Jackal Among Snakes

Ossian leaned over a railing, staring down at the drained bottom of one of the canals. Despite having traversed the Low Way since he was but twelve in secret expeditions away from the senior Sentinels’ eyes, Ossian had not known the canals had a portion that could be dried entirely with the sluices. Why it was drained, or where the dried portion led, Ossian did not care to test. That would be a journey for another day, if indeed it came at all.

“…it’s been a day, Ossian. Rations are running low, and we can only forage the plants in Nodremaid for so long without straying dangerously far from the main group,” a spellcaster advised Ossian.

Ossian did not look behind as he questioned, “And no word, no sightings of Alasdair?”

“One of the Sentinels in Alasdair’s group confessed that he left to search for that severed head in Argrave’s possession,” the spellcaster disclosed.

Ossian nodded, lowering his head and slouching against the railing. It was impossible to discern what had happened to Alasdair with no evidence. That said, the circumstances moved together to leave no doubt in his mind. His own experience in the Low Way told him something, too: those lost in the Low Way rarely return if gone for more than a day.

As his thoughts crystallized, Ossian lifted his head and straightened his back. “It would be best to accept that he’s lost to us now, just as those that went with him,” Ossian said, voice neutral. He had never liked Alasdair, but the old man had seemed immutable. That he might be gone forevermore disquieted him more than he cared to admit.

“It’s time to give the order to return,” Ossian said, stepping away. “We’ll gather everyone, do a count, and—” Ossian paused mid step, something having caught his eyes. He stepped away slowly, walking to the other side of the stone platform they stood on.

He stared at another, separate canal that still ran with water far below, his brows furrowed.

“It seems…” he began, not finishing his thought. He followed the route of the canal with his eyes. The blood-red water changed in tone as his gaze wandered—from a dark, rich and gloomy red, to a faint pink. His eyes followed it all the way up… and then, for the first time, he saw clean, white water emerge from one of the canals.

“Gods…” Ossian placed a gauntleted hand on his helmet, feeling like the whole world was spinning. “The rivers… the blood…”

The spellcaster stepped up beside Ossian, staring out into the distance. For the first time in their memory, both of the Sentinels witnessed the blood constantly dripping from the walls slow and cease altogether.

“Despite all that happened…” Ossian gripped the railing tightly. “He knew some vampires escaped. He ended their long night, cutting off their eternal sustenance. No more will they live forever, sustained by the bloody rivers of the Low Way.” A fragment of stone chipped off the railing, drawing Ossian away from his thoughts.

Ossian stepped away, looking around the once-grand city of Nodremaid. “The true heir of Vasquer ended the Night of Withering once and for all. And after death… there is growth.” He looked to the spellcaster. “We must return, bearing good news on two counts. As for Alasdair… he died valiantly to vampires. Nothing more.”

#####

Crimson Wellspring in his hand. The light it projected had diminished

a diameter of about a foot. The ring itself was as thick as Argrave’s thumb. Eight resplendent red gems rested along its circumference equidistantly, each connected by shimmering red runes that formed long-lost enchantments.

no sense of the thing,” said Garm, leaning up against one of the pillars with the back of his head supporting him up. “This Wellspring is… beyond my ken, I admit, even were I not severely

having not expected much to begin with. His eyes wandered, witnessing Anneliese knelt down beside the corpse of the Knight of the Wellspring. Her thick braid of white hair was matted with blood, which may have worried Argrave had he not

head to Argrave. “I

to finish him off,” Argrave turned his gaze to the elven vampire, who cleaned his armor and axe while leaning against

Argrave began, looking around. “They’re High Wizards of the

each and every one. All dead and gone. The bastard who made me like this… can’t find

I do, Anneliese, about the Night of Withering, about

“This Crimson Wellspring—how

out, staring at the Wellspring in his hands. “Even despite

down at the body of Claude. “And what is

“There’s only so much I know about it. I know the Wellspring itself chooses them—it selects from the bodies fed to it. Other than that, this whole place is just a mound of mysteries, uncertainties. There

concluded Anneliese, stepping

Argrave assured, lifting his head up to look past her.

“They’re born of

shook his head. He

his feet, and Argrave

Galamon and Anneliese, who both nodded in agreement. “Tomorrow, we have a straight shot to reach the Burnt Desert. Claude spent all of this time hunting in that area—it should be safer than

Argrave feel like the path that stretched ahead of him was unending. He hadn’t felt this way

surface facing towards the ground, instead staring at the carvings on its

sight of the bronze hand mirror reminded Argrave he had promised to be honest with his companions

bashing his