Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  The general smacked the desk again and a wide grin split across his face. “I’ve been waiting for someone to beat those pompous city boys down. Dyryke’s men arrived from Eraydon City two weeks ago and they’ve overrun the place with their damned arrogance. And Bertelemy is the worst of them. You can hardly breathe through the thick of it. Making the new recruits feel like a general pile of dragon shit.” He pointed a thick, dry finger in Navon’s direction. “But not you.”

  Navon remained rigid and attentive, uncertain how to react to the general’s sudden candor. “No, not me, sir.”

  Bardolph reclined in his chair, resting one arm over his great gut while the other rifled furiously through his desk drawer. “Let me pour you a drink. It was Nevae, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  The man set two glasses down upon the unpolished surface and filled them promptly. It was a messy affair, but he did not seem to notice. “Here you are, Nahvae,” he grunted, sliding the glass across the surface.

  Navon was quick to seize it before it could sail over the edge. “Thank you, General.”

  Bardolph raised his glass in a wordless toast and sucked down half the liquor in an obstreperous gulp. “So what did you use on them? Black wind and strange voices, Joceus said. I’ve never known much about magic. What was it? Illusions? I knew a girl in my youth from the Galestram region who did illusions. She was much prettier that way.”

  Navon opened his mouth and closed it. ‘Is this a ruse…? Some sort of trick…?’ He lifted the glass of liquor uncertainly. On Sevrigel, a court-martial was a serious offense—not a date with the general. Jikun would have personally beaten the shit—in colloquial terms—out of any soldier brought before him.

  After a few such displays, no one was stupid enough to transgress that far.

  “It was necromancy,” he finally admitted, and took a sip in the event that this bolstered their comradery. Immediately, he choked back a gag and swiftly wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  Bardolph let out a roar of laughter. “Don’t have Black Blood where you come from? They say The Vein dwarves first brewed it as a poison, but as it turned out, it became a coveted tavern pint instead! That’s a real man’s drink, there. It’ll put hair on your chest. Even an elf’s chest.”

  Navon set the glass down. Faced with that prospect, he would rather err on being cautious. “General Bardolph, am I… being disciplined?”

  The general snorted into his liquor and then finished the glass, wiping his mustache with his sleeve. “Bwhaha! Disciplined? I’ve been waiting for someone to come along and do me the favor. No, Navie, you are not.”

  The rapid transformation of his name was certainly becoming reprehensible. ‘Since you have arrived, being Navon has worked out thus far…’ “Navon. Just call me Navon.”

  The general paused and then gave a considering nod. “Navon. That’s a bit easier.” He poured himself another glass. “Let me give you a little advice, Navon. Necromancy is a bit of a volatile topic right now, what with the disappearance of Tiras’ book from the king’s archives in Vise. Rumor has it that the new elven king of Sevrigel had it stolen. I wouldn’t go flaunting that skill right now. Not saying you can’t use it—we can certainly use a mage of your caliber—but let’s try to save such a thing for the enemies from here on out, shall we? Dyryke’s men are a rather sizable collection of bastards and you certainly don’t want to piss them all off. I have no doubt some backstabbing goes around on the field. You don’t want to give them another reason to hate you.”

  Navon smiled weakly. “I’m an elf—I’m fairly certain they will only need the one.”

  Bardolph chuckled through a mild belch. “That reason being that you tossed them to the sky like daisies, or whatever they took issue with to begin with?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  Bardolph leaned forward, lifting his arm from his belly and resting it upon the desk. He did not seem to mind that his leather was swimming in his spilled liquor—or that it had the acidity level to melt dragon scales. “About that… A frontlinesman. How did a man like you end up on the front line? Lieutenant Joceus is clearly doing a piss poor job—you can never trust these city boys. They strut their way into these expensive academies and never grasp practical application. I’ll get you moved right damn fast.”

  Navon firmly shook his head, his amusement swiftly turning to severity. “No, sir. I’d rather not.”

  Bardolph blinked. “Well, you may be the first god-damn man to ever say that. Why in Ramul would you want to stay there? Do you know what the front line is?”

  “Yes, sir. I know what the front line is.”

  “And you want to stay.”

  “Yes, sir. I want to stay.”

  Bardolph smacked his lips in admiration and gave his tousled head a slow shake. “And by Zephereus above, can you tell me why? It’s not the money, is it? Because men on the front line don’t live to collect the money. That’s why we ‘pay them’ like we do.”

  Navon folded his hands calmly across his lap. It was a wise general that cared about the safety of one man. “I have experience with war, General. And I don’t need a farmer’s son playing shield for me. If I can’t hold my own ground, I don’t deserve to be out there. If there was a genuinely strategic reason for me to be in another position, certainly. But disrupting the enemy front line most certainly takes precedence. And so, there I will be.”

  Bardolph’s mouth opened and closed. He tugged at the end of his beard in visible contemplation. “A soldier’s words, if I ever heard them. What brings an elven soldier to a human army?”

  ‘Lie, Navon. As you always do. Even here, you can’t be all of you.’

  But Navon’s lips had no more than parted when Bardolph’s eyes flickered, as though he had formed a theory of his own. “Bah. Never mind that, Navon.” He raised his glass and Navon’s jaw fell closed. “Prove your skill in the next battle and I may just have a real place for you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Black Blood rippled toward the bottom of Jikun’s mug, catching the chandelier’s light in waves as the liquid bounced against the polished sides. Something floated at the top, dipping and rising with the crests, twisting in the little storm brewing inside the glass. Jikun flicked the cup against the side again, watching as a sloshing wave engulfed the entity. ‘Good riddance, Navon,’ he glowered at it.

  There was a sudden, sharp knock against his skull, and the offending tankard bounced away. Jikun swore, spilling his ale across the table as his hand jerked to the growing lump.

  Eldaeus’ mad cackle grated against his ear, but before Jikun could disembowel him, the Faraven was once more consumed by the bustling throng of tavern patrons.

  Adjacent to him, Darcarus leapt to his feet too late, failing to evade the trickle of ale that spilled into his lap. He elevated his own mug high to safety. “That is what happens when you let your mind drift,” he rebuked. “Now I surely look as though I pissed myself.” He patted his groin once, but in the dim firelight the measly spot was inconspicuous. He shifted his chair and quickly composed his posture, grasping for some semblance of nobility. “Do you think she witnessed that?”

  Jikun pulled his palm away from his throbbing head. He leaned around the male to catch sight of the brunette barmaid fondling the wiry beard hairs of a nearby human. “No, she is still enraptured with that atrocity over the—”

  “The blonde,” Darcarus interrupted him, jerking around to catch sight of the hefty brunette. “What? You thought I fancied that broad? Malranus Almighty. She looks like she wants to eat him.” He shivered. “She would suck the True Blood line dry.”

  It was a comment that would have sent the Helven reeling with abhorrence. In his absence, Jikun felt it appropriate to offer a minor grimace.

  “Oh come now, General—you speak equally as crass!” Darcarus barked as he gave the table a firm, chastising slap. “I thought for certain you would laugh, or at least break a smile across those icy lips.” He took o
ne of his too-polished fingernails and prodded Jikun’s shoulder affably.

  Jikun’s lips drew tight at the unwanted comradery. At the beginning, he had lingered near Nordeep, half expecting the Helven to come crawling back with simpering apologies. “He hasn’t been off on his own like this in decades,” he had said. “He will return. Give him a day. Two at most. He will come crawling back.” And a week later, after a hundred of Eldaeus’ “do you still believe he is coming backs,” Jikun had ceded that perhaps he had crossed a line and Navon was not, in fact, going to return.

  Gods damn that Helven!—already Jikun missed the unquestioning nature of the Sel’vi that Navon had once aspired to be! The thought made his boot tap rapidly on the wooden floor of Ironwatch’s shoddy inn. “I hope he takes a lance through the foot when he steps out onto that battlefield and lies cold and alone for the rest of the damn war.”

  “Aw. That is terribly sweet. I hope he stays safe, too,” Eldaeus chimed as he rematerialized from the crowd, two mugs in hand. He flopped into the empty chair on Jikun’s right and took a swig from both, leaving behind an unbecoming mustache. “What are we discussing?”

  Darcarus tipped his mug, draining it. “Navon. Apparently.” He clapped the tankard down forcefully, but the effect of the clatter was lost in the tumult of noise. “By Sel’ari, Jikun. Navon chose to abandon us. We do not need him for this task. In fact, we already know he is a liability—both to us and himself. You might be an inexperienced mage, but you know your limits. We cannot say the same for your former captain. You cannot have forgotten what occurred at the Pass.”

  The line of Jikun’s lips grew tighter. Of course he had not forgotten. Necromancy… the bane of Navon’s existence. In that moment within the Pass, all their years of familiarity had been lost. What remained in his captain’s azure eyes had been raw, unadulterated malice… and greed.

  Yet now he was not at Navon’s side to make certain the fool did not hurl himself back into those Gates! He was like a god-damn petulant child determined to test common sense for himself no matter how many times it slapped him in the face!

  Darcarus cleared his throat forcefully. “He left us, General.”

  That, at least, was true. Jikun grunted.

  Darcarus tousled his mane and reclined in his chair. “The only reason the male even has the equipment to join the war is through our assistance. The fates of Sevrigel and Ryekarayn are in peril and yet he chose such a safe, and dare I add cowardly, path.” He tossed his shoulders with disgust.

  Feigned disgust, Jikun was aware. Slander devised to ensure the general’s fury with his former captain. Now that they were so close to confrontation with Relstavum, the prince had begun to ease and his silver tongue was slipping. Certainly Navon deserved every berating word, but that Darcarus should think him thick enough to not perceive his intent made Jikun’s skin crawl.

  They were both fools.

  He was starting to believe Eldaeus to be his wisest companion.

  A gust of frigid night air billowed across the room and Jikun’s eyes lifted, glancing briefly at the open doorway. He was surprised to see not the entrance of a farmer or shopkeeper—or the Brotherhood mercenaries he now feared to be on their tail—but Darcarus’ midnight raven. The prince’s face immediately alighted like a Darivalian toddler in his first spring. The raven swooped low over the heads of the oblivious farmers to land lightly on the crook of his extended arm.

  This time, Jikun noted the scroll tied to her leg. “Another raven stretching her wings?”

  Darcarus glanced away from where he had been smothering the creature with affection. “Your tone?” The muscles in Jikun’s jaw tightened and the prince’s expression shifted. “Ahh… You are brooding about Navon again.” His fingers ceased their incessant scratching of the raven’s puffed head. “Jikun, release him from your mind. He is nothing but pois—”

  Jikun slammed his fist against the table, causing the bird to rustle nervously. Darcarus quickly cupped a calming hand over its back.

  “Not another word about Navon,” Jikun retorted stiffly. “And answer me this—what message does that scroll contain?”

  Darcarus’ mouth remained open. Jikun could see the passage of a dozen thoughts behind his piercing eyes before one settled. “I have been conversing with contacts about the state of Sevrigel. Shall I indulge you further?”

  Whether or not the male was telling the truth was obsolete. A breath escaped between Jikun’s teeth. He slammed his mug down sharply, causing the spilt liquor to ripple nervously once more. “Navon is managing to soil a good evening from a hundred leagues away, and to Ramul if I let his asinine decision spoil this place!” A human tavern was as good as any: the rich smell of leather and sweat, the heavy smoke of a roaring fire, and women saddled with more curves than an elven city street. He lifted his mug high, bellowing, “BARMAID! REFILL!”

  Darcarus broke into a grin and the raven vanished with an affectionate peck. He let out a whoop that would have sent the hair on most Sel’vi bristling. “That is far better!” But the grin was short-lived as a tall, rosy-cheeked blonde turned to answer his summons. “Damn, that is the maiden!” He quickly confirmed that his groin was obscured beneath the table before he donned a rakish smile.

  Jikun swept the woman’s sandy curls, rosy cheeks, and ample display of cleavage. “Gods, sate my lust,” he inhaled, passing her curiosity a slow wink.

  “You are fully aware I have had my eyes on her since we arrived,” Darcarus reproached out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t you lose your long life if you fraternize with infidels? I thought you had your virginity to maintain, prince,” Jikun rejoined.

  The barmaid halted before their table, fluttering her dark lashes and flashing teeth relatively well-kept for the west side of the Windari Channel. “I have been watching you all night,” she purred, “hoping I’d catch the eye of one of you stunning stags.” Her eyes lingered on Darcarus’ fine features… on Jikun’s broad chest…

  And then died as they made the final round to Eldaeus. Who was blowing bubbles into his ale.

  “…What’s wrong with him?”

  Jikun jammed his elbow sharply into the Faraven’s side. “I have no idea.”

  Darcarus swiftly tossed Eldaeus’ mug aside. It skittered across a few balding heads before disappearing into the crowd. “But who needs ale when your beauty is sure to whisk away all the troubles of this world.” He slathered his charm on so thickly that Eldaeus’ antics were plainly forgotten. “Gold as she rises over the darkness of the land, warm as her light strokes, blue as her gaze wanders… Lo, it is not the sun that melts the coldest night of winter, but the maiden I see before me.”

  The woman flushed. “You siren,” she replied, batting her lashes in feigned timidity.

  Unlike Darcarus, Jikun could not flit from candor to poetry on a whim, and thus he knew the battle was undeniably lost. In addition, he would not have been able to continue the conversation without pointing out that sirens were invariably women.

  First Esra and now the barmaid. Maybe he was more fortunate with the prostitutes. Kaivervi flitted at the corners of his mind and he sharply rebuffed her advances. Instead, he begrudged his own lack of charm and took consolation in his last swig of liquor. He raised his mug once more. “Black Blood.”

  Darcarus glowered disapprovingly, but Eldaeus swiftly joined in, having retrieved his first mug from somewhere off the dirty floor. “I also need a refill of whatever was in this mug!” He brushed away a few hairs clinging to the wooden lip.

  The prince was momentarily distracted with bemusement. “I must ask, how in Ramul did you get something to drink? We did not buy you anything.”

  The barmaid plucked the tankards from their extended hands, her expression growing sour as she regarded the two males whose untimely interference had robbed her of an admirer. “I’ll fill these up,” she spoke stiffly. And to Darcarus’ visible dismay, she sauntered away to another table, her large bottom swinging easily with her steps.r />
  Eldaeus merely grinned. “That man over there said that I could have his mead if I licked his boots.”

  Jikun followed the male’s finger to the floor, where a barrel-chested human lay in an unconscious heap. A squat, dwarfed little human was using his generous belly as a rather respectable drum. “And…?”

  “Well, he lied and so I took it. He tried to punch me but he slipped and knocked himself out on the edge of the table.”

  “…Of course he did,” Darcarus muttered with a huff. “And what about the other one?”

  Eldaeus raised his second mug. “Oh this one? I traded a necklace for it.”

  Jikun’s brow knit. “You traded a what for it?” he demanded.

  “A necklace.”

  Jikun’s expression grew flat at the grinning response. “…Yes, those were the words I thought you uttered. Where in the Nine Realms did you pick up jewelry?”

  Eldaeus stuck his bottom lip out, squinting his emerald eyes. “I did not steal it. I found it. In my oasis. And a human said he would trade me his mead for the charm.”

  Jikun’s body grew cold, a trickle of fear ebbing down his spine. “You found a necklace in your oasis?!” He distinctly remembered chucking Relstavum’s “amulet of protection” over the edge of the cliff shortly after their fall. He had assumed that the cursed twist of metal had been safely abandoned in the grass and stones. But of course Eldaeus had recovered it.

  Eldaeus nodded triumphantly, oblivious to his transgression. “Oh yes. It was Farvian, too! Farvian tracking! They used to use the amulet on royalty or great lords’ daughters—so they always knew where they were. Or where their bodies were. But it was not mine! I wonder how it got—”

  Jikun caught the Faraven by the front of his shirt, nearly upending their table as he wrenched the male out of his rambling. “Eldaeus, did you say tracking?! Have you had that damn thing with us the whole time?!”

  Eldaeus’ blew out his cheeks. “Well… obviously. How could I have left it somewhere and returned for it…?” he trailed off and instead addressed what he seemed to believe was the problem. “I do not know why you are so agitated—we could not have sold it for even a rabbit’s foot! I definitely swindled that man for his mead.”