Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Or was the magic intended to imprison something within?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Jikun. Jikun, wake up!” came a jarring, harsh whisper.

  Jikun’s eyes fluttered open, the memory of recent events rushing back to him. Immediately, his hand groped at his hip in search of his sword… then slowly drew away. His mind was groggy, but he had enough sense to remember that the gift from the Darivalian councilmember—his prize for his success in war—was gone. “I can get a better one,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  Jikun cleared his throat, pushing up onto his elbows despite his ribs’ snarl of protest. “What is it?” he demanded. He blinked away the sleep, then squinted in confusion as Navon’s face came into focus. His ashen pallor had faded, but what had replaced it was equally as chilling as the effects of the necromancy: runic symbols now spanned the breadth of the Helven’s forehead, etched in a crimson liquid that shimmered in the dim cavern light.

  Jikun had seen too much carnage to not recognize it as blood. “What in Ramul were you—?”

  Navon waved his hand sharply. “You have them too,” he spoke quietly, wiping the crook of his arm across his face.

  “I look like a child’s god-damn finger-painting venture,” Darcarus groused beside the stream as he splashed water over his face.

  Navon rolled his eyes, wiping the blood nonchalantly across his thigh. Jikun ignored his captain’s subtle mutterings that followed, aware for the first time of a cool feeling on his cheeks and forehead. “Why in the name of—”

  Navon refocused immediately as Jikun’s voice echoed throughout the cavern. He slapped his palm across Jikun’s mouth. “We are not alone!”

  Jikun pried it off, tasting the bitter tang of blood on his lips. “That much is obvious,” he spat, and staggered cautiously to his feet. “Do you still have my knife?”

  Navon pulled the kitchen blade from the waistline of his pants, but did not surrender the weapon. “You are in no condition for combat.” He warily scanned the trees in the distance. “I doubt they are hostile… They made no attempt to assault us in our sleep.”

  “Most would consider a stranger’s blood smeared all over their face an assault,” Darcarus countered as he withdrew from the shore. Undaunted by the Helven’s growing disdain, he grabbed the end of Navon’s cloak and attempted to dry his face on the hem.

  “Hey, use your own!” Navon hissed.

  “I lost mine in the desert,” Darcarus retorted, wrestling to pat his face off before the Helven could struggle away.

  “Enough, the both of you!” Jikun reprimanded as he scraped his hand across his face with abrasive force, smearing the symbols. The blood remained, but the runes, at least, were broken. “I swear you two have the attention span of a god-damn wolf pup. Now, I saw nothing living when we scouted the cavern from the cliff, but there is at least one madman running about down here.”

  Darcarus stood beside them as Navon finally managed to wrench the cloak away. “There can’t be more than one—where would they hide? Navon and I walked the breadth of this place in search of food.”

  “Hardly.” Navon gestured to a small cluster of trees with the knife. “For one, not in there.”

  The three were silent as they followed the point of his blade out toward the dark huddle of trees.

  Darcarus caught the male’s wrist swiftly and jerked it down. “Good gods, what in Ramul do you hope to do with that kitchen knife?” He drew his sword, advancing to the front of their little threesome. “It is probably watching us right now…”

  Jikun stepped at his heels, Navon shaking the chastisement from his wrist as they went. Before him, the forest maintained a thick and eerie silence. He squinted into the gloom. “Do you think Relstavum…?”

  “Greetings.” Jikun’s heart leapt in his chest as a male plunged suddenly through the branches of the tree directly in front of Darcarus, hanging by his knees from a gnarled branch. His lean body swung slightly back and forth above the grass as he regarded them in a wide-eyed gaze of attentiveness.

  “Balior take me,” Jikun gasped, reflexively raising a hand in preparation to cast magic. Yet it merely hung there, as Jikun found his attention riveted to the male in incredulous fascination.

  This was not Relstavum. He was not even human.

  ‘What elf…?’ His fingers fell from their stiff and ready state. The male’s hair was more vivid than his own—varying in shades of green and blue—with peacock feathers stuck securely in some unknown fashion. It trailed down from his head, brushing the grass with its tips. Countless runic symbols—such as those Jikun had seen on Navon’s cheeks—were inked in blacks and jade across his face, neck, and hands. The male’s brilliant green eyes flicked from one arrival to the next, and his long, slender face was turning a garish shade of red.

  Darcarus, bearer of their weapon, merely stood stupefied.

  Behind him, Navon reacted with a slightly more vigilant response. He retreated cautiously to regard the male in a mix of bafflement and wariness. “What are you… Who are… Why are you… What do you want?” he finally managed, his expression visibly perplexed. “Are you alone? Are you with Relstavum?”

  The male raised a hand to the branch, gripping it tightly as he released his legs, and then dropped gently into the grass with the ease of someone well-versed in dangling and dropping. Darcarus finally lifted his damn sword, but otherwise remained dumbstruck by the colorful aberration. The elf’s body jangled softly as numerous tiny, glass vials clinked together around his various leather belts. “I do not know who this Relstitum is,” he replied in the Common Tongue, although his words were thick with an unfamiliar accent.

  Still, that he was not associated with the crazy necromancer did not dismiss his own lunacy. What in Emal’drathar was in those vials…?—A peapod… hair… the foot of an animal, a clover, an acorn…Too baffled to even begin to ascertain a purpose for such trinkets, he instead caught the male with a sharp glare. “Who are you, then?” he insisted warily.

  “And what did you write on us?” Darcarus added, pointing his sword at the male’s gut.

  The male sauntered forward, unperturbed by the threat, and patted Darcarus once on the breast as he passed. Then he extended his palm toward the kitchen knife, displaying a recently closed gash snaking up his arm. “Ohhh… Eph’ven craftsmanship. It has been long since I have seen such an item. Oh look, a bird!” He froze suddenly, fixated on the dome above them.

  Jikun glanced up briefly, but then hastily refocused on the male. There was indeed a bird flying above them. It seemed worn out, careening back and forth across the ceiling in wavering dips toward the earth.

  And then it landed with a soft thud at the male’s feet. The stranger clasped his hands together, mouth forming a little circle of delight and surprise. “I was so growing tired of fish! What splendid luck! What splendid luck indeed!” He bent down and snatched the bird up by a single, scrawny leg.

  Navon sidled to Jikun’s side, grimacing. “Forget Relstavum, this male… is truly insane,” he hissed.

  “Truly,” Darcarus rejoined.

  Jikun glanced at the blade, disappointed that they only possessed the one. “Listen,” he began, but the male had already hurried away, across the stream, toward the summit of the hill.

  Navon’s eye twitched after him. “…Do we… follow him?”

  Jikun could only gape as he watched the elf scramble up the grassy mound and ignite a little fire at the top. “…What… is it?”

  “Well, it is clearly an elf,” Navon replied with a triumphant nod.

  Jikun’s expression flattened. “…Thank you,” he replied, sarcasm breaking him out of his shock. He frowned as the elf rotated the bird above the fire on a stick.

  Darcarus finally sheathed his blade. “Looks like some god got overly creative,” he chuckled. “And did he just leave us to eat a dead bird?”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s dangerous,” Navon interjected with a sniff—as though the prince had been suggesti
ng otherwise—and similarly sheathed his weapon into the waistline of his pants. “We can talk to it… him.”

  Jikun turned, surveying their surroundings once more. The cavern appeared to be otherwise empty. “Why in Ramul would I want to talk to him?”

  Darcarus smiled weakly, rustling his hair. “Actually, it might not be the most terrible of ideas… We would benefit from knowing the way out of the Makataj…”

  Jikun stilled, though he felt a strong urge to yank those pretty, carefully tousled locks. “What in Ramul are you talking about?—How in the Nine Realms did you get to Dahel?”

  Darcarus blew out his cheeks, a few wild strands flapping out indignantly. “Aersophyla—my dragon. Outside the Aenid to the west, there is a Griffon outpost that travels to and from Dahel. But obviously, that does not help us anymore.”

  Jikun’s head shook mindlessly in disbelief, his own knotted hair hanging dismally still. “So up on the ledge you spewed a plan with no idea how to actually get out of this damn wasteland? What about portal magic? Pray tell you can do more than summon dragons.”

  A look of sheer incredulity crossed the prince’s face. “You are unbelievably difficult to please.” But when Jikun said no more, he snorted his contempt. “Have you ever travelled through portal magic? It is—”

  “Yes I have,” Jikun interrupted stiffly. “I went from Elvorium to Darival many a time through such a method. And I dare say I rather like the efficiency.”

  Darcarus threw his hands into the air. “Then you saw that such a magic is maintained and controlled by multiple mages. And I am sure they warned you a dozen times what happens should the magic fail: you would end up only gods know where, never to be heard from again. It is extremely volatile magic. In all my years and all my studies—”

  “—The ones you never paid attention to—”

  “I have only known two males who can control portal magic outside of towers full of multiple, focused mages—mages who must perpetually maintain said magic. Both happen to be my brothers. And remarkably, Sairel is the only one I would trust. Hadoream… Well, on more than one occasion the things he sent through never returned. Wherever the Heart of Magic lies, that is where a stuffed bear, a one-eyed cat, and a jar full of buttons lie.”

  “…What?”

  “He collected buttons.”

  Jikun massaged his temple. “I have heard enough. So what you are telling me is that our only recourse is…” he trailed off, glancing uneasily at the mad elf on the hill. “Just what I should expect from a politician—a promise without an actual plan.”

  Darcarus opened his mouth to retort, but his silver tongue failed him. Jikun pivoted and Navon fell into step beside him. Together, the three climbed their way to the top of the immense hill, where the temperature elevated in response to the summit’s proximity to the desert sands above. Tiny grains sprinkled in with the occasional surface wind, shimmering in the sunlight as they settled into a layer of dust across the grass. That grass was worn and sparse, despite the ample sunlight, attesting to the male’s frequent position atop the hill.

  “Would you like some?” the male offered, continuing his conversation in Highstead as they halted several feet from his side. He lifted the stick, swinging the tiny bird about.

  Jikun gazed in aversion as the bird’s spindly legs flopped against its bulging breast. “No,” he replied flatly, raising his hand to block the sight.

  With a shrug, the male gave a violent thrust of the stick, staking it into the ground to cool. Beside Jikun, Navon jumped, his hand flitting to his knife hilt.

  “I am Eldaeus,” the male spoke abruptly. His tone had grown strangely solemn and he stared numbly at the bird.

  Jikun glanced at Navon for an explanation to his change in countenance. “And I am Jikun. How—”

  “Did the council send you?” Eldaeus prodded his fingers, eyes as round and pitiful as a Darivalian wolf pup when the hunters came to choose their mounts.

  Jikun wrinkled his nose, momentarily distracted by the forlorn expression. And then he froze. “What council?” he demanded.

  Eldaeus heaved a sigh of relief, his face breaking into a broad smile. He plucked the stick from the earth with glee and took a large bite of the bird, bones and all. It crunched as he bobbed his head from side to side to some unknown melody undoubtedly canvassing his mind. As though abruptly recalling that he had more guests, he pointed the stick accusingly at Navon and Darcarus. “You did not tell me your names. Did the council send you?”

  Darcarus viewed the male skeptically. “I would not tell you my name if Sel’ari commanded it.”

  Jikun could not blame him. He tapped his foot in irritation. His life was improving: from the bloody defeat orchestrated by Saebellus to the near-gruesome demise at the command of his dog, now he was trapped in the desert with a madman.

  Navon, however, was more than ready to pacify the elf with information, and Jikun half-wondered if it was not in a desire to contrast the prince. “I am Navon. And no, no council sent us… We came from Dahel.”

  Eldaeus cocked his head. “Dahel…?”

  “Yes. Dahel. …The city to the south? …You can see it from here. I mean, when you are outside the entrance to this place.”

  Eldaeus’ brows rose in delight. “They built a city nearby?” he exclaimed as he clasped his hands. “How fortunate!”

  While Jikun was not overly familiar with Ryekarayn’s cities, Dahel was certainly no recent enterprise for the Eph’vi. And to solidify Jikun’s theory, Navon whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Dahel was established several millennia ago.” He grimaced as he addressed the elf once again. “Can we… ask you some questions?”

  Eldaeus rubbed his chin, contemplating his response. “You may ask me… three and a half questions.”

  Jikun narrowed his eyes. “Three and a ha—” He grunted as Navon stuck an elbow into his side. “Curse your mother’s grave!—Those are broken, you bastard.”

  “Wonderful,” Navon beamed, ignoring his comrade’s complaint. “First, who are you?”

  Eldaeus let himself fall onto his bottom, placing his hands on his knees. He wrote in the dirt in ancient elven, muttering to himself as he did so. “No title. No name. Those were taken from me,” he spoke grimly. “So I am simply… Eldaeus. I am a Faraven of Sevrigel.”

  Navon’s brows rose instantly and Jikun was too occupied with his stinging ribs to stop the Helven from his foolish rush of curiosity. “A Faraven? All the way from Sevrigel? Sel’ari, how long have you been here?!”

  “Gods damn it, Navon! No wonder you lost the war,” Darcarus barked, unable to resist the jab. “What in the Nine Realms are we going to do with that information?!”

  Navon raised his chin and ignored the prince, but Jikun felt pain lance his heart. He forced the emotions to remain at bay. ‘We lost the battle, not the war,’ his mind chanted in defense to Darcarus’ careless comment.

  Eldaeus threw his head back and began to laugh. Jikun could see tears forming at the corners of his eyes and he was torn whether they were induced by grief or amusement—either at the question, or at the subtle display of inner conflict between his guests.

  “A very, very long time,” Eldaeus finally breathed, his chin dropping to his breast as he wiped the moisture from his eyes. “A very, very long time.”

  Had the male lived before or after the slaughter of the Farvian people? As far as Jikun was aware, no True Blood survivors of the massacre still existed. He halted his own interest. What did it matter?! He shot Navon an internal rebuke. ‘That is two wasted, you idiot,’ he thought.

  Navon winced as he read Jikun’s expression and paused, as though attempting to conceive a brilliant question. “How and why are you down here?” he finally asked.

  Darcarus flung his hand into the air to curse something inaudible to the gods.

  “We just discussed how we need a damn path out of the Makataj, Navon!” Jikun swore.

  Curiosity: it could never be for anything useful.

 
Eldaeus looked up, not seeming to notice Darcarus’ display, and merely squinted with reproach toward the sheepish Navon. “I suppose that is a one-and-a-half question.” He raised his hand up to the dome in a lamenting fashion. …Clearly he had noticed the prince after all.

  “I am trapped within this glorious cavern in punishment for crimes for which they could not kill me. By order of King Rel’estri and the council of Elvorium.”

  Darcarus lowered his arms. “Who is King Rel’estri?”

  Emerald eyes flashed sharply to Darcarus. “You do not get to ask a question,” Eldaeus pointed at him accusingly. “One left.”

  Jikun opened his mouth instinctively to inform the deranged elf that this would be, in fact, the fourth question, but held his tongue. After Navon’s utter waste for information, an additional query was warranted.

  Darcarus rounded on the Helven. “If you do not ask the right question, so help me I will find the nearest stick and shove it up your ass.”

  “Good gods, are you and Jikun related?!” Navon retorted. He pursed his lips to consider his next tactic. The Faraven was eyeing Jikun and Darcarus as though warning them against offering any suggestions. “How long would they lock me up for killing a Sel’varian prince?” Navon decided.

  Jikun groaned. Darcarus spun away to fulfill his threat.

  But Eldaeus ignored them both and cocked his head in true deliberation. “That is a very good question indeed,” he began in refutation to their wordless rebukes. “Probably at least a few days.” He trailed off and grinned unexpectedly, spinning about to face them. “Now it is my turn,” he began, patting the ground beside him. “Tell me—”

  Jikun cleared his throat loudly. “You will ask only three and a half questions and you do not get to ask me any.”

  For a moment, Eldaeus stared at him blankly. Then he laughed, sprawling into the grass with a broad smile. “I like you.” He set the empty stick into the fire, dropping a hand across his marked forehead. “There is a way out of the desert on foot. I can lead you out… if you promise to take me in company.”