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.”

beneath the crooked gate to the fortress, where the 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 subsumed into this great tree—the keep, the detached houses, all of it. Roots small and large marred the central square. And as soon as Argrave’s foot brushed

like corpses cut from nooses, tightly packed and uncountable. They landed on the ground, truly dead…

mages bearing robes with gray owls embedded on their shoulder, and elite archers, each and all undecayed as though they’d died yesterday and not years ago. One would not think them undead, for intelligence still gleaned in their eyes, and

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 as it

burn the tree down. I’ll be in there, Argrave wished

the battle began with nary a sound. The puppeteered mages threw fire, ice, and lightning upon

his foes. Their shields of steel would crumple like thin tin when struck, oftentimes tearing their arms free outright. Despite this, they only

prince blessed by the gods. They were too many to count—to say

royal knights of House 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

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

thin in the constant trickle of dead pouring from the roots. “After me,” he shouted, stepping forth. “Waste no time. Speed is our sole

and his companions neared, that strategy changed accordingly. 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,

running. Argrave and Anneliese dealt with the slower-moving spells, using their rings to conjure wards freely—as for lightning magic, Galamon caught them 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

cheek, and he stumbled. Argrave slowed for his companion, but Galamon grabbed him beneath his

things you

moment of pause allowed the dead rising from the roots of the towering tree block them. Argrave looked to Anneliese. She understood his meaning

of dead with ease. Argrave looked

the foot of the towering tree. “Silvic! Now’s your

itself cried out as though resisting whatever force was being exerted upon it. Then, the

finally freed her hand, a great tunnel that looked like a path of woven wicker stretched on into darkness. Argrave conjured

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