The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Oh, fuck,” Keiran breathes behind me. His fingers clamp down around my wrist to stop me from reaching for the smaller seax at my back. When did I do that?

Keiran’s touch is solid and comforting and I focus on it, ignoring the draugr’s whispered suggestion to stand and fight. It wants blood. I want peace. As I struggle to silence its urgings, Keiran draws my hand away from the blade. The draugr growls and sinks back down.

No one else notices us. They’re too busy with the scene playing out before us. Aage watches the point of the sword rise until it draws level with his chest. Dreher doesn’t tremble, but the tight lines of his body betray his nerves. He’s one of the older clan heads. When Aage was putting down small insurrections during his rise to his thegnship, Dreher was one of the heads who pledged fealty to avoid a fight. He knows Aage’s skill on the battlefield, yet he dares to raise a sword against him in this sacred place.

Dreher clears his throat once, twice, and speaks, lifting his voice until all can hear. “I stand before our people as a representative of the accused. For your arrogance and ignorance, which has driven them to this state, I challenge you for your title.”

“I see,” Aage murmurs. He holds out a hand behind him. Breoca never hesitates. He draws his own sword and passes it over. Their hands linger on the hilt for a moment, then Breoca steps back, part of the crowd. Aage finds a comfortable grip and settles into his fighting stance. “I accept your challenge, Dreher. To the winner goes the Iron Crown.”

“To the winner goes the Iron Crown!” the surrounding Sluagh call back.

Aage and Dreher wait, watching each other. No clash of swords comes. No sudden movements. I remember Aage trying to teach us about such challenges. He told us it was a battle of wills, a test of patience and courage. Fighting ability wasn’t as important as standing your ground. Maybe that’s why Keiran always beat me. I got bored too easily. Keiran would stand across from Aage, their eyes locked, and hold his battle stance for minute after long minute. Even though he would eventually take a swing, Aage always complimented him on his fearlessness, which only encouraged him to hold out for longer the next time. Keiran’s stubborn like that.

Dreher is not. He bellows and breaks his stance to try to land a blow on Aage. His heavy swing is blocked, but it’s Dreher who staggers back when the reverberations of the hit rattle through his short sword. Aage hasn’t moved. His feet are set as firmly against the ground as the stones of Krigsmöte. The futility of the attack spurs Dreher into a second. This one is rushed, emotional, and the moment his sword connects with Aage’s, I know what’s coming and wince with sympathy. Aage twists his weapon and flicks his wrist. I understand Dreher’s confusion, the inability to understand the sudden emptiness of his hand and the sound of his blade falling to the ground. The press of a sword’s edge to his throat is much easier to recognize.

He hits his knees, but he doesn’t look to Aage for forgiveness. He looks behind him to the three clan heads and realizes no one is stepping forward to help or defend him. He’s alone.

Aage sees that change in him as well. He drags the sword up Dreher’s throat, until it presses against the soft curve of his jaw, where he holds it. “To the winner goes the Iron Crown,” he declares softly. The crowd around him calls it back to recognize his win, even the Mainlanders, who look sick to see one of their own in the dirt.

“I should kill you for what you’ve done,” Aage tells Dreher. “But I have received divine counsel from our seidhr. Your death will do nothing to bring me closer to the architect of our people’s ruin, and I have no desire to ask your daughter to attend your funeral when she should be celebrating her life as a newlywed. I will not kill you.” He steps back with lowered sword and gives Dreher a sad smile. “But I will not forgive you either.”

He lets that statement linger, drawing on it for dramatic effect before announcing, “You are now outlawed from our lands. You will be escorted home to bid your family farewell, while news of your status is announced in every village and town in our people’s lands. May the gods protect you from this point on, for none of our people shall.”

Aage looks out over the crowd, taking his time to make eye contact with as many Sluagh as he can, especially Dreher’s retainers. “Justice has been meted in accordance to our laws. Now, it is time to hear the arguments of the accused. The assembly shall begin in one hour’s time, that we might pass judgment on the cowards who left Dreher to this fate.” Aage’s gaze holds mine. “Seidhr, you shall attend. Your Wild Hunt is forbidden from engaging in discussion during these proceedings. You alone, as the speaker of the gods, have that right.”

I wouldn’t disobey his command, even if I wanted to. I bow my head to him and say, “Yes, Thegn. Blessings to the bearer of the Iron Crown.”

And, like that, the moment is over. Some of Dreher’s retainers stifle tears, while others in the crowd exchange horrified looks before drifting away from the scene of Dreher’s ruination. Aage may not have killed the foolish man outright, but with winter’s arrival and a Faerie Civil War on the doorstep of the Wylds, his death is all but assured. Dreher realizes it as Aage walks back to the hall and the other Sluagh leave without offering him a single word of farewell. He’s a living shade, unseen by all others and separate from their lives from now on. His face flushes, mottled with barely controlled rage. He struggles to his feet and for a frightening moment, I think he may hurl himself after Aage.

His furious glare lands on me instead.

“You,” he snarls.

It’s all the warning I get. He’s two steps from me with his iron dagger drawn, the promise of death written across his face. Before I can settle into a defensive stance, the draugr roars and swallows me.

Dreher’s face is gone, replaced with a younger man whose mouth parts in a feral scream. The dagger in his hand angles at my chest and my blood will be spilled—

The memory passes, but it’s too late. The draugr uses my distraction to force itself into my skin. It grips my muscles, digs for the seax, and tries to lunge forward.

Keiran gets to Dreher first. Dreher chokes when Keiran wraps an arm around his throat, hauling him close and fighting for control of the dagger.

The draugr’s desire to wield my seax consumes all my thought. Anyone standing before it, anyone in its path, will fall. They will pay for its unfair death—

Keiran’s standing there too. I won’t

hurt Keiran. I won’t.

My body screams against the denial of movement, and I claw at the draugr, fighting for control.

Kill, the draugr promises.

No. Not this time.

It doesn’t go easily. I regain independent thought first and force myself to work through its grip on every muscle, on its bony fingers clamped around my knife. Eventually, the draugr makes a hissing retreat into the hidden places of my mind. Shaking and sweating, I’m alone in my body and can check on Keiran without the urge to destroy the man held in his grip.

Keiran’s wrenched Dreher’s arm back until the shoulder threatens to dislocate. Every time Dreher tries to struggle, Keiran tightens his choke hold. My legs burn and ache after ending the draugr’s control over me, but I force myself to step forward, until I’m facing my would-be attacker.

Up close, almost nose to nose, Dreher isn’t frightening. He’s a tired old man desperate for others’ approval, and he brought this tragedy on himself. If I hadn’t seen the plight of his people and the other Sluagh the shadow man has hurt, I might pity him. But his actions serve no purpose except to sate his own wrathful need to restore a destroyed reputation.