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.”

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

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

elite archers, each and all undecayed as though they’d died yesterday and not

grew red-hot, then the mace itself burst into flames. “The fires

I’ll be in there, Argrave

a 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

of an invasion past rushed forth to 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

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

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

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

Argrave spotted a thin in the constant trickle of dead pouring from the roots. “After me,” he shouted, stepping forth.

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

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

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 tribal laughed

shouted. “If not for those enchanted things you gave me at Jast, might

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

spirals, casting aside the crowd of dead with ease. Argrave looked back in time to see Silvic pulling

it to the plethora of tangled roots at the foot of the towering tree.

her arm uncorrupted by the waxpox against the tree. The ground began 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

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

the first to press into the tunnel. Argrave chuckled despite the situation and ducked low,