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.

were strange paintings on the walls, with a crudeness likened to what one might see in Neanderthalic cave paintings. They were very obviously made of blood. Some were calendars, while others were strange depictions of people and the sceneries of

undetailed textures. Now, though, some of the paintings were unimaginably detailed, as though made by an artist who’d had hundreds of years to perfect the craft—and indeed, some of the vampires 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 mentally ill. Regardless of what was conveyed by the paintings, knowing who had made it twisted

vampires to pass the centuries. They were all wrong in some varied ways. Faces on sculptures were twisted, for instance. They were alien in the sense that they didn’t seem to be made

art that appealed to the vampiric condition. Regardless, Argrave was glad when they turned a corner, and he saw the door he was

Galamon, pointing to the

an unusually long pause. He had to tear his gaze away from a statue. He moved

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. Remnants of spells lingered in

overturned altar. He saw a glass display case with a velvet cushion that had been splayed out across the room.

through the glass, searching for a white knife. Behind him, Anneliese noticed something, and bent down to pick it up. She

“Argrave,” she spoke.

name was called. Anneliese held a white scalpel in two fingers, its blade no larger

held one

it,” she cautioned

in the eyes, 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 was

chest, he felt a rising triumph.

#####

up at the roof. His face was cautious and tense, as though whatever lay

gone through great lengths to remain in

at a table. His royal knight escort stood before him, silent, as he tapped his

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

the royal knights said anything, standing silently with

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 weak-bodied one. About as strong

to a crescendo, and

strangled him there, right in Mateth.” Induen raised his hands up, emulating what he described. “Choke him ‘til those beady eyes pop out of his head… fed him to rats…” Induen