Den of Wolves

Dahlen pulled the black hooded cloak tighter around himself, the light shirt of chainmail clinking as he rolled his shoulders back and forth. He and Belina stood in the dark alley just around the corner from the meeting place marked out in the assassin's note: an inn in the kingdom of Azmar. "Tell me again why it has to be me who does this?"

"Because they would recognise me," Belina said, her dismissive tone suggesting Dahlen's question was a stupid one. "Never mind that I used to be one of them, but you don't see many Narvonans around here, do you? I stick out like a sore thumb."

Dahlen sighed, giving a nod of acquiescence. "Does Ihvon know you used to be a Hand assassin? Does my father know?"

"What do you think? And what does it matter? You kill people. You killed that girl. Why is your blade more noble than mine?" Belina's eyes stayed level with Dahlen's as she spoke, her left eyebrow raised and her hands folded firmly across her chest.

"I didn't mean… I—"

"I'm only trying to make you sweat," Belina said with a wink, her lips curling into a grin. "Of course, they know. I've tried to kill them enough times."

"You what?"

"Not anymore, clearly."

Dahlen stared at the woman in disbelief. Her personality seemed to flip like two sides of a coin. One minute she was as serious as his father, eyes cold and back rigid, the next she was laughing and winking. He had never found someone so difficult to work out. He couldn't even tell how many summers she had seen. Might have been thirty, might have been forty.

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing," Dahlen said with a laugh. "I'm just trying to figure you out." Dahlen jerked backwards in surprise as the woman burst out laughing hysterically. "Be quiet! What if someone hears us?"

"Oh, I can't stop laughing if you keep telling jokes," she said, holding her hand over her stomach, still chuckling. "Smarter men than you have tried to 'figure me out'. I'll give you a tip – don't. You're not my type anyway. I like a more… feminine touch." Belina winked as she said the word 'feminine', as though she thought Dahlen wouldn't pick up on the not-so-subtle emphasis she placed on the word as she spoke.

"What? No… I didn't mean… Gods damn you."

"Come on, lover boy. Let's get back to what we came here for."

Dahlen glared at her, pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he exhaled through his nose. The woman was worse than Dann. He would love to see them both in the same room.

"Now," Belina said, holding up the obsidian coin. It held a smooth edge with a hole at the centre and a thin line that ran around its entire circumference. "This is a mark. Anyone holding one of these will be let into a den. Just show it to the innkeeper, and they will show you the way."

"Is this a good idea? Should we not go back to Ihvon first and tell him what we've just discovered? I mean, The Hand are here, in the Freehold. How? And are they working with one of the dwarven rulers? There are too many unknowns, Belina."

Belina bit the corner of her lip, taking a moment to respond. "The most likely answer is that they snuck onto one of the Wind Runners during the evacuation. They could have been in Belduar ever since the Fade's attack. But that's why we're here, to find out."

"I don't know, maybe we—"

"We don't have time for this. We need to do this now."

Dahlen closed his eyes and let out a sigh. "All right, but won't they be expecting a woman to return?"

"Not necessarily. Often the Hand sends multiple assassins to do a job, particularly if the success rate could be considered low. So, you should be fine."

"Should?"

"Should," Belina repeated with a shrug.

Dahlen again narrowed his eyes at Belina, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What? I can't rightly make that promise, can I? At least I'm being honest. Look, in this particular case, whoever placed the contract had another task after the poisoning. We want to find out what that task is."

Dahlen nodded, going through everything in his head. No matter what way he played it, the whole thing seemed like a stupid idea. But they had no other options. Daymon's paranoia grew with every passing day, and tensions with the dwarves were not getting any better. There was something going on behind the scenes, and if they didn't stop it, there would be blood spilt. A lot of it. "Okay, do I need a password or anything?"

Belina looked at him like he was an idiot. "A password? Are you serious? Go. Get out of my sight before I slap you." She pushed Dahlen out of the alley and into the main street. "Keep your head, get the information, get out. Understood?"

Dahlen clenched his jaw and gave a short nod, pulling the black hood over his head and turning towards the inn that had been named in the note, The Cloak and Dagger. Very subtle.He could hear Belina muttering behind him as he walked towards the inn. "A password? A gods damned password?"

Outside, the inn looked much the same as any he had seen in the Dwarven Freehold. Grey stone, clean angles, and sharp cuts. Even on the inside, it was not much different from The Black Forge – if a little cleaner perhaps, with less mould. Just like The Black Forge, it was crammed with patrons: dwarves, elves, and humans. Though Dahlen had quickly learned that any elves in the Freehold, and most humans outside of the refugee quarters, were mages on the run from the empire. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought that most of the humans and elves in The Cloak and Dagger were mages. If even a tenth of them had the power the Lorian Battlemages held, this many of them in one place was a terrifying notion.

Pushing his fear into a small compartment at the back of his mind, Dahlen worked his way through the crowd, careful to be a little bit gentler than he had been in The Black Forge. The last thing he needed was one of the mages deciding to start a fight. Most of them, however, took one look at the black hooded cloak and got straight out of his way. Anyone could buy a black hooded cloak and wear it around, but Dahlen supposed these particular patrons were well used to seeing members of the Thieves Guild, or maybe even the Hand, walk through their doors. Probably better to simply assume and play it safe.

The innkeeper was a stout dwarf with a head of thinning hair, a pot belly, a thick knotted black beard, and a greasy apron draped over a bare chest. The dwarf's physique didn't fool Dahlen. Thick calluses were built up on his knuckles, the exposed parts of his chest were marred by a plethora of mottled scars, his nose was too bent to not have been broken, and six small burn marks ran down the side of his neck that were too precise to have been anything but torture.

"Ale?" Dahlen asked, placing his hand on the wooden bar top.

The innkeeper grunted before grabbing a tankard, filling it from the large cask behind him, and placing it down in front of Dahlen.

Dahlen nodded and dropped some coins into the dwarf's open hand. A look of recognition glittered in the innkeeper's eyes as he looked down to find three coppers and an obsidian mark with a hollow centre staring back at him.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on Dahlen for a moment or two before he passed back the obsidian mark, nodded for him to follow, and came out from behind the bar. The innkeeper didn't say a word as he shoved his way through the crowd, being far less careful than Dahlen had been. He brought Dahlen over to a wooden door set into the far wall, slotted a thick iron key into the lock, pushed open the door, and grunted for Dahlen to follow.

The room was small, maybe twenty feet long and ten wide. The musty smell of damp and mould hung in the air, so palpable Dahlen could taste it at the back of his throat. A heavyset table of solid stone occupied the room's centre, while shelves of spirits and liquor ran along the far wall from top to bottom. Besides a few old paintings, nothing hung on the wall. In truth, the 'den' was rather unimpressive and, honestly, a little bit depressing.

The dwarf turned to Dahlen, raising one eyebrow as a silence hung in the air. Shit. Is he expecting me to do something?

Dahlen did his best to conceal the panic that tangled in his gut. He nodded his head, gesturing for the man to continue ahead.

The innkeeper grunted, his broken nose flaring as he carried on into the room.

"He will be with you soon," the innkeeper said, turning to Dahlen, his voice sounding as though he had spent his entire childhood gargling rocks. The dwarf walked over to a painting of a large dwarven woman that hung on the wall at the right side of the room and, to Dahlen's surprise, placed the palm of his hand over the artwork and pressed down. As he did, the painting itself depressed into the wall while the frame remained in place. The painting stopped after moving inward about an inch and was followed by a loud click. Dahlen couldn't hear the gears turning, but he could feel them. A low vibration resonated through the stone beneath his feet. Another series of clicks followed the vibration, and a slab of stone that sat beneath the table moved out of place. Lines in the shape of a long rectangle were now visible in what had once been a uniform floor of solid stone.

Dahlen watched, trying his best to keep his mouth from gaping, as the slab of stone dropped out of place and receded into the floor behind it, revealing a long stone staircase that travelled down beneath the inn. An orange glow cast a dim light across the bottom of the steps.

"I need to get back to the bar," the innkeeper said, his voice wrought with impatience, gesturing towards the newly revealed stairwell.

Dahlen nodded, his exterior calm never betraying his interior reluctance. Nothing about that stairwell looked inviting. Once he went down there, he was trapped. You don't have a choice.

Again pushing his fear to the back of his mind, Dahlen stepped into the stairwell. The slab of stone moved back into place above his head as he made his way down, the click of his boots on the steps resounding in his ear.

If Dahlen had been surprised by the room upstairs, he was even more so by this new one, and for very different reasons. The den was enormous. It mirrored the length and breadth of the inn above almost exactly, but with far fewer people. None, to be precise. The entire floor was covered with a dark hardwood that did not give even the slightest of creaks as Dahlen brought his weight down upon it. Tapestries of silk and cloth adorned the walls, coloured in vibrant reds, purples, and golds, very clearly crafted by the finest weavers in Vaerleon – Dahlen had spent enough time in the city to know the markers. The chairs and couches were upholstered with an assortment of fine leathers and a deep crimson velvet, all held in place with gold pins. The tables were built from planks of solid oak, and a huge shelving unit covered the entirety of the left wall, stretching over a hundred feet. It was not dissimilar to a bookcase, but instead of books, it held large iron-banded chests with thick heavy locks.

Past the initial 'antechamber', he supposed was the word, though it was far too large to fit that definition, the room was segmented off into multiple nooks, framed by walls of stone adjoined by curtain rails that Dahlen figured offered seclusion for 'discussing business'. Each nook held a low stone table framed by leather couches on either side. A tall flask of clear crystal filled with a golden-brown liquid sat at the centre of each table, two glasses of the same crystal at its side.

But what really caught Dahlen's attention was the source of the orange glow. Small, brass oil lamps were set into the walls all around, their naked flames protected by chimneys of clear glass flecked with black marks. He had grown so accustomed to the bluish-green light of the Heraya's Ward illuminating the city that firelight seemed almost odd. Open flames were banned in the Freehold, save for forges and kitchens. Though, Dahlen supposed, it wasn't as if the people who owned this den abided by any other laws – it would be strange if they adhered to just that particular one. The entire den was a shrine to abundance and greed.

Rolling back his shoulders and letting out a sigh, Dahlen stepped further into the room, past the tapestries and velvet-covered couches, towards the nooks at the back of the room. He needed to look as though he knew what he was doing, as though this wasn't his first time.

He walked past the first two nooks before stepping into the third one on the left and dropping himself onto the leather couch. He shuffled his arse a bit, trying to force the stiff leather to yield to him without much success. He eyed the bottle of golden liquid for a moment – it must have been some spirit or liqueur – but he left it be, unsure as to what the etiquette was.

It wasn't long before he heard the stone slab opening at the top of the staircase, followed by footsteps against the stairs that dissipated once whoever it was reached the wooden floorboards. Dahlen's heart raged like a tempest in his chest, beating and hammering, sending blood surging through his veins. His mouth felt dry, and his chest fluttered with every breath. Put him on his two feet with a sword in his hand and tell him to charge – not a problem. But sitting on that couch with nothing but a knife at his belt, pretending to be somebody he was not? This was an entirely different breed of fear. One he was not familiar with.

Dahlen didn't turn his head as a hooded figure moved in the corner of his eye and then dropped themselves down on the couch opposite.

"It is done?" The voice belonged to a man, but his accent was hard to determine, masked by too many years of smoking tabbac.

Dahlen simply nodded in return.

"Good." The man reached up, drawing back his hood. His hair was grey, almost white, and tied into a tight ponytail. Furrows of time creased his brow and dug into the corner of his eyes. He must have seen at least sixty summers by Dahlen's reckoning, probably more. Despite his age, the man's frame was that of a warrior: broad shoulders, layered muscle on his arms and chest, and a bitter look in his eyes. "We will drink to that. Now that the path has been covered, the second step can be taken."

The man reached over the table and picked up the crystal flask. Removing the stopper from the top, he poured two hefty measures of the spirit into the crystal glasses. "Drifaienin whiskey," he said with a smile. "We're the only providers of it here."

Dahlen picked up his cup, narrowing his eyes at the mellow liquid within.

"To the second step," the man said, holding his glass in the air.

"To the second step." Dahlen clinked his glass off the man's before they both emptied their cups in one mouthful. "I—"

A piercing pain split through Dahlen's head as the other man smashed the crystal glass over his head. Dahlen swayed, his vision blurry, blood streaming into his eyes. His head spinning, he fell from the couch, collapsing onto the floor. He tried to get to his feet but stumbled almost instantly. Something hit him in the gut, causing him to wretch uncontrollably. Stand up. Fight back.

Dahlen dug his fingers into the creases of his eyes, blinking furiously as he did, trying to get the blood out of his vision. But as he stood back to his full height, a weight hit him in the chest and sent him sprawling to the ground. A flash of pain burst through him as his back collided with the floor. His head pounded with a fury, and his vision was still clouded with blood and spots of colour.

Dahlen howled as the man dropped down onto his chest and drove a knife into his right shoulder without a moment's hesitation. With a flash of steel, the man pulled a second knife from his coat, a sharp pain letting Dahlen know the blade was pressed against his neck.

"How are you stupid enough to just walk in here?" the man said, a perplexed look on his face. "Honestly, that was one of the stupidest decisions I've seen anyone make. You killed Clara, I take it? Unfortunate. She was effective. Did she speak? Obviously not, you didn't have a clue what you were doing here." The man shrugged. "Enough talk. May Heraya harbour your soul."

Dahlen swung his arm up, aiming a strike at the man's jaw, but he was still weak from the earlier blow to his head, and the man caught his wrist with ease. Still holding the knife, the man punched Dahlen in the face, sending stars flitting across his eyes. But just as he pulled his arm back to deliver the final blow, a shadow flashed over them and something crashed into the man's head, knocking him to the ground.

Blood still streaming into his eyes, Dahlen scrambled backwards on his elbows, just catching sight of Belina as she bounded past him, a long metal staff in her hands.

The man on the floor groaned, swaying from side to side as he pulled himself onto his hands and knees. A swift boot in the face from Belina sent him crashing down onto his back, a spray of blood splattering across the floor. Reaching down, she dragged the man to his feet by the scruff of his neck, slamming him into the stone walls that framed one of the nooks. She held him there, tilting her head to follow the sway of his, looking into his eyes. "Still awake," she muttered, before stretching her palm over his face and slamming his head back into the wall. His body went limp, dropping with a crash to the floor, blood seeping from the back and side of his head.

"What…" Dahlen stopped mid-sentence as he pulled himself to his feet, his fingers running over a ridged cut at the side of his head where the shattered crystal had sliced into his skin. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to save you, of course." Belina shrugged, lodging her hands underneath the unconscious man's armpits. He was alive, but just barely. Dahlen could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"But how did you… You said they wouldn't expect anything. You said they wouldn't have known who she was. He knew her by name!"

"Yeah, I lied. Sorry. Can you help me with him? He's rather heavy."

"You lied?" Dahlen bit his teeth down into the sides of his tongue, stilling the ball of anger that was forming in his chest. "You mean you let me walk in here knowing this would happen?"

"Absolutely not," Belina said, her eyes widening in shock as the man hung limp from her shoulder. Then, she shrugged. "I had no way of knowing they wouldn't just kill you straight away. You got a chatty one. I'll never understand the chatty ones. Just kill your mark. Something always goes wrong when you talk to them."

Dahlen was so taken aback by Belina's candour that he just stood there staring at her, mouth agape. "Why? Why did you send me down here, knowing—"

Tilting her head back, Belina let out a heavy sigh. "Will you stop being a child and help me lift this lug into a nook? You killed our only lead. This was our last way to get a new one. Somebody had to risk it, and it wasn't going to be me. Did I or did I not save you?"

"How did you even get in here? You said they would recognise you!"

"Faruk owed me a favour," Belina said, her face showing strain as she dragged the man's unconscious body over to the nook where Dahlen had been sitting. "Still does, actually. Always gets himself into trouble."

"You know what? Fuck it." Dahlen reached down, grabbed the man's legs, and lifted them up into the air. There was simply no time to try and rationalise anything Belina said. The woman wasn't right in the head. "Where do you want him?"

"On the table, if you please," Belina said, a beaming grin on her face.

With the man's legs grasped firmly in his hands, Dahlen backed into the nook. He dropped himself down onto the leather couch at the same time as he let go of the man's legs.

"Ahh," Dahlen groaned, touching his fingers to the cut at the side of his head. Most of the blood had turned tacky in his hair and dried to the side of his face, but a trickle of fresh crimson still seeped from the cut.

"Why do you keep touching it?" Belina shook her head as she let go of the man's torso, letting it drop onto the stone table with a thud. "Now we just have to wake him up and ask him who hired him and who the next target is."

"And he will just tell us?"

Belina shrugged again. She seemed to do a lot of shrugging. "He will if he wants to die quickly. Oh, don't look at me like that. You can't let men like this live. They will come after you, kill you in your sleep, and leave your ghost ruing your bad choices."

Dahlen went to argue, but he found himself unable to see a flaw in her logic. That didn't mean he agreed with her, he just couldn't argue with her.

A loud slap drew Dahlen out of his own thoughts. "What are you—"

Slap. Belina's hand cracked against the man's face, barely even earning a groan for her efforts.

Slap. She managed to get a groan that time, but that was it.

"Hand me the whiskey." She reached out her hand, raising one eyebrow for Dahlen to pass her the flask of whiskey from the nook opposite them.

Just the sight of the crystal flask sent a sharp pain through the side of Dahlen's head. Shaking the thought from his mind, he shuffled over to the end of the couch, got to his feet, and snatched up the flask of whiskey.

"Here," he said, handing Belina the flask. "What are you going to do?"

Belina pulled the stopper from the whiskey with a practised familiarity, took a long swig of it herself, then proceeded to empty the entire contents of the flask over the man's face.

The man jerked awake, spluttering and coughing as he choked on the harsh spirit. As he sprang up, Belina cracked him in the nose with her fist, spraying blood across her knuckles. "No, no, don't go back asleep on me now," she said, slapping him repeatedly on either side of the face.

"Good. Eyes front." Quicker than Dahlen's eyes could follow, the woman pulled a knife from within her dress and held it against the man's throat. "Not nice, is it?" she turned to Dahlen, a cheeky grin on her face. "See, I've got your back," she said with a wink.

She is crazy. She is genuinely crazy.

"Now," Belina said, pressing the blade of the knife against the man's neck just hard enough to call forth a thin stream of blood that rolled down the side of his neck and onto the table. "I'm going to ask very nicely at first. If you don't tell me what I want to know, then I won't be very nice. If you tell me what I want to know, I'll let you go. Understood?"

"Fuck you." The man leaned his neck into the blade and spat a ball of phlegm mottled with flecks of blood at Belina, catching her in the cheek.

Dahlen grimaced. Assassin or no, the man had no idea who he was dealing with.

With a disconcerting chuckle, Belina tilted her head and used the fingers of her left hand to scoop the phlegm from her face, flicking it onto the ground. "Okay," she said, the corners of her mouth turning upward. "That was honesty. We're off to a good start." Belina punched the man in the face once more. Blood burst from his nose and lip, and the back of his head bounced off the table. She pushed the knife back up against his throat. "But don't do that again. Now, who raised the contract on King Daymon?"

"If you think I'm—" Crack. Belina's fist flashed. The man's head bounced off the table.

"What did I say? I'm not going to be nice much longer."

This was her being nice? Dahlen shuddered at the thought of what Belina being cruel would look like. He didn't think it was something he would have the stomach to see. Taking a life in the heat of battle was one thing. But torture? Slowly causing pain in cold blood? That was something entirely different. Something that just didn't sit right in his bones, no matter what convoluted, emotionally devoid reason Belina gave.

"I'll ask you again, who raised the contract?"

"It was…" A hesitancy flickered in the man's eyes as he glanced down at the blade pressed against his neck. "It was the—"

The man wailed in pain as Belina plunged the blade into his leg and quick as a flash replaced it in her hand with a second knife she pulled from somewhere on her dress.

"What are you doing?" Dahlen shouted, his eyes wide with shock. "He was telling you!"

Belina pouted, shaking her head. "First interrogation tip. They always lie the first time. Wouldn't you lie if you had a knife to your neck?"

She had a point. Dahlen couldn't help but feel irritated at Belina for always seeming to make sense out of things that just didn't seem right to him.

"One more chance," she said, turning back to the man with a half-grin on her face. "Who raised the contract on the king?" Belina pressed the knife up against the man's neck, slightly widening the trickle of blood.

The assassin's face hardened.

Belina raised the knife again.

"Hold on!" Dahlen yelled, stepping forward. "There has to be another way."

Belina turned towards Dahlen, giving a slight shake of her head. "You should go wait upstairs. This is going to be a few minutes."

"Belina, I'm not—"

"Dahlen, wait upstairs. I know your type. You don't have the constitution for what happens next. Go."

Two sides pulled at Dahlen. He knew what would happen to that man if he walked upstairs and left him alone with Belina. But what was he to do? Convince Belina to let the man live? She was right, he would come straight after them. Fight her, perhaps kill her, to save the man who tried to kill him? There didn't seem to be an option that gave him any happiness.

The world was never black or white, Dahlen knew that. Most decisions were painted with a murky shade of moral grey. But the grey was where he struggled. His mind worked in the split shades the world frowned upon. He had tried all his life to reconcile that, to learn how to think the way the world demanded, but he hadn't yet figured it out. The closest he had come was learning to accept it and grit his teeth. But it still tore at him.

He let a low sigh out through his nostrils, giving a reluctant nod.

A small lever sat at the bottom of the stone staircase that led back up to The Cloak and Dagger. Dahlen pulled the lever and climbed the steps as the slab of stone receded above his head. Each step was heavy, his legs seeming full of lead. Anger burned in his chest. Anger at himself for thinking less of Belina. And he did think less of her, but she was no worse than he was. He had stopped counting the number of lives he had taken. Though there was a key difference between them. Belina was apparently always able to do what needed to be done.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Dahlen crossed the room and opened the door into the common room of the inn.

The innkeeper, Faruk, gave him one look, then furrowed his brow. He placed two small cups on the bar top, filling them to the point of overflow with a blue liquid the colour of the morning sky.

The dwarf picked up his cup, then waited for Dahlen to do the same before giving him a short nod. Dahlen returned the gesture, and they both drained the spirit from their cups. It burned as it went down, and not like any spirit he had ever had before. This was a deep, tangible burn, as though his throat were being set aflame. He bent over double, gripping the wooden bar top with one hand as he coughed viciously. "What in the gods is that?" he asked between choking coughs.

"Dragon's Tears," the dwarf said, his broken nose crinkling as he grinned. That was the only time Dahlen had seen him show any form of emotion whatsoever. "Spirit of Anwar root blended with snapper venom. Not enough to kill, but it will numb the senses."

Standing up straight, Dahlen let out another cough, still feeling the burn in his throat. "Another?"

The dwarf outright laughed, then poured two more cups. Dahlen most definitely didn't want another drink, but he did need something to dull his senses.

"Shit," Dahlen said, puffing out his cheeks. The Dragon's Tears burned no less as they ran down his throat for the second time, but their effect was almost instantaneous. He was going to have to find a bottle of that to share with Dann whenever they got back.

Only a few minutes passed before Belina appeared beside him, a panic on her face. "Faruk, there is a cleanup downstairs, my apologies." Reaching into her pocket, Belina produced a small drawstring purse from her pocket and handed it to Faruk, giving the dwarf a nod.

The dwarf frowned but said nothing.

"We need to go, now. Elenya's going after them all."

"What?"

"She's trying to take the whole Freehold, Dahlen. She's going to have the others killed, and Daymon for good measure."