All the King’s Horses

Dahlen tilted his head back as they walked, gazing in wonder at the blanket of Heraya's Ward that swept across the ceiling of the cavern, only broken by lines of brass piping fitted with thick nodules that sprinkled a seemingly never-ending supply of water over the crops. All around them, wispy stalks of barley and rye rose up, drinking in the bluish-green light that radiated from the flowers above.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" Oleg Marylin chirped. The emissary to the Dwarven Freehold was an odd man, but Dahlen enjoyed his company and was glad to hear he had insisted on coming along to Daymon's meeting with Queen Pulroan. "The flowers provide the crops with the same sustenance as the sun – wondrous! There is a reason it's named Heraya's Ward, you know – it's the lifeblood of the mountain. A gift from the goddess herself. Without it, surviving down here would be near impossible."

"It truly is fascinating," Dahlen agreed, reaching out, the hairy stems of the barley tickling his hands. He told no word of a lie; it truly was fascinating. Durakdur lay beneath miles and miles of rock, devoid of sunlight and rainfall, and yet the dwarves had found a way to grow thriving fields of crops. It also went a long way to explaining why The Mother was so revered among their people. "What of the water?"

"It's irrigated from the many streams within the mountain," Oleg said, panting to keep up with the brisk pace set by Ihvon and Daymon in front of them. "But mostly it comes from the great waterfall within the city. The whole system is ingenious, really."

"That it is…" Dahlen's voice trailed off as he looked up to the ceiling, his eyes tracing along the brass piping fitted into the rock.

The group walked in silence as they made their way through the underground crop field, Daymon and Ihvon at the front with four Kingsguard marching along either side, their purple cloaks drifting lazily behind them. It seemed a strange place for Pulroan to choose. A king and a queen meeting in a field of barley and rye. There had to be a reason for it. Likely to show Daymon who it was that controlled the food.

"We have to bide our time, my king," Dahlen heard Ihvon say as the man ran his hand across the top of his hairless head. "Whoever sent that assassin knows we know. They know he failed, and they will be worried about what he may have told us. We have the advantage. As soon as we go to the Freehold, we lose that advantage."

"What advantage does it give us?" Daymon replied, his tone curt. "I see no benefit in knowing my life is under threat and doing nothing. Pulroan may be able to help us."

"Because they do not know what we know. We must not show our hand too soon. We do not know what part Pulroan might play on all this."

"It's been weeks, Ihvon! And we know nothing new. We must confront them, head-on, as my father would have."

Ihvon let out a sigh. The look on his face said he knew he was fighting a losing battle. Dahlen had seen enough of these conversations to know they usually ended with Daymon losing his temper and dismissing both him and Ihvon. Which usually led to Dahlen going to the training yard and Ihvon going to the inn. The man's breath seemed to smell more of ale with each passing day. With all things said, Dahlen actually agreed with Ihvon. Pulroan may have seemed like a wise old queen, but he had long learned not to take people at face value.

"My king, our people are refugees here. Each of the four kingdoms provides them with safety, food, and shelter. What do you think would happen if, all of a sudden, we accuse Elenya? We need to be clever about this."

"You need to—"

"King Daymon, you have found your way I see." An intricate golden crown adorned the queen of Azmar's head, resting atop her braided grey-streaked blonde hair. She wore the customary dress of the dwarven rulers, an odd mixture of leathers and silks that made her look as though she were prepared both for battle and for court. Two Queensguard stood to either side of Pulroan, their sharp-cut armour glistening in the flowerlight, the green and gold cloaks of Azmar draped around their shoulders.

Daymon turned to Ihvon, irritation still etched into his face. "You may leave, Lord Arnell. I will speak with Queen Pulroan alone."

"Is that wise, my king?

"You question my wisdom now?" Daymon's eyes burned with an unspoken fury. "You may leave, Ihvon. And take Dahlen Virandr with you."

"But, my ki—"

"I said leave." Daymon hissed the words through clenched teeth, his face softening as he walked towards Pulroan. Oleg Marilyn threw an apologetic glance back towards Dahlen as he and the Kingsguard followed after Daymon. "Your Majesty, it is good to see you. I most certainly did find my way…"

Dahlen didn't hear the rest of Daymon's sentence as the king strode away. A few moments passed where Dahlen thought Ihvon might disobey Daymon's instruction, but he just stood there, his jaw clenched as he watched after the young king. Dahlen had expected to see anger in the man's eyes, but instead he was surprised to find a deep, pensive sadness.

"That went well," Dahlen said, faking a half-smile, doing his best to break the tension that hung in the air.

Ihvon let out a heavy sigh. "Aye, as well as it has done every other day." He held his gaze on Daymon for a few more moments before turning his head to Dahlen. "Care to take a walk? There are a few things I need to see to, and I've noticed you haven't spent too much time exploring the city."

"I was actually on my way to the practice yard after the meeting with Pulroan."

Ihvon tilted his head to the side, a ponderous look in his eye. "Tell you what, I'll spar with you if you come with me afterwards."

Dahlen cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure? I wouldn't say no to a sparring partner, but I won't be taking it easy."

A smile touched the corner of Ihvon's mouth. "So, we have a deal?"

Dahlen shrugged. "Will Daymon not need us later today?"

"He will not," Ihvon said, a frown painting his face. "He will be taking supper in his quarters tonight, and the guard is to be doubled, at his command."

Dahlen bit down on the back of his tongue, trying his best not to show his frustration. He should have been with his father, looking for Erik. But instead, he was nothing more than a glorified babysitter. What was worse, the king didn't even want him there. He was wasting his time while his brother needed him. "To the yard then?"

"Lead the way."

Two dwarves in sharp-cut plate armour stood at attention at the front of the training yard when Ihvon and Dahlen approached. Their crimson cloaks fluttered in the ever-present breeze that flowed through the city from the Wind Tunnels.

The Heart's training yard was usually reserved for the Queensguard alone. Ihvon resented the idea of having to ask permission from dwarves. He tried not to let his own feelings seep into his arguments with Daymon, but he held no such reservations when he was not counselling the young lad. He despised the idea of being indebted to anyone, but to these oath-breaking cave dwellers more than anything. The sooner they were able to get their people out of this damn mountain, the better. But until then, he would just have to bite his tongue. The ale helped with that, funnily enough. Most men Ihvon knew get rowdier with ale, but not him. Ale, a pipe, and a quiet corner; they had been his solace in this hornets' nest. He took a deep breath, holding it in his chest as he prepared to feign respect, but before he could speak, Dahlen stepped in front of him.

"Yoring, Almer." Dahlen tipped his head to the two dwarves without breaking stride, gesturing for Ihvon to follow.

"I—" Ihvon stopped for a moment, almost ready to argue, before shaking his head and following Dahlen. The dwarves gave him a short nod as he passed, to which he replied with a frown, holding his pace. Ihvon wasn't sure why he was surprised. Dahlen had spent most of his spare time training, and he was also Aeson Virandr's son – that certainly carried weight. "You know them?"

"I fought beside them on Belduar's second wall," Dahlen replied, as he tossed his satchel to the ground. "Yoring took an arrow to the knee. Almer and I dragged him to the Wind Runner. They let me use the yard when it's empty."

Ihvon nodded, grunting as he stretched his arms out as wide as he could before pulling them backwards until his shoulder-blades touched. A slight crack just below his right shoulder blade provided the relief he was looking for. He unhooked his sword belt from around his waist, pulled the blade free, and rested the scabbard against one of the wooden posts that framed the training yard. There was something about the weight of a blade in his hand that calmed him. It was the simplicity of it. No games, no politics, no pretending; just steel, sweat, and blood. If everything in life was as clear cut and straightforward as fighting, there would be no need of ale.

He let out a sigh as he tossed the sword from hand to hand, loosening his arms, letting his thoughts run riot in his head. Arguing with Daymon had become part of his morning routine. He should have been stronger with him. The boy needed guidance, now more than ever. But who was he to provide guidance? Especially to the son of the king he had failed. Arthur was dead because of Ihvon's weakness. And no amount of good deeds or unwanted advice would ever change that. Stop it. Just stop it. What is done is done.

"First blood?" Dahlen called out as he tossed his satchel to the ground.

You don't play around. All the better; a bit of sparring was exactly what Ihvon needed.

"I win, and I don't have to go touring the city with you."

Ihvon shrugged. "Agreed. What if I win?"

"I'll go drinking with you tonight."

"Agreed," Ihvon answered with a laugh.

Dahlen reached over his shoulders and pulled his two swords free from the scabbards across his back. Back-mounted scabbards simply didn't seem practical to Ihvon, but it seemed Aeson Virandr had passed his tastes to his children. Not that the young man who stood in front of him could be mistaken for a child of any sort. Ihvon had not personally seen him fight, but he had talked with more than a few soldiers who swore the young man had carved a river of blood through the Lorian forces during the attack on Belduar. Tastes weren't the only thing Aeson passed to his sons."Ready?"

Ihvon passed his sword back into his right hand, tightening and loosening his fingers on the grip, feeling the leather rub against his palm. He nodded.

Dahlen closed the distance between the two of them in a heartbeat, his eyes cold. Ihvon only just about blocked the young man's first two blows, stumbling off balance as he did. The third he sidestepped, then put some space between the two of them, which Dahlen closed down again in a matter of seconds. They moved like that for few minutes: Dahlen attacking, Ihvon retreating, neither of them truly trying to end the contest.

The determination in the young man's eyes matched the half-smile that touched the corner of his mouth. He was quick. His blades sliced through the air in a whir of steel, always moving. And he gave no signs of tiring.

It wasn't long before Ihvon's lungs burned and sweat dripped down his forehead and tacked his shirt to his chest. But with each minute that passed, he was learning. The young man always led with his left foot, he favoured his right hand, and he had absolutely no inclination towards self-preservation. And every so often, he struck with both of his blades at the same time, negating the advantage the two weapons gave him.

Ihvon let out an exaggerated puff as a heavy blow jarred his arms. He saw the smirk grow wider on Dahlen's face. Stepping backwards, Ihvon faked a wince as his right foot hit the stone. He let a limp creep into his step as he moved out of Dahlen's reach. Warriors like Dahlen and Aeson could smell blood. If the young man was anything like his father, he wouldn't be able to resist what he thought was a weakened adversary.

Dahlen took the bait like a wolf spotting a wounded deer. He lunged forward, again leading with his left foot. Ihvon twisted as the two blades came in; he caught them both in quick succession, letting the crash of steel vibrate through his arms. Then, as Dahlen leaned forward, Ihvon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and brought the pommel crashing up into Dahlen's nose.

The young man stumbled backwards, clearly dazed by the strike, unsure how his wounded deer had suddenly regained its footing.

Ihvon surged forward. He hammered the flat of his blade into Dahlen's arm, causing the man to lose the grip on his sword, letting it clatter to the floor. Smelling blood, Ihvon surged forward again. He caught Dahlen in the cheek with an elbow, then swung his opposite foot around and lifted the man's legs from under him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Dahlen snatched up his second blade and leapt back to his feet.

"Almost," Ihvon said with a knowing smile.

Dahlen's face twisted with confusion.

Ihvon brought his left hand to his face, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of his nose, indicating Dahlen to do the same.

Narrowing his eyes, Dahlen followed. Still clutching his sword, he brought his right hand up to his face and rubbed his wrist against the bridge of his nose.

"To first blood, no?" Ihvon said at the sight of the crimson mark that now coated the inside of Dahlen's wrist. He watched as the young man's shoulders dropped in realisation.

"To first blood," Dahlen repeated, dropping onto his haunches then rolling back onto the ground with a sigh.

"It was a good fight."

Dahlen nodded his head with pursed lips, reaching back and sliding his swords into their scabbards with practised ease.

Ihvon snatched up his sword belt from where it stood against the wooden post, fastened it around his waist, then replaced his sword into its scabbard. He then walked over to where Dahlen sat on the cold stone of the yard and reached out his hand. "I got lucky."

Dahlen furrowed his brow, a look of clear displeasure on his face. But he took Ihvon's hand, dragging himself to his feet. "Don't patronise me."

"I'm not," Ihvon said with a shrug. "Nine times out of ten, you win that fight. You move just like your father, and he is the best swordsman I have ever seen. Then again, he ought to be. He's had enough centuries to practise."

"Well, what happened this time, then?"

"You fought to win a sword fight. I fought to make you bleed. You didn't play to the rules. You must always be aware of why you are fighting, who you are fighting, and the minimum it will take to win that fight."

Dahlen scrunched his mouth and let out a sigh through his nose. "You faked your limp."

"I did," Ihvon said with a grin. "You must also be aware of your own shortcomings. So tonight, we have a drink. But today, there are a few things that must be done. Grab your satchel."

"Where are we going?"

Dahlen let the air fill his lungs, exhaling slowly as he walked. Queen Kira had ordered the Craftsmages of the Crafts Guild to carve out a new area at the edge of the city to house as many of the Belduaran refugees as possible. The new area was connected to the main city by a stone walkway that passed only about fifty feet from the enormous waterfall that dominated the mountain chasm. It was on this walkway that Dahlen found himself following closely behind Ihvon. Dahlen closed his eyes for a moment as he walked, letting the cool spray of the waterfall tickle the exposed skin on his face and arms. It was not just the touch of the spray, though. The sound of the crashing water dominated everything. It resounded through the air like rolling thunder, causing all other sounds to yield at its insistence. He could have stood on that bridge for hours. However, that would not happen today. With a sigh, Dahlen opened his eyes and moved to catch up with Ihvon.

"How many?" Dahlen asked as they approached the large passage

that was cut into the rock face at the end of the walkway, the crashing water still calling for him to raise his voice to a half-shout.

"In Durakdur? About forty thousand, mostly the sick and infirm who couldn't travel further to the other cities. Overall, I'm not entirely sure. Belduar was home to over two hundred thousand souls before the attack. Though most of the citizens were evacuated before the battle, we lost many warriors during the fighting, and not all the elderly survived the journey. The Wind Runners are no small challenge for someone whose heart has already seen more than its fair share of summers. I truly do not know what we number now."

Ten men stood at the entrance to the refugee quarters, deep purple cloaks draped over burnished plate. Dahlen remembered the awe he had felt when he first laid eyes on the Kingsguard of Belduar. He had seen many great warriors on his travels with Erik and their father, but the Belduaran Kingsguard looked as though they had been pulled straight from the stories of old. What he felt now, though, was not awe but an unshakeable respect. He had seen them fight at the Battle of Belduar. They were no show ponies, dressed to frighten bandits. They were disciplined, brave, and fought like wolves. Had the Dragonguard not arrived, Dahlen had no doubt the Kingsguard would have held back the Lorian tide.

Dahlen gave Ihvon a sidelong glance at the sight of two pairs of dwarves standing on either side of the Kingsguard, crimson cloaks fixed around their shoulders.

"The Queen's insistence." A slight snarl touched Ihvon's words as he spoke. "Like penned animals who require herding."

Dahlen couldn't help but feel a pang of anger. What need was there for dwarven guards at a refugee camp for the sick and elderly?

"Lord Arnell," one of the soldiers said, stepping forward and giving a slight bow at the hip. Unlike the other soldiers, she did not wear a helmet. Her face had a harshness to it, and her dark hair was tied into braids at the back of her head.

"Captain Harnet, all is well?"

"It is, my lord," the soldier replied, throwing slight glances towards the two pairs of dwarves that framed the entrance. "The food rations arrived only moments ago. The dispensers should be just inside."

Ihvon nodded. "Thank you, Captain Harnet. Please, take this," he said, pushing a small purse into the captain's hand and folding her fingers around it. "For you and your guards. I know the past few weeks have not been easy."

The captain nodded, allowing a smile to touch the corners of her mouth. "You have my thanks, Lord Arnell."

Ihvon nodded in return before gesturing for Dahlen to follow him. Dahlen took one last look over the guards, his eyes lingering on the pair of dwarves who stood to the right of Captain Harnet's soldiers. The dwarves did not so much as turn to acknowledge his presence. They stood with their backs straight, the pommels of their axes pressed against the stone floor, the blades pulled flat against their chests. With a breath through his nose, he followed Ihvon through the passageway in the rockface.

The passageway travelled for about twenty feet. It was almost identical to the tunnel they had passed through when they first arrived in Belduar. The rock face was impossibly smooth, the ceiling rose to about seven feet, and the tunnel was around ten or twelve feet at its widest point. The sound of Ihvon and Dahlen's footsteps echoed against the stone, set to the backdrop of the crashing water that rumbled behind them.

A heavy wave of heat hit Dahlen head-on as he stepped out of the passage. It was accompanied by a tangy aroma that caused Dahlen to gag, his stomach lurching. He wasn't sure exactly what the smell was, but it was absolutely wretched.

"Sweat, soup, and shit," Ihvon said, folding his arms across his chest.

"What?"

"The smell. It's sweat, soup, and shit. The refugee quarters don't have the natural ventilation the rest of the city does. And with the number of people who are crammed in here along with the moisture from the waterfall out front, it gets pretty damp and hot."

"And the shit?"

Ihvon shrugged, pouting. "The sewage system isn't finished yet. I doubt they actually plan on finishing it at all, to be honest."

"But how will they expect people to live like this?"

The look on Ihvon's face told Dahlen all he needed to know.

Like the rest of the city, the refugee quarters were cut straight from the mountain itself using a combination of magic and dwarven machinery; at least, that is what Dahlen remembered overhearing the architect saying when he had met with Daymon in his quarters.

Dahlen stood at the top of a large stone staircase that fanned outward, descending into the refugee quarters. Out in front of him was an enormous street that stretched endlessly into the distance. The street was over a hundred feet wide and paved with smooth stone, and even then, it was not wide enough. It was like watching a colony of ants being funnelled through the eye of a needle. On either side, rising ever upwards, were rows and rows of doors set into the walls of the enormous cavern. An intricate web of staircases connected each level to the next, with a dizzying number of walkways sweeping over the top of the main street like the branches of a forest canopy. No human hands could ever have created it on their own. Dahlen's eyes strained as he looked upwards, unable to see where the rows of doors folded into the ceiling hundreds of feet above.

"Come," Ihvon said, setting off down the staircase. "Those wagons over there hold the new rations."

"And what are we to do?" Dahlen asked, following closely on Ihvon's heels.

"Help with handing them out," Ihvon replied with a shrug. "And ensure there are no riots."

"Riots?" Dahlen raised a questioning eyebrow as he pushed through the throngs of people. It was like trying to force the sea to part.

"The Craftsmages in the Dwarven Freehold," Ihvon said, shoving his way through the crowd, "do not have the knowledge and gifts they once did in the old times. The construction of these homes is still ongoing, there is little to no sanitation, and food is scarce. We are in a barrel of oil, my boy, and all it takes is a spark."

An uneasy feeling set into Dahlen's stomach as the surrounding crowds took on new meaning. He could see it in their faces when he looked closer. Most wore dark circles under their eyes, and their clothes were torn and ragged. The pungent smell that filled the endlessly long cavern made it near impossible to pick up any other aromas, but Dahlen would hazard a guess that not many of them had bathed in quite a while. Not all of them were old and infirm, but the majority were. Either too sickly, too old, or too poor to make the journey to the other cities.

Dahlen stopped in his tracks as he watched an elderly woman hobble by with only one leg, a long wooden crutch strapped under her left arm, layers of padding wrapped around the handle. He saw something different in the woman's eyes. It wasn't hunger, or despair, or rage. It was resignation, and it sparked an anger within Dahlen that surprised even him. This wasn't right.

"Come on," Ihvon said, tugging at his shoulder. "They start handing out the rations shortly."

"I thought you said most of the citizens were evacuated before the battle?" Dahlen planted his feet and met Ihvon's gaze.

Ihvon let out a heavy sigh, bringing his hand up to his face, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into his long beard. "They were. But not during the first attack, when the king… was killed. There was not enough warning to evacuate. The Lorians were not selective about whose flesh their blades cut."

Dahlen watched as the old lady hobbled off, swallowed by the crowd. But again, the closer he looked, the more he saw. Men, women, children, all missing limbs, deep scars bedded into their flesh, anguish in their eyes. They had not even been soldiers. The injured soldiers were housed separately on the other side of the city, deeper into the mountain, so their screams did not disturb the others.

Dahlen's mind flashed back to the Heart, just after the battle in Belduar. Images washed through him. The dwarf whose plate of armour had been melted into his flesh by dragonfire. The man carried on a cot, only shattered bone and blood where his legs had once been. The lifeless bodies sprawled all about the enormous courtyard, blood seeping into the cracks, not enough medics to even contemplate the dignity of the dead.

The screams of the dying echoed through his head. He tried to push them away, but they were etched into his mind. He heard them even when he slept. Bone-chilling, blood-curdling screams. The howls of men and women who knew death would take them, slowly, painfully. Dahlen's breath caught in his chest, and a nauseous feeling set itself in his stomach. The palms of his hands were slick with sweat, and his mouth dried to a barren wasteland. The screams resounded in his head, growing louder and louder, rising to a horrifying crescendo.

"Dahlen?"

The touch of Ihvon's hand on his shoulders sent a shiver through Dahlen's body and dragged him out of his own mind.

"Are you all right?" Ihvon's eyes narrowed, as though he was trying to see something more.

"Yes, I'm—" Dahlen grunted as a man with horrific burns on his face knocked into his shoulder. "I'm all right."

Tilting his neck backwards, eliciting a sharp crack, Dahlen puffed out the air from his lungs, feeling his heartbeat pounding in his veins. He pushed the thoughts from his head. He could deal with them later.

Dahlen followed after Ihvon, pushing through the crowds until, in a matter of seconds, he stood in a small clearing. Four wagons occupied the centre of the clearing, each over fifteen feet long, with iron bands that held up canopies of thick canvas. Teams of men and women in purple livery scurried about, unloading large crates, casks, and boxes.

Belduaran soldiers ringed the open space, separating the crowds from the supplies. Each of them wore thick leather armour with teardrop shaped shields strapped to their arms.

"Lord Arnell, it is a pleasure," one of the men in purple livery said, striding past Dahlen to bend deeply at the waist in front of Ihvon.

Ihvon gave a short nod in return. Dahlen had noticed a slight twitch at the corner of the man's mouth any time somebody said the words 'Lord Arnell'.

"We are nearly ready, Mister Gromsby?"

"Indeed, we are, my lord. Though everyone is a little on edge after the other day."

"That is to be expected. How is the young woman? And the child?"

The man's shoulders drooped, and his gaze fell to the floor as he gave a soft shake of the head.

"Gods dammit," Ihvon whispered loud enough that only the three of them could hear. He let out a heavy sigh, clasping his hand behind his neck. "Please, send someone to find her family for me. When they have been found, let me know."

"It will be done, my lord. My apologies, but I must get back to the rations."

Ihvon gestured for the man to continue with his business. "Dammit," he repeated.

"What happened the other day?" Dahlen wanted to snatch the question out of the air and take it back as soon as he saw the look on Ihvon's face. It was a look he had seen on his father's face before: guilt. A deep, tangible guilt.

Ihvon sighed, biting the top of his lip. "For some reason, a rumour got around that there was not enough food. Some of the people decided to storm the wagons. A soldier reacted and knocked one of the men unconscious with his shield. There was a bit of a fight, nobody was killed but… in the panic afterwards, a young woman was trampled by the crowd. She had a small child."

A knot twisted in Dahlen's stomach. "That's…" Dahlen couldn't seem to find the words. "It's not your fault."

Ihvon gave a weak smile in return. "Come, let's give a hand."