Heroes or Thieves (Steps of Power 2)

by Sherwood, J. J.

  The escapade was straight out of Jikun’s tome on how to tempt the gods of death when not engaged on the battlefield. Navon’s eyes swept upward, eyeing Noctem’s face as it slipped out from behind the blanket of clouds to wash their little company of curfew-breakers in a soft, white glow. Jikun would certainly be proud of this game, but what was Navon doing here?

  Months ago, Jikun would have had to drag him away from the civilized world, but now… He had to admit that he was having a little fun. And there were no heroic personalities remaining to berate his childishness.

  The war was almost over and, gods willing, Saebellus’ defeat was nigh.

  “Fendrel, get back into the shadows, you fat clod!” someone hissed.

  Down the road, the two hulking forms of milling military men wandered along the empty street. If they had been of Elvorium’s Night’s Watch, Bryce’s words would have sang to their ears like trumpet blasts.

  “We are going to get court-martialed!” Walter cackled. “I’ve never done this! Don’t you feel alive?!”

  ‘Court-martialed… again.’ Navon glanced once more to the night sky, but now in search of hours and minutes. “We don’t have long before the lieutenant makes his rounds. If they catch us out of the camp—”

  There was an indignant snort from up ahead. “Well, if they didn’t have such ridiculous regulations, we wouldn’t be havin’ to do this. All for a goddamn drink,” the voice of Crewe begrudged. “General Bardolph can rub water hemlock on my cock. But not before I get me a woman. I’m not fightin’ the king’s war without tastin’ a little salt.”

  Navon winced. ‘By Sel’ari, he resonates like an uneducated version of Jikun.’

  The man at the head of the line gave the street a quick survey and then sprang across a patch of lantern light for the door. “Welcome to the Drunken Hyena, boys!” he crowed. “Prepare yourselves for a night of drinks and merriment!”

  The rest of the men forgot their need for secrecy—what little they had possessed at the start—and rushed to join him. Navon brought up the rear—just to give Sel’ari one last chance at having him court-martialed before he fell to the wiling hours of intoxicated human play. But there would be no such luck; the large wooden door clamped shut behind him.

  The Drunken Hyena was, objectively, a disagreeable dwelling. On the way over, Crewe—who seemed to be as familiar with taverns as the others were with “fine” ale—informed him that the building had once flaunted white wood, polished glass, and little boxes of flowers to don the windowsills. Possibly with enough sophistication to not make a Sel’ven gag at the mere sight of it.

  But all such niceties had long since fallen to decay. Now, the two-story home had been renovated into a tavern, and with this transformation came the neglect of innumerable human guests: the outer walls were stained, the windows had dulled, and the rafters inside flaked off as tiny bits of wood dust to flavor the drinks below.

  A respectable elf would never be caught within a league of such a pinnacle of human decay.

  ‘I’m glad there are no Sel’vi to see me here,’ Navon mused to himself.

  “Come on, Navon. You’re staring off again. Get your boney ass inside. All the way. You look half-a-mind to bolt. I’ll buy you a drink to settle you in,” Galter offered good-naturedly, nearly shouting to be heard over the din.

  It seemed they were not the only group of the kingsmen to slip away for better prospects. The assemblage of Navon’s own human crowd was gathered about Galter, waving sheepishly at their fellow units across the room. When they had finished their salutes, they turned every which way in hopes of finding that choice table at which to spill their own liquor and shout out creative profanities.

  Navon slunk slowly after his party, aware that Galter’s eyes had remained fixed upon his face.

  The man’s nostrils flared. “Crewe, look how tight his lips are. Bet you a copper you couldn’t poke a needle between them.” He smacked a massive hand onto Navon’s shoulder and jerked him to the front of their little group. “Two drinks, if you can make your lips any tighter, elf.”

  Navon’s lips faltered into a smile. “This place would not mark the first of my choices. Three drinks, if you want me to enjoy myself.”

  Crewe was still engrossed with the offer of a copper and Navon could see him rustling hurriedly about his pockets.

  “Three it is!” Galter agreed, ambling away to shove Fendrel toward a table beside the wall. The others followed suit, sliding along the benches encircling the precariously tilted stand. They crammed in shoulder to shoulder.

  Navon was the second to last to settle in, finding himself pasted between body odor and a heap of protruding bones.

  “What is your sort of place, elf?” Galter taunted as he waved for the attention of a barmaid. “The archives?”

  Navon hesitated. ‘Do not admit to that, savant.’ “I enjoy…” But he trailed off for lack of any suggestion that did not involve large piles of books or statues of the goddess.

  “Well, that settles that—the sorry soul can’t think of a single place!”

  “Nothin’ beats a tavern!” Crewe chimed in. “Liquor and breasts!”

  Navon’s eyes were quick to follow Crewe’s to the redhead by the barkeep. There was certainly the pinnacle of liquor and breasts. “I have missed the sight of a pretty female. Woman.”

  The men about him seemed suddenly at ease, as though those words had incorporated him instantly into their unspoken brotherhood. “Navon is going to get a necking, boys. Redhead by the counter. Look at him blush.”

  Navon felt a flush inflame his cheeks, but supposed it only assisted in his guise of sharing their barbaric interests. “If she will have me!” he agreed with matched enthusiasm.

  But Galter was not ready to let this opportunity pass Navon by. “Hey barmaid!” he hollered with an impressive boom, and waved a calloused hand avidly about to gain her favor.

  Admittedly, there was a flicker of disappointment in Navon when it was not the large-breasted vixen that responded to Galter’s call. Instead, the Helven grimaced as a rather thicker and heavier woman approached: the kind fit only for the human race. A poor elf, finding himself beneath her, was likely to remain there indefinitely.

  Navon heaved an open sigh and the men about him cooed in commiserating chagrin. “Ah, such is fate! It seems that tonight does wish me ill,” he dramatized.

  Walter gave a painful squint of his eyes.

  Crewe cackled gleefully. “We all came here for a little romp, and there’s enough woman there for all of us!”

  Navon gave an involuntary convulsion at the thought.

  “Here she comes! Hush hush!” Galter hissed over his comrades’ heckling.

  The heavyset woman sauntered over, swinging her hips to and fro as though she was unbalanced by the sheer size of her buttocks; the men on either side of her were forced to part lest they be trampled beneath her insuppressible gait. She drew up before the table and Navon found the sweet odor of elven meads and the sour tang of dwarven ales swiftly muted by the scent of rose petals and mint leaves. Even the heavy burning of the fireplace nearby could not quench her rather intoxicating perfume.

  And Darcarus had claimed that Ryekarian women possessed a horrifying stench.

  “What can I do you men for?” She leaned forward, placing a hand on the edge of the table to let the loose cotton of her shirt drape dangerously close to exposure.

  Several men leaned forward to give her a good sniff. And glimpse beneath the supple folds.

  Navon, on the contrary, was enveloped in the observation of how the table had snapped away from the wall and became, for a moment, properly balanced. “Black ale,” he replied absentmindedly. “Three pints for myself. On this man, here.”

  Several of the men managed to look away long enough to admire his audacity.

  “Make it four. I think this man is going to need a bit more of a prod to get upstairs, if you know what I mean,” Galter said in a lowered voice, giving the woman a valiant wink.
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  But it didn’t take two, three, or four pints to drown the common sense in Navon. By Ramul, if he was being honest, it had not even taken one back when Jikun had faced him with the prospects of his last night on Aersadore. But that was a long time ago. Scarletta… Navon pushed his first mug between his hands; by the time he drained its sweet contents, he had eased into the boisterous comradery. “I would take a woman like that, boys,” he ceded over their own conversation. “One wrong move and she’d flatten me like… But you know what? I think that would serve Jikun a well driven point. Leaving with Darcarus. I am constantly at his service and yet he tosses me aside like a used leather sheath.” Disgruntled, his hand clamped about his mug.

  “…Who is Jikun?”

  “Darcarus’ new lover…?”

  “Isn’t there some prince named Darcarus?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did he just say ‘used leather sheath’…?”

  “Well he said Jikun is a man.”

  “…I don’t think he fancies the ladies…”

  Navon paused and snapped his fingers once or twice, attempting to spark his mind to clarity. “What was that male’s name—the one in Velemere’s Tale,” he continued his ambling thoughts. “The one that got crushed like felsin bread by the troll. Thedofurn… Themodees… Thenuren…?”

  The soldiers blinked and exchanged cautious glances. “Are you drunk already…?” one ventured in amazed disbelief.

  “Jace. That was it.” Navon raised his mug and took several rewarding swallows. “You should all read more. I read all the time. The archives…! I would take a book over a fuck on any given day! Who smells like cow shit? Gods, I don’t know how you have missed such a story. Everyone knows that story.”

  “…By Zephereus…! That is his first one, ain’t it?” Walter blinked, leaning forward to peer over the tops of Navon’s remaining mugs. He tugged at the end of his charcoal mustache eagerly. “What’s he drinking? I want me some of that.”

  Navon threw his hands into the air before striking down across his own face to push the frayed edges of Walter’s mustache back down. “What a cultural pity,” he bemoaned. When Walter’s mustache remained indifferent, the Helven began to empty his second pint. “Before anyone else,” he began decidedly, “I’m going to have a romp with her. Right—”

  “You men! The table with the eunuch!”

  Navon directed his attention to the unmistakable address from several yards over. “Why…? That’s the second time since I enlisted…”

  Galter and the others swapped a glance, but Navon was too engaged with his insulters to translate the exchange. The beckoning men were seated at a small table much like their own little slab, albeit straighter and cleaner, and not crowded by so many stinking bodies.

  One was gesturing vigorously. “We want to play a game of fosmel. We need a pair. How about it? Wager a few coins? Drinks, perhaps?”

  The men around Navon hunkered in low to hiss across the table, but the captain remained fascinated by the two challengers’ appearances. The speaker was the larger of the two—a good head taller than Navon and twice as thick. His arms looked like massive twists of uncooked dough—round and bulging, yet strangely soft, with pockets of skin dipping away here and there as though his flesh had been severely seared.

  The man beside him was smaller than Navon by a hand and far leaner. He displayed a complexion as dark as the elves of the southern desert, but with far less appealing features—the most prominent being an enormous nose that threatened to block what limited vision his squinting, little eyes offered to him.

  ‘Why, Jikun couldn’t have described them any less gracefully himself!’ he applauded.

  “Fosmel—that’s the game with the stones, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I was village champion.”

  “No you weren’t.”

  “Hey Navon, have you played?”

  It took Navon a moment to realize that the hushed voices were addressing him. “Me?” he trailed off indignantly. “I know how to play—when your father leaves you with nothing you learn pretty fast how to make a coin in unsavory fashions. Jikun and I used to play whenever we’d camp outside a city. I taught him all he knows about gambling. Ungrateful bastard. He is probably winning coin right now without me…!” He cuffed the table in offense. “And is he using it to pay off his damn debt?! I think not!”

  Crewe elbowed Walter suggestively. “…There’s that Jikun fellow again…”

  “We got it,” Galter announced, swiftly drawing their attention. He pivoted to face their challengers. “Navon and I will face the two of you! Five silver and nothing less!” He leaned over and elbowed Navon sharply in the side. “Stop drinking so you can play, son.”

  Navon stiffened resentfully. “You could be my grandson.”

  “If you fancied women,” someone sniggered.

  Navon whirled, but Galter and the others were already filing free of the benches to drag him off to the far side of the tavern.

  *

  The game was substantially longer than Navon had previously had the displeasure of experiencing. Their human adversaries did not play like the men of Sevrigel. Five silver—or whatever trivial bet had been made—seemed akin to a battle to the death for the prize, with each shot meticulously nurtured and considered. Contrariwise, Galter thought that it was best to “just let her go.” He was a doer, and his doing was significantly worse than his thinking. Fifteen minutes later, he and Navon were still in the process of losing miserably in the crudely scribbled lines with their vaguely oval-shaped stone. With the assistance of Navon’s double vision, these imperfections did not help.

  “Don’t get cocky,” Navon bolstered some rounds later as Galter skirted the edge of the field once again. He eyed the well-thrown stones of their opponents, Bronwen and Hayes, venomously. He might have been the gambler, but Jikun had always ensured their victories… Always been the cheater. Navon raised his stone in futile determination. And stilled.

  A wry smile slipped across his lips. He did, after all, have magic of his own. And, having consumed a few pints, Navon felt that a slight edge was entirely justified. He was incredulous about being bested by the supercilious dough boy and his underling. …And wherever Jikun was gambling, he certainly was not going to win more than he.

  Galter did not catch the glint of victory flashing in his partner’s eyes and had begun to respond ruefully to the men about their own abysmal skills when Navon’s stone left his hand along with a few guiding wisps of necromancy.

  Hayes’ mocking grin faded and Bronwen gave a contemplative shrug as Navon’s stone slid into place beside their own, smooth as the grey tendrils that had carried it. “Bound to happen eventually,” Hayes consoled his comrade.

  “As I said before, boys, my friend and I have just begun.” Galter intoned smugly.

  And through his new and revised method, Navon found the gap between the pairs rapidly diminishing.

  “Look at that. By Galway we’re losing now!” Hayes cried in dismay, a dozen painful minutes later. “Straight up the middle, he does. Every time. Straight up the middle! Unnatural, it is!”

  Navon gave a casual, boasting flick of his necromancy-wrapped stone as he prepared another toss. An intellectual response had tempted his tongue, but this haughty display was decidedly more satisfying: his stone sailed up into the dim yellow lights near the tavern rafters and down toward his hand, all the while leaving Hayes and Bronwen to scowl contemptuously as he delayed his throw.

  “I won’t keep you ladies waiting,” Navon cooed smugly, and gave a casual flick of his wrist.

  Abruptly, Hayes’ skinny little hand shot forward, snatching the stone from the air.

  In a normal match, where Navon was not cheating, this would not have been a problem.

  But that was not the case.

  The wisps of necromancy wrapped wildly around Hayes’ hand before Navon could draw them away, howling at the unfamiliar master that dared disturb them.

 
; The stone dropped heavily to the inn floor.

  There was a definite moment of silence as Galter’s eyes widened and the soldiers about them stiffened. Bronwen and Hayes stood stupefied at the scene.

  Then slowly, a fat, flaking finger rose accusingly to Navon’s breast. “You’re CHEATING!”

  Galter patted Navon sharply on the shoulder as the wisps dissipated. “Well, technically you never did say that wasn’t allowed.”

  “He has an excellent point,” Navon chimed in agreement.

  Bronwen took a menacing step forward and flexed his bulging, doughy arms. A little vein popped up and slithered to his elbow. “We win,” he growled his implied threat.

  Navon glanced down once at the stone and then to the hulking human. “Well, now you are cheating,” he remarked calmly, inching slightly away. If he had reasoned the bursting barmaid could flatten him, then Bronwen could certainly do far worse. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Hayes sidle off to the left, but Navon dared not take his attention from the massive form ahead of him. “You said twenty rounds. Highest points win. Seems a bit—” Navon let out a bark of surprise as two spindly arms caught him around the shoulders, bending him backward. His heart flipped as Bronwen slung his arm back. “Galter, where in Ramul is your help?!”

  “I said I agreed with you,” the human replied indignantly, and out of the corner of his eye, the Helven saw the man give a deliberate nod to endorse his point—to which the other soldiers quickly agreed.

  Navon slammed his feet into the ground and pushed backward, swiftly forcing Hayes toward the door of the tavern, but Bronwen was prompt to pursue. “Oh no you don’t. We finish this here, coward!” And his massive, pudgy fist rose sharply in the air.

  Navon grunted resentfully as he pulled his legs tightly toward his chest. “Intelligence is not akin to cowardice,” he huffed. He kicked out, slamming his heels against the bulky chest. With the force of his thrust, Navon careened backward with the scrawny Hayes, sailing into the door of the tavern. Hayes croaked out the breath in his lungs as he slammed into the door and, as though the hinges were made of goblin iron, the great wooden door popped off its bolts and knocked outward. A tray of golden buns flew to the floor from the startled barmaid and slipped beneath the men, flattening with a squirt of frothy white cream.