Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

Down the hall, there was a shout of triumph and his companions ascended the southern steps. The bodies of the temple pursuers lay trampled beneath their fleeing feet and Sellemar rushed to join them, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his leg.

  But Vale and his dogs had swiftly recovered, snapping at his heels.

  ‘If I do not slow them, the others will never escape,’ Sellemar realized. But he could do nothing more without a weapon!

  He vaulted from the ground, kicked off the wall, and caught the edge of the ceiling’s chandelier. The force of his momentum pitched him forward and he dropped, considerably ahead of Vale and his soldiers.

  The Resistance had now disappeared up the steps and Sellemar snatched a blade from a fallen guard as he ran. Too many long hours in the Nemorium had given Sellemar more knowledge of Vale’s emotions than he had ever wanted to possess—temperamental irrationality when he was losing, and audacious overconfidence when he was winning. Sellemar would have loved nothing more than to grind Vale’s inexperienced face into the moth-eaten rug, but there were more pressing matters at hand. While the Resistance remained in danger, he had a responsibility to ferry them to safety.

  Sellemar mounted the stairs, pursuing his allies to the marble halls of the clerical dormitory and the temple beyond. If they could just reach the crowd of rioters outside, the Resistance would yet live.

  He saw the last of his allies vanish into the temple’s interior, but an immediate cry warned him that the temple was no longer empty. He hurdled over the last several yards and caught the engraved frame, swinging himself into the sanctuary.

  His heart sank at the sight.

  Two guards had stationed themselves near the door, barricading freedom from his comrades. At the moment the Resistance drew near, they leapt on the offensive. A surge of heat and light burst forth from one of the soldiers, enveloping the body of Denwen and blazing past Sellemar in a bellow of turbulent wind.

  Sellemar had no time to feel shock or grief. ‘Another mage?!’ he swore as he identified the aged caster to the right of the doors.

  His face hardened and he spun around, preparing to face Vale’s emergence from the hall beyond. He elevated his blade and shifted his stance. His Resistance could not possibly repel both forces.

  The sound of footsteps in the hall increased and Vale and his soldiers tore into the room. The captain’s eyes landed briefly on Sellemar before they swept to the far larger quarry of the Resistance beyond.

  “Go around,” Vale shouted to his soldiers, dismissing Sellemar’s presence. “I’ll take care of this cunt!”

  But Sellemar knew he now remained as the only inhibitor between the convergence of the two forces. He darted to the side, skidding to a stop before four of the males who advanced to fulfill Vale’s command. He swung his blade, diving past their inexperience and slicing into kinks between their steel plates. In a swift series of blows, they fell in a heap before Vale’s stunned visage.

  Yet near a half-dozen more had managed to circumvent Sellemar’s range.

  If they reached his allies, the Resistance would never survive. He raised his hand to his scarf grimly. Another method, then.

  Fortunately, months inside the male’s head presented him his solution.

  It was not the most grand of deaths. It was hardly what he had envisioned for himself. But Sel’ari had offered him a generous and noble course.

  Some wars were only won through sacrifice.

  “Are you certain you want to try this alone again?” Sellemar challenged, and tore the scarf free of his face.

  He could practically hear Vale’s core tremble with enmity. The captain’s eyes bulged, his nostrils flared. Somewhere within the deepest recesses of his throat, a choking cry emitted. “Kevus, to me!” he shouted, even as he took a swift step back.

  A clatter of metal hit the floor as one of Vale’s soldiers before the temple doors fell, yet the mage broke aside and rounded toward his captain’s command. The Resistance’s battle breathed new life, but the grey eyes of the mage were now upon Sellemar.

  Inwardly, he grimaced.

  “Kevus, this is the only one I want. This is the only one we need!” Vale cried frantically, even as another of his soldiers fell to the Resistance’s blades. He raised his sword in challenge. “Sellemar—how terribly unsurprising,” he hissed. “What stupidity led you to this point in your life?”

  “I would ask the same of you,” Sellemar replied, and lunged.

  Vale reeled away, but a flash of light from Sellemar’s left caused him to swiftly change course.

  He rolled, feeling the jolt of energy rip by.

  Behind him, another clang of metal resounded. They were almost free. ‘Sel’ari!’ He just had to live long enough for that!

  But Vale cared nothing for the remaining Resistance, nor for the soldiers that died to them. His pride had sustained a blow only revenge would fill.

  Sellemar lurched to his feet, scrambling to clear the swipe of Vale’s vengeful blade. He darted to the left, prepared to move to the offensive, when his direction was wholly lost to him. Something slammed into his back, knocking him askance and directly into Vale’s grasp.

  Vale’s fingers snaked out, catching Sellemar by the hair… and his blade drove swiftly into his gut. A triumphant sneer lit the captain’s features as he drew Sellemar’s head back. “I think it went something like this, didn’t it?” he whispered, voice quivering in glee.

  Sellemar’s adrenaline forced the pain aside and he swung pointedly for Vale’s throat. The Resistance was not yet free! Not yet free…!

  The blow never connected. A scarlet flare smashed into his forearm and his bones snapped like twigs beneath the force. The sword flew from his limp fingers, resounding as one with the clatter of the captain’s last soldier at the temple doors.

  Vale’s face leaned in close, his breath hot on Sellemar’s pallid skin. “And this, you cunt, is fate. Did you truly think you could best me twice?”

  Sellemar spat, a spurt of blood spraying across the captain’s face. “Not all action will effect change, but change is not possible without action.” Were those truly his final words? ‘Damn…’ There was the sudden scrape of metal against marble and a blast of winter air billowed into the temple room.

  Vale’s victorious sneer faltered and his eyes flicked up toward the temple doors.

  “Thank you, Vale, for loathing me so intensely,” Sellemar heaved through gritted teeth. “The Resistance lives to fight another day. I can only pray Saebellus understands why you only have bodies to show for your efforts today.”

  Realization swiftly transformed Vale’s triumph to horror. “Healer…! We need a god-damn cleric!” he panicked.

  What an irony—they had killed them all.

  Perhaps Vale looked up in time to see Tilarus’ cloak tails before he vanished out the temple doors, but by the time the captain ran screaming in fury to the stairs, the Resistance was gone.

  Even Noctem had concealed his eyes from the innocent blood that had been spilt inside the goddess’ walls, leaving the captain and his soldiers in a blanket of winter’s darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The weeks of overseeing prisoners had passed by with a deadening, draining tedium. Alvena did not care about the stench or squalor as long as she did not have to sit on the filthy, stony floor. Adonis and Vale had adopted similar hollow-eyed expressions whenever they descended to the prisons, but Saebellus’ command that the Noc’olari be relocated had to be obeyed.

  Yet hardly after the cells were finally emptied, Turlondiel returned from Tadorwen and promptly refilled them. Tadorwen’s inhabitants, like those of so many other cities, had refused to acknowledge Saebellus’ reign. The prisons were still half-full by the time Vale was ordered to gather his forces to attack the Ruljarian city of Raestra on the Velhar River.

  Alvena had not wanted to leave the comforts of the palace for the war-torn road, but company with Adonis was certainly preferable to the chaos in the capital. Her fingers
tightened on the mane of Adonis’ mare and she lost her braided strands into the mass.

  Of course the disorder was Vale’s fault. He had raided Sel’ari’s temple and left only the bodies of Sel’ari’s priests and unidentified followers in his wake. Night after night, the rioters had cried for vengeance, and when it did not come, they had taken it upon themselves to act. They had rioted, attacking Saebellus’ soldiers in the city streets and demolishing the Council Hall.

  She could not imagine what madness had overcome the people, but Saebellus had swiftly ended the insurrection. While weeks had passed since then, she knew peace would not last—Vale had crippled the capital!

  “You have been very silent,” Adonis finally spoke, leaning slightly around her in the saddle. “Are you bored? Are you tired of reading? What are you pondering?”

  ‘Silent? Of course I am silent,’ Alvena huffed. And obviously she was bored and tired of reading—by now she had read her only book half a dozen times. Still, she held it firmly against her breast. Her knife was tucked safely inside; in the heart of war, it might be her only protection from the justifiable rage the Ruljenari would feel when Saebellus dared to infiltrate their city. She looked away from the chunks of silver mane she had just rediscovered in order to glare at him reproachfully.

  Adonis only smiled and Alvena felt her tension ebb away. She was being unfair—he had intended no offense by his words. “Are you thinking about the cold?” he asked. “It is terribly bitter!”

  Well now that he mentioned the weather, she was thinking about it. Snow blanketed everything in her vision except for the countless tall, armored soldiers marching relentlessly eastward.

  “Are you worried about the war?” Adonis tried again, daring to ask such a question as they rode amidst the horde of polished helms. “You should not be. You will be at my side the whole time—and I do not engage in battle.”

  Alvena’s eyes shifted down to his side and she cocked her head in question. At his hip lay the icy hilt, encrusted with its gems, snug in an ill-matching, simple silver sheath. Inside, the once-great tundra she had glimpsed upon their meeting now seemed broken and dull. Yet this did not dampen the weapon’s lively bounce against his hip.

  Her arm hugged the book tighter.

  ‘I remember you had that in Galadorium, too.’

  Adonis followed her gaze and tapped the hilt affectionately. “Ah. This was General Taemrin’s. Darivalian craftsmanship. Vale presented it to me… as a gift. We both respected the late general—may Sel’ari grant him safe passage. He was a great leader and a highly regarded tactician. It is most unfortunate that he found himself on the wrong side. We would have been honored to have him.”

  Alvena regarded him quizzically. ‘Well that’s a silly thing to say. I think the general was very clear that he did not agree with you.’ He had been Hairem’s general and Hairem certainly had stood staunchly opposed to their movement. She remembered her king’s cry when he had heard Elarium was lost… ‘Simply the wrong side…’ she scoffed bitterly. But as Adonis smiled back at her, she briefly wondered why.

  Then she froze, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  Why?

  Why?

  How could she even ponder why Hairem and his army had opposed Saebellus?! Somewhere in Emal’drathar, she imagined an emotional slap struck her beloved king.

  She leaned so sharply from Adonis that the weight of her tome nearly sent her toppling from the mare. The lieutenant swiftly caught her by the shoulders, holding her fast.

  Alvena glowered. How dare he be so kind! Taemrin had been her general as well!

  Adonis’ fingers loosened as he gave a slight shake and, while Alvena could not see his face, she swore it was laughter that moved him. “I suppose you still think us the bloodthirsty, power-hungry libertines—but if not for the council’s deception, I believe many of your allies would have fought by our side.”

  Alvena’s attempted scowl faltered and she found herself turning to meet those pale blue eyes. There was only kindness reflected back to her. Why could he think that?

  They were enemies.

  ‘Enemies,’ she reminded herself. After all, that’s why she had brought the knife—it wasn’t like Adonis would truly risk his own life to protect her.

  And she made no attempt to hide her demand for an explanation. In their months together, he knew exactly what her squinty-eyed reproach meant.

  “Of course,” he agreed, and his lips pursed briefly. “I never held great talent as a fighter,” he began. “Once I merely held a station as a scout. Now, I am a lieutenant, but my skills with weaponry remain abysmal at best.” He paused for a moment and chuckled to himself. “That has to be the highest rank someone in my position has achieved.”

  Alvena let one of her eyes nearly close in admonishment. Why, if his skills with the sword were half as abysmal as his storytelling, he ought not to even have the weapon!

  But he continued, oblivious to his error. “Vale was on the front line. Every battle, General Angrenor would send him into the forefront of the carnage.” His eyes flicked north briefly and Alvena knew they were searching for the captain. “Other soldiers advanced in rank and left the lines, but year after year after year, there Vale remained. I think the general knew about him—his sexual relations. And even if the general did not have proof…” he trailed off grimly. “At least, that was Vale’s theory.”

  ‘That wasn’t right,’ she thought, then scolded herself. Sympathy for Vale? She flicked a piece of ice from the mare’s hair apathetically, and Adonis knew better than to linger.

  “At that time, Saebellus was the Second General. Until he was dishonorably discharged, the Second General was appointed by the General to succeed him if he should fall, on or off the battlefield. Now, as matters stand after the incident, the council has become too anxious to relinquish that much control.” He paused, perhaps seeing Alvena’s expression erode to confusion. He was only getting worse!—A jumble of disconnected facts! Had his parents never read to him?!

  “…I am digressing and speaking vaguely…” The creases had abandoned the corners of Adonis’ eyes, even as his lips remained curled. His voice became a somber whisper, barely heard over the whistle of winter’s wind through the scraggly trees. “Let me… speak again… Alvena, I want for you to understand why it is that Saebellus warred against the empire. It is not you and I who are enemies.”

  Alvena leaned a little closer, her hands slacking from the hair. ‘Yes…’ she thought. Adonis was far too kind… Saebellus too merciful… to be the wickedness whispered to her in the night.

  Someone had lied to her, to Hairem… there was surely someone else to blame!

  “Just over three-hundred years ago, the reigning True Blood—King Silandrus—was caught in a terrible feud with Elvorium’s council. They were at odds over their dealings with the sirens. It was an impassioned debate. The sirens had long been snatching travelers from the woods or small vessels upon the waters to ferry them to their underwater cities. Presumably to mate and… eat them.”

  The wind seemed to howl in amusement, but Alvena’s eyes grew wide in horror. ‘Eat them?’

  “There were not a great number of disappearances… but when a band of mercenaries stole several siren maidens for their carnivals on Ryekarayn, the attacks grossly multiplied. Then, it came to pass that Fildor’s brother and his crew were captured on a voyage down the Velhar; this rallied the council to argue that war was necessary. Despite Silandrus’ valiant attempts to persuade them to less excessive methods, the council refused. When the war erupted, steep casualties were incurred on both sides. We possessed far superior numbers and weapons, but the power of the siren call caused many of our soldiers to simply throw their bodies into the depths of the river, never to be seen again.” The pink hues of his gentle face had become tainted with grey. An emptiness occupied his eyes, so strong and deep that Alvena was afraid to look within for fear that something darker lurked inside.

  She tried to dismiss the small flinch sh
e saw his muscles make. Death by drowning sounded far less brutal than the bloodshed she had witnessed in Galadorium… Yet the longer she looked at the pretty elf, the more her opinion changed. To see one’s comrades and friends willingly plunge themselves into an icy grave… Alvena had seen paintings of the watery beauties in books, but the enchanting persuasion they held over males had never really seemed that frightening…

  Until now.

  Adonis inhaled deeply, his hands clenching and unclenching upon the leathery reins. “When the capital received news of the mass casualties, Silandrus reached the end of his tolerance. As he refused to forcefully overthrow the people’s elected council, within months, he and his children left.”

  ‘But he should have stayed… fought the council!’ Alvena thought in frustration. ‘Now look what has happened!’

  Adonis’ grimace was a reflection of her own. “Saebellus was not bound to the political traditions. He was furious that the council had driven the True Bloods out, and he spoke against it—against them. The council punished him for insubordination and stripped him of his rank for more than a century.” Adonis regarded her enraptured expression and the grey of his pale skin faded to be replaced with a fiery red. “This is where the council began to weave its own history of events.”

  Alvena found her breath growing soft. Even the winter air had grown still, as though it too was keen not to miss a word.

  “The transition of the True Blood departure was disastrous. There was a rebellion against the council and their supporters, scattered across Sevrigel, but nonetheless powerful. The council was forced to spend one hundred and fifty years quelling the people. The moment a whisper arose of resistance, we were there and the rebels were slain. But each instance was disposed of quietly—the council did not want to instill notions of further uprising. So every town. Every city… until no one dared breathe the words ‘True Blood’ lest they find the council’s army at their gates in the morning.”

  Alvena shivered. Just one hundred and fifty years ago? No one had ever mentioned the uprisings to her. And she had never read even the briefest passage of them in her books.