Jackal Among Snakes

In planning this assault, Argrave confronted a fact about himself. He was not eager to fight; he had no desire for war or battle. Anxiety led him to where he was—anxiety that, if he did nothing, his life would slip from his fingers, spiraling towards misery and death. Argrave knew the fate of the world, the coming wars, plagues, natural disasters, and Gerechtigkeit. He was the only who did. This knowledge, in his eyes, laid a burden upon him to act. Perhaps it was the only reason he was here in this realm to begin with. It was the reason he was here, today.

Time seemed to move slower once the druid’s shacks had been consumed in flame, yet Argrave still felt that things were moving too quickly. The druids screamed and thrashed about, consumed by chaos. They had been sleeping, and after waking up to flames, they did not act rationally. Some thought fast enough to cast water magic, but the effort was uncoordinated. Furthermore, the gas that Argrave had used was particularly insidious; it was harvested from a reptile attuned to fire called a Whitetongue, and the flames it produced burned incredibly hot. The temperature would fade, but for now, it was far deadlier than the average fire.

Both Galamon and Argrave stayed and watched Tirros’ building. The initial strike was pivotal, and because of the chaos it caused, it allowed them to retain the element of surprise longer. The druids could not coordinate properly. A few seconds stretched as the fires burned—and then, a pair of people ran out from Tirros’ shack.

Argrave heard a twang, and Galamon released the Ebonice arrow. Perhaps it was the potion enhancing his senses, but he swore he could follow it with his eyes as it whistled through the air. Tirros, an experienced general and spellcaster, had already prepared a magic barrier to block potential threats, shielding both himself and his company.

This was not unexpected. Argrave prepared Ebonice for a reason.

Ebonice was not a metal, despite being black and metallic looking. It was ice—magical ice hailing from Veiden that greatly interfered with magic. On contact with magic, it would dispel it. If it pierced a spellcaster’s body, though… their ability to cast spells would be severely diminished. The arrow they’d made was barbed—if it struck, it would not be easy to remove without sundering yet more flesh.

The arrow met Tirros’ barrier and the magic shattered soundlessly, fragmenting like glass. Continuing onward, it struck Tirros’ forearm, piercing deep into flesh. The snow elf druid staggered back, grabbing the other with him for support. The other druid cast a weaker barrier spell and moved forward, shielding Tirros with their body.

“He is hit,” Galamon said matter-of-factly, though Argrave barely heard it underneath the din of chaos.

The area around them seemed to quiet down as the Ebonice took effect—the roaring animals quieted, their cries lighter and more confused. Tirros was using a druid’s spell, [Progenitor], to give a portion of his abilities to the druids working with him in his scouting unit. Now that he was affected, they were all affected. The chaos, ignited by the flames, was expounded by the severance from their leader.

“Go for Tirros,” Argrave directed quickly. “I will follow shortly behind. Dispatching him quickly is pivotal for our success.”

go, chest swirling with slowly dulling fear as the potion took effect. He clenched his fists, grit his teeth, and pursued shortly behind Galamon. As he grew closer to the flames which still raged furiously, he felt the intense heat and the nauseating smell of burnt hair. There was another smell. It was putrid, but

he continued onwards, Tirros and the Veidimen beside him consuming his focus. He reached into his satchel bag and pulled free the last bottle, popping its cork off. It was cold, like touching ice. Tirros tried to use his magic with his uninjured hand, but Argrave could see the spell-matrix breaking

the wounded druid only cried out in pain. Tirros pushed the other away, directing him towards the approaching Galamon. The druid conjured elemental magic from behind the barrier—a spear of wind hurtled out towards the snow elf, but

the barrier; no elemental spells Argrave knew would suffice. At once, a red bolt no wider than a pencil tore through the air. After using blood magic, Argrave felt as

and the druid beside Tirros fell onto his back, struck squarely in the stomach. Galamon proceeded unabated. Tirros did not remain idle, however. With his free hand, he grabbed the arrow. He pinned his arm underneath his leg and pulled. The arrow was freed, but the man’s arm nearly split in half. Tirros shouted in agony, but he still tossed aside the

feeling spread throughout his entire body. Then, he

to dispatch Tirros quickly, he had always been considering the notion that the high-ranking spellcaster would be able to cast spells. Tirros, even amidst pain, was a veteran of battles and an experienced spellcaster. His first priority once he was free of the Ebonice would be to regain control of the situation.

likely call on elemental magic: a water spell with a large area of effect. Argrave could think of many the druid might cast, but his conclusion was that the best way to counter them all was with potent ice magic. Argrave had drunk the blood of a Winter Nymph; a very deadly ingredient, ordinarily, but it enhanced one’s ice magic, and its

B-rank magic, [Rip Current]. Galamon paused, and Argrave advanced in front of him. He held both hands out, and D-rank matrixes formed in front of his hands. He felt the chill of the Winter Nymph’s blood rushing to his fingers, turning them gray and numb. Argrave cast [Frost Wave], and

air. Argrave used another spell, [Wind Hammer], and shattered the ice. Galamon

but the druid beside Tirros that Argrave had attacked earlier had not died from the stomach wound—he interfered briefly with the snow elf mercenary, grabbing his legs as he tried to move. It was enough time for Tirros

grip. Argrave used [Bolt] time and time again in quick succession until the druid had fallen. The

magic lost its will. The sheer power of the wind sent Argrave stumbling, and the flames roared and twisted, redoubling in heat. Tirros was knocked on his back. Though Galamon barely stumbled from the wind explosion, his Ebonice axe flew free from his grip. The Veidimen mercenary drew his greatsword and

ground, grabbing the Ebonice arrow and throwing it clumsily. He used wind magic to send

with, Argrave did not lose himself in celebration. He whipped his head back around towards the roaring flames, proceeding onwards with breath surging white out of his mouth. He used one of the best D-rank elemental attack spells, [Writhing Lightning]. Even if it missed its target, the lightning would surge along whatever

attack with reckless abandon. The further he proceeded into the flames, the more his pain from drinking the Winter Nymph’s blood lessened. Whatever living moved within the flames, he attacked. Their screams of anguish were hidden by

the Winter Nymph’s blood, he retreated from the flames, watching for movement. Galamon came to stand beside Argrave, and so he cast water magic to begin diminishing the inferno. Galamon had an arrow nocked, watching everything

green, had been charred black. The shacks were burnt to ashes. The druids’ bodies were everywhere, charred beyond recognition. Some were twisted, still