Jackal Among Snakes

“Now that is done,” Rowe said, stepping in front of Argrave and his party. “I won’t be denied my answer any longer, Galamon. Do you intend to break your word? Has your time in this place of twisted morals sullied the honor I know you once had?”

“I’ll answer,” Galamon refuted, shaking his head. “Ask.”

“Then let us go somewhere private,” Rowe waved.

“No,” Galamon stopped Rowe. “Ask here. These two would never cease pestering me if you ask elsewhere.”

“Galamon ‘the Great,’ brought to heel by children not a quarter his age,” Rowe mused. “Fine. It’s your business, anyway. I’ll give our audience context, then.” Rowe tapped his staff against the ground and a white magic ward spread out, enveloping the four of them.

“That day they found you having succumbed to vampirism, your brother’s head was crushed,” Rowe began. “Most believe you killed your brother Berran in feral rage after he turned you into a vampire. You always refused to answer. How did your brother die?”

Despite the ceremony behind the question, Galamon did not seem deeply rattled as he answered, “When I awoke, Berran apologized for what he had done and killed himself. He used a wedge to lift a boulder, placed his head beneath it, and then allowed it to fall. His death was instant.”

“Then it’s as I thought,” Rowe said. “Your brother was coerced into turning you.”

“His children were at risk. I do not blame him,” Galamon shook his head. “And it matters little. Those responsible are dead. Dras promised me he would uproot them before he sent me away, and I know he kept that promise.”

“Who was responsible?” questioned Anneliese, a query which made Argrave nod in solidarity.

“The Ebon Cult,” said Galamon, his guttural voice carrying a pure hatred that made Argrave shudder.

“Aye. They were before your time, girl. Dras slaughtered them like the dogs they were,” Rowe lowered his head. “They were once the Ebon tribe. They discovered Ebonice. Some people abhor using the stuff for that reason.”

Argrave stepped forward, then turned to face Galamon. “The Ebon Cult existed in Veiden?”

Galamon’s pupils fell on Argrave, their whiteness seeming especially cold today. “What do you mean, ‘existed in?’” he questioned.

“It could be a cult of the same name—darkness, blackness, and other such stygian descriptors are trendy in cult circles, I hear—but the Ebon Cult is alive and well in Berendar, living deep in the crust of the world.”

Galamon grabbed Argrave’s shoulders, which dredged up some unpleasant memories and made Argrave freeze. “Describe them,” he said insistently, pulling Argrave closer.

Anneliese put her hand on Galamon’s wrist. “Let go, first,” she said.

took a deep breath and then released Argrave. “Forgive me. I need to

feeling a soreness where Galamon had grasped. “They’re a multiracial group, which is perhaps their most inclusive trait. They dwell in the old dwarven cities, whose creators have long ago migrated deeper into the earth. They use necromancy, shamanic magic, and blood magic, all of which

do they worship?” Galamon said

reality—not that that’s even possible. His name is Mozzahr, the Castellan of the Empty. I’d say he’s a

claim,” snorted

nodded. “Shamanic magic

teeth. Galamon turned his head away, silent. When the awkward silence stretched out, Argrave followed up, asking, “What? Does that name mean

unfamiliar,” Galamon said

like nonsense to me. Castellan of the Empty? What does that mean? Did he go to an open field and declare himself its governor?” The S-rank spellcaster shook his head. “I did not review what was taken during the razing of the Ebon tribe. Patriarch Dras might know better.

meaning ‘void.’ Hard to govern either, I’d suspect. We can ask him when the time comes, if indeed he’s amenable to

does

Vasquer in power. They’ve done us a favor by going to the dwarven cities, deep underground, but we still have to bury them. We have to make sure they never come out of their holes.” Argrave shrugged, then added, “In time,

every step until Gerechtigkeit

busy schedule, which scarcely offers time even to sleep. I’ve divided it into phases, recently. First, I solidify my power and deal with immediate problems—like Vasquer, for instance. We’re on that phase,” Argrave pointed to the ground. “Second,

the third?” queried

hands out in faux grandiosity. “We end

tightly. “You have the odd and decidedly dangerous habit of rousing my blood, Argrave,” he said. It was the first time the old elf had said

three more

boy,” the elf reprimanded. “Now, all this talk has reminded me of the duty that the Patriarch has given to me. We’ve tended to your needs, and after hearing your little speech, I can concur it was worth my time. That said, my task strengthens

am at your disposal, provided this won’t

the ward around them as effortlessly as

#####

a library everywhere you go?” questioned Rowe as he stepped into their dormitory. “Books here, books there, books on the bed, books on the chair,” he rhymed. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You

look nice, but I’ll learn all of these eventually,” Argrave picked up a spellbook and waited

books off a chair and sat down, letting out a huff of air. He

things have been settled with Elias thanks to your help. What could the unfathomably powerful S-rank mage want with the weak and altogether not-helpful me?” Argrave sat down adjacent to Rowe.

and Galamon, who took their seats at the table. “Patriarch Dras chose me specifically for two reasons—of everyone in Veiden, I’ve come to understand enchantments the best.” Rowe held up one finger. “And two: he wishes

knowing that, you’re here?” Argrave asked

incredulous expression, he added, “You try holding the line against the younger generations for hundreds and hundreds of years. There’s only one me, but they keep making more damned babies. Hard

of them.” Rowe shook his head, and then waved his hand as though shooing something. “Besides, Dras is reasonably intelligent. He won’t ruin things too much, and I can fix

had ceased its progress into the mainland, his business