by Ryan Cahill
As if he had summoned them, the man and the giant loped around the corner of a high wall. One or two fresh cuts stained the front of Aeson’s shirt, but they were otherwise unharmed.
“How long?” Aeson asked as he scaled the stone steps of the landing. He might not have let on, but Calen saw his chest dragging a bit more than it usually would. There was a wound somewhere causing him more pain than Calen had first thought.
“Less than five minutes. Falmin is making sure the Crested Wave is ready to go.”
Aeson nodded. “And Queen Kira?”
“She is okay. Though, I cannot say the same for her guards. The others?”
“They’ll live,” Aeson replied. “Hoffnar will have a few new scars, but that’s nothing he isn’t used to.”
Calen wanted to say more, to ask questions, but he knew Aeson wouldn’t answer them. The man simply nodded, then turned his attention to Asius, a questioning look in his eyes.
“How bad?” the giant asked.
Aeson shrugged, wincing. “I’ll live if I stay here. But I’ll die if I take it up there.”
The giant’s lips made a grim, thin line, but he nodded. He placed his hand on Aeson’s ribs, where a large red stain had begun to form through the brown fabric of his shirt. Calen felt Asius drawing from the Spark, pulling at threads. Air, he thought. Spirit. He missed the rest – it was too fast – but he saw the relief in Aeson’s eyes when the giant pulled his hand away.
“Thank you.” Aeson’s next breath was a deep one as he tested out the results.
Calen still hadn’t learned anything of healing. Therin had warned him it was dangerous for someone who did not understand it. Even then, he saw Asius’s eyes were a bit darker, his breaths longer.
“Falmin, are you nearly ready?” The frustration in Calen’s voice was cut short by the thunderous sound of footsteps. How many, he couldn’t tell, but there was a tremor in the ground and a ringing in the air.
Coming over one of the four stone bridges that connected to the main platform, ten abreast, were dwarves, armoured from head to toe in that familiar thick plate, with the nose-bridge helmets. Each carried a wicked, twin-bladed axe, with a short sword strapped to their hips. Each wore a thick crimson cloak that billowed behind them.
Queensguard.
Sure enough, marching at the front of the column was Kira, in full plate armour. Silver and gold rings laced her flowing blonde hair. He couldn’t tell how many Queensguard she had with her, but they were still pouring over the bridge, and the ground still trembled.
There was a smirk set into Kira’s face. “You didn’t think we were going to let you take all the fun for yourselves, did you?”
Something about the woman unsettled him. He wasn’t sure what it was, and he wasn’t sure if he enjoyed it or despised it.
“Your Majesty… What are you doing?”
“Showing you our character.” Her smirk deepened, but then her face turned serious. “We are with you, Draleid.”
Ihvon stopped for a moment. He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing.
Just a moment. I just need a moment.
The heavy wind nipped at his face and neck, but he did not flinch. He felt as though he had been sitting by the fire for hours. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He kept moving. His steps echoed through the paved streets, accompanied only by the whistling of the wind and the occasional shout of a sentry on patrol. He walked through the merchant’s square, under the arch of the bell tower. He fingered his pocket, where the stone had been.
It’s too late now. There’s no going back.
Arthur had given him no choice. They couldn’t resist the empire any longer. And the dwarves were not the answer. They only cared for their own desires. Through his coat, he touched the scar that ran along his stomach. It was a constant reminder of that day. He had screamed at them to go back. To let him go back. But those dwarves were too scared for their own skins. They ran, and dragged him with them.
Alyana. Khris.
Ihvon clenched his hand into a fist. He felt a sting in his palm as his nail cut into the skin, leaving a thin line of blood that trickled along the creases in his hand. Even as his anger burned, he fought the other half of his heart. The guilt that scratched at the back of his consciousness.
He nodded as he passed two sentries, not breaking his stride.
The boy and his dragon, for the emperor’s amnesty.
It was a good deal. A fair deal.
He kept one foot moving in front of the other. He couldn’t allow for weakness, but his pace slowed. He stopped. His chest rose and fell in heavy sweeps.
“Fuck!” he yelled, feeling a crack as his knuckle connected with the stone wall. The boy reminded him too much of Khris. “Gods curse me, I can’t do it.”
He turned on his heels. He wasn’t long past the bell tower. He could still warn them. He ignored the pain that shot up his weary knees as his feet pounded against the stone.
There is still time.
He ran faster.
CHAPTER 33
Of Blood and Fire
Falmin was true to his word. The Crested Wave was ready to launch in five minutes, not a minute less or a minute more. The man knew his craft.
Kira had brought all one thousand of the Queensguard with her. To bring more would have required the agreement of the other council members, and that was something they didn’t have time for. She had also sent for more navigators, but that was something else that they didn’t have time to wait for.
The Crested Wave could fit two hundred at the most, as long as everyone was standing and didn’t mind a few bruises along the way. Even that number sent Falmin into a flustered temper. He flounced onto the vessel, muttering to himself, “They always think they know everything… Never listen… ‘Just do it, Falmin.’ I’ll show you where to…”
Kira, Aeson, Calen, Valerys, and Asius went first, piling in as many of the Queensguard as was practical. Asius’s size meant a few less dwarves. The others would follow when the rest of the navigators arrived.
Oleg stayed behind to “coordinate.”
The trip back up to Belduar was far less comfortable than the trip down. It was impossible to tell whether they were going faster or not, but it certainly felt like they were. More than once, Calen was lucky to avoid the nick of a loosely held axe as the Crested Wave jostled from side to side, bouncing off the smooth tunnels. Valerys nearly tore strips from the platform as he attempted to keep himself steady.
As they approached the landing in Belduar, the din of fighting echoed down the tunnel. Calen felt the atmosphere around him change as everyone on the Crested Wave readied their heads for what was to come.
Chaos.
The attacks in Durakdur were quiet and calculated. Belduar was under siege. The courtyard that fronted the Wind Tunnels was a meat grinder full of bodies, dead and alive. Calen couldn’t tell Belduaran from Lorian. All he saw was steel and blood. Men howled battle cries, screamed in pain, wailed in death. Calen saw threads of Fire, Wind, and Earth everywhere he looked as mages on both sides reaped maelstroms of destruction.
The dwarves leapt from the platform as soon as the rings ceased spinning. Their short legs belied their speed as they bounded across the rope bridge and onto the landing, leaping into the frenzy of the courtyard below.
“This is madness…” Aeson said, furrowing his brow. “How is it even possible? How did they get past the walls?”
“We can ask them that when they’re dead,” Kira replied as she bounded off the platform. She sliced through an imperial soldier as she landed, as if he were made of dry paper.
She is insane.
Except for a passing glance, Aeson paid her no heed. “We need to get to the Inner Circle.”
Calen was incredulous. “What about here? We can’t just leave them!”
“We need to get to the king. If we don’t, then these people die for nothing.” Aeson held Calen’s gaze for a long moment, as if daring him to challenge. When he didn’t, A
eson nodded across the courtyard, to one of the six entrances that lined the southern edge of the yard. “That passageway leads to the main street. We can get to the bridge from there and cross to the Inner Circle.”
He didn’t wait for a response but leapt down from the platform into the yard, expecting the rest to follow. The group cut their way through the fighting, never stopping. But if a blade could be raked across someone, it was. About halfway across the yard, Calen caught Kira’s eye as she heaved her axe from the chest of a behemoth of a man. He didn’t need to say anything.
“Go!” she roared, separating head from shoulders as she spun her axe in a sideways arc.
They got to the other side of the yard and into the passageway relatively unscathed. Asius was the only one who seemed to earn any new marks. A thin slice trickled blood down his left thigh. He didn’t seem to notice.
The passage opened into the double-sided street they had come down a few days before on their way to the tunnels. It had looked a lot different then. Not tainted by the blood of the dead, and the screams of the dying. Calen sidestepped a frenzied strike, slicing the man across the back as he slipped past him. Something itched at him. Something wasn’t right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. “Aeson!” Calen roared over the shouts and screams of the pitched battle. “The walls!”
Aeson looked at him as if he had lost his mind, shrugging wordlessly.
A heavy shield to the chest knocked stars into Calen’s eyes. He shook his head as he steadied himself for the second blow. A shimmering white blur took the man by the neck. Calen frowned as he leapt over the man’s body. Fury pulsated from Valerys.
“The walls, Aeson! There’s nobody on the walls!” Calen grabbed Aeson’s shoulder, shoving him into place, so he could look down to the lowest tier of the outer circle. The walls were empty, the gates barred and locked shut. There had been no fighting there. The empire had not fought their way into the city; they had been let in.
Calen saw the moment when it clicked. The man nodded, a coldness in his eyes. “Come on.”
Asius carried on, carving his way up the street. His glowing red níthral pulsated in the shape of an axe in his hand. Most stepped out of his way. They had never seen a giant before, but they knew well enough to steer clear.
As they cut their way through the street, Calen’s joints ached, and his muscles groaned. Even with his training, he still felt the drain from the Spark. He hadn’t thought earlier. It was the first thing that came to his head. He was growing stronger, though. He could feel it.
Up ahead, two figures stood amidst a mass of soldiers. Dahlen and Erik were unmistakable. The two brothers stood back-to-back, their twin blades drawn, whirling in and out of pockets of Lorian soldiers before slotting back together. They looked tired, though. Calen saw it in the way they stood. They would not last much longer.
One nod from Aeson, and Asius waved his hands, whipping swathes of Lorian soldiers off their feet with threads of Air, clearing the way to the brothers.
“It’s about time you got here.” There was a cheeky smirk on Erik’s face. Even then, with a deep gash along his side, and his face painted in blood, he seemed unphased. It seemed unnatural to Calen. Though, he remembered a time when the idea of taking a man’s life turned his stomach. Now…
“What happened?” The coldness didn’t leave Aeson’s eyes.
Erik shrugged. “We were in our chambers when we heard the bells ringing. By the time we got to the courtyard in the inner circle, it was already consumed. It was like they crept in from the sewers. The others are still up there. We fought our way down with some soldiers to try and clear the Wind Tunnels.” Erik panted when he finished.
The fighting around them had begun to die down as the Belduarans gained the upper hand.
“Kira and the dwarves are down by the Wind Tunnels. They need help. Gather these men and go. We’re heading up to the Inner Circle. Have you seen the king?”
Dahlen pursed his lips, a frown creasing his brow, but he did not argue. “He must be in the hall.” He and Erik turned back to the remaining soldiers. “To the Wind Tunnels! For the king!” Shouts and cries rang out in response.
The fighting had thinned out by the time they reached the stone bridge that separated the Inner and Outer circles. It was gargantuan – two hundred feet across and wide enough for four carts to ride side-by-side. Calen couldn’t bring himself to look over the edge the last time he had crossed it, and that hadn’t changed. It was deep enough that if he stumbled off, nobody would hear him hit the bottom.
For the most part, the bridge was empty. Anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in Asius’s way, though, was wrapped in threads of Air and tossed off the side. Calen didn’t hear them hit the bottom, but their screams echoed all the way to the other side of the bridge.
The sound of fighting poured through the half-open gate as they reached the walls of the Inner Circle. The harsh ringing of metal melded with the howls and screams of men who stared death in the face. The waft of air was putrid; sweat and dirt mixed with the metallic twinge of blood.
Calen took a minute to steady himself before he followed Aeson and Asius through to the gate. In the heat of everything, he had pushed it to the back of his mind – the fear of death, the urge to vomit – but standing at the gates, his stomach felt as though it might tear itself from his body. His knees shook. He took a deep breath before he strode through the gate. Valerys was quick on his heels.
The yard was madness. Were it not for the purple cloaks of the Kingsguard, he would not have been able to tell friend from foe in the mass of bodies that consumed the wide-open space. The Bolt Throwers atop the towers were blazing infernos of orange and red, smoke billowing into the night sky.
Calen arched his head down as he avoided a swinging blade, taking the man’s legs from under him as he followed through. He couldn’t move five feet without having to swing his blade. He saw the towering figure of Asius about twenty feet ahead. His shimmering red axe swung through the air, slicing limb from limb as if it were the will of the gods itself.
Calen felt the drain in his muscles, the lethargy that soaked into his shoulders with every swing of his blade. Drawing on the Spark, even as little as he did, was taking its toll. Yet, the giant seemed unaffected as he weaved through the mass of men like a maelstrom of death. There was no doubt in Calen’s mind that Aeson was right there beside him.
They needed to get to the other side of the yard. The king would be in the hall. Though, it seemed strange that he was not in the yard, bellowing at the top of his lungs, spurring his men on in the battle's heart. Arthur did not seem the type to shy away from battle.
There was a ringing noise in Calen’s ears. He yanked his head backwards, but were it not for Ellisar’s blade, his head would no longer be fixed to his shoulders. The elf whirled around him. Using his momentum, he sliced through the arm of the man who had nearly closed Calen’s eyes.
A nod between the two was enough. The elf had looked better. His silvery hair was mottled with a mixture of dry and wet blood. Two long cuts raked his right arm, just above his leather greaves, and he carried a limp, though it didn’t seem to impede him much.
“The others?” Calen shouted, despite his mouth being almost pressed into Ellisar’s ear. The cacophony of the fighting would have swallowed any sound less than a roar.
Ellisar gave a quick tilt of his head, nodding toward the centre of the yard. It was the same direction as the great hall. Calen immediately chastised himself for even considering the idea that he might not have gone to his companions had they not been in that direction. He needed to get to Aeson and Asius – he needed to get to Arthur – but there were certain costs he was not willing to pay.
With Ellisar at his side, making ground was a lot easier. Despite his limp, the elf glided through the madness. His long, slightly curved sword swept death with every stroke. It was strange to see a blade that looked like his own. He hadn’t really thought about it until Gaeleron had mentioned it. He h
ad not understood what Gaeleron meant when he said that he needed to learn how to fight with an elven blade. To Calen, a sword was a sword. Even sparring with Gaeleron, he saw little difference. But watching Ellisar, he understood. There was an elegance to the way he moved. If death could be beautiful, this was as close as it could come.
Calen felt a shiver of disdain at his own thoughts. Death could not be beautiful. As he looked around the courtyard, past the contorted faces and howling battle cries, past the whirs of steel and cracking of bodies colliding, the ground was littered with the dead. Some were missing arms or legs, some… more. The stone was stained so thoroughly with blood that no amount of scrubbing could ever wipe it clean. One man dragged himself across the ground by his fingertips, his entrails leaking from his stomach. Spurts of blood muffled his screams, but Calen saw the pain etched into his face.
Death cannot be beautiful.
Calen hardened himself and pushed it down – the sickness, the nausea, the sadness. Death could not be beautiful, but sometimes, it was necessary. He swung his blade in a parry, whirling around and separating arm from shoulder. Sometimes, it is necessary.
By the time they caught up to Aeson and Asius, Dann was standing at the giant’s side. He looked as though he had been beaten within an inch of his life. Even so, Calen was beyond happy to see him. The idea that something could have happened to Dann hadn’t really come into Calen’s mind until he saw his friend alive. His clothes were in tatters, there was an open gash on the side of his head, and a reddish stain had spread through his shirt, but he was alive.
He greeted Calen with a tight grimace and a nod.
Calen didn’t have to ask.
“The twins are somewhere over there,” Dann shouted, tilting his head towards the western side of the yard. “They went after Therin. I haven’t seen Gaeleron or Vaeril.”
There was a grim look on Dann’s face. It was the same look that Calen knew was on his own. The blood on Dann’s shirt hadn’t stopped spreading.