There was a soft patter to his left and he started. Peering into the darkness, his hand instinctively gravitated to his hip where his blade usually sat: but he had left it at the inn. The Night’s Watch had grown to take any armed elf at night as a suspect for the assassin.
They had made his job that much harder.
His eyes narrowed and caught sight of a mouse scampering past him along the wall of the building. ‘You started for a mouse?’ Ralaris scowled at himself. ‘Orcs, elves, council members… and you startle over a mouse. Turn over your blade now—you are an embarrassment to your profession.’ He sidestepped the abhorrent vermin and moved swiftly toward the open road ahead.
At the end of the alleyway, he stopped and leaned slightly into the street. Two males in plate armor marched stiffly in opposite directions. The Night’s Watch had become a plague across the city since the increase in assassinations, and apparently they could not make due with just one male, but needed two to watch the same damn road. He waited until the distance between their backs had grown large enough and then darted as silently through the street as the breeze that followed him.
He had just slowed his step into the entrance of the next alleyway when suddenly there came a quiet tink of metal. It bounced to him from the alley walls—its true direction indiscernible.
“Who goes there?” a harsh voice demanded from somewhere near.
Ralaris froze, glancing behind him. No…? Then… His brows knit and his eyes turned forward again.
No one.
He stepped forward slowly, hesitant to reply. Where was this soldier?
“Who goes there?!” the voice demanded again. This time, Ralaris sensed a hint of panic in the male’s voice.
Where was he?!
There was a sudden sound of scuffling. Metal scraped against stone and a gurgled cry of distress was quickly silenced.
‘It was not me he was speaking to!’ he realized in alarm.
Ralaris instinctively sprinted forward, forgetting once more that he had left himself unarmed in the event that he was questioned by the Night’s Watch. He darted down the alleyway and turned sharply to the right.
In the dim light of Noctem’s moon, the sight before him was barely visible. The armored body of a Night’s Watchman lay sprawled in the dirt. His helmet had bounced aside and lay against the wall. Something glinted as it trailed from his mouth. And a sword protruded from his gut.
Ralaris surveyed the alley quickly, eyes flicking from the rooftops to the open street not far from him. ‘Damn it. This does not look suspicious. Where in Ramul did that bastard flee to?!’
“Did you hear something?” He heard a voice inquire from the street.
Ralaris took several retreating steps, but a sound of shifting metal plates grew closer from behind. They were closing in! His eyes moved up, scanning the walls for a way to climb, but there was nothing that would suffice!
“Right over this way,” the voices urged one another, closer.
Ralaris tore his eyes away from the rooftops and spurred himself forward. He would have to use the alleyways! He stepped swiftly past the body, his feet splashing into a shallow puddle, and hurried for the path branching off to his right. ‘Lead me, Lady Luck…!’
He spun around the corner and collided solidly with a tall, heavily armed guard.
‘And shit.’ His breath caught in his throat as he attempted to step away, raising an arm before his face to block the imminent attack.
The soldier reached out swiftly, his eyes narrowed venomously beneath the helmet as though guilt was unequivocally bound to the unarmed male before him. Ralaris felt the fingers curl around his arm and his body lurched across the cobbled stones to slam into the wall at their right.
“We have him!” the guard shouted triumphantly to two other members of the Night’s Watch, approaching Ralaris from an adjoining pathway. He heard a shout of acknowledgement and their footsteps quickened.
Ralaris turned back to the male, attempting one final, passive attempt to set himself free. “It is not what it looks like,” he growled. “I am unarmed.” Even as he spoke, the other soldier passed beside them and rounded into the alleyway where the dead soldier lay.
He heard a horrified gasp. “Sel’ari, he murdered Talwen!”
Ralaris struggled to avert his face toward the wall as the soldier before him leaned into his back, peering into the darkness in a desperate attempt to grasp a firm look at the “murderer’s” face.
“Sorry about this,” Ralaris muttered. He pushed his arms forward suddenly, twisting them from the iron grasp of the soldier. As the male cried out in surprise, Ralaris slammed his body into the armor, throwing the suit backwards. The guard stumbled in a desperate attempt to catch his balance while Ralaris swept forward with ease, pulling the soldier’s own sword from its sheath.
He could see a moment of fear and alarm spark in the guard’s eyes, but just as swiftly, Ralaris turned from him and heaved the blade into the darkness. And delaying no longer, Ralaris fled into the night.
“H-he escaped!!” he heard the soldier stammer after the moment of shock.
The sword clanged off the cobblestones and the alleyway was left in silence.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nilanis started, his eyes flashing open and his heart racing. A faint smell of smoke lingered idly in the air—the fire had died and the new moon left the room utterly and eerily dark.
A death-like silence hung heavily in the room, and not even the sound of his own breath could be heard.
“Is someone there?” he croaked, finding that his voice came out weak and panicked in the sudden silence. He had heard something, hadn’t he?
There was the sudden, muffled sound of footsteps, barely audible on the marble floor. “I awoke you? You elves and your hearing!” came a soft cackle of amusement.
Nilanis fumbled for the flint at his nightstand, hand throbbing with its still-healing wound. When he finally managed to spark the candle, he recoiled sharply with a choking gasp.
The human had stopped beside the bed, eyeing him casually.
“Gods, you are too close,” Nilanis hissed, waving a hand angrily at the man.
His assassin stepped back, scoffing. He tossed his head casually and dismissively to the side as his dark eyes landed on the freshly wound bandages. “Still angry about the hand thing, are we? I already apologized. I didn’t know you were having a little spat with your lovers.”
Nilanis swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his hair, choosing to ignore the comment. He took a deep breath, unable to decide whether the man’s successful entry into his bedroom was a testament to the human’s skill or his guards’ lack thereof. “Did you find out what I asked of you?” he finally breathed, looking up sternly.
The hollowness that met his gaze was unnerving.
Fueled by Nilanis’ discomfort, the man sneered softly, the candlelight playing up his hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes like some long-dead wraith that had crawled out of the Pass of the Dead. “Of course, my lord.” He reclined lazily against the wall. “The elf is going under the name Ralaris. He is definitely from Ryekarayn, if his accent attests to anything about him. Right now, he resides at The Whistling Glade.”
Nilanis nodded, leaning forward. “And of his orders?”
The assassin then grinned, seeming to cherish the information that, for the moment, he alone possessed: he licked his lips, clanked his teeth, and paused to dig something out from his teeth. “He meets a man at the docks frequently,” he began. “The man often gives him letters. I was able to once catch glimpse of a letter’s seal—it was the True Bloods’. I assume that these letters are updated orders or information from them.”
The assassin paused and Nilanis’ chest tightened. So the male was working for the True Bloods. What did the old royals want with Sevrigel now? They may have chosen to part ways with Sevrigel hundreds of years ago, but their potential power in their abandoned homeland was still immense… And just as notorious wa
s their dislike for the council. “And? Certainly you return to me with more than this.”
Taking several long strides forward, the assassin loomed closer, dropping his voice.
Nilanis stiffened.
“Oh, certainly, my lord. And what information I have!” His hands extended upwards in triumph and then stopped, freezing in place with his grin. There was a pause, as though he wished to hold his theatrics for effect. Then his hands and grin dropped in a swift and sudden motion. He waved a hand to the bag at his side. “But first, my payment.”
Nilanis scowled, muttering. These damned humans! Gods, if only he could find an elf with the man’s skill and mind. He moved to the small chest above the mantel and lifted the lid, producing a small bag that jingled softly in the still room. He tossed it back. “Always the money first.”
“Ah, thank you my lord. It’s just about priorities,” the man inhaled heavily, as though he could smell the wealth he was pocketing inside his shirt. He rested a hand against it for a moment, still savoring Nilanis’ tension. “Ralaris is gathering evidence to dispose of the council.”
Nilanis’ fist clenched. He heart dropped. “What do you mean by ‘dispose of the council’?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
“Legally, I’m afraid,” the assassin continued with a toss of his hand. The tone was sheer amusement now. “He’s been digging around in your—and their—personal business. Quite successfully, I might add. He has enough information to put you, Cahsari, and Mikanum behind bars thus far and he’s working on the others.”
Nilanis felt the color drain from his face. “What could he possibly have on us?” he demanded, throat tightening.
The assassin chuckled. When Nilanis did not continue, he seemed to grasp that the question was more than rhetorical. “For Cahsari, he has evidence of the Helven’s knowledge of his son’s involvement in prostitution as well as the councilman’s personal dabbling in Ulasum’s Tooth. As for Mikanum, he has evidence that the arrogant cunt is being paid off to ignore the problems in Darival. And as for you, he has evidence that you are allowing illegal shipments of Ulasum’s Tooth—not to mention other valuables—into port.”
Nilanis rested a hand on the mantle, staring into the charred wood before him. ‘Damn the True Bloods!’ His knuckles tightened, turning as white as bone. “Damn him,” he whispered. He swept his hand out, sending the right side of the pieces on the mantel clattering across the floor. “Damn him!”
“And as I said, he’s gathering information on the others,” the assassin continued, seeming to savor Nilanis’ panic. “And he is quite good at it. It’s only a matter of time before he has enough information to put all of your pretty faces behind bars. Will your council powers save you then?”
Nilanis shook the chill that ran up his spine and inhaled sharply as he rounded once more to face the mercenary. “I have the information I need. There is only one last thing for you to do. Kill this Ralaris. And as for the information he has: destroy all of it. And throw his body from the cliff.”
The assassin smirked, sauntering toward the window in a nearly silent gait. “Absolutely, my lord,” the assassin breathed. “Consider it done.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jikun leaned over to the damp ground and picked up the bowl of soup beside his chair. He stirred it slowly, staring at the contents with a solemn gaze.
“What is it, General?”
Jikun looked up sharply and forced a smile. “Navon, I don’t believe we have the luxury to ask what our food is anymore.” He leaned forward, raising the spoon to his captain’s lips.
Despite his attempt to rebuff Navon’s question, he imagined his captain had some idea of the contents. The food supplies were gone. The horses were gone. There was no food on their hill. The only thing the army now had in abundance was the plague… and dead soldiers.
Navon chewed slowly, a trail of brown liquid dribbling down the side of his chin. Jikun reached forward and wiped it off with his thumb.
“You’re looking better,” Jikun smiled reassuringly. Yes, Navon was looking better. He had pulled through the worst of the disease and had not relapsed like so many of his soldiers. Yet Navon’s body was boney and his skin was taut and clammy. There was dullness in his eyes, a lifelessness that the other survivors had not shaken, either. And more than in any of his other soldiers, Navon’s state rattled Jikun far below his emotional barriers.
“I’m feeling stronger,” his captain breathed. He opened his mouth for another bite—there was no shame in his hunger. “But if you read me some of your poetry, I’m sure I’d feel even better. You know, I didn’t mean what I said about it being awful. It was kind of charming—in a simplistic, Darivalian sort of way.” He chewed again for a moment before speaking, letting Jikun glare at him reproachfully for his poor attempt at humor. Yet he returned the reproach with all its force: “You, on the other hand, do not look so well.”
Jikun slowly pulled the spoon away from Navon’s lips. He regarded his captain with a firm and almost reprimanding gaze. Of course he did not look well. His army was defeated. Thousands upon thousands lay dead. Worst of all, the plague was not finished reaping.
And yet for whatever unfathomable reason, the gods had spared him.
Navon swallowed and his head nodded forward slightly. Exhaustion seemed ready to take him back to sleep at any moment.
“I am fine, Navon. Let’s get you well-fed before you rest. Open,” Jikun barked.
And his captain obediently obeyed, for once, in silence. Jikun had rarely had a moment of quiet compliance on any matter for countless years: since the dark-haired male had been led before him as a token of the council’s esteem. A supposedly unequivocal male in skill, Jikun had quickly learned that Navon’s knowledge of the real world extended the width of a book and no more. Necromancy was proof of that naivety. And yet, if there was a way for Navon to provoke, resist, or query his inner character, he leapt on it like a thakish on a winter wolf. Curiosity… knowledge… whatever it was that drove his inner demons. ‘You are the one who needs to eat,’ Navon usually would have said. ‘I won’t eat until you do,’ he should have resisted.
But the Helven said nothing, and Jikun found himself distraught by the lack of confrontation. Even when Navon had first been appointed by the council as his captain, the male had required no time to acclimate to his new authority as captain or subordination to Jikun: he dove right into his stern and opinionated mannerisms, his jests and his taunting. Yet, he had found Navon’s sense of the world a welcome and necessary reprieve from the grueling façade of obedience and lack of opinion that surrounded him in the form of simpering Sel’vi.
Navon managed to last through half the bowl before his eyes closed solidly and his head rolled to the side. Exhaustion still took him so quickly.
Jikun lifted his captain’s hand and pressed his forehead into it with a sense of relief. He knew he would wake again. He knew he would live.
“General!” came a sudden, distant call.
“General!” Already the second had grown much closer.
Jikun raised his head just as the flap of Navon’s tent was thrown open and a Sel’ven rushed in, a dove grasped white-knuckled in his muddy hands. “General!” He paused for a second to pant, his expression clouded in a feverish haze. “General, King Hairem has called us home!”
A moment of stunned silence held Jikun motionless. He clenched Navon’s hand firmly and the bowl dropped from his hands, tumbling across the ground. “Home?” he repeated the word dumbly, staring in disbelief at the pallid face of the soldier.
“Yes, General. Home!”
“THANK THE GODS!” Jikun nearly roared. At the sight of the beaming smile on his soldier’s face, Jikun quickly attempted to check his own reaction to what he presumed was more authoritative and appropriate. “Thank you,” he breathed to the soldier. “Call Lieutenant Reivel and Lieutenant Seladar to my tent.” He paused. Was it really necessary? He knew what he had to do.
The elf hesitated, as
though sensing his uncertainty. “Is that all, General?”
Jikun nodded swiftly, masking his hesitation beneath the strong male his soldier needed to see him as. “Yes. That is all. Be quick about it.” As the male departed he released Navon’s hand and stood. Gods, he wished Navon could share his elation, but his friend would be unconscious for several more hours at least.
Jikun grabbed the bowl, whirling to leave, but then his motions slowed to a crawl. Just as quickly as it had come, his euphoria was fading as another thought crept into the forefront of his mind. Leaving the swamp would not come without a cost. “I could use your support right now,” he whispered. “I know what I have to do.”
But Navon lay still, his body too weak to keep him awake.
Jikun inhaled, drawing his struggles inside as he so often did, and stepped out of the tent into the brisk evening air. The fire at the center of the encampment burned bright, casting an orange glow across the nearby tents and soldiers.
“Good evening, General.”
“You look well, General.”
“It’s a fine evening, General.”
“How is the captain, General?”
But Jikun ignored the soldiers as he made his way to his tent just beyond the fire pit, his mind preoccupied on the task that lay ahead.
“General, is it true that we are going home?”
Jikun stopped at the sudden question, turning to see one of his soldiers leaning out of a tent, a doubtful expression on his worn face. He looked quite ill. Damn, was he next? The council had waited so long to withdraw them!—Sitting in the luxury of the city, enjoying their wines and foods while his soldiers rotted and ate their brothers’ flesh…!
“General?”
Jikun snapped back to attention and waved a hand at the soldier to silence him. “Yes, soldier,” he replied. “But,” he continued forcefully. “Keep it quiet. I will make an announcement shortly.”
Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1) Page 26
