“You may go now, Jerah.”
Jerah’s mind snapped immediately to attention. “Yes, Master,” he grinned. He dashed to the stairs, vaulting up the uneven stone and through the large wooden door before his master had even closed his mouth.
Jerah stopped there, vision adjusting to the dimness of the vast world. Stone and wood lay broken about him, and vines twisted through the shattered windows of the crumbling tower. The only sound was of his master slowly climbing the stairs below.
But none of these were Jerah’s concern. Beside a pile of shattered rocks there was a door embedded in the ground. Jerah eagerly pulled it up and dropped within.
And here, the darkness was complete.
Jerah paused to inhale deeply, body rippling with excitement. The surrounding stench of dirt, water, and feces welcomed Jerah to its home: Elvorium’s sewer system. He silently moved into the increasing stench while rats scattered to avoid his massive boots.
Soon the tunnel ended and there was only murky water, thick with grime and the occasional bloated, floating rodent. Jerah jumped into the murk, pleased that the water rose only to his knees. As he trudged along, the pounding in his chest grew more feverish. His leathery wings trembled with trepidation. Ever present in his mind was the danger that his master had warned him about—the price to remain on the surface.
He had to travel swiftly.
The water level sank lower and lower until only inches remained and then, there was the circle of light. The torch in the sky shone through the grates in the cobblestone as rays of soft, white light. It gave Jerah a peaceful, safe feeling—more even than the cellar.
He waited and he listened.
There was only silence.
Jerah climbed the ladder below the grate and sniffed the air. Dirt, food, stone, and a harsh, rancid smell—but no elves. Jerah pushed the grate open, peering up cautiously.
The surface. It was enchanting—dark, quiet, and dangerous. The black void above him was scattered with thousands of distant torches and a strange, half-circle torch that changed shape every time Jerah surfaced. But unlike the torch in his cell, this torch was always lit—even dimly. Tonight, it left several wisps of smoke around it, blanketing sections of the void above.
Jerah’s chest swelled. He forgot the ache in his ankles and wrists as he slipped to the familiar statue beside a great bridge, blending into the shadows. He looked up at it briefly. Many times he had recalled the fierce, elven faces. Even in their state, they still seemed to breathe life. Jerah hoped that, should he ever fail to kill someone and be turned to stone as they had, he looked half as lively.
Jerah sharply turned his head away at the thought. ‘Focus!’ he reprimanded himself. ‘Unless you too want to be turned to stone!’ And the rebuke propelled him quickly over the great bridge and infinite chasm of darkness that gaped below.
Then Jerah’s feet touched the soft, moist earth and he tore off into the darkness. He had traveled many times over great distances when he had hunted General Taemrin and his army, journeying by the light of the white torch and sleeping as it vanished toward the distance.
But that was before Saebellus had defeated them. Jerah alone had never been able to do the deed. They had had a necromancer.
Jerah scowled deeply to himself. The evil creatures with their foul magic… Master hated them. Jerah hated them too. He found his forehead had become knit with disgust as he remembered that skeletal elf he had tried so hard to kill at the temple. It was the one creature Jerah had failed against. And, Jerah reasoned, it was undoubtedly why Saebellus had struggled so long against Taemrin.
Still, Saebellus’ victory now meant little time on the surface for Jerah… And he missed its wonders dearly. Previously, the most magnificent thing he had ever seen had been General Taemrin. He had seen many things in his travels: wretched smelling plants of varying wild colors, great stones that towered off in the distance, and countless distant torches flickering high up in the void… But General Taemrin had been starkly different than anything he had seen before. Taemrin looked like he had been carved out of stone and attached with long, wild blue hair and fierce eyes of a strange and chilling color. If Jerah had been the one to kill him, he definitely would have kept his eyes.
‘But Master never lets me keep trinkets from my killings,’ he thought resentfully.
As Jerah moved down the shrinking cliff, after a time breaking to the edge of the forest line, General Taemrin vanished from his mind like the white torch beneath its smoke. Now this was the most magnificent thing Jerah had ever seen. He drew to a sharp stop beside a bush, staring wide-eyed in wonder: a white tree reached up so high into the void that it seemed to touch the torches with the tips of its shining grey leaves.
“Lord Kinraeus lives there…” he breathed in awe. ‘He must be the greatest of all males!’
But to get into the tree… Many tents stretched below it, like a scattering of tiny white pebbles, and countless elves moved about between them. Why weren’t they sleeping? Elves were supposed to sleep while he was awake! He muttered to himself, irritated that so many were awake. There had never been so many awake before!
But Jerah did not let their presence deter him for long; he was cunning. His eyes followed the tree line to the right where the number of tents grew sparse. Swiftly and silently, he darted behind the nearest tent. And the next. He smiled to himself at his rapid stealth: the Noc’olari had no idea that he was there.
Finally, he stepped through a great archway of the magnificent tree. It was all the more awing on the inside. The trunk had been hollowed into winding white staircases and countless levels of buildings.
Jerah suddenly wrinkled his nose, gagging sharply. But gods, what was that smell? Immediately Jerah darted for the very top of the stairs, hoping to escape the wretched scent. Higher and higher Jerah climbed until his legs grew sore and his breath fell short.
Did the elves climb this every day? Why, they must do nothing but wake and climb up and down!
He drew to a stop at the top. There were only two doors here, flanked on either side by the bitch columns that held, what appeared to Jerah, stone reflections of the void.
His eyes dilated and his wings pressed against his back. A drive overcame him at the sight—the pounding entered his head, tuning his ears to the slightest whispers.
Jerah made a single, swift glance about him and grabbed the metal connecting the bolted door to the wooden frame. It popped off with a loud crack and Jerah laid it down silently. Then he darted through the opening.
The rancid smell emanating from inside was stifling. Jerah’s eyes watered as he stepped back out of the room, gagging. What was that smell?! He growled softly before taking a deep inhale. Holding his breath, he stepped back into the room.
Immediately, Jerah’s eyes locked onto two figures lying in the bed. He crept silently beside them, studying the hair of the heads poking out from under the blankets. He cocked his head slightly. They were like the purple of his stone… but lighter. Almost as though grey had been spread over them.
His master had said nothing about two Kinraeuses!
Jerah suddenly found his chest hurting and he remembered that he had to breathe. He inhaled sharply and gagged. Damn that smell! He held his breath again and raised his fist above the head of the male nearest him.
It was a swift, solid blow that sent the skull into itself with a soft crunch. The eyes of the figure beside him flew open and locked onto Jerah, its mouth parting wordlessly. His master had given him this expression before—when Jerah had smashed a rat in front of him.
Disgusting, he had explained. This elf must find him disgusting as well.
The thought angered Jerah and he found his upper lip had raised, revealing his long fangs.
“Ilra save me!” the male cried in a high-pitched tone, scrambling to get out of the bed. “Gods! Kinraeus!” As the covers fell from his chest, Jerah gasped in surprise and wonder.
The male was actually a bitch column… but not made of st
one! Jerah forgot about the body of Kinraeus and moved swiftly toward the column. Her body was soft and smooth—she appeared made of the same flesh as elves.
Why, this was more magnificent than even the great tree!
He started to ask her how she moved, but then the words of his master rushed back to him. Speak to absolutely no one. He closed his mouth again.
‘Forget the column, Jerah,’ he scolded himself. It did not matter how it could move. He simply had to rip Kinraeus up and be gone.
But the column scrambled toward the unmoving elf. “Kinraeus! Kinraeus!” it screeched. “Run!”
However, the blow, lethal or not, had disabled the elf.
Still, the column would not fall silent. Perhaps the cries would bring the Noc’olari. Jerah would simply shatter it and be done! He stretched out his arm, feeling disappointed that he had to break such a fascinating piece of architecture.
“Back! Back!” it cried, grabbing a nearby box and flinging it at Jerah’s head.
But Jerah simply tipped his head down, letting it crack against his horns. Then he picked the statue up. It twisted and flailed, forcing him to tighten his grip… and he found that it bent easily beneath him—not at all as stone should. Its shrieks only grew louder.
“Put me down! Release me, please! PLEASE!”
Wait… his master had said he could not talk to anyone… but a column was not an anyone. Of course! How foolish of him! “You need to be quiet,” he ordered firmly.
Instantly the column whimpered into silence. “Please,” it whispered. “Do not kill me…”
Kill? Jerah raised a brow. “I cannot kill what is not alive,” he replied. But he felt very foolish explaining this to the column. Although its confused facial expressions were remarkably elven, it could not possibly have a concept of life and death.
Jerah set it beside the bed. “Be silent or I will have to break you,” he warned.
It covered its face, trembling. “Did you kill Kinraeus?”
Jerah wondered this himself. He moved back over to the elf and studied him. “I do not know. I will make sure.”
But the column grabbed his soaked pant leg and tugged at it feverishly. “Please, please! Please spare him! Please!!” it cried desperately.
Despite its nature, something about it touched Jerah. He found its pleading difficult to hear and his body willed him to let the column have its way. It was such a sad little thing. He put a finger to his lips. “No more sounds,” he ordered. “Or I will throw you out the window.” He reached forward, sank his claws into Kinraeus’ chest, and tore the rib out.
The column seemed to die then—it collapsed against the floor and did not move. Jerah’s chest felt tight—he was sorry to see it go. But he forced himself to attend to the elf.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on his shirt. Suddenly his eyes began to sting again and he realized that the terrible smell was unceasingly present. He had just killed someone—he had time before he would turn into stone. But this smell? It had no more time!
He sniffed—it was coming from near the window. He slunk angrily across the room, his growl growing deeper as the rancid smell intensified.
And then he spotted it. There, on the edge of the window, sat a strangely curved cup sprouting brightly colored, vine-like objects. Like the Sel’vi kept.
Jerah picked up the glass and hurled it across the room, feeling satisfied as it shattered into the wall beyond.
Two enemies slain that night.
Task complete, he darted swiftly out of the room and glanced just once, sadly, at the bitch column. He was going to miss it. Perhaps he could find another someday…
And as Jerah stepped through the broken frame of the room, he came to an abrupt stop.
What if he didn’t…? What if he wasn’t let out of his cell again?
Saebellus no longer had much use for him… Master had told him this. Told him he would not be needed often now…!
Jerah shivered at the thought. The raw skin of his wrists and ankles ached, burning before the shackles even touched them.
He had been released only twice recently. Twice. In the past, he had been forced to endure many freezing eras in a cellar. With only the rare visits of his master to keep him company, he had barely clawed through the loneliness.
What if Jerah returned now only to endure longer silence?!
He stepped slowly away from the stairs, resistance rising in his belly.
Maybe he should have let Kinraeus continue his work with the human king! Maybe such a thing would have meant more work for Jerah! His fists clenched. He could not sit through another age beneath the earth!
But could he leave his master?
Jerah wrapped his wings around himself. The better question was, could he survive without him?
Jerah considered this carefully as his claws dug into the wood for comfort. Master kept him safe. Fed him. Released him. Brought him things to entertain himself. And Master had always warned him of the cost of life on the surface: for every day he lived, another person must die. It was a brutal existence…
He rubbed his forehead across the frame. The cell was safe… the cell was safe…
But when Jerah looked back out to the stairs, he recoiled again. The same hunger that drove him to kill was now refusing to obey. Why could he not care for himself? He could take food from mansions—he smelled it everywhere. And he could easily avoid being turned to stone—he had seen no shortage of elves to kill.
Jerah’s jaw set.
Yes. He could be his own master.
And with that thought, Jerah tore down the stairs and out of the great tree. To his surface… his freedom. His eyes lifted boldly to the white torch in the sky…
And his gaze faltered. A problem still remained: Elves hunted for the beast. They knew he existed. Since Saebellus’ war, Jerah had heard the males speak of mercenaries that hunted for him. They would do to him what he did to the elves.
The feeling that rose in Jerah sent him swiftly into the darkness of the trees. What was it like to cease to live…? No waking was… eternal darkness?
Like… being in the cellar day after day with no torch.
But there was one place that he had heard of… Where he could be safe.
The realization caused his wings to unfold from his body. “You are smart, Jerah,” he reminded himself of his master’s recent praise.
His master had spoken of the place often. The place where the dumb and the weak lived—the place of humans and dwarves. In that land, he would be safe. That place.
Ryekarayn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alvena craned her neck around the archway of one of the twelve entry doors to the magnificent white tree of Galadorium. She stood on the tips of her toes as she peered into the luminescent interior, eyes wide with marvel as she regarded the stunning magnificence of the place. The floor was a smooth, white wood, and all about its reverberating surface rose ornately carved pillars and winding staircases. The buildings inside were innumerable, in shapes and sizes rivaling any the capital had to offer: except that each was carved of the tree itself, seamless with the wall or floor it extended from.
It was an entire city engraved into the ancient tree!
And this morning the city was alive with hushed whispers and frantic footsteps. Itirel was gone and she had no one to bother about what had occurred in the night while she had slept. The humans were being questioned and many were being promptly escorted from the city, regardless of their condition. Alvena could only assume that whatever had occurred had left the Noc’olari wary of their human guests.
She tiptoed onto the wooden floor, daring to slip in through the archway. She knew she wasn’t supposed to enter the Noc’olarian city, but no one was around. She closed her eyes and inhaled heavily. It smelled much like Hairem’s scribe’s room, thick with the scent of old parchment and dust.
And just like in that stiff Sel’ven’s abode, she wasn’t supposed to touch anything. Hmph!
“What are
you doing in here?” a voice berated as it hurried past.
Alvena’s eyes shot open in surprise. No one had been around.
The female glared reproachfully. “You had best return to your tent.”
Alvena donned a sheepish smile as the woman disappeared around a pillar. Ha! Return to her tent when such excitement swelled about her? She snorted and strutted to a narrow, winding staircase. She patted the banister, finding it to be as smooth as glass, and followed its trail to study the figures in the distance.
A door above her to the left opened abruptly and two figures stepped onto a wide bridge that swept across the open expanse at the center of the tree. The little white lights that swirled around the railing flickered to life as they briskly passed.
“It’s because his wife is so traumatized by what she saw. Mausurem said he saw the creature, too. It was no human, he says. Black-skinned with four arms and massive horns like a dragon,” one of the figures spoke.
Alvena hastily pushed away from the banister and scampered along beneath them.
The second figure scoffed. “Mausurem is a drunk and a liar. What he saw was what the ale showed him.”
She saw the first figure give a slight shrug of his scanty shoulders. “Maybe his wife will talk in a few weeks.”
“Still, that seems like a long while to wait for the iphera.”
They strode into the archway leading to a rose-colored door and disappeared into the tumult of noise inside.
Alvena clasped her hands. An iphera was the Noc’olarian burial ritual… Someone had died! Four arms and massive horns? Black skin? She shivered. Such a beast had been here?! It sounded like something out of a nightmare or dragon lore! She was mildly relieved to hear that the male who saw it was a drunk—surely he had completely mis-seen…
But someone had still died.
She placed a foot onto the nearest staircase. ‘I wonder who…’ she pondered, eyes dancing up the winding stairs. ‘Who died?’
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 19
