Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “Damn it, this armor is new,” Navon grunted resentfully as his elbow dropped into the cream.

  The ruckus fell dead. The barmaid bemoaned her loss. Navon twisted free of Hayes as the scrawny little man hacked for breath.

  And then a furious roar broke the silence. “This eunuch was CHEATING!” Bronwen pointed fiercely at Navon’s wide-eyed, innocent gape.

  There was a slow shift of feet and chairs as the seething mass of humans turned to stare.

  “Cheating?!” another human rallied in offended accord.

  “Eunuch?!” Navon cried with outrage.

  “No, no, it just looked like cheating,” Galter attempted in pitiful defense.

  Navon sighed inwardly as the inevitable coming event struck him. ‘It’s like being out with Jikun again.’ “Told you we should have skipped the tavern,” Navon jibed.

  And with that, the room erupted. Bronwen hurled the first punch, but Navon dodged his bulky body with the nimbleness graced to even the most ungainly of elves. A flurry of adjoining fists followed. Somewhere nearby, the Helven’s division of farmer boys had stepped in to defend their comrade.

  Navon felt a blow skim his shoulder and dropped swiftly to crouch beside a table. He rose in response with a liquor-stained stool, clubbing a red-faced human in the shoulder and another square in his beak of a nose. ‘Oh damn it. That was Crewe…’

  His human companion stumbled in a daze and then snapped once more into focus. His eyes widened and he quickly skirted to the safety of Navon’s side.

  “Where have you been?! I had nearly a dozen men on my ass before our comrades pulled some attention off of me!” Navon scolded, raising the stool to block a blow. “This lot nearly had me hanging by my ankles in the rafters!”

  Crewe blinked in confusion, still uncertain about what had struck him, but he wove a lie Navon could be proud of. “What do you mean, where was I?! I punched out at least three hulkin’, half-giants of men and nearly lost my arm!”

  “Ah, the drama,” Navon lamented, and slipped beneath a limb to punch Bronwen squarely across his jaw. He saw a puff of dead skin flakes rise from the man’s nose and then he tilted and faltered, hurtling down to crush poor Hayes beneath him.

  “We should probably leave,” Galter ventured in a panicked shout above the clamor. “We’re outnumbered!”

  “Five to one. Nothing I haven’t done before,” Navon quipped. ‘Wouldn’t have been a night out with Jikun otherwise.’

  But he agreed. The time had come to leave. Ale was sailing high now, showering down like rain as mugs sailed to and fro across the room to clobber unsuspecting foes with their fall. Navon skidded across a nearby table as a human crashed past him, vaulting nimbly across Bronwen’s sprawled body. A pudgy hand swept by him to snatch at his leg, but a good kick from Navon’s steel-toed boot deterred further attempts.

  With another leap and a scramble, they broke out into the open street and scurried away across the cobblestones and into the alley beyond. They sank against the stone to catch their breath.

  “This is how we celebrate going to war?” Navon panted, placing a hand against the wall for support. He shook his head in amused disbelief. “A little bar fight to test your skills for the battlefield, I suppose?”

  Galter did not seem to hear him. “Damn it all. Now I can’t get a woman. Oh don’t look so smug, elf. No romp for you, either.”

  Navon straightened with a chuckle. The adrenaline had faded and an uncomfortable throbbing was gnawing at his shoulder. He rubbed it gingerly, valuing the sting in light of the good time he had just had. With Jikun, he could not possibly make full use of the night without waking up a bit battered and bruised, or without the likes of a thousand mountain dwarves pounding about his head.

  His face fell a bit. ‘To Ramul with Jikun. We are apart and yet it is still him I am serving!’

  The sting at his shoulder began to throb far less pleasantly. Somehow, across the leagues, the general could still sour a fine mood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Hm. We are all out of food today…” Jerah spoke with a frown, spinning slowly in a circle to survey the empty cave. “You eat too much.”

  Wratherus snorted, tossing its head slightly. Then its furious glare fixed on a little bug that scuttled toward its bed.

  Jerah, too, paused to watch it for a moment. It was a cute, little brown bug with a hard shell and tiny back legs. Far better looking than a cockroach. What should he call it…? It rolled over a small rock and bounced once as it landed beside Wratherus’ bed.

  And then, in a sudden burst of flame, it was gone.

  Jerah clasped his hand to his chest. The poor thing! “Bad Wratherus!” he rebuked as the flames died. He sighed. He couldn’t blame the creature. It simply did not understand. “Now, we are out of food,” he repeated. “Tonight I will have to go to town and bring us back more.”

  Wratherus looked up sharply.

  Jerah frowned. “I go to town every night, Wratherus,” he reminded it. “And you can wait to eat until then. Sometimes, I would go many, many days and nights without food. You can too… I think…” He paused. Hm, maybe he should make sure to have food around for it. Perhaps it was not as strong as he was. Jerah thoughtfully eyed its skinny body.

  Wratherus stood up slowly, making its way gingerly toward the pool of water. It seemed mostly healed, but Jerah could not be certain. It had not allowed him to check on it after it had become fully conscious. And Jerah had only one pants left: he didn’t want to take chances with making it angry.

  Wratherus crouched down to fill its slender hands with water. The hole in its face would not close, so drinking was a messy activity. Jerah watched as water dribbled from its jagged jaw, tinkling softly onto its bare feet.

  “I know what would take your mind off of everything,” Jerah began. “We can practice more words. My master used to do this with me.”

  Wratherus looked back at him and wiped a hand across its boney chin. It hissed.

  “No words right now? How about just three. Let’s just learn three new words.” He raised his tone into one of excitement, attempting to instill the same feelings in the creature.

  Wratherus regarded him in an annoyed manner for a moment, then pushed off its knees to stand. It turned to face him attentively. It had little patience, but sometimes it would become submissive.

  Jerah smiled proudly. He was becoming good at understanding it. ‘I must be patient with it,’ he would tell himself.

  The creature tapped its foot.

  Jerah quickly pointed to it. “Foot,” he began in the Common Tongue. He always used the Common Tongue around it. The human language just seemed so much simpler to Jerah. Each day he had tried to teach the creature new words. He didn’t know how to put many numbers together, but he did know that they had spent seven days learning words. It seemed to understand many body parts, injuries, when he had to leave, food, yeses, and noes, but sentences seemed beyond it.

  And it seemed to know its name. Jerah was quite proud of this.

  The creature put a hand to the mountain wall.

  “Wall,” he said. “That is a wall.”

  And lastly, Wratherus sat.

  “Sit,” Jerah said, standing and then sitting again to emphasize his point. “Sit. I just sat down.”

  The creature cocked its head.

  Jerah frowned. “Uh… in the elven language it is only one word… I don’t know why the humans use two. Sat is sit. Sit. Sat.”

  The creature stood and then sat back down.

  “You sat. Now you are sitting.” Some words seemed harder for it to grasp. Jerah didn’t blame it. He was finding himself becoming perplexed. He rubbed his forehead. Maybe he should have just taught it the elven tongue?

  While Jerah contemplated this, he saw Wratherus slide its body about, presenting Jerah with its back in the attempt to find some privacy. Jerah saw it raise its black shirt over its stomach.

  ‘It must be looking at its wounds again,’ he thought, trying t
o turn his gaze away so that only the corners of his eyes could see.

  Wratherus looked at its wounds often—at least twice a day. Once, to Jerah’s horror, it had even lit its own flesh on fire. What was left behind was the same bubbly flesh Jerah had seen when he had first found it. Whether it was burning itself from internal rage or for some other reason, Jerah could not know, but it seemed determined to do so despite Jerah’s warnings.

  Yet even the old bubbly flesh had gone away with time. Jerah caught glimpses of the creature’s brown skin beginning to return around smooth, white and red patches that had come to replace the burned skin.

  Maybe it healed well after all.

  It dropped its shirt suddenly and wrapped its arms around itself, letting out a violent shake. Determination settled into its features as it abruptly began to inspect their quarters. Jerah knew that look—it was searching for something to burn.

  And then a realization came to Jerah. “Are you cold?” he asked sympathetically. He remembered how cold it had gotten for many days in the cellar. And over the days since Jerah had found the creature, the mountains had grown bitterer as a chill wind swept in from the ocean with hints of salt and frozen water.

  Jerah sniffed, raising his chin slightly to inhale the scent that hovered in the canyon outside their hole. He had not smelled that frozen water scent since he had fought General Taemrin by the swamps. It brought back such memories… For a moment, his heart ached for Sevrigel.

  “I can get you more clothes, too,” he spoke, loud enough to force his attention back to the creature. He scooted a little closer and stretched out a wing. “These make me warmer,” he offered cautiously.

  Wratherus’ eyes narrowed as the large wing crept closer around its back.

  Jerah paused, waiting for a hiss. It had made it clear before that such a sound was equivalent to a firm “no.”

  But there was no hiss. Jerah slowly put his tattered wing across the creature’s back and wrapped it around its sides, creating a little blanket of warmth about them.

  For hours they sat in silence and, even when his wing grew tired, Jerah held it there.

  Finally, when the torch in the void began to go out, Jerah stood, drawing his wings tightly against his own back. He felt a little bad to leave it cold again, but he was going to find it more clothes. “It is time, Wratherus. I must go to town now. While I am gone, you can use your bed for warmth. I know it’s a bit dirty…” He turned toward the entrance and stopped, hearing the sound of feet padding along behind him. He looked over his shoulder curiously.

  Wratherus was standing a short distance behind him, its yellow gaze intensely set.

  This was the first time the creature had made it to its feet so steadily since Jerah had found it. ‘It must be feeling a lot better!’ Jerah thought with relief. He took another step toward the entrance, watching as Wratherus slid its foot across the ground after him.

  Jerah stopped, spinning around. “Wratherus, you can’t come,” he insisted, even as he felt elated at its attachment to him. “The town is dangerous. There are many creatures there that try to kill me. They may try to kill you, too. They are afraid of things like us. Things not like them.”

  Wratherus tossed its wild hair and turned its head away. Jerah felt a pain in his heart.

  “Well… Wratherus, if you come you have to listen to me,” he insisted.

  Wratherus turned its head back toward him, yellow eyes widening as though with excitement.

  Jerah found himself smiling. “Alright then, let’s go.”

  Wratherus picked up a shirt from the ground and ripped a large piece from it. It tied the fabric around the bottom half of its face, concealing the broken state of its jaw. With the disfigurement hidden, Wratherus looked almost elven. Jerah wondered if perhaps it felt and understood a little more than he had assumed.

  The two emerged carefully onto the side of the mountain. The darkness of the void surrounded their small forms, and the white torch flickered at half-light behind a cloud of smoke. The mountains were washed with a faint, white glow across their grey surfaces.

  Jerah glanced back at Wratherus and held out a hand to help it along the broken path. The creature made a sound Jerah had never heard before: fierce and resistant, rejecting Jerah’s offer of help with what he could only assume was a scowl.

  Jerah withdrew his hand. ‘It doesn’t want me to help it?’ he pondered as he began to move along the path, nervously glancing behind him to make sure Wratherus was alright.

  He was surprised to find the creature moving easily along, steadying itself by pushing its slender fingers into cracks along the mountain face. It glanced once at Jerah with its firm gaze, and then continued to place its narrow feet confidently across the stone.

  As one they descended to the mountain floor.

  “You did very well,” Jerah complimented it, impressed with its mobility. Even without talons, the creature could climb and move just like him. In fact, its balance seemed, perhaps, even superior.

  The creature’s expression was difficult to read without seeing its lips, but Jerah thought it looked at him with at least a little bit of pride.

  He wanted to pat it, but resisted the urge. ‘One pants left, Jerah,’ he reminded himself. “This path leads us right out of the mountains to the town,” Jerah informed with a sniff to their surroundings. “Food and clothes and humans are there.”

  Wratherus gave no reaction, but took silent step behind him.

  Jerah smiled to himself, thinking of the little, feathered creatures that hopped along his home in the mountain. He glanced once over his shoulder, taking a moment to watch Wratherus angrily light a small, flying bug on fire before the creature hopped over a large stone to continue its pursuit.

  Jerah felt quite proud—he was caring for it all by himself! He walked a little straighter, leading it along through the dark mountain pathways and out into the expanse of trees that lay before the town.

  “These are called trees,” he informed Wratherus as he patted the trunk of the closest one. “Through these trees is the city!”

  Wratherus stared at him stoically, not mirroring the enthusiasm.

  Jerah nonetheless continued cheerfully on, stepping over the twisted branches of the tree that grew in the dirt. As they reached the end of the forest, Jerah stopped, raising his hands.

  “And that, Wratherus, is named a house!”

  He gestured to the small stone building in their path. Jerah had first seen it a week before, but had discovered its interior was empty. He liked to imagine himself living in it like the elves and humans did in theirs: not having to flee from anything, but just being able to eat and rest in comfort. He thought he should like it to be white like the dark void’s torch, with a doorway large enough for him to not duck beneath.

  “No one lives inside it,” he continued as Wratherus stepped warily toward it, eyes narrowed.

  It let out a soft growl.

  Jerah opened his mouth to question its disapproval and stopped. He cocked his head. “Wratherus, humans don’t live alone in houses. They live in cities. This house here is all alone so there are no humans—” He stopped abruptly.

  What was that smell?

  Wratherus’ growl deepened and its body shifted lower to the earth.

  No… that smell… Jerah knew that smell.

  He swung around, his heart pounding in his chest.

  There was nothing but the darkness of trees.

  It couldn’t be. Impossible. He had crossed the ocean!

  He froze, his heart beating violently. He found his body urging him to flee, but he remained still. If it was them he could not run. He could not run again.

  Two figures gradually became visible, their tall bodies spotted with light as it shone down through the branches. The long clothes of one creature billowed out behind him. The glint of metal shone off the side of the other.

  Jerah took a step back, face contorting with fear at the confirmation of who they were. The mercenaries!

 
; ‘No!! Why did they follow?! How did they find me?!’

  “The beast,” one of the mercenaries breathed, drawing his sword. It glinted slightly as he turned it toward Jerah. The white torch lit the brown-haired man’s narrowed eyes and highlighted the scars running down his dark face. He strode forward, the dirt of the forest floor scraping under the bottom of his thick-soled boots.

  Even though he looked only human, Jerah could not help but feel another wave of fear wash over him. He knew this human was strong. Very strong.

  His black-haired comrade reached for the weapon at her side, stepping into the large shadow of the nearest tree on her left, her eyes reflecting silent agreement as though they had conferred without speaking.

  This column was deadly. Jerah’s gaze flicked down the length of the lean, black-haired woman, following the path of her hand.

  She was reaching for the weapon that fired the metal-tipped wood!

  Jerah lowered his muscular body and snarled. “Get behind me, Wratherus,” he whispered.

  “What is beside him?” the man asked, as though he had not realized that Jerah was not alone.

  “Looks like… an elf?” the column spoke in reply, pausing briefly from the loading of her weapon to glance up.

  There was no more time to listen. Jerah shoved Wratherus behind him and into the shadows of the towering trees. “I SAID GET BEHIND ME!” he roared.

  Jerah’s foot pushed off from the ground, propelling his body forward with joint-aching speed. He could see the mercenaries’ faces light with surprise and twist in horror.

  No, this time he would not be caught first. He would not be hurt again.

  Instinct and adrenaline tore through Jerah as he ran, only the sound of the bitter wind whipping past him.

  The column quickly raised her weapon, but Jerah’s speed was superior. There was a click. He pushed off the nearest tree, away from the anticipated path of the wood, and lurched forward. The brown-haired man’s expression flickered in fear.