Hazamareth gave a similar grimace. “If a crossbolt through the heart won’t kill it, we had best start discussing in which catacomb we’d like to be laid.”
But what had started out as drops of blood across the stones gradually became extensive paintings across the pristine elven walls. In the adrenaline from its injury, the beast had fled swiftly through Elarium: but its condition was now apparent.
Tsuki slowed, huffing heavily. “Definitely fatal,” he breathed, eyeing the large, crimson smear across the white marble beside them.
Hazamareth hooked the crossbow to the iron clasp at her hip, nodding staunchly. “Different or not, they all die the same. Let it be a lesson to us: we do not show mercy for these beasts again. Saebellus is just lucky there are people like us around to deal with his stupidity, or one night he’d be liable to wake up with that thing looming over his bedpost. And he would have brought the demise upon himself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jerah’s heart was racing. Damn it was racing. He felt sluggish as blood rushed from the wounds in fast, rhythmic pumps. He stumbled, trailing a bloody hand along the wall.
The mercenaries Master had warned him about had finally caught up to him. They were not like the elves he had encountered. These mercenaries were not afraid of him. Even now, their scent was growing closer. He stumbled and grasped at the shafts protruding from his heart.
Pain.
Such pain.
Jerah had never felt such pain before. It dulled his senses, clouded his mind. For a moment the world spun and darkened.
His body suddenly started, shouting at him to stay awake.
Jerah shook his head violently and seized the first shaft in his heart. With a howl of agony, he tore it furiously out of his chest, spraying the cobbled stones with blood. He slammed his fist into a wall, shattering the exterior stones like glass. As though such violence would bring him some comfort. His fist tightened once on the freed crossbolt and then, with a cry of pain, he threw it aside and raised a hand to his chest. He could feel the skin rapidly closing, but the pain was no less intense.
He tore out the second bolt, throwing it in the opposite direction of the first, gritting his teeth against crying out again. He had to be strong. Master had warned him. Warned him that it was not safe outside the cellar. And he had not listened. Had not listened…
The thoughts rang out, over and over again in his delusion, and he slumped heavily against the wall.
Outside was free. He was free. Inside the cellar was dark and lonely. Forever dark and lonely.
He had been having adventures beyond his imagination since he had left. Experiences he had never fathomed. The cycle of day and night seemed so contrite now, so long ago learned. There were scents, people, cities, trees, animals… so many things that had been beyond his reach within the cellar.
He only had to get to Ryekarayn. On Ryekarayn he would be safe.
Jerah fixed his mind on his goal and with that determination, his senses cleared. With a soft grunt, he pushed his massive form off the wall. There was no time to hesitate: the two mercenaries were gaining on him.
He began to move, his thick legs propelling him forward, faster and faster as his strength returned. Twisting and turning, he snaked through the alleyways toward the scent of the ocean. Still faster and faster until he pulled himself to a sudden stop at the site of the gate leading out of the city.
Jerah drew swiftly into the shadows. He knew elven soldiers lurked at the entrance to their cities, waiting to snatch their prey.
He glanced down at himself. The two cloaks from the road killings he had draped across his broad shoulders had come loose during his encounter. He took a moment to adjust them, pulling a hood over his horns. The cloaks barely concealed his wings, so he tucked them tighter against his back and drew the fabric over his bloody chest. Yet the meager coverage lessened his anxiety: he had made it into the city before. He could make it out.
Slowly, head lowered, steps steady, he strode toward the gate leading out toward the docks, hunkering his body into the crowd in an attempt to blend in.
Still, Jerah readied himself to be challenged.
Yet, like the city’s watch when he had entered the city from the east, these men guarding the western entrance did nothing. They seemed more interested in the humans jostling their way in and out of the gate than even his large, hooded form. He hunkered down lower, his body dipping slightly below the tallest nearby elf.
Finally, with a gasp of relief, he broke free of the crowd and found himself standing at the base of a hill, the towering walls now behind him and freedom at his front.
Freedom at his front.
His breath caught, yellow eyes going wide in awe. Before him stretched water as far as he could see… and then…? The end of the world. He looked to the north and south. Where was Ryekarayn?
He stepped forward slowly, scanning the coast. Perhaps only ships could reach the human lands? There were many of these vessels, just like his master had described them, but more magnificent than he had ever thought. And the humans that sailed them—he was surprised by how elvish they appeared. Despite their pungent scents, they seemed hardly different. Just hairier, fatter elves.
He watched as one such particularly hairy human took a long swig of ale from atop a crate, sniffing as his reddened nose dripped in the chilly ocean breeze.
Jerah wiped his hand across his own nose in instinctive response.
“Off, Jasiid. Get this crate onto the ship.” Another human had approached the former, stopping before him with his thin eyebrows tucked together and his lips curled in displeasure. He looked much like his master had often appeared when things were not going his way. “We still have over a dozen more to move before we leave port. Don’t backtalk me. Get your ass going. Now.”
This language was not elven. And yet he knew it. His brow furrowed, his mind trying to pinpoint where he had learned it. Long ago… a room. A large room… with woven nets between wooden pillars… In a large room…?
Jerah watched the group of men heave the crate up and carry it toward the line of ships bouncing on the ocean waves. His face lit suddenly with an idea, his lips curling beneath the hood. ‘Ah, so clever, Jerah.’
Finding the nearest crate stack, he hunkered down behind it and peered above in a cautious assessment of his surroundings. There were far more humans than he had expected, but they seemed absorbed in their own tasks. He hesitated, trying to find an opening with fewer watchers. He had just a moment to leap inside…!
And he stopped.
The damn crate was full. He scowled furiously, lifting it up above his head to hurl it down toward his feet in his frustration.
“By the gods, what are ya doing?!” A human shouted, his deep voice booming across the cobbled dock.
Jerah paused, crate still hanging above his head. He turned slowly, seeing a group of humans staring back at him, their mouths agape in dumb awe.
Then they seemed to think abruptly as one and moved forward to surround him. Jerah half-dropped the crate in his hurried attempt to retreat.
“Are ya a half-giant or something? Malranus Almighty the strength of ya,” the same human continued.
Jerah hung his head, pulling his shoulders up around his neck as though tucking himself into the safety of his own skin. What should he do? Talk to it? Master told him to never talk to them.
“Eh, if it is it’ll have no wits to be talkin’ back,” another human spoke. “Cap’ain ’ld love to have one of them on board.”
There was something about his tone that grated on Jerah, but he kept his stare downward. Master had always hated when Jerah had raised his eyes in challenge. And there were more humans here than Jerah.
“Cut the sarcasm, Jasiid. Why wouldn’t he? More use than yer sorry ass. Can ya talk? Well, giant?”
Jerah raised his head, keeping it just low enough to maintain a shadowy interior. He said nothing, his eyes shifting from one to the other for a way to escape. Could he run for a sh
ip? No, they would certainly see him climb aboard…
“Ya want to make a few silver pieces? Help us finish this load up and the boys here will tip ya.”
Jerah was silent, confused as to what behavior was expected of him. He shifted nervously.
“Well? We haven’t got all day. Just pick it up.”
It seemed a small request. Unsure what to do otherwise, Jerah reached down and raised the crate up over his head, then looked to the humans for confirmation.
They responded with immediate applause.
The first human pointed down to the ships. “See the ship with the purple sails? That’s our ship. Go put that on the deck of that ship. Do ya know which one I’m talking about?” He approached Jerah suddenly and before Jerah could decide what to do, the man had dropped a silver coin into his pocket.
Jerah nodded, his body relaxing somewhat. ‘Purple. Like my stones,’ he thought to himself, feeling the weight of the coin against his leg. His chest swelled a little with pride at its touch.
A sudden scent snapped him back to the crowd of humans before him.
The city. The mercenaries.
They were very close now.
Without another glance toward the men, he turned and hurried for the ship. He hardly noticed the other humans who struggled beneath the weight of their packages, and he had little time to fear the rickety planks stretched out across the water as his bridge to the deck.
And the ship…? The ship was no more than an expanse of flat wood and steps, old rope and stinking rot.
This was his passage to Ryekarayn?
As Jerah began to lower the crate onto the deck, a man barked at him from a basket above the ship, “Don’t just set it there—take it below!”
Jerah glanced up once, but he could only see a flag beating against the stalk of wood growing from the ship’s center.
Below deck? He looked around. How did he get below deck?
He smiled as he spotted a set of open double doors to his right. ‘That must be below deck.’ He heaved the crate back into his arms and grunted down the first flight of stairs. And stopped. In the torchlight he could make it out.
A large room with nets between wooden pillars. A ship? Had Jerah been on a ship before? His brow furrowed and he inhaled deeply. The smell. Rat urine, old clothes, grime, and rotting meat that rose up from the floor one level below. Not unlike his cellar.
Silhouettes he could not distinguish and words that he could not make out shifted at the edge of his memory.
Yes… he was sure of it. He had been on a ship before. A long time ago…
But he couldn’t remember why.
Jerah hesitated, wanting to look around the great room further, but the shout of the basket man brought him to attention. He still had his crate job to finish.
He moved forward slowly and down to the final level of the ship. He set the crate beside the others and paused thoughtfully.
“You are clever, Jerah,” he told himself with a sudden, crooked smile. Oh so clever.
He could not help feeling rather proud of himself as he stuffed the contents of the crate into the darkness between other crates. Climbing inside the now emptied box, he then pulled its lid over top, shutting himself safely and securely out of the humans’ sight.
And on a ship, he did not have to kill. This was an unexpected relief to Jerah. He had not killed the last time he had been on a ship. He could not recall what he had done on that ship, but he remembered his first kills clearly.
He nestled into the darkness, blood-loss weighing in, his body aching.
And before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Just a little farther…!” Eldaeus’ cries of excitement were growing into a terrible crescendo, and no matter how tightly Jikun gritted his teeth, the pitch was no less painful. As the final crackle of ice settled before the cavern’s egress, the mad elf crowed again, “There!”
“I know there—I’m the one building our staircase,” Jikun snapped. In the moonlight that slipped in through the ceiling of the dome, the bottom of the stairway glittered faintly with a blue sheen against the cavern wall. A single memory managed to smuggle its way out of his defenses: a reflection of Darival… an echo of cerulean light that shone off the face of the mountains below Kaivervale.
He scoffed with disgust in himself, but his tone revealed nothing of his inner shame. “Careful,” he warned the others as he took step after Navon.
Grunting and teetering followed in his wake.
“Did I pick up a pair of whores?” he barked back to their groans, eyeing Darcarus and Eldaeus struggling with their food-laden cloaks. “You two had better move more swiftly when we get above or Navon and I are going to leave your asses for the snakes.”
Darcarus moaned and caught the side of the railing. “Ishkav fuck the both of you,” he swore with Darivalian-worthy flare. “How did Eldaeus and I get squired carrying your cloaks?”
The two weeks had done wonders for their scrapes and bruises, but broken bones were another matter entirely. Jikun indicated once to his cracked ribs and bandaged chest, then gestured toward the whole of the Helven.
Navon feigned a commendable stagger of weakness.
Darcarus glowered. “Asinine,” he muttered before directing his attention to the Faraven, who was, at that moment, challenging the laws of nature with his tilt. “Eldaeus, stop leaning backward. I swear to Sel’ari, if you knock me down these steps, I will disembowel your mother.”
Eldaeus gasped at once in delight.
Jikun ignored their nettlesome bickering as he rested a hand on the icy railing. “I will go first so we have somewhere to grip on our climb up the shaft.” Of course no one was listening, so Jikun snapped sharply beside his captain’s ear. “Move.”
Navon hastily plastered himself against the railing with a white-knuckled hold, allowing Jikun to squeeze past.
‘A mountain-born elf with a fear of heights. Once again, he would make a much better Sel’ven,’ Jikun smirked as he raised his hands into the darkness. At his command, a series of icy plates jutted from the wall in what he hoped was some semblance of a pattern. “I’m not certain there is any consistency to the handholds,” he began, and cut off as Eldaeus bounded past him. “Bird boy, I thought I had to go first to scratch out those runes!” He caught the male sharply by the arm and wheeled him toward Navon.
Eldaeus’ single-minded enthusiasm was immediately quenched. He instead leaned daringly over the railing, ogling the great distance below as though the shaft was instantly forgotten.
“Now stay here and wait for my call,” Jikun ordered, reaching up into the darkness. “And comfort Navon.”
“What?!” his captain balked.
Moments after Jikun’s ascent, Eldaeus’ voice arose as a high-pitched cry from the tunnel, closely accompanied by a fury of painful echoes. “Another good question, very-safe-Navon. See, I fell with a chunk of stone and right before it hit the earth, I PUSHED OFF from it like this—”
“AH! Careful! You will break this! JIKUN, HURRY UP!” Navon’s voice rose in panic. “By Sel’ari, he is going to bloody kill me! Eldaeus, stop rocking—where are you going?!”
“God-damn Faraven!” Darcarus swore. “No wonder you’re all extinct!”
Jikun sighed and slid himself into the cold night air. All signs of the serpent were gone. To the south, a darkened line was all that remained of Dahel. Now that Saebellus grasped the throne, the warlord was withholding none of his destruction.
Jikun turned away from the sight, suppressing the discomfort that coiled up his spine. The glowing runes that lay before him, however, offered little reprieve. The fate of Sevrigel had chased him across the Windari Channel, but Eldaeus only offered further uncertainty for the months ahead.
‘Yet he has been my best sign of fortune since I arrived… Our only hope out of the desert…’ He winced. ‘…And I made a foolish promise.’ Before his caution could hold his hand at bay, he drew his knife and
sliced through the first rune.
The effect was instantaneous. The frigid air crackled as though lightning tore through the stone, and the knife surged with heat. Jikun dropped the blade with a cry of surprise. Before it even hit the earth, the glow of the runes faded to nothing more than a darkened scrawl on the sandy ridge.
Jikun gathered himself, rubbing his scorched palm vigorously. “It’s done!” he called into the darkness. “You can come—!”
“Oh good!” Jikun reeled back as Eldaeus’ face popped out of the darkness. “I just got so impatient!” the Faraven exclaimed, wriggling himself out into the sand. He stood, extending his arms and spinning in an extravagant circle. “By all the gods and goddesses still living, what a blessing!” he whooped.
“SHHHHHH!” Navon snapped as he slid out next, unceremoniously tripping Eldaeus into the sand. His eyes flicked warily across the horizon. “We don’t know if Relstavum is still out there!”
“With my god-damn cloak,” Darcarus interjected with a furious kick.
While Jikun ignored the expected announcement, he was no less frustrated. Eldaeus, scurrying upwind of the flying sand, became the target for the brunt of his annoyance. “If you are coming with us, you have to behave like any sane elf and not get us killed! What we are doing is incredibly dangerous.”
Eldaeus clapped a hand abruptly over his own mouth.
“…Is that agreement that you will be quiet?”
Eldaeus’ voice rang muffled through his palm. “I just remembered! You could have been counting my teeth! You were not, were you?!”
“I am hardly that bored,” Jikun replied flatly. “…Why?”
Eldaeus exhaled, letting his hand fall away. “You know… counting teeth robs a year of life for every tooth! You can never be too certain.” Then he swung back around toward the endless sands of the north. “Come along, hatchlings,” he whispered. “We have a long run before us!”
Navon caught the male swiftly by the back of his pristine leather. “And we are not running.”
And they did not run. If fact, Jikun was certain Saebellus would rule Emal’drathar by the time they reached the desert’s border. But it was their destination that dominated Jikun’s mind: the Pass of the Dead remained his constant, haunting vision. Would a horde of slaughtered soldiers truly haunt the land of their defeat in an endless crusade for revenge? Why would they do so if they had died with honor for their country—even if their attempt had been in vain?
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 29
