Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Erallus seemed enveloped in his silence, no doubt trying to determine something about him. Sellemar smirked to himself and rolled his eyes. ‘He is welcome to try.’

  The guard mounted and turned his horse after Sellemar. “Where are you from?” he finally asked. “Ryekarayn? The Sel’varian Realm? Are you a True Blood follower? One of his younger brothers, perhaps?”

  “Prince Hadoream or Darcarus?” Sellemar retained a face devoid of emotion, even as the thought of “following” one of them offended him. “No.”

  “What, to all of it?” Erallus demanded, offended at the tone of his response. “Your accent—”

  “Ryekarian, yes, so I have been told,” Sellemar replied vaguely.

  Erallus inhaled deeply and persisted, “An island off Ryekarayn’s coast then? What are you, a lord? A mercenary? …Assassin?”

  “Nothing so …low,” Sellemar replied. “Erallus,” he continued before the male could, “I shall play a game with you, if you will. For every truly embarrassing detail about yourself that you tell me, I shall tell you a true, albeit non-embarrassing, fact about me.”

  Erallus closed his mouth indignantly, letting his horse trail slightly behind.

  For a time, there was the peace of silence between them.

  “Have you been to Horiembrig before?” Sellemar finally asked with an exasperated sigh. He turned slightly in the saddle to see the male nod.

  “Yes. Once with King Hairem’s father—may Sel’ari grant him safe passage,” Erallus replied. “I was in the city for about a week. I remember it well enough.”

  Sellemar turned back. Good. At least the elf knew the city. Horiembrig had become faded in his memory over the years. But hopefully they would never need the information. It would be a sad state of affairs indeed if he had to rely on this novice to escape the eastern city.

  Erallus leaned forward suddenly, cocking his head warily. “Why. Why did you just ask me if I knew the city? You said that you knew of the tunnels running below it.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s hardly common knowledge,” Erallus began skeptically once more, prying as best as the male could for further information. Persistent. Sellemar wondered briefly if Erallus had been tasked with gleaning information from him. “Even I was not privy to that information during my—”

  “Well, that is not entirely true, is it?” Sellemar interrupted him. “I believe that the knowledge of the underground tunnels is fairly common. Where they are is another matter ecompletely.”

  “Are you going to be difficult this entire mission?”

  “Are you?”

  The two were quiet for a moment. Sellemar could hear the soldier huff a few times before speaking in a forcefully friendly tone, “You know where the tunnel entrances are?”

  “One. Just one,” Sellemar replied, raising a hand slightly in the air. Finally, the rain had ceased. He ran a hand along the mane of his horse, brushing the droplets away. “And it happens to run to the palace courtyard.”

  Erallus’ eyes widened. “A palace escape? That’s impossible!”

  Sellemar heaved a sigh. “Improbable. Not impossible. Now I would like to travel in peace before you mercilessly continue to sling questions at me. Whatever it is you wish to ask me, I care not.”

  Erallus rolled his eyes and leaned back in the saddle. A soft melody began to become gradually audible from his lips. “…Men before have lost what they thought they had? Or number your allies in times prewar, when loyalties are not yet bled? Know that the man who stands at your side costs—”

  “And gods whatever you do, do not sing that song.”

  *

  Sellemar halted their journey that night at eighteen leagues east of the capital, in the city of Rialenvas. It was as Sellemar had expected—clean, elegant, and vast, sprawling across the hillside with glittering white towers in the moonlight. He could hear the distant sounds of light music somewhere to the north.

  “It hardly feels as though Sevrigel is at war,” Erallus spoke as they dismounted outside a three-story inn. “Or that we’re going to the center of it.”

  Sellemar handed the stable boy a coin. “Do not let anything happen to this horse, do you understand?”

  The wide-eyed boy nodded and hurried to lead the horse away, as though it was a chest of gold or a delicate crystal vase.

  Sellemar strode toward the inn, Erallus’ words stinging him with cynicism. “I cannot block out the image of your land covered in white tents filled with dying soldiers enough to notice this ‘lack of war,’” he replied tartly. And yet, he knew exactly what the male meant. Times never changed. War or not, most of the land would continue life unchanged—who sat on the throne and what they did with their troops would come and go as city gossip. And that would be the extent of its effect.

  He stopped before the inn’s polished counter, relieved to be inside and out of the wet and dreary night. “Two rooms.” He turned to Erallus. “Get yourself fed and then sleep. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  Without so much as a word of farewell, the weary soldier obeyed his stern command, taking his key and vanishing down the hall.

  Sellemar watched as his heels rounded the corner and drew his attention back to the hall about him, regarding the atmosphere of the establishment dismally. He had not missed this aspect of missions. Inn after inn, city after city, one after another, and they soon began to blend together. This particular building with its softly blue-hued walls and elaborate interior was just another building of the “almost homeless.” There was no comfort in its elegance. The wide rooms and tall ceilings only helped to emphasize how vast and empty the place truly was.

  Sellemar readied himself for sleep and sank wearily into his bed. He had thought cynically of Erallus’ open exhaustion, and yet, he had no doubt that at the heart of it, they both felt the same.

  He shifted with a muttered curse. Uncomfortable, as he had expected. He supposed that to most travelers, the rooms of such an elite elven establishment were exceptionally elegant, but they hardly reminded him of home. He pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. Erallus had finally stopped asking personal questions, but he still had to give the elf some praise for persistence. With a good night’s sleep under his belt, he imagined the male would renew his attempts with vigor tomorrow.

  “With blood they fought the trials south, and with blood they fought to flee, ’til silence came from every mouth, for but spared from death were three.” He turned over, pulling the sheets up. It was one of those miserable songs that became stuck in his head. “Thank you, Erallus,” he muttered begrudgingly to himself.

  *

  Five days later, the two stopped mid-evening at an inn in the great city of Elisfall. It was a sprawling city with neither walls nor gates, vividly lit by blue and yellow orbs hovering above the streets and encircling the city in an evenly spaced manner. The towers of the temple to Sel’ari were greater than even those of the high lord’s mansion itself—as they should be—and waved golden banners through the cool night air in greeting to the two travelers as they passed.

  Sellemar dismounted at the inn, handing a coin to the stable youth waiting by the building’s columned overhang. “Take care of this horse. Stay here with him.” He held onto the reins a moment longer, looking around expectantly. “Is there a white horse with a silver mane and tail in the stables? Particularly tall? No saddle?”

  The willowy youth nodded, taking the golden reins in awe, and pocketed the coin silently. Had the country fallen to such waste that stable lads were no longer tipped? He tsked in dismay and turned back toward the golden doors of the inn itself, Erallus at his heels like his half-witted, but loyal, dog. He preferred far more intelligent company, but that was soon to be granted. He pushed the doors open and strode in.

  Erallus stepped quickly in beside him, eyeing him suspiciously. “You asked about a rather particular horse. Why?”

  Sellemar ignored his question and leaned over the dark marble counter to the innkeeper. “I am looki
ng for a Noc’olarian male. He would be travelling alone. Impossible to miss,” he queried, ignoring that the dog at his heels was now yapping indignantly about being ignored.

  The slender Sel’ven male behind the counter, tufted with a rather sad state of sandy hair and a hooked nose, still managed to gesture gracefully toward the right. “He arrived last night. He went out back a few hours ago; I suspect toward the stables.” He rubbed an invisible smudge from the marble counter as Sellemar drew away.

  “You look exhausted,” Erallus commented pointedly as Sellemar passed him toward the inn’s door. “Are we not stopping here for the night? Who are we looking for?”

  “Yes. I am exhausted. I have been awake since before dawn. Your breakfast did not catch itself,” Sellemar replied simply, pushing the door of the inn open, grimacing slightly at the glare of the evening light. Now where…? The street was stretched with long shadows and yellow light as the sun crept toward the horizon. He leapt aside as a melon cart bounced past him, nearly running him over.

  “Watch yourself!” Sellemar snapped, but the driver was as unaware of his existence as the rest of the city. He huffed once, indignantly, and refocused his attention on the street, glancing from one distant, moving figure to the next.

  “There is the horse you talked about,” Erallus voiced in a tone of mild surprise.

  Sellemar drew his gaze back toward the inn as another young stable boy appeared around the side of the building leading the white mare. Erallus met his gaze pointedly and Sellemar turned away. “Itirel,” he called, dropping his sack over the back of his own horse. He frowned, looking past the stable hand. Where was that male? He narrowed his eyes as he peered down the street. “Itirel!”

  The door of the inn swung open behind them and Sellemar turned expectantly. Surely it could be none other after he had shouted the intent of his search to half the city.

  A tall male halted momentarily to duck an elegantly carved lance below the doorframe. He was uncharacteristically well-built, especially compared to Erallus or, admittedly, himself, but was still a far cry from the thick humans. His pale skin seemed to glow softly, reverberating in the falling sunlight. He pushed his dark violet hair from the contrasting brilliance of his violet eyes, to gaze calmly and sternly at the Sel’ven before him.

  ‘Here it comes…’

  “Sellemar, patience,” the Noc’olari reprimanded with a smile and shake of his head as he let the door fall closed behind him. He stepped out, his movement almost floating beneath the purple-hued robes. “The stable hand informed me of your arrival. I had to gather my belongings,” he continued, his tone light. He had adjusted his accent to be almost indistinguishably Sevrigelian and even Sellemar had to admit that he was almost fooled. But Sellemar had never been very good at pretending he was something he was not. The male fidgeted with the upper steel breastplate that was strapped on over his dark cotton robes, shifting uncomfortably as he did so. He raised his head and shrugged, passing an amused smile onto Sellemar.

  Sellemar smiled in return. Itirel certainly did look uncomfortably weighed down by the armor, but this time it would be necessary. “I see you have yourself some armor this time. Quite a contrast to running around battling in a cotton suit.” And he allowed himself a chuckle, surprised to find how relaxed he had become at the sight of his comrade, and how simple the mission of infiltrating Saebellus’ city now seemed. “Ah, Itirel,” he sighed, swinging himself onto his horse.

  Erallus dropped his sack, his jaw hanging open. “Gods, I know who you are!” he gasped. “You’re Riphath… the Noc’olarian healer who travelled with Eraydon! Your likeness is carved in statues and drawn in paintings all across the land! But how—why—” he stuttered off into shocked silence, staring unblinkingly as though the apparition before him might vanish.

  Itirel exchanged looks with Sellemar, raising a brow in what could only be taken to be further amusement. He moved to the white horse, swinging himself onto its back. “Is that so, my friend? I am Riphath, the great and legendary war hero who travelled with Eraydon and vanished in the war almost nine thousand years ago?” He chuckled to himself. “I am the ‘great and legendary’ Riphath? Is every Noc’olari you meet Riphath?—for we are a similar looking people, like yourself. Or am I, perhaps, the first Noc’olari you have seen?”

  Sellemar could see Erallus’ cheeks grow red with embarrassment as his mouth snapped closed. He picked up his sack in a hurry and swung up onto his horse. “Is this male travelling with us?” Erallus demanded, his words singed in embarrassment-fueled frustration. “You said that you were not going to bring along another elf because he would just be a ‘novice’ and a ‘burden.’”

  Sellemar led his horse toward the cobbled street ahead of them. “I distinctly remember stating that I would not bring another ‘man’ nor another ‘novice.’ Itirel is not a human, nor is he a novice.” He flourished his hand from one male to the other. “Itirel, this is Erallus. He’s a… bodyguard… to King Hairem.”

  Erallus’ lips pursed in irritation, more than likely interpreting that Sellemar was taunting him—and that would be correct. Sellemar swiftly hid his smile by averting his head.

  He could see Itirel pass him another reprimanding look. ‘Must you provoke that poor male?’ it read.

  Sellemar nudged his horse in the side, still suppressing his amusement. Yes, he must.

  *

  They trotted out of the city in a short ride and turned once more toward the east. Sellemar was aware of Erallus’ frustration throughout the final league of travel. At the edge of the forest line, with Elisfall glittering a dwarf’s girth away, Sellemar dismounted, patting his horse on the flank.

  “We’re stopping here for the night,” Erallus stated flatly, looking around wearily. He seemed finally worn of asking questions and merely phrased his words as a dismayed statement. He dismounted and picked up his sack, his feet sticking into the earth beneath the long, slick blades of grass. “We’ve ridden near twenty leagues today. Of course I wish to find Ilsevel, but if we are too weary, we will make a mistake while rescuing her.”

  Itirel dismounted beside him, dropping the reins of his horse beside Sellemar’s, and stretched backwards slightly. He looked toward Sellemar with an amused and understanding smile.

  “I am hardly weary,” Sellemar countered as his horse took the reins of Erallus’ mare in its teeth and began to lead her away.

  Erallus’ eyes widened in surprise. “Our horses—”

  “Are not needed from here on out,” Sellemar replied, watching Erallus’ wide-eyed stare follow the white mare as she trotted off behind their two horses. “But they shall be nearby for when we emerge.”

  Erallus turned back, his brow knitting in concern. “We’re still near seventeen leagues from Horiembrig…”

  “Two days on foot, if you can manage,” Sellemar tsked. He glanced behind him, disappointed to see that Erallus was not drawing any conclusions from the situation. “We are entering the underground tunnel I spoke of,” he finally relayed. “So keep close and do not speak. I need to remember where it is…”

  He heard Erallus marvel to himself at the distance at which the tunnel began from the eastern capital, but he was too focused on a disarray of stones to distinguish exactly what the male said.

  “They have been moved,” he heaved after a moment.

  Itirel stepped up beside him, eyeing the placement of the stars quietly for a moment, his arms crossed behind his back. “Indeed. By quite a great force.”

  Sellemar straightened. Damn. He walked to the largest stone of the widespread pile. ‘I suppose this one is probably in its original location.’ He put a hand against it. ‘40 paces north? Or was it 30?’ He glanced once at the stars and then took several long steps into the darkness.

  “It might do us better to enter the tunnels in the morn—” Erallus began.

  Itirel raised a finger to his lips.

  “SH!” Sellemar snapped. “Too many eyes in the day.” He took another step. “Twenty-ni
ne… Thirty.” He looked around. No, definitely not the place. He moved another ten paces and stopped again. Ah, there it was. He put a hand affectionately against the old tree. ‘Then that is 16 paces east…’ Erallus yawned audibly behind him as he began to count. ‘6… 8… no, wait, damn it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. “Will you cease breathing down my neck? When I find it, you will know. Itirel, keep him off me.” He irritably stomped back to the tree.

  Itirel chuckled as he rested a hand on Erallus’ shoulder, one eye squinting in Sellemar’s direction. “Careful. When he is tired he is even harder to bear. Difficult as that may be to believe.”

  Sixteen paces later, Sellemar tapped a large, old tree. “This one.”

  Erallus stared at the tree for a moment. “This one…? This one what?”

  Itirel smiled. “It is as he described,” he breathed in wonder.

  Sellemar took a few steps back to get a running start. “This is the entrance,” he replied to Erallus. He ran, pushing off the base of the tree and catching the lowest branch in his fingertips. He swung his body up and took a seat at the branch’s base.

  Erallus looked up at him skeptically. “You must be joking. I can’t jump that high.” He stumbled slightly to the side as Itirel ran past him, catching the branch easily and swinging himself up beside Sellemar. “Most elves cannot jump that high,” he defended himself, regarding the two with narrowed eyes.

  Sellemar sighed. He had expected as much. He gripped the branch with his legs and swung his body backwards to hang upside down. He extended his arms. “See if you can reach my hands, at least.”

  “Why don’t we lower a rope,” Itirel suggested skeptically. “This is only going to end with one of you two getting hurt.”

  “I don’t know why you are so irritated,” the guard muttered, carrying on. “I don’t think I know a single elf who can jump that high.”