Jackal Among Snakes

Garm knelt down and picked a black rose from the endless field. He held it up to his face, twirling it about with his fingers. The black petals began to twitch… and then exploded outwards as a mass of flesh.

Opposite Garm, Durran panicked and jumped back at the unexpected sight. Garm could see his face morph with surprise, his sole desire becoming getting away. And the man did—he jumped back near fifty feet, practically flying in the sky. Garm had summoned some of his favorite creations, an Order of the Rose specialty: bats of flesh and skin, knives attached to their wings. Deadly, numerous creatures.

Fighting was different when souls battled. This battle was a representation of something their minds could not comprehend. It was like living in a lucid dream—will alone could conjure all manner of assaults, oddities. Garm had neglected to inform Durran of this, but the boy was sharp—he was sure things would be figured out quickly.

“Back when I was alive, I could make one of these bats with a single arm,” Garm called out to Durran. Voices reached everywhere in this strange realm of the soul. “Enough skin for the wings, enough bones for the important bits… I look forward to trying it out again with a different set of hands, this time.”

“Keep looking forward,” Durran called back, unbothered. Garm was surprised by his mental fortitude. He flailed about in the sky, falling. The boy was as sharp as Garm had expected, though—wind around him swirled, then morphed into a giant gray wyvern, lifting him up into the sky. “When we’re finished with this, I’ll be sure to enjoy it on your behalf,” the tribal answered back, vigor, excitement, and fear marking his voice.

“As green as you are? It’ll be some years before you come near my expertise,” Garm refuted with a grin. He held his hand out, a spell matrix swirling. When it completed, wind billowed beneath his feet, and he burst upwards into the sky. “That’s why you’ll lose.”

“You’re aged,” Durran refuted, wyvern gliding about. “Senile, even. Not a chance for you.”

“Tell me, then,” Garm began, his bats rising up alongside him. “What made you as you are? Cynical, bitter?”

“This is a fight, not a spar,” Durran cut him off, then threw his glaive at Garm. “No time for talk.”

“Fighting like this isn’t as you think,” Garm shook his head, then easily maneuvered around the glaive. It crashed to the sand below, spreading a black could of debris across the landscape. “Talk doesn’t distract. We’re souls, now, not brains. The least we can do for the loser is carry on some memories. I’ll remember you, to be sure. To prove my point… how about I break the ice?”

Garm sent forth his summoned bats with another spell, and the creatures frenzied to obey. They sought their target like a locust plague. Garm controlled them, talking all the while.

“Myself, I learned the world was a hellscape as soon as I was old enough to understand what ‘hellscape’ means,” Garm explained. “Parents dropped me in the canals at Nodremaid. I clung to the walls, not one year old—or so I’m told. It was a long time ago. Probably seven hundred years.”

Durran struggled to contest with the bats, casting impotent magic, killing one or two at a time. “You’ve got me beat there,” Durran admitted. “In terms of tragedies, at the very least. My parents were decent. I was the last and eighth child.”

Durran’s wyvern braced, and then spun about in an impossible manner, obliterating too many of the bats. Garm readied high-ranking electric magic—the knives stuck in the wyvern’s flesh would attract it, making aiming easier.

“But you were the heir to the tribe?” Garm questioned, sending a bolt of lightning as thick as a pillar forth. The wyvern howled as it struck its wing. “Unless your tribe has some bizarre, meritorious succession, let me guess—they all died.”

his opponent with powerful lightning magic, booms echoing out across the infinite landscape. Magic cost nothing but willpower—might as well use the expensive lightning magic, he figured. But Durran stepped atop the snout of his wyvern, grasping its horn.

suicide. Don’t know why, but I can guess. Guy was always a worthless creep. Without proof, without any testimony besides mine, the tribe left him unpunished. He was respected. They didn’t

morphed back into a wyvern, and he pursued Garm. “I found out, then, that if you want something, you have to make it happen. No one else will advocate for you,” he continued, wyvern rushing down at

“People that toy with kids, they’re

wind magic, and the wyvern rider was knocked off the back, falling towards

Low Way patrol about. These things,” Garm explained, conjuring a spell matrix as he landed amidst his field of black roses. At once, several of the roses blossomed into the Guardians

help you,” Durran insisted, collapsing just

streets, gave me some food… then, when I was eight, he tried to sell me to some High Wizard of the Rose for

a captivating, dance-like fighting style—he would cast magic with one hand, letting it hang in the air for a moment, then he’d cut the spell with his glaive. The spell would

do that?” Garm tilted his head,

with the Guardians. “Magic is in their body. As such, spells can attach to the blade, I found out. It’s a neat trick.” He punctuated his explanation by throwing the glaive still

safe. The glaive sunk deep into the earth, poking out the opposite side. Durran vaulted atop the wall, lunging at Garm. The High Wizard was prepared—he

He landed atop Garm and forced him to the ground, then grabbed his hair, punching with his free hand. The blows hurt enough to remind Garm that he was alive, and that he still

backwards with

we’re talking, I assume you didn’t get experimented on by that

explained. “They don’t really expect someone to hit them in the head,” he wiped the blood off his face, noting the irony. “I got the jump on him. He never expected an eight-year-old to know how to kill people, but on

“And you got away?”

was gone. “Some of the guy’s wizard friends came by

“Terrible lie,” Durran admonished.

was a damned great lie. You had to be there,” Garm turned his head to where the voice had come from. Just then, Durran lunged out. He conjured sparks, then swung his glaive. Garm ducked

me into the Order of the Rose because of that lie,” he disclosed,

and swung it. Garm had been prepared to grab the shaft, stopping it, but it morphed into a dagger midflight, cutting Garm’s throat. With blood pouring out, Garm fell backwards, and Durran got some distance. Garm didn’t neglect the spell he’d been preparing, this time—a great lance of wind as big as Durran himself surged out, catching the man

set in as the both of them

he rubbed his bloodstained, but healed, throat. “You got far too good

up, his torso still slightly gored by the powerful spell. He

of your siblings—what

and still, they fought amongst themselves. Absolutely moronic.” Durran rose to his feet, torso still a wreck. “But… they were family. Made the mistake

head. “Thought maybe I could do better by my son than I was done.” His smile faded. “But he was the one to kill me. My last student. My only child.” He stared at Durran, true emotion coming through. Then, as if it was all