Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Like each race of elves, the Darivalians had not given up their own royal line. He imagined it was some semblance of caution in the event that the Sel’varian rule finally ruined itself. And in Darival, like so many other elven places, most Sel’varian customs and laws were quietly disregarded. Even the Darivalians’ own council member pretended not to know of his race’s insolence toward the capital—although Jikun had been lectured extensively in private upon his appointment.

  But he had not come to reflect on them. He instead took the widest path, glancing once at the long banquet hall beyond the field where he had eaten his last meal in Kaivervale. He looked away just in time, narrowly dodging the corner of a building in his distracted state. ‘At least rows of houses prevent that.’

  He turned to his right then, away from the main street, and wove his way through the snowy pathways between houses. He remained just on the edge of the business portion of the city where half the city’s populace made their livelihood. Jikun could not help but compare it to his recent time in Elvorium: Darival was so unlike the city of the Sel’vi, bustling with their foreign merchants and countless city-dwellers. For being the main economic force of the city, the business district here was quiet and calm, and even as Jikun glanced down between the buildings, he saw only a handful of elves drifting between the shops.

  He was grateful for this as he turned down the street, his hood still drawn well over his face. Before he went home, before the city knew he had arrived, there was someone he had to see.

  At the end of the path he had taken, a jagged staircase cut into the stone of a mountain ridge, leading up to where the watchtower sat. This was the path he desired and his destination lay just beyond the peak. He pressed his hand against the stone, forming another makeshift railing to steady himself against the icy rock.

  At the crest, nestled into the stone behind the watchtower, was a small cottage.

  Jikun hesitated there. He could scarcely recall Murios’ face, and yet, there was a sense of unease about the place that he was not accustomed to feeling in Darival. A darkness of presence: that same feeling that enveloped him when Navon spoke about necromancy. He wondered if it was his own caution that gave rise to such feelings, or if there was a naturally sinister aura surrounding the matter. He grimaced at the strange runic markings carved into the stone face of the home and the faint, red-orange light glowing in the windows.

  The inscrutability of it all certainly did not help. He swallowed audibly, his fists tightening on his hood. ‘Don’t be a coward,’ he growled internally.

  “General Jikun, welcome,” came a sudden voice behind him.

  Jikun started, slipping on the ice and nearly tumbling back down the stairs. A hand caught him under the arm, steadying him.

  “Ah, I’m sorry. I thought you sensed me coming,” the voice lamented.

  ‘Sensed you? I didn’t even hear you,’ Jikun thought, turning to regard the male, who carried on walking past him once his balance was reestablished.

  He was lean, tall, and ageless. The blue of his hair had faded so that only the deepest white remained. He looked, in fact, remarkably like the Lithri, though his strongly chiseled face revealed his true origin. Although he was the oldest elf Jikun had heard of, he moved with grace and ease, stopping in a stoically composed manner before his cottage door.

  “Are you going to stare at me until Darival melts, or are you going to come in?” the elf demanded as he waved a hand at his opened door.

  Jikun hurried swiftly up the last few steps, across the snow-covered ridge, and stepped quickly through the male’s door. He glanced over his shoulder as the male followed him inside. “How did you know that it was me?” he frowned curiously, brows knit as the door closed behind them.

  The elf chuckled as he set a basket down beside the fire and bent his lean, old body toward it with a little huff, as though a breath of warmth would inspire the flames to burn with a bit more radiance. “With age comes perception, General Taemrin.”

  ‘Well, I suppose this is useless then…’ Jikun thought as he drew his hood back.

  “But,” the elf continued, straightening the vase of flowers on his table, “the emblem on your chest helped.”

  Jikun looked down at his left breast. Right. He glanced back up, eyes sweeping the cluttered home briefly. It was devoid of color and life—a dry, simple mess of old books and scrolls, with those chilling runic markings beginning across parchment and finishing on another surface—as though one material was inseparable from another in the mage’s fervent scrawlings.

  “I can perceive, however, that you are troubled,” the elf continued as he faced the fire, prodding at it once with an iron rod.

  A shower of sparks danced up the chimney and Jikun followed their path, wishing they would linger longer within the home. His brow knit. “I show that I am troubled?”

  “Why else would you come to see me?”

  Jikun’s eyes turned away and narrowed. “I’m starting to doubt this whole ‘perception with age.’”

  At that the elf looked up, leaning the metal prod beside the chimney, and smiled. The lines around his eyes creased and for a moment, age gripped him. “Sit, please,” he beckoned, gesturing to a chair beside the flames. “You did not write to me. This must be a truly personal matter indeed.”

  Jikun felt his chest tighten anxiously. A truly personal matter indeed…That much was true. He settled into the chair, sinking deep into the under-stuffed cushion. He rested his hands on the mahogany arms and returned his attention to the elf, keeping his face as passive as he could manage as the topic loomed darkly overhead. “Murios, I am sorry to trouble you,” he began as the elf walked to a shelf of books. Jikun frowned. “I can see that you are quite busy… but I travelled all the way from Elvorium for this matter—”

  “For your family.”

  Jikun blinked. “…Yes… To see my family as well.”

  The elf rounded, a black, leather-bound book gripped tightly in his hand. He settled into a chair across from Jikun and dropped the book onto the table between them. It landed with a heavy thud, far greater than a book its size should make. “For your family,” the elf repeated. “Navon, your brother-in-arms.”

  Jikun looked down at the book sharply. The edges of its leather jacket were tattered and stiff, curling back from the tarnished metal beneath. He could see that the edges of the pages were worn and brown, appearing so flaky that a mere touch might turn them to dust. “What is that?” he demanded stiffly, leaning slightly away.

  Murios pressed a single, long finger into the center of the book, and the tome itself seemed to groan softly. “My father acquired this. And my father’s father before him. And his father. And his father’s father. And now I. It is a tome which once belonged to Tiras.”

  Jikun’s eyes widened in a flicker of fear. No title was needed. No last name. No origin. Even though he knew of whom he spoke, he found himself demanding clarification, as though grasping for some last ray of light in the darkening room. “The Tiras?”

  “The only.”

  Jikun found himself recoiling from the tome before him. “Is that… necromancy?”

  The elf chuckled and Jikun felt his skin crawl. There was nothing humorous about the situation. “My fifth father was an apprentice to Tiras in his younger years, before Tiras quested with Eraydon. This was a book of spells that Tiras taught to him.”

  Jikun shook his head firmly, daring to push the book away. “Murios, I have come with questions concerning Saebellus’ Beast,” he spoke stiffly, forcing the topic down his chosen path. He continued before Murios could direct it otherwise. “It’s an enormous creature—seven feet tall or so, very muscular, brown-skinned, auburn of hair. Two black horns curve backward from its head. Yellow eyes. It has these two tattered leather wings… like dragon wings… but I have never seen it fly. It fights in melee combat using long talons and unnatural, overpowering strength. It seems immune to injury. We’ve shot it, stabbed it, bludgeoned it, burned it… and it returns
just as fierce. Murios, it has slain countless soldiers. Countless. You are the wisest elf I know.”

  “You mean the oldest. Somehow, age is akin to wisdom.” The elf leaned back, regarding Jikun thoughtfully, his pale eyes shifting across Jikun’s face in an unnaturally scrutinizing stare. He revealed nothing about himself and yet Jikun could feel his layers of defense peeled back by the intensity of the male’s gaze. “I have not heard of a beast like yours. His looks sound of a man with demonic qualities. Cambions rarely retain the large form of their demonic parent, but perhaps that is what you are dealing with. Although this is no typical demonic entity. Immunities to weapons… that, I have not heard of in mere cambions. And yet, High City Demons are inescapably grey-skinned. Ramulean—well, if it was Ramulean, you would all be dead.” He paused then, as though giving Jikun the opportunity to end the conversation. When Jikun offered no reaction, he continued, his voice softening, “There is one magic that deals with demons. And this is what you fear.” He leaned forward toward the tome.

  “With good reason,” Jikun retorted, keeping his body pressed away. “I fear that in Navon’s desperation to stop the Beast, he will use necromancy. And whether it is successful or not, I fear what it will do to him—due to its own nature—and what retribution Elvorium will invoke.” He paused, closing his eyes tightly as Navon’s suggestions in Elvorium rushed back to him. He took a deep breath. “Am I wrong to fear necromancy?”

  When he opened his eyes, Murios’ face had grown grave.

  “No,” the male replied solidly. “You are not wrong to fear it. Tiras lost his wife and child to his practice of necromancy and he himself eventually became blind as a result of its use. The Helvari on Ryekarayn have long allowed the use of necromancy, but even they are wise and fear the magic. The river that runs beside their mountains is teeming with the souls of those killed for the magic… or by the magic. And it is a terrible place of suffering and torture. Necromancy, even used for good, as Tiras used it, is a dark magic. Souls subjected to necromancy are often souls which were safe within the Realms of the Dead. When they are wrenched once more to this earth, they become weakened, tattered, and confused. And to utilize such power, the necromancer himself often must travel to the Realms with his own soul. The Realms are not a place for mortal men—and souls do not freely leave it. For a necromancer to travel to the realms and attempt to leave in entirety, the risk is great. A necromancer can be very great indeed, but if he cannot leave the realms, his magic is useless. As such, necromantic magic is often destructive to the user’s own soul or body. And with the loss of the soul comes the loss of self. Sel’vi have good reason to loathe necromancy. And you are wise to fear it. Your comrade is a Helven. He should know the stories of necromancy from his people.”

  Jikun heaved a deep sigh. “I thought as much. And it doesn’t bring me comfort. Navon sees the devastation the Beast wreaks in battle and it only spurs on his deep lust for necromancy, turning it into one of ‘justified’ motivation. Is there nothing good that can come of it?”

  Murios hesitated. “Tiras was one of the greatest mages of his age. And without his assistance, The Six would have never succeeded in their quest. Malranus would rule this world and you and I would be cowering deep within the mountains for fear of dragons. Back then, it was the cost of the revival of Malranus’ dragons weighed against Tiras’ soul. You tell me… is the Beast worth Navon’s?”

  Jikun stood slowly, his eyes hardening. “Thank you, Murios. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  *

  Weaving down from Murios’ home and travelling north across Kaivervale, Jikun came to the great lip of a cave. It towered high above him, casting a third of the city in its shadow in the morning and half that as evening fell. The turmazel stalactites jutted from the ceiling in enormous shards of purple often streaked with lines and waves of cerulean blue. Smaller, green crystals had formed near their bases and eagerly attempted to extend as far. But their efforts for growth were often halted by their odd directions. Before they had grown too far, they collided with one another and formed a sort of web of luminescent, green crystal-rays above him.

  He took several more steps into the shadow of the cave and the snow beneath his feet gradually thinned until only a dusting encroached upon the base of his mansion. The home of the general was made of both ice and stone, although it was primarily ice that extended across the exterior. He took the stairs up to the front of his home and opened the unlocked doors, throwing his hood back as he stepped into the great hall, his boots echoing softly in the high vaulted ceiling.

  The hall was cold and empty, and perhaps its chill was amplified by the heaviness that weighed on his mind. Was Navon obeying him, or was he even, at this moment, throwing himself deeper into the confines of necromancy?

  Jikun shook the dark magic firmly from his mind, forcing his eyes to sweep the clean interior; the residence had been well-kept in his absence, and yet somehow he found it oddly unwelcoming. For a brief moment he stood there, a stranger in his own home, and reflected that he would rather wake up from a thousand nights on the ground of a fur-sprawled tent, surrounded by his soldiers, than alone in this drafty, empty house—there was something far more final about its loneliness.

  And why was it so empty? He passed underneath the turmazel chandelier hanging still above him, between the columns of ice sculptures, and swept from room to room… But aside from his furnishings and belongings, the place was vacant.

  Jikun dropped his sack beside his bed of thick, white furs and left his mansion. His gaze turned toward the falling sun and he strode with deliberate steps to the west. He noticed nothing but the market as he passed, and even that was now still—the lights in the buildings had gone out and the city was oddly dark and silent.

  He glanced around with the caution he had grown accustomed to in the army, but there was not a soul in sight. He paused briefly at the edge of the street. ‘Odd…’ he wondered, before finally turning away.

  His quickened footsteps—perhaps finding greater speed as the emptiness of the night unsettled him—led him to a stop at the door to a small, square, stone home. An ice sculpture of Lithriella was displayed in the midst of a garden of purple and white hyaline flowers, whose petals had begun to close for the evening. He reached out for the door, knocking solidly and swiftly, and with a hint of frustration, against the stone.

  Here, the sign of life came in a muffled hum of voices and the quiet padding of feet. He stepped back once and the door swung open.

  The male who stood in the stone hallway before Jikun was a few inches taller, sturdier, older, and dressed in thick grey and brown furs. Yet there was an uncanny similarity to their chiseled features.

  For a moment, the two males just looked at each other.

  “Why—” Jikun began in a slightly exasperated tone.

  But the male extended his arms and grabbed Jikun firmly by the shoulders. “Catervi, Jikun has come home!”

  It was almost instantaneous that a female’s head bobbed into view over his shoulder, eyes wide, and shoved her husband out of the way. “Jikun! My dear, dear Jikun!” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked him in. “Close the door, Nulaves!” she barked to the male as she dragged her son forward. “Oh, stop for a moment and let me look at you.”

  “Why—” Jikun tried again, feeling her hand on the front of his shirt push back against his body to force him to a halt.

  “By Lithriella, you look underfed!” she lamented, shaking her head ruefully. “Do they not feed you in the army?” She released his shirt and clasped her petite hands together, smiling broadly. “I was just setting dinner out! Come. Eat.” She paused for a moment and then threw her arms about him tightly, burying her face into his chest. “I prayed to the goddess every day for your safe return,” she breathed, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  Before Jikun could offer his mother words of reassurance, his father had stepped up beside them and dropped a strong hand on their shoulders. “Let us move this into th
e dining room,” he insisted with a gentle push. He was getting hungry and even the reunion of mother and son could not stand between his father and his meal.

  Catervi stood back and quickly wiped a tear from her eye. She was a bit more emotional than her mate. “Why, yes. Of course. Come, this way,” she beckoned, stepping quickly down the hallway and turning into a small dining room. A fire roared in the hearth on the far wall and a pot simmered gently above it.

  “Why,” Jikun finally breathed as he slowly took a seat, “are you still here? My mansion is countless times larger than this. I insisted that you stay there. This house is no place for the parents of Sevrigel’s general.”

  They laughed, Nulaves chuckling heavily as he set a plate and bowl before himself onto the worn wood of the ancient table. He would have left the others to fend for their own dining wares were his mother not in possession of the soup ladle. “Oh, I’m sure the Sel’vi won’t make it this far just to scrutinize your parentage.”

  “Indeed,” Catervi huffed, brushing a strand of blue-tinted hair from her face. “And your home is lovely, Jikun. But it’s far too big and drafty for just the two of us. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves! This place is far more suited to our lifestyle. But we have kept your mansion well for you—so that you would have a nice place to come home to.”