Jackal Among Snakes

“Such a cruel world,” said a deep voice in lamentation. “That the gods should take these hands from you… it is their test. You must stay strong.”

Orion wrapped a bandage around the disease-ridden hand of a farmer. The man, likely a common laborer, laid on the floor in a simple mat of blankets. His skin was bloated and waxy. Orion knelt by his side, long black hair bound in a single braid behind him. Throughout the rest of the simple warehouse, the royal knights tended to the other sick. Some of them were already showing signs of disease. Orion’s hands, though, were clean of pustules or other blemishes marring the sick.

Orion finished wrapping the hand. “I have blessed you, good man of the realm. The disease is most likened to the pale fingers of Death itself—its dread breath cannot be reversed, only halted, even with the blessings of the gods. Until a cure is found, you must wrap your hands carefully like this every day.”

“Bless you, Prince Orion,” the man said weakly. “Bless you…”

“I am merely one of the gods’ favored, good man, but we are all their children. It is my duty to protect and heal merely because I can.” He stroked the man’s hair like he was a child, and then stood, plate mail clanging beneath his dirtied white robes.

Orion looked about the room for yet more people to tend to, but one of the royal knights stepped forward. Half of his right cheek was badly deformed by the disease, and his hands were already wrapped in bandages.

“Prince Orion. How much longer must we go untreated?”

Orion looked to the man, then reached out and caressed his cheek. The man very clearly wanted to flinch away. “This plague is a test issued by the gods. Just the same, my good knight, it carries their divine will. You are servants of House Vasquer assigned to me. You are an extension of my divine crook. If you accept their will, I can mold you into true scions of me—of the gods,” he whispered.

“Oh, gods…” the man said, nearly breaking down. “We’re going to die…” the man fell to his knees.

“If your faith is true and your actions righteous, death will never meet you,” Orion said with conviction, kneeling down. “From hardship sprouts greatness. Already, you feel no pain where the gods’ plague has touched.” Orion stared at the man’s bandaged hands.

“When it consumes all of your body, I will give you my blessing and name you the Knights of Moder, heralds for the virtues of the goddess of plague and rot. Your flesh will be as tough as stone, and you will know neither pain nor fear. Do not despair, good knight of Vasquer. Pray to Moder and her mercy. Though the people may suffer, this is your gift,” Orion preached enthusiastically. “You will help bring peace and prosperity to Vasquer and the lands beyond it, as is your sworn duty. Did you not take an oath to give your life to the royal family?”

“We’re going to die,” the royal knight said, face twisting in despair where it could—some of it was rendered immobile from the disease. The knight looked up at Orion. “You’re no saint. You’re a beast. A demon!” he shouted. Many of the people in the ward turned to look at them.

ill of a divine herald… a great sin. But mercy is divinity’s tool. I forgive you for your words. If you repent, and your faith remains true… you will someday bask in the warmth of the gods’ love.” Orion placed his hands together, eyes closed as though praying. Then, he opened

knight said, walking closer and whispering. He had yet to be affected by the disease. “I apologize for Will’s conduct. But I must ask… how much longer will we remain here? More and more refugees arrive each and every day. Nearly every single house is becoming filled with the sick. Your father the king sent for you near two weeks ago. All of the

head. “We will stay here until this disease has been conquered. This is my own war, of much larger scale and importance. Though the air grows cold as autumn ends and the humors in the air do not spread

to the knight. “Just as winter will stay the armies, so too will winter stay this disease. Come spring, it will sweep across the kingdom, killing multitudes more than any army might. If the gods thought my logic flawed, they would speak to me. I hear their voices ringing in my head. There is no discouragement. I cannot call myself a man of the gods should I turn my head at the dead and dying. Suffering and happiness are two sides of the same

between the door and Orion's back. Finally, his sight lowered to the sword on

us as guards—I suspect he could face an army naked with only a little trouble. To mutiny would be to die. He may seem mad, but he

angrily. “For some delusions of a knightly order. To save the

and women are from the northern cities,” the senior knight replied. “Most are from Belleden. Allegedly, even Belleden’s Baron has fallen ill with this disease. This plague is indeed a serious one.” The senior knight turned his gaze to Orion. “Most prophets were thought to be mad before they changed the world. It may be hard to accept… but perhaps faith in him may

offering it to them. The knight cast one more glance at the

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a plant’s roots from a farmer’s hands. The man held a makeshift pestle and gazed up at Argrave. “You boil these without crushing.” Argrave walked over and dumped it in an empty pot, and then conjured some water to fill it. He gave it

at making the poisons that Argrave intended to test tonight. The previous day, Argrave had outlined the course of action he would have the villagers take. This morning had been occupied with a trek through the woods, scavenging mushrooms, roots, and flowers. Now, they were brewing enough for one test of each poison recipe Argrave could remember. He had used the excuse of ‘testing this particular colony’s

to the harvest, the vast majority within the village did. It

said to Anneliese a fair distance away from the

that?”

his magic pipe, and the rats followed him out of town.” Argrave looked to Anneliese. “The village refused to pay him

he lead them?” she asked,

shook his head. “Into the sea, maybe. Accounts

she asked

a little tale designed to teach morality. Guess it’s in line with Veidimen

must have missed that in Veid’s scriptures,”

with the snark. It’s like a drug; too much and you become addicted.