Calen grappled with Erik as they fell. He needed to hold on.
"Trust me!" he shouted, the words muffled by the wind as they plummeted through the air.
Calen tried to focus, to stay calm. He held onto the threads of Air, swirling them around himself and Erik. The ground approached at a rapid pace. Calen suddenly questioned his decision.
Please, let this work.
As they drew closer to the yard below, Calen pushed against the ground with the threads of Air. He needed to slow them down. It was working. They were slowing – but not fast enough. He drew deeper, pulling more of the Spark into himself. They were only twenty feet from the ground. He pushed again, slowing them down further. But still not enough.
Ten feet.
Five feet.
At the last moment, Calen whirled the threads of air around himself and Erik, swelling them into a sphere. He closed his eyes and, just as they were about to land, he slammed the ball of air into the ground below, trying desperately to break their fall.
They hit the ground with a thud, the sound of cracking stone filling Calen's ears. His knees and back ached, but he was not in enough pain to signify any broken bones. Calen opened his eyes to a cloud of dust and stone shrouding the air. Erik knelt beside him, a sword in one hand, his other hand pressed against the ground. They knelt in a small crater that had not been there before the jump.
"Don't… do that… again," Erik said through short huffs as he lifted himself to his feet.
The sounds of battle drifted through the greyish-brown cloud of dust. The harsh clatter of steel on steel, the wailing screams of dying men, the thunderous explosions of the Lorian mages as they wrought destruction on the city. Footsteps.
A group of imperial soldiers leapt through the shroud of dust, howling battle cries as they charged.
"Back-to-back!" Erik roared, slamming his back into Calen's. "Be patient, wait for an opening."
With that, they were engulfed.
Calen swung his sword upward, blocking a strike from one of the onrushing soldiers before knocking the man to the ground with the flat of his boot. He brought his blade across his body, slicing a path of blood along another man's chest. No matter how many soldiers fell, more simply piled in on top. It wasn't long before Calen's arms were like lead, each stroke of his sword taking more and more energy.
As the cloud of dust around them began to settle, Calen saw the chaos that surrounded them. The dwarves and the Belduarans had formed up in multiple lines at every main street that led into the courtyard, stemming the flow of Lorian soldiers that poured down from the walls and through the now-open gates. Patches of Belduaran soldiers were still scattered throughout the encroaching mass of the Lorian army, fighting tooth and nail to get to their companions. Calen and Erik were stuck in the middle of it all. The realisation set a coil of dread in Calen's stomach.
Trying his best to still the fear that shivered through his veins, Calen parried a side swipe from a Lorian soldier, only to watch the man crumple to the ground as Valerys dropped from the sky, tearing into the man's back. A rumble of satisfaction touched the back of Calen's mind. The dragon's usually shimmering white scales were marred with a mixture of blood and greyish dust, but his lavender eyes pierced through. Thank you.
"We need to get to one of those lines." Erik pointed towards a line of Belduaran troops that had blocked off the street that led towards the great bridge. They moved as quickly as the thick of battle would allow. Having Valerys by their side made it easier. Even though he was a tenth the size of the dragons that soared through the sky above the city, the Lorian soldiers still gave him a wide berth. They were not like the people of the South. These people knew dragons. They knew first-hand what they were capable of.
Calen and Erik cut their way through the Lorian soldiers in front of them, pushing towards the Belduaran line, picking up stragglers as they went. Calen couldn't help but turn his head towards the sky every few feet. The three dragons above were taking turns diving towards the city, rivers of flame pouring from their open jaws. The occasional bolts of lightning shot up from different places across the city – mages trying desperately to do something, anything to stop the onslaught from above. They didn't stand a chance. Wherever lightning flashed, was bathed in dragonfire seconds later. Once a mage gave away their position, that was it.
The same happened with the Bolt Throwers – those massive crossbows that were fixed atop all the towers in Belduar. They might have made a difference if so many of them had not been destroyed during the Fade's attack. They had been specifically targeted that night. Less than a quarter of the original number remained. It was not enough to fight back.
The fighting was thickest as they approached the Belduaran line. The tide of red and black leather was stemmed by the purple cloaks of the Kingsguard. Calen watched as the men in shimmering plate carved holes through the Lorian soldiers, their resolve never wavering. They were every bit as impressive as they looked. For every man they lost, they took ten with them.
"It's the Draleid!" King Daymon's voice rose over the fog of battle. "Tarmon, get them in here!"
The Lord Captain sat on the back of a massive bay stallion, purple cloak billowing behind him. "Kingsguard. Break rank, bring the Draleid in!"
With that, the solid wall of Kingsguard burst outward, like a raging river escaping a dam. They crashed down on top of the Lorian soldiers, their swords sweeping arcs of blood into the air. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing could stand in their way. But almost as quickly as they had burst through the Lorian mass, they were being cut down, engulfed by the sheer number of imperial soldiers. They didn't stand a chance; they were only breaking rank to give Calen, Valerys, and Erik a chance.
Calen looked to Erik, his mouth a grim line. They needed to take advantage of the Kingsguard's push. They couldn't let those men die in vain. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, Calen pushed forward. Valerys weaved in and out of the combat as they moved, tearing at any Lorian soldiers who left themselves exposed.
Tarmon Hoard himself was on the ground at the front of the line, hurrying Calen through. "Draleid, quick, we can't hold on like this. We need to get back into rank."
The Kingsguard fell in behind them as the Lord Captain shuffled them through, falling back into a solid line with incredible efficiency.
"Calen, Erik. I can't say how happy I am to see you are all right." Daymon dropped from the back of his bay stallion with poise, making his way over towards Calen. Up close, the young king looked mightily impressive. A very different sight from the timid young man Calen had met only recently. His plate armour was polished to a mirror-like finish, with a golden trim along its edges. A regal, purple cloak fluttered at his back, attached to massive, ornate pauldrons on each of his shoulders. The symbol of Belduar – a crossed axe and sword with a lonely mountain in the background – was emblazoned in gold across his breastplate.
Lord Ihvon Arnell, who stood behind the king, gave Calen a short nod of recognition. He was a stark contrast to the man who had seemed awkward in the slim fitting navy doublet Calen had met him in. He looked as though he was born to his armour. The heavy plate that rested on his shoulders seemed to soften the scowl that had been set on his face the past few days. As if the simplicity of battle relieved him of the burdens that came with the royal court.
"As we are you, Your Majesty," Erik said, responding to the king. "Have you seen my father or brother?"
A look of concern crossed Daymon's face. "Last I saw them, they were holding back the Lorians, on the second wall, just before our retreat."
Erik nodded, turning his gaze toward the ground.
Calen grimaced, but stepped forward. "What is the plan, Your Majesty?" It felt strange for him to add the title. Arthur had always waved it away with disdain. But Daymon was not Arthur, and Daymon did not correct him.
"Tarmon, we are to make for the keep, correct?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The dwarves managed to reconstruct some of the Bolt Throwers that surround the keep, and we have placed our most powerful mages on the walls of the Inner Circle. If we can make it there, we should be able to hold them off. I will leave some of the Kingsguard to cover our retreat."
There was a hesitant look on Daymon's face, but he did not object.
It didn't sit right with Calen, leaving men to die just so a chosen few might be able to live. He made to interject, but was cut short when a deafening roar ripped through the sky above, echoed by two more. Beside him, Valerys shrieked, his eyes tracking the dark night.
The dragons flew low overhead, their scales glistening in the fires of the city, the deep reverberations of their wingbeats shaking the air. A sharp gust of wind followed as the dragons passed, rippling the flames that consumed the surrounding buildings.
"What in the gods…"
"They're heading for the keep!" a voice called out.
Before anybody could respond, all three dragons unleashed devastating torrents of fire down upon the Inner Circle of Belduar, igniting the air like a blazing sun. The sheer power was like nothing Calen had ever seen, and it terrified him to his core. Every hair on his body stood on end, and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Even over the din of battle, he could hear the howls and wails as they echoed through the mountain city. The narrow flagstone streets carried the screams of the dying for hundreds of feet before they faded.
A surge of strength filled Calen as a massive bolt from one of the Bolt Throwers sliced through the air and hammered into the side of one of the dragons. The dragon tumbled, shrieking wildly. But Calen's surge of strength was dashed when one of the other dragons spun sharply and engulfed the top of the tower in flames, turning the Bolt Thrower into a charred mess.
The city is lost.
"Your Majesty… I…" A weight seemed to hold Tarmon's throat as the hulk of a man attempted to process what was happening. "We need to make for the Wind Tunnels. We… we need to retreat. I fear the city is lost."
"We are not cowards!" Daymon snapped, shoving his hands into the Lord Captain's chest. He was not as large as Tarmon, but he cut an intimidating figure in his burnished plate. "This city has never been taken. Not in over two thousand years. I will not be the one who sees that change!" The king clenched his jaw, veins pulsed at the side of his head, and there was a touch of crimson in his face. "I will not! I will not spit on my father's grave!" Daymon slipped his fingers into the armholes of Tarmon's armour and pulled the man close. "Do you hear me? I—"
Calen rested his arm on Daymon's shoulder. "Is this what he would have wanted? To watch you, and every soldier in this city, die? To throw your lives away?"
Calen had to focus to keep his emotions in check. Images of his own father flashed through his mind. Images of his life… of his death.
"I…" The king's grip on Tarmon loosened.
"Their lives are more important than your legacy. You are their king. Protect them."
Daymon let go of Tarmon's armour, the colour draining from his face. He nodded at Calen before turning back to the Lord Captain. "Sound the retreat, Lord Captain. We make for the Wind Tunnels… The city is lost .