The bustling Heart of Durakdur was a far cry from what it had been the night Belduar fell. The smell of charred skin and the harsh antiseptic tinge of brimlock sap had been replaced by the warm aroma of fresh bread and the bitter-sweet smell of ale. The dark stains of blood had been scrubbed clean from the stone. The screams and wails of the dying no longer filled the chamber, replaced by the din of the busy crowd pierced by the repetitive clink of hammer against steel sounding from the forge on the far side of the square.
But no matter where Dahlen looked, he could not shake the images of the dead and the dying from his mind. The pictures of men with armour fused to their bones, their skin blackened and crackling, deep visceral howls escaping their throats. Clenching his jaw, he tried to push the thoughts away. He used a trick his father had taught him as a child. 'When everything around you gets to be too much, focus on one thing and only one thing. Give your mind a task.'
Dahlen closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it in his lungs as he cast his eyes around the square. The armourer who ran the forge was reasonably tall for a dwarf – just under five and a half feet. His brow was slick with sweat, and his forearms pulsed with every strike. Dahlen watched as blow after blow dropped on a sheet of plate metal, shaping it. Clink. Clink. Clink. He let the sound grow ever louder in his mind, consuming all others, expanding until it was like the beating of a drum resounding through his head. Even his heart thumped to the beat of the hammer. He could feel it, pulsing the blood through his veins with each beat. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Releasing the breath and opening his eyes, Dahlen brought his hands to his face, digging his fingers into the corner of his eyes and dragging them back over his face. Push past it. Death is part of life.Pushing the thoughts to the back of his head, Dahlen set off again towards the council chamber. The Heart was a never-ending labyrinth of streets and paths. Each street fed into the next and onward into the next again. None was any wider than another, and everything was angles and sharp corners. It would take no more than five minutes for someone to become completely lost in the maze of stone. But Dahlen had memorised each step. He had spent many days taking notes in his mind on which turn led where and which traders occupied which streets on which days at what times. It had taken a day or two of abstract wandering, but he was confident in his memory. When he was a child, his father always used to test him and Erik with word puzzles or small wooden or metal contraptions. He had always enjoyed them more than Erik had. There was something incredibly satisfying about figuring out the solution to a puzzle.
Dahlen stopped at the third corner before the council chamber, where the carapace trader set up shop every second day. Someone was following him. He was sure of it. "What creature does this belong to?" he asked the trader, running his hand along a chitinous slate of carapace that looked as though it was carved from stone. It felt as rough as it looked.
The trader was a stout dwarf just under five feet with a knotted beard that held a gold ring, along with several silver and copper ones. A long, thin scar ran from his hairline down over his right eye – which was a milky white – and continued down over his chin. "That one is kerathlin hide. Freshly harvested only a few days gone." The dwarf continued pulling different segments of carapace from a chest behind him as he spoke. "Three-to-one gold to hide price in weight that is."
Dahlen glanced down the street as the dwarf spoke, catching sight of someone in a black hooded cloak drifting through the crowd, only stopping at a stall when they noticed Dahlen's stare. "Surely not?"
"Gold is pretty, human. But it doesn't tear the flesh from your bones. You're not just paying for the carapace – you're paying for the blood."
Again, Dahlen ran his hand over the piece of carapace he had no intention of purchasing, pretending to appraise its worth.
"As strong as steel," the dwarf said, his lower lip turning up as though he were impressed by his own tidbit of information. "But light as a feather."
Dahlen hefted the piece of carapace in his hand, gauging its weight. In truth, it did feel a lot lighter than it looked, though that would not matter if an arrow pierced straight through it. "Aye, it's impressive," he said, replacing the piece of kerathlin hide. "I have places to be now, but I may well be back."
The dwarf's face contorted into a frown, his brow furrowing and his mouth twisting at the corners. He narrowed his eyes at Dahlen before giving a gruff nod and returning to pulling more sections of carapace from his chest.
Dahlen continued on, stopping at three more stalls as he made his way down the long street. Each time he stopped, he could feel eyes on him. It could be a coincidence. It was possible, but not probable. Reaching inside his coat, he tapped his finger along the pommel of his knife. Ihvon had insisted he leave his swords in his chambers when he travelled about the cities, and Dahlen understood the reasoning. Between the refugees and the tensions between Daymon and the rulers of the Freehold, the people were already balanced on a knife edge. A foreigner walking about the streets with two swords strapped across his back was only asking for trouble. That didn't mean he couldn't keep a few knives hidden away.
Turning the corner onto a side street, Dahlen slipped the knife from its sheath, still holding it beneath his coat. The flow of people on the side street was less, but it still held too many eyes. He took a few more turns, moving further from the main street, until he could no longer hear the buzz of the stalls and the flower lanterns grew sparse enough that their bluish-green light no longer overlapped.
He turned one more corner, then waited in one of those dark spots, pulling the knife free from his coat. Dahlen slowed his breathing, listening to everything around him, letting the sounds drift on the air. Footsteps. They were soft, barely audible as the shoes connected with the stone. Whoever was following him did not want to be heard.
As the footsteps got closer, Dahlen took a deep breath, clenching his jaw and steadying his hand. Once the silhouette turned the corner, Dahlen lunged, grabbing them by the side of the neck and slamming them against the wall. "Who sent you?" he growled, leaning his weight against the person's body. He ripped the hood from their shoulders and pressed the blade of the knife to their neck.
Almond-shaped blue eyes stared back at him, glistening with fear. Locks of dark hair swept down over her shoulders, and a thin scar ran across her neck from side to side.
"I… What are you? Let me go!" The woman's voice trembled as she spoke, her breaths coming in short bursts.
Dahlen stepped back, more in shock than anything else. "I'm sorry. I thought…" He let his words trail off as the woman took off down the street, not so much as stopping to see if he was following her.
With a breath of relief, Dahlen dropped down to his haunches. His heart pounded, and beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He was sure she had been following him, certain of it. But the fear in her eyes had caught him off guard.
Cursing himself, Dahlen stood up, slipped the knife back into its sheath beneath his coat, and made his way back to the main street. Even as he slipped back into the bustling throng of people, he couldn't shake the tingle that set his hairs on end and the rushing of blood through his veins. He licked his lips as he walked, trying to add a bit of moisture to his throat.
It wasn't long before he found himself standing in front of the enormous building that was the council chamber, with its domed roof, gold-cast doors, and innumerable statues set into alcoves halfway up the walls. But it wasn't those things that caught Dahlen's attention. It was the guards.
When he had first arrived in the Heart, after the Battle of Belduar, and had come to the council chamber, no guards had stood at the golden doors. But now, eight dwarves stood guard – two for each kingdom – flanked by a pair of Daymon's Kingsguard, purple cloaks knotted to their shimmering steel pauldrons.
Each of the dwarves was garbed in heavy, sharp-cut plate armour with cloaks around their shoulders in the colours of their kingdom. Crimson for Durakdur, black with a white trim for Ozryn, green with a silver trim for Azmar, and yellow for the kingdom of Volkur. It said a lot to Dahlen about the current tensions that each of the rulers within the chamber felt the need to post official guards at the entrance to the council chamber.
Just as he was about to rest against a nearby wall and wait, the large golden doors swung open, and Daymon stormed out, Ihvon right behind him. Judging by the scowl on Daymon's face, the talks had not gone well. The two Kingsguard fell in line behind him as he marched from the chamber, his long purple cloak drifting behind him, his crown of winding gold resting atop his furrowed brow. Barely a nod passed in Dahlen's direction as the king stalked past him, his jaw set and face reddened.
"I take it the meeting didn't go well," Dahlen said as Ihvon approached. Though more appropriate for talks with kings and queens than armour, the black and purple doublet the man wore sat strangely on his broad shoulders. It's not as though the clothes he wore would fool anybody as to where his true battlefield lay. That was clear by the twisted flesh that constituted the remnants of his left ear, the numerous scars that adorned his face, and the nose that was so broken it was not sure in which direction it was going.
"As well as any other day," Ihvon replied, burying his fingers into his thick beard, scratching away at the skin underneath. "They bicker amongst themselves as much as anything else, but that is to be expected with dwarves. They have once again denied his request for support to retake the city."
"What of the refugee quarters? The food shortages, the sewage?"
"Those talks were tabled for another time." Ihvon sighed, running his hand through the imaginary hair on his head.
"What? How? The people are suffering now. It doesn't matter if we take the city back if the people are half-starved and ready to rebel."
"I know, Dahlen. I know. He is not thinking straight. He sees enemies around every corner. He spends half his time in the chamber trying to make them trip up over their own words and betray their true intentions, which is why we need to find out who truly sent the assassin. We need to end this. Can you meet Belina in the Volkur refugee quarters, at the steps in front of the main square? She left me a note saying she found a lead."
"I can. When?"
"Now."
The refugee quarters in Volkur were much the same as those in Durakdur. A single street over a hundred feet wide stretched off into the mountain as far as the eye could see, and even further still. On either side of the street, rows upon rows of doors were set into the smooth stone walls, rising upward, all the way to the ceiling that stood hundreds of feet overhead. Dahlen would have found it breathtaking if the smell of piss and shit didn't hang so heavy in the air.
Leaning back against the stone steps that sat to the side of the main square, Dahlen interlocked his fingers behind his head and blew out his cheeks. He still wasn't sure if he had made the right choice, choosing to stay instead of joining his father in going after Erik. But he could do more good here, and his brother was in safe hands. He will be all right.
Dahlen pulled his hands from behind his head, cracked his neck, and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked out over the throngs of refugees that filled the street. Even from where he sat, Dahlen could feel the anger seething in the city. They wouldn't be able to keep going like this. There had been two more small riots in the last week alone.
"Taking in the sights?"
Dahlen almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of Belina Louna's smooth, velvety voice. "Gods dammit, how do you do that?"
The woman always seemed to appear as if from the shadows themselves.
Pulling her hood down over her shoulders, Belina gave Dahlen a wry smile, her dark eyes watching him intently. "The rabbit should never hear the wolf approach," she said with a wink. "Pleasantries aside, the standing guard has been doubled in both Ozryn and Azmar. The same cannot yet be said of Durakdur or Volkur, but I would say it is only a matter of time. Unrest is bubbling, and it will only take a pinprick to set it off."
Dahlen sighed, leaning forward onto his elbows. "This much we already knew. What else?"
The woman's lips pulled back into a knowing grin. "I have found someone. Someone willing to trade information for coin."
"What kind of information does he have?"
"The kind that could topple a kingdom." Belina got to her feet in one graceful motion, the bottom of her cloak just skirting the ground. "Meet me at The Black Forge in Ozryn when the clock strikes twelve. Our informant will be there."
"Wait, why can't you just—" Belina was gone before Dahlen could finish his sentence, drifting off into the crowd of people that swamped the long street before him. "Why couldn't Ihvon have found somebody a little less dramatic?"
The smell of days-old ale and sweat permeated the air in The Black Forge. The inn was as dark and as dingy as any Dahlen had laid eyes on. Only just enough lanterns of Heraya's Ward hung about to cast the slightest of shadows, and patches of a dark green mould made its home across the stone walls.
Dahlen scanned the room as he pushed his way through the crowd. Two entrances: one behind him and one at the far side of the room, likely leading to a back alley. Long tables of grey stone, with barely an inch of free space on their surfaces, lined the open common room. Each of the benches on either side of the tables were crammed with patrons, squeezed in arse-cheek-to-arse-cheek, empty tankards piled high in front of them. The only sound that pierced through the din of drunken revelry was the melodic song from the other side of the inn.
Reaching the bar, Dahlen ordered an ale from the barkeep, passing him three coppers, then took a deep draught from the tankard. He turned his back to the bar, resting his elbows on the stone counter. "Where is the damned woman?" he whispered, the corner of his mouth twisting into a frown.
He had only met Belina a handful of times, but the woman was just that – a handful. She was always late, spoke in riddles, and rarely gave a straight answer. Dahlen was beginning to think she was more trouble than she was worth, even if she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. Beauty only got you so far.
Taking another draught of ale, Dahlen shoved his way towards the music, almost spilling the contents of his tankard over the head of a particularly short dwarf who apparently didn't have the patience to wait for him to pass. If he was going to stand around waiting, then he might as well enjoy himself.
It was nearly impossible to see the bard through the dense crowd of patrons. Nothing more than a flash of purple clothing or the wood of the lute through the gaps between people as they shifted. But as he drew closer, the words to the song became clearer.
On darkest nights when the moon lies o'erhead,
On stormy seas when creatures stir beneath,
I'll hold you still, I'll hold you tight.
On darkest nights.
On darkest nights.
The words drifted to the back of Dahlen's mind as he pushed to the front of the crowd that surrounded the bard, and his jaw dropped. There, in a deep purple dress with split skirts, a dark violet colouring on her lips, and a lute in her hands, was Belina.
When shadows come and starlight grows so weary,
When mountains move and oceans they run dry,
I'll hold you still, I'll hold you tight.
On those dark nights.
On those dark nights.
The hair on Dahlen's arms stood on end as Belina finished her song to rapturous applause from the gathered crowd.
"Thank you, thank you," Belina said with a half-bow as she held a long cloth sack out with one hand. The clink of metal rang in Dahlen's ears as the other patrons eagerly emptied their pockets. One dwarf actually stumbled over his own feet, his glassy eyes firmly fixed on Belina, as he made to drop the rest of his ale money into the sack.
Dahlen could already picture the smug look Belina was going to give him when he approached her. I swear to the gods, she better actually have an informant here. If she brought me to this place just to gloat…
"Ah, young Virandr. Caught the show, did you?" Belina asked with a grin, tying the drawstrings at the end of the cloth sack that was now so chock-full of coin it looked as though it would burst at the seams.
"I did. It was—"
"Fantastic? Wonderful? The only thing that has caused your heart to skip a beat in the last ten years?"
"I was going to say good."
Belina frowned, pursing her lips together before slipping the lute back into the case that lay on the long table behind her and clicking the latches closed. "You're just like your father, you know that?"
"You know my father?"
"I dare say I have known him longer than you have. I doubt I was the only person to receive his letter this past month."
Aeson had sent letters by hawk from The Travellers Rest in Camylin a few months ago. Dahlen was aware of what the letters said, but not to whom they were sent. "The people who can light the spark", was all his father had said. Taking a step outside himself, Dahlen cast his gaze over Belina. Was she someone who could 'light the spark'?
At first glance, she was a beautiful woman with short black hair, dark skin, and gleaming eyes. In her long purple dress, most men wouldn't look far past her beauty, but Dahlen did. He looked into her eyes. His father had always said that at the right moment, you can learn everything you need to know about a person through their eyes. Belina's eyes were hard, her stare unyielding as she looked right back at him.
"Did your father tell you to look into my eyes?"
Dahlen gave a start at the sound of Belina's voice, taking an involuntary step backward.
"He always did blabber on about people's eyes. Good to see the years haven't changed him. Where is he, by the way?"
The woman was relentless; nothing seemed to faze her.
"He's um…"
"He's 'um' what?" Belina leaned in a little closer, raising an eyebrow.
Dahlen's words caught in his throat, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. He was beginning to understand why the woman had received one of his father's letters.
Belina sighed. "Oh, you're no fun. Come, our contact is over there in the corner booth." Slinging her lute case over her shoulder, Belina extended a slender finger towards a stone table set into a corner that Dahlen hadn't noticed when he had entered the inn.
"Let me do the talking," Belina said as she and Dahlen pushed their way through the crowd. More than once, she was forced to stop as men all but drooled on her, telling her how beautiful she was, dropping coins in her hand.
"I have a free room upstairs," a particularly tall man said as he dropped a coin into Belina's hand. He had a scrawny figure with a thick head of curly hair and a reasonably handsome face. "There's more coin where that came from if you—"
Dahlen grimaced as Belina caught the man with a swift knee between the legs. Judging by the twisted agony on his face, she caught him hard.
"Touch me again," she said, patting the man on the side of the cheek as he bent over double, "and I'll burst them open."
Interlocking her hands around the back of the man's head, Belina swung her knee again, so quickly it was barely even a flash. A shiver ran down Dahlen's spine as he heard the crunch of the man's nose and blood sprayed out over the ground.
"Come on," Belina said, pushing Dahlen in the shoulder as she stepped away from the scene as though nothing had happened while a group of men and dwarves crowded around the man who lay rolling on the ground.
Dahlen went to say something, glanced back at the man who held his balls in one hand and his nose in the other, then thought better of it.
The dwarf who sat at the table looked as jittery as a child who had stolen their father's coin purse. Dahlen would know. He was young. At least, he looked young. It was always hard to tell with dwarves. They seemed to come out of the womb with beards down past their chests. But his eyes held a youthfulness, and a distinct lack of rings decorated the dark beard that obscured the majority of his face. That, added to the tremor that ran down his hand and the skittish way his eyes darted around the room before finally settling on Belina and Dahlen, pointed towards his few years. From what Dahlen had learned, most dwarves lived to see just over a hundred summers, or cycles, as they called them, seeing as they never experienced seasons down here below the mountains.
"Jorah. It is good to see you," Belina said, bending down and placing a soft kiss on the dwarf's cheek before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. "This," she said, gesturing towards Dahlen, "is Dahlen Virandr. He will be joining us today."
"Blessed be The Smith," Jorah said, swallowing hard in between breaths.
"Blessed be The Smith," Dahlen responded, narrowing his eyes as he sat down beside Belina. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen someone as jumpy as the dwarf who sat before him. But he kept his mouth closed, as Belina had asked.
"So, down to business," Belina said, leaning forward towards Jorah, lowering her voice. "Jorah here is an apprentice blacksmith. Aren't you, Jorah?"
The dwarf nodded, a slight tremble in his breathing.
"Why would an apprentice blacksmith—"
"Ah!" Belina cut across Dahlen, raising a finger to her lips.
Dahlen frowned, clicking his tongue. But he kept his mouth shut.
"Excuse me." A young woman stood beside the table, a white apron draped over the front of a dark brown dress with white frills at the bottom of the skirts. She wore a white neckerchief decorated with yellow flowers, her dark hair was tied up in a bun, and she held a wooden tray in her left hand with three tankards atop it. Dahlen couldn't make out much of her face, though. It was difficult in the dim bluish-green flowerlight. "The… ehm, the man over there by the bar bought you these."
The young woman glanced over her shoulder at the man Belina had kneed in the groin. He stood at the bar talking to another man, streaks of blood running down from his nostrils.
"Never say no to a free drink," Belina said, reaching for the tankards.
"Please, allow me." The young woman placed a tankard each in front of Dahlen and Belina before dropping the third down in front of Jorah, giving a slight curtsy, and then disappearing off into the crowd of patrons.
"Well, that is the most unexpected result of kicking somebody in the balls I think I've ever come across."
Dahlen only gave a half nod of agreement as he stared after the young serving girl. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, but he wasn't sure what it was. It danced just out of reach, taunting him.
"Jorah, please continue."
"Well, ehm… The orders for armour and weapons have trebled in the past few weeks. We can barely get them out fast enough. I've heard it's the same in Azmar. There are even rumours that some of the forges in Azmar are burning every waking hour."
Dahlen made the mistake of going to speak, only for Belina to tilt her head to the side and raise a dark eyebrow. She looked back to Jorah, motioning her hand for him to keep talking.
"I'm not sure what it's for," Jorah said, looking at Dahlen, "but I've heard things… I…" The dwarf swallowed, letting out a huff of air. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this nervous, but I just—"
"It's all right, drink up." Belina put her hands around the back of Jorah's mug, lifting it to his mouth. "Ale will settle the nerves. We're in no rush."
The dwarf nodded as he took a deep draught of the ale, placing the empty tankard on the table and letting out a short breath. "When I was on my way home from the forge, I overheard two people talking on the walkway above me. It was late, and most of the walkways were empty, so their voices carried. I wasn't even going to stop, but then I heard them talking about…" Jorah leaned back a bit, his head darting around the room as though every set of eyes in the inn were now on him. He scratched at his throat and ran his tongue over his dry lips. He leaned in, dropping his chin down so it almost scraped the stone table, his voice barely even a whisper. "The assassination of the king from Belduar."
Dahlen frowned, turning his gaze to Belina. "This is the big news? They already tried that."
Before Belina could respond, Jorah cut across. "What?" His eyes were nearly bulging out of his head. "I didn't… when? This was only last night."
Dahlen froze. Every hair on his body pricked up, and a ball of lead dropped into his stomach. "Last night? Did they mention any names? Jorah, who ordered it?"
"They said…" If the dwarf had seemed nervous before, he now looked as though he were going to empty the contents of his stomach across the table. Sweat dripped from his brow, and red streaks snaked through the whites of his eyes. "I… something doesn't feel—" With a sudden lurch the dwarf spat blood out over the table, his hands coming up to his throat.
"What in the gods?" Dahlen jumped backwards, trying to avoid the spray of blood that splattered across the table.
"Poison," Belina hissed, leaping from the seat quicker than Dahlen would have thought possible, reaching her hand behind the dwarf's head. "Jorah, Jorah. Speak to me."
The only sound that came from the dwarf's throat was a spluttering gurgle as the blood entered his lungs. Dahlen had seen it once before when his father had brought him and Erik to Falstide. That man had been dead within minutes, just as Jorah would be. It was at that moment he realised what had been niggling at the back of his mind. The serving girl. He'd recognised her. The girl with the black cloak who had followed him through the streets in Durakdur. The neckerchief covered up the scar on her neck.
Pulling himself to his feet, Dahlen pushed through the crowd, his eyes scanning every face he passed for a glimpse of the girl. A few of the nearby patrons had rushed over to the table, screaming and gasping in shock, but most of them had yet to notice what had happened. They simply continued on, drinking themselves into a stupor, howling and cheering as they wrapped their arms around each other, dancing to the beat of the bard who had replaced Belina.
Where are you? Where are you?
"Move," he grunted, shoving his way past two elves who looked to be having an intense staring contest. But before he could take a step further, his entire body froze as though the air itself was holding him in place. Panic twisted his way through his stomach. He couldn't move anything. Not his arms, his legs, not even his neck.
"Do they not teach you manners wherever it is you are from?" One of the two elves Dahlen had pushed past now stood in front of him, half bent over, his eyes level with Dahlen's. His coal-black hair, straight as a razor, stopped just short of his shoulders, and his sharp eyes shimmered with a golden hue – like Alea and Lyrei's. His stare sent a shiver down Dahlen's spine. It was cold, calculating. Dahlen could smell the liquor on the elf's breath.
"Let him go, Saleas. This instant!" The other elf now stood beside his companion, hands on his hips and fury carved into his brow. "You know we can't use the Spark like that here. We'll be tossed out come morning."
The black-haired elf – Saleas – stood back to his full height, his jaw clenched. He clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth, his stare lingering on Dahlen. "Fine."
As the elf spoke, Dahlen felt the force holding him in place dissipate, like vines retreating into the ground. Just as he regained his sense of feeling, Saleas turned to him, a slender finger poking at his chest. "Say excuse me next time. Have some manners."
Dahlen's fingers clenched into a fist, and he had to forcefully bite down on the corners of his tongue as the two elves walked away into the crowd, muttering about 'idiot children'. There were very few things in the world that lit a fury in Dahlen like the helplessness of having the Spark used on him. It wasn't right.
Not now. There are more important things. The girl is clearly not here, but which door did she leave through?
Flipping a coin in his head, Dahlen made for the back door. Fifty-fifty chance.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door at the back of the common room, Dahlen stepped out into the dimly lit alley behind The Black Forge. He still hadn't gotten used to the lack of day and night in the dwarven kingdoms. The abundance of clocks was the only thing that stopped him from going completely insane, but it was no true substitute for seeing the sun rise and set.
Reaching into his coat, Dahlen pulled the knife from its loop on his belt, his fingers wrapped around the smooth ash wood handle, feeling the cold touch of steel at its pommel. The alley stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, backing onto an innumerable number of buildings on either side. It was lined with crates, casks, and small flower lanterns that sat in widely spaced alcoves along the walls.
"Dammit." Dahlen kicked out at bits of stone on the ground. He had lost her. Slipping his knife back into his belt loop, he ran his fingers through his hair, digging the tips into his scalp. He'd had her in his hands in Durakdur, and he let her go. How had he been so naïve?
The slightest of sounds drifted into his ear – a boot shifting over small stones and dust. It was followed by the slicing of steel through air, but Dahlen had already moved by the time it had whizzed past where his head had been and clinked off the wall. A small steel knife, top weighted, with a finger ring at the end.
Dahlen dove to the ground as two more knives sliced through the darkness, clinking off the cold stone wall behind him. Rolling to his feet, he pulled his knife from his belt loop. Flipping the handle around, Dahlen pulled the knife into reverse grip – he needed the blade between him and whoever hid in the shadows. His heart beat with slow, methodical thumps as he ducked behind a stack of crates, purposely slowing his breaths.
Dahlen pulled a coin from his pocket, running his fingers over its rounded edges. Releasing a soft puff of air, he tossed the coin against the far wall, hearing the clink as it connected. It was followed by a sharp crack as the blade of another knife was launched towards the sound.
It's now or never. Dahlen tightened his grip around the hilt of the knife and leapt out from behind the crates. A glint of steel shimmered in the flowerlight from the lanterns as the woman charged at him, a black hood now obscuring her face and a cloak fluttering behind her. He caught her first strike between the blade and the cross guard of his knife, just managing to turn the full force of it away. But she kept coming, lunging, stabbing. She was as relentless as she was skilled. Whatever fear she had feigned on the street in Durakdur, she was no stranger to a blade. No stranger to death.
They exchanged blows for what felt like minutes, but in reality was probably only seconds. Dahlen gritted his teeth as her blade sliced a thin gash along the side of his arm, his swift movement the only reason the steel didn't cut any deeper. He cursed himself for listening to Ihvon and leaving his two swords in his chambers.
The alleyway was narrow. She couldn't manage full swings of the blade. He needed to use that to his advantage. He pulled in tighter to her, closing the distance between them. As she brought her blade up into a swing, Dahlen blocked her arm with his elbow before driving his knife into her chest. The woman howled as he dragged the blade free, blood flowing as he plunged the steel back up through her neck.
She stumbled backwards, blood pouring down over her chest, hands clasped around the hilt of the knife. Dahlen watched as she collapsed on the ground, spluttering and choking, coughing up splatters of blood. There was nothing he could do. He knelt beside her as the light went out in her eyes. He took no pleasure in death, but it was something he had become accustomed to. Wrapping his fingers around the wooden handle of the knife, he pulled it free of the woman's neck, wiping off the blood against her cloak and sliding it back into the sheath on his belt.
Letting out a sigh, Dahlen cast his eyes over the woman, running his left hand through his hair. Whoever she was, she knew what she was doing.
Best get to it.
He only found four things on the woman's body: a coin purse, a small piece of paper folded over four times, an empty glass vial, and a solid black obsidian coin with a hole at the centre.
"Dammit."
Dahlen jumped at the sound of Belina's voice. He had not even heard the door to the alleyway opening. "How do you keep doing that?" He let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Jorah?"
"Dead. Just like her. Did she say anything?"
"We didn't exactly have a chat. But I did find these." Dahlen handed the contents of the woman's pockets to Belina, raising a curious eyebrow.
Pulling the small cork from the tip of the empty vial, Belina took one sniff, recoiled, scrunching up her nose, then replaced the cork. "Nightfire," she said, slipping the vial into her pocket. "Nasty stuff."
"Gods dammit. We've got nothing now. She was our only lead." Dahlen let out a sigh of frustration as he dropped back onto his arse, letting his back rest against the stone wall.
"Why did you kill her, then?"
"I didn't mean—" Dahlen stopped at the smirk on Belina's face. The woman delighted in twisting his emotions.
"You're too easy," she said with a laugh. "Anyway, we don't need her."
"We don't?"
"We don't."
Dahlen pulled himself to his feet, lifting one eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me why?"
"Oh, well this coin is a marker of the Thieves Guild here in the Freehold, which raises a few more questions."
"Thieves Guild? That is actually a thing?"
"I know," Belina replied with a shrug. "A bit on the nose, right? Either way, she is not a member of the guild. She is just using them."
"And you know this how?"
"Because," she said, holding up the piece of paper Dahlen had found in the woman's cloak pocket. "I know where she was going next."
"How? From that piece of paper? It's just a bunch of old runes."
"It's an encryption used by the Hand. It needs a cypher."
"The Hand? Why would—Wait, how do you know that cypher?"
"We've all made our mistakes."
Ihvon sat with his back firmly pressed into the leather chair at the corner of Daymon's chambers, watching the king pace back and forth across the room as he had done for the better part of an hour. Although Ihvon's face portrayed a sense of unperturbed calm, his stomach was a bundle of twisted knots. It was not easy for him, seeing Daymon like this.
"They're planning to kill me, Ihvon. How can you not see that?"
It was difficult for Ihvon to truly argue. Someone had tried to kill Daymon, and they would most likely try again. Ihvon had no doubt it was one of the dwarves. It was precisely the dirty, underhanded kind of manoeuvre their kind favoured. But he didn't think the kingdoms were working together. They rarely agreed at the best of times. No, it was most likely one of them acting alone. The piece of the puzzle that didn't fit, however, was how killing Daymon would benefit any of them. Hopefully he would know more when Dahlen got back. Though he should have been back already.
What concerned Ihvon more was how completely the paranoia had consumed Daymon.
"My king, I am looking into it as we speak. Leave this matter to me. I will come to the bottom of it. I swear it on my honour."
"Someone is trying to kill me, and you wish me to simply leave it be?" Daymon's voice held a rage that Ihvon knew had been bubbling for a while. He needed to be careful.
"No, my king. I wish you to allow me to protect you."
"The way you protected my father?" Daymon shouted, his face turning a deep red.
Something inside Ihvon snapped. He dragged himself out of the chair, grasped Daymon's collar in both hands, and slammed him against the bookcase that stood against the wall. "Your father was my closest friend. He was a damn good king and an even better man. And he would be ashamed of you!" Ihvon pulled Daymon away from the bookcase, feeling the rough fabric of the king's collar grate against his knuckles, then pushed him back against the wooden frame. "Your people starve and live in squalor while you worry about your own life. You are a king, Daymon. Your needs come second. Your people come first. Did you learn nothing from your father?"
Ihvon's hands trembled as he held Daymon in place, the colour draining from his fingers that gripped the young king's collar. His blood pumped so fiercely through his veins that the pressure in his head dulled all sound to a low throbbing.
Daymon didn't speak. He simply stared at Ihvon, his face expressionless. He didn't fight back. He didn't yell or scream.
"I miss him, Ihvon." A tear rolled down Daymon's cheek and in that moment Ihvon saw the boy he had watched grow up. The boy he had orphaned with his deeds. The boy he would die for.
"I do too," Ihvon said, wrapping his arms around Daymon and pulling him into a tight embrace. "I do too."