Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “I saw her first!” the second man growled, shoving the first aside.

  Alvena grasped for her oiled sack, smashing the piddly contents into the human’s sneering face. She kicked free, hurling herself toward the waters.

  As she fell short of the icy waves, a thud struck the muck beside her throat. Alvena froze in horror, the arrow’s brilliant plume of feathers grazing her neck.

  ‘Gods…!’

  Instantly, the two men fell on her, slamming her legs and arms aside, swearing and striking one another as they battled for the hem of her dress.

  ‘STOP! STOP! HELP ME!!’ she wailed. She caught a glimpse of the crowd gathered behind to watch, grinning like a horde of goblins.

  The lean man was lobbed into the water and a roar of laughter split their party.

  “Oh, Davon!”

  “Show her, Gurnam!”

  Alvena felt her dress rise up to her belly, her last grasp on the silk failing beneath the man’s strength. ‘Stop…’ she sobbed as he reached his hand up her thigh and trailed it along her pelvis.

  A new voice ripped suddenly across the canyon. “GURNAM. WHAT IN ZEPHEREUS’ NAME ARE YOU DOING?!”

  Alvena’s cries lodged in her throat as her hair was sharply released. She shot up, drawing her legs tightly against her chest, and heaved for each choking breath.

  Gurnam lumbered to his feet, grunting out his disdain. Beside him, Davon had dragged himself from the river and retreated to the obscurity of the dense underbrush, highlighting the large human as the cause of the scene.

  Alvena followed their gaze. The crowd had parted, casting themselves aside sheepishly as a dark-skinned man dressed in vibrant, dirt-spotted colors strode through their midst.

  His hardened eyes locked upon her two attackers. “Didn’t I order all of you to bathe? Is this bathing? In any way, shape, or form, is this bathing?” The new human advanced briskly to stop a nose-width before Gurnam, strands of his coarse, black hair breaking free from his slicked mane. His voice lowered into a dangerous timbre. “Get into that water and if you come out before you smell like a vase of Starfarian lilies, I’ll drown you.”

  “Fuck you,” Gurnam muttered as he swung about, wrenching his boots off and lugging them down beside Alvena.

  She flinched, wrapping her arms tighter about herself.

  “AND the rest of you!” the human bellowed.

  “We found her,” Davon dared to explain, wringing his soaked shirt into the mud. “She came steeled in Dane and Rulf’s canoe… She probably killed them. We didn’t take her from the city. We’re not stupid, Sanas.”

  Sanas regarded him cynically through his narrowed, green eyes. “You think that killed Dane and Rulf? You think she’s out here alone? A Sel’ven in the canyon, alone? In a nightdress? No, you’re not stupid, Davon. You’re a fucking imbecile.” He reached down, grabbing her roughly by the forearm, and snapped her to her feet. “Where is your party, elf?”

  Alvena wrapped her free arm across her breasts as the thin strap of her nightdress slid away. ‘I don’t have a party, I don’t have a party, I don’t have a party!’ she sobbed through her shaking breaths.

  “You won’t tell me?” Sanas demanded, his calloused hand tightening. “Do you want me to throw you back to these savages?”

  Alvena’s knees crumbled beneath her and she clutched at his shirt. ‘No, please!’ She pointed to her mouth desperately as she opened and closed it soundlessly.

  She felt his grip slacken. “…She’s a mute.” He regarded her for a moment in silence, wild strands of raven hair folding into the crease of his brow. “Tie her up. I don’t know if there is a party of Sel’vi nearby, but we’re not letting her run back to spread word of our location. When you’re done bathing, Davon, go find the others. The rest of you: hurry up and finish the work on the cliff. We’re moving out as soon as the crater is through.” He whirled, pointing at two of the humans in the front of the group. “Watch her,” he barked, shoving her toward them. “And don’t touch her. Sel’ven women go for a hefty purse and I have to make back what I lost when Vethru ran off with half of our stash. If she gets away as well, you’ll be begging Ishkav to smite you.”

  Alvena felt any remaining color drain away.

  “And get her something to eat. It’s a long way to the Noc’olari.”

  Alvena’s ears twitched, the pain throbbing across her bruised face momentarily subsiding. The Noc’olari? What could her brethren have to do with these beasts?!

  Sanas lifted a hand to rein in the loose strands of his greasy hair. “They’re a lot more compassionate than your kind,” he continued spitefully. And then, to her consternation, stepped past her, stalked through the group of solemn men, and vanished into the foliage.

  ‘Don’t leave me with them…’ she whimpered, sinking to her knees.

  The two humans lingering to fulfill Sanas’ command strode to her side, both grumbling about their appointed task. “Tie her up but don’t touch her,” one of them muttered.

  “He means don’t fuck her, idiot,” the other growled.

  “I know that, you ass,” the first retorted.

  Alvena was hauled up and steadied on her feet before a sharp nudge directed her forward.

  “Damn you, walk” the first man snorted. “We have a lot of work to do and I don’t fancy being your wet-nurse.”

  Alvena dragged a foot, aware for the first time that Lardol’s shoes had come loose in the scuffle. The mud was cold beneath her toes as she shuffled into the tree line amidst the venom-filled complaints of the throng around her.

  “Damn Sel’ven,” one hissed. “Murderer.”

  The walk to the encampment of the miners was brief—they had pitched their tents along the shoreline of the northern canyon’s final channel. Alvena could see a half-dozen canoes, much like the one she had used and lost, bobbing gently in the water. The vessels offered easy access to a small mass of land just opposite, rich with kisacaela.

  But here, on the southern side of the little river, there was no beauty. A dozen dirty tents were arranged in two rows in front of a smoking fire. The half-rotted carcass of her imagination was still strung up above it and a nearby line of damp clothes flapped balefully in the greasy breeze.

  The taller human surveyed their encampment, mulling over the small selection of half-grown trees budding beneath the protection of the massive elder trunks. “Here is as good a place as any,” the first human was saying as he crouched beside a scraggly trunk. He raised a coarse rope, pointing a gnarly finger in her direction. “Sit down, woman,” he barked.

  Alvena did not have the courage to resist, though she felt briefly ashamed at her compliance. But what could she do? She was weak. Just a handmaiden.

  And so she sat, wiping a hand across her bloody face.

  The second human pulled it down, pinning it beside her stinging hip. “Now tie her tight, Lukai.” he ordered reproachfully.

  “What do you mean, Mobart?” Lukai retorted. “Are you saying something?”

  “You know what I’m saying,” Mobart sniffed.

  Lukai scoffed, wrapping the rope around her body and giving it a final jerk to pull it tight. Then he tramped behind the sapling to finish the knot. “Now if you have to piss, holler,” he grunted, pushing off his knees. “Stay there.”

  ‘Holler…?’

  Alvena watched as the two men sauntered toward the river, clambered into one of the canoes, and pushed off toward the canyon wall. Near its base, a small crater had marred the surreal surface. There, the cascading trail of blue gems, glittering in the dying light, was abruptly cut short by the humans’ rampant greed. The valuables had been stripped and only a gaping hole of grey rock remained.

  Valuables… Alvena started, head whipping about. What had she done with her sack?! ‘Sellemar’s letter!’ She looked up frantically, straining in Noctem’s consuming darkness. There her bundle lay, discarded in a heap amongst the humans’ dirty clothes.

  No! They had it! Even if she broke free, she would
never reach Ryekarayn without Sellemar’s letter!

  CHAPTER THREE

  The low creak of the door echoed softly through the cellar, causing Jerah to raise his head. Cutting through the silence was the sound of faint footsteps on the stone of the narrow, winding staircase. Gradually the sound grew louder as the elf descended to him with softly padded feet.

  The torch swept into the room before the male and Jerah squinted his eyes against the foreign light.

  “Good evening, Jerah,” the male hailed as he settled the torch into its holder along the wall. A dozen spiders scuttled away from the sudden brightness and into the crevices of the stone. They were likewise blinded by the awful glare. As the elf approached, he stumbled slightly beneath the weight of the package he carried. “You look well,” he offered vaguely, recovering himself.

  Jerah held his hand up against the light, watching the shadows dance across the elf’s face. He looked well? What did that mean—to look well? He had seen his own reflection once and thought he had looked quite unlike the elf. Perhaps the elf, then, was unwell. Perhaps he should mention just how unwell the elf looked.

  He considered this as the elf dropped the package before him. It caught the chain connected to his wrist as it fell, jerking his hand from his eyes. He closed them, turning his head from the light. “You look unwell,” he replied quietly.

  The elf paused a moment and then let out a soft sound that was mimicked in an unsettling echo. “The proper response, Jerah, is ‘thank you, my lord,’ or ‘and you as well, my lord,’” he replied, his tone reflecting his mild amusement.

  And something else. Jerah did not know what to call it—this other tone that inevitably revealed itself whenever the elf spoke to him—but he had not heard the tone used on anyone else. Pieces of it lingered behind in the walls as it bounced about the little room. There was something about it that aggravated him—made his skin crawl with irritation and his strong jaw flex.

  “Jerah!” the elf reprimanded him sharply.

  Jerah’s grip on his chain loosened and the metal fell with a loud clank to the dirty, stone floor beside him. The sound crushed the hunger of several nearby rats and they too vanished into the cracks along the wall. “I apologize, my lord.”

  The elf ignored him, sauntering through the darkness toward the back of the small, webbed cellar. “Where is your pail?” he asked, his hand tight across his nose and mouth. “Gods, does it reek of shit in here. Sometimes you hardly seem worth the effort.” He was muttering to himself now, his free hand sweeping the darkness to repel any loose web strands.

  Jerah shifted uncomfortably on the stone. His master must think him as pathetic as the humans of Ryekarayn. He seemed to curse them as much as himself, at least. His dark eyes followed his master as he bent down and, with a grunt, lifted his waste pail. Then his master jerked unexpectedly and released the handle, wiping his hand across his arm. “What in the name of the—”

  “Water, my lord,” Jerah informed him. “It leaks over there. That’s the place that you said you would get fixed and that I should remind you of…”

  “I said that? Yes… well, I’ve been very busy with the regime change, Jerah. But I’ve not forgotten about you—couldn’t if I tried.” He added the last words below his breath and Jerah felt an unpleasant feeling settle in his stomach at the tone. Then the elf continued at a normal volume. “Matters are changing. It’s hard for Saebellus to find a use for you right now, but perhaps you’ll be allowed out again.” He left the torch as he moved slowly out of the cell. Then he vanished around the bend in the stairs to leave Jerah in his cold, damp quarters.

  Sitting back, facing away from the light, Jerah settled down onto his rump. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his arms against the chill that spread from the stone and into his body. Then he opened his sagging package.

  The first smell that greeted him was familiar: there were at least three pounds of dried meat. Jerah ate one as he picked up a long, white rag and a bar of soap. He set these aside hurriedly as the light caught the gentle curves of the last dozen items. These were round, smooth stones about half the size of his fist.

  He picked them up one at a time, allowing the orange glow of the torch to play off of their shiny surfaces. There were hues of purples, blues, and greens on some, and oranges, yellows, and reds on others.

  Something to occupy his long nights of loneliness.

  By the time the last stone had been set aside, the pound of dried pork had been eaten. He reached a long nail into the space of his teeth, picking at it absentmindedly.

  He made a face and raised his hands, narrowing his eyes against what now seemed a dimness of light. Still, he could distinguish the brown caked beneath his fingernails.

  He reached for his white cloth, laying it in the puddle that had formed beneath the leaky ceiling. He wrung it once and then began to scrub beneath his nails, watching the brown stain grow rapidly across the cloth. ‘I hate this part.’

  Dimmer and dimmer the light became until it vanished entirely. The cloth dropped from Jerah’s hands and he wrapped his arms around himself, acutely aware of the silence that manifested in the darkness.

  It would be dark for a long time now if his master no longer had a use for him. The cell would grow hot and sticky, freeze, and then repeat before Jerah might again see the white torch that shone in the void outside his cell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Tie them up,”

  The voice echoed from some crevice deep within Alvena’s mind.

  “Now.”

  Abruptly, Alvena sat up, nearly smacking her head on the bench of the canoe. How could she have forgotten about the abominable craft for even a moment? She felt as though she had wallowed in it for a lifetime. The travel with the humans had been a slow journey—from the day they had finished poking holes in the cliff face to the tedious bob of their canoes along the northern canyon river.

  But if they were stopping, the Noc’olarian city had to be close! This was to be her first step toward freedom.

  Or rather, it had been.

  “Come on, hurry up!” Sanas yapped.

  Her captors grumbled their complaints of sleep and food deprivation as they hoisted their supplies and hauled themselves across the dark shore. They were remarkably loud, snapping twigs under their feet and grunting about the treachery of the forest’s root system. Alvena wondered why the Noc’olari bothered with the warning orbs floating atop the river when the humans made their whereabouts so easily known.

  But then the trees broke away and her appalling captors were forgotten.

  A massive, white tree stood in the center of the vast clearing: grander and larger than any tree Alvena had ever dreamed could exist—the tips of Elvorium’s palace towers would have had to stretch to reach its mid branches! A dozen open doors were carved into its base and pearlescent staircases wound endlessly around and up into its lush, silver canopy. Blue-white orbs hung in the air all about it, casting the entire tree with a soft and iridescent glow.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Alvena breathed. Elves were majestic crafters, gifted with a surplus of age and magic, and this…

  This embodied all of their experience and splendor.

  Her toes curled, and she became aware of the warmth beneath her feet. Winter grass overlay the ground, dotted with white mushrooms and lilac flowers that glowed with an inner light. Clusters of these lined a wide, mossy path that branched into the great tree.

  Marring the beautiful landscape, however, were countless white tents. But she did not see other humans. Instead she beheld the Noc’olari themselves. They were as majestic as she remembered—refined and pale, with skin that glowed in the moonlight. Their hair was as unique and as startling as their eyes: some touted bold hues of blues and purples, while some boasted vibrant silvers or teals. They were striking in their strange beauty, and yet blended seamlessly into the surreal colors and glow of their landscape. Ageless. Yet not one that Alvena could spy looked as young as she!

  “More refuge
es,” she heard a Noc’olarian female speak mournfully from nearby.

  “Tragic…” another lamented, kissing the back of her thumb and lifting it to the star-speckled sky.

  ‘These men are no tragedy,’ Alvena quickly recalled, and scowled at her captors.

  They merely shoved her deeper into their horde, blocking her view as they swept her toward the assembly of tents. “Move yer ass,” Mobart growled.

  The uncouth tongue drew the glare of a Noc’olarian male as he hastened across the mossy way. Alvena could see that one hand was covered in something dark while a clean, white linen was draped neatly over his arm.

  Then he doubled back, rounding on them sharply. Incredulity rushed across his features as though he had not first absorbed what he had glimpsed.

  “Wait,” he ordered, reaching out and catching Sanas’ sleeve. He was as tall as any of the humans and more powerfully built than any Sel’ven. Why, Alvena was quite certain he could fit two of her in the expanse of his regally rigid shoulders! Yet he was lean in his muscular physique. His skin reverberated in the moonlight, making the liquid on his withheld hand seem to shimmer.

  The miners drew to a slow stop, looking to Sanas for direction.

  Their leader cocked his head. “What is it?” he began cautiously, shifting his gem-filled sack. “You are still offering aid, aren’t you?”

  The Noc’olari ignored his question as he pushed the humans aside. Alvena found herself suddenly exposed before him, locked in his vivid, violet eyes. They gave her a swift and pointed scan. “What in Ilra’s name are you doing with this girl?” he demanded, his accent almost fully concealed. But not well enough for Alvena to miss the similarities to Sellemar’s.

  She heard a chuckle sweep through the men about her, their response extenuated by a gust of wind. Sanas’ slick hair slumped downward, quivering about his harsh, dark face. “This girl is a Sel’ven,” he scoffed, rolling his shoulders as though the response was sufficient.