Dahlen tilted his head back and ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair as he, Belina, and Mirlak made their way down the stairs from the second level to the main street of the refugee quarters. He blew out a puff of air, shaking his head. He rested his hands on his hips and looked over the street.
The line of Kingsguard had reformed across the entrance, a few hundred holding position at the top of the landing and down the stairs. Nearby, men and women who had escaped from the Heart sat amidst a cluster of tents, flower lanterns scattered around them. The wagons that had carried the food were arranged in the middle of the street, the virtuks, their riders, and the rest of the Queensguard who had been granted entrance to the refugee quarters, standing beside them.
A few stragglers roamed around or sat on steps, eating raw carrots and celery and taking bites of a small brown-skinned fruit called jaka that the dwarves were fond of, but for the most part, the enormous street was empty. The refugees must have gathered their food and taken it straight back to their chambers. "Gods damn it."
"That went spectacularly." Belina pouted. "I particularly liked the part where you called him a coward. Who would have thought that might upset him? Such a child."
"Not now, Belina."
"Yes, now." Belina grasped Dahlen's arm and turned him towards her. He couldn't remember a time when her voice had taken on such a serious tone. "That man-child is a snot-nosed prick. But you lost your temper. If these people starve, it's on you as much as it is him."
"It damn well isn't!"
Belina tilted her head to the side, raising her eyebrows in much the way Dahlen's mother had done when he'd been a child and he had said something they'd both known was untrue.
Dahlen shook his head, clenching his jaw, the muscles bunching in his neck. He drew in long breaths, trying to settle himself.
Belina moved her head so their gazes met. "Twice I've seen you argue with him, and both times you've lost your temper. You said what you wanted because it made you feel strong. You knew what would happen when you called him out in the Heart, and again you knew what would happen this time."
"How could I have?"
"How could you not? Did you really think calling him a coward would make him change his mind? You're better than that." Belina jabbed her finger at Dahlen's chest, where his heart was. "In here. But you need to use this." She slapped him across the side of the head.
"Aagh, what was that for?" Dahlen rubbed where Belina had slapped him, frowning.
"You need to learn when to say what you want to say, when to say what you need to say, and when to shut your mouth. There's a time and place for each. You were just as much a child in there as he was. The only hope of him meeting with Kira now is if he feels shamed enough by what the people in that room saw. Sometimes you impress, and other times… well, let's just say you're a fucking idiot."
"It's done now." Dahlen bit at his lip. "I guess we wait."
"Mmm."
"How did it go?" Yoring called out, removing his helm as Dahlen, Belina, and Mirlak approached.
"As well as trying to take a shit in a kerathlin nest," Mirlak replied, letting out a heavy sigh.
"That bad?" Almer asked.
"Worse." Dahlen dropped to the ground beside one of the wagons, leaning back against the wheel. Belina sat beside him, folding her legs beneath herself.
"What now then?"
"We wait." Mirlak raised his eyebrow, glancing around at the group of Kingsguard who had taken up positions nearby, watching. "The queen said we had twenty-four hours. If we must sleep here, that is what we will do."
The twenty Queensguard and the virtuk riders gathered around, waiting. Most of the Queensguard stayed standing, ready and alert as though the whole place might come tumbling at any moment. Yoring and Almer sat across from Dahlen, laying their helms and battle axes on the ground, their hand axes still hanging from their belts.
After a while, some of the Belduarans who had been eating on the steps meandered over, one or two children asking if they could pet the virtuks. To Dahlen's surprise, the dwarves that had ridden the virtuks were more than happy to let the children rub their hands along the virtuks' carapace-covered snouts. Though, it was more the children's parents Dahlen was surprised by. One bite from those hardened beaks and a child would lose their hand.
"How can he sit in that room debating?" Dahlen whispered to Belina as he looked at the refugees who had begun to gather around the dwarves, more and more seeming to appear from nowhere. Some were old and frail, others missing limbs, while some carried their children on their shoulders. Each of them looked tired and hungry, eyes sunken, skin pulled tight. "These people need him. They need food, safety. They need to get out of these mountains. Humans weren't made for this. It should be an easy choice."
"There is a reason honour is a dangerous thing," Belina said, leaning her elbows down against the knees of her folded legs. "Honour and religion." She let out a short sigh at the curious expression on Dahlen's face. "Both honour and religion are things mortals use to justify atrocious deeds. To absolve themselves of the guilt they have so deservedly gained. They are more dangerous than any blade or any dragon. If a god tells a man to murder a child, they will oblige. It wasn't their choice — it was the word of a god. That man is not a murderer – he is a conduit of divine will."
"What of honour?"
"Honour is no different. It is why I asked you what you considered a good man to be. For some, a good man is no different from a man with honour. But that couldn't be further from the truth. Honour is entirely dependent on the wielder of that honour. What one person might deem honourable, another may not. It is honourable to stand by your oaths, is it not?"
"Always." Almer cut in before Dahlen could answer, the dwarf turning to face Belina.
"Always? What if the person to whom you are oath sworn commands you to cut the throat of an innocent dwarf?"
"My queen would never."
"But what if she did?"
"I…"
"What would be the honourable path? To obey your oath, or to spare the innocent?" More of the dwarves, and some of the gathered Belduarans, shuffled closer, listening intently to what Belina had to say. Dahlen often forgot the woman was a bard. Her lute was still tucked away in the smuggler's den in the Heart, but even without it, the way she spoke was captivating. She was like a woman split in two. One half was sarcastic, flippant, and at times downright crude. Whereas the other was thoughtful and poignant, her words captivating. He had never met anyone quite like her. "Being honourable is not what makes someone a 'good man'. Being a good man – or woman—" Belina narrowed her eyes looking around theatrically, playing to the gathering crowd "—is about grasping the concept of what is right and wrong but also understanding which right takes precedence and turns the other into a wrong. It is right to hold true to your oaths, but that right becomes a wrong when the oath to which you are bound calls for you to do something that is wrong."
A few scattered claps sounded amongst those gathered and Dahlen looked around to realise not only had people come from their makeshift homes on the ground floor to see who their new guests were, but others had come out onto the walkways above, carrying flower lanterns.
"Belina?"
Belina raised an eyebrow at Dahlen.
"Can you sing without your lute?"
The woman contorted her face into a look of mock insult. "Can I sing without my lute? How dare you, Dahlen Virandr. The lute is simply accompaniment. I am the talent."
Dahlen inclined his head, gesturing towards those who had come out to the walkways and who had gathered on the street.
Belina looked up, lip turning out as though impressed, then gave a soft nod, understanding. "Has anyone heard the ballad of the Breaker of Chains?"
Some of the dwarves shook their heads, whispers spreading through the still-building crowd.
Belina gave a soft smile, straightening her back and drawing in a deep breath. And as Belina started to sing, a shiver ran down Dahlen's back, his skin prickling, hair rising. Her voice was soft and melodic, tumbling over itself, rising and falling. It was beautiful.
There was a man, of humble lands
Who rode to war, at honours call
And in that war, the blood did feed
The lands, the trees, and growing seeds
There were people, as old as the seas
As old as the mountains as rooted as trees
And though the war, was not their own
Chains drew them in and chains made them bleed
Tired and weary, the man did become
Through fire and blood, the man he did roam
Till a killer made their home in his bones
A dealer of death who longed to go home
And on one faithful winter's eve,
The man met the people as old as the seas
As old as the mountains as rooted as trees
And on one faithful winter's eve
The man's faith was shaken, his hands they were stained
And so this man set on his path
The path to become the breaker of chains
Dahlen found himself sitting forwards, captivated by the melody of Belina's voice. This song was entirely different from the song he had heard her sing in the inn; it was more personal, more raw. His emotions swirled as Belina's voice rose and fell, delicate and intricate, an ornamented tapestry of words.
More people had gathered around, descending from the upper levels, flower lanterns in hand. Even some of the Kingsguard who stood at the stairs had turned, listening intently.
Dahlen looked up to see hundreds, if not thousands, of bluish-green lights resting on the parapets of the walkways that rose towards the ceiling, the cavern looking like a star-speckled sky.
In the enormous cavern, Belina's voice carried, echoing off the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, Dahlen spotted a man he knew to be a mage. The same one who had stood behind Daymon during his coronation speech and amplified the new king's voice.
When honour called, for deeds him to do
The man turned his back, the man he refused
For the killer he was, the same man remained
Till the day he became the breaker of chains.
For when hope is lost, and stars lose their glow
It's the heart of the man to which you most hold
And these are the words as old as the seas
As old as the mountains as rooted as trees.
Though the words stopped, Belina kept singing the same beautiful melody, and as Dahlen listened he could hear others around them joining in, some humming, some singing in full voice. When it seemed as though the crowd had learned the melody, Belina started singing again.
It was there, as he sat on the ground of the refugee quarters of Durakdur beneath the mountains of Lodhar, Dahlen witnessed a moment of beauty amidst all the bloodshed. And so, he let himself feel it, and he hummed.
For when hope is lost, and stars lose their glow
It's the heart of the man to which you most hold
And these are the words as old as the seas
As old as the mountains as rooted as trees.
And so I tell you a truth, as old as the seas
As old as the mountains as rooted as trees
For this world to live and love to reign,
We all must become the breakers of chains.
When the words stopped and the lingering echoes of the melody faded, silence fell over the cavern. Hundreds of feet high, thousands of feet long. Tens of thousands of souls. Not a single sound. That silence lingered, holding for a long moment before a chorus of claps and chants erupted, rising to the point that even the low drum of the waterfall outside was swallowed whole. Looking up, Dahlen saw thousands of people lining the walkways of the upper levels, hands clapping, lanterns glowing like fireflies.
"That was beautiful," Dahlen said to Belina, though he could barely hear his own voice over the cheering.
"I know," she replied, giving Dahlen a wink.
Dahlen laughed, shaking his head. "You had to ruin it, didn't you?"
Belina shrugged, a smile touching her lips before her expression changed as she looked at something behind him.
"What is it?" Dahlen followed Belina's gaze to the entrance at the top of the stairs. The Belduaran Kingsguard were moving about, shields raised, swords levelled, roaring commands that were drowned out by the refugees who were still cheering and shouting.
Yoring and Almer leapt to their feet, the Durakduran Queensguard hefting their battle axes from their shoulders as they looked up at the commotion by the entrance.
Dahlen rose, slipping his swords from the scabbards across his back just in time to hear a blood-chilling scream pierce the cavern as an enormous bolt ripped through the lines of Kingsguard at the entrance. Men and women in full plate crashed down the stairs, armoured bodies bouncing off the steps. But the scream hadn't come from the soldiers. It had come from a woman no more than ten feet from Dahlen. She screamed as she stood over the mutilated body of an elderly man whose arm had been ripped free by the enormous bolt.
Dahlen's gaze lingered on the old man for a moment. Blood spurting from the joint of the man' shoulder as he lay dying. Sound dulled as though someone had cupped their hands over Dahlen's ears. His heartbeat sent tremors along his bones. Images flashed of both battles of Belduar. Dragons, fire, blood, bone. Dahlen clenched his jaw and pushed the thoughts down. As he did, the world around him came back into focus. All the chanting and cheering had stopped, and the shouts of the Kingsguard at the entrance echoed through the cavern.
"What's happening, Mirlak?" Dahlen did his best to pull the accusation from his voice, but some of it no doubt lingered. There was little chance it was anything but dwarves coming through the passageway. If Kira had betrayed them, there would be no getting out of this. "Kira said she would give us time."
"By Hafaesir, I do not know. I swear to you." The dwarf looked at Dahlen, his gaze unflinching. "My queen would not go back on her word. Whatever comes through, we're by your side, Lord Virandr."
"No," Dahlen looked from the dwarves to Belina, then over to the Belduaran Kingsguard at the entrance to the cavern. A group of guards had stayed at the top of the stairs, holding a line of shields across the entrance, but the rest – a hundred or so – had fallen back to the main street, forming a defensive line, abandoning the stairs, readying themselves for whatever came through. "You stay here. Defend the people if anyone breaks through, but stay back. If it is dwarves who come through, the Kingsguard will not see the colour of cloaks. They'll just spill blood."
"Aye." Mirlak nodded. "Wise words. Nothing will get past us."
Shouts and cries rang out from the entrance and Dahlen looked up to see armoured dwarves riding virtuks, crashing through the Belduaran lines. The virtuks kicked and thrashed as they charged, beaks snapping, powerful hooves sending men and women careening backwards, tumbling down the staircase. The dwarves sitting astride the creatures swung their double-bladed axes side to side, cleaving through helms and armour. Cloaks of green and silver billowed behind the riders as they charged.
It was Pulroan, then. She's come to take Daymon.
"Hold yourselves back," Dahlen said to Mirlak. "Daymon already doesn't trust Kira. It won't take much for him to think you're part of this."
Mirlak gave Dahlen a gruff nod. "But if it looks like the tide is turning the wrong way, we'll not be leaving you to die."
"Much appreciated, Mirlak." Dahlen gave the dwarf as much of a smile as he could muster. He looked to Belina. She nodded, pulling her short sword free and slipping a knife from her weapons belt.
The virtuk riders had crashed through the Kingsguard who stood across the cavern's entrance, more dwarves surging through the passage behind them. The riders charged down the stairs, slamming into those Kingsguard who had pulled back to form a line across the street. The Kingsguard were holding their ground, staying tight, blocking with shields, hacking and slashing with sharp steel. But the virtuk riders carved through them, the stout armoured beasts charging like battering rams, axes swinging from their backs like pendulums of death.
A virtuk crashed through the line of Kingsguard, swinging its carapace-covered head side to side, clamping its beak down on the hand of a Kingsguard that struck at it. The virtuk's rider hefted their axe and cleaved the arm at the elbow, the Kingsguard screaming as he staggered backwards.
And then Dahlen charged, Belina at his side.
"Take their legs," Belina called out as she rushed past Dahlen, knife and sword glinting in the flowerlight. She drew her sword across her body, then hacked into the virtuk's leg, steel slicing through the creature's knee in a spray of blood. The virtuk collapsed, taken by surprise at the sudden loss of a limb. As the creature and its rider stumbled and fell, Belina, without missing a beat, threw her left hand back and drove her knife into the rider's eye as the dwarf turned their head towards her. In the same motion, she ripped the knife free, charging towards the next Virtuk.
Daymon stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over the main street. He drew in a slow breath, grinding his teeth, watching as his people gathered to listen to that woman with Dahlen Virandr – Belina Louna – sing her song. Hundreds had stepped into the streets. Thousands lined the many walkways of the quarter, the light of the bluish-green lanterns sparkling all around. I fucking hate those damn flowers.Ihvon stood silent to Daymon's left, arms folded, staring out at the scene. Not a word had passed between them since Daymon ordered the Kingsguard and nobles from the room after Dahlen left.
"Say it, Ihvon."
Out of the corner of his eye, Daymon could see Ihvon turning his head. "Say what, my king?"
Daymon bit down on the inside of his lip at Ihvon's emphasis on the words 'my king'. Before his father's death, trust had been something he had given freely. But that first attempt on his life the night they fled to Durakdur had shaken him. Despite all of Pulroan's machinations, when the woman had come to him with her offer of aid in retaking Belduar, she'd insisted she had not been responsible for the attempt. And Daymon believed her. But that only made everything worse. If Pulroan hadn't been responsible then there was someone else out there trying to kill him. Which meant there were few people left whom Daymon could truly trust, and Ihvon was one of them. Daymon let out a soft sigh, dropping his gaze. "My father's not coming back, is he?"
The question was rhetorical on the surface. Of course Arthur wasn't coming back. Daymon's father was dead. But in the back of Daymon's mind, a piece of him had kept clinging to the idea that maybe this had all been some horrible nightmare.
"No, my king, he is not." Ihvon kept his gaze fixed on the street outside. Ihvon had always understood him — Ihvon and Tarmon. But Daymon had finally come to terms with the fact that Tarmon had never made it out of Belduar. I should never have let him stay at the Wind Tunnels.
"I'm sorry, Ihvon." Daymon pressed his fingers into the creases of his eyes, trying to relieve some of the exhaustion that had set in. "For everything. None of this would have happened if my father were still wearing the crown."
Ihvon let out a heavy breath. "You need to stop idolising him, Daymon. Your father was a good man, but he was not without fault. There is nothing to be gained by comparing yourself to him. You are your own man. And we would likely be in the exact same position regardless of whose head the crown sat upon. There is little your father could have done against dragonfire, just as there was little you could have done."
Daymon lifted his gaze back out towards the street. The sound of the woman's singing echoed through the stone cavern. Even more people had gathered now, singing the melody over the woman's words. It was actually quite soothing. A moment of peace within the madness. "What do you think I should do, Ihvon?"
"Do you want honesty?"
"You are the king's advisor. It is time I learned to take your advice. Or, at the least, let you give it."
Daymon thought he saw a smile gracing Ihvon's face, though it was difficult to tell through the man's thick beard. "You should talk to Kira. I'm no lover of dwarves, you know this. Still, of them all, she is the one who came to our aid when we needed it most. Not once, but twice. As loath as I am to admit it, in our darkest hours, she showed us who she is. If there is one of them I would put my faith in, it is her. Besides, that is the burden of leading. You do whatever you must to protect your people. And right now, your people are starving, sick, and they want to go home. They want to see the sun." Ihvon rested his hand on Daymon's shoulder, turning him from the singing outside. "The reality, Daymon, is that if we don't get out of here, if you don't put food in their bellies, you will lose the people. The only reason you haven't lost them already is the threat of the dwarves. If word gets out that you have turned Kira's peace talks away, despite the hunger here, there will be a revolt."
"But I am their king."
"In their eyes, a king who cannot feed his subjects is no king at all." Ihvon held Daymon's gaze. "Your father is not here. But if he was, the first thing he would tell you is that even a king who is loved by all will lose the support of his people once their bellies are empty. Humans are a fickle species. We are only ever three meals away from chaos. What little rations we have left will soon be gone, Daymon. My advice would be stop thinking of yourself as their king and start thinking of them as your people. Set your pride aside. Talk to Kira. Do what needs to be done to feed your people and to bring them back to the light of the sun."
Daymon turned back to the window, letting Ihvon's words percolate. The woman had stopped singing, and thunderous applause was reverberating through the cavern. "You're right." It felt as though hands were clamped around his throat, and his mouth was dry. "I've spent every waking moment and every restless night in fear that I wouldn't be the king my father was. I've done so much wrong." Daymon shook his head, a half-smile touching his lips as he laughed at his own stupidity. "I was walking in his shadow, demanding to be called king. But I had forgotten what made him such a great king to begin with. He was loved, Ihvon."
"He was. By many but not by all. Nobody is loved by everyone, Daymon."
Daymon nodded. He wiped away a tear that was forming at the corner of his right eye. His father had spent Daymon's entire life leading by example, showing him how a king should act. But the moment Arthur died, Daymon allowed all of that to slip to the back of his mind. He had allowed himself to be ruled by fear of failure. He'd made one bad decision after the next. But not anymore. "I will speak with her."
"I will inform Dahlen Virandr of your decision, my king."
"I lied to you, Ihvon. It wasn't Dahlen Virandr who made an attempt on my life."
"I know."
"You know?"
Ihvon gave a slow nod.
"And you're still here? Why?"
Ihvon let a sigh out through his nose, scrunching his mouth. "I made an oath to your father. I told him I would watch over you no matter what happened. That I would see you honour his name. That is an oath I intend to keep. We all do things we regret, Daymon. We all make poor choices. We cannot change the past, all we can do is ensure the future is better."
Daymon made to respond to Ihvon, but as he did, he noticed the Kingsguard he'd placed at the entrance of the quarter shifting about. He could see some of them gesturing wildly, shouting and roaring, but the applause at the woman's singing drowned all other sound. He leaned closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes. In the streets below Dahlen Virandr pulled his blades from his back, Kira's Queensguard joining him.
A shriek rose above the dwindling applause, and Daymon watched in horror as an enormous bolt tore through his Kingsguard and hammered into one of his citizens below, blood and bone spraying in a cloud.
"We're under attack!" Ihvon called out from behind Daymon. "Lumeera!"
Dahlen dragged his blade free from a dwarf's throat, blood spewing from the open wound. He twisted, reaching his left blade across his right shoulder, plunging the tip into the eye of a dwarf that was coming up behind him, crimson spilling down the steel. Dahlen yanked his sword free as the dwarf dropped like a stone.
He took in his surroundings, lungs burning, his hair tacked to his forehead with sweat. The Kingsguard had held well, as he'd expected from warriors of their ilk. Even when the virtuk riders had hammered into their lines, they had rallied and pushed back. But when Pulroan's dwarves had wheeled two bolt throwers through the passageway, the Kingsguard had been forced to break rank. Bravery and discipline aside, standing in close formation awaiting bolts built to take down dragons would have been idiocy at its finest. And so around him, the Kingsguard and the dwarves of Azmar hacked at each other with axe and sword, rending armour and cleaving bone.
The dwarves were trying their damnedest to push through and into the refugee quarters beyond, but the Kingsguard gave little ground.
Dahlen leaned backwards, catching sight of a dwarven axe swinging towards him in a wide arc. The blade missed his torso by a hair's breadth, and he brought his blade across, taking the axe wielder's head from their shoulders. Blood sprayed in spurts as the body collapsed.
A blur at the edge of his vision and he swung again. The blows from the dwarven axes were too heavy to take head-on with his shorter swords, which meant he needed to move on instinct alone. Steel crashed against steel, and then a knife was pressed against Dahlen's throat.
"Good to see you're still alive," Belina said with a nod. The blood splattered across her face made her look unhinged, as though she were a smiling maiden of death. "Down." Belina grabbed Dahlen by the shoulder and pulled him past her, lunging forwards with her knife. She drove the blade to the hilt through the slits of a dwarf's helm, then yanked it free and stabbed it into the dwarf's neck.
Dahlen stumbled but caught himself, sidestepping the swing of a blood-slick axe, before taking the wielder's hands at the wrists and sweeping his blade across the dwarf's face. He felt the clang as his sword hit the dwarf's helm and the bite of skin and bone as he opened up a deep gash through the dwarf's mouth, snapping teeth and slicing flesh. The dwarf reeled backwards howling in agony.
Dahlen turned, but something hammered into him, lifting him off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground. The air fled from his lungs as he hit the stone. A dull buzz droned in his head, and he gasped and choked, trying desperately to drag the air back, to fill his lungs.
Belina's blood-smeared face appeared above him, and then her hands were wrapping around the arm loops in his leather armour, heaving him to his feet. "Get up."
Still dazed, Dahlen looked to where he had been standing and saw two Kingsguard impaled through the chest by an enormous bolt, their heavy plate granting them as much protection as paper. He gave Belina a short nod of thanks. Then roars rang out from behind, and he turned to see burnished steel and purple cloaks. Daymon and Ihvon were charging down the stairs behind them, at the head of more Kingsguard.
"For the king!"
"Looks like he's found his stones," Belina said, wiping blood from her eyes. "I still think he's a rat-faced prick."
Dahlen steadied himself, uneasy from hitting the ground. He looked to Daymon and the charging Kingsguard, but then something pricked at the back of his neck – an inkling. Around him, the Azmaran dwarves were disengaging, turning towards Daymon. The surviving virtuk riders shouted and roared, alerting the others to the king's presence. Then they were charging. In his elaborate plate, Daymon stood out like a rose among thorns.
Screams and cries rang out as a bolt crashed into the charging Kingsguard, followed by another. Dahlen watched as one of the few remaining Belduaran mages deflected one of the bolts, stopping it from hitting Daymon only for a second bolt to rip through the mage's chest. Blood sprayed as bolts burst through armour and shattered bone, but Daymon kept charging, sword raised. "For Belduar!"
And then Daymon and the Kingsguard were smashing into the chaos.
Ihvon brought his sword down into the neck of a dwarf as he, Daymon, and the Kingsguard crashed into the melee. Rings of mail broke and split, blood sluicing as steel carved through flesh and hacked into bone. He pulled his sword free, then smashed the pommel down into the face of an un-helmed dwarf, feeling the crunch of bone.
His bones ached and creaked under the weight of his armour, tired from years of wear and tear. But even still, the steel of his plate felt like the embrace of a long lost friend, his sword a tender lover. He held no love for court politics, fancy clothes, and half-truths. He understood it well enough, but if it were oil, he was water – they simply did not mix. Fighting was simpler, more honest, more visceral. A part of him hated that he enjoyed it, but it was who he was.
Ihvon turned away the downward swing of an axe, catching it on his angled blade. He slid the steel of his sword along the axe's haft, slicing through fingers and hacking into the dwarf's neck, splitting rings of mail. The dwarf fell, and Ihvon moved to Daymon's back, protecting the king from the rear.
Everything was chaos. Dwarves bearing the markings and cloaks of Azmar were pouring through the passage into the quarter, some swinging battle axes like crazed beasts, mouths frothing, war cries echoing from their lips, while others rode astride those virtuks, long axes swinging and slicing. Some of the Kingsguard who had been guarding the entrance were still standing, but the stairs were littered with bodies and blood-stained purple cloaks.
That old bitch Pulroan has decided to cut her losses, then. She must have come to ensure Daymon is never able to tell the others of their dealings. But where are the others? Ihvon saw no black and white cloaks of Ozryn or crimson cloaks of Durakdur amidst the fighting. And in the mass of bodies, he couldn't even see the Queensguard who had come with Dahlen. Something to worry about later.
Ahead, Ihvon spotted Dahlen Virandr wheeling through the mass of bodies, his path marked by screams and sprays of blood. Belina fought at his side, striking like a snake, steel slicing. Alone, they were both warriors fit for bards' tales, but together, they were a force of nature. The Kingsguard who had held the street were rallying around the two, forming near the centre of the fighting. Were it another day, at another time, Ihvon had no doubt the Kingsguard would have ripped these oath-breaking dwarves apart. But the Kingsguard were weary and hungry, worn down by the months below ground, the fighting, and the lack of food. The Kingsguard numbered less than six hundred now — and many of them injured. They had lost over a thousand in the retreat through the city, most dying in the streets to dwarven steel and bolts, others succumbing to their wounds after.
More of Daymon's Kingsguard poured from the tents that had been pitched in the middle of the street, wearing nothing but shirts and trousers, blades gripped in their fists. They were those who had been resting when the dwarves attacked.
"Protect the king!" Lumeera Arian stood to Daymon's left, shield hefted. Daymon had assigned her to the position as Lord Captain of the Kingsguard out of necessity. She had been in the right place at the right time. But as chance would have it, she was a fine fit for the role. She was strong, sharp, and loyal.
Daymon plunged his sword between the neck and shoulder of a dwarf, ripping it free in a spray of blood. He charged like a bull through the fighting, pushing towards where Dahlen and the other Kingsguard had gathered. "Forward!"
"Daymon, no!" Ihvon cursed Daymon as the king charged forwards. The dwarves were already spreading around them, filling the gaps as Kingsguard fell. He grabbed Daymon by the pauldron and pulled him back. "There's too many. If we charge the centre they'll surround us."
Lumeera and a clutch of the Kingsguard fell in around Daymon and Ihvon, shields raised.
"I've stood aside too long, Ihvon. I won't be that king anymore. And I'll be damned if I let anyone think Dahlen Virandr has more courage than I do."
"Courage is no good if you're dead!"
"At least if I die, I'll die fighting for Belduar. Just like he would have. If we don't get to them, they're dead. I'm not leaving my guard to die like animals."
Ihvon gritted his teeth but nodded, grasping the back of Daymon's helm. The only way they were getting out of this alive was by a miracle, and he could hardly deny Daymon the chance to fight side by side with his guard. The chance to defend Belduar one last time. "Stay close to me. Your guard will fight tooth and nail by your side, but if you fall they will fall with you. We make an opening and let our warriors pull back to us. Let's teach these bastards what Belduaran steel feels like."
Daymon gave Ihvon a nod, and then they were cutting their way through the dwarves to Dahlen, Belina, and the Kingsguard at their centre. Heavy axes crashed into helms and breastplates, Kingsguard falling in droves, but they gave as good as they got, swords carving through dwarven flesh, stabbing down into cave-dwelling hearts.
Dahlen Virandr appeared at Ihvon's side as they broke through to the centre, twin swords gripped in his hands, face streaked with blood, a number of gashes along the front of his leather armour. He turned, catching the swing of a dwarven axe with the strong of his blade before driving the tip of his second sword into the dwarf's groin, where the armour was weak, blood spurting as an artery was severed. "It's good to see you, old man. I hope you have a plan."
"Stay alive as long as we can."
"Same as mine, then."
"If we can pull back to the walkways, we can narrow the field, kill the advantage of their numbers."
"As good a plan as any – if we can get there."
"Like I said, stay alive as long as we can."
A howl erupted behind Ihvon and he turned to see a knife plunge into the eye of an axe-swinging dwarf. The knife slid through the opening in the dwarf's helm and sank to the hilt, the dwarf dropping like a sack of stones, axe bouncing off the ground.
"Are you two just going to stand around?" Belina dropped to one knee, yanking the knife free before flipping it and launching it into the thick of dwarves.
"Fall back to walkways!" Ihvon roared. He turned to Lumeera and gave her a nod.
"Shields up! Protect the retreat! Protect the king!" At Lumeera's words, the Kingsguard who had cut through the dwarven ranks snapped their shields into place, holding a path open for the retreat. Ihvon knew no other group of warriors disciplined enough to pull off such a manoeuvre in the thick of a battle; pride swelled in his heart. As they pulled back through the path of shields, the Kingsguard on either side fell together, forming a line, but then a whistling sound ripped through the air, and a bolt slammed into the Kingsguard lines.
A man fell to the ground, shrieking and howling, his arm a mess of shattered bone and torn flesh. Another collapsed, hands clasped around his knee where his leg had been pulverised and ripped free. A second bolt crashed down, and more Kingsguard fell.
A series of roars erupted to the left, coils of dread twisting in Ihvon's stomach. They've gotten around us. He turned, raising his sword, only stopping when he saw the crimson-cloaked Queensguard of Durakdur hammering into the flank of the dwarves from Azmar, faces red as they unleashed guttural war cries, axes cleaving and rending. They were like warriors possessed, veins bulging, eyes wild.
"Now is our chance!" Daymon roared. "Forward! Forward! For Belduar!"
Ihvon turned at the sound of Daymon's voice, frantic. "No! We need to pull back! Daymon, there are too many!"
But it was too late, Daymon had charged, Lumeera and the other Kingsguard moving at their king's side. Ihvon's heart clenched, panic flooding his veins as he rushed after Daymon. He caught the gaze of Dahlen Virandr and saw the young man curse as he turned on his heels, blades moving in a whir of steel.
A dwarf crashed into Ihvon's side, knocking him off balance. He staggered, turning as the dwarf rammed the head of their double-sided axe into his chest. The blow knocked the wind from Ihvon's lungs, searing pain igniting along his sides as the axe's twin points pierced his plate, pushing into his flesh. He threw his arm forward, driving his blade into the dwarf's open mouth. The dwarf's lips bulged and split at the corners, sliced open by the steel, teeth snapping, blood pouring, and then their eyes rolled to the back of their head, and Ihvon dragged the blade free.
Ihvon let out a howl as the dwarf fell, their weight pulling on the axe that was still lodged in his plate, its bladed points tearing upwards through the flesh of his belly. He wrapped his free hand around the top of the axe haft, drew in a deep breath, then ripped it free, letting the weapon clang against the ground. He clenched his jaw, driving the pain down, and charged after Daymon.
Everywhere Ihvon looked, steel shimmered and blood sprayed, the bluish-green light of the lanterns giving the world an ethereal glow as dwarves and men left the mortal plane. Axes and swords swung, the crush of bodies pressing down. He saw Daymon ahead and carved his way towards the young king, calling out. "Daymon! We need to fall back!"
Daymon drove his blade down through a dwarf's throat, ripping it free with a spray of blood. He turned, hacking the blade down into a dwarf who had been moving for Lumeera's side, then turned to Ihvon, a look of fervour on his face. He raised his sword in the air and roared, "For Belduar! For Arthur!"
Shouts and cries echoed Daymon's, his words driving renewed strength into those around him. Since the first assassination attempt, Daymon had spent too long worrying only of himself. But now, Ihvon burned with pride as he watched Daymon fight for his people, as he heard the young king called his father's name.
But as quickly as it came, that pride turned to abject horror as an axe blade cleaved Daymon's raised arm at the elbow. Even after the axe had hacked through the steel and bone, sliding out the other side, the look of fervour on Daymon's face remained, his arm holding in the air. And then Daymon's eyes widened, blood spurting from the severed limb. The king pulled his arm down in front of him, staring at the empty space where his hand had once been, sword clattering to the ground.
Ihvon hacked and slashed at everything around him, muscles burning as he dragged his way through the mass of bodies, steel slicing into flesh, bouncing off plate, cutting into coats of mail. He looked up to see Dahlen Virandr and Lumeera both turning to Daymon, realising what had happened. But before any of them could do a single thing, Daymon lifted his gaze, his eyes locking with Ihvon's and then another axe slammed into his side, carving through the plate as though it were made of clay, slicing into his flesh and bone. Shock touched Daymon's face, followed by pain.
Ihvon watched as Dahlen drove his blade through the neck of the dwarf who held the axe, while Lumeera slew two more who were charging Daymon from the rear.
Daymon dropped to his knees, half the axe blade still buried in his side, blood pumping from the stump of his right arm where the axe had cut through just above the elbow.
Ihvon cut down the last dwarf that stood between him and Daymon, pushing past, dropping to the ground beside the boy he had helped raise. The boy he had sworn to protect. The boy who was now a man, and a king, but would always be a boy in Ihvon's eyes.
"Daymon!" Ihvon grabbed the sides of Daymon's helm. He lifted the man's head and looked into his eyes. "Look at me. Daymon."
Daymon's eyes were glassy, his breathing slow and laboured. Each breath was a drawn out rasp, blood coating his lips. "…Ihvon…" Daymon swallowed, his head lolling to the side.
"You're not alone, Daymon. I'm here." Ihvon watched the life drain from the boy whose shoulders should not yet have been burdened with the weight they had been forced to carry – the boy he had failed. Every muscle in Ihvon's body clenched as he pulled Daymon closer, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He squeezed, Daymon's armoured body pressed against his, his fingers still wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
Ihvon's heart tightened, as though it had been wrapped in chains as weightlessness settled in his stomach. He rocked back and forth, holding Daymon's lifeless body, heedless of the madness around him. Then, he lowered Daymon to the ground, resting his hand on the king's cheek. "I'm sorry, my boy. I'm so sorry."
Ihvon's chest trembled as he pulled himself to his feet, cold tears carving through the blood that marred his face. Around him, Dahlen, Belina, Lumeera, and the other Kingsguard fought tooth and nail, their wounds collecting, lethargy dragging at their movements. Slowly, cold fury spread from Ihvon's heart, chilling his blood, sweeping through his chest and out through his arms and legs.
So this is it. This is where I die. He clenched his jaw, his fist tightening around his sword's hilt. I will take as many of you with me as the gods allow.
Ihvon unleashed a guttural roar, his body shaking. He swung his sword down into the neck of a dwarf, mail rings breaking, blood flowing as the steel cut into flesh and bone. He dragged his sword free in a spray of crimson, caught the swing of an axe, then raked his blade across the wielder's face, opening their mouth and nose, shattering teeth. Leaning his left shoulder back, he drove the blade to the hilt into the dwarf's blood-filled mouth, bursting through the neck on the other side. He let go of the hilt and grabbed the axe from the collapsing dwarf's lifeless hands, and roared. Rage flowed through him, shaking his bones. His lungs burned, and he felt his neck veins bulging as he unleashed his war cry. "For Daymon!"
Ihvon screamed in fury as he carved through the dwarves, cleaving limbs and splitting skulls with the weight of the axe. He swung and swung, letting his rage take over, a primal bloodlust filling him. Something slammed against his right leg, followed by a dull pain that pressed at the edges of his mind. He looked down to see a wide gash in the armour covering his thigh, blood pouring from the wound. He gritted his teeth and carried on killing, the rush of battle holding his pain at bay.
He felt the crush of bones breaking as the pommel of an axe crashed into his cheek. He didn't remember losing his helm. His face throbbing, Ihvon turned and rammed the head of his axe into his attacker's face, the twin points of the blades slicing into the dwarf's eye and cheek, knocking them to the ground and taking the axe with them.
As Ihvon turned, what felt like a battering ram crashed into his chest and stole the air from his lungs. He tried to breathe, but all he could manage was a spluttering cough, the iron tang of blood filling his mouth. He looked down to see a twin bladed axe buried in his chest. It had sliced through his plate, carving into his ribs, filling his lungs with blood. Pain blended with a strange sense of calm.
He looked to the dwarf who held the axe, the blade lodged firmly in Ihvon's plate. The dwarf stared back at him, a brief moment of recognition between the two, then Ihvon closed his fist and rammed it down into the dwarf's forearm, breaking his grip on the axe's haft. A look of shock crossed the dwarf's face as Ihvon grabbed him by the neck loop of his armour and dragged his face onto the axe's second blade that jutted from Ihvon's chest. A surge of pain twisted as the dwarf's face slammed down on the blade, steel ripping through flesh, teeth, and bone. He pushed the dwarf away, dropping to his knees, his vision blurring, the light fading in his eyes.
Ihvon drew in a rasping, blood-filled breath, then collapsed, the world growing dark around him as he lay on the cold stone beneath the mountains of Lodhar. At the very least, he would finally be with Alyana and Khris once more.
Dahlen's breath caught in his chest as he watched Ihvon fall, blood pouring over the man's lips, seeping from around the axe blade in his chest. Dahlen wanted to go to him, to be there, but Ihvon was too far away. In seconds, the man was lost from Dahlen's sight, swallowed by the battle. He'd had seen Daymon fall only moments before. No matter their differences, he took no pleasure in seeing Daymon's death and even less in seeing Ihvon's anguish as he held the young man in his arms.
Belina and Lumeera stood at Dahlen's side, hacking, slashing, and stabbing, doing all they could to stay alive. The Kingsguard had gathered around them, shields raised, clinging to life by the tips of their swords. Daymon and Ihvon's deaths had rocked them, had stolen the fire in their hearts. Now they fought for nothing more than their own lives.
Through the mass of Azmaran dwarves, Dahlen saw the crimson cloaks of Durakdur's Queensguard, Yoring, Almer, and Mirlak among them. But there were simply too many Azmarans.
Kingsguard fell around him, bellies opened, throats slit, limbs severed.
Dahlen stabbed out with his left blade, driving it down through the neck of a dwarf before stepping back tight to Belina, lungs heaving, muscles aching and burning. The dwarves' heavy plate meant he had to be precise with his strikes. Each swing or stab needed to be a killing or maiming blow, otherwise his blades would simply skitter off the steel harmlessly.
He caught Belina's gaze. Blood marred the woman's dark skin, numerous slices and cuts marked in crimson through her shirt. It was the first time he had truly seen her mirthless.
A horn bellowed, low and sonorous followed by another, and then the thundering of hooves filled the cavern. Cries rang out, dwarves shifting all around. A host of virtuk riders cut through the Azmarans like a raging river, axes swinging, blood spraying. The ground shook beneath Dahlen's feet, a tremor rising through him. He looked about frantically, trying to understand what was happening. A virtuk charged past him, sending him stumbling backwards. That was when he saw crimson cloaks billowing behind several of the virtuk riders, here and there a splattering of black and white.
Elenya and Kira.
More horns bellowed, and then Kira's voice rose above everything, amplified by a mage. "Dwarves of Azmar, lay down your weapons, or return to Heraya's embrace!"
Dahlen's heart pounded, chest heaving as he looked about him, praying to any god that would listen. Please, let them surrender. He gripped both swords tight, trying to slow his breathing, the aches and pains of his body slowly coming to the fore as he stood still.
The clang of steel on stone sounded, ringing through the cavern. Then more followed as the dwarves of Azmar dropped their weapons.