Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “Thank the gods!” he heard the male breathe as the general broke away and continued his march past the fire.

  Jikun finally ducked under the muddy flap and entered into the comfort of his tent, the air cooler by the frosted mist that he had left hanging before he had left. He took a seat at the chair before his war council’s table. Lieutenant Reivel and Lieutenant Seladar… they were the last two males left on his council. Such a deathly silence lay around him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, resting his face against his fingers as he tried not to think about who was no longer present.

  Gods, he was exhausted. The activities of the last several weeks had drained him entirely. He had barely had time to eat, let alone sleep.

  He closed his eyes, letting his head nod forward.

  “Good evening, General.”

  Jikun looked up sharply, blinking his eyes to clear the fogginess from his mind. “Lieutenants, welcome. Please sit,” he beckoned, gesturing to the seats farthest from him; hoping to create some closure to the emptiness.

  The two males sat down on either side of one another, facing the general expectantly. They offered little comfort to fill the space that had once been. He felt a flicker of anger rise in him, Hairem’s face at the forefront of his rage.

  “A rumor is spreading like wildfire through the camp. The soldiers are saying we’re being called home,” Lieutenant Reivel spoke after Jikun remained silent.

  Jikun nodded gravely. He had not truly expected the sickly soldier nor the messenger to keep quiet. Yes. Home. Finally. But it wouldn’t be easy. He grimaced as he spoke next. “We must surrender to the centaurs.” The words left his lips with a bitter aftertaste, like the remnants of a pale ale. “We cannot fight them in our condition. And we’ll have to take our sick soldiers around the swamp. As you are both aware, we have no horses to carry them. We’ll have to fill the supply caravan with as many sick males as we can fit within, and the rest will have to be carried.”

  The lieutenants exchanged looks. “Carried? All the way back to Elvorium?” Lieutenant Seladar queried. “Elvorium is… over one hundred leagues away… And what will draw the caravan… elves?”

  Jikun regarded them both steadily, the sickly visage of Navon hovering at the corner of his mind. “My soldiers have sat in this swamp rotting for the damn king and council for nearly two months, surrounded by fucking horse beasts. Do you think that I am going to leave a single one of them behind? Not a damn one, do you understand? We will pull the sick with the well. We will carry the sick with the well.”

  “Of course not, General. But—”

  “If you are proposing some way to make things easier—some way that does not include leaving one of my soldiers—go ahead and speak. If not, then be silent.”

  He watched the two Sel’vi exchange looks. They had been decent soldiers, but the long months had eroded Jikun’s patience. “As you well know, the army is in no condition to fight. If Saebellus learns of our recall… if there is even a chance that he intercepts us on our journey to Elvorium… then this war is over.”

  Lieutenant Reivel interlocked his fingers, leaning forward. “General, as our information from the capital has said before, Saebellus is no doubt quite occupied with Horiembrig—he barely has enough troops to hold it as is. Even if he learns that we are to move out today—or even several days ago—there is no chance that his army could travel west fast enough to intercept us. And Saebellus would have to consider the plague in his attempt. He can certainly not afford to lose his army to this disease.”

  Jikun pursed his lips. It was not only Saebellus’ army that drove his caution. “We can take no chances. We will break the army into divisions. If we are, in fact, intercepted, let it be only one division that falls and not the entirety of this army.” He saw Lieutenant Seladar’s lips part hesitantly. He paused, seeming to reconsider his thoughts, and then closed his mouth again. Jikun gave a wordless nod of assurance. What came next was harder to say—it was a personal affront to his pride to go groveling before the damn centaurian lord. Still, Jikun bit back his pride with some force and spoke firmly. “I will go and speak to the centaurs about their terms of surrender in the morning. Prepare the army to leave when I give the order.”

  “Yes, General,” they both replied.

  Jikun waved a hand wearily, relieved that they had listened with such silent obedience. It had been difficult enough to explain his plans without receiving a comment on their “defeat.” “Go.” He heard their chairs slide across the soil and their footsteps crunch slowly away beneath his tent flaps.

  Perhaps his fatigue was more visible than he realized.

  He leaned his forehead against the table, mentally and emotionally exhausted. Surrendering to the centaurs… He had never had to surrender before. But… at least it was not to Saebellus… Elven warlords were known for executing the enemy general as essential and inflexible terms of surrender.

  Fortunately, centaurs were not known for the same finality.

  *

  “The terms?” Hashauel, the centaurian leader, trotted a few steps around Jikun. “The terms…” He stopped, gazing at the dozens of centaurs waiting stoically behind him. They moved ever so slightly as he regarded their attentive faces, shifting from hoof to hoof and flexing their strong bodies as though to remind Jikun how inferior he was. Hashauel himself was flicking his tail to and fro irritably, his great, muscular haunches flexing as he paced. “We have seen the stars, General of the Elves. Never before have our people warred the elves. Dark times lie ahead. But your leaders’ days are numbered: as are yours, General.” He reached forward and drew the blade from Jikun’s sheath, turning it over slowly. “Our god has punished you enough. Turn over all weapons and armor your army possesses to my children as a symbol of peace. Then you and your army may go.” He leaned forward, pushing the icy hilt back against the sheath. “I will leave you alone with your blade, as a gesture on our half of the agreement.”

  Jikun felt the weight of the sword drop against his leg. One sword amongst thousands: it was more mockery than leaving him with nothing. He unstrapped his breastplate and dropped it before the horse lord. “Your terms are fair and merciful,” he replied stiffly, bowing his head in respect.

  But internally, he reeled from the request. To travel one hundred leagues to Elvorium unarmed…? ‘Saebellus must stay in Horiembrig…’

  “Now go, elf lord,” Hashauel ordered, pointing toward the hill. “And deliver the weapons and armor here by nightfall on the morrow. Any actions taken that are anything other than peaceful shall be interpreted as a sign of continued war… and we shall reap what is left of your army.”

  Jikun tossed his dagger down beside the breastplate. “There will be no aggression from us,” he assured. Judging by the appearance of Hashauel’s guard, they alone would be enough to finish off what was left of his army. ‘Damn council!’

  *

  With the pile of armor and weapons behind them as a towering symbol of their defeat in that murky wasteland, Jikun led his army from the hillside of the Sevilan Marshes, out toward Elvorium. A few cautions centaurs trailed them—undoubtedly under Hashael’s orders—but Jikun could do nothing but watch them bitterly as his troops circumvented the swamp. As Jikun had ordered, the caravans sprinkled amongst his troops were pulled by soldiers instead of horses, groaning and straining under the weight of countless bodies of elves.

  As the ill died, those that could be spared from the fate of food were burned. And the weight grew lighter. Sixty thousand elves had left to war the centaurs.

  Thirty thousand now returned to Elvorium.

  In two years of vicious combat with the warlord Saebellus, Jikun had lost fifty thousand soldiers. In a few months entrenched on a hill, he had lost thirty thousand. It sickened him. Every fiber of his being bent under the weight of his hatred for the king and the council. For every soldier who had died retching. For every soldier who had barely survived. And for every soldier who was forced to eat his brothers or starve.

&n
bsp; That was what the great and mighty General Jikun and his undefeated army had been reduced to by the council and its pawn.

  He scowled in detestation. This was the council’s defeat, not his! He could so clearly recall the derision in the face of that centuarian beast, mocking his defeat by allowing him to keep his blade. All of that—all of that contempt and failure belonged to the council alone!

  As they exited the swamp grounds and their escort of centaurs departed, Jikun’s predetermined divide to the army obediently split into its three divisions and embarked for home.

  “Travel safe,” Jikun said, clasping a hand on Reivel’s and Seladar’s shoulders as the soldiers behind them moved away in their appointed directions.

  “May Sel’ari keep you safe as well,” Seladar replied heavily. “We shall all see each other in Elvorium soon.”

  Jikun turned back to the ten thousand males left under his watch. Just ahead, he could distinguish the pale wisp of his black-haired captain, propped up inside a cart, surrounded by ill and feeble soldiers. The persistent sound of coughing between them was as common as the sound of the division’s feet trudging toward the capital.

  “What if Saebellus does intercept us?” his captain spoke softly as Jikun drew up beside him. He leveled another shameless bark to the males dragging his cart, ordering them to quicken their pace. It was yet another rhetorical question from his captain—a provocation to Jikun’s own feelings, as though he demanded to be shown what lay beyond the general’s carefully composed mask of ice.

  Fear. Exhaustion. And in his relief that Navon had found his strength enough to query once more, he allowed those feelings to manifest themselves, albeit faintly, in the creases at the corners of his eyes.

  He met the dull azure gaze of his captain with lips pursed into a hard, thin line. ‘What if Saebellus does intercept us…?’ he repeated in his mind. He looked away to the east, a chill running up his spine at the perceived darkness growing at their backs. ‘If Saebellus thinks like me… and gods know he does…’ He inhaled heavily, replying in a grim tone, “It’s not Saebellus’ army I’m worried about, Navon.”

  *

  Even free of the Sevilan Marshes, Jikun found that the pace of his army remained at a burdened crawl. His attempts to spur on their progress left him raw of voice and his footsteps were reduced to merely a long drag beside the cart. Yet despite their pace, there was no complaint about the heat, the lack of food, or insufficient rest: his army traveled toward Elvorium as though she could be glimpsed on the very horizon itself.

  But at their pace, Jikun feared they were yet weeks away. He glanced up into the azure sky, eyes falling to the orange glow radiating from the horizon. The sun was setting, nestling down into the western sea, sending up clouds of smoke as her fiery surface hit the cool waters.

  “Halt!” Jikun shouted, his throat twinging in raw pain. He rested a hand on the shoulder of one of the front soldiers pulling Navon’s cart. “We’re going to rest here for the night!”

  There was a mummer of relief from the nearest soldiers that spread outward through the troops as news reached them. He could see the army fanning out. Normally, the white peaks of tents would have followed such movement, but such non-necessities had been abandoned in favor of the ill and weak. He looked toward the sky, relieved that there was no rain in sight.

  “Here, let me help you down,” Jikun offered sympathetically, grabbing the nearest soldier on the cart under the arms and helping him down into the long grass.

  “Th-thank you, General,” the male stammered weakly.

  Jikun slid away to a weak semblance of privacy nearby, and seated himself down near the shade of a tree. Yet, no sooner had he settled back against the trunk than the sound of softly jogging footsteps reached him. He looked up.

  “General, I’ve sent the healthy males out to the nearby surroundings to gather food and water to supplement the…” the soldier paused his pant to trail off.

  Jikun did not need him to finish the sentence. He instead let his thoughts reflect on what had been completed, grimacing faintly at the thought of gathering food for ten thousand males. “…Good work, soldier,” he finally breathed.

  It took many hours before the same male reappeared, offering a handful of berries, wheat, and a sadly pathetic fish dwarfed by the large leaf upon which it lay. “Here, General,” the soldier offered. “We have been quite successful.”

  Jikun took the leaf and nodded his head in thanks, certain to appear quite impressed with their achievement. “Good work, soldier. Now go rest.”

  The night fell over the plain gradually, turning the world around them to a darkness lit only by the white light of Noctem’s crescent moon. It remained cool and quiet, damp and dark. And a few hours before dawn, Jikun roused his men.

  The dew drops clung to their bodies and nearby grass, rolling off as they stood and straightened themselves. The ill were once more gathered and placed onto the caravan’s carts.

  “Alright, move out!” Jikun bellowed, his voice strong after the rest. He watched as the soldiers stepped forward without complaint and moved once more for the north. He placed a hand on the cart beside Navon. “I feel like I had a root shoved into my shoulder all night.”

  Navon smirked. “I slept on a rock. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell the weary soldiers to move me…” He chuckled slightly, but rolled his shoulders as though to push off the ache.

  Jikun took a moment to smile in his amusement before he dropped his hand from the cart and barked his first orders of the march. “Do you want to stay in this field all week?” he hollered. “Move it! Elvorium isn’t coming to us!”

  “You should shout more. I think you’re inspiring progress.”

  Jikun shot his captain a glare. “Don’t mock me, Navon. These soldiers need a push to keep going.” He glanced pointedly at the cart. “They’d much rather leave you behind.” And as harsh as his words to his comrade were, he found relief in the venom they spat: soon there would be a council to bite, instead.

  Navon’s face twisted in annoyance. “I was jesting, but now you’re getting a little—”

  “Move it! We just started!” Jikun hollered over Navon’s rebuke.

  The moon lowered in the west as the males pressed forward, but the light of dawn was still indistinguishable below the line of the horizon.

  “What did I tell you? They haven’t asked to rest yet,” Jikun spoke almost triumphantly.

  They had indeed made progress since they had risen: all trace of the swamplands was gone and the sour stench of its marshy waters had vanished entirely.

  Navon opened his mouth as though searching for a clever response, but his weakened mind failed him and his jaw closed with a surrendering smile. Jikun would take what positives he could from the plague.

  Without warning, cries erupted from the south like a howling wind, tearing toward the north end of Jikun’s division like a storm. He glanced up once, but the cloudless sky reflected nothing but a dark blue void.

  “What is it, General?” the soldiers around him stammered as silence briefly returned.

  Navon put a hand to his hip, but his sword lay leagues behind in the heap of battered armor for the centaurian horde. Jikun refrained from clasping his weapon, trying to maintain a calmly rigid composure even as dread clawed at the recesses of his mind. He could spot a male rushing toward them, his face deathly pale. “Scout, what is it?” he shouted to the ragged soldier.

  The male stumbled to a stop before him, gasping for breath. “The Beast, General!!”

  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. “Capt
ain, 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 ranks before him parted finally inward with a deafening blow of fear: the beast raised a soldier above its head in triumph. Its skin was brown in the moonlight, its black, knotted hair shimmering with grease near its scalp. It slammed the male down onto the two horns sweeping back across its skull, shattering the male’s fragile body on the hard, ridged bone.

  The soldier’s limp body flopped down into the grass before the creature. The beast raised one tattered leather boot and stepped down onto the male’s skull as it advanced. There was a crack of bone and the skull smashed out around its heel.

  Jikun’s stomach dropped. The beast looked up suddenly, as though sensing his gaze. Its eyes locked with Jikun’s even as the soldiers made to regroup before him in a final, desperate shield of protection. Without so much as a glance toward the other soldiers around it, the beast suddenly tore forward, pushing off the ground with a roar, its tattered wings pressed tightly against its back.

  “General, behind us!” a soldier nearby shouted, darting in front of him, raising a stick he had managed to find in the open plain—the army’s only weapon.

  Jikun knocked him aside in a single, swift motion. “FOLLOW THE CAPTAIN TO THE NOR—” But his words died as the beast slammed its body into a nearby soldier, hurling the male into Jikun.

  The Darivalian flew backward in turn into the male behind him, spinning head over heel and finally sprawling windless on the grass, his chest aching. Hands grasped for him, but a sudden wall of ice was erected around him, throwing the soldiers away. “I SAID GET OUT OF HERE!” Jikun roared.