Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  “I don’t care about its value! I care that Relstavum could know our location and worse, be tracking us!”

  “Oh…!” Eldaeus trailed off. “Well…” he paused briefly and then offered an inappropriate clap. “Then I definitely made a most excellent trade!”

  Jikun dropped the male and lurched to his feet. He felt as though the barreled gut now pounded for him. “We need to leave. Distance ourselves from this place. We do not know who Relstavum might have on our trail and how close they might be!”

  Eldaeus hugged his second mug and muttered derisively into its interior.

  Darcarus knocked it from the Faraven’s hands and stood as well, his chair clattering against the dusty floor. “He has been in possession of that charm since the Makataj?! We were never approaching our adversary in secret!” His hand gestured wildly at Eldaeus. “As I have said before, he is a liability!”

  Jikun stiffened at the accusation. “Enough.” He reached for his cloak as another blast of frigid air gusted into the room. “On your feet, Eldaeus. We leave now. Saebellus’ every pawn likely knows our location.”

  But Eldaeus remained, gawking at the door, mouthing some inaudible irrelevance.

  “What?” Darcarus barked, leaning forward. His fingers snatched at the feathers protruding from Eldaeus’ hair. “What are you saying, you stupid bastard?—I cannot hear a thing in this din if you do not holler.”

  Jikun followed Eldaeus’ gape. “Damn it. Where is your apparent luck now, Eldaeus?!” Although he had not bothered to remember the six, well-armored humans filing into the room—that had been Navon’s responsibility—the words the Faraven was mouthing were undoubtedly the names of Laeris’ haughty mercenaries from a week ago. ‘Makados,’ he read. ‘Keb. Kei. Coe. Harbesh. Thamos.’

  After the revelation of the Farvian charm, their appearance was far too coincidental for Jikun’s taste.

  ‘Mercenary work for Laeris, or for…?’ He smacked Darcarus’ wrist before the prince could draw the attention of the entire room with his raucous behavior. “By the door,” he hissed. “Look who—”

  Darcarus uttered a single curse and spared Eldaeus’ garish adornments from further harassment.

  Across the spatter of tables, Makados’ almond eyes slid past Jikun, flicking between the three and then out over the jostling room—searching, he imagined, for the missing player in their quartet. An image of the mangled corpse of Borin flashed instantly before Jikun’s eyes and his lungs constricted to a painful gasp.

  “I need the charm back!—it was lucky!” Eldaeus wailed, breaking him from his trance.

  “What?!”

  “The moment I cast it aside, this occurred!”

  Darcarus shoved a swift fist into the Faraven’s gut and the male’s irrational cries fell silent. “Now let us leave.” He fetched his cloak and jerked his head toward the old wooden stairs that ascended into the gloom of the inn above.

  Eldaeus managed a single, choking sputter of defiance. “This is what happens when you buy armor at the thirteenth blacksmith! I warned you that even my luck cannot combat thirteen!”

  Jikun ignored the Faraven entirely. ‘Out through a window,’ he thought. Unlike Navon, Darcarus did not require permission to take initiative. They would lose fifty feet of spider-thread rope, but it was a small fee to skirt a confrontation with Laeris’ men…

  And Relstavum’s hired dogs.

  “Wait right there,” Makados’ deep voice boomed from a mere yard away. His thugs had rammed their way through the clamorous crowd and now stood flanking the elves on their left and right. “What a surprise, meeting the likes of you here. We surely thought you’d be off doing grand things… After all, it looks like the Brotherhood spared no expense in equipping you.”

  “But they spent it on thirteen,” Eldaeus broke in mournfully.

  Jikun stretched for his cloak draped over the back of his chair, but Makados’ wide, calloused hand shot down and clenched about his wrist.

  Jikun felt his magic shiver through his breast in disdain. “And I thought the six of you had affairs in the war against Lord Barister,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “You are terribly far from that… Could the army not even use you for front line fodder?”

  Eldaeus sniggered, but Makados did not share his easy humor. His hand tightened like a vise. “I did say we were going to join the war,” the quivering jowls spat. “But I never said it was for the human king. The Brotherhood has jobs for all types. You just have to pick the winning side.”

  Jikun’s muscles writhed. “So you serve Saebellus.”

  “We serve Relstavum. Who he serves is of no concern to us. But if you boys want to strip down naked and hand over all that new gear, we’ll give you a head start.”

  Jikun struggled to mask his discomfort, but the moment his mouth opened to retort, Makados leaned into his weight, throwing Jikun against the side of the table. Something at his hip cracked.

  The Darivalian’s humor was spent. A chill emanated from his hand, flooding magic through Makados’ smooth black gloves to the pasty white flesh beneath—enough cold to turn the mercenary’s blood to ice. Yet to Jikun’s consternation, the man did not even utter an amused grunt. ‘It’s that damn magic resistant armor he boasted about,’ he realized with a groan.

  Still, such a triviality was easily countered. His eyes landed upon a nearby mug that was flailing about in an old, sun-dappled hand. Jikun kicked outward, catching the mug underneath and sending the ale sailing high into the air. A spear of ice ruptured forcefully from the liquid, racing through the air and straight into Makados’ cheek. The great jaws flew wide, bellowing in astonishment and pain. Yet the short, yellow spear ultimately had no more effect than to dislodge a few blackened molars.

  “An elemental mage?!” Makados hollered, his eyes wide and wild.

  They were offensively bulbous. Jikun caught the human’s hair, slamming his ugly face sharply into his knee. “I see that expensive armor assists you very little. Send Relstavum my regards.” And he snatched the icy tankard from the stunned patron’s hands to bash the mercenary solidly to the ground.

  The makeshift weapon would have to suffice. His more effective, Eph’ven weaponry was currently festering in a particular Helven’s boot.

  All the while, Eldaeus was dancing along the far wall, cackling with delight in the chase.

  But Darcarus… Darcarus had managed to accomplish utterly nothing and was now held pinned in the arms of the powerful Thamos.

  Keb and Coe flexed before him, their blades eager to bite.

  ‘Damn it!’ Jikun growled, leaping over Makados’ mildly improved features. He caught Keb by the roots of his wiry black hair, jerking him safely away from Darcarus. Unbalanced, the human collided with the edge of the table and crashed into the groaning body of his leader.

  “Against a throng of the living you suddenly become useless?!” Jikun accused, the waver in his voice barely contained.

  Coe swung about to face him, his dark lips peeling back to reveal a pearlescent sneer.

  “I can’t summon one of my creatures inside this place!” Darcarus grunted. He leapt off his feet, forcing Thamos to hold him upright. The leverage allowed the prince to slam his freed heels into the lower back of Coe. With a sharp snap of his head, the man careened wildly past Jikun’s salute and into a group of startled farmers beyond.

  Thamos swiftly redoubled his efforts to restrain the prince. “They would destroy the place,” were the last words Darcarus managed before he was folded over and his athletic escapades ceased. The burly man flared his nostrils warningly. Then his eyes flickered ever so slightly to the right, out into the room behind the general.

  Jikun instinctively erected a wall of frozen water at his back and heard the immediate clang of steel. “Almost,” he mused softly as he forced his fury into the puddle of ale between them.

  A stalagmite punctured instantly from the center and straight through Thamos’ calf.

  “GAHHHH!” the huge man screeched, flingin
g himself into the busty blond who pummeled him sharply with her empty tray.

  Darcarus scrambled safely to Jikun’s side. The clamor of the tavern had hushed. The entirety of the room had united to watch the fight unfolding in the corner.

  Makados’ voice rang out in a gargled squall. “He’s an elemental mage! Watch yourselves!” But as Thamos clutched the great spear of ice jutting from his thigh, the warning seemed rather unnecessary—if not subtly insulting.

  Darcarus snatched Jikun’s cloak and gave him a thrust toward the stairs. His gloating would have to be postponed. “Well done, now let’s go!”

  Eldaeus had already reached the staircase and was beckoning them excitedly to his side. Harbesh and Kei lay in a tangled heap, one apparently bleeding from a self-inflicted wound.

  Jikun sprinted past, catching the Faraven by the leather as he went. The stairs behind them grew slick and wet with ice. There was a crash as the pursuing Coe was sent tumbling down into his ally. A well-placed shaft of ice prevented any further attempts to rise.

  Or bear children.

  “Damn it! Around! Go around the building!” Harbesh swore as he staggered upon the first step.

  An immediate sheet of ice expanded across the floor around them, transforming their attempts to retreat into comical collisions with half-full mugs and clattering chairs.

  “Your bow—use your bow!” Makados countered in desperation, but Jikun and his allies were already lost beyond the hall.

  Eldaeus slammed the door behind them, dancing madly from foot to foot, screaming for the enemies below to come and engage in a bitter duel to the death. Jikun and Darcarus made for their belongings and secured a rope swiftly to the leg of the wooden cot. A moment later—to Eldaeus’ great disappointment—they descended into the thick snow outside their window.

  “Our horses,” Darcarus barked as he raced for their stalled mounts.

  Jikun’s grey hand pressed against his hip where a small, glass vial had shattered. He swore quietly in agreement. Relstavum’s useless lackeys had only spurred him onward.

  Icy wind tore by them, sweeping in great gusts of snow. That was their path—northward, away from the wretched inn and into the heart of winter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Water fell from the void in a steady shower. It ran along the crevices of the rocks and poured steadily into the little pool at the back of Jerah’s hole in the mountain. In its trail it left the rich scent of the forest, as though it had picked up the leaves and dirt and sprinkled them like water across the canyons.

  Jerah drew his tattered wings around his body, shifting away from the grey and dismal void to stop by the side of the strange creature he had taken in. It was deeply asleep, curled tightly into a ball on one of the only remaining dry patches.

  Jerah crouched down beside it, wondering if it would remain awake for even longer that day. It had been staying awake for longer and longer each time it awoke, but its angry and cautious behavior had remained unchanged.

  Jerah scratched the base of his right horn and wiped the rain off the tip of his nose. “You are scared,” he reasoned, patting it on the head. He paused, warily watching its eyelids for the deepness of its sleep. When they shifted once, he excitedly moved his hand down the creature’s head to the display of colorful locks spread across the ground.

  Jerah raised a red clump up and slid it across his hand. It was red all the way to its head! How did it get it to be red? He dropped the lock and raised a short chunk of orange hair, pulling slightly at the creature’s head in wonder. The orange, too, grew straight from its head!

  Then Jerah dropped it in mild disappointment. Why did it get such wonderful colors in its black hair, but all Jerah got was brown everywhere? He reached for his own long and tangled hair, glaring at it resentfully. “Boring,” he rebuked it. He extracted a twig from a tangle before he let it drop heavily against his shoulder.

  Ah well, it could not be changed. At least Jerah had nicer skin. He ran a hand down his arm with a proud nod and raised his chin in defiance to the creature’s superior hair. “You have ugly skin,” he told it with a huff.

  And then he gasped, recalling his master’s response to such behavior. ‘You asshole, Jerah!’ he growled at himself. He dropped his hand from his own arm and hesitantly reached out to touch the creature in a gesture of apology. He stopped. No, the creature would be far angrier if he tried to touch it.

  He looked at his half-burned pant leg. It seemed to him that when the creature was frightened or angry, fire would light on Jerah’s pants. And not just the red ones he had tossed away. Apparently, on any pants. And touching was one of the creature’s firm “noes.”

  Jerah put a hand to his groin subconsciously and slid slightly away. This fire seemed like a rather dangerous power to have.

  “You mustn’t get so wrathful,” he rebuked the sleeping creature, imitating the tone of his master. “Patience, my dear…” he trailed off. My dear what? Master had always said Jerah. But he was Jerah. “You need… a name.” His eyes widened. Not just a race. A name. Jerah excitedly scooted closer. Why, he had never gotten to name anything before!

  How had Master chosen his name? What was Jerah? It was not a word he had heard before. Nor a collection of words. Did it mean something? Was it a good name? He frowned, perplexed at how little he knew about his own name.

  The creature’s yellow eyes fluttered open and Jerah quickly scooted farther away. Better not get too close. It didn’t like that.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, offering up a thin piece of meat. It had torched the food Jerah had given it the day before, so Jerah could only assume it preferred its food to be cooked. He raised the stolen meat a little higher to make sure the creature could see that this was a fine piece of meat. “This is another cooked one from town,” he informed the creature, just in case this fact was not apparent. He set it down on the cold ground. “Oh, see how delicious that looks. Mmm. Mmm. Eat it up before someone else gets it first!”

  The creature narrowed its yellow eyes and reached over cautiously, watching Jerah all the while as its thin fingers locked onto the meat and slid the chunk away. When it seemed to determine Jerah would remain where he was, it ripped off a soft, tiny piece and put it deep into its mouth.

  “It must be difficult to chew with those teeth missing,” Jerah said, getting comfortable. “Oh. I don’t know if you want this back, but I found one of your teeth when I met you…” He fidgeted with his pockets and paused. “Oh… Never mind. They were in the red pants. But you torched those so I threw them off the mountain.”

  The creature hissed in response and Jerah retreated farther in an attempt to pacify it. The creature seemed somewhat more comfortable with this distance and even took a moment to look away. It examined a wound on its wrist, studying it with what appeared to be an almost thoughtful expression.

  “I was thinking,” Jerah spoke, carrying on as the creature once more began to eat, “that instead of figuring out what you are, I shall give you a name.” He tapped his chest proudly. “I am Jerah.”

  The creature hissed again, taking a bite of its food in what Jerah thought seemed like a rather irritable way. It lowered its head, black hair falling to shade its face.

  Jerah lifted a strand of his own hair with a frown. The creature’s hair was so… smooth and soft. Like his master’s. But Jerah’s hair… was rough and knotted. Could his hair also be as theirs was? He ran a talon slowly along the ends, pulling at it gently.

  The creature paused its eating, meaty juices dribbling down its narrow, broken chin. It raised a brow, head cocked slightly to the left.

  Jerah could see its focused gaze from the corner of his vision. ‘It likes watching this,’ he thought, marveling at how simple it was. He gave his hair another tug to amuse the creature.

  It snorted and looked away.

  Jerah frowned, dropping his hair. Right, he was going to name it. He scratched his chin, pondering the creature’s nature.

  “You are very… wrathfu
l,” he spoke after a moment.

  The creature licked all about its fingers with a sharp, red tongue, seemingly ignoring him. Jerah cocked his head in interest.

  “As I was saying,” he clapped his hands together to refocus. “Wrathful. But that is not special. That is not a special name. So I shall call you…” He slowly turned the word over in his mind. What names did he know? Kinraeus, Sairel, Jerah, Master, Hairem, Ilsevel, Saebellus… “Wrath…er…us. Wratherus.” He leaned forward in his excitement. “You are Wratherus!”

  The creature’s eyes shrank to narrow, black slits, and it let out an earsplitting screech.

  Jerah felt a familiar warmth tingle his skin. Without looking down, he smacked a hand upon his pant leg. “I am Jerah. You are Wratherus.”

  The creature let out another screech and dug its nails into the meat clutched tightly in its dark, thin hands.

  “Wratherus, that is enough screeching. You are hurting my ears,” he spoke firmly.

  The creature rubbed the tip of its pointed ear and then let out a soft hiss. Then, with a soft jut of its lower jaw, it took a slow bite.

  Jerah’s face lit up at the obedient silence and he smiled. “That’s a good Wratherus.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I should not be here…’ Navon thought as he watched the line of men creep along beneath the overhanging icicles.

  At least, they fancied themselves creeping. They were hunkered into the shadows, smashed together at the shoulders… but they were also muttering and bickering as they trampled toes and breathed white clouds over each other’s ears.

  The night was still and cold, the type of night on Sevrigel fit for slipping out of one’s tent to practice death spells on unsuspecting forest creatures.

  But that was not the way of these humans. A league to the west of the bustling city of Danesland, the king’s army was still sorting through new recruits. The only sneaking about after curfew that was warranted in the book of such men was for a drink and a luscious woman.