Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  A gaping hole was hewn through his breast.

  Eldaeus let out a bellow to the north, and Jikun could see yet another swarm of wraiths rising from the earth to obstruct their escape. Jikun’s heart lurched, a vision of Elarium flaring. ‘We’re surrounded!’ And no sooner had he grasped their situation than the undead leader shrieked from behind, echoing like the mother of all thakish across the cliff faces. The pitch reverberated so painfully that Jikun’s body crumpled beneath it, the sound overcoming all his years of experience on the battlefront. As his eyes rose to meet the sunken cavity, all dismissal of the Captain Aritos of his aged parchments vanished.

  This creature was no illusion. It brandished the tattered remains of its infantry banner, flesh pulling free from yellowed bone as the arm elevated the flag in unison with its shrieks. A substance began to gush from its mouth in ebony waves, flowing down its body to be crushed beneath its armored feet.

  ‘We are dead…’ Jikun stared numbly.

  There was a flash of movement on his left. Darcarus darted swiftly between the general and Aritos, his eyes hard, his face chillingly calm: as though the aura held no command over him.

  “Distract the lich!” Navon yelled from somewhere nearby. “Distract the lich and I will take care of the rest!”

  Darcarus had already sprung into action. Purple and black smoke twisted from his fingers and took shapes—great, bestial forms of creatures that Jikun immediately recognized through their ashy hue. At the front stood a three-headed cerebus—snarling and snapping at the spectral creatures as they drew near. To its right was a wolf substantially larger than Nazra, paling only in comparison to the thakish that had materialized beside it. And behind them, a large, sleek cat took form beside the rallying cry of a chimera. The Sel’ven’s dragon may have fallen, but the beasts he had conjured were of no dismissive stature or ferocity.

  Hope kindled once more in his breast, dampening the oppressive aura—it was foolish, but still better than damnable cowardice!

  “ATTACK,” the prince bellowed, and instantly the beasts were unleashed upon the surging undead, raking the lich to the floor as the backline leapt and smashed into the mass of troops.

  As Jikun struggled to grasp the incredible magic before him, an unfamiliar word whispered in his mind. He pivoted with a roar. “Navon, you cannot use necromancy!”

  “There is no other choice! For once listen to me!” Navon’s hands had risen into the air, wisps forming and snaking about his fingers as an otherworldly cry erupted from the dead behind.

  The cry belted Jikun with a physical aura, a feeling he could only liken to the power that had emanated from Darcarus’ massive dragon or the great eye of Darival. Jikun’s throat constricted and his fingers grasped for a blade. Nothing except a spear of ice graced his fingers. He stumbled, eyes sweeping the line of wraiths. Darcarus’ beasts had already been lost—swallowed like Darivalian pups in an avalanche. The lich had returned to the front line, old teeth clamped together as vengeance seethed from his toothy snarl.

  “How do we slay it?!” Jikun croaked, hefting his spear against the lich. Black ooze leaked from recent wounds, and it reeked with the putrid odor of rotting flesh. He thrust his spear swiftly into the flesh exposed by the cavernous hole in the lich’s breast, forcing it back a step. The lance stuck with a soft squish, clanking as the tip met the back plate.

  The lich merely bared its rancid teeth and elevated its tarnished blade.

  Damn it!—these beasts were corporeal and yet Jikun’s attacks afforded him nothing.

  “Sel’ari,” Darcarus gasped as a spear swept around Aritos, aimed for his gut. The body of the Kamorian panther reappeared, smashing into the advancing undead and sending it tumbling into the throng behind.

  Eldaeus’ cry came from deep within the chaos, “Careful! Only the lich’s blade is real, but the wraiths’ weapons will still wound your soul!”

  “Forget their weapons,” Jikun shot back. “How do we kill them?!” ‘And if we cannot kill thousands here, how do we kill the man who already can?’

  The enemy frontline was momentarily broken by Darcarus’ panther, and Jikun’s mindless wanderings shattered with it. He shot out his hand, struggling to detect water in the dry dawn air. A wall of ice shot from the earth before Darcarus, disgustingly frail. He cursed himself—his magic was nothing outside of Darival!

  A second later, the ice shattered, showering them with cold, brittle shards.

  No, his magic was nothing like the well-trained True Blood’s, and all the experience of war would serve him nothing against a horde of undead—against an army! Darcarus’ bravado was no more than a reflection of his stupidity! Even now, the prince was forced to fling the wounded bodies of his beasts as his last defense.

  Just as Jikun had flung the bodies of his soldiers to flee Saebellus.

  With a final howl the chimera vanished as well, and Darcarus stepped back to Jikun’s side with his first flicker of fear. Perhaps he finally realized that they had truly lost.

  Jikun erected another wall before the prince, flinging himself back against the mountain as the ice shot from the earth inches before his face. His breath fell short and fast. Was it a new wound? The old? His ribs, perhaps? Damn it! He was as dead as he had been if he had stayed on Sevrigel!

  But there was no escape here!

  A mocking screech resounded outside his barricade and Jikun tensed, his breath emerging as a cloud of white. For a moment, sickening silence filled the air. Utter, unnatural silence—as though the very world around him had frozen with his walls.

  Then the unearthly swords thrust through, undeterred by the material plane, and all of Jikun’s thoughts vanished with them. He could see the blades lodged into his chest. He could hear Navon call out. But the pain that tore through his frame was unlike that of any worldly wound he had ever received.

  His mouth opened to scream, but no sound emerged.

  There existed only a great, iron gate that rushed to meet him, surrounded by the faces of those he had once failed…

  Then a howl of material wind roared from outside his wall of ice, and the cries of the wraiths grew shrill and panicked. The spectral blades withdrew from his body and Jikun choked back a cry of pain. He pushed off from the wall, frantic to avoid another blow, and allowed his ice to melt to clear his path of vision.

  There stood Navon, his gaze set and his mouth thrown wide. The words he bellowed were ancient and unfamiliar, tearing high into the pale, blue sky. His eyes rolled up into his head as his neck snapped backward. His hands were elevated and his body trembled violently, teeth clanging together as though he had lost control of his jaw. Jikun had never seen the magic rack his friend’s body with such brutality, and for a moment the sight before him felt as threatening as the one behind.

  A thunderous rumble suddenly reverberated through the canyon and Jikun spun about as a high-pitched keening burst from the center of the wraiths. He clasped his hands over his ears, but it seemed that he felt the piercing sound in his soul rather than heard it on the material plane: his gesture did nothing to subdue the sound that was rising to a terrible cadence. Beside him, Darcarus sank to his knees, wracked with pain.

  From the focal point of the resonance, a chasm tore open from the earth, spilling black smoke across the undead horde. When the corpses were blanketed in entirety, they were ripped into the earth, their cries consumed in a blast of wind.

  The smoke dissipated; the portal and wraiths had disappeared, leaving a near-empty path behind.

  Only the lich remained, banner flung to the ground at Jikun’s heels. Aritos’ mouth twisted in rage, his long yellow nails scraping the hilt of his blade as he wailed and swung high.

  Navon stilled, turning to face them.

  From their left, Eldaeus’ battle of laughter with the wraiths had ceased. “Navon…” he trailed off, displaying his only hint of alarm since the assault had begun.

  Navon laughed once—a cold, empty, unfamiliar laugh. He raised a crooked finger, pointin
g at Jikun’s stiffened breast. “ Vinsare,” he whispered.

  Behind Jikun, the lich exploded, showering the path around them in metal and chunks of stretchy flesh. They had triumphed. ‘Navon was right.’

  Jikun had only a fragment of a second to experience relief before he felt his own chest seize. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth. He gurgled out a gasp, fighting the pressure building critically from within. ‘He’s going to kill me,’ he grasped numbly.

  Eldaeus abandoned his extravagant battle with the air and rushed to Jikun’s side, catching him as he collapsed. He shoved a glass vial into Jikun’s hands as blood frothed from the Darivalian’s mouth in foaming waves. “Do not let this go,” the Faraven ordered, rounding on Navon.

  Darcarus had staggered to his feet, seized with the same bewilderment and horror. His eyes locked onto the Helven and he charged, slamming his body into Navon’s to send the necromancer sprawling across the path.

  Jikun felt the pain at his sternum grow as his ribs threatened to tear away from one another. He struggled to discern Navon’s state: he lay in the earth, inert and sprawling, eyes rolled high into his pallid brow.

  Then abruptly the male gasped, as though he had been drowning and could breathe for the first time. His eyes closed tightly.

  With that breath, the pressure in Jikun’s chest vanished. He coughed and spat, swiping the back of his hand across his nose as his airways cleared.

  But his attention never diverted from Navon.

  The necromancer’s eyes fluttered open and he moaned, pushing himself upright. Dirt and fragments of stone fell away from his chest as his fingers trailed to his breast. “I was at the gates again,” the Helven whispered in confusion. “Deeper into the gates than I ever… Second gate? Third? I…” He faltered as his hollow gaze found his general. “…JIKUN! By Sel’ari, what happened?!” He scrambled to his feet, stumbling once as his wavering coordination plowed him into the side of the mountain.

  Darcarus’ hands shot up instantly, but remained still. Unaware of the prince’s threat, Navon righted himself and scrambled to Jikun’s side. “What happened?!” he panted, extending his hand.

  Jikun shoved the arm away with a feeling of unfamiliar terror at the Helven’s proximity. “YOU!” he snarled.

  Eldaeus had crept away, squatting at a considerable distance to observe.

  Navon’s face twisted, his voice emerging strained and hesitant. His hand extended once more, cautious this time. “What do you mean…?”

  Jikun snatched up a piece of the lich’s leathery flesh, shoving it into his captain’s palm. “Darcarus intervened,” he spat with another mouthful of blood on top of the shriveled skin. “The wraiths and lich attacked, you used your necromancy, and then you turned on me.” He wiped his lips across his cloak, closing his eyes tightly for a moment. “If not for him, you would have killed me.”

  “I don’t remember…”

  “Dare tell, what part of necromancy was this that you chose to omit from me in your lesson?!” Jikun demanded, eyes flashing open. “The part where you kill us along with Relstavum?!”

  “I am sorry,” Navon stammered, yet he attempted to draw himself up. “You know it was not my intention to injure you! I lost my soul for but a moment—but I have returned and am wiser for it—!”

  Jikun’s teeth gnashed together. “Silence!”

  Navon’s jaw snapped shut and his determination faltered.

  “Endangering yourself was one matter, Navon. But not others… not me…!” A controlled fury was rising. “I did not leave Sevrigel for this!”

  Navon’s head jerked toward Eldaeus as the Faraven pushed off his knees and approached. The captain swiftly attempted to pull Jikun to his feet. “It will not happen a—”

  Jikun struck the Helven once more, the slap cracking across his dusty arm. “Do not dare to touch me, necromancer,” he hissed. He extended his hand to Eldaeus as the male stopped beside him and allowed the mad elf to pull him to his feet.

  Eldaeus’ fingers fluttered with some sane semblance of urgency. “We have to move—I do not know what has happened to those wraiths.”

  Darcarus drew away from the mountain face, balancing Jikun from the left. Two gold buttons dropped from his battered cotton to bounce away and hide amongst the pieces of the splattered corpse. “For once, Eldaeus is sound. We cannot endure another encounter.”

  Jikun gripped onto the leather around the Faraven’s shoulders, steadying himself before he stepped away with crippled pride. Gods strike his shame!—he had shown an utter lack of strength before the horde and now he wobbled like a lame mare!

  Navon’s eyes scanned the ground… the walls nearby… then finally flicked upward, as though searching once again for something lost.

  “Navon,” Jikun barked, drawing the Helven’s attention. “You swear to Sel’ari that you will not cast again or so help me, I will bind and leave you here in ice.”

  He saw his companion pale, yet his breast swelled once more in defiance. “I was trying to save us!”

  “By killing us?! I would rather die to my enemies than by an ally’s blade in my back.”

  Jikun felt Darcarus’ coarse hands tighten as the prince growled venomously, “Do you not see what you almost did to us? And still you consider using your magic? You are as great a threat as Relstavum, only infinitely more unpredictable. We laughed about Eldaeus’ futility, but you… you are a true risk!”

  Navon’s eyes flicked between the prince and Jikun, gathering the severity of their threat. “…I swear this by Sel’ari,” he finally exhaled. He shifted to the blade of Aritos still lying amongst the chunks of rotted flesh, lifting it and extending it toward Jikun.

  “It is done. Now stop groveling like some god-damn green foot,” Jikun snapped, wresting from Darcarus to snatch the blade. “We will not speak of it again. And if any one of you tries to help me along once more, I will smash your brains in with this hilt.”

  Eldaeus’ attention abruptly seemed to lose focus and his face broke into a grin. He sprang forward singing, “Then up up we go-eth! Through the mountains, up the road-eth!”

  “Once more, Eldaeus, and I’ll freeze you first.”

  *

  The remainder of the mountain path was a blur of grey stone and dirt—solemn, empty, and eerily quiet. And no one, with the exception of Eldaeus, had any intention of breaking that silence.

  After Navon had explained necromancy, Jikun could admit that he had considered the possibility that the dark magic might contain their only chance against Saebellus’ necromancer. But now he rebuked himself for having been as witless as a mountain troll. Navon was ever the ideological, naïve fool and his poor judgment had hurled him into life-threatening dangers on more than one occasion. Yet again, such a reckless act had left him searching, just as he had done after the battle with the hel’onja. As though the captain had lost something.

  And Jikun doubted he would be so lucky as for it to be the Helven’s stupidity.

  He wearily glanced toward the sullen face of the Helven. So long as their lives were not in danger, he believed that Navon would keep his word. Yet with their degree of luck, misfortune was likely lurking around the next mountain bend, and Navon would be prepared to use his necromancy to combat it. He would never relinquish the cursed souls, even for Sel’ari.

  But he and Navon were not the only ones stinging from the battle; the conflict had taken a significant toll on Darcarus as well. The act of summoning itself was not what had weakened him, he had explained, but rather the state of the creatures he had banished. Their lives now drained his strength for recovery, leaving the Sel’ven pale and hobbling—a dismal visage of his former, cocky little self.

  However, their encounter with the undead had not managed to dampen Eldaeus’ spirit. He was prancing ahead of them, belting out a painful tune where half the words were forgotten and filled with a language Jikun was fairly certain he had invented. He vanished around a bend in the stone, cackling delightedly. “The egress! The egress!�
�� he shouted suddenly from up ahead.

  Navon’s face lit up and his footsteps quickened. “If he’s deceiving us again, I say you follow through with your threat,” his captain suggested, forcing a beseeching smile.

  Jikun sighed internally; his temper was fading despite his resolve. How swiftly had Navon forgiven him after he had failed to attend the trail for his practices inside Sel’ari’s temple? So Jikun chuckled and, though empty, Navon took it as acceptance of the entreaty.

  Comradery over common sense.

  “The egress!” Eldaeus belted once more.

  Navon tsked. “By Sel’ari, I don’t know how we are going to continue enduring his antics.”

  But as they rounded the bend, the trials of the Makataj were forgotten: there indeed beckoned the end of the mountainous path, and Eldaeus’ searing vibrancy was nowhere in sight.

  Jikun’s boots pressed onto the cold, frosted grass and he shook the unease from his footfalls with the sand. His wounded chest expanded past the pain and he savored the scent of the damp, lush earth that glistened with dewdrops in the morning light.

  So this was Ryekarayn. North of the wasteland upon which they had wrecked, the land grappled for more familiarity with the elven nation. Here the trees were smaller, the earth harder, and the grass coarser—like the people it had bred.

  “We made it,” Darcarus breathed in disbelief.

  Navon’s unrestrained laugh rang out behind them. “Praise Sel’ari,” he cried.

  And then Eldaeus dropped by his knees from a nearby tree, swift to shatter their reprieve with his grinning swing. He had put the effort into the climb and fall purely, Jikun imagined, for the satisfaction he received from their expressions. “So… where next on our journey to Relstavum, comrades?”

  Relstavum. Merely hunting the man this far had been a trial, but only one end for their struggles existed. Jikun tapped his fist to his lips as he tried to recall the name of the city Darcarus had mentioned weeks ago. Cool, hard glass met his skin and he opened his palm in surprise. His hand still gripped the narrow, long vial. He uncurled it and scowled at the contents. “I told you, I don’t want your damn peapod.”