The cries that had died briefly rose once more, growing louder and more frantic as the cause of their fear drew nearer. Jikun could see his soldiers running to the side, the clean marching line scattered like dust to the wind. A body sailed high into the air before it vanished into the mass of elves fleeing the carnage.
“The Beast.” Jikun’s pale skin grew deathly white, his composure lost. He drew his sword swiftly from its sheath, aware of how naked the troops around him lay. “Captain, get the army north!”
There was no fighting this time.
Jikun turned away and hurried through the ranks of soldiers who were scrambling away in fear and disarray: he ran toward the beast. He could glimpse a shadow of the creature, even as the nearest males vainly attempted to block its path. The beast tore through them like a blade through water, dispersing their bodies to the side. Jikun was painfully aware that the chainmail on his body was more than all the armor his entire army had left.
The Kings
Kings or Pawns
—Upcoming—
Heroes or Thieves
Gods or Men
Princes or Paupers
Kings or Pawns
© 2015 J. J. Sherwood
All rights reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior permission of the author.
Steps of Power logo is a trademark owned by Silver Helm.
Cover art by Kirk Quilaquil
Edited by Alexandra Birr
Map by J. J. Sherwood
First Printing October 2015
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2015904200
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9862877-1-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9862877-0-1
Hardback ISBN: 978-0-9862877-2-5
Silver Helm
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Visit the website at www.StepsofPower.com
Acknowledgements
For my dear grandmother, Carol Bundy. Without her influence, I would certainly not have finished this book when I did.
I would like to thank my friends and family who supported me, encouraged me, and offered insight and advice when I needed it the most. In particular, thank you, Alex Belshaw.
And above all, I want to thank my editor, Alexandra Birr. There have been many wonderfully helpful and insightful people in my life, but none have shown the devotion, love, and time that she has. Without her help, I could never have achieved the quality, consistency, or the depth you see before you.
And last but not least, my financial backer, my loving spouse, whom I could only repay with cuddles and smiles. (I do give great cuddles and smiles, though, and I’m fairly certain the conversion rate of cuddles-and-smiles to dollars makes us nearly even.)
Glossary
Note: the “h” in all Sel’varian names is pronounced “breathlessly”: ɦ
Note: the “d” in all Sel’varian is quick and almost “silent”
Note: ʒ is pronounced as a rolling J (jsh), as in the name “Jacques”
Prologue
32 Felserine 8694 P.E.
Let the history record the truth of our departure from Sevrigel.
What year this corruption began, I cannot say, but my father and his father alike strived with great determination to quell the arrogance of the Council of Elves. Despite all efforts, their wanton destruction will not be ceased. My deepest desire has been to forcefully remove such evil from positions of power; however, elven tradition has long decreed that the people will elect a council to represent their needs, and no ruler may supplant its will.
Lest any elf be tempted to forgo tradition for force as I was, recall that Tradition is the foundation of elven society. Through keeping our traditions laid down by our founders and the goddess Sel’ari herself, the elves have remained above the carnage of the lesser races. It is truly one of the greatest virtues of our people. As such, I will not demolish the elven tradition of these lands by forcefully removing this corruption and usurping the will of the people. To do so would be to introduce tyranny into our land.
So it is with great sorrow that I have reached a similar outcome as my forefathers: failure.
In my last meeting with the Council of Elves, I presented an ultimatum: they may vote for their own resignation, or for my dismissal from this country. As expected, the council remains entrenched in its determination to hold power and thus my consequence has come to pass. I will not subvert the will of the population of Sevrigel.
Nevertheless, I will not permit those subjugated by this corruption to continue to suffer. I shall embark for the Homeland of Ryekarayn, where our kind once dwelled in harmony with the humankind. I shall establish a new Realm and return to our old traditions, and all who wish to begin again will be welcomed with open arms.
Until such time as Sevrigel turns from its path of self-destruction, the Realm of the True Bloods shall have no political association with its Council or its future royal line. May Sel’ari bless and guide us all.
King Silandrus
4th of the line of Ranwen since the Second Age
Prologue 2
A fierce howl of wind tore in from the north, bringing with it a fleeting chill. The rain pelted against the armor of the soldiers scattered across the earth below as thunder cracked and bellowed in Aersadore’s evening sky. The two armies stumbled and sank into the muddy ground of the canyon floor, voices and weapons lost in the tumult of the raging storm.
Jikun swung his blade around swiftly and plunged it into the soldier behind him, throwing his weight away to spin back into the teeming mass of enemy troops.
“General, Saebellus is retreating!!”
Jikun rounded toward his captain’s shout, seeing the soldier stumble from the fray. His captain lurched to the side, black hair plastered to the sides of his pale face as one hand groped for balance on the face of the canyon wall. The captain tore the clasp from the drenched cloak about his neck, letting it fall to the mud beneath his feet. Relieved of its weight, he pushed free of the canyon’s face and shoved Jikun aside, his blade whistling through the air as he swung high to decapitate the soldier behind him.
“I know, damn it!” Jikun shouted in return, eyes narrowing against the onslaught of rain. It bit into his flesh like shards of ice, but in the midst of battle, he was hardly aware of the pain. He stepped forward, willing the meager distance to grant him vision through the torrent of rain. Vision of the enemy that lay ahead. A tremble coursed through the earth as thunder cracked once more. A bolt of lightning lit the towering walls of the surrounding canyon, capturing the deep shadows in the jagged stones and the sunken faces of his weathered troops. “Don’t let him escape!” he bellowed to his soldiers, fighting to be heard above the wind, his throat raw. He shoved forward, leaping over the body of a dying soldier, kicking the grasping arm away from him.
He could see him now.
Saebellus.
The throng of fleeing enemy troops had parted, just long enough for Jikun to glimpse him twisting through the grey. The warlord shoved his blade through one of Jikun’s soldiers, grabbing the elf by the hair and wrenching his blade free as the body slumped to the mud. He glanced up abruptly, as though aware of someone’s gaze, and his eyes caught Jikun’s in a moment of calm, cold solidarity: an acknowledgement of each of their roles in the war. Then he turned, raising his hand high. The throng of soldiers closed behind him, figh
ting to defend the backlines as he and his army fled toward the north.
For a moment, the image of those emotionless, black voids had stilled Jikun. Then he found his voice, bursting forth louder and stronger in his anger. “Move! MOVE! Don’t let them escape!!” he shouted, a rumble of thunder following his screams with equal fury.
There came another rumble, resounding almost immediately after the last. It had come too soon.
Jikun paused, jerking his head upwards along the walls of the canyon, searching the length of sky for the source of the unnatural sound. There was another flash of light from ahead, but this one came red and hot, erupting from the midst of Saebellus’ army. It struck the canyon wall with a ferocious crack that sent a tremor through the earth about them.
Jikun’s eyes widened in horror. “AVALANCHE!!!” he roared. He stumbled backward, raising an arm above his head. A thick dome of water swept upward from the mud at his feet, freezing as it grew, forming at once into a thick shield of ice that protected him and his surrounding soldiers.
He could hear the crashing of stones as they plummeted down the mountain face, smashing through the troops and horses before him, plowing through the line of soldiers behind him. They slammed into the side of his icy barricade, hurling him backwards into the far wall.
And then there was silence.
Jikun looked up, raising a hand against the ice to let it fall once more to mere water about his body.
Saebellus and his army were gone.
Chapter One
Seven hundred forty-five hard fought days and seven hundred forty-four miserable nights they had borne to return to this place. Now the sun that arose from the horizon was more vivid and welcoming than any sunrise Jikun had seen on any day before. The sky was golden, radiating a warmth of color that cut through the cold spring morning fog like a blade. The ancient trees that lined the wide dirt road and covered the surrounding landscape shook off little drops of water as a fragrant breeze gently wove toward the elves’ greatest city on Sevrigel: Elvorium, the seat of the Council of Elves.
“Forgive my cliché, but isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?” grinned his captain. “The gods certainly know how to remind you of what you are fighting for, do they not, General?”
“That they do, Navon,” Jikun inhaled deeply. Even the stench of blood and rotting leather from one hundred fifty thousand soldiers could not conceal the pleasant aromas twisting their way toward him from across the canyon: at long last, through the final trees skirting the edge of the forest behind him, Jikun’s eyes could see the breadth of the Sel’varian city, plainly visible in the center of the cliff side that jutted out into a “V” shape over the canyon. At the end of the precipice, settled between two rivers that cascaded over the edge of the cliff, was the palace of the king.
A roar of relief and excitement arose from behind the general and his captain. Several helmets dared sail past the two, ringing as they bounced off the stone bridge before them to drop like stones into the canyon below.
“Hold onto your possessions!” General Jikun roared, turning in his saddle. “The next elf who acts like a god damn human will be stripped naked and paraded through the streets with the horses!”
The clamor quieted and Jikun turned back to Navon with a thin smile etched across his lips.
Although it was a far cry from home, he had to admit that he too was glad to return to the capital.
“Don’t make indecent threats lightly; the troops take you quite seriously,” his captain rebuked him with all the airs of a typical Sel’ven. Jikun considered it ill-suiting, as the captain had not a drop of Sel’varian blood in his body. Which was a relief for him amongst his troops.
“I was entirely serious, Navon.”
Jikun nudged his horse forward across the stone bridge that stretched over the vast ravine. The structure was a marvel of Sel’varian engineering, architecture, and magic, hardly comparable to the other elven races’ ability to design. Extending at a great expanse, the bridge was held in place by curved stone pillars mounted to the cliff side and supported by magic. The columned archway and railing across the bridge were intricately detailed, but more than being merely an adornment, they helped to shield travelers from the sudden canyon gusts that could catch a passerby off-guard.
Jikun had, on more than one occasion, imagined himself lurching over the side to an inescapable death and now found himself wondering if the archway and railing had been part of the original concept, or if they had been added later after some visiting merchant had met his doom. But of course, the Sel’vi would never admit to such a design mistake. Perhaps this was why a score of houses still spotted the canyon face below the palace where they would one day, inevitably, fall away beneath the erosion of the stone and send their poor, but foolish, inhabitants several leagues downward. During which they would hopefully have sufficient time to contemplate their poor life choices.
Jikun stiffened and edged his horse to the center of the bridge. This bridge, like the one on the opposite end of the canyon, led into the south and north ends of the city respectively. With the east end of the city banked by an enormous lake, the bridges were the primary entry points into the city. And all the elven magic in Aersadore could not comfort him when marching several hundred thousand bodies across its lengthy structure.
The horses whinnied faintly as though sharing mutually in Jikun’s dislike for this final stretch of their journey. He reached forward, patting his mare softly on the neck. Perhaps even she recognized the sight up ahead. At the bend in the bridge just before them, he could see the city’s gateway swung open wide and hear a roar of triumph and praise erupt from the guards at their posts. The salutary trumpet blasts seemed to have already been announced and Jikun imagined the waiting elves had let them loose when the watch had first seen his army rising across the west bank’s hillsides. Jikun pulled to the center of the bridge as Navon respectfully withdrew behind him.
‘What I wouldn’t give to skip this drivel of politics and charades and take a damn hot bath,’ Jikun muttered to himself as the bridge seemed to lengthen around the bend. He glanced once over the marble side—it had been over two years since he had last seen its depths; it still made his stomach drop like a stone. Far below them was a large forest, heavily shrouded in the center by the thick rolls of mist running off from the waterfalls pouring toward a lake below. From this lake, a thin river, banked on either side by a narrow field, wound its way into the distance, away to the Noc’olari or Ruljen ethnicities in the northeast.
Jikun’s head snapped back up in unease and he directed his attention instead to the first male at the gate.
“Congratulations, General, on yet another victory!” the captain of the city guard greeted as Jikun passed underneath the archway and onto the safety of the cobbled streets of the city. “His Majesty awaits you at the palace.”
Jikun nodded his head once toward the guard and pressed onward, eyes sweeping the streets of Elvorium. The gold-slated rooftops glimmered in the light of dawn and the long shadows across Mehuim Way crept up the cream faces of the buildings tinted with an orange glow. All along the street sides and hanging from windows were countless elves tossing flowers, shouting praise, and glowing with smiles. Despite having been awoken before the dawn by the welcoming trumpet calls that had saluted his troops’ approach, the Sel’vi were beaming with neatly braided hair and broadening smiles, as though they had long been awaiting this day.
But Jikun imagined they didn’t even remember what he was fighting for. It was simply the “victory” itself that had driven them to patriotism.
The street curved gently toward the entrance of the palace. Even as Jikun was lavished with shouts of praise and welcome, it seemed but a short march down its way before he and his soldiers passed beneath a flower-laden archway and stepped into the presence of several scores of elves.
Here, the mood shifted palpably. The elves waiting before the palace were taciturn and silent, bestowing no salute or praise onto the defenders of
Sevrigel. Their lack of response was contagious, spreading like the Cadorian Plague through the troops and into the city beyond. Jikun’s face grew stoic, the joyous welcome forgotten. Even the naivety of praise and victory was preferred over the stiff bastards that delayed his hot bath now.
These males before him were guards, council members, and a large portion of the nobility. However, despite the conspicuous splendor of the surrounding elves, the most prominent figure stood at the forefront: Hairem, Prince of Elvorium and the Sel’vi, second of non-royal blood since the Royal Schism.
As the army fanned out behind Jikun, the crowd before him, with the exception of the prince, went down to one knee.
This gesture was a long-established practice, and Jikun doubted that he and his army would have been shown the same respect were not the Sel’vi pedants for tradition. Pedant was, without a doubt, the most accurate and all-encompassing word he could ascribe to that breed of elves. The council members were pridefully stiff in their bows, eyes never fully lowering to the earth. Their guards, though more sincere in their respect, were nonetheless all too quick to their feet.
‘I’d like to see you leave your homes to lead a war. Then we’d see how your respect rises,’ Jikun reflected sourly in response, though his expression remained carefully detached.
He was not a Sel’ven and it was perhaps this fact that led him to regard their actions with an extra tinge of cynicism. He was from the far north—the frozen lands of Darival, land of the Lithri and Darivalians. Though his army was diverse in the race of elves it had deployed, now in Elvorium he felt out of place, as his appearance clearly spoke that he was a foreigner. His hair was a blue tinted silver, like the mountains that framed Darival. His skin was a grey-white, like shadows banking the snow. And although he was tall and slender like his Sel’varian brethren, his facial features were stronger and sharper—like a sculpture chiseled from ice.
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