Darcarus gave his chest a single, solid smack. “Welcome to the human side of the world, General.”
* * *
The human side of the world… A long time had passed since Navon had seen his homeland. Even with the populace of primitive smugglers and Eph’ven inhabitants, the Makataj had felt like an extension of Sevrigel, bound to the rules of the ancient lands.
But north of the Aenid, the world had truly neglected all essence of magic and advancement. In dawn’s morning light filtering through the overcast sky, the broken rooftop panels and patched shutters of the village were more befitting an abandoned village than anything believably inhabited. Yet Eldaeus was dancing about in mad delight. There was not a person in all his books that could rival Eldaeus’ eccentricities… At least, since the Pass, there was no one he could remember. Still, he could at least conjure a comparison for the village: it was not unlike what Westewod had resembled as Raelanar and Isala used it as a militant base for their last, surprise attack against Destrian and his thugs. Even if their personalities had grown vague, their deeds, at least, remained strong.
“…Where are you?”
Navon blinked as the icy world seemed to rematerialize before him. He glanced sidelong at Jikun. The male was eyeing him irritably, as he had often done since the Pass. “What…?”
“Just standing there blankly while I was talking to you. Where did you drift off to? …Never mind. Nothing new,” Jikun muttered, but Navon was aware that the state of their surroundings was the culprit in turning his friend even more stridently against him. The Darivalian was glowering sourly at the rather emaciated cows digging through the snow for remnants of frosted grass, and his fingers curled and uncurled at his side as though relieving tension.
As the providers for the wealthy, villages were the most common form of civilization in the human realms. But as these culturally vacant zones were practically slave farms to their rich overlords, they were largely ignored after their services were rendered. A century before, Navon had given the flea mines a wide berth. But now this world and all its faults was theirs… though the fact did not ease Jikun’s acceptance of the situation.
“I smell something cooking… perhaps we can work for a meal,” Navon chirped, offering the so-often-needed optimism. Fortunately, frequency of its use had perhaps even made it a characteristic of his own. “We may have some luck finding mercenary work here.” Yet unfortunately, he saw no sign of the regional lord he had promised; contrariwise, these poor farmers were unlikely to offer much in the way of food or coin. “Food aside, we need to acquire clothes—and shoes—for the winter.” He wrapped himself tighter beneath his thick cloak, but he knew where Jikun’s ambitions lay.
Nordeep.
Many centuries past, the human king of Ryekarayn divided his kingdom into regions—possibly out of laziness, possibly as the only way to control such a vast continent of primitive indigents. The lords of each region were charged with the protection and comfort of all cities within their dominions. However, every so often, a settlement would fall outside the efficient structure. Nordeep was undoubtedly one such renegade city.
Housing the criminal empire of the mercenary world, Nordeep had likely followed the patterns of the notorious Comstead during Eraydon’s era—growing so vast in power that soon its regional lord feared its strength and influence too immense to dare impose further commands upon it.
He scowled deeply at Darcarus. The male was wholly responsible for Jikun’s mad belief that the answer to his purpose lay in Relstavum’s death. But the True Blood was too enraptured with the appearance of the crumbling village well to notice the captain’s reproach. Even if he had, Navon imagined the prince’s response would have been a similarly derisive glare.
Navon was—after his valiant efforts to save them from the Pass—expendable.
Jikun was swift to rebuke Navon’s suggestion of labor. “No. Our deviation here is merely to acquire food for the rest of the journey to Nordeep.” And he set out in a soft crunch across the field and down onto the snow-laden path—to call it a road would have been too generous, as the way was clearly all but forgotten by the civilized world. “We can’t allow Relstavum to destroy another city—every moment he’s free, Saebellus is closer to solidifying his grasp on Sevrigel.”
Navon was swift on his heels. “General, I am entirely in agreement with defeating Relstavum, but I do not believe for a moment that there are not,” he dropped his voice in hopes that only the Darivalian could hear him, “strings attached in working for this Brotherhood. I just don’t think we’ve been told all of the information. What was the prince’s plan before we fell into his hands? This is work for… I don’t know… heroes. Like Eraydon. We are not them. This is no ‘Goldbeard and the Giant’ story that ends well.”
“Such a god-damn savant.”
“…That is not an insult!”
“You are jealous.”
Navon gave a start. “Of what?!”
But an alarmed cry prevented further argument. “By Zephereus above!” came a hoarse voice as a door to their right was flung wide. An old man hurried out with an elderly lady at his heels. Navon immediately noted that though both were ineffectually clad for the winter chill, the elves still stood naked by comparison.
“Why, I ’aven’t seen elves ’round these parts in thirty years!” the old woman marveled.
The poor old man hushed his wife, his feet padding deep into the snow as he cautiously approached. “What ’appened t’ you elves t’ bring you so far south? Was it bandits? Or ’ave they gone an’ attacked the Realm? You aren’t from Dahel, are you?! We just ’eard the news! What a tragedy! By Ishkav, Relstavum’s surely Death ’imself!”
Darcarus smiled politely, bowing his head in respect and picking up the old woman’s wrinkled hand. His charm was deadly. “Why, thank you for your concern, beautiful lady,” he cooed, flashing a smile that would have sent the maidens in Elvorium swooning. This was the first glimpse that some semblance of nobility resided beneath his abhorrently crass and irrational behavior. “We have fallen to the most dreadful of misfortunes and our hearts would be humbled to find aid amongst our brethren.”
Navon saw Jikun wrinkle his nose at the comparison and jabbed him once in the ribs to warn him against throwing out some of his acidic comments. Though he was not an ally to Darcarus in his plan to defeat Saebellus, he did want a good, warm meal: and if he had to use the prince to get one, so be it.
The old man shifted a little closer, prepared to fend off the handsome male from his blushing wife. “There’s no need t’ be ashamed, my friends,” he began, his focus remaining on the elves’ condition. “’uman bandits got weapons just the same as you elves. An’ prob’ly better than that tarnished ol’ sword at yer friend’s side. ’ere, let me—”
Navon placed a tempering hand on Jikun’s arm. “Do you know of any work?” he swiftly inquired. “Something perhaps to feed or clothe us and we would be more than grateful.” Surely one of his heroes would have had something far more elegant to add, but none of their words came to him. He opened and closed his mouth again. Gods, how could his own character be so… empty!
He straightened his posture, hoping to appear somewhat more dignified. “We are on our way to Geldin Laeris for work.”
Darcarus flinched.
“Geldin Laeris’ Brotherhood?” the old man clarified, sagging eyes jumping between the four. “Surely you elves aren’t that desperate!”
Navon watched Darcarus for a reaction, but the male had smoothed his serpentine features into mere amusement. “They’re mercenaries,” he soothed the old man.
But the woman broke in insistently, yanking her crinkly hand up to point at him with a stern reprimand. “Mercenaries?! No, they’re the worst o’ the worst. They’ve got the largest military force second t’ the king! An’ ’ow’s ’e done it?! Laeris ropes them in when they’re young or desperate an’ naïve—just like you. Then before you know it, you’re in but you can’t get out! Laeris ’as a mo
b o’ loyal men who’ll make sure o’ that. Aside from the royal family itself, there’s no one Laeris’s afraid t’ touch! Why, Lord Seamus ’ad a son who joined the Brotherhood, took on too much debt, an’ was dead before the third face o’ Noctem. Take our sick cow, Feber, t’ the temple in Sanae… an’ we’ll pay two silver if it can ’elp you boys stay outta that line o’ work.”
Darcarus caught the woman’s flailing hand and patted it gently. “One silver will do. I assure you, we will be fine, but your concern touches me deeply.”
Jikun’s disgust could remain silent no longer, and he leapt in to break the genial mood. “Two silver is still a pauper’s wage.”
But it was not the coin that concerned Navon. Or Jikun’s barbarism. There was not an ounce of surprise—or caution—on the prince’s face. ‘Of course he knows all about Laeris…’
“If you would excuse me for just a moment…” Navon tugged Jikun through the snow to the edge of the broken well. In his disgruntlement, the general offered little resistance. “Jikun, I cannot pretend to support this insanity any longer!” Navon hissed. “The True Bloods are respectable, honorable, and just. But this male… I think it is quite obvious why he’s unpopular with his family. He deliberately omitted any details on the Brotherhood! We are not selling our souls to a group of thugs.” He caught Jikun’s wrist as the male attempted to brush his concerns away. “You want to prove your own worth?—Good acts are never justified when joining evil to destroy evil. Just as there is no justification for sacrificing a thousand lives to save ten thousand more.”
This was not the path of the heroes in his scrolls, and to not align themselves with a hero’s cause would be to pit themselves against Sel’ari. This path was not the wisdom of the male he had come to admire!
Jikun sharply jerked his arm free, but even when he had broken from Navon’s grasp, he remained stiffly in place, his eyes narrowed in a look Navon could almost interpret as… pity.
And yet, he said nothing.
Navon elevated his tone just loud enough to be forceful, but still quiet enough that the Sel’ven down the street could not hear him. “Yet rather than acknowledge this truth, you are determined to follow Darcarus, who clearly cannot return to Sairel because his plan is madness. Not only is the end ambition mad, but the path itself is just as foolish! If we fail this Brotherhood—to whom we shall be enslaved—they will flay the skin from our bones and hurl our corpses into a ditch. Yet as a king’s son, Darcarus shall remain unharmed. See, Darcarus cares nothing for us. He is bent on securing assistance for Hadoream, and so he needs people like us—desperate enough to agree—to join him on this mad venture. And even then, I don’t believe this to be his only plan or he would never have sent his beloved brother to Sevrigel in the first place.” He shook his head violently. “I know you are wise enough to see the truth, General. Consider the alternative—you were an inspiration to every soldier who has ever been beneath your command. We are soldiers! The human armies value individual strength—as males of both strength and intelligence, we would rise quickly in their ranks. If you joined the army, you could use your military expertise to render Saebellus’ forces here worthless. Defeating that power here is Aersadore’s greatest hope. As strong as Relstavum may be, a single man cannot conquer the world.”
The pitying look in the general’s eyes had not vanished, and yet his words once more failed to address that detestable emotion. He sucked in a tempered breath, as stoic and rigid as he had been throughout Navon’s plea. “Do not flatter me. I should become one more faceless foot soldier in a battle over which I truly hold no sway? That is why I sacrificed my troops at Elarium?! Well I am not oblivious to what is going on, Navon. You are sick with jealousy.”
Navon could hear Eldaeus chatting away to the old pair of humans with the unintentional success of keeping them occupied, yet he kept his outrage quiet. “Of what do I have to be jealous?” he fumed. “I am the sole reason we have lived this long!”
Jikun’s rigidity broke in a single laugh. He reached out, grabbing Navon by the front of his thick cloak and jerking his chin about to face the quartet down the road. “Of Darcarus—that I take his counsel. After what happened in the Pass of the Dead, you know you have become a liability.”
Navon watched as the Sel’ven patted the old man playfully on the shoulder. He jerked his head sharply away, smacking at the Darivalian’s arms. “I am not jealous,” he hissed. “You are bending your strength to wickedness. Only tragedy results from misguided power!” He shoved Jikun forcefully to emphasize his disgust in the male’s accusation.
The general stumbled, but he did not raise his arms against him. “Gods, what happened to you?” he lamented. “Where is your ambition when it truly matters? We are on the human side of the world—as you feel the necessity to repeat until my ears bleed. We have nothing. And yet you aspire to remain that way.”
Fury boiled within Navon’s gut. “You do not hear a word I speak! You were not meant to live as a coward beneath the thumb of a politician—even a True Blood! Join the war and I promise you I will not let you lose the battle!”
There was a brief flicker of fear then, something Navon was barely able to glimpse beneath Jikun’s mask. Then the general’s voice emerged unsteadily as he hissed his next retort. “You are an ideological fool.”
“And you are broken.” Navon’s tone softened. “Your strength fractured in the Sevilan Marshes… While I lay there ill and delirious, you remained conscious to witness the death you were helpless to stop. Then you consumed it to survive. You have worn a mask as you always do to hide the trauma of those months, but the male I served for fifty years would never have abandoned his troops before that day… Even if such fidelity meant being executed by Saebellus. He would have accepted that fate if it provided even the chance to save his brothers. Now I fear you will do anything to ease that guilt.”
During his accusation, Jikun’s lips had parted and his breath emerged audible and hoarse, as though his lungs had constricted beneath his fractured ribs. Navon tensed, preparing for another attack of anxiety.
But it did not come. Instead, Jikun’s jaw set. “I will win this war. But not by relying on you.”
Navon felt himself grow cold—he knew he had lost. “…I will come with you if only to try to save your life,” he ceded quietly. “But I beg of you to treat Darcarus with some semblance of caution. He wants something immensely. Not all his smooth words are truth.” He cast his gaze briefly down the street to find that the Sel’ven was watching him, his face solemn, his eyes cold and perceptive.
There was a warning in them.
Suddenly Eldaeus gave a loud cackle from Darcarus’ right as the human spoke. When Navon looked back upon his general, he found that Jikun still faced him, resolute and determined to believe his course. But Navon knew he was looking into the soul of a wounded animal… backed into a corner and desperate to fight on. Yes, clearer than ever before, he was seeing Jikun through his own eyes.
Navon’s gut tightened at the thought. Without the voices of the heroes of his tomes, he could see the world around him so clearly—no longer as events shaped and formed in relation to the deeds of those long past, but through the experiences of his own life. And those of Jikun’s.
This pawn of Saebellus’ was truly as Darcarus had warned: a distraction.
Even across the channel, the warlord had defeated his general.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Gods, finally we’re finished!” Vale breathed as he and Adonis retraced their steps along the dungeon hall to reach Alvena’s resting place. Vale’s steps lacked their usual luster as he drew up before her, and Adonis’ bright eyes were vacant and dull. But Alvena was not surprised. Sitting cornered within the prisons for the last two weeks had depleted her as well, and all she had been required to do was squat on the floor with her book.
Upon the second day of her captivity, as punishment for his failure to draw Alvena a bath, Adonis had sent Vale to the market to purchase her a novel to oc
cupy the long hours of the prison visits. But while Adonis’ intention was to penalize Vale, it was Alvena who suffered the result.
“A Botanist’s Guide to Flowers? You bought the first item you saw, didn’t you? Vale, you could not have chosen a more boring or useless tome! It is the middle of winter and Alvena is trapped indoors,” Adonis had chastised vehemently.
Vale had shrugged the rebuke away. “She’s a girl. It’s got flowers. What more can you ask for?”
Certainly not sense from Vale, Alvena had learned.
She lugged her heavy tome into her arms and hastened to the front of their party. If she had to endure the wailing of one more Noc’olari, her frayed nerves were bound to snap entirely.
Adonis smiled and the Noc’olarian cells were pushed instantly from her mind. “Famished, are we?—I believe dinner will be served soon.”
A deep, commanding voice upon the stairs snapped Alvena from her hunger. “Adonis, Vale.”
She had only needed to hear the voice once to commit the sinister figure to memory. She trembled her way fully behind Adonis. Framed in the stairway was King Saebellus, his armor cast aside for dark, simple silks that only assisted in highlighting his pale complexion and ebony eyes. ‘Sel’ari, protect me!’ She gripped onto Adonis’ side. ‘Has Ilsevel won?! Vale said she always gets her way! Will she kill me herself or will she force me to rot in the dungeon?’ After the last several arduous weeks, she could not determine which, now, was worse.
Saebellus halted at the base of the steps, fixing her with a scrutinizing glare before she melded wholly into the lieutenant’s back. “…Still reassigning?” he asked after a brief delay. “Come, let us eat. I am certain you three could use a good meal.” Alvena exhaled, even as the warlord’s stoic tone dropped sharply with disdain. “I swear to Kamora, no one does their damn jobs around here.”
To her left, Vale winced. “That was two weeks ago and I had a late night!”
Alvena dared to peer around Adonis’ arm in time to see Saebellus whirl and ascend the stairs. “That is not what I am referring to,” he stated flatly as they attached promptly to his heels. “The dungeons smell malodorous… of putrid waste and decay. If the prisons are over-filled, I expect Ilsevel’s soldiers to work twice as hard. I need not inform you that they are not,” he growled.
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