‘They are even aware of our falsified names?!’
Eldaeus inappropriately leapt in, excitement rising even above the chill and Navon’s imminent thrashing. He stretched his arms wide, wiggling his fingers eagerly as the archmage shrank away. “Grand work. Slaying dragons. Slaying evil-doers. Slaying trolls. Slaying wereboars. Slaying orcs. Slaying—”
“What is a wereboar?” Navon interrupted. “I do not believe those exist.”
Eldaeus looked aghast. “Of course they exist. Wereboars. Big boars with claws and fangs. Sneak into your window at night and suck your blood. Then, at the full moon you transform and fall into a bestial rage.”
Navon shook his head slowly. “I think you are confusing two other creatures…” he trailed off.
Jikun spun and shot them both the mouthed warning, ‘I will kill you.’
Navon cuffed Eldaeus upside the head and Jikun whirled back around. Fortunately, Darcarus had regained his senses and had refocused the archmage on him.
“Firstly, my lord, we require soldiers’ gear,” Darcarus had begun, inclining his head in supplication. “We need three full sets of light armor, three sets of clothes, three cloaks, two long swords—”
“Three,” Eldaeus whispered. “I need two.”
“—three long swords, four long bows, a score of arrows each, four horses, basic medical supplies, four bedrolls, flint and steel, four oiled canvases and sacks, a week’s worth of rations a piece, two hooded lanterns with four pints of oil, four waterskins, four whetstones, fifty yards of spider-thread rope, a dagger, a map of the region, and a map of Ryekarayn.”
The disheveled prince was clearly familiar with gallivanting across the countryside.
The archmage appeared less impressed. His watery eyes shifted from one elf to the next and his tone remained flat. “Is the Realm without even the most basic necessities?”
Darcarus started. So the Brotherhood had even identified the prince. ‘Of course they would…’ But the fact that Laeris’ men still treated them with such nonchalance only proved how powerless they soon would be.
Darcarus forced a smile. “Sometimes the Realm does indeed feel bereft.”
The archmage tapped his black fingers once. “Is there anything else you demand?” he continued with a sniff. “Perhaps a sprawling estate, or a castle or two?”
Darcarus chortled in what he feigned as genuine amusement. “You are full of wit, my lord.”
Mikael stroked his brow once more, grimacing slightly as he regarded the four elves. Still, the compliment seemed to pacify him. “You are requesting at least twenty thousand bronze in debt to Geldin Laeris. And what, pray tell, do you plan to offer the Brotherhood should you fail to repay this loan? You have asked for quite the ludicrous sum. Clearly the Sel’varian Realm is not supporting the expeditions of the unfavored son and his band of war criminals.”
Behind him, Jikun felt Navon clutch the back of his chair. Based on Mikael’s tone, the Brotherhood had no fear of subjecting even the prince to their methods of punishment.
Darcarus merely smiled. “You are most correct, Archmage—the Realm will have no association with our mission. As such, we have nothing to barter with.”
The archmage laughed once. “I had heard you were practically disinherited, but the proof still takes me by surprise,” he spoke flatly. When the Sel’ven did not respond, the archmage slid his fat tongue along his lower lip, leaving a glistening trail in its wake.
Jikun had the terrible imagery of a slug sliding across a dried leaf.
“Most people,” Mikael began dryly, “come to Geldin Laeris with collateral: land, buildings, rare artifacts… Even the royal line and non-human regions have beseeched us before. But you four offer him nothing.” He set the quill into a little glass jar and crossed his thick, blackened fingers against his chest. “And the loan you ask for is no small sum. While the Brotherhood does not deny even outlandish requests, our position is very clear.” He reached out one hand, slowly, and pointed to one of the skulls on the shelf to Jikun’s right—a particular, glistening heap of bones whose grin seemed even more hideous than the next. “As you have nothing to offer, your collateral will be your lives. You have three months to repay this loan in full. Then we shall come hunting for you. We will retrieve the gear you will have stolen and we will add your skulls to the collection. In simple terms, prince, we shall ransom you and kill your companions as slowly and painfully as our creativity devises.” His eyes locked sharply with Jikun’s. “You will not scream loud or long enough to satisfy us. Cooking alive, disembowelment, rotting in your own excrement, impalement… these will seem like pleasures when we are through with you.”
But Jikun remained unfazed. He was about to confront Saebellus’ greatest beast—what threat could the Brotherhood hold over him now? “Yes, and?”
The archmage’s brows fluttered. “Still here, elf?” He chuckled, eyes rising to Navon beside him. “This is more courage than you must have shown at Elarium, where the world thought you dead. I admit—we are surprised to see the elves’ celebrated general alive… and here.” A slow smirk engulfed his face, and Jikun could only imagine Navon’s visible discomfort. His watery eyes fell once more upon Darcarus. “If this is what the four of you truly desire, it is not within my power to deny your request.
“As your collateral is your lives, your bodies shall be marked as property of Geldin Laeris. Your right arms shall be branded with the marking of the Brotherhood. This will avoid any uncertainty when we are forced to hunt you down and kill you. The brand will not fade nor can it be removed. If you should fail to return here in three months, the brand will radiate a glow as blue as cobalt and remain so indefinitely: all mercenaries of the Brotherhood—and for that matter, all mercenaries on Ryekarayn—will know a bounty rests upon your head. I would say such unfortunate people have not survived more than a few weeks under the activated brand.”
The thought of being even temporarily branded was revolting, but the alternative was far worse. “We will pay off the debt—the consequences of our failure mean nothing to us,” Jikun replied coolly. There was no arrogance in his confidence—he had been a general for thrice as long as the archmage had even lived.
Darcarus nodded sidelong at him, blond locks freeing from the braid to cling to his perspiring throat.
The archmage unclasped his hands, but he did not reach for his quill. “To the second matter of the loan, then.” He paused to tap the parchment on his left. “There is a list of missions of varying class levels. A quarter of all your profit on such ventures is given to the Brotherhood directly by your employers. Each class offers a range of payments for the work. I will provide you with a list of Class D and C missions, but given your lack of history with our organization, the highest I can offer you is a single Class B mission.”
“Our debt is our own affair, is it not?” Darcarus balked. “We are only interested in what information you have on the necromancer known as Relstavum—and any bounty therein.”
Navon grunted, but the male was wise enough to remain otherwise silent.
The archmage’s weathered brow creased. “So you attempt to confront Saebellus even now.” He glanced once at Navon and back to Darcarus, tutting softly. “The agent, Relstavum, is an Elite Class mercenary venture. Borin here handles those, but I assure you: the Brotherhood cannot and will not risk its investment by sending the likes of you four on such an excursion, regardless of your history with the man’s employer. You are an investment, now. And your failure with an army under your command leaves us with little confidence that you can succeed against this force—single entity that he is.”
Jikun slammed his palms against the sable stone, his stomach knotting at the rebuke. “Relstavum is the only reason we are here!” he declared furiously.
Mikael merely dipped his quill twice and scrawled illegibly across the page. “If Laeris wanted to dump his money down the sewer, he would give it to charity.”
Jikun’s eyes landed on the hulking human beside
the archmage, whose nostrils flared with condescension. Borin grunted. “If you pay off your debt, elves, we can consider such an advancement of trust. But I’m sure I’ll be sending someone to crush your throats in by the end of winter.”
‘Is that what happened to the last man?’ Jikun’s eyes flicked across the room in search of a visible sign, but whatever mess had been made had also been admirably swept away.
There was a soft creak as Darcarus settled beside him, his eyes dancing, his lips curled.
‘What is he thinking…?’ Jikun wondered. ‘Why is he demanding nothing? This is why we are here…!’
Navon could sense the tension in Darcarus’ silence and interjected before Borin could devise a venomous retort. “Mikael, what about the war to quell the rebellion?”
Jikun bit his tongue.
Fortunately, Navon’s request pacified the archmage, and the man ceased the rapid stroking of his eyebrow. He smacked his dried lips idly together. “It is the Class B mission I referred to previously: the king’s war against Lord Barister in the Karkadose region.”
Jikun let out a soft hiss of disapproval.
“…Though I suppose you elves are probably unfamiliar with human trivialities.” The archmage grimaced and disdain was once more plain in his tone. “While we were already expecting a famine, the recent political upheaval of your elven nation has cost Ryekarayn a vast amount of trade and assistance. And it seems that your warlord-king has been putting his newly acquired royal treasury to use. Against us. Lord Barister, thane of the Karkadose region, has been paid a ludicrous sum by Relstavum—on behalf of Saebellus—to amass a force to overthrow the king. The country’s dissenters are certainly lending him strength—bandits, mercenaries, soldiers, farmers… even the tribal dwarves of the Yinwel have joined him.” He shook his head, as though that fact was more unbelievable when spoken aloud.
“The king is offering generous pay for every able-bodied man who volunteers to fight against the lord. Two thousand bronze a soldier. Between the four of you, the sum would amount—after our share—to nearly a third of your debt. For a few weeks and a single battle, that is no small achievement, especially in these times. Why, most farmers are leaping at the chance… Of course, they’ll merely be fodder for Barister’s front line.” His eyes landed on Jikun’s dirty sash. Though he added no comment, Jikun could feel the implication snaking across the distance. “After the battle, assuming you survive, and if you fill the next two months with Class C missions and you are moderately lucky, you may just be able to pay off your debt. Then, we can discuss Relstavum.”
But Jikun knew that by then, action would be too late. He fixed his gaze upon Borin, and the sudden realization of Darcarus’ countenance persuaded his muscles to ease.
Fortunately, they had other means by which to find Relstavum.
Navon stepped forward, swift to grasp what hope the archmage offered in an alternative course. “We will take these missions you speak of, Mikael. What do you require of us?”
The archmage finally plucked his quill from the ink. “We will brand you, provide your gear, assign your missions, and dispatch you. And may Lady Luck guide you—you will need her bounty. Welcome,” he announced, “to the Brotherhood.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Since landing upon Ryekarayn—battered, beaten, but alive—Navon should have known that such a reckoning was coming. Such predictability should have been apparent to even the most ignorant of individuals:
The hero, traumatized and fallen, irrevocably seeks validation of his own self-worth, to make internal amends for all the wrongs he has committed.
Tiras had done so after the death of his family. As had Konavas after the murder of his brother. Yet somehow Navon had grown so blinded by his champion’s success that he had ignored the weight of his failures.
But since the Pass, his mind was clearer. Now he could see.
Jikun was no different than those legends he so admired; he fit so perfectly into the role it was as though he had stepped from the pages of a tragic scroll himself. But Sel’ari had given the general the chance to redeem himself from his selfishness: by delivering him to a military path where he could make amends for the cowardice that had cost the lives of thousands.
Now she tested her pawn, waiting to see whether he would become the hero or remain the thief.
As Navon’s eyes slid down the shafts of light to the tattoo branding his arm, a wave of unease assaulted him. Success was never won by impatience. Never by evil deeds. And yet, here he was, in bondage to the Brotherhood.
‘Our servitude is solely to win the war,’ he told himself. After all, who in history could he possibly mimic to dissuade Jikun from his decided course? No clear personalities remained to him but his own… And that felt unfamiliar. Unused.
Navon heaved a sigh and returned his gaze to the orderly interior of the armory. While Nordeep was despicable in most regards, this building was yet another example of the city’s unquestionable success in its depravity. The interior was a blur of polished armor, cotton clothing, heavy steel weapons, and tough leather gear. After the second armory, those that followed had simply melded together into a muddled experience of expensive equipment and human stench. But this was the mercenary capital of Aersadore. Apparently, even Sevrigel’s elven mercenaries were known to cross the channel to purchase from one of the city’s thirteen armories, as he had been informed by every blacksmith along the way.
Navon was only so certain that they had arrived at the final shop by Eldaeus’ distant calls of concern: “We really should not purchase anything here! Do not spend a single coin! Ohhhhh you are going to be so unlucky! Ah! I feel unlucky just standing in here!” A deafening clatter resounded throughout the small room. “AH! See? What did I tell you?! That suit of armor just launched itself at my innocently cherubical face!”
“Eldaeus, cease your childish behavior and go wait by Navon!” the Helven heard Jikun snap. “If you bother me one more time, I am going to test the bite of this sword on your exposed flesh.”
There was an offended gasp strangled off by a mad cackle, as though the Faraven was uncertain which reaction to display. “That did not work out for you the last time!”
“You did not best me in that duel of sticks!”
“Eldaeus! Come here!” Navon barked sharply. “Leave the general in peace.”
There was a flourish of brilliant color from around the side row of shelves and Eldaeus sidled to Navon’s side. “He is impossible,” he tsked.
“All great men are,” Navon replied, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Jikun emerged from around a row of shelves a moment later, waving about a red, voluminous shirt. Darcarus was at his right hand. “Look at this damn waste of fabric,” he was growling before his eyes had even located the pair. “It’s a sack. Look at these massive sleeves. If I purchased this, it could double as a tent. How greatly would that diminish our debt?”
“I agree,” Darcarus lamented, tossing a hand. “You need something far more befitting of your station. Surely they have silver or gold around here…”
“Are your theatrics quite finished?” Navon chastised, tapping his foot. The prince was shameless! “Darcarus, Jikun, I thought you said there is a task we have to accomplish this evening before we depart?—At this rate we will never leave Nordeep. Just pick a shirt—any shirt. Or I will pick one for you.”
Jikun snagged Eldaeus from where he was attempting to slide away along the wall and held the blood-red shirt against the Faraven’s torso. “If we are to be taken seriously, we have to dress with respect for ourselves,” he barked militaristically, not deigning to spare Navon a glance. “You have the coin of a high-end mercenary and yet you chose to dress like a grunt.”
Navon glanced down to survey the simplicity of his black cotton and russet leather. “We told the Brotherhood we would join the warfront. And until we actually complete the mission we are grunts! I am not going to pretend otherwise.”
Jikun dropped the shirt
and Darcarus kicked it beneath a nearby shelf.
Navon’s lips tightened. “Our priority is survival. Dress accordingly, General. Don’t make me deliver your ass again.”
Jikun’s shoulders rolled; his chest expanded. He said nothing and instead whirled sharply away into the nearest row of shelves, Darcarus whispering as they went.
Eldaeus exhaled in relief. “I thought surely he was going to pin that tunic to me with daggers. Hideous tunic. Would have clashed something awful with my pale complexion.”
Navon could only manage a grimace as he sidled along the side of the wall in an attempt to get closer to the two whispering elves. “That is terrible,” he replied absentmindedly.
Eldaeus rambled a few more forlorn comments before his lean, tattooed arm extended and dropped abruptly about Navon’s shoulders, yanking him just out of sight of where Jikun and Darcarus were now pouring over a map. Despite their days on the road, somehow the Faraven still smelled cleanly like wet grass and smoky leather.
Navon glanced sidelong at the tattooed arm and shied away, trying to get the Darivalian back into view. “What are you—”
Eldaeus leaned in close. “Can I confide in you?”
Navon met the elf’s bold stare with sarcasm. “This isn’t a confession of affections, is it?”
“I fancy the ladies, Navon. You are quite homely by comparison.”
Navon grimaced and shrugged the arm fully away. “I’m trying to eavesdrop, Eldaeus, and you are making it quite impossible!”
Eldaeus’ eyes brightened and he dared speak yet again. “That is what I am trying to confide,” he insisted, voice rising. “I heard Jikun and Darcarus mention Borin.”
Navon ceased his attempt to creep along the shelves and rounded on the Faraven, cutting him off. “Jikun did not obtain any information about Relstavum, so we are not pursuing the necromancer. There is—”
Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2) Page 40
