Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

Navon cleared his throat and Jikun exhaled sharply, swallowing his frustration. “Saebellus never attacks without ensuring he has a way to escape,” Jikun replied forcefully. “He’s only taking forty thousand soldiers to Elarium and leaving twenty or thirty thousand behind to guard the Halls of Horiembrig. If he does not have a way to lay siege to the city by surprise, he will never take it. He knows this.”

  Sellemar turned back to face them, a smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. That was the information he had clearly been seeking. “Do you have a map?” he demanded suddenly.

  Jikun quickly pulled the one Hairem had provided from his pocket. He offered it to the male.

  “The tunnel,” Sellemar began, as he unfolded the map, “is located here, fifteen leagues east of Elarium—that’s about two days as a soldier marches. If Saebellus uses these tunnels, he will make camp at its entrance and sack Elarium once his troops are rested.”

  Jikun glanced up, eyes narrowed.

  “It is what I would do,” Sellemar dismissed. “If you make your crossing at the Galenval River, follow it south until you reach a boulder fifty meters high. Walk due west one hundred paces and north forty-one paces. You will come to the edge of a forest and another boulder. Speak in ancient Sel’varian—‘May I pass?’—and when you have, ‘thank- you.’ That is the entrance to the tunnel. There are no diverting tunnel ways. It will lead you straight into the cellar of the palace.”

  Jikun was repeating the words in his head. “South past Galenval. At the boulder, one hundred paces west and forty-one paces north to another boulder. May I pass? Thank you.” He spoke the last two phrases in ancient Sel’varian, repeating the unfamiliar tongue several more times to solidify the information in his mind.

  Sellemar nodded, raising a finger of request. “At least keep the details regarding commanding and closing the entrance between the two of you.”

  Jikun nodded, rising to his feet. He could sense the elf had more to say, but he had learned what he had come for. “Thank you, Sellemar. This is exactly what I was looking for.” Despite the difficulty he had found in speaking to the male, Hairem was right. Whoever he was, however he knew about the tunnels, he was no common noble or mercenary. Was Ryekarayn becoming covertly involved in their war? That was bold, even for the True Bloods.

  Sellemar stood as well, nodding his head toward Jikun and Navon with a look that somehow vividly expressed the satisfaction he felt in his knowledge. He opened his mouth and Jikun could hear the pretentious tone before he had even begun to speak. “I would caution you. Saebellus is not a foolish male.” He paused briefly, as though to let his warning settle. “Good luck to you. May Sel’ari guide you.”

  Jikun flinched at the sentence, but he forced his lips into a smile, bitter though it was. “And you. Thank you.” He could see Navon grimace as though in preparation for something much worse, but Jikun turned to leave.

  “Thank the gods you didn’t say anything in there,” Navon breathed as he closed the door behind him.

  Jikun did not reply. The way Sellemar had said her name was not like the way the council and Hairem spoke it. There was no casual overtone or societal expectation of the phrase: only serious devotion. He had an instinctual feeling that had he spoken anything against her, the male would not have been above defending her honor by the fist… or sword. Perhaps there was some credibility to the theory that the elf was a cleric.

  *

  Navon let the tent flap fall close slowly behind him before he turned to face Jikun. He had spent the entire walk from the Rilden Estate to their encampment attempting to collect a calm composure, refusing to engage Jikun in conversation. Still, Jikun could sense the anticipation in his eyes and hear it on his elevated breaths. Even as Navon forced himself to sit before speaking and delayed even further to light the table’s candles, Jikun could plainly see his impatience. That wild, Helvarian bloodlust—that essence that lurked behind his curiosity. “What is the plan, General?” his captain finally spoke.

  Jikun sat at the head of the table, inhaling deeply with all the pretense of solemnity. Saebellus was not making a mistake—at least, not as far as the warlord was aware. No, Saebellus had a plan, and if it was not for Ilsevel and Sellemar, the rebel would have claimed his next city: Elarium may have fallen.

  “I am just… trying to deduce Saebellus’ thought process,” Jikun mused after a moment. “Saebellus is brilliant. Either he realizes the extreme risk of his decision and thinks the chance of success is worth the danger, or…”

  Candlelight flickered the shadows across his captain’s composed face. Navon placed his interlocked fingers to his lips thoughtfully, concealing his expression beneath. But his eyes had narrowed cautiously. “Do you think there could be a trap? Something we’re not seeing?”

  Jikun sat back, one arm resting casually across the arm of his chair, the other extended to the map before him. He tapped the wooden figure representing the warlord against the table loudly, turning his thoughts over and over again.

  “Play this game with me,” Jikun spoke after a moment. “You’re Saebellus. You have decided to attack Elarium.”

  Navon leaned forward. “I would believe that conquering Elarium would be an enormous success: I would gain the strength of Sevrigel’s trade and ships. But I would be cautious after what happened with Ilsevel. I would be concerned that you may know about the True Blood tunnels—or would have someone to inform you of them.” Jikun saw him pause to give him the opportunity to comment. When the general said nothing, Navon continued, “I would have a portion of my troops lying in wait nearby should we be attacked from the rear while entering the tunnels.”

  “You would do that?”

  “I wouldn’t take your chances that I don’t.”

  Jikun pursed his lips. “Then I’ll have thrice the scouts check the region for any sign of additional troops. We’ll scout outside normal distances.” Jikun gave Saebellus’ figurine a hard tap. “…But that’s not enough. To ensure success, I would wait until half of your troops have entered the tunnel. If you have troops lingering for a surprise attack, then I will surprise them instead: I will attack them first after half of your troops have already left. If you are not planning the ambush, then I would siege the remaining troops before the tunnel instead. Those that you had already sent in would have no choice but to continue and emerge to surrender in Elarium, or to retreat and surrender to us.” He looked up, releasing Saebellus’ figure.

  Navon’s brow knit, staring at the map. Jikun could see his eyes scanning the parchment, looking for answers, fighting for a solution to the general’s plan. He squinted his azure eyes in a final moment of desperation and finally leaned back. “…I would lose,” he breathed, almost in relief.

  Jikun pursed his lips, forcing back his wry smile as he focused. He would not allow Saebellus to flee again. “We shall send several birds ahead of us warning Elarium of Saebellus’ attack and where we believe he will make entry. You shall have your first and second lieutenant oversee this matter.” His exhilaration mounted as he spoke the words, despite his attempts to force it away. He could tell that his confidence had crept into his tone and Navon was resonating with it.

  “We shall send scouts several days ahead of us to observe the surroundings and monitor Saebellus’ movements. Were it not for Sellemar, Saebellus’ plan to sack Elarium would have no doubt been successful. But as it is, once Elarium knows Saebellus will come from the palace cellar, his defeat in the city will be sealed. So Saebellus will flee as he always does—back through the True Blood tunnel, no doubt collapsing it behind him. But what Saebellus does not factor in is an army waiting for him, ready to strike when his troops are spread and vulnerable. An army that also knows where and which True Blood tunnel he will use. Even if Saebellus—and I grant him this, he is an intelligent male—suspects an attack and intends to route us from behind, we shall be ready for this as well.” He inhaled deeply, looking up. “So I can fathom no successful trap. But our scouts will keep their eyes open.”

&nb
sp; Navon leaned forward. “What else, General?”

  Jikun closed his eyes for a moment. There would be sufficient time to share in their victory later. When he opened his eyes again, they were focused: cold and stoic, all emotion once more vanishing beneath an icy mask. If Saebellus was forced into a corner, there was no telling how bloody their battle would end. But in his gut, he knew the price of victory would be steep. “Order the army to make preparations. Ready their weapons and armor and prepare the caravan. I want everything in pristine condition. Every single soldier and every single horse must be in peak form… this includes you. I believe, my friend, this is the last battle of the warlord Saebellus and his army. We leave in two days.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sellemar watched the arrogant general and his pale-faced captain depart, then closed the door behind them and shook his head. Was Elvorium so lacking in skilled soldiers that the Darivalians and Helvari needed to lend their leaders? He scoffed. Times had certainly changed since they had become bereft of the True Bloods’ leadership.

  And no doubt the council was to blame.

  He strode into the kitchen, grabbing a stale slab of bread and sifting through the bowl of fruit beside it for edible remains. He frowned, pushing the bowl aside and leaning forward to grab a half-empty bottle of wine from the counter.

  Damn, it was difficult to keep up with own physical needs when the country could not take care of itself without his help for just five damn minutes. What he would not have given for Hairem to hand him a servant or two—to go along with the drafty old building.

  Then again, he supposed his secrecy was more important than his comfort.

  He picked up a glass as he left the kitchen, returning to the stairs and taking the flight slowly. The light from the windows of the estate was growing dim as the sun began to sink behind the mountain range of the west. He could not see it, but he imagined its soft, grey silhouette against the supple red of the evening sky. Soft rays fell on the mural to his right, casting an orange glow over the scales of the dragons. It glinted off the golden armor of the elves. The general and his captain had stared at the colorful stonework for quite a while.

  ‘They’ve probably never seen an actual dragon,’ he mused.

  He re-entered his room, setting the wine bottle, glass, and bread on the little table before the fire beside his sword. He raised his hands to the flames, letting them catch a hint of warmth before he moved to Rilden’s old desk. Crouching down, he opened the lower drawer. It slid out heavily, sending up an odor of ancient wood and poorly stored susanic nuts that the late lord must have nibbled on as he worked. Still, it was not at all unpleasant. Sellemar inhaled the sweet scent and lifted the small stack of parchment from within.

  Nestling back into the comfort of the chair before the fire, he set the stack in his lap and raised an empty parchment before him. He was almost finished. Silandrus may have failed to reform the council, but he would find a way to dissolve their ranks without breaking their precious tradition.

  And yet, who was he to rebuke Silandrus? If Sellemar had not found illegal evidence on the council, what would he have done?

  Nothing, truthfully. Nothing at all.

  Gods, sometimes he wished he could throw tradition aside as easily as Darcarus was able to do. It would certainly achieve a faster, albeit perhaps bloodier, result.

  He raised his quill, scratching along the smooth surface in elegant elven, ‘Mikanum: money laundering, knowledge of the transportation of illegal merchandise, knowledge of illegal practices.’ He set the quill aside, picking up one of the papers in his lap and scanning the admission from Nilanis’ servant of the El’adorium passing money to Mikanum. For a price, Mikanum had agreed to oppose offering any aid to Darival. He had, in short, left them abandoned in the north—both to the events occurring in the south and the trials they now—or had—endured.

  He shook his head with a scowl as the rushing wind of the tundra seemed to sweep across the room, a distant memory of a place he had visited long ago. How could Mikanum have abandoned his own people? But Sellemar knew: the Darivalian had pocketed the price of Darival’s assistance for his own.

  He flipped through a list of Mikanum’s financial keepings he had acquired from Mikanum’s bookkeeper, noting that he had circled all but a few of the discrepancies.

  Sellemar set the parchment aside and raised his quill once more. ‘Cahsari: money laundering, knowledge of illegal practices and merchandise, purchase of illegal merchandise.’ Sellemar had seen much of this first hand.

  He paused. Ulasum’s Tooth. He stood. ‘Damn. I almost forgot,’ he thought to himself incredulously, reaching into the vase above the mantel and producing the still-sealed vial of the repulsive liquid. He tossed it heavily into the back of the fireplace. There was a crack of glass and a venomous hiss of flames. In a brief plume of sweet fumes, all traces of the wicked toxin were lost.

  He sat back down, scanning the letters before him. For once, they were not from Sairel or any of the True Bloods. Rather, the small stack of crumpled parchment contained Cahsari’s letters to his son, of which the content was primarily a series of furious rebukes. Yet his admonition for his son’s infatuation with prostitution and toxins was countered curtly by his son’s reproach about his father’s own vices, which included and were not limited to Ulasum’s Tooth.

  The letters had been fairly easy to gather… although admittedly a bit less than legally acquired.

  Sellemar set it down on top of Mikanum’s papers, lifting the slab of dry bread and taking a difficult bite. He made a face of disgust and set it aside, quickly pouring himself a glass of wine and taking a long swallow to wash the soured contents down.

  “Ugh,” he muttered. “That probably was bad a week ago.” He set the glass beside him with a repulsed shake of his head and raised his quill once again.

  ‘Fildor: money laundering, illegal drug use, knowledge of the transportation of illegal merchandise.’ He didn’t bother to flip through the large stack of Fildor’s dealings with the ports along the river ways near Elvorium: he had already spent extensive hours filtering through the condemning evidence. He did, however, set a pipe still stained with ash beside the papers, the wood reeking faintly of the sweet-scent of the leaves of Ulasum. It seemed more than one council member shared that vice.

  He raised his glass and took a sip.

  “Nilanis,” he spoke the name aloud this time, his voice singed with disgust. He set his glass down and scratched heavily on the paper, ‘Transportation of illegal merchandise, possession of illegal merchandise, money laundering, murd—’ He stopped mid-stroke, going still.

  There was a soft creak from downstairs. He stiffened.

  The door.

  With instinctual speed, he set the quill down, letting the papers fall from his lap. He grabbed his sword, his careless movement knocking the glass from the table, spilling wine across the thakish’s thick fur and the corners of his paperwork.

  ‘Damn it.’ Yet he ignored the stain, stepping over them lightly and briskly striding to the office door. How he wished he had Ulasum’s Tooth to coat his blade with now!

  He pushed his door slightly ajar.

  The light from the sun was gone—the hallway before him had grown dark and cool. He strained his eyes, trying to adjust them as the bright flames of the fire still danced before his vision.

  He stepped out, drawing his blade and tossing the ornate sheathe back into the room behind him. It clanged against the marble floor, bounced once, and fell still beneath the desk.

  He heard the startled footsteps on the marble below betray the intruder’s location: the man was in the hallway between the kitchen and the stairs.

  Sellemar slipped forward down the hallway, halting at the top of the staircase. He could see enough in the darkness to make out the entry hall beyond: the door to his estate was hanging open, and what rays of sunlight were left cast a soft, yellow glow across the marble floor.

  He leaned cautiously over the baniste
r, but there was no sight of the man. Catching the edge and swinging himself over the side, he landed lightly on the floor before the kitchen with an almost silent thud.

  The intruder lunged at him immediately from around the corner, but Sellemar’s unexpected entrance had given the elf the edge: it was in reckless, over-zealous bloodlust that the human drove his stroke forward toward the elf’s chest.

  Sellemar met his blade with equal force, dropping to one knee and swinging his leg out, knocking the human off his feet and onto his back.

  “Who are you?!” Sellemar demanded, standing and pointing his blade sharply at the human’s chest.

  The human gave a grimace in the darkness. “Mercy, my lord,” the human breathed, his elven words coming out thick in a Ryekarian accent. He raised his hands as though in surrender and sat himself upright before the blade. “I thought this place was abandoned.”

  Sellemar’s brow knit skeptically as the human got to his feet. ‘You should have been able to see the light of my room from the balcony window…’

  The human glanced around, almost sheepishly, before his gaze returned to focus on Sellemar. “I admit I was up to no good… I thought there might still be wealth lying around…”

  Sellemar saw the muscles in the man’s hand tense suddenly and he swiftly kicked out, slamming his foot into the middle of the man’s chest and sending him sailing into the kitchen. The human skidded across the floor, stopping to lie momentarily still upon his back.

  “Who hired you to assassinate me? Nilanis?” Sellemar demanded, stepping lightly in behind the sprawled body, careful to keep distance between himself and the man’s limbs.

  The assassin’s face had curved into a deep scowl as he rolled to his chest and leapt once more to his feet. There was a hunger in his eyes equaled only by his hatred. The blow had not softened his lust. He swung his blade to the side casually, threateningly.

  “I know who you are, True Blood bitch,” the male growled.