Sellemar took a swift step to the left and threw his sword at the man’s chest. “I doubt it,” he replied calmly, watching as the human darted quickly out of the blade’s path.
“Now why would you go and do a thing like that?” the human grinned. “Gods, you’re more idiotic than—”
“For this,” Sellemar stated smoothly, lifting up the spear leaning against the wall beside him.
The human’s eyes narrowed abruptly and he darted forward as Sellemar raised his spear. Sneering venomously, he slammed his sword down onto the golden shaft as though he were wielding a cudgel. The clang rang out across the emptiness and vaulted ceiling, echoing like a crash of thunder against the walls.
Sellemar shoved the shaft back, meeting his every blow, his eyes straining to catch the man’s swift movements in the dim lighting.
“Elven eyesight is weak in the dark, isn’t it,” the human gloated. He grabbed the bowl of fruit from the counter suddenly, hurling it at Sellemar’s head as his blade pierced through the air for the elf’s abdomen.
‘Yes. Yes it is,’ Sellemar thought incredulously as he twisted his body to the side, the glass shattering against the wall behind him. ‘But it does not mean I have to move like a dwarf.’ He felt the blade rip past his side and swung the shaft of his spear out, knocking the man’s lunging arm away.
With his path clear, Sellemar slammed the butt of the shaft into the human’s knee. In a fluent motion he followed forward with a lunge, twirling the spear before him and smashing the shaft into the human’s head. As the human reeled back, he kicked him in the side, propelling the thick body away and sending the man hurling against the counter. Then, with a swift twist, he dropped his body low near the tile, swinging his spear around once again, and shoved it through the man’s leather-bound chest.
“If you knew who I was, you would have known there was not a chance in Ramul you were ever going to best me,” Sellemar stated coolly, yanking free the man’s blade as his grip loosened on the hilt. He shoved the blade through the man’s throat and pulled his spear from his chest, letting the body fall before him in a crumpled heap. “…And now I have to clean this up,” he muttered resentfully.
Sellemar took the man’s shirt and wiped the excess blood from the shaft and tip of his spear. The cheap cotton had cleaned it less than was acceptable, but it would have to do for a moment. He leaned it against the wall and grabbed the body beneath the armpits.
Ugh. He wrinkled his nose as his face bent near the lifeless figure. Gods, did they ever bathe? He ignored his instinctual desire to repel away and tightened his grip.
In an unceremonious fashion, he dragged the bulky mass through the kitchen to the back door of his estate; then, he heaved it across the dry grass of his orchard grounds to the edge of the canyon.
With a final grunt, he shoved the body over the side and watched stoically as it vanished into the darkness below.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jikun passed briskly through the rows of white tents that his soldiers had staked far from the future battlefield. The breeze was bitter and fast, carrying with it the scent of damp, wet leaves and the nearby river, an odoriferous marker of their whereabouts. He pushed open the tent flap of his final destination with little regard for the inhabitant, stepping in and speaking before the flap had even fallen closed behind him.
“Captain,” he began, ignoring Navon’s wide-eyed scramble for his armor. “Our last scout was spotted by one of Saebellus’ scouts. Our soldier said he believes the shot he fired killed the enemy, but we can’t be certain. Saebellus has rested for a day, and he will take no chances. Our scouts have seen no trace of the back line—no ambush in the vicinity—and we have scoured every inch of this land. I expect his descent into the tunnels shortly. Gather the troops. We march on Saebellus immediately.”
“Yes, General,” Navon spoke, almost breathless with anticipation.
Jikun departed immediately from the tent. There was no time to gloat on their success. Not yet. As usual, he could expect Saebellus’ attempt to flee after his loss—however he did it without portals or teleportation. However he managed to vanish an entire army.
But Jikun just had to remain focused and ensure Saebellus could not create the distance he desired between Jikun’s troops and his own. He had always used the terrain to achieve this.
He grimaced faintly as his last battle with Saebellus flared in his memory: the searing red light of a bolt of magic plummeted into the canyon wall near Widow’s Peak, driving an avalanche down upon him and his men below. And just like every other battle, when the distance between their troops had been blocked by stone or dust or tree, Saebellus and his men vanished. But with Elarium at his face and Jikun at his back, he would not have his opportunity this time. Whatever magic he was using, this time would be his last.
His boots crunched along the leaf-strewn mud as he strode to his own tent. He stepped in, dismissing the guards outside of it. “Prepare for battle,” he ordered sharply.
As the clinking of their armor died away and the tumult of preparations replaced it, Jikun picked up his golden cloak, threw it over his left shoulder, and fastened the sash across his chest. He straightened the sapphire emblem over his breast: his mark as the general of Sevrigel’s army. Unlike Navon, he had had his armor bound to him since daybreak. He paused for a moment, resting a hand on the table as his fingers trailed along the curve of the phoenix’s arc across his breast. The mark of Sevrigel’s general…
Hairem’s words flitted suddenly to him, conjured up from some recess of his mind where he had forgotten them. The memory was of his first meeting with the king, when Jikun had dismissed his words as the overeager musings of a naïve prince. ‘After the war, what is your ambition?’
This thought came to him then, as it had on countless nights before. On every eve before a battle. He had never let himself reflect on it, never dared to think that far into the future, but this time… with the taste of a possible victory so near… His gaze on the emblem intensified. If the war ended… He would return to Darival: after Hairem provided the troops he had promised.
Then perhaps he would serve in a time of peace… if that day could actually come to him.
He pushed off the table, dropping his hand to the sword lying on the stand beside his bed. He picked it up, turning it once in the dim light of the candles. The azure gems glittered in the ice-like hilt and he wondered briefly if Mikanum was as corrupt as the rest of the council. But that was a digressing thought—irrelevant to the battle at hand. He let the sheath fall against his side, all resentment toward the council member fading as the exhilaration of war neared.
He pushed back the flap of his tent and stepped out into the cold. “Kutal,” he greeted his stallion, running a hand affectionately down the white-flecked muzzle of his horse. Once again, Darival attempted to flicker to life in his mind, dragging him away on the haunches of Nazra, but he forced it stiffly away.
‘One battle at a time,’ he warned himself. He picked up the golden blanket from where it hung over the wooden post beside him and threw it over the creature’s back.
He could see the commotion of soldiers hurrying around him, gathering their weapons and armor, barking orders at their comrades. Even though there was a tinge of chaos within its frantic nature, his troops were focused and prepared—they had anticipated his command could arrive at any time.
These were the most highly trained soldiers in the land.
Jikun swung himself onto his horse and trotted to the edge of the encampment. The empty plain stretched into the distance, bisected by a narrow stream that led to the land where Saebellus was encamped. Like so often before, the land’s stark contrast to the roiling emotions beneath her inhabitants only filled the coming battle with further anxiety.
There was the soft suctioning noise of hooves pulling up from the earth behind him and Navon pulled his mare along his side. “The troops will be ready within minutes, as you could expect, General,” he spoke, nodding his head f
orward. He paused, wild eyes flickering across the vast plain. “Are you… eager?”
“As eager as any male riding to his enemy’s final defeat.” Jikun replied with a faint smile, stealing a sidelong glance at the battle-lust rising in his captain. These were words of hope now. The drive of confidence necessary to head forth.
They sat beside one another for a short while as the army gathered around them. Even as the company of troops filed into their military rows, Jikun’s attention remained outward, watching the horizon intensely until the seven scouts vanished over her crest.
“LET’S MOVE OUT!” Jikun ordered.
*
“General, Saebellus’ troops have entered the tunnel as you predicted. I estimate half are now within.”
Jikun waved a hand to dismiss the messenger as he finished, and for the briefest moment, he heard the male’s footsteps before the scout vanished into the soldiers behind him. ‘So this is it…’ He inhaled heavily as the icy breeze whisked his hair backward, the tempering braids whipping out in the force. His hand slid to the sword at his side, his fingers curling about the familiarity of the ice-like hilt.
Just over the shield of the hill lay Saebellus and his army, exactly as they had predicted.
“Captain Navon, at the ready.” He jerked the reins of Kutal harshly, turning to address his troops. “I am not here to motivate you. I am not here to inspire you. If you do not know why you fight or why you kill, then no speech will rile your spirits for the coming battle.
“This is the last battle we shall fight. It is also the last battle our traitorous enemy, Saebellus, shall fight. If we die now, it is in knowing that the glory of the kingdom rests at peace. For every brother we have lost before this day, we shall make Saebellus pay ten-fold—before we toss his body before the throne of our king and burn the corpses of his lost in the fire of our victory. Let the cloud of smoke be so great that the gods themselves must descend from Emal’drathar just to breathe!” He raised his sword in a rallying cry.
The soldiers beat a fist against their chests once and replied in unison. “May Sel’ari grant them safe passage!”
Jikun rounded on his enemy. ‘May Sel’ari damn them all.’
The leagues of rocky terrain separating him from Saebellus’ army seemed to fall away in his fervor to engage the enemy; the focused lust behind him echoed the same. He nudged his horse in the flank, the sound of marching feet resounding behind him in the night.
A sudden flicker of movement caught his eye atop the crest of the hill before him. With an instant reaction and a hiss of wind, an arrow shot past him, embedding in the enemy scout’s skull.
This was their battlefield.
He brought Kutal to a stop at the crest of the hill and cast his gaze outward over the valley below. Like frightened thakish facing the jaws of the wolf, he could see them moving wildly as they hurried into the safety of the tunnel, frenetically scurrying into the darkness.
Jikun smiled wryly to himself. They would find no refuge at the end of it. Saebellus had indeed been caught off guard and for the briefest moment, he wondered what horror the warlord felt as the news reached his ears.
He drew his sword once more, a flash of silver in the faint light. “FOR SEVRIGEL!” he bellowed, pointing his blade forward.
A wave of soldiers surged past him, charging in wide lines of equal speed, weapons tucked against their chests, faces grim, voices silent. Their discipline alone was a sight to see: a seething mass of death ready to swallow the remnants of Saebellus’ troops. The dark plain quickly became a teeming mass of soldiers. Cries of triumph rose across the battlefield as ninety thousand elves crashed down upon the residue of Saebellus’ frightened troops before them, shadows amongst the still collection of white tents. Jikun could see Navon raise his sword in triumph from the distance, his horse whinnying madly at the imminent clash of steel.
The last battle of the warlord Saebellus and Jikun Taemrin.
A sudden shadow swept over Jikun and his soldiers, so thick in nature that the valley around them grew dark. Jikun turned on his mount, his smile fading in confusion. Something shimmered to life in the distance behind them—no portal or illusion—just to the right of the empty hill they had just crossed. As if it had always been there. The moon and stars were blanketed by…
“Oh my gods,” Jikun gasped. He threw himself from Kutal, throwing his arms up over his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself.
He could hear the thunk of arrows piercing armor and flesh, the thud of bodies falling around him. His horse whinnied frantically and reared, kicking out in pain. He dared look up to catch sight of two arrows protruding along its back.
What in the god’s name was happening?!
He straightened, grabbing Kutal’s reins and forcing himself once more onto its back. It screamed in protest, but Jikun swung it around.
“What…” he trailed off in shock. Where nothing but an empty valley had been before lay thousands of enemy troops, volley at the ready as though they had been lying in wait before Jikun had ever arrived. No portal… no illusion… How then…?!
There was a sudden shadow above them yet again.
“NO…!” Jikun shouted, dropping the reins and once more throwing himself from his horse. Soldiers around him dropped to the earth, covering their heads. Jikun clung close to Kutal in a desperate hope to be shielded by its massive body.
The arrows ripped through his army again while his troops still stumbled in confusion from the first onslaught. The second brought their movement to a stop. Navon was gone. Beside Jikun, Kutal let out a final feeble whinny and collapsed as the second volley left him mortally wounded.
Jikun stood again. A thunderous roar went up around them with the sound of thousands of rushing feet.
‘We’re surrounded…!’
How did this happen?! They had followed the plan. The plan was perfect. Everything was as they had expected it! Saebellus had laid camp outside the entrance to the True Blood tunnel, as they had anticipated. He had rested his troops for a mere day before they had begun their descent into the passageway. And when half of the enemy had entered within, Jikun’s army had struck…! Where had the rest of the army come from?
Perhaps it was the answer to how Saebellus had been able to vanish after every battle. Why his army could never be found.
By no magic of the gods’ design, the enemy had come from behind out of nowhere.
Saebellus had saved this gambit not for minor ambushes or surprise attacks, but for a final, crushing blow.
Still, Jikun had more soldiers! “FIGHT!” he shouted as his troops were pressed from both sides. “FAN OUT!” They attempted to obey, to widen their front and back lines, but as his troops moved out, there were sudden screams of panic.
What in Ramul was happening?! Jikun shoved his way through his soldiers, throwing a male out of his way. “HOLD THE LINE!” Yet, through the mass of seething troops, he caught a glimpse of a pit in the earth.
‘Saebellus’ army dug traps…?! When…?!’
On their right—and by the screams, from their left as well—wide, deep pits pocketed the earth, sending Jikun’s unsuspecting soldiers tumbling down into the ground where Saebellus’ army dropped arrows into their defenseless bodies.
“HOLD THE LINE!!!” he screamed again, his throat ripping raw.
An enemy tent nearby suddenly exploded in blue-black flames, unnatural, dark fire that was immediately followed by the excruciating screams of his troops. The victims collapsed into the mud as the fire bit their flesh and heated the metal of their armor, burning it with a sickening odor deep into their skin. The agony on their faces was lit by the cold glow of the crackling flames.
Jikun stumbled away, his heart racing. “AVOID THE ENEMY TENTS!” he screamed.
He could hear the clash of metal around him now. A throng of soldiers reeled back in front of him, the back line stumbling into the fire in cries of agony while the soldiers before were cut down in the confusion.
The
noise around Jikun was deafening—screaming, shouting, crying… metal on metal and the thud of feet. The night was a blur of moonlight and glinting steel, of firelight and blood.
Another distant explosion of flame lit the scene around him.
A soldier before him was cut down, bleeding profusely from a wound at the base of his helmet. Jikun knocked the falling male away and shoved his blade through the enemy’s helmet.
A second enemy swung around beside his fallen comrade, throwing his weight behind his blade. Jikun mindlessly shoved his weight back, watching the enemy stumble from the force. He reached out to grasp the male’s wrist and, with the sound of cracking ice, the male’s body began to freeze. Jikun slammed his hilt onto his hand as the soldier reeled, causing it to shatter like glass.
Chaos. Burning flesh. Broken bones. Cleaved bodies.
A male not far from him collapsed in convulsions as metal melted into his flesh… as black flames devoured his skin. An almost inaudible ‘pop’ sounded from inside the helmet before he suddenly went still.
A slaughter.
Jikun dropped his sword.
Blood sprayed out from a nearby soldier as the general turned to flee the fight.
Defeated.
General Jikun Taemrin of the great and mighty nation of Sevrigel.
Defeated.
An explosion of flame from another tent cast a vivid picture of the bodies dropping around him.
His army… his troops… Navon… and himself… they were all dead.
A slaughter.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Mmm, we need to get up, my love,” Hairem spoke groggily, running his hand up Ilsevel’s leg, feeling the soft, smooth skin slide against his fingertips. “We’ll be late for the council meeting this morning.”
Ilsevel smiled, turning her face toward him, strands of her long, blond hair falling across her face. Hairem returned the smile fondly and lifted a strand away from her pink lips. He leaned forward and kissed her softly, inhaling the deep, sweet scent of rose blossoms that seemed perpetually embedded into her lips.
Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1) Page 40
