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.”

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 against

outwards in clouds of red mist. Bodies fell like corpses cut from nooses, tightly packed and uncountable. They landed on the ground, truly dead… but the roots

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

our 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,

I’ll be in there, Argrave wished to

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 with inhuman finesse. Even those spells he could not dodge—namely, the lightning magic—did not

rushed forth to confront him. His aflame mace seemed to trivialize his foes. Their shields of steel would crumple like thin tin when

sound that never once seemed able to 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 kingdom and given equipment enchanted to the highest possible modern standards. They were more than that, too—the waxpox made

his companions close at hand. The battle raged louder and louder as more joined. They quickly dealt with what few

constant trickle of dead pouring from the roots. “After me,” he shouted, stepping forth. “Waste

dead were not simple undead—they had a sole strategist behind them, and as Argrave 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

Giantkillers. Lightning magic was the perfect counter to

hit by a stray arrow in his helmet’s cheek, and he stumbled. Argrave slowed for his companion, but Galamon grabbed him beneath his armpit and hefted him up, and the

things you gave me at

towering tree block them. Argrave looked to Anneliese. She understood his meaning without

spirals, casting aside the crowd of dead with ease. Argrave looked back in time to see Silvic pulling her arm free from the ground, roots retracting back

made it to the plethora of tangled roots at the foot of

being exerted upon it. Then, the roots, the largest of which were twice

a path of woven wicker stretched on into darkness. Argrave conjured spell light, then said, “Move quickly. Once we’re in, the dead

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