The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  ‘Are you going to curse me again? Force me to talk?’

  Surayo laughed, genuine amusement breaking through her stoic exterior for a moment, before she controlled herself again. ‘I would not waste magic on you. Not when there is another war to prepare for. No. Torsten will get the truth from you.’

  Both Apollo and Nadja reacted in the same moment.

  ‘The Master Inquisitor? But Apollo is under my authority! I should be the one to question him. Two days in the cells, and I’ll have every answer you desire, my queen.’

  ‘No, Nadja. He is under my authority. And Torsten will be the one to get an answer out of you, Apollo. Torsten is far more efficient in these matters, you understand.’

  ‘Get your answer?’ Apollo shook his head. ‘You have your military back in training, you’ve added more soldiers to your patrols. The lost souls that are out there are dying. You know the Myr are back. What difference does it make how or why? Shouldn’t you focus on fighting them? If you’re so sure I’m to blame, why not let me stand and fight. I’ve a family to protect.’

  Surayo smiled, the motion small. ‘And give you yet another chance to destroy things? To sabotage me and slip away for another few years?’

  He glowered.

  ‘I believe you are the cause of their resurgence, Apollo. You have caused my peace to go up in flames after five years. Have caused my people to die. If it is found that you did as I had asked, you will be acquitted of all charges, of course.’

  Apollo’s throat went dry.

  ‘But I doubt that’s the case. And if we find you guilty? You shall suffer the consequences and be hanged as a traitor not just to the Iron Crown, but to Tassar. You are the cause of the people’s suffering. The lost souls now. The casualties of the war to come. That’s all on you.’

  He couldn’t believe it.

  There was always more than one way to achieve a goal, and he’d managed to get rid of the key! The fact her curse had been removed showed he’d done what had been asked. And how was he supposed to know what could happen if he hadn’t completed the task in the specific way she’d wanted? ‘If you kill me, it won’t change anything!’ Apollo was shouting, now. ‘You’ll still have the Myr coming for you!’

  ‘What’s it going to be, Apollo? Will you admit right here and now that you didn’t feed the key to Paragos? Or will Torsten have to force it out of you?’

  ‘The key is gone! I got rid of it! That’s what you cursed me to do. Surely you can see—’

  ‘I’m bored of listening to him. Nadja. You have my leave to go. Take this man to the lower cells via the western stairs. Torsten will be waiting for you. I will have my answer soon enough.’ At the queen’s words, the Iron Guard drew their swords as one, tips pointed at Apollo.

  It was the end of his discussion with Surayo.

  Nadja’s fists shook, but she didn’t argue, simply dropped into another bow. ‘Yes, my queen.’

  An idea brewed as Nadja led him away from the queen’s chamber. Apollo couldn’t stand Torsten, but the Master Inquisitor was prone to bouts of rage—his temper often got the better of him. An angry man was easier to escape from than the cool calmness that Nadja exuded.

  It would be his only chance.

  He’d have to bet on Torsten’s nature remaining unchanged over the years—the man loved languishing in his authority and drawing out punishments. His death wouldn’t be quick, if Torsten had anything to do with it. And Apollo needed to use every extra second the spirits chose to give him.

  ‘I appreciate you sticking up for me,’ he said. He’d never tried to garner favour with an Inquisitor before, and didn’t think Nadja would even entertain the idea, but he wanted her to know he appreciated that small kindness. Perhaps she would send word to his family.

  ‘I was not “sticking up for you,” I was relaying facts.’ Her voice was clipped. She’d definitely been blindsided by Surayo’s command, and was seething about it.

  ‘Even so, I appreciate it.’

  She grunted. Then said, ‘You’re welcome.’

  Apollo soon began to recognise bits of the palace as Nadja took him towards the cells. When he’d been arrested last time, he thought he’d die there. Perhaps he still would, and his death had simply been deferred for a few years. ‘Nadja. We both know what Torsten’s like. He’s going to kill me, isn’t he.’ It wasn’t a question.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Nadja. Be honest with me.’

  ‘I don’t know. Only Master Inquisitors may work in the lower cells. But…it’s likely. If you’re guilty.’

  He had to convince her to tell Malora. He held Nadja’s gaze. ‘Then would you send a bird to Foxmouth? Tell Malora? Tell her to get out of Porsenthia with what’s happening? Please?’

  Again, Nadja said nothing. ‘Through here.’ They’d stopped outside a large door in the middle of a quiet hallway. She pulled on the handle and heaved the heavy metal door open.

  Apollo didn’t push his luck. He’d asked her twice now. He had to hope his plea would sink in.

  A narrow staircase greeted Apollo on the other side of the door, leading down to a dark lower level. No torches had been lit, and he did not want to venture down into the unknown shadows.

  ‘Here is where I leave you,’ Nadja said, her voice quiet. She had her dagger in hand, and with another twist, the fetters around his wrists and ankles melted away.

  Apollo whirled around, but she was already blocking the gap in the doorway with her body. ‘As Queen Surayo said, Torsten will be waiting for you. If you are innocent, I will personally escort you back to Foxmouth on a carriage pulled by the swiftest horses in our fleet. But if you have lied to us, to all of us, then I will not grieve your death.’ She closed the door, the slam reverberating down the stairs. Then the noise of a deadbolt locking it into place signalled his escape closing.

  He waited in the darkness for a long while, steadying his breathing. When he was quite sure Nadja would have left, he tried the door handle—but it was locked shut and wouldn’t move, no matter how much force he put into it.

  With nothing left to do, he made his way gingerly down the steps, hands touching the walls on both sides, guiding himself down. If he lingered too long, Torsten would no doubt come looking for him, and he’d be on the back foot.

  He couldn’t allow that.

  The stairway led deeper than he’d thought, plunging him into absolute darkness. Apollo didn’t want to breathe, as if any tiny sound might alert some terrifying monster to his presence. When the stairs ended, the narrow corridor continued. Apollo followed the walls along, feeling for any breaks in the stone, for any doors or windows. Although the stone was rough, there were no weaknesses that he could feel. Nothing crumbled away, and he couldn’t detect any gaps.

  His heart thudded in his chest. This was just like Torsten, wanting to throw his victims off guard.

  A low moan echoed. It sounded very far away. He froze in place, holding his breath, straining to listen.

  Another moan.

  Apollo couldn’t tell if it was the first voice again or a second.

  When nothing approached, he continued on, more cautious than before. A scream punctuated the moaning, and it set Apollo’s teeth on edge. There were people here, hurting.

  He quickened his step as much as he dared but didn’t call out.

  Finally, light illuminated the end of the corridor, revealing what he’d felt—a narrow stone hallway, no doubt built in the bowels of the palace—and it ran past a single wooden door.

  Apollo could keep going. The corridor was illuminated more brightly further ahead, but the groans of pain were coming from behind the door. He tried to walk past when a particularly loud shriek pierced the air. It sounded like a woman. A young one. Perhaps only a girl?

  He hesitated, lingering outside the door, desperate to race down the hall and try and find some way out of the palace, but unwilling to do so while people were hurting. ‘Come on, Apollo. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid…’

 
; A breath of cool wind kissed his face from the corridor’s end. A chance at freedom.

  Another scream.

  Apollo gritted his teeth. He’d already made his decision. He knew he had.

  There was no gap around the doorframe to peer inside, to get an idea of what he was about to walk into. He thought it was better that way.

  Apollo took a breath and grabbed the handle. With one twist, he was inside. The door locked behind him, and he immediately regretted his action.

  Torsten stood in the centre of the circular room, illuminated by wall sconces. He held his own Inquisitor’s dagger high, which had no doubt locked the door the moment Apollo entered, a grin of deep satisfaction splitting his face.

  All around him were numerous people in varying states of distress. Some clung to each other, sobbing silently. Others had pressed themselves against the stone wall—smooth in this room—eyes wide in terror. Many were bleeding from superficial wounds on their faces or arms. Several groaned or writhed around, while others shrieked in abject terror.

  But worse than those in obvious pain were those who were slumped over, expressions vacant, mouths hanging open. They were alive, true, he could see chests rising and falling, but there was…nothing there. No light in their eyes. As if whoever they were had been cut out of their bodies.

  ‘Ah. Apollo Tamlin. I was wondering when you’d turn up.’

  ‘Torsten…What have you done? What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting answers.’

  ‘You’re torturing them!’

  One man, maybe five or six years Apollo’s senior, crawled over to him on his hands and knees. He clutched Apollo’s boot with a wrinkled hand, fingers covered in blood. ‘Get away…While you can…’

  Torsten chuckled. ‘They truly are empty-headed vessels. I do wonder how the Myr did this. I’ve not seen it before…some magic that has taken their senses and thoughts from them. It would be most useful to have access to this power. To use it for our own needs.’

  Apollo’s eyes widened at the realisation. This man, all the people in the cell, were lost souls. He crouched down and took the man’s hand in his own. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  ‘If this is what the Myr are unleashing, we have a new fight on our hands, Apollo. Could you imagine if whatever they’ve done to these people they do to our soldiers? Our guards? Imagine forgetting how to fight. We’d be annihilated in seconds.’

  ‘Why torture them?’ Apollo squeezed the man’s hands, terrified what Torsten would do.

  ‘I must be thorough. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’ Torsten sheathed his iron dagger at his belt and strolled past Apollo and the man, heading for a wooden box beside the door that Apollo hadn’t noticed. ‘It’s better I have someone like you, Apollo. Much more interesting when you actually have your presence of mind. I can find out so much more.’

  ‘Torsten…’ Apollo glanced around while the Inquisitor busied himself with the box. The door to the room had been locked, but if he could get the dagger off Torsten, he had a chance. It was too late for the people already in here, and it killed him to admit that.

  But if he could do something about Torsten, he could ensure no-one else fell to his torture.

  Nadja had removed the irons from his wrists and ankles, allowing him to make his way down the stairs. And he was going to use any advantage he could get.

  Apollo charged across the room, leaping over two youths sprawled on the floor, and barrelled towards Torsten. The Inquisitor lurched backwards, and Apollo grabbed hold of his sleeve. Once a thief, always a thief. His quick hand found the dragger, fingers grasping the hilt.

  Then, Torsten’s elbow crunched into his nose, and he was thrown backwards, the dagger skittering across the stone floor.

  Searing pain exploded across his face, and Apollo clutched his nose with one hand. Blood coloured his fingers. He’d not expected the Inquisitor to react so quickly and cursed his luck.

  ‘None of that, Apollo.’ Torsten readjusted his uniform where Apollo had forced it down. But Torsten didn’t go for his dagger, he remained near the wooden box, sliding the top off to open it. Whatever was inside hissed loudly.

  ‘Apollo. It’s been too long since I was able to use this to its fullest effect.’ Torsten withdrew a creature, no larger than the palm of his hand. It was thin, with milky, translucent flesh. It had no eyes, nose, ears, or any other distinguishable features, and reminded Apollo of a maggot. The creature hissed again, writhing against Torsten’s touch.

  ‘What…What do you think you’re doing?’ Apollo staggered to his feet, his vision flickering in and out with the intensity of the pain in his nose.

  Of the few people in the cell who were conscious, many screamed and backed away from Torsten and the thing he held.

  ‘Allow me to elucidate for you.’ Torsten smoothed his hair with his free hand.

  Apollo stood his ground, annoyed with himself for letting Torsten hit him so cleanly. The dagger was out of reach, over to his right, near the stone wall. He didn’t know what this creature could do, how fast it was. Darting to the iron dagger might speed up his own demise, so he remained in place, braced and ready to act.

  ‘I am going to peel back the layers of your mind, one by one, and see what dirty little secrets you have tucked away. Nestol will aid this.’ Torsten approached him, taking slow, measured steps. He smiled down lovingly at the creature he carried. ‘My queen and I believe you are to blame for the Myr. You may well have shaken the people’s belief in the Iron Crown. Apollo, that’s unforgivable.’

  Apollo backed away a few steps, not turning away from Torsten. Blood ran freely down his face, and he had to breathe through his mouth. ‘Maybe you should be outside training with the others? Making yourself more useful. I saw griffins. Even the Olmese are here, then? And you’re hiding away here, still setting ants on fire?’

  Torsten’s smile darkened. ‘It doesn’t matter what you say, Apollo. I’ve wanted to show the world your truth ever since I caught you in the palace. That scar was a good start.’

  ‘And what if I offer to join the fight against the Myr? I’m handy with a blade.’

  ‘What, and deprive showing the world of your treachery? I think not. I’m going to enjoy discovering every single secret of yours. You have a wife, don’t you? Does she know about your sordid past? What kind of man she’s chosen? Someone who opened the door for the Myr’s return because of his own selfishness? Laziness? Or was it plain arrogance that you didn’t think you’d get caught?’

  ‘Okay, Torsten? I’m gonna need you to remove your head from your own backside for two minutes and listen—’

  Torsten threw Nestol at Apollo’s feet. It moved lightning-quick, faster than a striking snake. It clamped down on Apollo’s boot, anchoring itself to him. Appendages burst from its body, eight—no, ten—legs crawling up him. More appeared as it moved.

  He flinched, scrabbling at it, to no avail. Apollo darted across the room as the worm-like creature clambered higher—over his waist, his torso—and picked up the iron dagger. He plunged it into Nestol’s milky flesh. He cut a gaping hole into it, but there was no blood, no thrash of pain. The creature split where the blade cut it, and it knitted its flesh together on the other side, all the while continuing to clamber up higher and higher.

  Apollo cut and slashed, looking for a weak point. He drove the tip into the creature’s legs, but nothing affected it.

  ‘Now, Apollo Tamlin, we shall discover the truth of what you did.’

  The creature’s white flesh reached his throat, and it slowed, as if working out where to go next. In his panic, Apollo hadn’t realised the cold in his limbs where the creature had touched him. Even through his clothes, his boots, it felt like ice formed across his skin—numbing him and rooting him to the spot.

  Nestol wrapped around his throat, its body elongating into segments, and the uppermost blade-like appendages pierced his forehead.

  Apollo screamed.

  Part III

  Open soon will the gate,


  Your suffering within doeth await.

  Revenge is our key to start,

  And life’s fate shall be Death’s art.

  25

  The Gambler

  Fenn

  A strong easterly wind drove the groaning ship through the cold Salt Sea. Bigger than the schooner that had brought Fenn from the Isle of Salt to Bragalia, and definitely older, The Duschtet had four enormous masts and a crew of eighteen that were kept busy in the choppy waters—constantly adjusting sails and clambering up and down rigging.

  Getting through Tonmouth to the docks had been somewhat harrowing. He’d been terrified an Inquisitor would spot him, but the others had insisted on sending messages to friends and family before they boarded. Calidra, Jisyel, Selys, and even Varlot had all spent several long minutes in the dovehouse just after first light. Fenn, of course, had no-one to write to. No-one to send his well-wishes.

  Jisyel had asked him if he wanted to add a note to her letter to Bellandri, and, flustered, he’d not been able to think of anything on the spot. Jisyel had smiled and said she’d tell her gran that he was doing well and would hopefully regain his memories soon. She also said he’d promised to visit her once everything had settled down.

  Her kindness touched him, even though he wasn’t sure he could keep that promise.

  Several pigeons nestled in their roosts had maroon feathers, which Jisyel explained were birds exclusively used by Inquisitors. Just seeing them made him more nervous, and he ushered the others away the moment they were done.

  It hadn’t taken long to get onto the ship. Calidra seemed to have a passing familiarity with Kifil, the captain of The Duschtet, which sped things up—the captain was as eager to get going as they were. There weren’t any passengers other than their small group, either. Kifil had said most travellers were put off by the recent attacks on towns and villages, preferring to stay at home and protect their loved ones. Even though the Myr hadn’t been overtly mentioned and there’d been no official word from the Iron Crown, the appearance of lost souls in Bragalia had already started to snowball rumours. Gossip had spread like wildfire, even to the point the town guard had spoken openly about it.