Hazamareth gave an extravagant yawn. So she had seen him: Vethru. His slender frame was as boney as ever, and his eyes were sunken and dark beneath his straight brows. As far as the Sel’vi went, he was as ugly and weather-beaten as some crippled, old swamp hag. But she was not soothed by discounting his appearance; Vethru was still an elite mercenary who they were lucky to have avoided for so long.
And he had a new companion.
The male beside the Sel’ven brandished his sword, searching the two mercenaries with the eagerness of any green knave.
Hazamareth spat and pushed herself upright once more. The blade shifted uneasily in the stranger’s hands. “I see you picked up a new partner. And some rather expensive armor. Now how would a mercenary in our profession manage such a feat?”
Vethru looked down at his gleaming silver plates. “Brief mining stint outside Elvorium. You would not believe what humans will pay for a bag of shiny blue rocks.” His eyes shot up, flitting back and forth between her and Tsuki. The sneer gradually faded, replaced by an even more unbecoming scowl. “What—neither of you two are going to ask?”
“Ask what?” Tsuki emitted a bored sniff. “With the way you’re carrying on you’ll tell us whatever it is yourself.”
Vethru’s companion raised his sword and stepped forward, no doubt to defend his employer’s prodigious pride, but Vethru raised a hand. “Tythis, what did I tell you?—That won’t work on them. They require something a bit more… unique.” He leaned back into the hallway where a crowd of hushed voices had gathered. “Make yourselves scarce,” he snarled once, then drew fully into the room.
The door snapped shut at his heels and Vethru once more engaged them. “The question you should be asking is, ‘Why am I not still rotting in prison?’” When neither Hazamareth nor Tsuki gave any indication of being impressed, he was forced to continue on his own. “First and foremost, I escaped. Unfortunately, the warrant made it impossible to acquire most jobs and I was often forced into menial—”
Hazamareth raised a finger. “Outsider opinion: do you think the sign outside this place looks like it says The Pigeon’s Coop or The Crow’s Nest?”
Tythis blinked. “It’s The Crow’s Nest, isn’t it? Looks like a crow to—”
“Gods damn it,” Vethru snarled again, stomping on his crony’s foot. “For three centuries I had skirted the law, but one deceitful accusation by you and my reputation was crippled.”
“I think the rest of us have moved past your double-crossing,” Tsuki interjected below his breath. “Revealing our secrets certainly wasn’t going to obtain any favor from us.”
“Double-cross?!” Vethru seethed, practically frothing at the notion. “If you had informed me of your nature before we got involved, the whole matter would have been avoided!”
“Well, we’re not likely to take chances like that, are we? Consider yourself fortunate that we didn’t just kill you,” Tsuki snorted. “Now, did you come here in an attempt to monologue us to death? Good gods, you elves and your theatrics. Let’s just get to the stabbing. One of us is bound to end up dead and then this whole conversation will have been pointless.”
Vethru’s face had flushed from a bold shade of pink to an audacious flare of red. “I am here on behalf of the Brotherhood, whom I now serve, to collect the bount—”
Hazamareth scrambled suddenly for the nightstand, but Tythis was faster. He leapt and swung his blade high at her throat, causing her to reel away in surprise.
Vethru’s lips thinned and twisted, his amber eyes narrowing in amusement. At her act of desperation, his outrage had faded to triumph. “Oh, I told him, Hazamareth. There are no secrets kept for backstabbers. The whole god-damn Brotherhood has you on their list. Class A mission.”
Hazamareth did not acknowledge his gleeful droning. Eventually the male’s monologue would grow dull even for his ego, and he would instead turn to violence. She looked back toward Tsuki, subtly reaching for the dagger he had lodged in their bed. Her comrade met her gaze with a slight shake of his head. He would be of no help. ‘Still disoriented.’
Their lack of response culled Vethru into prompt silence. His eyes landed upon the crossbow they had recently skirmished for, and he calmly strutted forward. “Is this what you were after?” he queried as he lifted the weapon from the nightstand. He made a scene of admiring the weapon, running his boney fingers along the polished sides. “What an extravagant piece of equipment. Cheat it out of someone, I suppose?” He fingered the bolt. “Take note, Tythis: Regardless of strength, all beasts die the same.” He raised the weapon slowly. “But—”
Hazamareth had enough of the incessant speech. At this rate, they were likely to be locked in an eternal and pointless banter until someone slit their own god-damn throat. She loosed the blade behind her back before the male had finished gloating. It lodged into Vethru’s side. There was an instant click in response as the male staggered back.
Hazamareth felt a surge of unfamiliar pain as the bolt lodged sickeningly deep into her chest. “Ga…. ah…” she breathed. She slumped toward the edge of the bed.
“HAZ!” Tsuki lunged forward with a cry, catching her before she slid to the floor. He tore the bolt from her chest and flung it away across the wooden floor.
But its effects had already set in. Hazamareth could feel the sickening sensation sweeping her body, burning deep within her muscles. “Shit, Tsuki,” she breathed. “One… damn… bolt…”
Tsuki laid her down, grabbing the blade at his side and steadying himself against the wall.
‘Still… in vertigo…’ Hazamareth thought numbly. And at that moment, her own vision doubled briefly.
“Now you’re out of bolts,” Tsuki growled as Tythis rushed to Vethru’s aid. “We each have a woman down. But do not test your experience against mine. If Vethru told you anything about us, you should know: I am far older than you, elf.”
Hazamareth tried to focus her eyes, but the haze clouded her perception. Better she be shot than Tsuki; a shot like this would have certainly killed the human.
She could barely distinguish the knit of Tythis’ brow as he considered his options. He could not possibly believe Tsuki’s bluff. It was obvious even to her that her comrade was lucky to be on his feet, let alone fight.
Tsuki drew himself up, undaunted by his own visage. “I’d get your comrade to a healer before the poison kills him,” he hissed, pointing his blade at the gasping Sel’ven.
Hazamareth smiled inwardly. Now there was the wit that had kept them alive for so long.
The room darkened suddenly.
*
Hazamareth felt herself shaken slightly before powerful arms cradled her close. “Haz. You still conscious?”
The half-elf weakly opened her eyes. ‘What… happened?’ Where were those damn mercenaries? Had she fainted? Her mind felt foggy from the silver, but her senses were oddly sharp. “Are you… bleeding…?” she mumbled.
“Gods be damned. I was worried for a moment,” Tsuki breathed. “I thought it struck your heart.” His grip tightened and she felt herself lifted and nestled into the comforts of the bed. “Vethru’s little lackey had cheap shit. I will be fine,” he interrupted before she could open her mouth again.
So he was injured. Her eyes were too unfocused to distinguish the wound, but the scent of blood was tangible. ‘Cheap weapons my ass…’
For a short time, she only heard the stitching and binding of their wounds.
Then Tsuki settled down beside her. “It will probably be a few weeks before you’re fully healed. We can’t take any chances with that creature,” he spoke sternly.
Another delay? “Damn them all!” Hazamareth swore in aggravation, her head flopping uselessly in a sad attempt to elevate it. “What about Vethru and his man?”
“Slid the rest of the furniture against the door for tonight. Innkeeper said the damages will be on them. He won’t let them back in here. We’ll switch rooms in the morning.” He paused and Hazamareth could hear his grin. “…We p
issed off the wrong Sel’ven, didn’t we?”
She grimaced, pain surging once more through her breast. “You know, it was Relstavum who never trusted him. I would have thought there are enough beasts to hunt without Vethru needing to turn his attention on the two of us.”
What had Vethru expected? That they would allow him to hunt them down without a decent fight? A man in their business should have been grateful prison was the only end they sought for him.
But if he had found a home in the Brotherhood…
“Forget about both of them, Hazamareth. Be quiet and rest.”
Hazamareth twitched a smile and closed her eyes. Yet she twisted uneasily beneath the sheets. Her mind was not occupied with thoughts of if the vindictive bastard would return, but when.
How ironic. The hunters had become the hunted. Like some god-damn soulless beasts.
Ryekarayn. How she had missed it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Throughout his years of study, Jikun had often heard Darivalian scholars speak wistfully of Ryekarayn’s mild winters, especially when a sudden tundra blizzard would entrap their citizens for days.
But what was imagined as mild by Darival was hardly mild for the rest of Aersadore, and Jikun quickly gathered that he was not fond of this western interpretation of winter. It was not pleasant like on Sevrigel, where the trees still twisted magnificently in their leafless elegance. It produced no winter blooms to sprout across the hillsides. It offered no Galoom’s Touch to fill the otherwise lifeless appearance with leaves of vibrant green.
Jikun looked down upon his bare feet padding softly in the freezing muck.
No. Humanity’s domain on the western side of the Windari Channel was dark, wet, and dead. Scraggly, leafless tress. Frost-tipped, brown grass. And an overabundance of mud graced by the occasional vomit of snow. It was merely as though the fall and winter had met and were incapable of deciding which season ought to have its due—so they had dueled until both were groaning and heaving across the hillsides.
But whether the scenery contended with Darival’s stark, pristine beauty was irrelevant: the wind chill did, leaving Jikun somberly reminded of the weakness of southern blood. His companions tromped alongside him, eyes squinted painfully against the wind, shaking and chattering and groaning about their frozen limbs. While he had willingly surrendered his boots to Navon to salvage the male’s feet, the act had, in turn, saved him from very few of their verbal trials.
He swore once beneath his breath as a hidden stone lodged itself between his toes. He had enough grievances without nature’s generous assistance.
Jikun plucked the stone free and flicked it away. If Darcarus had not tossed aside his riches for Relstavum to gather, they would be far closer to acquiring some semblance of decent clothing! “Let’s move like the peaks are melting!” he barked, gesturing away from the Faraven as the male paused beside another tree.
Eldaeus had taken no part in the shivering, complaining, or bickering—he possessed no concerns of the sane. As he had within the Pass of the Dead, the maniacal elf had created a game out of their journey, prancing and twisting his way along the line of redbern trees, trying to hold his piss for every three hundred and sixty-second tree, and other such endless nonsense. It was at least somewhat tolerable that someone was enjoying their trek—albeit in a less than appealing manner.
“Hurry up, Eldaeus,” Jikun barked. He could hear Navon rifling forlornly through the sack, searching for remnants of still-edible food. “And give it up, Captain—we are going to have to hunt and scavenge. Which wouldn’t sound so bleak if any one of us knew which of these damn plants won’t poison us.”
Darcarus immediately bristled with offense. “Pampered little Sevrigelians. I informed you of which bark and needles you can eat.”
“I’m not a deer,” Jikun retorted flatly. “And those berries you told me were safe were definitely NOT. If I don’t get something to eat soon, so help me I will settle for one of you.” And then, as though Sel’ari herself had heard his threat upon her precious little True Blood, a fattened meal on wings soared free of the canopy and flew toward them.
A spear of ice formed instantly at Jikun’s fingertips.
“Whoa! Wait wait wait!” Darcarus shouted, catching his wrist and sharply jerking his arm down. “That’s mine!”
Jikun let out a dangerous growl. “I saw it first you bast—!”
“No, I mean that is my pet,” Darcarus cut him off. He extended his wrist to the bird and the raven landed, ruffling its feathers affectionately as it sidled farther up the prince’s arm and away from Jikun’s hungry gaze.
Navon plucked the spear of ice from Jikun’s grasp in the event he changed his mind. “Is that the reply to the raven you sent?” he inquired.
“What?” Darcarus cocked his head and angled his body away from them to coo lovingly toward the fat pigeon. If there was a scroll tied to one of its plump legs, the sight of it was lost.
Navon skirted around, attempting to regain view of the bird. “A reply to the raven you sent,” he repeated.
“I did not send—”
“I saw you send it the night before we entered The Pass,” Navon insisted.
Darcarus turned; the raven had vanished. “OH. Yes, that.” He laughed, his stoicism shifting to dismissive mirth. “No, no. She was just stretching her wings. She is a bird, Navon, not just a little wisp of magic; my soul aches if I do not let her free.”
Navon narrowed his eyes, but now that the potential meal was lost, Jikun spun away for better prospects. He had argued enough to know that would not quench the gnawing in his gut. He squinted against the glare of the midday sun as it peered from behind a blanket of clouds just long enough to blind him. His patience in waiting for the pissing Faraven was certainly at an end. “Damn it, I am going on ahead, Eldaeus!”
But then he realized that the male was no longer there. Somehow, he had managed to not only hike up his pants, but also to scurry to the top of the hill before them. He perched there now, entirely still, with the vague resemblance of a peacock.
“How did he…?” Navon trailed off in similar amazement from Jikun’s right.
“Hurry!” Eldaeus cried.
“That must be it!” Darcarus exclaimed in relief, striding quickly past Jikun toward the eager male. “Just over that hill. Gods, I am equally as starving! I would shovel cow dung with my bare hands if it meant a good meal.”
Apparently, the surplus of bark and needles had not satisfied him either. Jikun stepped sharply away from the prince lest the male’s lack of self-respect infect him as well. He directed his attention to Navon, who had been forced to let his most recent quarrel with the prince die once more.
“What do you think the townsfolk will make of Eldaeus when they see him dancing about the hill decorated like that?” Jikun queried. “Insanity would definitely be a possibility, but I think I would first conclude that he is some sort of, I don’t know… nomadic tribal shaman, or an alchemist’s partially failed attempt to turn a peacock into a man.”
Navon nodded his head thoughtfully, puckering his lips to the side as he stroked his chin once in feigned seriousness. “I could see that. I could definitely see that.”
“Hurry!” Eldaeus was squawking noisily. “Oh, you should see it!”
Something in Eldaeus’ tone made Jikun jog a little faster. In his time at the academy, what spittle was spent discussing humans was merely used to attack their word and honor—a hatred no doubt formed by their promise and betrayal to Eraydon in his hour of need, held and cultured by nine thousand years of separation between the races. And once leading the army, Jikun found the situation to be similar: no one wanted to see the land of the plebian and underdeveloped humans, and fewer still cared to speak of it. It was traitors’ land, and no elf worth his weight in thakish spit would ever consider setting foot upon the edges of the continent—let alone live there.
But now that he was to save the place from the clutches of Saebellus, Jikun was feeling mildly
less critical. Fair-scented whores had enticed him… spoken of vast cities and castles, of great armies and wealth the elves had never imagined humans to possess.
‘Relstavum will be dead by the spring. We will be as comfortable as we were on Sevrigel and all those soldiers will rest as easy as babes.’
And so it was with slight hope that Jikun’s head rose above the crest of the hill to obtain his first glimpse of a human city—to the wealth and grandeur whispered to him.
He blinked in confusion. “What… what is that?”
Darcarus stepped up beside him, brow knit. “What? Have you never seen a human settlement before?” he laughed and tossed his head, as though shaking off pity for Jikun’s naivety. “They are humans—they do not share the same luxury or wealth of the elven nation—they are far too engrossed in burying their dead and scrounging for food to be concerned with such extravagances as gleaming towers and radiant silks.” His voice was hard and bitter as he spoke next, but he gazed down the hill with visible empathy—as though the prince, with his pretty silk clothes and mounds of gold, could ever relate to them. “Existence must be brutal when the rest of the world turns its back on you—let alone your own kindred.”
Jikun shook his head, ogling the little speckle of houses with their clouds of white smoke billowing from thatched roofs. Their homes displayed grey or brown stone at their bases with the upper portions laid in dirty white or tan paneling. Over those crossed beams of russet wood. Large, square windows were set along the faces with tiny triangles of dull glass and broken shutters. As though to lament the state of the world around them, baskets of dead plants hung with forlorn resignation along the dismal sills.
The humans were, as all elves had warned him, living a pathetic existence. He glanced sidelong at the prince, who he swore still had bark between his teeth, and then scowled at the pitiful display of civilization. He had sacrificed his honor, but there still remained enough of it to find abhorrence at the squalor.
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