Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  Information in hand, Darcarus sauntered once more to their sides. “What is the disdainful look for this time, Navon?” He spun toward the bustling street, his question rhetorical. After all, a disapproving expression had become the permanent state of Navon’s face. “The Brotherhood is this way.”

  As they progressed farther into the city, the truth of the old woman’s words became apparent; Laeris’ control had leeched from north to south. Soldiers and mercenaries were intermingled with the commoners, wandering about the market stalls and popping in and out of buildings at every turn. The most prominent of these were men dressed in black leather armor with tattoos running the breadths of their right arms.

  ‘Laeris’ insignia?’ Jikun wondered briefly. Like the barrel-chested man at the city gates. Marking them as property. He felt a slight recoil at the notion that he would soon be one of them. ‘A small price to pay for the necessary deed. Freedom after retribution. Strength first.’

  And Laeris certainly had both. The old man had mentioned Laeris’ tower, and no matter down which street they turned, the blood-hued monument stood like a beacon in the center of the city, proclaiming Laeris’ control. His pockets were lined by this city’s every endeavor—legal and otherwise. And the tower itself… It was more impressive than any human structure Jikun had seen—although the competition was paltry at best. Standing fifty meters tall, it was composed of rough, cherry stone and surrounded by white, wooden buildings that only emphasized its impenetrability.

  It was an impressive show of force. Elves were far more subtle in their flaunting, but this building, with its bloody hue, was steeped in threat.

  “I think this is a good idea,” Eldaeus chimed in response to what Jikun could only imagine was a muttered comment from Navon. “I have good armor.” He tapped the thick leather on his chest and smiled. “It has held up all these years. Best there was! Is. Was?” He carried on thoughtfully as they ambled down another street.

  “Oh good. Eldaeus thinks this is a good idea. I hope you two imbeciles feel confident now,” Navon growled.

  Jikun prickled, but he followed Darcarus around the final bend and into a relatively empty side street. At the end was a building as equally red as Laeris’ tower. Human males crowded the rooftop terrace, their raucous voices punctuated by the sharp rap of dice knocking together and rattling across a wooden surface. But they were only partially enwrapped in their game—even as another set of dice bounced between them, their heads turned to follow Jikun and his companions.

  The vigilance of Laeris’ men was not exclusive to the last building—the whole of the street was crawling with the poorly disguised lot. ‘Excellent facade,’ Jikun scoffed as he eyed the bulging muscles of the supposed baker who repeatedly swept the same clean step. And to the alleyway on Jikun’s left, only a human could have missed the soft rasping of someone lying in wait behind a stack of dusty crates.

  “It is that building directly ahead,” Eldaeus informed them excitedly. “It is red, just like Laeris’ tower!”

  Jikun yanked the Faraven to a halt. “Our names are Cizael, Ardwen, and Nevae,” he growled sternly. “Eldaeus, do not forget.”

  “I still loathe that name,” Darcarus muttered as he tapped his signet ring several times in quick succession. He removed it and dropped it hesitantly into his inner breast pocket. As displeased as the prince was, their identities would only last so long as Eldaeus’ memory remained intact. “I am rather certain that is a female Farvian name.”

  Eldaeus snorted and waved his hand with a reassuring smile, as though the suggestion was absurd.

  But he did not verbally deny it.

  “Use the names,” Jikun ordered, and released the Faraven’s leather with a gentle shove. He marched forward up the remainder of the street. Every pair of eyes had fallen to them. ‘In a city of well-armed mercenaries and thugs, we paint an exceptional sight…’ He glanced sidelong at Navon, who had managed to wither somewhat back into a wraith-like state after the recent lack of food. And his sour expression did not help matters. ‘…Yes. Impressively pathetic.’ He gave his captain’s heels a tap to urge him to pick up his feet, then peeled a clump of mud from his dirty sash. When neither of the hulking humans before the red building’s door moved to admit them, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

  Eldaeus let out an immediate choking gag and Jikun cuffed him sharply into silence. Now this was a familiar scent—just a bit more… human. Sweat and old leather. The lingering odor of wet dogs. Dried manure that likely clung to some brigand’s shoes. Jikun hated and loved it at the same time—it was the stench of battled men… Pungent, but familiar. And after weeks of wandering the land, he imagined he did not smell much better.

  His nose wrinkled at the thought.

  “At least we can make faces,” he heard Eldaeus mutter indignantly.

  Jikun blinked back the dots of light that still danced before his eyes, disabling him from spotting who may have seen his brief lapse of stoicism. When his vision began to return, he first noted the dim light spreading out over the spacious, circular room, emanating from an improvised chandelier designed from a wagon wheel. Even the gaudy elven contraptions that had dangled about the palace with abhorrent frequency were preferable to this primitive composition.

  “Well, well, what have we got ourselves here? Dare I believe it? Elves?” a silky voice, raw with malice, drifted across the smoke.

  “Calm your raging affections,” the prince instantly retorted.

  Jikun’s vision cleared and he noted for the first time shapes of men seated in a ring of benches along the wall. Most of these men were unbranded. At least half were well-armed. And even through the rising tension, he could not help but marvel at their diversity. Elves were consistently tall, fair, and toned. But here… here… Bulging, wrinkled, thin… old enough to be his father, young enough to be his son, and three whose skin was as black as the mud in the Sevilan Marshes.

  Humankind held little consistency in its creations—and Jikun had to admit, after the duplicated faces he had seen every day in his own army, the variety was somewhat relieving.

  In a hideous and appalling sort of way.

  “Mayhap the naked, little vagrant doesn’t know who he’s talking to, sir,” one of the humans along the wall whispered, soft enough that a distant human could not hear. But to Jikun, his voice carried like a trumpet blast.

  Jikun glanced sidelong to spot the original speaker and found the weathered face of a middle-aged human—almond-eyed and square-jowled, like some white-skinned orc from his academy books’ paintings. The golden emblem on the man’s chest glinted softly, a testament to at least relative success in the mercenary field.

  Jikun swiftly caught Darcarus by the arm as the prince rallied his next impetuous response. “Sit,” he growled, shoving Darcarus down beside Navon. His captain narrowed his eyes, as though demanding to know what he had done to deserve equal punishment.

  Having seen the brief, unruly display, the human’s lips twisted into a crooked smile, revealing blackened teeth. He scratched his hooked nose. “I was talking to you, elf,” he sniffed deeply, gesturing to Jikun. “What a cliff you must have fallen from to find yourselves here, asking humans for help. There is no order—no list of meetings. The Brotherhood will call you in as it amuses them—and judging from your fascinating appearance, I imagine you’ll be next.”

  There was a chorus of snickers.

  Jikun’s toes curled and he realized then that he was still standing, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. He could hear muffled speech through the door on the right of the room—too faint to define but elevated enough to imply that the current meeting was not progressing well. He dropped down onto the nearest cushion, careful to avoid a spatter of blood on the stone nearby. “I heard you the first time, human,” he intoned. “I can hear you breathing.”

  But Jikun’s caustic retort only emboldened the prince, who raised his finger in warning and then slid the crude gesture across his groin. Here, more than ever, the pr
ince’s overly candid behavior shone.

  The humans nearby exchanged uncertain glances, clearly wondering if the sign was worthy of a brawl.

  Their leader decided upon a wide show of teeth. “I am Makados. This is Keb, Kei, Coe, Harbesh, and Thamos.” Makados leaned forward as he spoke, gesturing to each man on his right and left in turn, as though he too wished to see their faces upon their most recent introduction. Though Jikun could not imagine why, as they were each as equally hideous as the next.

  Keb, Kei, and Coe appeared to be related—they wore the same vividly-colored clothing that contrasted brazenly against their ebony skin, and each displayed enough earrings in one ear to forge a small blade. Their noses were similarly broad and flared, and their neatly rounded heads were as smooth and polished as a mirror.

  Harbesh scowled beside them, so red of face and hair that Jikun imagined he had baked too long in the summer sun. One abnormally lengthened arm scratched at his ankle while the other poked and prodded at a gap in his teeth.

  And then there was Thamos, scrunched between the four in a form so massive he threatened to crack the stone bench on which he sat. His body bulged beneath his leather… but of sheer muscle rather than fat. Jikun was certain that nothing less than giant’s blood pulsated through his purple veins.

  “From the company of the Black Helm,” Makados added as Jikun’s lip curled. “What brings the four of you men here? Are you aspiring mercenaries?”

  Jikun did not react to the man’s taunting. “Cizael, Nevae, Ardwen, Eldaeus,” he replied calmly, alleviating his eyes from the sight of the man’s hulking crew by finding that the ghastly chandelier had starkly improved.

  Darcarus smacked him on the chest, causing his old wound to ripple with pain. “Don’t tell the bastard my name,” he growled as Jikun clutched a hand to his breast.

  “Ahhh,” Makados cooed, his pink tongue flicking across his sable smirk. He reclined against the wall, snapping his long, rough fingers at Jikun. They were too dry to make more than a scraping sound. “So you are the head of this ragged band. I don’t believe in all my travels I’ve seen worse results from a leader.”

  Jikun let out a growl, but Navon interjected before he could speak. “Keep your witless tongue to yourself, human. Your assumption is shockingly naïve.”

  Makados’ tone was mockingly sympathetic. “Oh, aren’t you the perfect military dog?”

  Navon’s mouth had shot open with a readily prepared retort, but at those words he paused. “What?”

  “Aw, you look offended. Nevae, was it? You’ve been silent since you arrived—noting the cushions where you were to sit, the door where you would have your meeting, the reaction of your leader… And now, at his offense, you leap to his aid.”

  The captain stiffened.

  “Even now, you are boiling to fight—but since you’re weaponless, I assume you are a mage? Well, I’m afraid you couldn’t harm us.” With a thrust of his square chin, he smacked a hand to his chest. “This here is armor from the Karkadose Region—forged by the dwarves—where we recently crushed a rebellion fueled by Lord Hugo’s son, the Whelp of Tendosmere. We’ll use it again in the next war. I suppose that’s where the four of you are headed. That is the only type of work that would take the likes of you. There are many equipped as well as us and against them, your magic would hardly make a scratch.”

  “Shall we find out how deep a scratch?” Navon hissed as his fingers unfurled.

  Even Darcarus had lurched forward in his seat, hand on his hilt, eyes dancing eagerly in the dim light.

  But Jikun was wise enough to realize that if they were to paint Laeris’ personal ass-kissers’ entrails across the walls, he was not likely to welcome their visitation. He pressed a hand solidly to Navon’s chest as the male began to rise, noting the pounding of his captain’s blood. Despite his warning grip, Jikun could feel Navon’s chest expanding for a scathing rejoinder. And then suddenly, the voices behind the door escalated into frantic shouts. The men in waiting stilled, the spar between the humans and elves forgotten.

  They were all one people as they listened now: locked with anxiety, hushed in fear.

  Still louder the shouting rose until there was a sharp, definite cry. It then became a strangled, suffocating gurgle that slowly—unhurriedly—sputtered out.

  Both rooms were as frozen as the ice clinging to the window panes. Jikun could imagine what had transpired. He recalled the blood behind him and stiffened. He had only a moment to wonder at the accuracy of Navon’s qualms before the door to the right opened with a soft, moaning hiss.

  It was a wonder that the one little sound could hold an entire room of born fighters at bay, and yet the trepidation intensified.

  A large, bearded man emerged to recline against the frame, and Jikun’s keen eyesight immediately detected a faint spray of blood staining his bulging forearm.

  “Well… he is dead,” Eldaeus commented matter-of-factly.

  The man in the doorway pivoted as the Faraven’s voice unexpectedly splintered the quiet. His round, heavily-lidded eyes surveyed the four elves with unrivaled intensity.

  They had taken his interest, as Makados had foreseen. For once, Eldaeus’ yammering had benefited them.

  ‘This is what we wanted,’ Jikun reminded himself through the discomfort of the man’s gaze.

  Then the human raised a meaty hand into the air and gave a single, solid nod. “The Brotherhood will see you now,” he rumbled, and waved the four toward the open door.

  There was no feigned formidability here: every inch of the man’s being quivered with the unmistakable lust for violence.

  If Navon was Jikun’s sword, then this was Laeris’. And it seemed quite probable that he could snap Navon in half like a pile of old bones.

  ‘By Malranus Almighty, these creatures are huge…’ Jikun thought briefly before he took long, purposeful strides across the room, hiding all visible signs of doubt.

  Behind him, he could hear Darcarus toss an inappropriately casual, “You have a little smear there on your arm.”

  But Jikun focused on his own bearing as he stepped into the room beyond. The smell of blood was tangible in the vast space, but wherever the Brotherhood had executed the poor fool—and however they had done it—remained a mystery.

  “Elves,” stated a voice down the length of the polished wooden floor, in a tone not unlike that which Makados had spat upon their arrival.

  ‘The humans speak the same way about us as we do about them,’ Jikun realized. And then wondered what in Aersadore a human could possibly find at fault with an elf. He raised his chin slightly at the tone, regarding the speaker with distaste. He was eyeing them with a similar expression, seated at a long desk of what Jikun guessed to be obsidian—a rare and fragile stone used to hunt demons. Which was ironic, as Jikun was fairly certain that the man who sat behind it was a demon in his own right.

  The shelves of humanoid skulls lining the wall attested to his theory.

  Cutthroats, just as the old lady had warned. But he did not glance sidelong at Navon, already fully sensing his pointed scowl. This was not a distraction. This was their path.

  “Come, take a seat,” the man continued as the echo receded, and he gestured to the sagging chair before his desk. “Always a story with elves.” The door creaked shut behind them and the blood-spattered sword took his station beside the speaker.

  ‘Always a story…’ Jikun repeated with a grimace. Not one he wanted to tell. His eyes fell upon the seat and he found himself hesitating for the briefest moment. It was not a lack of confidence in his decision, nor the shelves of skulls that encircled them, nor the blood-red chandelier swinging softly from the rafters that caused him unease: these were merely theatrics designed to test the nerves of the visitors to the Brotherhood.

  A child’s game.

  Instead, Jikun’s body was urging him to recoil from the scent of real blood in the air—the stench of iron—and the lingering taste of magic: a sour odor that sparked at the tip of his to
ngue and slithered across the scars on his arms, poking and prodding for a way inside his body. Suffice to say, he felt mildly violated. But he was extracted from his own discomfort as Darcarus seized control of the room.

  “Your previous supplicant appears to have not fared so well,” the prince stated as he strode to the chair. He dropped onto its worn cushion, sinking deep within its folds.

  The human stroked the end of his thinning eyebrow rapidly, and Jikun surmised that he was mildly irritated. “If you have come to the Brotherhood, you must know that we do not tolerate men who fail to deliver. Unfortunately, he was one such man,” Mikael said. He gestured to a second chair that Jikun felt quite certain was not there a moment before.

  “I will stand,” Jikun replied, glancing down to the filthy square of green fabric frayed over the peeping feathers.

  The man looked up from his parchment. Even in the soft candlelight, Jikun could discern the maze of scars and toughened flesh, weathered by days on the road; but now, his fingers and nails were stained black from the ink of endless hours behind a desk. “I advise you to sit,” the human spoke softly. And before Jikun could debate how much of his pride would be wounded by his compliance, he felt two iron hands grip his shoulders and force him into the chair.

  Yet no one had touched him.

  ‘This man is a mage,’ Jikun realized with a grunt, fighting the urge to reach up and rub the bruises from his naked skin. Was this the man he was about to serve? Gods damn the prince to Ramul for losing his money outside Eldaeus’ cavern! “…Are you Geldin Laeris?”

  The man etched a missive across the parchment before him, but Jikun’s ability to read Common was poor at best. “No. I am not Geldin Laeris. I am Archmage Mikael and Lord Laeris’ second-in-command. Master Laeris is occupied on far more valuable matters. Of which a defeated general and his dogs are not one.”

  Jikun felt the warmth rush from his cheeks.

  The archmage continued impassively. “Personally, I would like to question your state of affairs further, but the Brotherhood does not require your sniveling story, just your success.” He looked up, eyes locking with Darcarus. “What is it that you would like to request of the Brotherhood, Ardwen Elesmore?”