Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “Sellemar!”

  Saebellus continued the previous conversation as though the fight between the two soldiers had not interrupted him. He turned his back to the scrambling heaps. “I will grant you the privilege of assembling a mission, my love.”

  ‘…Didn’t want to look weak… Damn it!’

  Clarity reformed on Ilsevel’s triumphant face. “I assure you, you will not be disappointed. We will turn the tides of this fight back upon the rebellion—they will take responsibility for Hadoream’s death.”

  “SELLEMAR!”

  Sellemar gasped, a white marble wall appearing unexpectedly before his eyes.

  “By Sel’ari, my lord. Was that the Nemorium? You lost consciousness… You seemed to be struggling to breathe!”

  Sellemar was suddenly aware that he was no longer upright. Strong arms were wrapped around his torso, supporting him in a half-sitting position. Tilarus was crouched over his chest, the grey of his winter cloak shielding him from any passerby who might peer down the alley.

  A tumult of emotions assaulted him, frustration at the forefront. Gods it was bad enough to appear weak before Saebellus—now he appeared weak before Tilarus as well! He wanted to wrench Tilarus off of him and shove him into the alley wall. He wanted to fuck him—to subdue Tilarus until the male was begging for his own release and the furthest thing from his mind was that he was weak.

  “You didn’t tell me you were successful!”

  Tilarus’ wide, concerned eyes swam into his vision. Sellemar shuddered, revulsion beating back his conflicting emotions, rushing clarity past the fog of the Nemorium’s grasp.

  This was Tilarus. His companion.

  He emitted a long exhale. “I was not successful.” He straightened and Tilarus’ support fell away.

  “You weren’t? What do you mean? Whose thoughts then were you sharing?”

  Sellemar’s cheeks grew hot. “Captain Vale’s.”

  Tilarus paused, as though unsure that he had heard correctly. “Captain… Vale’s?”

  “Save your amusement for another day,” Sellemar muttered gruffly. “This is the first time I have experienced his decrepit mind. He was in a meeting with Saebellus and Ilsevel. They agreed that Hadoream’s presence is fomenting rebellion, but they cannot locate Hadoream…” Tilarus chuckled, but Sellemar was not so ready to share in his amusement. “Vale knows,” he added grimly. “…And yet Saebellus does not.”

  Tilarus’ grin died. “How and why?”

  Sellemar slowly rubbed his brow. “Out of loyalty, it seems, to Darcarus…”

  Tilarus could only stare in an utter lack of comprehension.

  “But for now,” Sellemar continued, “they are searching for the young prince aged past the palace paintings. They were discussing what to do with him when found—the consequences of killing or imprisoning him.” He abruptly recalled the black-haired half-elf with the broken nose and the smug sneer. “The last I grasped was that they intend to kill him and frame the Resistance.”

  Tilarus started. “Kill Hadoream?! Have they no fear of Sairel?!”

  “They fear Sevrigel’s people more.” Sellemar’s brow creased deeply. “And… Alvena…”

  “What?”

  Sellemar shook his head as he struggled to grasp what the enemy had said. “Alvena… that little girl who witnessed Hairem’s murder… They have her…” He gritted his teeth. “She is just an inexperienced child… I should not have expected her to be capable of reaching the coast! Now I have her to be responsible for yet again.”

  “Sellemar, what in Emal’drathar are you rambling about? Forget the servant girl. Leave her to me—I will ensure her safety. You have far more pressing matters at hand!”

  Sellemar’s head snapped up curtly. Tilarus was right. “We need to expedite the people’s mistrust. It is time to reveal the extent of the genocide… How does the Resistance feel about digging up the dead?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The skewered, broken body of Borin was seared into Navon’s mind’s eye—stiff and bloody, the belly gorged as though sheared by the tusks of a wild boar.

  Disbelief. Shock. Horror. They were all understatements to the abhorrence Navon experienced. His own genuine, unmasked disgust. All their little group had known of Borin’s morality were conjectures based on his membership to the Brotherhood. And Sel’ari would never justify killing a man on conjectures.

  But Darcarus and Jikun… Damn Darcarus! Damn Jikun! The Darivalian had been so desperate to ignore his guilt… to believe he had chosen rightly at Elarium… to believe he was necessary to the downfall of Saebellus, that killing Borin had been justified!

  Saebellus had wholly and truly won—he had not only stolen the lives of the soldiers Navon had loved, but now the soul of his general as well.

  ‘I should have intervened before we even questioned Borin. I knew Darcarus was a drake! And yet I was too afraid that Jikun would rebuke me! Coward! The fault is mine as well.’ Any given legend from his tales would have done so.

  But without their guidance, he was a lost fool.

  He glanced once, shamefully, over his shoulder, but the alleyway was long since lost behind Nordeep’s wall. He sat atop his mount and watched the emptiness of the city’s gates, half-hoping that Jikun would emerge from within their clutches and give him reason to second guess his decision.

  Why could not his general have been driven with some mad desire to make amends or serve a god or even fling himself into the alcohol-ridden despairs of guilt his anxiety attacks surely offered?

  But his gaze fell. No. Instead, the role Jikun asked of him had passed the realms of the heroes in his tomes… twisted to the design of thieves. Darcarus’ hold and Jikun’s desolation were an inseparable pair.

  And he could no longer follow Jikun’s path. Now… now the goddess was demanding he weave a story of his own. Not as the champions he tried to emulate or the hero he wanted to be.

  ‘As who…?’ he wondered. But the loss of his heroic foundations made the answer clear. As the person he was. ‘As Navon.’

  Navon’s life outside books and scrolls had limitations. His attempts to ignore this had already cost him dearly; he could not afford to be reckless with his soul again. The military offensive was his best opportunity to deal a blow against Saebellus.

  The role was not glorious, it was not legendary, but it was necessary. It would be a single ripple of change, but what more could one pebble do against the sea? His path was the first time in a century—since he had last been in these lands—that he was alone. That no one needed him. No one needed his patience, his insight, his encouragement… And now, the time had come for Navon to infuse his own self with the lessons he had once imitated for Jikun’s sake.

  The call of necromancy… to explore his own capabilities, had never been clearer.

  The journey north was long and bitter, and it was only through Jikun’s headstrong act that he had all the necessary gear to survive the winter trek. What extra coin he had saved through his frugal purchases was spent on the care of his horse. Navon was left to consume stale rations.

  The road, if it could be called such a thing, was a winding path of mounds of snow and chiseled ice, glowing by the moonlight and blinding in the sun. It was empty until he arrived within a two day ride from the army’s encampment. There, a drivel of poorly armed farmers from regions all over Ryekarayn began to trickle in toward the valley of green tents.

  ‘Fodder for the front lines,’ he recalled the archmage’s words. The king would be more than willing to accept the swords of the least of these men, but how many would die so that a well-armed soldier like Navon might live long enough to deal a solid blow to Barister’s defenses?

  And deal a solid blow he would. The time had come to seize a victory of his own.

  ‘War is the action taken to determine who has strength enough to live, and who has strength enough to die. Death can be the gateway to victory, but not all men are brave enough to face this truth.’

  If t
here was one truth that necromancy had shaped, one truth Sel’ari and Jikun and all the Sel’vi did not know, it was that.

  Death can be the gateway to victory.

  But Navon knew it. And it would shape him.

  *

  “The front line? You will have to forgive me, elf, but the front line, let me clarify, is at the front of our army. At the face. Where Barister’s men will first collide with ours. I’m running out of ways to say this, so let me put it in a way you might be capable of understanding: the front lines have a high mortality rate. It means you will very probably die.”

  Navon watched the human lieutenant totter through his response. He certainly bore no similarities to an elven military commander, but rather, he was as animated as any green foot that had first stumbled into Navon’s care. His long, dirty finger poked the table at which they sat several times to emphasize his point, stabbing into the weathered wood with dirt-crusted fingernails. The fingers withdrew for a moment and Navon admired their remarkably crooked state, imagining that they had been broken on more than one occasion.

  “I understand the front line, Lieutenant Joceus,” he finally replied as the man paused to breathe. He understood it—but certainly had no experience. The front line of the elven army was not doomed to slaughter.

  Human military operations sounded far less reassuring.

  “I don’t need another man to shield me. As you have pointed out, I am equipped well enough to defend myself. It would be a crime for me to allow some farmer with a pitchfork to fight my battle.”

  “It’s not your battle, it’s the king’s battle,” Joceus countered with exasperation. “And the king is looking for good soldiers to engage after the front lines meet. What additional pay is offered to the front line is hardly worth the risk.”

  Navon raised his chin and squared his shoulders. He would have stood, if he had not felt that a physical display of his resolve would offend the human’s pride. “Lieutenant, I wish to be on the front line. It is the only place you will find my sword.”

  The human settled into his seat and rubbed the tangle of curly brown hair gathering about his chin. There was a dramatic pause, an exaggerated sigh, and then he scribbled a brief missive onto the parchment before him. “As you wish, Nevae. You will be in Division One. And may Zephereus protect you in your reckless desires.” He stood and waited until Navon was at his side before he raised the sun-bleached cotton of the olive tent flap. “That’s the region of red tents to the west. You’ll be under the supervision of Lieutenant Pearse. Oh, and take this.” Lieutenant Joceus shoved a swatch of fabric into his hand. It was an unadorned, courteous red, as though already prepared for the bloodbath its wearer would receive. “Wear it at your waist. It lets the rest of the men know your regiment.”

  Navon ducked beneath the frosted fabric and slid past the line of waiting humans. Not a moment passed after the tent flap closed before it was flung open once again by a scraggly farmer boy, eager to add his name to the king’s list. ‘Cotton and wool. A scythe. The child is undoubtedly front line fodder.’

  In the far distance, a splash of deep red lit the horizon, foretelling the soldiers’ deaths to come.

  “By Zephereus above, would you look at that,” a crisp voice carried across the bustling field. “I didn’t know they let women join the army. You there! With the black hair. Division One. Miss.”

  “Oooh Zane, I don’t believe it’s a woman.”

  There was a brief fit of self-amusement and low-tuned whistling.

  Navon rolled his eyes internally. ‘Let it go, Navon. They could be talking about anyone…’

  “HEY, ELF. Yes you, eunuch! There is only one of your god-damn kind around here.”

  Against his better judgment, Navon glanced over his shoulder to scrutinize the line of weather-worn and shivering recruits, then past their crooked row. Just beyond were six humans lounging upon a stack of unmarked crates. All were fat—practically bursting with the arrogance so common in the human race. Their polished armor, emblazoned with the emblem of the army, barely managed to contain their rolls of well-fed blubber. Golden cuts of fabric hung from their belts, and Navon required no knowledge of the army to postulate that this lot was of the king’s own militia—neither mercenary nor recruit nor high lord’s guard, but of the royal army itself.

  And they were itching to flaunt themselves before the line of hopeful recruits.

  “I guess you found that it takes more than some fancy equipment to move off the front lines, eh?” one of the men snorted, gesturing across Navon’s body to the red cloth dangling from his belt. “Not a mark upon you. Your old man sell his farm for your equipment?”

  The men about him laughed, but the line of aspiring recruits looked on dismally. They did not have the coin to buy such gear, and the envy in their eyes was tangible. If even Navon had been placed on the front lines, surely they were doomed.

  Navon responded with a falsely amused smile and a single nod of generosity to their insolence. He turned back toward the red tents and set his pace at a brisk walk. ‘First Makados and his men, and now these humans. It is as they say—those of slow wit are fast to fight. And humans are rich with idiocy.’

  “Hold up. Don’t scuttle off,” one of the humans beckoned in a sweet façade. “We didn’t mean nothing by it. We need men like you. Gives the enemies false hope. And climbing over the mound of bodies makes them that much easier to cut down!”

  Something thumped heavily against Navon’s back, and he let out a grunt as the force against his torso tilted him into a stumble. ‘Navon, remember: patience bears the fruit of success,’ he warned himself as he turned slowly about. There was a soft plop as the remnants of snow slid off his spine and dropped behind him. “Can I… assist you in some way?” he asked, his lips twitching in and out of a strained smile.

  “Whoa there, eunuch. Don’t get too friendly: we don’t fancy a tumble with your kind.” There was a brief volley of snickers and the largest of the men continued, rising to his feet. He was neatly kept and a beacon of polished steel; the emblem on his chest, the ring on his finger, and his glib tongue told Navon he was a lord’s son. “Show us what you can do. We want to put on a show for the lads here. Show them what it’s like to be on the front line. Inspire them with your indisputable skill.”

  A sea of faces in the line of recruits had turned to watch—farmers and non-farmers alike. Navon breathed softly into his hands and rubbed them together absentmindedly, willing warmth to return to his fingers. Half his mind was listening, but it was the juvenile half. The side that enjoyed nosing through Jikun’s belongs and gossiping about his poetry.

  The side no longer reined in by the wisdom of males that had gone before. ‘Well, you cannot just stand here and let them all think you bloody weak,’ it argued.

  And that was a sound enough argument for his other half as well.

  Navon locked eyes with the largest of the fattened men. It had been weeks since he had felt comfortable casting necromancy—his attempts to be greater than himself had too often wrenched him past his limitations. ‘Cast only within your own talents.’ He exhaled quietly and raised his chin. “I give to you, your front line,” he spoke softly, raising his arms in a slow, dramatic pose.

  Everything was better with theatrics.

  The king’s men watched him for a moment, their gazes slightly hopeful that he might exhibit some flare before he fizzled out in a dramatic display of failure. When his arms reached their zenith and the winter earth lay unchanged, the soldiers finally opened their mouths in broad grins, readying a flow of mockery.

  And then their joy was sucked into the abyss with the sudden roar of unearthly screams that bellowed and snarled in a swirl of icy wind. The ground below the men erupted in a pillar of black smoke, sending their bodies careering into the air to arch beautifully over the sea of sun-bleached olives… before they crashed climactically into the stack of unmarked crates they had enthroned themselves upon moments before.

  Navon was sure to fl
ourish a bow to the pained faces of the sprawled men. “Although I do not usually fancy a tumble with your kind,” he finished haughtily, “I believe you have just been fucked.”

  “By Zephereus, what in Emal’drathar is going on?!” shouted Lieutenant Joceus as he rushed from an entanglement with the flap of his tent. His eyes flitted down the line of gasping and awestruck recruits as he searched for the source of the disturbance.

  Navon straightened swiftly, jerking his hand to his side as he ordered the magic to dissipate. The voices hissed once in complaints of ingratitude, then seeped into the ground to leave the six bodies groaning in their wake.

  Applause burst from several men in the line, and Lieutenant Joceus’ eyes landed upon Navon in fixed disapproval and unquestionable dislike. “You there! Soldier!”

  Navon shifted sheepishly and attempted one of his more charming smiles. It had saved him from a gauntlet or two on more than one occasion.

  Lieutenant Joceus’ eyes narrowed. “You, soldier, are being court-martialed to the general. Now.”

  ‘Excellent entrance, Navon. I can see you are bound to make many a friend. Can’t have Jikun for a companion?—why have any.’

  *

  The tent of General Bardolph was as immense in size as the man it was required to house. The floor was laden with numerous hides and littered with cheap but ample furnishings. A generous fire warmed the interior, but its purpose seemed nullified by the open flap to the outside. Lieutenant Joceus closed it as he departed, securing Navon inside to face the general’s full wrath.

  Suddenly, the cold air seemed far more inviting.

  Bardolph waited until a heavy silence had settled over the room, as though he was brewing over his options for the Helven’s punishment. Then he pounded the desk between them once, causing Navon to jolt sharply in his chair. “So, Nevae, was it? You sent Bertelemy and his men up to visit Emal’drathar and back down, did you?”

  Navon straightened, watching the plague of wrinkles on the man’s brow fight to fold over one another. “Not that high, sir.”