’t know anything at all!’
‘Now, now. There’s no need for all these dramatics. Surely you want to remember what you’ve forgotten?’ Torsten felt the fire in his chest burn with a savage hunger, one he would enjoy satiating.
Ashothka sank to his knees. ‘Please!’
Then, the echo of footsteps outside.
He stood up and turned, annoyed the gaoler had dared let anyone through after his strict instruction to be left alone. Ignoring Ashothka’s panicked whimpers, Torsten exited the room and pulled the door firmly shut behind him.
He glared down the corridor, ready to rebuke whoever had disturbed him, when he recognised the sandy hair and Inquisitor’s uniform. ‘Sarron!’
‘Apologies for disturbing you, sir.’ The man was out of breath, and was a fair bit thinner than when Torsten had last seen him in Ballowtown. That felt like months ago. ‘You asked me to report immediately.’
‘No. no. This is a good place to talk.’ After all, they weren’t within earshot of anyone. ‘What did you find out?’
‘I followed Varlot and the Bragalian woman, Calidra. They stayed in Ballowtown a day, probably waiting for their friends. Varlot spent most of the time drinking wine in a tavern on the edge of town. On the second morning, they headed north, to Meadowhill. Varlot took part in a dice game at the Meadow Markets. You know, the travelling one?’
Torsten nodded, listening intently.
‘He won twenty-five silver pieces, too. Stayed in Meadowhill two days as well. They were heading towards Fellwood, for the Laird’s funeral, from what I could gather. Unfortunately, they beat me there by half a day.’
‘How?’ Suspicion rose. How could two people on foot gain such distance on Sarron?
‘War griffin. An Olmese warrior picked them up just north of Meadowhill. I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but I kept going.’
Another war griffin. It seemed envoys had been sent to Bragalia as well as Porsenthia.
‘I managed to catch the end of the funeral, the whole of Fellwood turned up to it. And…I also managed to watch when they were reunited with their friends.’
Torsten scowled. He didn’t care about the company Calidra kept. ‘Who cares about their friends? What about Varlot? He’s up to something and I need to know what it is. That’s why I sent you after him!’
Sarron scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. ‘Well, sir. Their friend? The lad they were with in the tavern. Fenn?’
Torsten nodded, his patience wearing thin.
‘He’s Myr-touched. They had a Priestess of Neros there confirm it. Reckon that’s what’s wrong with his memory. The headaches and fevers, too. The Olmese know something. They’re gathering their strength, ordering borders defended and recruiting into their army.’
Torsten’s anger boiled. Fenn. He’d known the boy was trouble. ‘Does Varlot know? About the lad?’
Sarron shrugged. ‘He was there. Guess he does.’
Torsten wondered whether Varlot knew that before, when they’d met in Ballowtown. Was that why he’d been so quick to jump to Fenn’s defence? Had Varlot turned rogue? Was he in league with the Myr?
No. Varlot had fought alongside him, against the Myrish death spirit in Ballowtown. Not to mention his entire military history.
Then again, it could have been a ruse.
Torsten frowned. Varlot was a murderer. Capable of things no man should be able to. And damn near impossible to kill.
‘Sir…?’ Sarron questioned.
Torsten blinked, forgetting he was there. ‘Go and rest with the others. And not a word of this Myr busine
ss, do you understand?’
‘But shouldn’t we—’
‘Do you understand?’
Sarron sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good work. I’ll call a meeting of Inquisitors soon. Await further instructions until then.’
With a short bow, Sarron turned and headed back down the corridor, leaving Torsten alone with his thoughts. After another moment, Torsten opened the door and re-entered the chamber, to find Ashothka huddled against the wall.
He recalled Queen Surayo’s question from earlier: what had they missed?
As Torsten looked down at the Bragalian, fear and confusion clouding the man’s eyes, he sighed. Fenn had used forged papers. Was almost certainly one of the lost souls—the same as Ashothka. The same as all the other prisoners he had locked up.
They were Myr-touched.
It was connected.
Fire roiled in his chest as the realisation struck.
It shouldn’t have been possible. After Queen Surayo’s decisive victory five years ago, after destroying the last of the Myrish artefacts, there shouldn’t have been any chance they could rise again. Certainly not in their lifetime, anyway.
Torsten’s lip curled. His instincts were usually right; Miroth’s senses were often part of that. And Torsten had developed the nagging feeling that Apollo hadn’t done his job properly five years ago.
‘Insolent blaggard,’ he muttered under his breath. The thief was going to rue the day he ever deceived the Iron Crown.
Part II
Hope gone and dreams broken,
Scattered in the wind, unspoken.
Smother iron’s endless sight,
Restore our voices unto light.
15
The Thief
Apollo
One of the most northerly towns in Porsenthia, Foxmouth drew in tourists from across Tassar. It sat at the juncture of the Lasseen Ocean and the Polar Sea, and where those two bodies of water met, there was often incredible fishing.
