Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “And send our troops as far east as they can go as well? What defense do you leave us with, then?”

  “What other enemy do we have to defend against?” Hairem shot back. “Jikun is not here now, so what does it matter to you if he is east or north or south? This is a matter of principle. If we let Saebellus maintain the eastern capital, then we say to him that the east is his. We must show him that every city—every space of this country—is ours. Let Saebellus meet defeat again.”

  “Hairem is right,” Ilsevel vocalized sudden agreement, her voice rising with a flame of emboldened heroism. “Would Eraydon have let Maryk take even the least of Ryekarayn’s cities without paying the highest cost? The council can only appear weak by turning a blind eye to his rebellion.”

  Nilanis laughed, setting his glass down rather forcefully at her words, cutting the visage of The Seven swiftly from their minds. “Both of you wish for me to oppose the will of the rest of the council?”

  Hairem’s voice grew in strength as he replied with a fierce shake of his head as he pressed his persuasion forward. “Not to oppose. To speak for Sevrigel. To sway them. You are the speaker for the Sel’vi and the council. You can sway them to see that even the Halls of Horiembrig must be defended.”

  Nilanis sat back then, sharp eyes flicking from his daughter to Hairem. He rubbed the ridge of his nose and tapped the table for a moment. “… I will call for the urgent meeting you requested on the morrow. I will speak on your behalf. But—” he continued before Hairem could respond, “I make no promises.”

  “Thank you, Nilanis,” Hairem smiled, shoving the elation of his triumph down. His eyes fell on Ilsevel, nodding slightly to give her the queue to swiftly change the topic—before her father could change his mind.

  “Oh! Father! I just remembered,” she began flawlessly. “I wrote a new piece of musical literature about The War of Dragons.”

  “Your daughter is,” Hairem said with genuine sincerity, “brilliant at writing ballads. I want my palace musicians to put it to song. Then perhaps she could play it for us one night.”

  Nilanis’ mouth twitched into a forced smile, even as he seemed to grasp for the first time that it was a couple that sat beside him. “That is a generous offer. I am grateful for it.”

  It was not easy to find topics to flow into from there, Hairem discovered. Mostly he focused on his relationship with Ilsevel. Of all the topics he could offer, he knew this was the only one for which he and Nilanis could share similar elation. When the food grew cold and their wine glasses emptied, Hairem stood.

  “Thank you for dinner, Nilanis. I will see you at the council tomorrow,” he said, offering his hand to Ilsevel.

  Nilanis got to his feet stiffly and bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Hairem could tell by the hardness of his eyes and the pursing of his lips that he was still irate—the mood had only been temporarily masked.

  Ilsevel stood as well and slid her chair back. “I will see His Grace out, father.” At least that burden was taken from him.

  Hairem was glad for her company out of the dining hall—it saved him from the awkwardness he would have felt to leave Nilanis staring bitterly after him.

  He held out his hand and turned with her, moving from the dining room to the empty hallway. Ilsevel walked lightly beside him, her back straight. He could not help but steal surreptitious glances at her figure. Gods, she was beautiful. How had that twisted, ugly, old male made a female as agreeable as she?

  “I must thank you for keeping your father’s temper at bay, my lady,” Hairem spoke finally, raising her hand and kissing it affectionately. “I am certain that, with the history your father and I have, we would have been at an impasse without you.”

  Ilsevel smiled, looking slightly embarrassed at the praise. “Surely your charm could earn even my father’s regard.”

  Hairem laughed lightly, his broad smile easing away the creases that the stress of the last month had burdened him with. There was hope now, thanks to her. “You flatter me.”

  She smiled and shied away from his hand. “Well… I am glad that I could be of assistance to you.”

  Hairem’s smile faded slightly at her words and he felt the creases at his eyes smooth. “Ilsevel, I believe you blur the lines between my political desires and… my desires for you. I did not come simply to talk with your father tonight, but to be with you.” He pulled her hand back toward him, suddenly, fiercely.

  He felt her breath catch.

  “Surely you can tell that my affection for you has grown in the recent time we have spent together.”

  Ilsevel seemed surprised by his boldness. He had shown it to her privately in politics, but he had ever maintained a very calm and delicate balance of affection toward her.

  The contrast now to her was… intoxicating.

  “I… yes. And… I as well, My Lord,” she stammered in breathless admiration.

  Hairem released her as quickly as he had drawn her in and gave her a sweeping bow. “Then I hope to see you tomorrow, my lady.”

  “Of course, My Lord,” she whispered.

  And with that, Hairem stepped out onto the stairs of the estate, his guards falling into immediate step beside him. Gods, the night was beautiful!

  “You seem most pleased, My Lord,” Erallus spoke with a subtle smile just visible beneath his helmet.

  Hairem smiled broadly in return, the visage of Ilsevel still swaying before his eyes. But he feigned focus on the streets about them. “It is a most pleasant evening,” he replied, sucking in the fresh air with a deep breath. “Come.”

  They wound their way back through the wide streets, buildings glistening in the moonlight, trees swaying in the breeze, and Hairem forgot his battle with the council just long enough to enjoy it. When they arrived at the palace, Hairem dismissed Taelarel.

  “If you could stay just a moment, Erallus,” he requested, watching his other bodyguard vanish through the double doors. “Could you do me a little favor?”

  “Of course, My Lord,” Erallus replied, stepping forward in attentive obedience.

  “Could you tell the servants that I am ‘sneaking in through the back’? I’d like to go upstairs in peace tonight.”

  Erallus smiled, his composure relaxing. “Of course, My Lord. I heard Prince Hadoream was known for that. I wonder where you acquired such a notion. Give them half a minute to scramble for you and you’ll be free to enter.”

  Hairem smiled shamelessly. “I don’t know what you are speaking of. Hadoream had only the best of influences on me.”

  It was as Erallus said—Hairem made his way unseen to his chambers and locked the door for good measure. He could just imagine Lardol’s fury when he discovered the ruse. Ha! He chuckled to himself and turned toward the room.

  The floor was clean—the pile of clothes he had left before dinner was gone, undoubtedly folded and tucked neatly back inside his chest.

  “Ah, Alvena,” he said to himself, shaking his head affectionately.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The fog hung heavily across the swamplands, thick and yellowed, glowing with the western light. The sun had sunk toward the horizon and it now remained as no more than a faint yellow flame in the sky. Jikun batted his shirt against his chest as he gazed across the hot and muggy world. He felt a bead of sweat roll down from his hairline, across his temple, and slide down his neck to rest against his damp collar.

  In the distance, across the emptiness of the Sevilan Marshes, he could discern a small, lone figure trudging through the muck to the base of the army’s hill. Even the centaurs had retired from the heat, vanishing into the shade of the sparse trees in the east. But this figure dutifully carried on. Jikun watched as he stumbled and fell, dropping into the slush at his feet, but he reemerged once more and dragged himself further up the hill. Finally, his face became distinctive, the crest on his armor visible, and he stopped at the end of Jikun’s tattered boots.

  “General,” the elf breathed. “The centaurs have not moved. There is
nothing new to report.”

  Jikun’s face remained impassive as he looked down at the weary, crouching scout, careful to appear confidently expectant in the news. He bent down, slipping a hand underneath the male’s arm, and pulled him to his feet. “Good work. That is good news.” But he could tell his words had not inspired the hope he sought for the soldier. “Go—clean up and rest.”

  The centaurs had not moved. And so, neither could Jikun.

  The soldier nodded once, his eyes dull as they shifted toward the camp. He gave a faint salute and staggered away, drifting into a heavier slump the farther into the tents he moved.

  “Gods,” Jikun muttered, watching the scout vanish into a large tent. There was no water for him to clean up with—he knew it. The soldier did, too. At the start of the plague, there had been a large basin for bathing the ill and one for the well, but as the number of ill increased, the army had been forced to use both to fight the sickness.

  And as the sickly state of the army progressed and the clean water dwindled, the basins had been entirely cast aside. They now stood empty halfway down the hill, caught beside a body lodged against a stump.

  Jikun tore his eyes away and turned stiffly to his own quarters. His footsteps remained unbroken as he passed the tent where the scout had entered; he could see several males emerging, carrying the soldier’s limp body between them. Their gait was solemn as they moved toward the roaring fire at the outskirts of the encampment.

  Jikun ducked beneath the flap of his own tent and let it fall closed behind him. His hand slid against the pole in the center for balance, and he rested his head against his forearm. For a moment, he remained wearily still.

  Somewhere in the encampment, he could hear the familiar sound of flames crackling and recoiling from liquid, and the familiar scent of freshly burning flesh reawakened him—it was only when a new body joined the fire that his immunity to the smell weakened. As much as the dead had been burned for their own sake and to combat the illness, Jikun knew, at the same time, they needed the dead to keep their fire going… and to cook what food they had left.

  In a slow, solemn lament, Jikun could hear the voices of his soldiers rise in mourning for the dead. Over the years, he had heard many songs from his soldiers. But the Ballad of the Dragon Wars had been the persistent piece of their new trial. No matter how many fell, they sang it again and again, as though it was the last tie holding them to the living world.

  “Sel’ari watch us in our dawn,

  For many have already gone,

  Bitter, weak, and cold we are,

  And though some souls do travel far,

  Resisting death we have carried on.

  The heat of dawn’s first summer brought,

  The beasts of fire; death they wrought,

  Plain and forest, bird and tree,

  A blaze of red and agony,

  And warriors to resist them naught.

  When Noctem rose above the sky,

  Banner-men came down from on high,

  Blue of eye and golden hair,

  The elven-kind’s most fairest fair,

  To give the lands’ first assembling cry.

  The elven lord and mighty king,

  Gave the beasts a great offering,

  Countless gems and endless gold,

  Writings of their most ancient hold,

  Of all the vast wealth they had to bring.

  For dragon kind mere peace was feigned,

  For when the king turned he was slain,

  His skin and hair, bone and blood,

  A chasm of red in the mud,

  And all the elves cried out for his reign.

  Sel’ari watch us in our dawn,

  For many have already gone,

  Bitter, weak, and cold we are,

  And though some souls do travel far,

  Resisting death we have carried on.

  With son and heir their new high lord,

  A rally rose with one accord,

  Through the peaks and over seas,

  An echo of beasts’ travesty,

  To bring all the elves as one in sword.

  In the dawn of Sel’ari’s light,

  Dragon and elfkind met to fight,

  Steel bit and fire shed,

  So not a single one not bled,

  With a battle raging through the night.

  The victory brought no great mirth,

  As beast fled to the depths of earth,

  Tears and blood, a solemn hymn,

  The casualties of war were grim,

  For so great a cost was freedom worth.

  A journey to the eastern brome,

  To rest the dead in the catacombs,

  Grief and gloom, hurt and pale,

  Even those who lived were frail,

  Before they departed for their home.

  Sel’ari watch us in our dawn,

  For many have already gone,

  Bitter, weak, and cold we are,

  And though some souls do travel far,

  Defeating death we have carried on.”

  Jikun heaved a deep sigh as the song ended. He knew that, even now, despite everything, his soldiers’ spirits rose at the words. “Defeating death, we have carried on,” he spoke the words, testing the feel of them on his lips. They merely left him feeling hollow.

  “General,” a voice came from outside.

  Jikun started, straightening himself and quickly recollecting his composure. “Enter,” he commanded stiffly.

  The tent flap moved aside and a thin, frail Sel’ven stepped through. His badge of position had long since been lost and he shifted before Jikun in a desperate attempt to appear somewhat commanding.

  “Lieutenant Reivel,” Jikun greeted with a solemn nod of his head.

  Reivel hesitated for a moment, his blue eyes flicking across Jikun’s face in visible concern. “Are you alright, General?”

  Jikun waved a dismissive hand, drawing himself up and shifting his weight casually. “Of course. What is it?”

  Reivel cleared his throat, pushing down his skepticism. “I’m afraid our worst fears are about to come to pass… We have a week’s worth of clean water left… At best. And that is not taking into consideration that the ill suffer from severe dehydration already.”

  Jikun felt the wall that surrounded his emotions finally begin to crumble. “Thank you for the information, Reivel. Do not let the army know this. Try to ration the water amongst the healthy. You are dismissed.” He could see Reivel’s brows knit as Jikun hurried through his response, but the lieutenant nevertheless took the hint and departed swiftly through the tent flat.

  It fell closed, leaving the general once more in solitude.

  A week of water. Jikun pressed his hands against the small, round table beside him. A week of water. Gods did the council not understand that they had lost?! With sudden fury, he heaved the table to the side, sending a vase to bounce and roll across the ground. He sank against a large wooden chest. Gods, they were all as good as dead! He raised his hand before his face, staring at it cynically, recalling the amazement with which Nalaen, Jekum, Lais, and Kaivervi had regarded him for his magic.

  “Damn me!” he cursed, kicking the nightstand angrily and sending it crashing to its side. If he had spent more time focusing on that talent rather than sleeping and drinking, would their fate be different now? He raised a hand, pulling the thick water from the air around him and freezing it into a small sphere. He stared into it, his chest tightening.

  The male who looked back at him was disheveled and pale. There was no dignity in his composure. No radiance of command. He was just another weary soldier.

  His fingers closed tightly around the pathetic sphere. That was it?!

  His mind wandered back to Darival: the frozen tundra beneath his feet, the cool wind at his face.

  What he would not give to be there now.

  His brow knit and he stood, pushing off his knees. ‘Damn it, Jikun. Get a hold of yourself,’ he growled internally. ‘You’ve don
e better than this before!’

  He reached down, stiffly picking up the vase at his feet and straightening both tables. He set the vase onto the last, dropping the sphere inside. He heard the little clink, the tap against the side, the little whisper of encouragement as ice tapped stone.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the thick air around him, remembering the icy tundra, the watery pool in which he had fallen before the thakish, and the solid wall he had formed as protection. A sharp pain tore suddenly through his ankle.

  “DAMN IT!” he swore, leaping away from where a stalagmite had formed at his feet. He reached down and tried to pick it up, but its roots ran deep into the earth. “Fool. You have no idea what in Ramul you are doing,” he berated himself. Without clearly seeing the water as he had in Darival, he found his magic difficult to predict and still harder to control. And a single stalagmite had taken a toll on his already waning strength.

  Still, he grasped his sword and slammed the hilt against it in a frustrated rise of determination until his pounding broke it away from the earth.

  Enough water in the ice for one male for a day. It was a start.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Between the towering white walls of two buildings, bathed in the cool shade of the evening’s shadow, was a narrow, cobbled alleyway. From the entrance to a garden of a nearby building, a slight male wrapped in dark clothes crouched behind the vine-twisted archway. He could glimpse a few weeds between the stones—evidence that the respective buildings were somewhat less privileged than the other regions of the city. This was the eastern end of Elvorium, not far off from the city’s crude inn that housed the ship-bearing foreigners.