The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

I send up a prayer to the gods. Goodfellow’s sword descends. My lungs seize with sudden cold. Lugh’s eyes cloud over with an eerie, familiar blue. He gives a soft sigh, and the air above him splits, disgorging the draugr before Goodfellow.

I didn’t realize how strong he was. Lugh is a marvel to keep himself free from this creature’s grip, to find a way to work with it and not cede his control to it.

It rises up, a towering wreck of a ghost devoured by its hatred of the living. Its clothes have shredded away, revealing frostbitten skin and bleached bone. Its face is a gaunt, twisted thing with blazing eyes. Eyes fixed on Goodfellow. He gapes at it and his grip on the sword falters.

“Father?” he whispers.

He pales when the draugr reaches for him. Blackened, pointed fingers threaten to rake across his face and Goodfellow screams in fear and fury. The strike meant for Lugh changes. Goodfellow thrusts his sword forward into the draugr’s gaping chest. The blade pulls free, but there’s no change on that ruined skin. Nothing except the series of stab wounds already rotted into place. It’s a useless blow. A blow that leaves his guard down.

I draw my weight back, lift the axe high, and shift my balance. Goodfellow turns, noticing me at last.

Every ounce of strength I have left is given to my swing. Father’s axe bites deep into the juncture of Goodfellow’s neck and shoulder. The shock of the blade cutting through the collarbone to bury itself in the spine travels up through my hands and arms. Goodfellow’s head lolls forward, severed before his body grasps what’s happened, and Aage’s crown catches the clouded sunlight like a star winking out. A violent pull on the haft and the weapon comes free, along with a decapitated head.

A delicate wisp of a figure stands there after Goodfellow’s body crumples. The draugr pounces with a haunting screech of triumph. The wisp struggles, but there’s no escape from the greedy fingers.

“Enough.” Lugh, pupils blown, fighting for balance, stands and faces the draugr. A horrible roar grinds from its throat and its dark, rotting mouth gapes wide, flashing sharp teeth at Lugh in open threat. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He simply says, “Take him with you. Take them all with you.”

The draugr turns toward me, though its eyes seem fixed on something else. I lift my axe and brace myself, but it vanishes before it collides with me, leaving nothing behind but a foul mist.

“Lugh,” I croak. His hazel eyes meet my gaze, and we fumble into each other’s arms, clinging together as we sink to our knees.

“You’re alive,” I whisper.

“It worked,” he tells me over and over again. “It’s over, Keir.”

He shakes, sobs into my neck, and I hold him as the raw force of the Triumvirate’s power finally ebbs. Dimly, I realize the noise of the battle has ceased. The only sounds are the clatter and muffled thuds of weapons dropping to the ground. A glance up finds Goodfellow’s army surrendering.

Someone clears their throat. The Northern warriors stand at attention around us. They’re bloodied, limping, supporting their wounded, but gloriously alive. Even the Hunt have made their way over, worse for wear, but still here. Lugh’s brothers cross the field to us, Roark supported almost wholly by Sláine. Resnik, half his face coated in a sheet of blood and his leg bleeding, limps doggedly across the mess to where Lugh and I kneel. He examines what remains of Goodfellow’s corpse.

I don’t look. I don’t regret my actions, but there’s nothing gained from reveling over a kill. Resnik makes a pleased sound when he takes in the site of the fatal wound and reaches to lift the crown free. The sight of the dark metal held aloft for all to see sends up a cry across the battlefield. He lets the relieved note of triumph linger in the air.

“The false thegn has fallen,” Resnik calls out to all. “Who bears

witness to his end?”

Voll steps forward, smiling wide. “I do.”

“And I,” Kermode agrees from farther afield.

Resnik nods. “And who will pledge their allegiance to this victor?”

My huscarls lead the call, with their soldiers bellowing their approval only moments after. Their cries of “To the thegn!” leave the Mainland Sluagh bowing their heads, though some dare to look up and call their acceptance out as well.

The Hunt follow with weary, but heartfelt, shouts in my honor. And then, just as their assent fades I hear, “I, Roark Tahm Lyne of the Winter Court, and my consort, Phineas Smith, swear our Court will recognize this man’s sovereignty.”

The Unseelie princes stand mere feet away. Sláine barely waits for his brother to finish before promising, “I swear, as an official witness for Princess Aislinn of the Summer Court, our Court will also recognize this man’s sovereignty.”

The final victory. Roark’s promise made real.

I swallow hard and risk looking back to Resnik. All my worries and fears quiet at the sight of his proud smile. He gestures and Lugh and I rise. Lugh steps back, leaving me suddenly, painfully alone.

Resnik balances the crown in his hands. He lifts it high enough for all to see before lowering it onto my head. The weight of the band settles into place like a piece of my soul I never knew I’d been missing. Lugh moves now. He reaches out and clasps my hand in his, squeezing a reminder that my seidhr won’t abandon me.

“To the Thegn of the Darkest Court,” Roark calls and the Summer and Winter fae call back, “To the thegn!”

The skin on my arms prickles and the Sluagh exchange shocked glances. Never have the people of the Wylds been recognized by their fae cousins. Never have they been considered equals. Yet here we stand.

The smile Lugh directs at his older brother is fierce and triumphant, and when he looks back to me, I can’t help but mirror his expression. Lugh raises our clasped hands and declares, “To the winner goes the Iron Crown.”