Jackal Among Snakes

Swamps were never intended to accommodate grand fortresses. That fact became apparent as they pressed onwards into the mire of misery, the screaming mists and twisting grounds stayed only by Silvic’s protection. The wading water lessened, and they planted their feet upon dry ground—or at least, as dry as mud could get.

Once they saw stone bricks, the harrowing fog around them began to dissipate—that did not diminish the lightlessness, though, and when Argrave looked up, he spotted branches of a towering tree above. The tree dwarfed skyscrapers, even. It was a verdant thing with bright green leaves. The leaves had patterns on them that looked vaguely like faces. Closest to the tree’s trunk, long and thick vines descended, bearing bright red fruits that looked full of juice.

Though the crying fog had been a source of great discomfort, its sudden absence was just as unsettling. They passed by wreckages of stone; one tower sunk into the mud so completely only its top could be seen, and its ballista had been consumed by algae and other growth. Soon enough, the fortress itself came into view. It walls sunk and rose in random places, some towering thirty feet while other portions were barely a step above where they stood. The gate to the fortress was crooked, and its iron portcullis looked to have been ripped apart by something.

Argrave could barely see roots beyond the crooked gate. Orion, who’d been leading, stopped, and Argrave caught up to him.

“I can feel it. The evil in the air. It’s so thick I can smell it,” Orion growled.

“Ideally, you’ll be able to see it and kill it soon enough,” Argrave consoled him.

Orion looked back, and though the words had been a jest in part, they seemed to make Orion only more eager.

Argrave took a deep breath and clenched his fists. He still felt a little anemic, both from the battle on the Marred Hallowed Grounds and the confrontation with the gibbons earlier. Nevertheless, there was no time for him to wallow. He was sure he’d be fine.

“Anneliese, Galamon, Durran…” he looked back, but his question caught in his throat. They were ready, all of them—Durran with glaive in hand, Anneliese with hair braided back for combat, Galamon with his Giantkillers held tight in each hand. He could rely on them.

But they had to rely on him, too, he knew. Never again, came that mantra once more, ringing in Argrave’s head. Never again let your incapability endanger them.

“Let’s go,” Argrave said instead of his question. “Silvic, stay out of the fighting. I’ll need all your help to get to Waqwaq. We’ll wait for Orion and his knights to thin the foes… and I’ll look for an opportunity to rush in.”

trunk of the tree towering above them waited. Their party deposited their packs on the dryland, preparing for combat. The entire interior of the fortress had been

red mist. Bodies fell like corpses cut from nooses, tightly packed and uncountable. They landed on the ground, truly dead… but the roots across the central square writhed, piercing deep into the

embedded on their shoulder, and elite archers, each and all undecayed as though they’d died yesterday and not years ago. One

enemies deny them even peaceful death…” the shaft of the mace grew red-hot, then the mace itself burst into flames. “The fires of Gael’s justice will burn you through, my brothers and sisters, and I will cast your ashes to the wind. When I am finished, all will be

I’ll be

screech as that with the animals had. Instead, the blood that had exploded out from the fruits preserving the dead began to rain upon them, and the battle began with nary a sound. The puppeteered mages threw fire, ice, and lightning upon Orion as he pressed forward. The archers, too, rained arrows upon him. The prince dodged the attacks

confront him. His aflame mace seemed to trivialize his foes. Their shields of steel would crumple like thin tin when struck, oftentimes tearing their arms free outright. Despite this, they only died when their

overcome the terrifying prince blessed by the gods. They were too many to count—to say a thousand would be to underestimate their numbers, and more joined every second, pouring out from the buildings of the keep or the roots of the

Vasquer, chosen from the best knights of the kingdom and given equipment enchanted to the highest possible modern standards. They were more than that, too—the waxpox made their skin as hard as stone and numbed their pain utterly. More than that, they had been blessed by Orion. Like echoes of their master, they joined

raged louder and louder as more joined. They quickly dealt with what few targeted them, looking for any opportunity to

thin in the constant trickle of dead pouring from the roots. “After me,” he shouted, stepping forth. “Waste no time. Speed is our sole objective!” he commanded as his walk transitioned to

A wing of troops trying to engage Orion and his Waxknights broke free, attempting to confront them. Yet Argrave and his party moved too quickly, and

all with his Giantkillers. Lightning magic was the perfect counter to other mages, yet they had a lightning rod—and more than that, one that

stumbled. Argrave slowed for his companion, but

“If not for those enchanted things you gave me

allowed the dead rising from the roots of the towering tree block them. Argrave looked to Anneliese. She understood his meaning without words, and she prepared a devastating

Anneliese could, roots dancing in tandem with liquid light writhed and twisted out of the ground in snake-like spirals, casting aside the crowd of dead with ease. Argrave looked back in time

foot of the towering tree. “Silvic!

to shake, and the tree itself cried out as though resisting whatever force was being exerted upon it. Then, the roots, the largest of which were twice as thick as Galamon, started to coil. They whipped about, scattering dirt and stone everywhere,

woven wicker stretched on into darkness. Argrave conjured spell light, then said, “Move quickly. Once

already flooding,” Durran shouted, the first to press into the tunnel. Argrave chuckled despite