Tick-Tok.
Ihvon was of the mind to rip that clock from the wall and smash it against the ground. He sat in the chair behind Daymon's desk, his feet resting on the hard wood, his hands clasped together at the back of his head. Daymon lay asleep in the leather chair on the other side of the room near the bookcase, his chest rising and falling slowly, his hands crossed over his breast.
Looking at Daymon, it was difficult for Ihvon not to see the child he had helped raise. And with that, guilt flowed through his veins. Daymon had not been ready for this. He was not prepared. Ihvon's actions had led to the fall of Belduar. It was because of him that Arthur had been killed, and the weight of the crown now weighed heavy on Daymon's shoulders. It was Ihvon's weakness that had caused this. He had allowed that Fade to take advantage of Khris and Alyana's death – to use him.
Reaching into his trouser pocket, Ihvon pulled out the slim metal flask that was almost empty. He unscrewed the lid with an ease born of repetition, then drained the last of the flask's fiery contents, feeling the spirit burn its way down his throat. Shaking his head, he pulled his feet from atop the desk, letting out a sigh as he did.
The small table that sat nestled in beside Daymon's desk was home to a crystal flask of Drifaienin whiskey, two crystal glasses, and a small lantern that held some of that luminescent blue flower, Heraya's Ward. Ihvon reached across to the small table, snatched up one of the glasses, and at the same time wrapped his thick fingers around the neck of the flask.
Placing both on the desk before him, he unplugged the stopper, letting the distinctive scents drift from the flask's neck. Drifaienin whiskey, he would know it anywhere. As Ihvon poured a hefty glass of the whiskey, his eyes once again fell on Daymon.
"I will see you honour his memory," Ihvon muttered to himself, tipping the glass against his lips, sighing with satisfaction at the mellow taste of the whiskey.
Turning towards the window, Ihvon looked out over the streets of the Heart of Durakdur. He hated it down here, within the mountain, where the sun never rose nor set, where the light of the moon never glittered across rooftops. The bluish-green light from the Heraya's Ward always washed over Durakdur, making it seem as though the city was nothing but a perpetual dream. Or for him, closer to a nightmare.
Ihvon closed his eyes, stumbling slightly as he did. Now, seeing nothing but darkness, he painted an image of Belduar in his mind. The warm light of the sun drifted down over the city, bouncing off rooftops, glittering off the surface of Haftsfjord lake. In his mind, he stood atop the walls of the Inner Circle, his elbows leaning across the battlements, the cool breeze brushing over the top of his head. That was where he longed to be – not in some cave beneath hundreds of feet of rock, watching his people wither and die.
A light thud came from outside the door. Ihvon snapped his eyes open. He could feel his heart's slow, methodical thumps against his ribs. He listened again but heard nothing. Not so much as a whisper. A chill ran the length of Ihvon's spine, that familiar feeling of something that wasn't right. "Linus? Almin?"
Eight of the Kingsguard were stationed in pairs, between the door to Daymon's office and the main entrance from the street. Linus and Almin were the two who should have been standing directly in front of the office door, but neither of them replied. Ihvon glanced towards his sword where it rested at the side of the leather chair where Daymon sat. He had left it there when he was talking to Daymon earlier that night.
Ihvon took one step closer to the door. "Linus, Alm—"
The door swung open, cracking Ihvon in the nose, sending a bolt of pain bursting through his head. He stumbled backwards, bringing one hand to his nose, once more broken. Through blood-muddied eyes, he made out two shapes bursting into the room, both moving in his direction. Men in black cloaks, hoods draped over their heads, the glint of steel in their hands. Assassins.Ihvon's whiskey-induced grogginess shifted a little, providing some clarity. He caught himself on his back foot and swung his arm through the air, smashing the crystal glass into the cheek of the assassin closest to him. The man reeled back, howling as the glass shattered, slicing into his skin. Unfortunately, the shards of crystal were similarly unkind to Ihvon's hand. He ignored the pain, lunging forward.
Grabbing the side of the assassin's head, Ihvon slammed it as hard as he physically could against the door, a tremor running through his arm at the collision of skull and wood. The man slumped to the floor, his body limp.
Ihvon risked a glance over his shoulder at Daymon, who was now awake, eyes wide, reaching for his sword. Reluctantly, Ihvon dragged his eyes away from his king and charged towards the second man. His sliced hand throbbed as he moved, burning with pain, dripping blood to the floor. He pushed it to the back of his mind. Deal with the immediate threat first.Dropping his shoulder, Ihvon crashed into the second assassin, feeling the connection as bone collided with bone. He howled as the man collected himself and dragged a knife across Ihvon's chest, the cold steel slicing deep into his flesh.
The assassin lunged, only missing Ihvon's neck by a hair's breadth. But he had sacrificed his footing to attempt the strike. Ihvon sidestepped, snatching a hefty-looking hardback book from the shelf to his right.
Swinging the book around, he caught his attacker in the side of the head, setting him into a stumble. As the man fell, Ihvon kicked at his ankles, knocking them together. He crashed to the ground, his face slamming into the stone. Lunging forward, Ihvon rammed the spine of the book into the bridge of the assassin's nose. The man's head shot backward, bouncing off the stone floor. He went still.
The sound of steel on steel exploded in Ihvon's ears. A third assassin had charged into the room and was now going toe to toe with Daymon, moving in a whir of steel. Daymon was no match for him.
A piercing pain throbbed in Ihvon's side as he pulled himself to his feet. He looked down towards the source of the pain, at the same time reaching with his hand. His fingers wrapped around the leather hilt of a short knife, lodged firmly in his side. The battle rush must have concealed the pain when the blade entered, but that rush did little for him now. He would have to leave it in; he would bleed out in minutes if he removed it. Ihvon took as deep a breath as he could manage and clenched his jaw.
He charged at the last assassin as quickly as his body would allow, still clutching the hardback book. Once he was within striking distance, Ihvon slammed the book into the back of the man's head, throwing him off balance.
The man turned, distracted just enough for his thigh to be sliced open by Daymon's blade. He cried out, spinning and cracking Daymon in the chin with the pommel of his sword.
Before he could raise his guard once more, Ihvon rammed the spine of the book into the man's mouth. He could feel a crack as teeth snapped away, blood flowing. Ihvon repeated the strike, breaking more teeth, then hammered the spine into the side of the assassin's head.
Ihvon wrapped his free hand around the back of the man's head, pulling it down onto his rising knee. The manoeuvre sent a horrendous pain through Ihvon's body, but it was worth it as the assassin collapsed to the ground.
Dropping himself down, Ihvon rammed the spine of the book into the man's face with as much force as he could muster. Rage seethed through him, boiling the blood in his veins. Rage at everything. At himself for all that he had done. At Arthur for trusting him. At Daymon for letting his weakness overcome him. Again and again he slammed the book into the man's skull, blood spraying over his face and hands, coating the ground. Even when the man's body went limp, Ihvon didn't stop. He felt bone snap and crack beneath the blows until the book was torn and broken, falling to pieces and stained crimson.
When he finally had no more strength to continue, Ihvon collapsed on the ground beside the assassin's broken body. The pain in his side burned through him. His breathing was short and raspy, each inhalation catching just short of completion.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his throat and chest constricting, his eyes fading to black. He felt cold.
"Ihvon, Ihvon!"
"Ihvon, Ihvon!"
The sound of Daymon's voice echoed down the staircase as Dahlen's feet pounded up the stone stairs, Belina only a few paces behind him.
The bodies of the Kingsguard who had been set to protect Daymon were strewn about the ground, blood seeping from small wounds in the soft spots of their armour: neck, armpits, groins. Not one of them had so much as drawn their swords. Dahlen's heart thumped in his chest, surging the blood through his veins.
Two more Kingsguard lay lifeless at the top of the staircase that led to Daymon's office: Linus and Almin. Good men, both.
Dahlen didn't stop to check them as he passed; they were long gone. He burst into Daymon's office, swords drawn, pushing aside the already half-open door with his shoulder.
"Please, wake up!"
Dahlen's heart stopped, if only for a moment. In the middle of the room, Daymon knelt beside Ihvon, tears streaming down his cheeks. Ihvon's face looked pale, though not yet void of life. The hilt of a knife protruded from his side, just below his ribs.
Three other bodies lay about the room, two dead and one unconscious but breathing.
Dahlen dropped to his knees, pushing the sobbing Daymon away. He called over his shoulder. "Belina, get a healer! Now!" Dahlen pulled back one of Ihvon's eyelids, seeing the man's pupil contract at the light. "Stay with me, Ihvon. Come on."
Belina's footsteps echoed into the room as she charged through the door. "What do—"
"Now, Belina!" Dahlen slapped Ihvon on the side of the cheek, frowning at the thin stream of blood that flowed from around the hilt of the knife in his side. "Come on, you stubborn old fool. We still need you yet. Daymon, what happened?"
The king's eyes were raw red, and tears carved paths down his cheeks. "It wasn't supposed to… Will he be all right? It was just meant to be a distraction. She said only the guards would be hurt."
Dahlen's eyes narrowed, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He reached with one hand and wrapped his fingers around Daymon's gilded collar, dragging the man's face closer to his. "Who said that? What did you do?"
Daymon didn't answer. He just knelt there, blubbering.
Dahlen tightened his fingers on the king's collar and shook him where he knelt. "Answer me or Heraya help me I will gut you and leave your entrails to stain the ground. You might be a king, but you are not my king."
Daymon held Dahlen's gaze, his eyes still filled with tears. "Pulroan. She said with Elenya and Hoffnar gone, she and Kira would help us retake Belduar. I'm sorry…"