Durakdur – Earlywinter, Year 3081 After Doom
Dahlen drew in a trembling breath, holding the air in his lungs as long as he could before setting it free. He stood by the window in Daymon's office, one hand resting against the wall, his eyes closed, images flashing through his mind: dragonfire pouring over Belduar; the Heart of Durakdur filled with the dead and dying; Ihvon lying on the floor, his skin cold and pale. Muffled sounds drifted around Dahlen, voices, footsteps, the clamour of people arguing. It all sounded as though he were underwater.
His throat tightened, his breathing becoming rapid, images of death and blood still dominating his mind, clanging steel and screams of the dying reverberating in his ears. His shoulders trembled as the smell of charred flesh touched his nostrils. It's not real."Dahlen."
Dahlen pushed his hand harder against the wall upon which he leaned, the stone smooth against his fingertips. He clenched his jaw, his chest shaking.
"Dahlen."
Focus. They need you. Give your mind a task.
Dahlen drew in another deep breath, holding it in his chest.
"Dahlen!"
A hand rested on Dahlen's shoulder, and the sounds around him became crisp and clear: Belina's voice calling to him, a man and a woman arguing, the sounds of servants scurrying about the room. He opened his eyes and turned.
The room was chaos. Ihvon lay on a stretcher of cloth and steel near the centre of the space. His blood had seeped into the cloth, staining it a murky crimson. His skin was pale, almost white, but there was still a near-imperceptible rise and fall to his chest. Two healers – a stout, black-haired man and a red-haired woman – fussed over him, while servants darted about with strips of cloth, wet rags, and small tins of what could only be brimlock sap.
Nearer to the door, another man, the assassin who had survived his encounter with Ihvon, lay flat on his back, his face coated in blood, his nose shattered, shackles around his wrists. Dahlen loathed keeping the man alive, but it was the prudent thing to do. He might have information they needed. And in what was to come, information would be worth its weight in gold.
Daymon was seated on the floor near Ihvon, his back pressed against a bookcase, his eyes fixed on Ihvon, his hands shaking.
Six Kingsguard stood about the room, their purple cloaks hanging from their shoulders, their burnished plate glistening in the bluish-green flowerlight from the lanterns.
It took a moment for Dahlen's mind to push back the chaos and focus on the people who stood before him. Beads of sweat dripped down Belina's forehead, her deep purple dress marred by patches of Ihvon's blood. Beside her stood Oleg Marylin – the Belduaran emissary to the dwarven freehold – and a woman in the burnished steel plate of the Kingsguard, her purple cloak knotted at her pauldrons. The woman looked no older than thirty summers, her chestnut hair tied back, her face all planes and angles. He recognised her. She had been on his Wind Runner during the retreat from Belduar.
After the healers had arrived to take care of Ihvon, Dahlen had asked Belina if she could find Oleg to see if the emissary could bring him the closest thing the Kingsguard had to a Lord Captain. Daymon hadn't chosen a new Lord Captain after Tarmon Hoard was lost at the battle of Belduar, and right now they needed a leader. This woman looked to be the one Oleg had chosen.
"Dahlen Virandr." Oleg bowed deeply, attempting to grab Dahlen's attention. The man was usually relentlessly boisterous, but standing before Dahlen now, he held not a single shred of mirth in his eyes. Oleg glanced towards Ihvon, grimacing. "As requested, this is Lumeera Arian, Captain of the Kingsguard's fourth regiment."
Dahlen did his best to compose himself, straightening his back and breathing out slowly. He wasn't quite sure how he had come to be the one taking charge. He didn't have much of a choice, though. Ihvon was unconscious, Daymon was useless, there was no Lord Captain, the Belduaran nobles seemed nothing more than a pack of squabbling dogs, and Dahlen's father had gone after Erik and Calen. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Arian."
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Virandr. It was an honour to fight beside you in Belduar."
Lumeera's response was something Dahlen was going to have to lean into. 'Lord Virandr'. Dahlen's father was a legend. The mighty Aeson Virandr. His name carried weight. "Lumeera, how many Kingsguard do we have here in Durakdur?"
"By my estimate, we have just under two thousand Kingsguard here in the Heart. We lost many in the retreat from Belduar, but not as many as we would have if the Draleid and the elf hadn't collapsed the entrances."
Dahlen nodded, rubbing his cheek and chin with the fingers of his right hand. That wasn't close to enough. If the dwarves moved on them, the Belduarans would be crushed. "How many regular soldiers? Swords, cavalry, archers, mages. What are our numbers, Lumeera?"
The woman hesitated, looking towards Oleg.
"Less than four hundred in Durakdur," Oleg said, stepping forward. "Most of the soldiers are spread throughout Ozryn, Azmar, and Volkur. In Durakdur, it's mostly citizens. The old and infirm, those who couldn't travel further on the Wind Runners. We have nine mages, but no cavalry. The horses weren't a priority when evacuating."
Dahlen puffed out his cheeks and ran his hands through his hair as he nodded absently. Now that he thought about it, he realised he hadn't seen a single horse the entire time they had been under the mountain. He just hadn't made the connection. "Dammit… fuck."
"What is it?" Oleg asked.
"They spread us out on purpose, Oleg. This has been their plan all along." Dahlen let out a sigh, composing himself. "Oleg, can you arrange for messages to be sent to our people in the other kingdoms? It needs to be done quickly and quietly. We need them to know what happened here and to be ready. There are moves being made, and we still don't know who all the players are."
"I will see to it personally," Oleg said with a nod. "I will ask my contacts in the Wind Runners Guild to carry the messages."
There was a momentary silence before Dahlen leaned a little closer to Oleg, raising an eyebrow. "Oleg?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Now."
"Oh, right. Of course. My apologies." Oleg glanced once more towards Ihvon, scratching nervously at his beard. "Will he be all right? Lord Arnell that is."
"I'm not sure, Oleg. But you do need to go. We don't know what time we have. Take one of the Kingsguard with you. No more than one – we don't want to draw attention."
"Quite right, my lord. Quite right. I will leave right away." Oleg nodded repeatedly to himself before he straightened his back and gave a slight bow. "Your Majesty."
Daymon approached as Oleg scuttled from the room. The king's eyes were red and raw, ringed by dark circles. He rolled his shoulders, pushing his chest out as he stopped beside Dahlen, letting out a singular inward sniffle – the aftermath of tears. "Where is Oleg going?"
Dahlen needed to handle the situation carefully. Whatever Daymon had done, he was still the king of Belduar. And Dahlen was the only person who had heard him admit to working with Pulroan. He didn't think Daymon would do anything rash, but he dared not underestimate what the man might do to save his skin. Even if Dahlen wanted to wring the man's neck where he stood, he would need to tread lightly. "I sent him to deliver messages to your people in the other kingdoms, to warn them that the dwarves might attack, and to learn what we can. It seemed the right thing to do, given the situation."
Daymon looked from Dahlen to Belin before his eyes finally settled on Lumeera. "And you saw fit to summon a captain of the Kingsguard, I see."
"I did, Daymon." Dahlen refused to refer to Daymon by his title, which only caused the irritation in the man's eyes to flare. "We don't know how much time we have. We need to gather ourselves and choose the path forward. As it stands, we have no idea who is truly behind any of this. The Belduarans in the refugee quarters are defenceless, but there is a lot of ground between us and them. We need to—"
Daymon held up his hand. "The Kingsguard are under my command. And the people of Belduar are under my protection. Know your place, Virandr."
Dahlen clenched his jaw. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Belina looking at him, her face twisted in silent warning – 'Don't do it'.
Dahlen knew she was right. It would all be easier if he kept his mouth shut and bided his time. But as he looked at Ihvon lying on the floor, the life draining from his body, a surge of anger rippled through him, blood boiling, hands shivering. He did his best to temper the flames, to slow his breathing, but he failed. "My place, Daymon? You are the reason Ihvon is lying on that floor." Dahlen stepped closer to Daymon, lifting his arm, extending a finger out to where Ihvon lay. Lumeera and the other Kingsguard stepped closer. "You are the reason eight Kingsguard died in that hallway. They were ready to die for you, and you made sure they did. You struck a deal with the dwarves to retake your kingdom without a thought for the lives it would cost. We don't have time for your games. If we don't make the right moves, more people will die." Dahlen leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You are a king in nothing but name."
As the words left Dahlen's lips, he saw Lumeera's hand drop to her sword, her gaze moving between Daymon and Dahlen, her shoulders tense. The sound of rasping steel from elsewhere in the room let Dahlen know that the other Kingsguard set to protect Daymon had done the same.
"I…" Daymon hesitated, taken aback by the ferocity in Dahlen's words. Dahlen could hazard a guess that the man had expected him to back down. "I will give you one chance to take that back."
It was only Dahlen's word against Daymon's. A warrior's against a king's. "Tell them, Daymon. Tell them the truth. Tell them about your dealings with Pulroan."
Daymon held Dahlen's gaze. The calm on the man's face sent a shiver down Dahlen's spine. Daymon was many things, but calm was not usually one of them, and it was the last thing Dahlen expected after what he had just said. Dahlen could feel the eyes on him. Everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to watch Dahlen and Daymon. With their helms on, he couldn't see the expression on the faces of the six Kingsguard who stood about the room, but he could see a hesitancy in the way they held themselves. They looked at each other, their hands pulling away from their swords, their legs straightening. Whether or not they believed what Dahlen had just said, he had most definitely planted the seed.
Captain Lumeera stepped forward, her hand still wrapped around the hilt of her sheathed sword. "My king, I—"
Daymon raised his hand, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Dahlen. "Lumeera Arian. You fought in the Inner Circle during the first attack on Belduar. Then again, in the Wind Runner courtyard during the second attack. Ihvon mentioned your name as one of those on the last Wind Runners to leave the city." Daymon paused, drawing in a deep breath. "I had hoped Tarmon would have returned by now. But it seems I was waiting on a ghost. In times like these, I need strong people around me. Loyal people who would do anything for their kingdom and their king. People like you. It is my great pleasure, Lumeera Arian, to name you Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard."
Lumeera dropped to one knee without hesitation, her steel plate clanking off the stone, her head bowed. "My King, I will serve with honour."
An uneasy feeling filled Dahlen's stomach.
"Rise, Lord Captain."
When Lumeera stood, she held her head higher, her chest puffed out, a suppressed smile on her face. Whatever doubt Dahlen's words had given her was now gone. She was Daymon's. Dahlen turned to Belina to find she no longer stood beside him. She was gone. She must have slipped out while he was speaking. The woman always had a knack of being able to do that. Dammit, Belina.
Dahlen clenched his jaw, feeling the tension rise in the room.
"Lord Captain." Daymon stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back, his lips puckering, his face twisting into a smug glare. "As your first act, you are to take Dahlen Virandr into custody for collusion with the Dwarven Freehold, and the attempted assassination of the King of Belduar. Were it not for Lord Ihvon Arnell, he would have succeeded."
Dahlen could feel the vibrations of his heartbeat, hear the thump in his ears. He could see the hesitancy in Lumeera's eyes, but it wouldn't last long. The other Kingsguard were already moving closer, pulling their swords from their scabbards, the rasp grating in Dahlen's ears.
"He's lying," Dahlen said as he stepped back, pulling both his blades free. "Lumeera, think. Why would I do that? We were on the same Wind Runner back from Belduar. We fought together. Why would I risk my life then and throw it away now?"
Lumeera swallowed, her fingers gripped around the hilt of her sword, which still sat in its scabbard. For a moment, Dahlen thought she might refuse the command, but that hope was dashed when her gaze hardened and she pulled her sword free. "Dahlen Virandr, you are accused of the attempted assassination of King Daymon of Belduar and will be taken into custody by the word of King Daymon himself." Lumeera's voice grew a touch softer. "Please, there has been enough bloodshed. Put down your weapons. You are surrounded and outnumbered. More of my guard are in the hallway, on the staircase, and in the street outside. Please."
Dahlen's breath trembled. The Kingsguard had begun to close in around him, each moving slowly and purposefully, keeping their distance while encircling him. He could probably kill four or five of them before they took him down. But where was the logic in that? What would he achieve? He would be dead and Daymon would be free to continue spinning his lies. Besides, Dahlen had fought beside these men and women at Belduar. He had bled for them, and they had bled for him. He had no desire to spill their blood. Lumeera was right, there was no way out. A knot twisted in his chest, and he tossed his swords to the ground, the clang of steel on stone reverberating through the room. He fought back a surge of fury at the satisfied look on Daymon's face.
Lumeera stepped forward and grasped Dahlen's wrists, pulling his hands behind his back in a far gentler manner than he had anticipated. "I'm sorry," she whispered before handing him to two of the other Kingsguard, who were not quite as gentle as she was.
"I told you that you needed to learn your place." Daymon moved to stand directly in front of Dahlen. "Find something to bind his hands," he said to the two Kingsguard before turning towards Lumeera. "Lord Captain, please see to it the Kingsguard are ready to march on my order. We leave for the refugee quarters immediately. We cannot stay here – we are too exposed. The refugee quarters can be fortified, and our people need us."
"Yes, Your Majesty. It will be done."
"Daymon, please." Dahlen pulled away from the Kingsguard. "You can't just march an army through the Heart!"
"I will not show weakness," Daymon said. "Get him out of my sight."
As the Kingsguard bound Dahlen's wrists with a length of rough-cut rope and shuffled him out of the room, he glanced back, watching as Daymon dropped to his knees beside Ihvon, resting his hand on the man's chest.
Dahlen's wrists chaffed as he walked, the rope scratching his skin. Around him, almost two thousand Kingsguard marched through the streets of the Heart, the crashing of their boots against the stone echoing like thunder, their polished steel plate glistening in the dim bluish-green flowerlight that emanated from the lanterns set about the city. There was no day or night in the Dwarven Freehold. No rising or setting of the sun to mark the passage of time. But when the city slept, covers were draped over many of the lanterns that stood in the streets, creating an ethereal twilight.
Along with the Kingsguard were the nine Belduaran mages who had been stationed in Durakdur, the nobles who had been given accommodation in the Heart, some craftsmen, servants, porters, cooks, and healers. Dahlen hadn't seen Oleg Marylin return, but he was sure the man would be somewhere at the front, near Daymon. Somehow, Dahlen was going to have to get a message to Oleg. The emissary may have been slightly stranger than most, but he was one of the few people beneath the mountain who Dahlen trusted.
Dahlen walked in the front third of the column, two Kingsguard on either side of him, each watching him with cautious sideways glances. To his right, two men carried Ihvon on a stretcher, the healers at his side. The surviving assassin walked on Dahlen's left, hands bound. The man moved as though he were half dead, swaying back and forth, his nose a bloody mess of torn skin and broken bone.
As the column marched through the streets, windows began to illuminate throughout the Heart, glowing with uncovered flowerlight. Dwarves emerged from their tiered homes carved into the stone, curious to see what was happening. But even as the city woke, the column marched onward.
But the more they marched, the more Dahlen's concern grew. The streets of the Heart were a maze of stone. Dahlen had spent a long time memorizing each twist and turn, each corner and alleyway. But the Kingsguard had not. They meandered their way towards the enormous gates that separated the Heart from the rest of the city. But if they didn't pick up the pace, and the dwarves truly did want them dead, they would be like lambs to the slaughter.
"How is he?" Dahlen asked the taller of the two healers beside Ihvon – a red-haired woman with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and high cheekbones. The woman wore a white gown covered by a red mantle.
"Alive. But barely. We were able to remove the knife, bandage his hand, and stop most of the bleeding. We did all we could, but we're both Alamants. Our strength with the Spark is weak at its best. Only time will tell."
Alamants. Dahlen had heard that word before. It was the name given to those mages who were not deemed strong enough to serve the Circle in the North. "Thank you."
"Just doing what we can," the woman replied.
Dahlen could see his guards eyeing him askance, but they didn't move to stop him talking. That was good. It meant one of two things: they either had sympathy for him or respect. Whichever it was, it didn't matter. He could use either.
After a vast number of wrong turns and wasted time spent tracking back, Dahlen eventually spotted something ahead: the statue of Heraya with the Waters of Life flowing from her jug. Dahlen had seen that statue enough times to know precisely where they were. They had reached the gates of the Heart.
Within a few moments, the column of Kingsguard had filled the square that fronted the gates, stretching back for hundreds of feet down the street, the sound of their steel boots echoing off the stone walls. Ahead, Dahlen could see the upper half of the enormous wooden doors that marked the divide between the Heart and the rest of Durakdur. The doors were still open, the low drum of the city's waterfall drifting through the archway, the refugee quarters lying on the other side.
"Who goes there?" a voice called. Dahlen couldn't see the foot of the doors, but the voice belonged to a dwarf, of that much he was sure. It seemed their unobstructed march had come to an end.
"Lord Commander Lumeera Arian of the Belduaran Kingsguard, escorting King Daymon Bryne," Lumeera replied. "We are marching to our people who reside in the Refugee Quarters across the waterfall bridge. Is there a problem?"
Lumeera's voice was strong and calm, only the slightest tremble betraying what Dahlen was sure was inner panic.
"May your fires never be extinguished and your blade never dull, Lumeera Arian. And yours, King Daymon. There is no problem. I simply question why so many armed soldiers march through the Heart."
Dahlen's pulse quickened, his chest tightening. Everything balanced on a knife edge. If chaos broke out, he was all but helpless, his hands bound. The tension in the air about the Kingsguard was a palpable thing. He could see those around him shifting restlessly, many of their hands drifting to their pommels.
"There has been an attempt on the king's life. Two assassins lie dead in his chambers." Dahlen noticed Lumeera neglected to mention the third assassin who now stood beside Dahlen, gagged and hands bound. "The Heart is no longer safe, and we are taking the King and his servants to the refugee quarters so he may be with my people. Does this sate your curiosity?"
A long moment passed before the dwarf's response came. "Carry on through, King Daymon. I will send word to our queen of what has happened. May Hafaesir guide you."
Every muscle in Dahlen's body relaxed and he felt the tension drain out of the air around him at the dwarf's words.
The column had only started moving through the doorway when the drumming sound of armoured boots echoed from the streets around them. Dahlen didn't have to look to know that the streets behind them and to their left were teeming with dwarven soldiers.
"King Daymon!" Even through the clamouring feet, Dahlen recognised the voice of Queen Kira. The dwarf's voice usually held a sweetness to it that belied her ferocity – and by the gods was she fierce – but now it simmered with fury. "Stand down, and order your guards to lower their weapons."
A murmur swept through the Kingsguard, feet shifting, steel clinking. The guards closest to Dahlen pulled their swords free a few inches.
"We will not stand down!" Daymon called out.
"Then you will be stood down."
A shiver rippled through Dahlen's body. There was no room for movement in Kira's tone. It wasn't a suggestion or a last attempt at discussion. It was a cold fact.
Dahlen had a feeling Daymon wasn't the only one whose life had been threatened that night. He also must not have been the only one who thwarted that attempt. If Dahlen were a gambling man, he would bet his life that the assassin had laid the blame at Daymon and Elenya's feet. Daymon had said Pulroan promised she would help him retake Belduar, her and Kira. The man Belina had interrogated below The Cloak and Dagger – even the thought of what she likely did to extract the information made Dahlen sick to his stomach – had said that Elenya was moving against the others and had sent an assassin after Daymon. There were a lot of moving pieces, but none of the moves made sense. Whatever was happening here, it was clear that everyone knew less than they thought they did, and the small amount they did know was likely wrong.
"By Hafaesir's hammer!" The cry was greeted by a chorus of shouts, steel drumming against steel. "Take the king alive!"
"Form up!" a voice called out. "Protect the king!"
Shouts rang out all around Dahlen as the Belduaran Kingsguard dropped into formation, moving seamlessly like cogs in a well-oiled machine. Purple cloaks drifted left and right; the rasp of swords being drawn crashed against the thunderous sounds of steel boots beating against the stone.
"Get behind me," the Kingsguard closest to Dahlen said, his words aimed at Dahlen, the healers, the assassin, and the men carrying Ihvon's stretcher. "Bunch together and stay with us. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," came the reply from the two men carrying the stretcher.
The four Kingsguard who had been set to protect them – or guard them – fell into a tight square around Dahlen and the others, their swords gripped in clenched fists, thick heavy rimmed shields on their left arms. A moment of calm fell over the square, and then the dwarves crashed into the Belduaran lines from the left and the rear.
"Through the gates!" Dahlen heard Daymon call. "Forward!"
That was probably the first intelligent decision the king had made. Dahlen had seen the Kingsguard hold the line at Belduar. Their training and skill were particularly aligned with a slow tactical retreat. If they stayed where they were, they would be overrun, but if they could make it to the walkways, the mages could collapse some bridges, giving them time. If they could make it to the refugee quarters, the dwarves would likely put them under siege, but it would at the least buy them the one thing they didn't currently have: time.
Slowly, step by step, the column of Kingsguard and Belduarans moved through the gates, feet shuffling, bodies crushing together.
"It's all right," Dahlen said to the healers and the two men who were carrying Ihvon's stretcher. He bent slightly as he walked, looking down at Ihvon, who still lay unconscious. "Just keep moving. They won't break through."
Screams and howls echoed off the rock and stone, turning in on themselves, colliding with the harsh ringing of steel on steel and the crunch of bone. The iron tang of blood tinged the battle-warmed air, leaving a foul taste on Dahlen's tongue. The Kingsguard around him began to move closer, the crush of bodies closing. Instinctively, he tugged at his bonds as he walked, the rough rope digging into his skin. The helplessness made his skin crawl. What good was he if he couldn't hold a sword, if he couldn't defend himself? Even if he could, his swords still lay on the floor in Daymon's quarters – the swords his mother had forged for him. Keep moving. Give your mind a task. One foot in front of the other.
A series of blood-curdling screams rang out, and Dahlen leapt backwards as an enormous bolt ripped through the air, slicing into the lines of soldiers before slamming into the chest of the Kingsguard who stood next to Dahlen. The bolt punched through the man's breastplate in a plume of blood and gore, the sheer force lifting the Kingsguard into the air, sending him crashing to the ground a few feet away, his body limp, blood pouring freely onto the stone.
What the fuck was that? Dahlen stared at the man's body for a few moments before it was swallowed by the retreating mass of Belduarans. More screams rang out, and another bolt cleaved through the column of Kingsguard, pinning a man against the stone wall of the building to the right, blood spilling over his lip and out around the bolt that was embedded in his gut. The enormous wooden shaft of the bolt looked to be about eight feet long and almost two handspans wide. The Bolt Throwers from Belduar!
Dahlen had forgotten it was the dwarves who had made the Bolt Throwers that had been mounted on the towers of Belduar. Those machines had been built to slay dragons. It was no wonder the bolts tore through men with such ease. But Dahlen hadn't seen any Bolt Throwers in Durakdur, which meant the dwarves must have built mobile versions.
Dahlen heard a loud snap followed by screams. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he leapt into the two men beside him that carried Ihvon's stretcher, knocking them to the ground. A gust of wind passed over Dahlen's head as they hit the stone, along with a sharp whoosh. A shriek rose beside them, and Dahlen looked up to see the bolt had struck one of the healers – the stout, black-haired man. The woman who wore the red mantle stood beside him, shrieking, her hands clasped to her chest, her shoulders convulsing. The man swayed left and right, his eyes wide, his mouth open. A stump sat where his left arm had been, broken bone protruding from the mangled flesh of his shoulder, blood sluicing onto the stone. The healer dropped to his knees, his body trembling, then collapsed, blood spraying in spurts.
"Get him up," Dahlen said to the two men carrying Ihvon's stretcher. "Get him up, and keep moving!"
The man closest to Dahlen stared at him for a moment before scrambling to his feet and darting ahead, pushing his way through the crush of Kingsguard. The second man looked at Dahlen, then glanced after his fleeing companion. He shook his head. "I'm sorry." He only made it a foot or so before a bolt crashed into the side of his head, the impact pulverising the bone and flesh into a cloud of gore. The mangled body collapsed.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Dahlen's hands trembled as his breaths grew ragged and sharp, the rope around his wrists seeming to grow tighter and tighter. Get up. This is not where you die. Drawing a deep breath in through his nostrils, Dahlen dragged himself to his feet. The other healer was gone by the time he stood upright, but the assassin and the three remaining Kingsguard who had been set to watch them still drew breath.
Dahlen could see the assassin's eyes glancing between the three Kingsguard, his gaze resting on a sword that had been fallen on the ground. The man dropped to his knees, reaching for the weapon. Dahlen swung his hands back and slammed his wrists into the back of the man's head, feeling the thump as bone collided with bone. The man dropped to his side, howling. Dahlen grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to where Ihvon lay. "Stay down!"
The assassin wrapped his fingers around Dahlen's throat, but Dahlen swung his hands again, smashing them into the bridge of the assassin's already broken nose. The man's fingers loosened around Dahlen's neck, his hands falling away. Dahlen struck him again, ignoring his own pain as blood sprayed across the ground. He raised his arms once more but stopped himself. The man was unconscious, and Dahlen needed him alive. He needed whatever information was locked inside the man's head.
Another bolt tore through the Kingsguard to Dahlen's left, breaking bones and armour as it flew. A series of howls and shouts followed the bolt, and Dahlen turned to see a clutch of dwarves in heavy, sharp-cut plate charging through the gap created by the weapon, swinging their axes in pendulum-like sweeps, forcing the Kingsguard to step back further, widening the opening. With a gap now open in the Belduaran lines, Dahlen could see the full might of the dwarven forces attacking from the left. Past the force of charging dwarves was a long, wide street filled with heavy armour and crimson cloaks. Three Bolt Throwers jutted above the dwarves' head, sitting atop elevated platforms. Dahlen had little doubt that the force attacking their rear flank was similarly armed. Queen Kira had been decisive in her choice to stop Daymon, picking the one point in this labyrinthine city where she could use her numbers to her best advantage.
As the charging dwarves pushed further inward, sliding a wedge through the lines of Kingsguard, Dahlen noticed the Kingsguard weren't engaging. They were stepping back, letting the dwarves bounce off their shields, allowing them to push further in. It only took a few seconds for Dahlen to realise what was happening.
They're letting them in.
Almost as soon as the thought touched Dahlen's mind, a shout rang out from the left and the lines of Kingsguard pushed hard, cutting the charging dwarves off from the rest of their forces. Then, with the dwarves fully encircled and trapped within a wall of steel, the Kingsguard pressed inward.
Dahlen couldn't help but feel an immense sense of loss as Daymon's Kingsguard and Kira's Queensguard tore into each other. They should have been on the same side. More screams sounded, more bolts tearing into the Belduaran forces. The Belduaran column was still moving, shifting more towards the doors with each passing moment. With a quick glance, Dahlen guessed he was no more than forty feet away, but looking back down the street, there were still hundreds of men and women behind him: Kingsguard, servants, cooks, porters. No matter how this ended, Achyron's halls would be full that night.
"Get down!" An armoured hand shoved Dahlen in the chest, sending him stumbling over Ihvon, who still lay unconscious on his stretcher. Dahlen crashed to the ground in time to see a wicked double-bladed axe plunge into the chest of the Kingsguard who had pushed him to safety. The dwarf who had swung the axe shifted his feet, heaving the blade free in a spray of blood. He let the Kingsguard fall to his knees before pushing the man to the ground. More dwarves followed after the first, howling battle cries as they fought like caged beasts. Trapped as they were within the column of Kingsguard, death was but a certainty. Still, Dahlen couldn't help but admire their sheer unwillingness to give in. That admiration quickly faded, turning to fear as a stout dwarf with a crimson cloak set his gaze on Dahlen.
The dwarf hefted his axe and charged, throwing his momentum forward. Scrambling, ropes cutting into the skin on his wrists, Dahlen grasped at a bloody sword that lay on the ground. He threw himself backwards, bringing the sword up to meet the swing of the axe. The force of the dwarf's swing wrenched the sword free from Dahlen's grasp, knocking him backwards as it did. Without his hands to brace himself, he hit the stone hard, his back first, then his head. The light in his eyes flickered, the world swimming.
Moving to stand over Dahlen, the dwarf swung his axe above his head, readying the final blow. Through the slits in the dwarf's angular helmet, Dahlen could see the battle rush in the dwarf's eyes, the bloodlust. He pushed himself sideways as the axe fell, waiting until the last moment so the dwarf couldn't adjust his strike. The axeblade collided against the stone with a furious crack, the momentum carrying the dwarf forward, shifting him off balance.
Just as Dahlen had found another fallen sword and gripped it in his bound fist, something sliced through the dwarf's neck, leaving a trail of blood streaming out over his chest.
Something hard crashed into Dahlen's wrist, forcing him to drop the sword, then a hand clamped down over his mouth and pointed steel pressed against his side. Whoever held him dragged him backwards, pulling him away from the fighting.
"Don't try anything," a voice whispered in his ear.
Dahlen drew in slow breaths as whoever was behind him pulled him backwards through the fighting, their hand still clamped over his mouth, a blade still pressed against his back. They pulled him through a low archway connected to the street, the shadows washing over them as they left the flowerlight that illuminated the main street.
The stranger pushed Dahlen forward, turning him so his back was flat against the wall of the alley they were now in. They pulled their hand from his mouth, moving the blade to his neck. In the dim light that shone from the main street, Dahlen saw a face he recognised. "Belina?"
"That went well." The woman suppressed a laugh as she pulled the blade from Dahlen's throat. "You shit yourself, didn't you? I can smell it."
"I didn't shi—Fuck, Belina, where did you go?"
"Where did I go? You stood in a room with a king whose ego is only slightly outweighed by his clumsy desire to fill his father's boots. And then you decided to spill his secrets for his guards to hear and tell him he was 'a king in nothing but name', I believe were the words. Anyone with half a brain knew what was coming next. Which says a lot about you. Come on, we need to get higher." Belina grabbed Dahlen by the shoulder and shoved him down the alley, away from the fighting.
Dahlen looked back, trying to see Ihvon in the mass of blood and flowerlight-tinted steel.
"Come on, move." Belina said, pushing him forwards again.
"We can't just leave them."
"They'll be fine. Most of them are through the doors already, and there's nothing we can do. With any luck, that arsehole of a king will die in the fighting. I know a navigator in the Wind Runners Guild. I can get us to the Southern Fold Gate and out of here before this entire place collapses into chaos." Belina looked back out at the fighting on the main street. "Well, into more chaos."
Dahlen stopped. "I'm not going, Belina. I'm not leaving the Belduarans here, backed into a corner with nowhere to turn."
Belina turned, incredulity in her eyes. "That idiot king made his own mess, Dahlen. And I'm not dying for him."
"I don't give a fuck about Daymon, Belina. But there are nearly forty thousand souls in the refugee quarters and almost twice that many spread throughout the other kingdoms. They don't deserve to die for what Daymon has done. They don't, Belina."
Belina tilted her head back, drawing a slow breath through her nostrils before letting it out in a sigh. She ran a hand through her black hair, shaking her head. "You and Dayne would get on like a barn on fire. Two peas in a fucking pod. Two pigs in a steaming pile of—"
"Belina?"
"What?"
Dahlen just shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. "Who in the void is Dayne?"
"A friend," Belina said, defeat in her voice. She sighed again. "All right. I'll help. But only because I have nothing better to do, and you'll get yourself killed without me. I have some contacts throughout the Freehold who might be able to fill in some missing pieces. Come on, let's make ourselves scarce."