Dahlen took a moment to steady himself. The Heart of Durakdur may as well have been an infirmary. It was packed with wounded, men and dwarves alike, some of whom had no right to be alive, such was the extent of their wounds. Two dwarves carried a man on a cot past Dahlen. His arm had been severed at the shoulder, and his face and neck were a mess of crackling, blackened skin. His screams sent a chill down Dahlen's spine.
He was sure that on a normal day, the Heart of Durakdur would have been an amazing sight to see. It was a city inside a city, inside a mountain. He imagined the hustle and bustle of the mountain kingdom, the smells of freshly baked bread and roasted barley floating through the air, mingling with the metallic tinge of the forge. But that was not what lay around him. The air did not smell of freshly baked bread or roasted barley. It smelled of sweat, steel, and charred flesh. It was heavy and nauseating. The putrid scent clung to the back of his throat, so thick that it was almost a taste.
It was not the squeak of wheel axles and the laughter of children that drifted into his ears. It was the screams of dying men and dwarves and the sobbing of their loved ones. And all of it was bathed in the soft bluish-green glow of those odd flowers.
Everything had happened so fast in Belduar. As soon as the dragons began torching the city, it was chaos. Soldiers just turned and ran. They dropped their swords and their shields, and they ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Dahlen didn't blame them. What use was a sword and a shield against a beast that can rain fiery death from the sky? Against a monster that can melt steel and peel the skin off a man's back with its breath? Dahlen held his hands out in front of himself. They didn't tremble, but that was only because he had trained them not to. Fear still held his heart in its grasp.
His father sat beside him on a low stone wall. Aeson had barely spoken since it became clear that Erik and Calen hadn't made it to Durakdur. He just sat in silence.
Therin approached them from across the yard. Even in the midst of all the madness, the elf walked with poise, his greenish-brown cloak drifting lazily behind him. The blue-green light of those strange flowers gave his silver hair an ethereal look, as if he were a spirit.
The elf greeted Dahlen and Aeson with his mouth drawn in an unyielding line. "Aeson, they are ready for us."
Aeson nodded, rubbing his hands together as he stood. He placed a hand on the shoulders of both Dahlen and Therin, drawing them in close. "Whatever is said in there, we are going after Erik and Calen. They are still alive and somewhere in this network of tunnels. I can feel it."
Therin's face betrayed no emotion. "As can I. I am with you, Aeson. We will find them."
The despair that had previously been set into Aeson's face gave way to a weak smile. "We will. For now, let us go talk with kings and queens."
No guards stood at the entrance to the council chamber. Which seemed odd to Dahlen, but he supposed that nobody had the time, or the inclination, to bother with those things at the minute.
Therin pushed open the door and made his way inside the chamber, gesturing for Aeson and Dahlen to follow.
Dahlen wouldn't have thought it possible, but the atmosphere in the chamber was even worse than it had been in the courtyard. There were no screams or wails, though. Silence ruled here. The air smelled of leather and incense, not of charred skin, but there was a weight that held it down, a despondency.
The rulers of the Dwarven Freehold sat slumped in their thrones, perched upon a raised dais. Not one of them even lifted their chin to acknowledge the new entrants. Behind the dais, set in six alcoves, were statues of the gods, as regal and as judgemental as ever. Dahlen noted that Hafaesir was positioned next to Heraya. He already knew that was typical of dwarven culture, from his father's teachings, but it was still strange to see.
King Daymon was slouched on a short wooden bench that rested against the wall to the left, his plate armour still adorning his shoulders. Even dented and stained with dried blood, the armour, with its gold trim and massive pauldrons, looked every bit fit for a king.
The king's new chief advisor, Ihvon Arnell, stood in front of the bench, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. The giant, Asius, sat in the middle of the floor, his massive legs folded, his pale, whitish-blue skin shimmering in the flowerlight. He seemed the only one in the room who wasn't showing an outward display of emotion.
"May your fires never be extinguished and your blades never dull," Therin pronounced, giving a slight bow at the waist towards the queens and king of the Dwarven Freehold. The dwarves muttered a response.
"Your Majesty." Therin repeated his slight bow, his eyes fixed on Daymon. "Have you come to some kind of agreement?"
One of the dwarves seated on a throne stirred. The streaks of grey that ran through her blonde, braided hair marked her as Pulroan, queen of Azmar. The elder dwarf sighed as she heaved herself into a less slumped position. "Of a sort, master elf."
Therin raised his eyebrow, a curious look on his face.
"They will give my people refuge." Daymon's voice held a bitter twist at the end. "But they will not even consider a plan to retake the city."
"Enough dwarven lives have been lost on this day!" one of the other dwarven queens shouted, still clearly seething in anger from an earlier argument. Dahlen guessed her to be Queen Elenya of Ozryn. Her fire-red hair and the short axe strapped to her belt gave her away. That meant the still silent queen was Kira of Durakdur, with King Hofnar of Volkur sitting to her left.
"My people have perished too, lest you forget, Queen Elenya. And now the city of Belduar no longer stands guard over your little… burrows." Daymon's eyes narrowed as he spoke, his words dripping with indignance. "We—"
"What my king is trying to say," Ihvon interrupted, a softness in his eyes as he glanced at Daymon, "is that although we are eternally grateful for the refuge you provide our people, we cannot simply sit back and be content with the loss of our home. Would you give up Durakdur so easily? Or Ozryn? All we ask is that you acknowledge our need to retake Belduar."
A palpable silence hung in the air, filling the room like a thick fog. Not one person dared be the first to make a sound. Dahlen did not know much of etiquette when it came to royal courts, but he would hazard a guess that it was not common for an advisor to interrupt his king.
All eyes were on Daymon, but he said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Ihvon. Something unheard passed between them, but Dahlen could only guess at what it was. When it was clear Daymon wasn't going to openly chastise Ihvon, Pulroan spoke.
"That is very well, Lord Arnell, but right now, we are in no position to plan an attack. Which you well know. I am surely not the only one who walked past the courtyard full of screaming wounded while on their way to this chamber. We are crippled. We had to collapse all the Wind Tunnels to Belduar just so the empire couldn't follow us back to Durakdur. For now, we must regroup. We must gather our strength. Then, and only then, can we contemplate taking back your city."
Ihvon grimaced, dipping his head in a slow bow. Dahlen thought he saw a momentary scowl on the man's face. He had not spoken kindly of dwarves in the king's drawing room; it must have hurt him to grovel so.
It was Daymon who responded, pulling himself to his feet. He cut a striking figure at full height, his armour coated with blood and dirt. "It is easy to speak these words when you sit upon a throne with your people safe in their homes!"
Kira snapped herself into an upright position, her eyes ablaze. "We understand your position, oh king without a kingdom, but remember where you stand. You are here due to the deeds of those who came before you. We do not take you simply on the merit of your father and his father before him. Each must prove their own worth. And you have a lot more to prove before you can speak to us in the way you do. You are correct – this is our home, and you would do well to remember that!" Kira's chest rose and fell with deep breaths.
Daymon did not respond. Fury seeped from every inch of him as he stormed from the chamber, not waiting for his advisor to follow. Ihvon gave an apologetic look towards Pulroan but glared when his eyes fell on Kira. The man gave a short bow as he exited the chamber, inclining a nod toward Aeson and Therin.
Pulroan let out an exhausted sigh as she shifted in her throne. Her eyes burned into the back of Kira's head, who sat in petulance, gazing at a spot on the far wall. "Therin Eiltris, Aeson Virandr. I am sorry that this was your reception. But at least you now know the state of affairs. What will be your part in this?"
"We leave after we rest, Your Majesty," Aeson said, much to the queen's surprise. "My son, Erik, and the Draleid have not returned. They were on the last Wind Runner to leave Belduar. I believe something went wrong, and they are somewhere within the network of tunnels. I would be much obliged if you could provide us with a guide."
"It will be done, Rakina. Our people owe you that much," Pulroan said, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "But as you know, the tunnel network is vast, and it runs all throughout the Lodhar Mountains. And there are things other than dwarves that roam the depths of these mountains."
"We understand, Your Majesty."
"Very well," Pulroan said, a mass of wrinkles forming around her frown. "Your guide will be ready in the morning. Now, if you would be so kind as to leave us. There are things we must discuss."
"At once, Your Majesty. And thank you."
The queen gave a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning to say something to Elenya.
They had just left the council chamber when Asius caught up with them. "Aeson, I will not be able to accompany you in your search. I will instead reach out to clan Fenryr of the Angan. I believe they will be able to aid us in the search for the Draleid and your son, should you not be successful."
"The shapeshifters?" Aeson replied. "If you feel it best."
"The Fenryr are an honourable clan, and they are in my debt. Journey safe, my friend."
"Asius," Therin said as the giant made to leave, "if you do have difficulty with the Fenryr, tell them that the son of the Chainbreaker is lost, and he needs them."
The giant raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but simply gave a nod. "As you say, I will do, Therin Eiltris, son of Alwin Eiltris." With that, Asius strode off across the courtyard, his massive legs sweeping in great strides.
"I will meet you here in the morning," Therin said, turning to Aeson and Dahlen. "There are a few things I must see to."
Aeson and Dahlen made their way across the courtyard, the natural acoustics of the mountain city echoing the screams of the dying. Dahlen stopped in his tracks as he spotted a man draped in a black, hooded cloak staring at them from across the yard. He stood unmoving amidst the wounded and the dying. His face was obscured by his hood, but his gaze made the hairs on the back of Dahlen's neck stand on end. Even as Dahlen noticed him, the man didn't move, didn't even avert his gaze.
"Dahlen? What are you doing?"
"Nothing, I…" The man had disappeared. Did I imagine him? Dahlen continued after his father, checking over his shoulder as he did. There would not be much sleeping tonight.
"What do you mean, Calen didn't make it?" Dann leapt from the side of his bed, a wince letting Therin know the boy's wounds had not yet entirely healed. They hadn't been able to spare any healers before the battle, and Dann had been left in Durakdur, much to his chagrin.
"He and Erik, along with Vaeril and Gaeleron, never made it back down the Wind Tunnels. We believe something went wrong, but that they are alive."
"How do you know they're alive? And why are you only telling me this now? You've been back for hours!" Dann's face seemed to quickly switch between anger and worry. The boy was usually so cocksure. Therin hadn't ever seen him like this.
"It is a… feeling. It is difficult to explain unless you can touch the Spark. But all things are connected, and sometimes, you can sense things. I haven't told you until now because I have had things to attend to." Therin said no more, letting the silence linger in the air.
"We're going to find him," Dann whispered, almost to himself.
"Yes, we are."
"It wasn't a question, Therin. We're going to find him. I can be ready in half an hour." Dann snatched up a leather bag from beside his bed and began to stuff in whatever was within reach.
"Settle yourself," Therin said, looking at the mess of knotted flesh on Dann's shoulder. The tissue looked raw and angry. "We leave in the morning. In the meantime, let me take a look at that wound."
The boy was irritating at the best of times, but Therin couldn't help but feel a small spark of admiration for him.
The man crept into the room without eliciting so much as a creaking whisper from the floorboards. He was garbed in all black from head to toe, with a hooded cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders that hung just past his knees. Two knives were strapped to a belt that was wrapped across his chest, and a double-edged short sword sat at his hip. He drifted across the room, carefully making his way towards Daymon's bed.
The low rasp of a sword being drawn from its scabbard cut through the silence that had previously consumed the room. Only a moment passed before that sound was replaced with the soft thud of a blade ripping through a duck feather stuffed blanket.
Obscured by darkness, Ihvon couldn't help but let out a deep laugh.
"Almost," he said, rising from the chair where he sat in the corner. The man leapt backwards. Ihvon had been sitting in the dark room long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, long enough to see the scowl on the assassin's face. There was a moment when the man's feet shifted, that Ihvon thought he might run. Instead, he pushed his right foot forward and charged.
"Good," Ihvon said, cracking his neck side to side as he stepped forward to meet the assassin. He left his blade in its scabbard until he would need it.
The man in black lunged, twisting as he stabbed his blade towards Ihvon's stomach. Ihvon sidestepped, deflecting the blade downward with his steel vambraces. He felt the crunch of bone as he brought his elbow back up, slamming it into the assassin's nose. The assassin reeled from the force of the blow, his free hand clasping his broken and bloody nose.
"You think you can come in here? Into my king's bedchamber, and murder him in his sleep?" Ihvon tilted his head down to look at the assassin, who was doubled over, stumbling backward.
The assassin lunged again, swinging his sword in an arc. Ihvon ducked the blow and came back up to slam his fist into the man's already broken nose, sending him crashing to the ground. The man scrambled to his feet, gathering himself, tucking his free hand into his cloak. Ihvon's darkness-adjusted eyes caught the glint of steel as the knife sliced through the air. He twisted to avoid the projectile, but felt a sting as it nicked his cheek. He pursed his lips, giving a slight shrug of his shoulder. "Not bad, but I'm done playing games."
Ihvon ripped his sword from its scabbard, bounding across the floor, clearing the distance to the assassin in seconds. The assassin thrust with his sword, and Ihvon parried the first two strikes with ease. With the third one, he sent the man's sword clattering to the ground. In one smooth motion, Ihvon lifted his foot and planted it square in the man's chest.
Ihvon didn't wait for him to land. He leapt after him, holding his knee against the assassin's stomach, feeling a crack in the man's ribs as they hit the ground. Without hesitation, Ihvon buried his sword into the man's shoulder, not stopping when he felt the crack of bone. The assassin's scream echoed throughout the stone room.
"Make no mistake. You are not leaving this room alive. That will not happen. But you will determine how painfully you die. Speak."
The man choked, gasping for air.
"You want me to lift my knee? I can do that." Ihvon lifted his knee just enough for the man to take in air.
"Your king will be—" The man screamed again as Ihvon twisted the sword in his shoulder.
"Don't fucking test me." Ihvon pulled the other knife from the belt across the man's chest. "Which ear?"
The man's eyes gaped. "Wh… what?"
"Which ear is your favourite? I'll take the other one."
The man hesitated. Ihvon didn't. The knife was sharp. The assassin's right ear came away smoothly, though his screaming would start to wake others sooner or later.
"The next thing I take won't be an ear. Speak."
"It was the Queen. Elenya."
Ihvon nodded. An answer was an answer.
"May The Mother embrace you," he said, driving the man's knife through the soft tissue at the side of his head.
"Do you think he's telling the truth?" Daymon asked, striding into the room with Dahlen Virandr at his side. The young man had tipped them off. He'd said he'd seen a strange person in the Heart, watching Daymon. All these years had taught Ihvon one thing. When it comes to the safety of your king, no reaction is an over-reaction. I'm sorry, my friend. I will protect Daymon until my dying breath.
"I truly do not know, Your Majesty. He might have been lying to save his skin. He might not have been. But one thing is for sure," Ihvon said, pulling the blade free from the man's head as he rose to his feet, "there is more going on in this city than we realised."
Dahlen sat on the low stone wall that ringed the fountain at the centre of the square, right in front of the massive set of thick wooden doors that separated the Heart from the rest of the city. In the middle of the fountain, the statue of Heraya pouring the Waters of Life looked down over the yard. Tales of the gods had always interested him more than any other stories during his father's teachings. It was said the gods were an old race, the ones who had given life to the known world. The Jotnar called them the Enkara.
Subtle nuances in dwarven worship had always intrigued Dahlen. Like in common worship, Heraya was "The Mother", the giver of life and the receiver of the dead. Varyn was "The Father", the protector of all things and the provider of the sun. Though, in Dwarven worship, Heraya seemed to be the only god besides the dwarves' patron god – Hafaesir, "The Smith" – deemed worthy of a statue outside the council chamber.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Dahlen cast his gaze over the empty courtyard. It looked nothing like it had the night before. Most of the injured had been moved out over the course of the night, as the Heart was no place to treat the wounded. Some had been moved to makeshift infirmaries within the bounds of Durakdur, but others had been transported further into the mountain, to the cities of Volkur, Azmar, and Ozryn.
With the wounded gone and the smooth stone washed clean, the putrid aroma of charred flesh and sweat had been replaced by the overpowering antiseptic smell of brimlock sap. The sharp, medicinal scent stung the back of Dahlen's nostrils as he drew in a deep breath.
The faint crashing sound of the waterfall from the main city drifted in past the gates, echoing through the empty Heart. That was one thing that had taken Dahlen by surprise: the way sound travelled in the city. It almost gave him a claustrophobic feeling, the way it resonated through the labyrinth of tunnels and massive chambers. This only served to emphasise the fact that the city itself was surrounded by miles of solid rock. Take away the elaborate golden domes, the sweeping arches, the diamond encrusted colonnades, and all the other wonders of dwarven construction, and they essentially sat in a giant tomb.
Dahlen laughed uneasily at that thought. The tunnels would be worse. He was never a fan of tight spaces, but neither was he a fan of sitting around on his backside. He would be glad to keep moving. And besides, Erik was out there. He would not sit around while his brother needed him.
The footsteps of the two elves reached Dahlen's ears long before they turned the corner and entered the courtyard. Alea and Lyrei were usually full of life. They seemed to have a habit of making Dann jump through hoops just for the fun of it, which gave Dahlen no small amount of enjoyment. But now, they both wore sombre expressions that left no room for joy.
"We will be leaving soon?" Alea asked, swinging her satchel down onto the ground in front of her feet.
Each elf carried a white bow with a leather quiver slung across her back and a slightly curved sword at her waist, almost identical to the one that Calen used. Their long green cloaks draped down over their brown leather armour. The two-part cuirass of their armour was moulded from thick leather, with intricate patterns woven throughout. The shoulders of the cloaks dropped effortlessly between the slats of their articulated pauldrons.
"As soon as my father returns with the guide Queen Kira promised."
Lyrei nodded before taking a seat beside Dahlen on the low stone wall.
"Is everything all right?"
"We should not have allowed ourselves to be separated from the Draleid."
"You cannot blame yourself for that. It was a battle, the city was on fire, and we were being overrun."
"You do not understand." Lyrei sighed and dropped her eyes to the stone floor.
Dahlen didn't respond. She was right; he didn't understand.
"Gaeleron and Vaeril never returned," Alea said, her arms folded across her chest, her forehead creased in worry.
"They may be with Calen and Erik. My father and Therin are convinced they are alive."
"Perhaps. I hope the Draleid is alive. Things have been set in motion. Pieces on a board that haven't moved in centuries. We will have to face what is to come, with or without the Draleid at our side. I, for one, would rather it was with."
Dahlen nodded in response. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't shake the feeling of resentment that niggled at the back of his mind. He had trained his whole life – he and Erik both. They had followed their father through everything. Spent their childhoods holding swords, learning to fight. Then, when it came down to it, he had to fall in line behind someone who stumbled upon them by accident. It just didn't feel right. It also didn't help that Calen seemed intent on blaming him for losing Rist. Not that I had a choice.
The clink of dwarven chain mail rang through the air as Aeson approached, a fully armoured dwarf at his side and a small army walking in his wake. The sound of fifty or so armoured boots reverberating against the rock walls of the Heart only served to emphasise how devoid of people it was.
"Nimara, this is my son, Dahlen." Aeson grasped Dahlen's shoulder as he introduced him to the dwarf who stood at his father's side. The dwarf stood about a foot shorter than Dahlen. Her blonde hair was tied back in a braid that was laced with gold, bronze, and silver rings. Her heavy, angular armour sat over a coat of glistening chain mail, and a twin-bladed axe was nestled in a loop across her back.
"May your fire never be extinguished and your blade never dull, Nimara."
The dwarf smiled and repeated the greeting before making the same exchange with the elves.
Dahlen tilted his head towards Aeson's entourage, raising a questioning eyebrow. "The dwarves don't trust us on our own?"
"Actually," Aeson replied, "besides Nimara, they are volunteers. It seems the title of Draleid still holds considerable weight with the dwarven people. They each wanted to aid in the search. There were many more, but I had to turn them away. We can't bring an army on a search through that maze of tunnels."
"We're not late, are we?" Dahlen turned to see Dann and Therin approaching from across the courtyard. Therin's mottled brownish-green cloak drifted behind him, his silver hair shimmering in the flowerlight. The elf never seemed to move with anything short of elegance. Dann was garbed in full hunting leathers, with his bow slung across his back. He seemed to have recovered from his wounds in remarkable time. Maybe one of the healers got to him.
"Therin," Aeson smiled, pulling the elf into a tight embrace. Releasing Therin, Aeson turned to Dann, an apologetic look in his eye. "Dann, I'm sorry. But you can't come with us. The tunnels are no place for someone without training, and you're still injured. It's too dangerous."
"I'm coming." Dann just stood there, his eyes fixed on Aeson's, unblinking.
"I'm sorry Dann, you can't—"
Dann moved with surprising speed, drawing level with Aeson. "I said, I'm coming. You will have to stick a knife in me to keep me from going after Calen. I'm not letting you convince me to leave another friend behind."
Dahlen swallowed subconsciously. A palpable tension filled the air as everyone's attention was fixed on Dann and Aeson.
Aeson's gaze did not falter. His piercing blue eyes met Dann's stare, matching its intensity with ease. Dahlen's father was a warrior. His shoulders were solid, his stance was wide, and his jaw was set. He should have cut a far more intimidating figure than Dann. But at that moment, there was nothing to separate them. Dahlen couldn't help but admire Dann's tenacity.
"Very well," Aeson said, finally, with a subtle upturn of his lips.
Dahlen thought he saw Alea and Lyrei release the breaths they had both been holding. In fact, he felt himself do the same.
Dann nodded, waiting for a moment before he backed away from Aeson and went over to greet the elves. Therin watched after him, smiling with admiration.
Dahlen was caught by surprise when his father touched his shoulder.
"You, truly, are not coming with us."
Dahlen just stood there, dumbstruck. What was he saying? "Of course I am. What are you talking about?"
"After what happened last night – the attempt on Daymon's life – I need someone to be my eyes here. Someone I can trust. Someone who can handle themselves and keep Daymon alive."
Dahlen felt his temper flaring, threatening to take over. "Dad, I'm going after Erik. If he's still alive, then—"
"Then I will find him. I'm not doing this to punish you. When we bring Erik back, and Calen, and Valerys, we will need the dwarves and King Daymon behind us. There is a war coming, Dahlen, and we need our allies in one piece. This is what we have been fighting for. Please, do this for me."
"Yes, sir," Dahlen said, before turning to storm off towards the gates that led out into the main city.