Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  His feet pounded across the snow, too torn between speed and confusion for driftwalking to erase his mark. ‘Ilsevel suspects you!—You are supposed to be a prisoner! Leave no trail!’ he swore at himself, and his feet pulled free of the white blanket so that his next steps barely brushed the surface.

  At least the streets were clear. It made it far easier for his soldiers to move. Fifty of them—more than sufficient to empty the bitch-goddess’ halls of resistors and clerics alike. ‘It’s what happens when you cross Saebellus,’ Vale thought.

  But it was hard to hear himself think over the cries of the rioters pushing themselves up his ass. They were tight behind his soldiers, crying for fucking justice.

  Justice was exactly what he was about to serve!

  Sellemar shook his head violently. ‘This is not justice!’ he cried to himself as he broke free of the old Rilden Estate’s grounds, his feet racing down the path to the inner city. ‘Sel’ari protect them!’

  The bitch-goddess? In his gut he knew she didn’t care!

  Sellemar shook his head again, his vision flickering wildly between the market street outside his estate and that which Vale occupied in the south. The fucking civilians were just getting in his way!

  But he ran, stumbling and then running again… no, damn it, he was walking! What did it matter if he moved more quickly? The fucking temple would have no idea what was approaching.

  ‘RUN!’ Sellemar roared to himself, once more forcing his legs into a burst of speed. He clipped a booth as he moved, sending the contents on the edge scattering out into the road.

  He felt no pity for the female as she scrambled to gather her wares. He had never cared for them. None of them. They were all the same—selfish. Mewling. Hateful… They all despised him. All the same. All of them.

  Sellemar gritted his teeth against the venom. Against the pain. Vale’s emotions were strong and his mind was clear. Every fiber of his being struggled to not collapse beneath the weight of the captain’s loathing. With every step he took the pressure only increased.

  He hastily reached up as something cool trickled down his lip. He swiped the blood away from his nose, sucking in a painful breath of chilled air.

  And he ran. Who was closer?!—He or Vale?! He had covered a great distance, but there was still an expanse before those damn resistors met their end!

  “In my way… in my way!” he snarled as a male strolled idly in his path. Sellemar reached out, snatching the male by the arm, and hurled him into the alley beside him. He heard the crack of something as it broke beneath the male’s fall, but he did not slow. The bitch-goddess! He had to reach her in time!

  “Are you alright?”

  “What’s going on?!”

  Sellemar could not distinguish if the voices that besieged him were nearby or halfway across the city. Were they his or Vale’s eyes he saw from?! Were they his ears or that cursed male’s?!

  He began to round the clear lane of the bend before him and realized too late that it was Vale’s eyes that saw the road. Sellemar collided solidly with the edge of a cart near the market square, knocking the wind solidly from his lungs. He tumbled over the snow and ice to lie sprawled before the blacksmith’s door.

  “What’s going on, Captain?”

  “Are you alright?”

  ‘Do not slow me down…!’ Sellemar’s arm flew down to the hidden blade in his boot and back up again, the hilt of the dagger cracking against the skull of the male that reached down to assist him to his feet. “Get out of my way!” he roared, lurching to his feet. His eyes peeled wide and wild as he watched the male clutch his skull and fall back. “You are fortunate you are not one of them or I would finish you off!” he snarled.

  And with painful breaths Sellemar managed to extract himself from the elves that rushed to the victim’s aid. His hands were trembling now, his legs nearly buckling beneath him. So… close…

  No. He was there. He was at the temple of the bitch-goddess. He sucked in a breath of cold air. Fresh. Clean. Ah. This was what victory smelt like.

  “Move out. Surround the perimeter. Kill every cleric on the temple grounds. Attempt to take all non-clerics alive… but inflict whatever wounds necessary to do so. If they draw a weapon against you, do not hesitate to slit their throats.”

  ‘Tilarus, too. I need to take Tilarus alive. He will know much. I will bring him before Saebellus and everything shall come to light!’

  Sellemar’s eyes cleared as urgent voices reached him.

  “You’re on holy grounds!” someone shouted over the tumult of voices.

  A throng of rioters was gathered nearby, restrained only by the threat of the weapons held in the hands of Vale’s soldiers.

  The captain was nowhere to be seen.

  Sellemar’s eyes widened, rising away from the rioters and scattered soldiers that held the perimeter.

  Away to the Temple of Sel’ari.

  They were already inside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A cry ripped through the raw night air, issuing from within the temple of Sel’ari. It wrenched Sellemar’s consciousness fully from the Nemorium, piercing the veil of his confusion by the grace of the goddess herself. The thunder dissipated from his mind like the echoing scream, Vale’s feelings of hate, triumph, and confidence vanishing with it.

  That cry… the first cleric of his goddess had fallen!

  His eyes swept the frosted earth, up the steps still slick with ice, to the door barred against the riled crowd. His mind hastened to formulate a plan. He should have held one by now, but the Nemorium had dulled his own cunning. Vale’s bloodlust was a poor replacement to calculation and planning.

  A dozen guards were scattered across the grounds of the temple and its perimeter. Two were at the doors of the temple, and one male, armed with a spear, held the rioters before the steps at bay.

  “Defilers!” a voice roared from somewhere within the furious mass, and the cries grew all the louder, drowning the screams from the temple within.

  Sellemar gritted his teeth at his own languorous wit. ‘You must act! Better plans have had better days to form!’ He threw his cloak over his shoulders, twisting it around his neck in a thick, makeshift scarf to cover the lower half of his face, then drew his head into the shadows of his hood. The pitiful disguise would have to suffice to conceal his identity—even if he was to escape the city through the True Blood tunnel tonight, it was far safer to leave no trace of his involvement.

  Gathering his resolve, he ran. Soon Vale would be upon his Resistance and there would be no one left to lead the city’s rebellion.

  The elves in the crowd were pressed tightly against one another, creating a near-solid barricade between Sellemar and the temple. Cursing, he cut through their ranks with sharp jabs from his elbows and several violent thrusts. As he shoved the last protestor aside, he carried his momentum toward the nearest guard. His hands shot out, grasping the swinging spear and wrenching it to the side.

  “What—?!”

  The shaft tore free of the soldier’s grip, and the male’s cry of surprise was cut short as Sellemar’s foot sent him sailing down the marble steps to crash into an unconscious heap.

  The crowd behind him roared with vicious approval, and in several swift thrusts of Sellemar’s appropriated spear, the two soldiers before the temple doors were hurled with equal prowess into the angry mob.

  ‘Keep them,’ he breathed beneath the victorious cries of the elves latching onto their prey. He flung wide the temple doors and praised Sel’ari that he had not lapsed into the Nemorium’s dreams during the brief skirmish.

  The door thudded shut behind him and Sellemar’s heart clenched grimly. The interior of the temple was in chaos, bodies of the slain clerics splayed across the floor and, in their final pleas to the goddess for salvation, draped grotesquely over the feet of statues. The floor was puddled with blood that lapped against the boots of the soldiers who were now ransacking the temple in search of any hidden offenders.

  A
cross the room, away from the density of their search, a flash of movement caught the remaining candlelight—a lone cleric scrambled from the dark and dashed for the temple doors, fleeing from behind a small, golden statue along the wall.

  An enemy soldier spotted him, whirling from his furious blows upon the flowers at Sel’ari’s feet, and lurched triumphantly into the terrified priest’s path.

  Sellemar’s arm flew back, his aim straight and strong. The newly acquired spear was shoddier than his own, but it swept true, striking Vale’s dog clean through the back. A moment later, the wild-eyed cleric burst past him and through the temple doors to safety.

  His freedom did little to alleviate Sellemar’s distress; the male was the sole survivor of Elvorium’s most holy order.

  He steeled his emotions as the temple doors thudded closed. He could spare no sympathies now; their souls were already cupped in the hands of the goddess.

  “Who are you?!” one of Vale’s soldiers demanded, rising from Sellemar’s victim. He brandished his sword in wide, extravagant arcs. “How did you get in here?!”

  Sellemar locked eyes briefly.

  And then he ran.

  He bolted past the smooth white pews, the rows of pearlescent candles, the murals of mythologies and glorious deeds. He vanished through the doorway at the far northwestern end, onward toward the clerical dormitories and the headquarters of the Resistance below.

  Through the Nemorium, he had seen Vale lead his throng to the temple’s rear—where Saebellus’ lieutenant had scouted weeks before. It was the faster of the two routes… avoiding the maze of halls that Sellemar would be forced to navigate… But he steeled his hope that their search would delay them. ‘There still may be time to save the others!’

  “Wait!” the soldier cried. “Stop!” But when Sellemar paid him no heed, a fury of footsteps pursued. “Seize him!”

  Sellemar skidded around the corner and into a jade statue of his goddess, pushing off her shaking form and lurching around the bend. A shatter of stone resounded behind him, followed by the violent tongues of the soldiers who stumbled in its wake. Sel’ari would give him what aid she could.

  He crossed the final expanse of polished tile that adorned the doors of the cleric’s living quarters and vaulted down the winding staircase.

  Down the steps to the storage level of their dormitories.

  To the headquarters of his Resistance.

  He spun around the bend and was met with a wail of alarm.

  “Hush, it is me: Sellemar!” he sibilated through the concealment of his cloak.

  “Sellemar! Praise the goddess—what has happened?!” Seferia pushed from the crowd, her features pulled tight, her lips contorted in a ghastly grimace few fair faces could manage. “Gelradis, Sunae, and Voremel went above to find answers, but they have not returned!”

  A throng of faces flickered in the shadows of the lantern light, sunken, ashen… filled with olfacible fear. They huddled at the bottom of the stairway, the great length of hallway stretched out behind them. At the opposing end, cloaked in the shadows, was the second and last egress from the headquarters.

  The point where Vale and his butchers would descend.

  They would soon be surrounded.

  Sellemar regarded the small crowd of comrades, accounting for each of the frightened faces. Most were present.

  Denwen raised a sword in the dim lantern light. He was no more a fighter than half the members present. Spies. Scribes. Informants. That was the majority of his allies. “They may have found us, but surely we can fight our way free!” he shouted fearlessly.

  Sellemar’s lips grew tight and he gestured with his hand to sweep the group aside. They parted before him. At his back, shouts and the pounding of feet warned him pursuers were not far behind.

  Surrounded.

  “To fight our way free is indeed our only solution. Vale’s soldiers are fewest in number in the temple proper, and a crowd of rioters below Sel’ari’s steps will offer us concealment as we flee.”

  The group remained silent, clinging to his every word, knowing their lives well and truly depended on his experience. He selected several from his small, ashen following. “Equel. Nurae. Liadoren. You will—” he paused as his eyes finished their final lap about the group. His chest constricted. “Where is Tilarus?”

  Liadoren strained to gaze down the great length of hall, where the gloom nearly swallowed the end beyond. His eyes were those of a spy, keen and unrivaled in their perception. “Tilarus is still watching the rear stairs.”

  As though on cue, the male’s familiar voice rang out from beyond the shadows, a shrieking echo across the tense quiet. “They are coming! By Sel’ari, they are coming!”

  His warning ceased and an audible twang whisked across the distance. There was the sound of flesh colliding with stone—a resounding thud and a clatter—and then Tilarus’ body rolled out from the stairs.

  He sprawled across the floor in death-like stillness.

  Sellemar cried out in panic, his mask of calm before his followers lost. “TILAR—!”

  “I’m well!” the male’s groan interrupted his cry, and Sellemar could just distinguish the struggle of a figure rising to his feet.

  The tightness in Sellemar’s gut receded, and he was swift to recollect his wit. He could not afford to give way to partiality. He addressed the others, pointing urgently up the winding stairs behind him. “The temple. Go! Equel, Nurae, Liadoren—take to the front. Disable Vale’s soldiers and break for the temple doors.”

  As they hastened to obey, he rushed down the length of hall toward his friend, blood pounding in his ears. Had Tilarus been shot?! He could not afford to carry the male to safety! Admonishments rushed to his mind. ‘Damn Tilarus! Damn Vale! No, I should have trained him for combat!’

  There was the sudden hiss of a distant voice and the shift of armored plates sliding softly against one another. “This way, Captain!” Though their footsteps were yet inaudible on the stone, Sellemar knew Vale’s soldiers were dangerously close.

  At the base of the stairway, Tilarus had managed no more than to rise and limp a yard forward. Sellemar skidded to a halt at his side. ‘No arrow!’ “You are too slow,” he rebuked, catching the male’s elbow and jerking him swiftly to the safety of the south end.

  “You’re too damn fast,” Tilarus retorted with a grimace, fingers clasped solidly to Sellemar’s arm. The sound of footsteps had grown loud. “I thought we were dead! How did you know?!”

  But as the last words left his mouth, Vale’s commanding visage appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a dozen males crowding into the narrow confines behind him. Their armor was smooth, polished, and spotless—they had not yet tasted blood.

  Sellemar’s hand rushed instantly to the cloak about his neck, making certain that it obscured the details of his face. Vale. This was not the first time since the Halls of Horiembrig that he had been forced to endure the wretch, and yet better here than in the captain’s despicable mind.

  A sudden glint caught his eye and he ducked, flinging Tilarus as he dove. ‘Damn!’ he swore at himself as the arrow sailed away into the darkness. Saebellus’ men were not idle, slow, or hesitant. They found no reason to question their commander. There was a soft tink as the metal tip struck the stone behind and, for the first time since he had rushed to Tilarus’ aid, Sellemar realized that the soldiers who had pursued him from the temple now battled with his Resistance at the stairs.

  There was another glint and Sellemar’s attention returned to the bow. His arm flashed with deadly precision; before the second arrow was loosed, his knife whisked through the air, severing the bowstring and lodging deep within the archer’s throat.

  Vale’s soldiers leapt aside with shouts of surprise as the marksman fell in a clatter of arrows.

  “He only had one god-damn knife you cowards!” Vale admonished in a roar. Yet the captain held his blade tensely before his breast, wise enough to maintain a cautious defense even when Sellemar’s only visible weapo
n was spent. “Surrender now and we will let you live—those pages you sent upstairs to fend us off are long dead. You are surrounded.” His eyes flicked down Sellemar’s body and his smile grew.

  Sellemar only uttered a single word: a command to Tilarus. “Run.”

  Tilarus immediately obeyed, bolting down the hallway toward the side of his brethren.

  “What a champion,” Vale cooed with a sneer. “Pity your brain isn’t as sharp as your aim!” And then Vale’s group surged onward with newfound confidence.

  Sellemar swiftly leapt backward. His eyes shot along the hall, searching for an item of defense, and spied an old lantern. It was laced in cobwebs, dangling beside the scented salts. He wrenched it from its hook, shielding against the swift thrust of a blade. The glass between the iron shattered at the vigorous blow, and Sellemar used the change in structure to catch the second thrust through the iron frame. He twisted it clear of his body and kicked outward, slamming his heel into the male’s nose.

  It met the same fate as the glass.

  Vale let out a roar of rage. “What in Ramul?!” And he shoved his howling soldier aside to plunge for Sellemar’s exposed gut. A slight change in the muscles of Vale’s neck warned Sellemar of the captain’s true target, but the feeble lantern could not impede a well-thrust blade. The force of the blow knocked the lantern aside and the sword cut clean through his thigh.

  There was a surge of pain and a gush of blood, but Sellemar sucked it down in a single breath. ‘This lantern is not going to stop Vale,’ he ceded. But it would serve one final, satisfying purpose.

  He slammed it against the wall, the hot oil spraying out to scour the stunned throng. Then Sellemar spun on heel and ran.

  “Gods damn it! Fuck him!” Vale roared as the males beside him cursed and leapt aside, their reflexive actions doing nothing to save them from their scalding welts.