Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  The rays of morning light shone through a crack in the chiffon curtains and came to rest on the exposed breasts of the woman lying beside him. He saw her smile as his eyes landed on her.

  “Duty calls,” Jikun replied with another groan as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, reluctantly pulling her hand aside. He pushed off his knees and sauntered to the folded slip of parchment lying just inside the door.

  “What is it?” the woman asked as he unfolded the note, attempting a soft and alluring tone as she settled once more into the bed.

  Jikun rolled his shoulders back, eyes flicking across the page. “The king summons me.” And about time! He had arrived in Elvorium early the day before and had heard nothing from the king or council since. And here he had hurried his ass straight across the tundra with hardly a cautious glance either way for thakish. Not even Navon had been made aware of the reason for his prompt command to return to the capital.

  He turned back toward the prostitute and inhaled sharply. She had thrown the covers aside and was lying with her legs spread, stroking her own inner thighs.

  “Come here, General. Let me give you your money’s worth,” she purred and patted the bed beside her enticingly.

  “Five minutes,” Jikun warned.

  *

  “I will pretend I don’t know what happened in there last night.”

  Jikun let the door to his room fall shut behind him, passing a silent smirk toward his captain.

  “It is not humorous, General,” Navon rebuked him sharply. “Need I remind you what Sel’vi do to whores and those who bed them?”

  What a rhetorical nag. Jikun rolled his eyes in annoyance, raising his hand to signal the elf to fall silent. “She will be back on her ship, returning to Ryekarayn, in a week. With the way the council draws everything out gods know she’d have years here before anything ever happened to her.” He heard Navon push off the wall and fall into step beside him. “Have you heard anything new about the content of the summons?”

  Navon shook his head, blue eyes shifting toward the door with what Jikun perceived as the faintest trace of lust. Amusing. He hadn’t seen that look on the male in years. He supposed even Navon could not be above the desires of the body, despite his whoring tendency toward Sel’ari and her absurd tenants. “No,” the Helven replied. “But the king’s carriage is waiting for you outside. Taking that into consideration, the matter must be of some significance.”

  Jikun’s brow knit in caution. “The king’s carriage?” he spoke aloud, eyes shifting warily to the side view of the estate outside. Liadeltris had never sent for him in such a manner. He felt his gut unsettle.

  “Wait, where do you think you are going? You need to eat,” Navon abruptly reprimanded him in his usual, grating manner, pointing sternly toward the dining hall.

  “I already ate.”

  Navon paused a moment and then his lips pursed into a tight line. “That was crude.”

  Without acknowledgement to his captain’s incredulity, Jikun pulled open the door of the mansion and leaned out. The carriage before the steps glistened in the gentle drizzle of rain. “Come, Navon,” he barked.

  *

  The guards crawling through the city had little impact on the two elves as the carriage bounced along the cobbled streets. As it had been over two years since either of them had set foot inside Elvorium’s extensive residential district, the abnormality of it did not immediately register. Instead, Jikun noted the poor weather, the dark clouds in the south, and the weight of his sword across his lap. The sky was soft—a gentle blue-grey speckled with clouds and shimmers of sunlight. The rain had released the rich smells of the flowers in the city and they hung like a heavy veil across the rooftops. Such a contrast from Darival, it was a difference he had admittedly missed.

  “Do you miss it?” Navon asked across from him.

  Jikun started. Was it that obvious where his mind lay? “Darival? Always.” But he shook his head to clear it, reverting to his mask of command, as all Darivalians had mastered by nature in the tundra. His emotions were obsolete—Saebellus was his concern now.

  It was not until they passed beneath the ivy archway of the palace courtyard that Jikun was struck by the unnatural lack of civilians milling about through the marble pillars and carefully maintained greenery. Here, it was merely a mass of glinting silver.

  The number of guards was stifling. There was an air of fear—almost tangible—as the door to the carriage opened.

  “What is going on here, soldier?” Jikun demanded of the nearest male, wiping the droplets of water from his face with a swift gesture, as though even they must not interfere with his indifferent inquisition.

  “Lord Yulairm was murdered by the assassin last night, sir,” the soldier replied. “The guards you see here number first in the legion of the palace guard—security has been dually increased for His Majesty.”

  Jikun’s eyes trailed along the shadowed faces beneath their helmets. Even in the brilliant light of dawn glinting down in shafts through the clouds, cutting across the golden slated pillars of the palace in some unnaturally serene beauty, not a single face had become lax. But the guards’ concentration was no surprise to Jikun. This assassin…

  He leaned his head slightly to the right as he saw Navon open his mouth to speak.

  “Yulairm? Leisum’s body has hardly cooled,” Navon whispered. “That’s the fourth council member…”

  The verbal connection was unnecessary, but Jikun understood his implication. His brow knit. Four council members? And for the briefest moment, he wondered too how Liadeltris had died. “Damn…” he trailed off as King Hairem appeared expectantly in the doorway. “Wait here for me,” he ordered Navon, picking up his pace to come to stand before the king.

  “Your Majesty,” he spoke with a low bow, a little deeper than his usual respect, possibly transferring a suggestion of unspoken sympathy into his movement.

  Hairem raised his head toward Navon and acknowledged him with a slight nod, but Jikun could not read the king’s face—his fine features were strangely calm and withdrawn. A true accomplishment for a Sel’ven. “I hope Darival found you well. I apologize for the swift recall. Jikun, come with me,” he spoke in an even, unrevealing tone.

  The general straightened and caught the faintest glimpse of caution on the king’s face as he strode toward his council chambers. He noted the lack of confidence now, that confidence that had surrounded Hairem when the two of them had last spoken. What had transpired while he was away? ‘Damn, I can’t take my eyes off this place for five minutes!’

  The king was silent as he ascended the stairs to the chamber. Once at the door, he beckoned Jikun in with a stiff, formal nod and then shut the door behind them.

  As soon as it closed, Hairem leaned back against it, a rush of emotions washing over his face. His eyes closed and he raised his head, palms pressed against the door. Jikun found himself unnerved by the sudden change in the king’s countenance.

  He was staring at a boy struggling to be an adult.

  “I apologize, General,” he breathed, pushing away from the door and wearily walking to his desk. He sank into the old yew chair and rubbed his temple, as though forcing the tension from it. “It has been a long, long night. I do not know if you have received the news, but last night, Lord Yulairm was murdered in his sleep. His wife is in shock—she seems to have seen the murderer, but… her tongue was cut out and her eyes gouged… and she is completely incoherent… This man… this creature… is psychotic.”

  Jikun slowly sat across from him, regarding him uncertainly. Tongue and eyes…? “Why did the murderer simply not kill her…?”

  Hairem’s hands withdrew tightly together. “I do not know.” He exhaled heavily and shook his head in a mixture of frustration and sorrow.

  “Everyone is a suspect, General, but I have highest suspicions that this assassin is foreign. Nilanis often makes trade with humans from Ryekarayn. I’ve assigned him the task of finding out if this man perhaps enter
ed through his port. The ship logs should give us some indication.”

  Jikun’s brow knit. Nilanis… the El’adorium who had replaced Hairem’s father.

  He had always looked like such a snake.

  “Is Nilanis not suspect himself?”

  “Of course he is,” Hairem replied, in a tone that suggested Jikun’s question was unwelcome. “But there is no one else with possession of the ships’ incoming and outgoing logs.”

  ‘Then you steal them, boy,’ Jikun scoffed. “The assassin must be taking orders from someone.” Again, his statement was obviously true, but he could not resist the tone that came with it.

  And perhaps even Hairem had detected his cynicism about the handling of the matter. The king’s eyes flashed reproachfully. He ran a thumb across his lips, seeming to force his rebuke aside. “This has come so recently after Leisum. Four council members in the last few years…” Hairem trailed off and Jikun cocked his head slightly, trying to grasp the emotions across his face—the mask was entirely dissolved. There was something of fear and plainly an essence of hopelessness. But those fierce blue eyes were solid and strong—even as the rest of his face reeled back from the blow of the murder, his gaze pressed forward. Maybe he was stronger than he first appeared.

  “May I ask what it is you wish of me, Your Majesty?” Jikun asked slowly. He rubbed his lower lip hesitantly. Granted the assassin was a curse upon the city, but he could not see how this related to him. Gods knew he had better things to do than prowl about looking for some human or elf of bloodlust. Politics was a job better left to kings and their pawns.

  Hairem focused on him then, seeming to silently consider his possibilities. The boy was gone. Age seemed to sweep over him and Jikun could see his thoughts twisting through his expressions. He looked like his late father, burdened beneath those politics. Did he want him to discuss the murder? He had his thoughts, but it did not benefit to have the king elope with his conspiracy theories. Four council members—four council members that had opposed key issues that the majority of the council had pressed—now dead. Was the council murdering its own brothers?

  No, not brothers—its political, racial rivals. Hairem had to suspect this.

  Suddenly, Hairem exhaled heavily. “How was your journey to Darival?” he finally spoke. His gaze shifted away, as though this was not the topic that weighed down on him but rather the pause he needed in order to find the courage to address what was to come next.

  Jikun hesitated. The great eye. The thakish. He had promised to send Kaivervale aid, but something told him that he would not receive the answer he sought: something in the king’s countenance reflected remorse—but not for Yulairm alone. “Darival is in dire need of assistance. The white thakish—the plague on that land—have grown significantly in number and ferocity since the fall. Hunters and wolves are falling where we have never lost them before. I request the allowance to send aid to Kaivervale: a few hundred soldiers to help purge the area of the thakish.”

  Hairem’s lips pursed, as though he regretted having asked him. “I’m afraid, General, that I have some grave news for you as well. This matter of the assassin—this is not your trouble and I shall not make it so. General, I have orders from the council.”

  Jikun narrowed his eyes, attempting to wrest control of himself lest his temper escape. His request had not been rhetorical and yet, Hairem had avoided his requests for Darival entirely. And furthermore, Jikun could tell quite plainly that he was not about to like what he was going to hear.

  Hairem continued, pushing through his orders in a hasty, almost regretful way. “You are to move out against the centaur tribes of the south. Their encroachment on the territory of Sel’ari’s Celestial Phoenix is pressing the beast to extinction.”

  Jikun’s face blanched. “What about Darival…?” were the only words he managed to find as his anger began to rise.

  Hairem shook his head slightly. “I will bring the matter before the council, but what with your army to be split between Elvorium and the south, I cannot see—”

  Jikun could feel his lips part slightly, his eyes stare blindly ahead. “You will have to forgive my pertinence, but is the council dabbling in Ulasum’s Tooth? What in all the demon realms of Ramul are they thinking?!” he demanded, his voice rising, his composure shattering as his anger burst forth. There was no containing it now. “I have one hundred fifty thousand soldiers to drive back Saebellus and to protect our people, not to chase damn horses across old gravesites!” He slammed his fist down on the desk, causing the papers at the end to shudder fearfully. “This is a mockery of my position!”

  “Jikun, calm yourself,” Hairem rebuked sharply, a fierce strength holding even as the Darivalian male bore down on him. “I understand your anger, but orders are orders. The council passed the vote and I can no more refuse them than yourself.”

  Jikun pushed back his chair, standing, determined to drive the insanity from the king’s proposal. It clattered into the marble behind them, but its echo was lost beneath his cry. “Refuse them? You are the king, Your Majesty. The KING. Refuse their demands on behalf of this nation!”

  Hairem’s lips pursed. He seemed torn. His long fingers locked together as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Now his calm composure was nothing but sickening. “General Jikun Taemrin, you are to move against the centaurs with as many males as you deem fit. You are to push them away from the phoenix using non-lethal force. You are to take Julum, a guide from the south, who will be able to assist you in the territory. These are the council’s orders. You are to fulfill your vows to this country and obey.”

  Jikun gritted his teeth, feeling the anger rising violently at the stress on the king’s last word. Obey. That was what he was paid to do. Not to win the war, but to obey.

  “Yes, Your MAJESTY,” he hissed. What a fool he had been! Hairem was just another pawn of the council. And thus, so was he. Instead of defending the capital from the warlord Saebellus, he would be trudging through the grounds of dead horsemen. “Is there—”

  “Jikun, I am truly sorry to put you in this position,” Hairem continued in a useless attempt at humility. He raised his head. “This decision by the council disgusts me as well. But neither of us are above the will of the people. I will bring your concerns for Darival before the council.”

  “Is that all, Your Majesty?” Jikun growled softly, refusing to be swayed by his pathetic attempts at pacification. What else could he say? Arguing with this boy was foolish.

  Hairem ran a hand down his face. “Yes, General. May the grace of the gods go with you.”

  Jikun did not return the blessing. He whirled sharply and stormed from the room, letting the door slam back against the frame with a resounding echo. “Gods grant you an early grave,” he snarled below his breath. The personal guard outside the door flinched slightly, recoiling from the raging storm that swept past him.

  How dare the council make a fool of him! Empires fell on decisions such as the one the council now made. Defy them, and they would simply behead him as a traitor.

  “Jikun? …Jikun!”

  Jikun had hardly caught Navon’s call the second time as he exited the palace. His eyes snapped up, still burning fiercely. “They are shitting on us,” he growled. “The entire council is shitting on us.” He continued storming forward, knocking away the outstretched hand of the carriage driver.

  “What is happening?”

  “My request to assist Darival is as good as denied. And worse: we are to cease defense of this city and move south. Immediately. Where we shall promptly move the centaurs—non-lethally—to the east and west.”

  Navon coughed in his perplexed response, momentarily choking on his words. “South? By the gods, what is south?”

  “The centaurs, Navon. The centaurs.”

  Navon tried to grasp the ridiculous concept being thrown at him so frankly. “The centaurs? We are to move the centaurs? Pray tell, why?”

  Jikun’s lips were moving in rapid speech, muttering inaudible
curses at the king in the Darivalian tongue. The drizzle seemed forgotten, even as his hair began to cling to the side of his hollow cheeks. “The council has voted to protect Sel’ari’s emblem—a phoenix—over this city. Sel’ari, Navon. Do you understand? I’m supposed to march my army to the beat of some damn goddess while our homes are left empty. It is like the gods love to spite me just because I won’t bend.”

  Navon wiped a strand of hair from his face, searching Jikun’s eyes for some emotion other than anger. Jikun gave him none. “…That is just adding to your anger—not the cause of it.”

  Jikun turned, eyes meeting Navon’s scrutinizing gaze briefly in contempt, before he turned away to stare blankly at the glistening street. “Moving south at this time, for this matter unrelated to the war… that is the cause of my anger. And you should know this.”

  Navon nodded understandingly, but his face had suddenly grown passive. “But the council ordered it, General. They have determined that this is in the best interest of the people.”

  Jikun hated when Navon disagreed with him when trying to calm him down. Jikun damn well knew that his captain felt the same on the matter as he did. What a façade of unquestioning obedience! “…Hairem does not.”

  Navon’s brow creased. “What?”

  “Hairem does not think this is in the best interest of the people. And no doubt it is not. Saebellus was just defeated, but he is not beaten—we all know that. Hairem is weak. Hairem is a damn weak king, just like his father. Gods grant me kingship and I would shove a sword through every damn council member’s throat. There would be no more of this shit.”

  Navon sighed in inward contemplation and Jikun knew he could feel the tension pouring off of him. It was not even as much his concern for the triviality of the task as it was the condition of his road-weary soldiers. They had hardly been home in years and now… now to march to this?! And meanwhile, Darival would be left to fend for itself!

  But Navon knew that. And in his usual, patient tone he spoke, “General, your army will make short work of this task. No doubt we will be home before we even realize that we have left.”