Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave looked back, seeing none of the moonlit night beyond. The Stonepetal Sentinel’s encampments was far beyond them. “Galamon… anyone behind us?” he asked uneasily.

“No,” the elven vampire answered after a moment’s pause.

Argrave breathed a sigh of relief, and then conjured an E-rank spell for light. It jumped into the air and Argrave’s eyes closed instinctively, adjusting to the new brightness. Soon enough, his eyes opened, and he saw the spell light reflecting off the gray stone around them.

The beginnings of the Low Way of the Rose were well-made, each stair descending downwards in perfect order. The pillars were carved in the likeness of rose stems, thorns poking out along their surface. Torch sconces were cleverly disguised into the thorns, but they had neither lamp nor torch in them at this point.

“What a disaster,” Argrave said, both to himself and his companions. “Flew too close to the sun, and the gods burnt my wings.”

“We should be moving,” Galamon said, unheeding of Argrave’s comments. “No telling if… or when… pursuit will come. We need a comfortable distance ahead.”

“Yeah… yeah,” Argrave nodded, and then they continued down the stairs. Their pace was a moderate one—a little slower than a jog. Each stair was very large, and it was difficult to proceed down them quickly. Argrave was certain that his knees would ache tomorrow. “In a while yet, the tunnel will open up into the real Low Way. There, we can reassess things,” he called out to both as they proceeded.

The briars about the ceiling and walls gave the impression the room was twisting and writhing as they proceeded downwards. Had Argrave not known the name of this place, he might’ve assumed the thorns everywhere were spikes, and this place the abode of some fell creature. Thinking of what was ahead, Argrave realized that impression was not entirely false.

“Rowe was right. I got cocksure, and now look where we are—enemies ahead, enemies behind.” Argrave shook his head. “The plans I had—up in smoke.”

“Neither of us questioned your judgement, Argrave,” Anneliese argued as she moved beside him. “The fault is not yours alone.”

“How could you question my judgement?” Argrave said interspersed with laughter. “I didn’t share it. I just insisted you follow along. Everything went so damned well in Jast, I thought the world was my oyster. Fat chance of that if I keep counting chickens before they hatch. Things went to hell in a day.”

Galamon spared a brief glance backwards but said nothing. Silence settled over them as they proceeded.

Anneliese finally broke the silence. “After Thorngorge Citadel, when I could hardly stand, you asked me a question. I will return it to you now, in hopes you understand the point I intend to make.” She pulled ahead of Argrave, stopping him. “What do you want to do about it?”

Argrave stared down at her, regaining his breath. After letting her words sink in, he slowly nodded. “You’re right. Should reflect on mistakes, not dwell on them.” He looked down the tunnel. “Probably getting close to the end of this stairway.”

“Yes. The air shifts ahead, and I hear the rush of water echoing against cavernous walls,” Galamon said. “Not much further.”

gray stone of the stairs. A horrifically potent and sharp smell reminiscent of truffle oil and iron invaded his nostrils, but Argrave shook

tunnel that led into the Low Way was grand in scope, its ceiling towering hundreds of feet above them. That, though, seemed small in comparison to the grand chamber

trading city of

a city of impeccable order. That order remained in the architecture. Several terraced pyramids held tall stone buildings, residential and commercial both. Stairways led from terrace to terrace and pyramid to pyramid, giving Argrave an impression not entirely dissimilar to a teocalli. These terraced pyramids were divided by large canals that moved beneath sets of stairs, each flowing

bone and flesh that wound in and out of the stone, flowers blooming at points that held the image of twisted faces. They had seen one of these ‘plants’ at Thorngorge Citadel—these in the Low Way were intended to support the

mostly clean, pure water, at points they merged with viscous flows of blood pouring out from a waterfall in the far end of the cavern opposite them. Over the years, strange plants had

horror. Even Argrave felt some, despite knowing fully what to expect. Few people save the Stonepetal Sentinels understood just what the Order of the Rose had left

here?” Anneliese gazed at the flesh plants in the ceiling. “How could anyone feel at ease

not the case, if you see something every day, you get used to it, I

“I smell the same rotten blood as in Thorngorge Citadel. It’s in

confidently but trailed off. “I know someplace that’s likely safe and secluded enough that the Stonepetal Sentinels won’t be able to find us… if indeed they are pursuing. This place is

let us go and reassess

the collar of his gray enchanted duster, then pulled

#####

Fire-based. Probably a dagger,” commented Jean, kneeling beside a body. The corpse had been stripped of its armor barring the helmet, which had partially fused with his face

helmet?” Alasdair questioned, standing at the head of a crowd of

priorities, old

glance at Ossian while Jean shook her head and said, “No. The enchantments on the helm are ruined anyway. Meant

morrow, he’ll be buried, the proper hymns sung

of the three that did this?” one of the knights asked, clearly emotional for the

not our leader. Why was this done without approval from anyone, Alasdair? You mobilize men without a majority vote from

and spat angrily, “You mean to tell me you wouldn’t

matter what I would have done. You aren’t our leader, Alasdair. Claude is. Until

have already

they happened to do so just before you stormed their tent while

creaking. “We should strengthen the guard around the tunnels. In pairs, something like

a minute,” Ossian interrupted. “It sounds to me like