Chapter Thirty-Four: The Blade of the King

“We live and die as one. We are the blades of the King.”

—Vow of the Kingsblade

The first thing Ein noticed as they rolled onto the streets was the trees. They stood on either side of the road and around every corner, tall and proud like watchful sentinels, leaves shining with a deep red—not the red of blood or the red of fading autumn, but the red of a setting sun. When the wind stoked them they would flare to life, flickering softly like a candle in the darkness, like a kindling fire. Like the glow of twilight.

If Ein had compared Caerlon to a giant, then Aldoran was a leviathan—a living city, a realm in itself. It was built on the side of a hill, layers and layers of tall buildings rising unevenly into the distance. Three walls separated the districts, each growing smaller towards the apex. At the top was Uldan Keep, a grey pin-cushion of towers and spires, and higher than that, drifting among the clouds was Morene’s Perch, the flying sky-fortress of the Druids. For once the party was silent, not from low spirits but awe.

Marc took them up the hill towards the second wall, passing roaming guards and citizens, merchants with horses and wagons, page-boys running errands for their noble masters. There were more side-streets than Ein could count, more districts, more shops and houses and inns. Bridges spanning canals, parks of lush green grass, tenements that towered high into the sky. Slums, forges, squares and fountains, a clock tower that poked the heavens. There were so many people, so many voices, heads and faces that amassed into a single blur. This was Wall Menkraft, named after the first and humblest of Aldoran’s founders, the man who had invented modern smithing techniques.

Wall Norn was next, after the author of the Encyclopaedia of Daemons—which, to Ein, it seemed that everyone had read but he. The proportion of shops to houses was far smaller here. Most of the apartment blocks were of higher quality than those in Wall Menkraft, and the same went for the merchants. Some of the price tags Ein saw through the windows left him speechless.

Wall Norn was also home to the Soulforge, a great, ever-burning furnace where armour, weapons and tools were mass-produced, and the Songweavers refined and tempered Rhinegold. It wasn’t until they passed a large, clear window that Ein saw his own face. His eyes were wide open in wonder, a look that was mirrored on both Merrill and Evaine’s faces. They were in Aldoran. Aldoran, the biggest city in Faengard, home to the High King. Aldoran, where all tales ended and began.

Marc stopped a few streets past the wall, next to a homely little inn by the roadside.

“This is as far as I’m taking you,” he said. “We’ve made it to the City of Twilight, just as promised. It’s time to fulfil your part of the deal.”

Alend scowled but handed over the coins. Marc counted them eagerly, holding them up to the sunset. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, thrusting them into a grubby pocket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, get out of my carriage.”

“If it weren’t for these guards, I’d teach him a lesson in manners,” Garax muttered.

They dismounted. Fire and Frost neighed and then Marc turned around and gave the stalnags a gentle tug, setting them back down the hill. Once the carriage was out of sight, Rhinne took a few steps away and turned around.

“Thank you for bringing me along,” she began, “but it’s time I left as well.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us for a while longer?” Alend asked. “I’m in your debt for saving my son.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I simply don’t have the luxury of time.” She dipped her head and had turned to leave when Ein and Merrill stepped forward. She stopped in place, waiting.

Merrill surprised Ein by extending his hand. “Thank you for saving me as well,” he said. “I wasn’t in the greatest of mindsets when you found me, and I don’t think I would have made it without you.”

“I’ll never understand you humans and your strange customs.” Rhinne eyed the hand and then shook it. Once they’d finished, Ein gave her a friendly smile.

“Do you need anything from us before you leave?” he asked. “Supplies? Food? Blankets?”

Rhinne shook her head. “No, you’ve helped me more than enough.” She looked around at each of them, as if searching for more words to say.

“Hopefully we’ll meet again then,” Ein said. “I only wish we could have spent more time together. I would have liked to learn more about your people.”

“Me too,” Evaine quipped.

“…yeah.”

The flame-haired girl paused awkwardly and then left, climbing up the hill towards the third wall. The Felhaveners watched as she disappeared around a corner. Magenta leaves tumbled across the street in her wake.

“It feels strangely lonely without those two,” Evaine said. “Even though we barely knew them.”

“I don’t miss that damned stalnag driver at all,” Alend muttered. “Good riddance to him.”

Garax sighed. “I’d hoped the girl would have stayed a while longer. No epic quest is complete without a dragon—or a red-head for that matter.”

They headed back down the road, searching for a cheap inn to stay the night. Alend led the way, passing the odd remark about how this store had closed down or that building hadn’t been there sixteen years ago. Ein was content to simply watch and admire the city around him. As he walked, he wondered if Rhinne would ever find what she was looking for. That led him to thoughts of Talberon and Drakhorn, and soon he was remembering the Apocalypse Knight with its shadowy whip, standing amidst the blazing inferno that had once been the Lusty Barmaid. They might be behind the city walls, surrounded by the Kingsblades and the Songweavers of the Legion, but were they really safe?

He shook his head. Of course they weren’t. The relicts amassing outside the gates were proof enough of that.

Whatever, he thought. It doesn’t concern me. Once Father’s finished his business with the King, we can be on our way home.

He ignored the small voice at the back of his mind that hissed ‘Fateweaver.’

Alend picked a small inn under the shadow of Wall Norn to stay, bartering the price from six silvers to four. Meals weren’t part of the deal, but considering the amount of people he needed to account for, it was a bargain. They paid for dinner separately and then filed into the one room, spacing their five bedrolls evenly along the floor. It didn’t take long for the quarters to fall quiet with steady breathing.

Once he was sure Garax and the children were all asleep, Alend got up and left.

He walked across the empty streets of Aldoran as quickly as he could, leaving the inn behind in the darkness. He kept his cloak wrapped around him, covering the Rhinegold blade.

He could feel it. There was a power coursing through his veins, one that had been stirring ever since he’d set foot in the city. It had started as a faint buzz at first but was quickly flaring into a roaring heart-fire now that he was approaching Uldan Keep. He was nearing his Master, and although he was no longer a Kingsblade by name, the magic of the Vow still bound him.

He passed the open gates of Wall Norn and into Wall Adem, the last of the three main sections of Aldoran. Wall Adem, named after the intrepid explorer, consisted mostly of fancy apartments and grand mansions, and was the smallest of the three levels. Uldan Keep stood at the centre at it all, surrounded by a moat that flushed sewage all the way down and out of the city.

Alend waited outside the Keep, hiding under the shadows of its towering walls. He fretted impatiently, constantly looking over his shoulder, watching for any guards that might be patrolling. The slightest noise sent him on edge. He had no idea if he’d be recognized, or if they were still actively keeping an eye out for him, but one thing was certain—if he was found out, they’d throw him in the dungeons in an instant. His only chance was to see Aedon directly, speak with him before the rumours and hearsay stacked up and vilified him once more. With Talberon’s ring, there was a chance the King just might listen.

He’d just begun to question whether he was waiting in the right place or not when Gilfred Leonhart appeared.

“Alend?”

Alend turned around and blinked. It took him a few moments to realize the tall man in the Rhinegold armour was, in fact, the clean-shaven youth he’d left behind sixteen years ago. Gilfred’s face was older and wiser, reflecting the thirty odd years behind him, and his golden mane had grown until it hung down to his shoulders. On his chest was the insignia of House Uldan, and on his pauldrons were the emblem of House Leonhart, a roaring lion. He’d been the youngest member of the Kingsblades when Alend had last seen him, still green behind the ears. Now he was an adult, and he looked every bit the elite warrior he was.

“Alend Thoren,” Gilfred murmured. “So it is you. Gods, you’ve changed.”

“Age does that to you,” Alend replied, extending his hand. Gilfred shook it with his mailed gauntlet. His grip was firm.

“I thought it was a joke,” the Kingsblade said as they began tracing the edge of the wall. “When that courier passed your message to me, I took it as some sort of cruel jest. It’s been what, sixteen years? We never really thought you dead, but we never thought you’d be coming back, either.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t be back for no reason,” Alend muttered. He’d taken a great risk by sending a message back at the inn, but it had paid off. “I was sent by Talberon, and I have his signet ring as proof.” He flashed the wooden band under the moonlight. Gilfred raised his brow at the sight of the Trinity Wing.

“Druid Talberon himself?”

“The one and only.”

Gilfred and Alend followed the wall along the moat to a small cluster of bushes. The night was crisp and clear, and the moon illuminated their path. Guards watched from the sentry towers, their torches burning bright against the darkness.

Gilfred stopped before one of the bushes and bent down, running his hand along the ground. He found a rock and pulled on it, and a whole square of grass opened along a hinge. It was a trapdoor, the cover cleverly disguised with a layer of dirt and grass over the top.

“That wasn’t there back in the day,” Alend remarked.

Gilfred shrugged. “Aedon’s had a few of them built around the Keep, while some of the other ones have been closed down and booby-trapped. He’s only gotten more paranoid since you left.”

“The fool…”

Gilfred eyed Alend as he lowered himself into the secret passageway. “You didn’t betray Aedon, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t,” Alend snapped. “It was Illia, the damned bitch. She’s the one who started it all.”

“I see.”

The tunnel was supported by rickety wooden beams and lit every few metres by glowing lanterns. It wasn’t very tall, and Alend found himself having to hunch to prevent banging his head against the ceiling. They walked for several minutes, winding up and down, under sounds of rushing water and chattering voices before reaching a staircase. At the top was a door, and when Alend opened it, he found himself in a dark room.

It was decorated with expensive-looking furniture, a large double bed in the centre. Paintings of stone-faced nobles and scenes straight out of faerie tales lined the walls, matching the antique ornaments propped up on the dressers and drawers. A chill wind blew through the open balcony, and for a moment Alend was stunned. The City of Twilight lay beneath them, its golden trees glistening with starlight. He could see far, far away, past the three Walls, past the Blight and into the rolling hills. It was truly a spectacular sight.

There was a sound behind him as Gilfred shut the back panel of the closet they’d come out of. The Kingsblade circled around Alend, standing between him and the exit.

“Where’s Aedon?” Alend asked.

Gilfred looked down, biting his lip. The power was surging through Alend now, thumping in his ears. Every sense was magnified tenfold; the stroke of the wind, the droplets of moisture touching his skin, the roughness of fabric hugging his body. He could see perfectly in the darkness, hone in on every minute detail. He could spot every dislodged brick in the side of Wall Menkraft, every leaf on every tree, every sign on every street.

And he could hear footsteps coming, loud as cooking pots clattering to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Gilfred murmured. “The King wasn’t available, so I had to ask the Queen.”

A shadow crossed Alend’s face. He looked around, pulse rising. There were no other doors save the closet they’d come out of, which was on the other side of the room.

“No,” he muttered. “You don’t understand. Gilfred…”

“They were the Queen’s orders,” Gilfred said. “I tried to arrange a meeting with Aedon, believe me. But only she was free to talk, and I couldn’t lie to her about you.”

“She’s the one who set me up in the first place!” Alend cried. “Why would you tell her I was back?”

“You’ll get a fair trial, I promise. I’m sure they don’t have enough evidence to condemn you. Wyd almighty, it was sixteen years ago!”

“They’ll just fabricate it,” Alend sighed. “Gilfred, you have no idea what you’ve done. She’ll twist everything I say. This is no longer about petty court politics, and neither of them can see that. The world is at stake, and now there’ll be no chance of the truth reaching him, at least not until Talberon is here to back my word.”

“I don’t believe you,” the Kingsblade shook his head. “Queen Illia is a kind person. She would never do such a thing.”

“Gilfred. She was consorting with your late father! The only reason you’re not the High King is because I found them out!”

“You’re wrong!” Gilfred cried. “Don’t disrespect my father’s name!”

“Move aside, boy! I don’t have time to waste with you!” Alend tried to push past Gilfred, but the Kingsblade grabbed his wrist with an iron grip.

“She warned me about you,” Gilfred growled. “She was right. You’re a liar—a liar and a traitor.”

“Gilfred, let go of me.” The armoured hand was digging into Alend’s wrist, squeezing him down to the bone. The only reason it hadn’t snapped already was the magic of the Vow. “Illia was planning to poison Aedon. I had the letters before she destroyed them.”

“That’s a lie. Why wouldn’t she have done it already? She had sixteen years to do it.”

“Because your father died before she could,” Alend replied simply. “There was no point in killing the King without someone to replace him.”

He felt Gilfred’s grip loosen and took the chance to drive himself forward, slamming the younger man against the wall. Cracks split from where the Rhinegold made contact with the draped stone. Gilfred fought back, grappling at Alend’s forearms.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” the Kingsblade asked. “You ran away. That only made you look more guilty.” The footsteps were growing louder. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived.

“I did,” Alend spat, pushing Gilfred away, “but Aedon didn’t believe me. He was blinded by her sweet words and her pretty face. Did you know that she tried to kill me the very same night? I bet you didn’t, because she’s pulled the wool over your eyes too.”

He lifted up his shirt and twisted, exposing a large gash that ran across his back. Gilfred’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

“She sent someone to kill me,” Alend said, panting, “but I survived. That was when I decided I was leaving. But my brother? No, he wouldn’t have any of it. He trusted Aedon, he had faith that if worse came to worse, our former friend would have our back. Now look what happened to him. He was sent to his death by the King himself. She’s turned him against us, Gilfred.”

He pulled his shirt back down. The only people still alive who knew the full truth about his past were his wife, Rhea, and the Druid Talberon. Talberon had tried to stop him from leaving, but Alend would have none of it. The King had been beyond redemption. If Talberon had backed Alend at that time, the Druid himself would have been executed.

Alend had hoped to take his secret to the grave with him, but it seemed that was no longer possible. He just hoped he could escape. He needed to regroup with the Druid and try again. Hopefully, with the world actually on the brink of destruction, Aedon would take their side.

“Let me go, Gilfred,” he tried again, speaking more softly this time. Gilfred took an uncertain step away from the door, looking as confused as the fourteen-year old boy Alend had first met. A surge of hope welled within him and he rushed forward, only for the door to burst off its hinges.

Three Kingsblades filtered into the room, forming a half-circle around Alend. They drew their blades, visors pulled down across their faces.

“You’re under arrest by order of the Queen,” one of the spoke. Alend didn’t recognize his voice.

“Damnation,” he muttered, looking around him. There was only one way out.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used as evidence in the Halls of Judgement. Do you understand?”

Alend turned around and jumped.

The ground came rushing towards him, the wind lashing his arms and face. He landed in the courtyard three storeys below, rolling to his feet, kicking up dirt and grass as he did so.

Thank the gods, he breathed. An ordinary man would have been shattered to pieces.

The three Kingsblades leaped after him, Rhinegold blades flashing in the night, rocketing down like arrows in flight. Alend brought his own sword up and parried the first blow, his arm nearly breaking from the impact. He disengaged and bolted for the gates at full speed, covering dozens of metres with each step.

The castle was coming alive now, guards and servants poking their heads from the windows, calling for help. Alend jumped, feeling his feet sink into the earth beneath him, shooting up towards the stars. He took three steps along the wall, running diagonally up the edge of the fortress, landing at the top among the stunned sentries. A flash of Rhinegold armour barrelled into him from the side and he went flying, punching a hole through one of the turrets. He clutched at his ribs in pain and freed himself from the rubble.

“Turn yourself in,” the Kingsblade said, stepping toward him. Moments later the other two landed on the wall as well, cutting off his escape routes.

Alend looked sideways, across the courtyard and to the balcony where he’d jumped from. Gilfred’s tiny face watched from afar, perplexed.

“You don’t understand,” he tried to negotiate, raising the hand with Talberon’s ring. “I just want to speak to the King. I have Druid Talberon’s word.”

“The Queen will be the judge of that,” one of the Kingsblades said. “For now, the only thing that matters is that there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

He came at Alend in a whirlwind of steel, and Alend blocked each strike with inhuman precision. The exchange ended in less than second and a total of three blows. The Kingsblade took a step back, surprised. Then he looked to the other two and together, they advanced towards Alend.

Although Kingsblades were skilled enough to be one man armies, they were still trained to work in teams of up to seven, with both fellow Kingsblades and ordinary foot-soldiers. The three knights demonstrated this now, wearing Alend down with a steady barrage of attacks. He never fought more than one at any time, for it was all too easy for his opponents to harm each other if they both struck at once, but the Kingsblades transitioned and cycled with practiced perfection, driving Alend back. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he lowered himself into fierce concentration, searching for a way out. The moment he stumbled or found nothing behind him was the moment he’d fall.

Frustration mounted on either side as Alend continued to hold his own. He was deaf to all but the ring of steel and slashing wind. His mind became as clear as a frosted pond, his body remembering more of itself with each strike. He felt that maybe, just maybe, if an opening presented itself, he might even be able to turn the situation around—

And then, as if a hidden signal had been passed, the Kingsblades disengaged and fell back as one. Puzzled, Alend had but a second to wonder why before the fireball hit him and detonated, taking part of the wall with it.

He fell towards the courtyard in daze, releasing his grip on his sword. The ground spiralled towards him, flashes of frightened faces and floundering guards flitting across his vision, the tall towers of Uldan Keep, the fiery orange of the rest of the Kingsblades as they rushed to provide backup.

At last, he saw the Songweavers—a small group of black and silver-robed figures standing from a safe distance near the main gates, heads lowered in concentration. Then the ground hit him and his brain rattled in his skull, driving all thought from his mind.

Footsteps came to a halt behind him. Hands grabbed his wrists and he felt the cold, hard shackles of steel clamp across his skin. There was a bright, burning pain at the back of his head and he knew no more.