Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “Now you know two,” Sellemar barked. “Just do it.”

  Erallus moved back to where Sellemar had begun his run and sprinted toward him. His slender body pushed off from the base and he caught Sellemar’s arms… at which point his forehead smacked into Sellemar’s and he was promptly dropped.

  “Damn it, Erallus,” Sellemar growled, rubbing his forehead, ignoring the “I warned you so” from Itirel behind him. He swung himself back to a sitting position. “Stay there.” Gods. If it had just been Itirel and him…!—but he had chosen to make the king comfortable. He heaved a sigh as he stood, leaping up to catch the next branch. “Watch him,” he ordered the Noc’olari.

  “Watch him for what?”

  “…I do not know. In case he does something stupid.” Up through the enormous tree he climbed until the ground below vanished in the darkness. Halfway up the tree, he turned and moved along the trunk for a short length. Here the wood jutted out slightly at the side, as though to be a place of a knob. Sellemar halted before it and peered down the large hole into the darkness.

  “Found it,” he whispered to himself triumphantly. He pulled the sword from his side and held it down into the shadows. “Hilithae seltaria.” The blade immediately lit with a bright, white-blue light, illuminating the darkness around him. He narrowed his eyes, studying the smooth inner walls of the tree.

  Ah, there it was, right in front of him. He scoffed and reached out for the first rung of the rope ladder below him. It was fastened at the top to the tree, but the end hung loose somewhere far below. It was as smooth as silk but as sturdy as steel—like the woven fragments of a spider’s thread. He pulled it up slowly as he kept the light pointing into the darkness. The tunnel did not merely extend to the earth, but dug deep and down below the roots, a bottomless pit past the glow of the blade.

  He sheathed his sword as the end of the ladder finally appeared, a single knot at the end of its silver strands. He took it and turned toward the ground below. “Alright, Erallus,” he muttered to himself as he dropped it down into the darkness. A moment later, he could feel the tug on the rope as the elf began to ascend.

  “So this is the egress of the Horiembrig palace escape…?” Erallus breathed as he used the lip of the hole to pull himself up onto the branch. He gave a triumphant grunt as he steadied himself beside the hole.

  Itirel climbed up steadily behind him, stepping off the ladder with a bounce to his step once he reached the same branch. He gazed toward the hole as well and Sellemar could see that he was equally as impressed as the soldier. He had almost forgotten that Itirel had never before been to Horiembrig.

  Sellemar dropped the ladder back into the darkness. “Go first. I do not want you climbing after and slipping and falling on me and us—”

  Erallus leapt nimbly over the side and caught the ladder. “Do not think for a moment, Sellemar, that simply because I cannot jump as high as you that I am incapable of fending for myself.” His head vanished into the darkness.

  Itirel chuckled. “Come now, Sellemar. Now you’re just pushing him. I remember when you were just like him. Young. Wild. Indignant. Wait, that’s still you, isn’t it?”

  Sellemar rolled his eyes. “You sound like my father.” He climbed down into the darkness after them. “You know, I did not ask you along to condone every bite he takes at me,” he carried on.

  He heard Itirel chuckle again. Well, was he not having the grandest time?

  And yet, Sellemar found himself chuckling as well. Gods, how he had missed these days.

  *

  “Ilra, since you ask,” Sellemar could hear Itirel speak of his god as he neared the two at the base of the tunnel. “Purple has long since been the color the Noc’olarian people have associated with him. Hence the naming of the ilralilis.”

  “You know, I do not believe Erallus cares much for Noc’olarian religion… or plants,” Sellemar spoke, touching ground a moment later beside them.

  “Do we have a light?” Itirel asked, without taking offense.

  “No, I do care,” Erallus interjected, and Sellemar picked up a hint of indignation. “Unlike you, he answers my questions.”

  “Secretive, are we?” Itirel jested.

  Sellemar scoffed. “I do have a light,” he spoke, ignoring the Noc’olari.

  Itirel carried on his conversation to Erallus as Sellemar pushed the rope aside. “What did you ask him?”

  Erallus shook his head, as though defending himself from a rebuke. “Nothing. Simple questions about who he is and where he is from. You would think those would be small talk.”

  Itirel raised his hands slightly and shrugged. “Sellemar prefers to keep to himself. His behavior is nothing personal, I assure you. There are just too many broken hearts pursuing him, I’m afraid.”

  Sellemar heard Erallus scoff something inaudible and Itirel chuckle. “Oh, you are just damn near hilarious,” Sellemar muttered, but he smiled faintly. After all, if Itirel was enjoying himself, even if it meant taking jabs at him, then he could tolerate it. For a little while, at least.

  The air was cool and damp and the smell of soil was all around him. And only darkness looked down at them from above. He drew his sword. “Hilithae seltaria,” he murmured to the blade.

  Their eyes adjusted to the vivid white-blue light that illuminated the world around them.

  “Incredible,” Erallus breathed as they both turned their heads to marvel at the craftsmanship of the True Bloods.

  And what a marvel of craftsmanship it was. The roots of the great tree twisted in and out of the stone tunnel. The floor was a smooth, glassy, golden marble while the walls shone with a similarly golden hue. Gems glittered from their embedded place in the decorative stone arches, which had been carved with tiny royal emblems: a gold-inlaid phoenix with a sword clutched in its talons.

  Sellemar could see the faint shimmer of small, floating, white orbs along the arched ceiling. Damn. What were the words for those again…?

  “Are those lights above us?” Erallus asked, catching sight of them at the same time. He squinted into the darkness. “Lutel seltaria.”

  Itirel exchanged an impressed look with Sellemar. Even Itirel did not know the words for the magic-fused orbs. With a faint flicker, the little crystal balls gradually grew brighter until the hall was filled with a similar blue-white light as Sellemar’s sword.

  He sheathed his blade, stepping away from the wall and down the tunnel. “Come. Be quick about it. We have seventeen leagues to cover.”

  “We are not over-exerting ourselves,” Itirel warned in his father-like tone. “I did not come to heal carelessness.”

  Erallus took step briskly behind him and Sellemar caught the slight, almost triumphant smile that twitched at the corner of his lips.

  Well, now he certainly was not stopping.

  The vast tunnels carried on below the earth, their architecture unchanged except for the occasional pathway leading off to small chambers on their left and right. In the past these were sleeping and storage rooms, filled occasionally by the few select members of the royal family who were privy to the knowledge of the tunnels.

  However, as Horiembrig fell from influence, so too did the upkeep of the tunnels fade. The once-elegant storage rooms now consisted of no more than dust, old food, and the occasional rodent skeleton.

  “When we arrive out of the courtyard, we will need to capture a soldier in order to obtain information regarding Ilsevel’s whereabouts. A male such as Saebellus will not keep her in the dungeons,” Sellemar informed Hairem’s guard as he stepped over a thick root with an overly compensating step.

  The mention of the warlord seemed to pique the soldier’s interest. Erallus picked up his pace to fall in line beside him. “What do you know of Saebellus?” he dared to ask.

  Sellemar did not glance to the side, but he could feel the gaze intensify on his face. “That he is one of the best generals Sevrigel has ever seen,” he replied shortly.

  He saw Erallus frown, clearly unsatisfied with the
general response. “I meant, what will he do to Ilsevel?”

  “Nothing,” Itirel interjected for Sellemar, in a tone that warned against further questions.

  Erallus’ lips pursed, his persistance flaring. “He will not defile her?”

  “No.”

  “Ah… he doesn’t think that the king will pay her ransom if—”

  Sellemar sighed. “No, Erallus. Simply because Saebellus is not an animal. Saebellus was a prestigious, wealthy, and elite soldier while employed by the kingdom. He was trained at the highest academies and received the position of second general under the last major general. There has not been the position of second general given since. Even Navon will never achieve anything more than a captain’s rank. Saebellus is as cultured as you or I.”

  Erallus continued undaunted, “And then Saebellus murdered his first general and started a rebellion.”

  This time, Sellemar heard Itirel’s tone change to a sharp reprimand. Erallus was certainly not above his rebukes and the male had crossed even the Noc’olari’s patience. “That is still not a reason for which he would defile Ilsevel.” He paused as he caught Sellemar from tripping over an outstretched root. It did not stop his stern reply to Erallus for long, “If you want to know your enemy, do not assume that simply because a person opposes your beliefs that he is now subject to entirely evil actions. Saebellus is infinitely more complex than that. I pray that the rest of your kingdom is not naïve enough to misjudge him so carelessly. He has more honor than the entirety of your council.”

  Sellemar turned back and picked up his pace, adding scornfully, “May Sel’ari take pity on your foolishness; it very well may cost you your life.”

  “You are often no different than Erallus, my friend,” Itirel rebuked.

  Sellemar’s cheeks flushed. He had almost forgotten how much the male’s fairness irked him.

  *

  They had travelled quickly, but even so, seventeen leagues still took the three elves nearly two days.

  Sellemar rested a hand on the silken rope leading up into the darkness above them. “This is the end. We shall rest for a few hours and then travel upward. Remember, we take a soldier alive as quickly as we can.”

  Erallus nodded once in agreement, sliding down against the back wall, gravel bouncing away across the floor and into the shadows. “Alright,” he grunted wearily.

  Itirel laid his lance aside and made himself comfortable. Unlike himself and Erallus, the Noc’olari still seemed quite energetic. Damn his magically assisted stamina. Even so, he was inwardly relieved that at least one of them would not bear the fatigue of the near-week long journey.

  Sellemar leaned back and closed his eyes, at last surrendering to a deep sleep. Tomorrow would begin the real test of their skills.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Jikun… should you be up? It hasn’t been two weeks.” Navon eyed Jikun reproachfully, leaning further into the soft furs of his bed and lowering his weathered tome. The air in his tent was muggy and Jikun wondered how he managed to lie in all that dark, stifling warmth without a breeze or even a flicker of sunlight.

  Jikun snorted, holding the tent open above him to let the crisp, mid-summer air scurry in past his legs. “Come. I am going to walk through the city.”

  Navon slid the covers from his body and rose steadily to his feet, despite the cautious reproach of his gaze. He set the tome on the stand beside him and raised a finger warningly. “Jikun…”

  Jikun ignored the reproach this time. He wasn’t going to deliberately cause a fight within the city, if that was what his captain was thinking—he didn’t have such time to waste.

  He just had to get away from the crisp, endless sea of stark white canvas flapping about him.

  His mind snapped suddenly to the black leather peeling from the spine of the book he had just seen. How was Navon passing his time…? “Navon,” he suddenly barked as his captain hooked his new sheath to his hip. “That book better not be what I think it is.”

  He saw Navon glance up almost sheepishly, as though his expression would somehow pacify Jikun’s response. “Jikun, it’s not another one of your poetry-ridden journals. I haven’t touched it since you took it from me before Darival. This is my book. You know my practices…” he trailed off.

  Jikun stepped in sharply, throwing the tent flap closed behind him. He would have preferred the Helven did have his journal. “NAVON,” he growled, reaching for the tome even as his gut dropped at the thought of touching such a cursed book. Irrational as it was, his hand urged him to withdraw from the imagined lash that would flare out and sear his soul for his mere proximity to the material within.

  Navon quickly picked the book up, stepping toward the rear of the tent. “Jikun—”

  Jikun ignored his instincts and reached out, catching his captain stiffly by the arm. There was a brief, pointless struggle as Navon attempted to break free; then Jikun set his jaw, unwilling to tolerate the resistance. His grip tightened on Navon’s arm and he drew upon the water in the male’s blood. He could feel the skin beneath his hand growing unnaturally chilled as the blood within began to freeze.

  Navon dropped the book instantly and clutched his arm with a surprised gasp. Jikun gave him a firm shove backwards and reached down for the tome.

  “Damn,” his captain growled painfully, rubbing his forearm firmly. “You could kill me with something like that!”

  Jikun picked up the book and waved it at Navon angrily. “So could this! Necromancy, Navon!” he lowered his voice, fearful that others might hear them. His eyes flicked back once to the tent flap to make certain that even that little barricade to the sound remained in place. “This is forbidden. I let the incident with the beast slide, but gods know I should have turned you in! What if the other soldiers had been close enough to discern what happened?! The penalty is death—if this doesn’t kill you first, of course!” He narrowed his eyes angrily, daring Navon to disagree, then wrapped the tome into his cloak and tucked it under his arm. He pressed it firmly against his torso lest Navon should even think about attempting to reclaim it.

  Navon turned his head away for a moment. Jikun could see the eyebrows narrowed above his unblinking, azure gaze. He was staring solidly ahead, resentful at having lost.

  ‘You can’t lose on this even once, can you?’ Jikun thought bitterly. He could tell he had not changed Navon’s mind about his practices. Not even a little. Did all of Ryekarayn’s Helvari have a death wish? Certainly living in an endless canyon of towering stone peaks would do that to any sane male, but here, in Elvorium of all places…!

  He heaved a frustrated sigh, grabbing Navon’s pale arm roughly and pulling back the sleeve. “You’ll be fine,” he spoke after a moment of examining Navon’s reddened skin. He smacked it once for good measure, slipping in his final rebuke.

  His captain huffed once, inhaled deeply, and held it. Finally he extended his hand expectantly.

  Jikun pursed his lips. Honestly, requesting it back was too far. His fingers twitched, demanding that he send the male sprawling to the earth, but he managed to restrain himself. Navon had been bedridden not too long ago… and he didn’t want to test his returning strength by that degree. Still, this was one area where he had to agree with the Sel’vi: and Murios’ caution had only propelled his resentment of the dark magic. Any magic involved with the Realms and the dead—whether raising them or speaking with them—was on ground that should never be trod.

  The Realms are no place for mortals.

  Navon’s eyes locked onto his and his hand remained stubbornly outstretched. There was the wild Helvarian spirit glimmering behind them, fierce and resolute. Stupidly so.

  ‘Know when you are beaten, Navon,’ he thought tartly, beginning to turn away.

  “We could bring back the males you lost in the swamp.”

  Jikun’s feet drew to an abrupt stop as his body started in a mixture of fear and temptation. He could feel his breath form a lump in his throat, his heart pressing against his ribs with
every rattling beat. Thirty thousand… His grip on the tome loosened for a moment. Thirty thousand lives… He stepped back, turning and pursing his lips in the appearance of determined resolve. “…No.” He glanced over, seeing that Navon’s persistence would not falter. His body stiffened in response and he drew his shoulders back. “If I catch you with evidence of your practices again, I’ll beat you myself.”

  There was a span of silence between them and what may have only been seconds felt like minutes. Jikun’s initial attempts to form a further rebuke stalled and faded, but he was not entirely convinced of the effectiveness of his threat and so he did not move.

  “Where are we going in the city?” Navon finally spoke behind him. His tone was slightly grated with aggravation, but he seemed to have finally realized that he had lost that fight.

  Jikun’s grip tightened on the tome just to be certain. “A walk, that is all. Time away from the troops for a bit would do us both some good. You could use the strength-building after what you lost in the swamp. Saebellus may be preoccupied in the east, but it’s only a matter of time before we see him again. And that beast.”

  He ducked out of the tent, Navon tight on his heels.

  The beast… The weight of the tome grew even greater at the thought of the otherworldly creature. He forced his eyes up and out, away from the plain, stark white canvas around him to the colorful expanse of Sevrigel’s glowing capital.

  Elvorium was bright and cheerful in the mid-day sunlight. Even the mist from the canyon had subsided substantially, allowing the vast world below to become mostly visible. Jikun walked out onto the bridge, looking over the side as he moved toward the city’s gates. He could see small, dark shapes flying above the treetops far below, and the water of the river was as vividly blue as the Kisacaela gemstones that could be found embedded in the walls throughout the canyon. And somewhere along those same canyon faces, Sevrigel’s sparse population of human guests was busily chunking away at the serene landscape.