The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  After hobbling along for several minutes, Apollo realised the darkness above wasn’t a raincloud or a growing storm. The air wasn’t humid enough. It took him another moment to understand it was smoke, the acrid stench of it only just reaching him under the canopy. Had the fires at Eastbrook raged so much that the smoke had carried this far?

  That didn’t bode well.

  The thought of the Myr so close urged him on. He didn’t want to think about those magical monstrosities anywhere near Malora or Renys.

  There were no insects chirping or birds singing, and it made him more wary than usual. He forced himself onwards, focussing on the positives instead of worrying. It was the queen’s job to worry about the Porsenthian Empire, not his, regardless of the part he’d played in causing said problems. One foot in front of him, that was all he needed to think about. Getting home before it was too late. ‘I’m coming, Mal.’

  With the thick smoke in the air above the canopy, there was no sun to navigate by, so he simply headed where the ground sloped upwards. It was the best chance of going in the right direction, given Foxmouth’s proximity to the Nethal Mountains, and he soon settled into a rhythm.

  Apollo pushed past a particularly thorny bush, when the forest darkened as if a thick cloud had passed in front of the sun. Apollo halted, senses on high alert, as pitch-black blanketed the trees.

  A low groan sounded just ahead, not quite a hiss, not quite a rumble. He couldn’t think of any animal that made a noise like that. Mouth dry, he shuffled towards it as quietly as he could, ears straining for whatever was there.

  The groan shifted into…chewing? A wet, sucking noise sent creeping dread through his gut. Despite goosebumps raising on his arms, he pushed on, every step measured, until he spotted movement in the darkness perhaps twenty feet away.

  Something domed and black crouched between two trees. The colour in the ground around it faded as the creature shivered.

  Apollo gasped.

  A face from within the dome-shaped blackness spun around to stare at him, amber eyes glinting.

  Freezing, piercing cold covered every inch of Apollo’s skin when his eyes locked with the creature’s. He staggered, dropping to one knee, and the creature shifted again, sharp teeth grinning wide. Its purple-black skin sucked in all the light around it, and the air surrounding the creature was hazy.

  One of the Myr.

  A boar raced out in front of him, two tiny, striped piglets following, heedless of the danger. She gave him a disapproving snort, and hurried off into the undergrowth.

  Immediately, the cold receded from Apollo’s arms and legs, and he stood up again. He looked back to the Myr, only to find it gone. A patch of dead and wilted plants remained in a circle where the creature had been feeding, sucking energy from everything around it.

  Draining the life from the forest.

  Apollo shivered, wondering whether to try and follow it or get away, when a twig snapped somewhere behind him. His blood ran cold. Leaves rustled as if being shoved aside. This wasn’t a city that he knew, where he could choose from a dozen hiding spots or back alleys and disappear in a flash.

  He was injured, exhausted, and in the middle of a forest he’d never been in before. And after seeing the Myr, he was more afraid than he’d been in years.

  ‘…broken trees this way!’ Someone shouted behind him.

  Shit.

  Perhaps it was a curious traveller, or someone who lived in one of the smaller, unmapped hamlets who had seen the griffin crash and come to investigate. Someone who was a friend, not an enemy.

  But it was just as likely to be an Inquisitor, and Apollo didn’t fancy his chances if it was.

  He backed up to a tree, careful not to trip over one of its exposed roots, and knelt down in the large ferns that grew around its trunk. If he ran somewhere else, the movement or noise would give him away. Best thing was to stay low and quiet. Patience was often the most effective asset when it came to avoiding capture, and Apollo had patience in abundance.

  He was careful to keep his head down, underneath the vast green leaves, though he had enough visibility to peek through the ferns. Only a few seconds after he’d ducked away, three people appeared between the trees. They were each in grey armour, short swords at their hips, and one carried a pike.

  Apollo held his breath and watched one of them crouch down, pointing at the ground and gesturing to the others. They were too far for him to make out their words, but it was clear from their body language that they were tracking something.

  Apollo prayed they were hunting the Myr and not there for him.

  One of them stretched their arms high above their head and leaned on a tree, apparently tired from whatever they were doing. Another made their way off, heading deeper into the trees. The third, the one with the pike, straightened up from where he’d been pointing at the ground and looked around.

  For one heart-splitting moment, their eyes connected, then his gaze drifted off towards the rest of the foliage nearby.

  Apollo couldn’t be sure whether the man had seen him or not, and he couldn’t risk sticking around to find out. Careful to keep hunched below the growing ferns, he shuffled away from the tree, backing away one cautious, quiet, step at a time.

  The soldier resting against the tree didn’t so much as open their eyes, and the pike-wielder followed his comrade, away from his hiding spot.

  Once clear, Apollo spun around and sprinted—straight into an Inquisitor’s uniform.

  ‘Well, well, well. Where are you off to in such a hurry?’

  Apollo didn’t recognise the man’s voice, though he sounded younger than him by some years, and he didn’t stop to take a closer look, either. Darting around the Inquisitor, Apollo hurtled off into the undergrowth without a second thought. His tunic snagged on branches, and he continued on, uncaring if some of his clothing ripped further.

  Shouts followed him, then footsteps muffled by the soft forest floor.

  This was just his luck.

  Escape Torsten’s torture, get out of the palace on griffin-back and survive a crash landing, only to be scooped up by Inquisitors moments later.

  Apollo held his arms up, protecting his face from branches and leaves as he raced past them. Many scratched his skin, and one ripped open the cotton around his arm, but he ignored them, hurrying as fast as he could—leaping over roots and vines, using every instinct he had to lose his pursuers in the undergrowth.

  Fuelled by adrenaline, Apollo put a fair amount of distance between himself and the young Inquisitor, reaching a narrow stream that cut through the trees. Although this forest didn’t have a spirit, there was always magic in water, as there was throughout Porsenthia—particularly close to Eastbrook. A faint hum of music sounded where it splashed against rocks, as if someone played a harp nearby.

  The bank was steep on the opposite side, but the stream flowed directly across his path. Gritting his teeth, he ran towards it and jumped, leaping over the water in a single movement. The bank was muddy on both sides, and his boots slipped, but he didn’t fall. Apollo scrambled up the muddy slope, hurrying to get up it as quickly as possible.

  The moment he reached the top of the bank, he froze.

  Horses thundered through the trees, ten of them, each ridden by an armed, armoured soldier.

  Apollo shook his head in disbelief, and as adrenaline left his body, aching pain ripped through it. Perhaps he should have gone to the coast. Staying in the trees was too obvious. He wiped sweat from his forehead, grimacing when he realised he’d just smeared blood across his face—his wound had bled through the ripped cotton.

  Perfect.

  Just perfect.

  The horses were already turning towards him, spurred on by their riders. Behind him, on the other side of the stream, the Inquisitor and the soldiers from earlier flanked him, cutting off his retreat.

  Trees spread in either direction, but didn’t offer much cover. He considered jumping into the stream and letting it carry him away, but it didn’
t look deep enough.

  With a groan, he pulled out his chipped sword and held it up. There was nowhere left to run, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  ‘Put that stolen sword down, Apollo.’ Torsten’s cold voice cut through the cacophony of horse hooves.

  Apollo kept it held up, unable to believe how badly the tables had turned for him. He’d had the perfect opportunity to escape, and he’d messed it up.

  And why was Torsten still after him? ‘Shouldn’t you be on the front lines fighting the Myr? Or are you happy to abandon your queen in her time of need?’

  The pale grey horse came to a stop only a few paces from him, nostrils snorting as Torsten reined it in. ‘You’ve some nerve to say that, traitor. It was you who gave the Myr cause to rise again!’

  Apollo spat a glob of bloodied saliva onto the ground by the horse’s front leg. ‘You’re the one who’s left your queen and city. Surely I’m not worth all this effort?’ He gestured widely to the other horses and soldiers there, turning to include the young Inquisitor behind him in the movement. ‘You’re worse than a dog with a bone!’

  Torsten’s horse whickered as the others came to a halt, forming a semi-circle around Apollo. Smoke from overhead began to filter through the trees, further darkening the forest.

  Torsten muttered under his breath, one hand clutching the hilt of his sword. He shook his head and blinked, seeming to come back to himself. ‘I am a Master Inquisitor, Apollo. Not some common grunt out on the front lines. Queen Surayo has plenty of protection.’

  Apollo narrowed his eyes, wondering whether something was wrong with the Inquisitor. It wasn’t like Torsten to lose focus. ‘Something else on your mind, Torsten? Another distraction?’

  ‘Ignorant thief. I have been ordered by my queen to get answers. And it was a good thing I came after you, Apollo. Once a thief, always a thief, I see. On top of your other crimes, you stole a griffin. It belonged to one of our Olmese guests. That is another unforgivable act, you know. I wonder what they do to griffin thieves in Olmir? Beheading? Live burial? I wonder…’

  Apollo couldn’t believe it. ‘A griffin isn’t a horse or dog. You can’t just steal one! It flew me of its own accord!’

  ‘And yet, I’m disinclined to believe you.’

  ‘Go ask it and find out for yourself, then.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. We found the creature unconscious. It’ll probably die soon. Now none of us will know the truth aside from you. Such a shame. Although, as you do have a habit of twisting the truth, it’s probably for the best.’

  Apollo’s mouth dropped open. Torsten was one to talk about twisting the truth. But the Inquisitor’s words unsettled him. ‘Olvalthar?’ How could something so huge, so built for battle, die after a small crash?

  Torsten snorted. ‘Don’t try and pretend you care, now.’

  ‘Well perhaps if you weren’t using Myrish creatures to torture your prisoners, I wouldn’t have been forced to flee that way!’

  A murmur of unease rippled through the mounted soldiers at the mention of the Myr. Some stared curiously at the Master Inquisitor, and their horses nervously pawed the muddy ground.

  Torsten’s eyes glazed over. He drew his sword and pointed it down at Apollo. ‘You could not possibly comprehend what I must do.’

  Apollo stepped back, unsure. It wasn’t like Torsten to be so direct. Usually the Master Inquisitor enjoyed building up suspense, or gloating when he had the advantage. He’d only seen him a few hours before in that damned chamber. Why had he changed so much?

  He supposed it didn’t matter. Not when he was surrounded. ‘How many of your comrades know you use one of their ancient enemies as a simple torture device?’

  Torsten let out a grunt that was more hiss than anything else.

  Apollo continued, ‘And I understand well enough what you do. Met plenty of cold-hearted bastards in my time, believe me, and you’re just another one on the list. You’re not anything special.’

  ‘Why you impudent wretch!’

  Apollo grinned. It was lopsided, pulled down by his fatigue, but he’d managed to get under Torsten’s skin again, despite the Inquisitor’s odd behaviour.

  ‘Sir?’ one of the soldiers ventured, nudging his horse closer. ‘Your orders?’

  Apollo wanted to tell them about the Myr he’d seen in the forest, that they would do better to go after that instead of him. But it didn’t matter what he said, now. Torsten had that look in his eyes. He’d made up his mind, and there was no way Apollo could talk himself out of the Master Inquisitor arresting him. Or worse.

  He might as well go down fighting.

  Apollo darted forward, waving one arm high and thrusting his sword towards Torsten’s horse. It was a feint, but, startled, the horse reared up.

  Torsten grabbed hold of the reins and held on without being thrown, but he was off guard—and Apollo arced the blade up to slash across the Master Inquisitor’s cheek. Satisfied at the blood drawn, he rolled forward between horses’s legs and caused more chaos.

  A few blades darted down towards him—one caught him on the back of his neck—but Apollo managed to stir up the horses more than get struck by the soldiers’ swords. Horses brayed as they stumbled into each other, and men struggled to control their mounts.

  Apollo couldn’t help but grin at his handiwork.

  He turned to flee—he could definitely hide until things quietened down—when Torsten was suddenly in front of them. Whether he’d been thrown from his horse or had jumped, Apollo couldn’t tell, and the Master Inquisitor had his sword in hand, complete with rust spot.

  Though Torsten glared at him, his eyes were unfocused. ‘This ends now.’ With a grunt, Torsten lifted the tip of his sword towards Apollo and muttered something under his breath.

  Apollo stepped back, out of Torsten’s reach, his fingers tense around the hilt of his own sword. Maybe he could chop off a finger or two before it was over.

  Flames shot from Torsten’s sword, enveloping Apollo in burning fire. He sank to the ground with a scream—it licked his arms and legs, peeling flesh as easily as a knife through butter. He smelled his own hair burning, and rolled away blindly, hoping to find the slope down to the water.

  ‘No more of this stupidity, Apollo Tamlin.’

  But Apollo wasn’t listening. The cold, wet mud slopped up his arms, dousing some of the flames. He opened his eyes to check where he was, and on seeing the lip of the bank, pushed himself down it.

  Water sang around him as he plunged into the shallow stream. The voices whispered incoherent words, soothing him as they washed away the heat of the fire.

  Apollo gritted his teeth, willing more strength into his body so he could stand and fight, when a sudden weight pressed his head down, forcing his face into the silty river bed. Bubbles streamed from his nose as the air was forced from his lungs. As his vision dimmed, he scrambled for purchase, to push away from the water, to get rid of whoever was holding him down.

  But his fingers flailed and he couldn’t get free.

  Apollo jerked as the last of his breath left him, when someone grabbed the back of his tunic and fiercely pulled him from the water. He was thrown onto his back, the wind knocked out of him, and he coughed violently, blood and water dribbling down his chin. He tried to breathe through his bruised chest.

  Torsten scowled down at him, his cheek bleeding from where he’d been cut. ‘Any last words?’ He held his sword out, the tip of the blade hovering above Apollo’s throat.

  Apollo’s vision was a blur of shadows, but one thought was stronger even than the realisation he was about to pass out. ‘Mal…’

  The last thing Apollo wanted to see before he died was Torsten’s face, and he was about to close his eyes and accept his fate when something swooped down towards him, and dark feathers filled his vision.

  Apollo slowly became aware of muffled voices talking around him. They spoke softly, as if trying not to disturb his sleep.

  Gingerly, he opened his eyes, confus
ed when he didn’t see the green leaves and forest canopy—instead, he was in a warm, low-ceilinged room, beds on either side filled with injured people. A large fire burned merrily on the opposite wall. Looking down at himself, he realised the arm he’d cut in the forest had been bandaged up, the foul scent of glinoc paste strong under the linen.

  Several people moved carefully between beds, offering soothing words of comfort or water skins to those resting, and he even smelled creamy herb-filled potato soup.

  A sick room?

  Where was this place? How did he get here?

  He didn’t recognise the building, and the few windows were too small and too high up for him to see out of and figure out where he was. He took a few deep breaths through his nose. There was no scent of the sea, but the door was closed and none of the windows were open. It had to be Foxmouth, didn’t it?

  But there were no Inquisitors or soldiers in the room.

  Had Olvalthar carried him here?

  Wincing, he tried to sit up in bed, but he had no strength in his legs, and slipped back down into the pillows with a grunt of pain.

  ‘Careful, lad. You were covered in blood and bruises when you were brought in. Doubt they’ve healed yet.’

  Apollo glanced to his right, where an elderly man in the bed beside him grinned. He had a bandage on his head, covering one eye, and was missing several teeth. ‘Took a beating too, eh? We’re all the same in here.’ He gestured to the other beds with a wrinkled arm. ‘Damned Myr. Can’t believe it.’

  ‘Where…?’ Apollo asked, his voice barely more than a creak. He clutched his throat, wondering why it was so raw.

  ‘Westbook. This used to be part of the village hall, but Dalio and his husband turned it into a makeshift hospital. Had no choice, really.’

  So he wasn’t in Foxmouth. That was frustrating. ‘Dalio?’ Apollo recognised the name. ‘Isn’t he a winemaker?’ He’d ordered hundreds of bottles of wine over the years for The Grumpy Fisherman, most from Westbrook Orchard.