The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  She let go.

  The two of them plummeted.

  Calidra was too afraid to scream as the dark waters rushed up to meet her faster than she’d realised. She didn’t even have the time to take a breath or brace, and then she plunged into the water. The shock of the cold bit deep into her, along with the terror of what was on the surface.

  She squinted one eye open, unable to see much more in the murky darkness than bubbles and the occasional flare of light where a burning ship sailed somewhere above her.

  The impact had numbed her arms, and most of the strength in her fingers had gone—she couldn’t even unclench her fist.

  Where was Jisyel?

  She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t make out any details, and Calidra thrashed as panic rose.

  Something grabbed her by the collar. Looking up, ready to fight, she pulled away. But she couldn’t see in the darkness, and whatever had grabbed her was stronger than she was.

  Her chest burned as she realised her breath was running out, then she was being dragged up towards the surface.

  With a hacking cough, Calidra burst through the water, her eyes stinging from the cold and the salt. ‘J—Jisyel?’ She couldn’t see in the darkness, let alone recognise anyone.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jisyel gasped, her hands running along Calidra’s body. ‘Are you bleeding anywhere? Hit anything on the way down?’

  Calidra struggled to tread water, and held herself back from clutching onto Jisyel. That would be a quick way for them both to drown. ‘I’m…okay…’ Her teeth started to chatter.

  Overhead, Neros bellowed her fury and sent a spew of flames towards the pack of Myrish creatures, now locked in combat with the armada of fishing vessels and merchant ships. Many were little more than burning husks, their sails torn or aflame.

  ‘We need to get away from that.’ Jisyel pulled Calidra, swimming away from the carnage in the water.

  Calidra didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy to. But she couldn’t swim quickly, and lagged behind Jisyel after a handful of strokes. She couldn’t do much more than focus on her breathing, try to keep her panic at bay, but it was winning.

  Something cold and numb twisted in her gut, and made every moment slow and difficult. She couldn’t feel her fingers, her arms. Even her legs moved like she was swimming in honey. Calidra slipped below the surface, water rushing into her nose.

  She pushed up again, coughing as her nose and throat burned. ‘Jisyel!’ She meant to shout, but it came out as a whisper. Calidra coughed, trying to keep her head above water.

  A shadow fell upon her and she turned as much as she dared, hoping the fires had been extinguished, that no more people needed to get hurt or die.

  With a low, ear-splitting groan, The Duschtet capsized, and a wave of freezing water washed over her.

  28

  The Riddle

  Fenn

  Fenn’s exhaustion was overwhelming. If anything, the journey across the sea had drained his already weak limbs of whatever energy they had left, and coupled with the tense stand off against Varlot and his Inquisitors—and his and Selys’s subsequent flight from them—his body had been pushed to breaking point.

  His fury at Varlot’s betrayal was the only thing fuelling him on through the snow.

  He’d trusted the man. Vouched for him on more than one occasion. Even when Calidra, someone whose word he trusted, had spoken against Varlot, Fenn had been certain of the man’s honour.

  He’d been desperate not to lose the one person who hadn’t wanted to use him for his own, selfish reasons, that he hadn’t seen the warning signs. Even Selys had only come with him because of her spirit. Calidra and Jisyel hadn’t wanted anything to do with him at the start, and had suggested palming him off to Inquisitors at the first opportunity.

  Varlot had stood up for him—against Torsten of all people—had been the only one to treat him like his own person during the entire journey.

  What a kick in the teeth that had been.

  And priestess or not, the next time Selys came across Inquisitors, she’d likely be marched away in irons for what she’d done. Her faith in this Myrish construct had to be as strong as her faith in Neros if she was willing to risk that.

  Fenn was driven by something deep inside that he couldn’t place, and his head throbbed in time with his pulse, so painful he could hardly think straight. Every step was agony on his weak body, but he was too close now to quit. Especially after Selys had fought off Inquisitors for him.

  He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, glancing back at her. The priestess, for once, wasn’t leading them. She’d dropped a short way behind, and they were relying on his ability to clearly see the Myrish magic to figure out where they needed to go.

  Although the wind on the mountain was biting, the snow wasn’t especially deep, and they were able to make good progress despite the low light. It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes before the outpost disappeared from view, and even the Polar Sea was nigh indistinguishable.

  Unfortunately, Selys hadn’t escaped the battle against Varlot and his Inquisitor friends unscathed—she bore a wound on her shoulder from one of their swords. Although it was only a shallow cut, he blamed himself for the injury.

  It had stopped bleeding after an hour or so of walking, and she didn’t grumble about it.

  Fenn took solace in the fact there was no chance of being followed so high into the mountains. Selys’s display of fighting prowess had knocked the Inquisitors back, and even Varlot had been surprised. He’d hurled vitriol at them as they’d run, but he hadn’t followed. Probably too drunk, now that he thought about it. But Fenn clutched to the possibility that there was still some good in the man, that he’d been backed into a corner and hadn’t seen any way out.

  It was probably naive—he’d definitely spent too much time with Jisyel—but he could hope.

  And no-one else was going to come anywhere near the mountain. It was the site of an ancient battle against the Myr, according to Selys, and viewed with a good deal of superstition by people across Porsenthia and Bragalia.

  Fenn wondered whether everyone was actually somehow aware of the Myrish presence, but only he—and those like him—could actually see it. He supposed it didn’t matter. Once his curse was removed, he’d be just as blind as the rest of them.

  Yet, his mind and body were conflicted. The freezing ice that caked his limbs was at odds with the burning fire in his chest. It was as if he was a puppet on a string, pushed and pulled by forces outside of his control or understanding. But as long as it led to answers, he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, the Myr had got him into this mess, and the Myr would get him out of it.

  Darkness had long since enveloped them, and visibility had dropped so much that Fenn could barely see the shadow wreathing the mountain. But he didn’t need to see it. His body knew exactly where to go, and the path to get there.

  ‘Do you think it’ll be much longer, Fenn?’ Selys called up to him. ‘I’m afraid…my knees are beyond my years.’

  He didn’t look back. ‘We’re close. Can’t you feel it, too?’ His sense of the Myr was so strong it was a physical weight. It was a wonder everyone in Porsenthia couldn’t feel it—and this was an old construct that wasn’t even a threat.

  He dreaded to think what the Myrish homeland would feel like.

  Shuddering, Fenn pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and continued on. Nearly there. Then, he’d be safe. He’d have his answers.

  And he could finally begin his journey home.

  ‘Selys, how did you learn to fight like that? It was incredible! Do you get people trying to steal from the shrine a lot?’

  ‘Oh. From time to time, I suppose.’ She waved her hand dismissively.

  ‘And you need to be able to take on three attackers at once?’ Fenn coughed, the effort of speaking more than a handful of words already too much for him.

  ‘I wasn’t always a priestess, you know. Before I joined Neros’s order, I was part
of a warband.’

  Fenn stumbled. ‘A what?’

  Selys helped him up, wincing as she moved her shoulder, the movement causing it to bleed again. ‘I’m from Segandis originally. That’s a town in southern Bragalia, on the edge of the sea. Spent half my time on boats and the other half defending them.’

  Fenn coughed again, his breathing raspy.

  ‘I’ll…tell you the story another time. Focus on where you’re going, Fenn. That’s more important.’

  He continued on for another handful of minutes, following the growing pressure around him, until the steady incline levelled out. The mountain continued to rise above him into the darkness, but the pull had eased. ‘We don’t have to go any higher.’

  ‘Thank Neros.’ Selys joined him, her breathing heavy. Blood trickled down her right shoulder from under the makeshift bandage she’d tied around the wound.

  ‘You’re bleeding.’

  She wiped it away. ‘I’m fine. Let’s keep going.’

  He swayed in a sudden gust of wind, and braced against it. His knee buckled and he dropped into the snow. He was almost out of time. With a grunt of effort, he got to his feet and pushed forward into the growing pressure, heart thudding. They were getting close. ‘Vermecio…’

  Then he saw it. A cave—its entrance half-obscured by thick snowdrifts.

  ‘In there?’ Selys asked, creeping forward.

  He didn’t reply, just stared. It was the place he needed to go, where the invisible pull was strongest. Where he’d finally see the Myrish construct.

  He let the pull carry his feet, navigating around the rocks and boulders that littered the cave entrance. Selys used her glaive to check the path before every step, using it to avoid pitfalls or slippery patches hidden under the snow.

  Giant chunks of ice sat just within the cave’s mouth, glinting dully in what little light reached it.

  Fenn sucked in a breath as he crossed the threshold. The oppressive pressure filled the air inside, making it difficult to breathe, and he took a moment to steady himself. Ice climbed up the walls like moss, and countless frozen stalactites hung from the vaulted ceiling.

  Selys joined him in the cave’s mouth and took in their surroundings with wide eyes. She made a gesture with her fingers across her forehead and murmured Neros’s name under her breath. ‘This is it, Fenn. The answers we seek.’

  He was impressed at how confident she was. Her certainty hadn’t wavered even for a second throughout their whole journey. ‘I’m ready for them.’ Fenn picked his way deeper into the cave, following an icy tunnel as it led into the mountain. The shadowy mist he’d been following swirled along the floor, dissipating with each of their footsteps, and Fenn realised writing had been scrawled in fine ink along the ground itself. Glancing around, he noticed the same writing on the walls, too, much of which was under the ice. There were letters in dozens of languages, but he only recognised one word: Vermecio.

  ‘Do you see this writing, too?’ Fenn asked, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper.

  Selys frowned. ‘There are lots of languages here. Some of these are old.’ She brushed her fingertips against the wall, and a few of the letters flashed blue for a heartbeat. ‘Holy languages. I recognise a few letters from the books in the shrine.’

  ‘Can you read them?’

  She peered at a section of writing closely, running her thumb under a line of text. ‘Some sort of guardian, maybe? A name, I think? Ver…ver…vermecio? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let’s keep going.’ Fenn wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to tell her about what he already knew—his encounter with the Myr on the edge of the spirit world, or the fact he’d been given the construct’s name as a place he could find answers.

  Something about holding that knowledge made him uneasy. Like he was doing the wrong thing.

  Selys nodded, following him deeper into the tunnel, her footsteps carefully placed. She kept her glaive out, ever-ready.

  Fenn rounded a corner, navigating between thick pillars of ice, and entered a wide chamber. The ceiling was so high that he wasn’t sure there was one—the walls stretched upwards endlessly, and thick, shadowy mist filled the space above his head.

  They’d found the construct.

  The large chamber wasn’t quite circular, but it was roughly round, with a floor of icy stalagmites, their tips as sharp as the ones that dangled from the tunnel’s roof. Water dripped down the frozen walls, and Fenn’s breath misted in front of him.

  And at the far end of the chamber, Vermecio waited.

  The creature had the maned head of a lion, with powerful clawed limbs attached to a vaguely humanoid body. Three pairs of wings were tucked tight against its side, each folded like the wings of a giant bird. Two thick, curved horns jutted out from its chin. It sat still as stone, unmoving. Waiting. Mist poured from the creature’s body. Its hairless skin rippled, shifting colour every few seconds—silver, black, purple, blue—and it stared at them with three lidless eyes. Each was a different colour—one red, one white, one gold.

  Fenn found its unblinking gaze more unnerving than the construct’s bizarre appearance.

  It didn’t look like any of the Myrish spirits he’d seen before, and he wondered just how different this construct was in comparison.

  They both held their ground at the chamber’s entrance, neither willing to take the first step inside. It was a place of ancient magic, where the Myrish creature had dwelled untouched for centuries. Selys had said it was no threat, but standing before it, Fenn had his doubts.

  Most of Vermecio’s limbs were encased in ice, contributing to its lack of movement. But its head turned, its neck creaking as it moved, and Fenn was reminded of the statues he’d seen outside Neros’s Shrine.

  ‘H—hello?’ Fenn called out cautiously, once Vermecio’s gaze fell upon him.

  ‘You have arrived.’

  A shiver ran down his spine at the creature’s words. It spoke in monotone, which somehow made it more eerie than if it had spoken with a human voice.

  ‘What are you?’ Selys entered the chamber, the tip of her blade held high.

  ‘I am a bastion.’

  ‘Of power?’

  The Vermecio shook its head, the movement slow. ‘Of our collective memories. Thoughts. Knowledge. But I was created in haste. I have not the strength I should.’

  Fenn didn’t like the sound of that. ‘You’re a Myrish construct, aren’t you? I’ve been cursed by the Myr. I’m dying.’ He approached Vermecio slowly, his legs threatening to give out with every step. He couldn’t afford to slip over now, he doubted he’d be able to get back up. ‘Can you remove the curse?’

  The lion head turned as Fenn approached, the noise reminiscent of stone grinding against stone. Again, its skin shifted colour, ripples of gold running through dark purple. Light flashed, and more smoke poured out of its body, leaking from its skin like water. ‘I saw you cross the site of our last great defeat. Where the Iron Dragon sent so many of us to the spirit world.’

  ‘How could you possibly see that from here?’ Selys asked, incredulous.

  ‘I see through our mists. Our magic marks our passing.’

  Fenn shook his head. Everywhere that dark mist had been, Vermecio could see? He thought about it. That made the mist essentially a gravestone for the Myr.

  It made sense. Many Myr had died in the deadlands and the mist had been thick there.

  He stood in front of the creature and looked up at it. Vermecio sat at eight feet tall, an imposing creature that seemed to be made more of stone than flesh. ‘Wait, wait. You saw me cross the deadlands?’

  ‘That is the name which your people gave the area, yes.’

  He thought back to the place, to the smoke wreathing the ground, and the visions he’d had in that awful, dead place. ‘Is that a bastion, too? How many are there?’

  ‘No. There are only three, of which I am one.’

  ‘Where are the other two?’

  ‘I…do not have that knowledge. I
am weak. Created in haste. I have not the strength I should.’

  Fenn frowned at Vermecio’s repetition. It sounded like himself—knowing it should remember more, but unable to access those memories, that knowledge. Selys had said it was a construct, and Vermecio itself had said it had been created, and yet Fenn sympathised with its plight. ‘Why did the Myr curse me? And all the others? So many of them have died!’

  ‘Our time is now.’

  He shared a glance with Selys, who raised her shoulders in a shrug.

  She tapped some of the encroaching ice with her glaive. ‘What does that mean for Tassar? “Our time is now?” What are the Myr planning?’

  ‘I…do not have that knowledge. I am weak. Created in haste. I have not the strength I should.’

  Fenn’s scowl deepened. He wasn’t sure if Vermecio was truly alive or not. Had it all been for nothing? Selys had been so sure he’d find answers here. Had left her shrine on that assumption. This was supposed to be his solution. His memories. Even the Myrish voice that had spoken to him on the edge of the spirit world had said as much.

  But the construct seemed…broken.

  The realisation sapped any hope that had built on finding the cave.

  ‘This thing must be some sort of spell,’ Selys said, giving words to his own thoughts. ‘Some way of preserving knowledge over the years. It doesn’t really have its own consciousness. We’ll have to think of specific questions to ask it and get our answers that way.’

  Fenn turned back to it, stared at its strangeness, and focused on its multi-coloured eyes. It was time to see if his journey had been worth it or not. He placed his hand flat against the creature’s nose. It was strangely smooth, and as cold as the ice in the cavern. ‘Can you see the Myr’s touch on me? See how it weakens me?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Can you remove it?’

  It went quiet, and Fenn didn’t know if it had run out of ability to talk, or if it was just considering.

  ‘Vermecio?’