The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

I won’t lose him. Not like Aage watched Breoca taken from him. I’m not that strong. Never have been. I’ll stop this because I’m too weak to live without Lugh.

Six steps to close the distance between us. Lugh’s knife flashes out toward Goodfellow’s side. The sword goes up, blocks, and Lugh feints before trying again.

Stop moving away from me. Stay. Wait for me to protect your back. We’re supposed to do this together.

Another block. Goodfellow has a second of an opening. He pushes hard and Lugh seems to come back to himself. He retreats two steps, fleeing from the iron with a grimace on his face. Goodfellow laughs. A vine sprouts, an unfair, magickal advantage, a Seelie trick. Lugh makes his choice. He blocks the sword instead of the vine and the thorns rip across his arm, digging in deep enough to leave his blood speckling Aage’s chair. Another vine appears at his feet and wraps around his ankle. One moment, he’s standing. Then, the vine flicks his foot out from under him and he falls; Goodfellow moves in for the kill and we both shout—

My axe reverberates with the strength of Goodfellow’s blow, but the wrapped haft holds. Below us, Lugh slashes at his ankle with his knife, kicking and fighting his way free of the vine cutting deeper into his skin.

Goodfellow growls and throws his weight against me, as if he can somehow slice through me to reach Lugh. I will not let that happen. I grit my teeth, hold his glare, and push back with all I have.

He staggers away, just enough for me to drag Lugh behind me. Lugh struggles to his feet, limping, bleeding freely from his ankle. His mouth is tight with pain, but his eyes are clear. He keeps a hand pressed to my back, promising me he’s here. It grounds me and helps wipe out the hum from the belt as I fight off the transformation.

I forget the battle at our backs. Lugh will warn me if I’m needed. I focus all my attention on Goodfellow—the shadow man brought to light at last—and take slow steps backwards toward Cybel and Armel.

Goodfellow follows. His boots squelch over the wooden floor. He has to move at our slow pace, his eyes holding mine instead of looking toward his feet. If he gives me a hint of an opening, I’ll drive this axe through him. Lugh’s grip on my shirt grows more insistent. We’re nearly to the Hunt. Not much farther.

Goodfellow realizes it too. He starts to move. It’s little more than a twitch of his arm, but I adjust my grip, bringing the axe up for a better defense. Like that, he stills, watching and waiting for the next opportunity. I won’t give him one. I know this game better than anyone. Aage taught it to me, tested me with it, and because of him, I can pin Goodfellow in place with an unwavering stare for as long as Lugh needs to get to safety. I will not lose.

The battle sounds have died out. Lugh tugs hard at my shirt.

“Keir,” he whispers, “they’re all watching you.”

Of course they are. They’re waiting to see the human fuck up, waiting for their chance at Lugh. Too bad Goodfellow hasn’t found any way around me. His sword tip keeps moving, dipping and rising and dancing side to side without intent. He can’t hold my gaze. He inspects me without finding an easy way to exploit a weakness. I won’t break first. Not against a coward, a murderer like him.

“Keir—”

“Go.” I shrug Lugh off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

It’s not a lie. Where Lugh goes, I go, Goodfellow’s best-laid plans be damned.

“Don’t make me wait,” Lugh whispers. The pull on my shirt vanishes, and I set my feet harder when Goodfellow’s eyes light up. If he’s going to try anything, it will be now.

Try, he does. He comes at me time and again, forcing me to meet him blow for blow. And each time, I drive him back without giving any ground. My arms ache by the time he swears and flings his sword aside. He stands across from me, sweaty, flushed, furious, and holds his arms out at his sides.

“I don’t have time for this,” he calls out and his hands flex.

I don’t wait for the vines to come. I turn tail and run like a coward. The remaining Northerners spring to life behind me, following me down the hall, even as the clash of combat reaches a fevered intensity. Some race out the exit ahead of me, weapons drawn in my defense. Thorburn, hair plastered to his head with blood, grabs my arm before I can get out the door.

“Poet, take this,” he demands. He pulls his ornate armband free, and presses it against my chest until I take hold of it. “Reach our lands. We’ll fight for you.”

Cries of Hold the arch! and A little longer! ricochet down the hall. Thorburn pushes me away. “Go! Go!”

I obey. The cries behind me mingle with wretched moans, wet hacking, and I ignore it all, ignore the weight of those deaths on my shoulders. Lugh’s outside with the Hunt and he told me to hurry.

Thick, wet flakes of snow plummet to the ground. Goodfellow’s forces haven’t spilled out the main doors, a lucky break for the Northerners around me. Voll is among them, blood-drenched and battle-weary. She spots me and I’m so grateful to see her alive, I almost miss what she’s shouting to me from the stables. “Go,” she yells. “We’ll find you!”

More warriors spill into the courtyard. Voll points behind me and orders again, “Go!” The Northerners rush to the stables and I pray to the gods they can escape in time. I would stay to help them, but I have another duty.

The Hunt are astride their horses, weapons drawn. Lugh holds Dubh’s reins for me and I swing myself up in the saddle. The path is messy, so I only risk one sideways glance at Lugh. He moves in unison with Liath, focused in spite of the silent tears flowing down his cheeks, and I mourn with him as we ride away from our defeat.

* * *

We ride through the fall of night. Drest casts ghost lights ahead of us, and we push on until the sun illuminates the newly fallen snow. Cybel is the one who draws us to a halt in a sheltered grove and forces us to dismount to care for our horses and to choke down a handful of dried venison. I wish he had let us go on. Stopping means thinking through everything we saw in the hall. It means acknowledging how utterly fucked we are.

Drest’s face is drawn and haggard from his exhaustion. Armel has already pulled out the map, but his fingers trace over the lines in distracted patterns. And then there’s Lugh. In the new daylight I can’t avoid the sight of his reddened skin and the tear tracks down his cheeks. I don’t know when he started crying again, but his grief is too deep and raw to stop now. All I can do is pull him to me and wrap my arms around him. The belt’s power fell quiet some as we rode, but pressing my nose to the crown of Lugh’s head and smelling blood and sweat reawakens a surge of emotions I can’t afford to give in to now.

“What do we do now?” Drest asks.