Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave stepped through a pool of dark red water, the sound of the sloshing echoing out across the lower levels. The Sentinels were near, but they gave the three of them a cautious distance. The disgusting wetness at Argrave’s feet made his skin crawl, but he had to bear with it. There was a sense of urgency to his step that spurred his feet forward, yet the persistent aching in his chest made him check his speed.

Despite Argrave’s grand show of faux power in causing the canals to overflow, what he had created was, in effect, a scarecrow. Upon seeing the ridiculous, people were far more amenable to suggestion. Bloodred water flooding the lower levels coupled with Argrave’s leading words—his solution had worked for now, but if the Sentinels were to examine things closer, they would see Argrave’s construction was of straw and wood, not ancient royal heritage as he posited.

“Are you sure the scalpel will be where you lead us?” questioned Anneliese quietly.

“No,” returned Argrave happily. “Might be things have deviated. The scalpel may have been moved. If that’s the case, we will be… in an unfavorable position.”

“’Deviated,’” Anneliese repeated. “Interesting word. It implies a set course.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese. “You know another interesting word? Deviant. Stop making me out to be one. And stop being one yourself, while we’re at it.”

Anneliese laughed quietly, and Argrave felt some his tension dispel with their light banter. He took a deep breath, wincing when his lungs ached, and soldiered on.

“Some of the Sentinels are watching us,” Galamon noted. “They were assigned to do so by Alasdair. The remainder are giving us a decent distance.”

Argrave nodded, directing his companion, “Keep me posted.”

As they proceeded further into the lower levels of the Order’s headquarters, the water level slowly dissipated until the only sound echoing out was the squishing of their wet boots against the stone. They kept a respectable pace, heading into the right hallway. Argrave’s spell light illuminated the path ahead.

After proceeding down the hallway for a time, an opening to the side revealed stairs descending lower yet. Argrave took them, keeping a steady pace and ensuring he kept his hand on the handrail. He wanted to rush, but his feet were heavy with water and he didn’t want to strain himself.

The sights down the stairs were untouched by the water. The fresh corpses of Guardians, vampires, and Sentinels littered the place. Argrave did his best to ignore them and press on.

“Has to be at the farthest point, doesn’t it…” Argrave muttered to himself.

of the vampires in the Low Way had made those origins almost unrecognizable. There were strange paintings on the walls, with a crudeness likened to what one might see in Neanderthalic cave paintings. They were very obviously made

may have been creating these crude paintings for a time as long as that. But despite the quality of the art, something could be seen beneath each painting—a strange sense of twisted savagery. It reminded Argrave of an exhibit he had seen once: artwork made by the

other oddities filled the halls—sculptures, woodcarvings, artwork all and innumerable in count. Each were hobbies taken up by the vampires to pass the centuries. They were all wrong in some varied ways. Faces on sculptures were

noticed, though, that Galamon’s eyes lingered on many of the pieces for an especially long time. Perhaps there was something intrinsic to the art that appealed to the vampiric condition. Regardless, Argrave was

prodded Galamon, pointing to

had to tear his gaze away from a statue. He moved forward hastily, grabbing the door and pulling it open. He looked around

light illuminating the place. The scene was not familiar. There was an altar in the center, but it had been overturned by three bodies—a vampire grappling with two Guardians. All three seemed to have died together. One of the Guardians had been torn in three and scattered, while the other impaled the vampire through the head with a spear.

display case with a velvet cushion that had been splayed out across the room.

for a white knife. Behind him, Anneliese noticed something, and bent down to pick it up.

“Argrave,” she spoke.

blade no larger than Argrave’s thumbnail. It shone with red inscriptions, like glistening rubies embedded in elaborate weaving

excitedly, stepping forward. He held one

feel it,” she cautioned in

then delicately took the scalpel. And indeed, she was right—he felt a resonance coming from the blade, like the repulsion from a magnet near another magnet. In this case, though, the scalpel seemed to reject everything that

his chest, he felt a rising triumph. “Now… we can finally start getting the hell out of here.” He clenched the

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too thoroughly, scrubbing it clean with a washcloth as he stared up at the roof. His face was cautious and tense, as though whatever lay on the second floor made him greatly

know, of course, that the man in his room was not merely some well-armored entourage. The heir to the throne of Vasquer had gone through great lengths to remain in Elbraille without drawing attention. No—the innkeeper merely knew that there was a very angry, and very dangerous person

sat at a table. His royal knight escort stood before him, silent, as he tapped his foot against the floor. They were tense, as though

he said, nodding his head. “He’s the reason I’m still here, doing what I am… and I had to learn this secondhand?” Induen lifted his head up. “None of you were able to find out this information? No one knew that my half-brother,” Induen tapped his chest,

royal knights said anything, standing silently with heads lowered and arms

my other half-brothers—Levin, Magnus, none of them, no.” Induen wagged his finger. “No… it was the half-dead bamboo shoot. The weak-willed one. The

enemy,” the prince’s laughter grew to a crescendo, and then Induen

have strangled him there, right in Mateth.” Induen raised his hands up, emulating what he described. “Choke him ‘til those beady eyes