Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave's boots met something other than sand for the first time in a long while. The ground beneath his feet was still black, though it resembled baked clay more than sand, and some sparse few plants sprouted from cracks in the soil. They were yellow or gray, though, all dead and decaying. The air was dry to the point Argrave wished to keep his mouth shut constantly.

Ahead, the vast dunes of sand began to fade away, if only for a brief bit. The first bit of civilization entered into sight: a giant wall of black clay. It was smooth and strong, standing about thirty feet tall. Argrave could just barely see the leaf of a palm tree poking over the walls—though, instead of green, it was black and purple.

“Maybe we can get a wyvern while we’re here, spare me an awful return hike,” Argrave placed his hand on his back. “Whatever. We made it. This place is called Delphasium,” Argrave turned around to his two companions.

Galamon held Garm, this time, though they had worked out a disguise for the severed head. He had been stuck in the back of Galamon’s pack and wore the elf’s helmet—it was far too large, but it hid his existence in a mostly convincing manner. A cloth, too, covered his head, so even peering beyond would reveal only cloth. To an onlooker, it probably seemed as though the elven warrior had removed his helmet and mounted it on his backpack.

“They rear wyverns here?” Anneliese questioned.

“Not here, no,” Argrave looked back to Delphasium. “The southern tribes that still rear wyverns live further south, where great mountains surround the desert. They’re the last bastion against the Vessels of Fellhorn, persisting off a spring in the mountains. Dangerous place. We’ll go near there… but we have no reason to enter the mountains. Ostensibly.”

“Ostensibly,” Anneliese repeated, as though asking him to explain himself.

“It would… be nice to have one,” Argrave said musingly. “You heard about Mateth, I’m sure.”

Even Anneliese could not hide that the idea intrigued her, but Galamon put his hand on Argrave’s shoulder.

“Look,” he pointed out.

Argrave followed his finger. Far away, there was a great black cloud visibly writhing despite the distance. It was no thundercloud. And even Argrave could tell that it was heading towards them, not away from them.

“Our first sandstorm. At least we didn’t leave the Low Way into this. Well, let’s jump into the water, so to speak—to Delphasium,” Argrave said positively. He pulled his duster’s hood down, shaking some sand out of it, then started walking towards the wall of black clay in the distance.

When they neared the wall, a smell that Argrave had been glad to leave behind in the Low Way entered his nostrils: death and decay. Fortunately, it was not an all-encompassing smell, but rather one originating from a place in particular. There was a dead body leaning against the walls. The dark-skinned body was male and unhealthily thin, ribs and bones poking out against the flesh as though trying to escape. His was not the only corpse.

There were other people taking shelter near the walls. Numbering near fifty, they were unmoving, each and all incredibly skinny. Argrave had thought he looked far too gaunt, but these people’s sunken faces and exposed bony frames were uncomfortable merely to look at. Their loose woolen clothing seemed all the looser on their thin bodies. Their dark skin was lined with deformed tattoos, the ink’s shapes distorted by their starvation. They huddled underneath cloth canopies held up by wooden stakes.

ward them off with weak rebuttals. The rats stayed near, waiting in the shade, waiting for an opportunity. Elsewhere, a group of four ate something—as Argrave grew nearer, he saw it to be one of the rodents. Nothing was wasted—they drank its blood for moisture, and they ate all of its bits, even gnawing on the bone

companions passed. None seemed to expect or want something from them, and despite their state, there was a proud warning in their gazes. Their eyes were the color of gold: bright, sharp and brilliant. Though they lacked the strength to bury the dead man, they seemed insistent to defend him from

far away, Anneliese stepped

are the southern tribals,” Anneliese

question in part, and so confirmed, “Yes. The Vessels won’t kill them outright. Against their faith, or some such excuse. Instead, they ward them from the town. The guards throw rats over the walls, directly into their camps. Enough to sustain them, but not enough

the southron elves

“We won’t see much of them, I suspect. They’re all but

speak to my distant kin. Disappointing,” she said, sparing one last glance

could help them,

eyes, but she nodded. Argrave hoped what he said was enough. His words certainly felt empty, even to

entrance to the town that he knew of. Eventually, they saw an established path—though partially buried beneath black sand, the

at the gate, guarding the entrance casually. Doubtless they were more numerous to prevent the southern tribals outside from trying to sneak or force their way in. They wore loose-fitting dark gray clothes with chain mail for armor. They wore traces of purple at points, purely for decoration—sashes, tassels, the like.

exhausted his supply of liquid magic from the Amaranthine Heart, yet he suspected there would still be two or three days before he regained his ability to use the

to attention. Galamon placed himself ahead of Argrave, ever the diligent guard. His presence was large enough that the guards looked visibly nervous—doubtless Anneliese and Argrave’s tall stature amplified that

gathered in front of the gate, and seeing their movement,

forward, using the spear as a walking stick. “State

town. I was told there was plenty of inns here at Delphasium,” Argrave stepped up beside

up at Argrave, expression mostly indiscernible behind his white mask.

an

guard noted, his suspicions somewhat abated by Argrave’s knowledge of a city deep within

you’re asking,” Argrave shook his head, knowing well the hostility between those in the Burnt Desert and Vasquer. “We came from further north, where the land is frozen most of the year. It’s why we’re so pale. Also

a wheezing laugh at that. “Alright.” He nodded. “You

violence, no theft, and no using magic within the city… unless you’re associated with the Vessels of Fellhorn. And

the back of your hand.” He raised his hand up, revealing a blue cross with four x’s on the tips. There was something mystical about the tattoo—it shimmered like sapphire

The tattoo marked a person as a citizen sworn to a Vessel. They doubled as constant monitors, ensuring those that broke the laws could not

his hand, gaze moving from between Galamon and Anneliese. “Northern elves, hmm? Rumor has it they sacked

heard the same,” Argrave nodded. “Didn’t confirm