Jackal Among Snakes

“Knight-commander, sir,” one of the royal guards said in a quiet voice as Argrave spoke to someone about sealing up this tunnel until the time came to deal with it fully.

Galamon turned his head and looked. His white eyes were chilling enough, but his size and proven skill made all of the guards beneath him both fearful and respectful of him—exactly the qualities one might need in a position of leadership.

“Speak,” he directed his subordinate.

“The king, sir… His Majesty…” the knight looked at the king.

Most of them had jumped at the opportunity to guard the man who would be king of all Vasquer. Beyond the personal glory and prestige of the post, they all personally had a great measure of respect for Argrave and his deeds. Their unit had a tight cohesion because of this shared respect. And yet, of late…

“How did things come to this?” the knight asked. “I mean… how did His Majesty know of this place? How did His Majesty know what would be within?”

Galamon turned around and stepped towards the knight. “That’s like asking your gods what came before or after life. For your sanity… don’t ask.” The elf turned his head towards Argrave. “I’ve been travelling with His Majesty for a long while—nearing a year after a little while longer. He is seldom wrong about what he knows. But how he knows it… that is a question you must content yourself with leaving unanswered, unless he deems it something worth sharing.”

The knight stared blankly, his commander’s answer only leaving him more confused.

“Right!” Argrave clapped, the sound and his voice echoing against the tunnel. “This tunnel is going to be sealed off for the time being to avoid any… unnecessary accidents. It’s a nice grave, but I don’t want to be buried here… so, let’s go. Galamon, you can inspect the garrison and whatnot, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Their knight-commander turned and dipped his head. “At once.”

#####

A large and burly tattooed man struggled with the cork on the wine bottle. His thick arms and brawny shoulders made the bottle in his hand look small. He unsuccessfully used his knife to attempt and pry the cork free, succeeding only in cutting away some of the brown matter. He sighed, a low growl behind it, then pinched the neck of the bottle between two fingers until it broke off quietly. He poured the wine into a nearby glass, then stepped out to the balcony where he sat at a chair.

“Duke Rovostar,” a voice rang from the room behind just as he raised the glass to his lips.

and had a formidable size to him. Scars lined his face, some from burns while most from wicked cuts. He looked more a

gargantuan fortress he’d been constructing,” the new arrival said. “Reports from local fortifications suggest their force is a thousand strong. Positionally, it’s a nightmare.

go, then set the glass down, twisting it about with his hand. “Weak stuff,” he muttered, then focused on

He was a middle-aged man whose elaborate facial hair only gave him dignity because of the rich

said with mock enthusiasm as he

this, you firmly herald him. Is this best

king… best for the kingdom. What an insightful

moustache. He decided to change his approach. “The situation is hopeless for us. Outnumbered both in terms of sword and spells, assailed from two fronts—not to mention, with

not dead. He won’t be anytime

stare mouth agape. “If the roots are pulled from the earth, the tree will wither!”

long drink. “He is

The count looked perplexed.

declared. “These lands, the fertile fields of central Vasquer… at one time, they were all crown lands, managed by crown administrators—our king’s lands, in essence. His Majesty gave them to us. And he gave them to us because we did as we were bid, and because we were talented enough to do more. Myself and all the

food. But then… King Felipe came, putting the land and its overlords to the sword. I saw it plainly—those that submitted were treated well, and those that resisted died most brutally. Hanged, drawn, and quartered.” Rovostar let out light laughs through his nose as though he was recalling something. “I decided I’d rather

beaten, duke. The king has been torn from his seat by

me yet unable to say what you really want to, is because of His Majesty. The men around you—tanners,

of Quadreign, His Majesty was the first to set his foot upon the warpath. He engaged whoever came side-by-side with his soldiers. Whenever that man made a promise, he delivered it shortly after: soldier’s pay, rewards, land, or titles, it mattered not. He’s earned our loyalty, our trust. So long as we obeyed, we were always given what we wanted. The

and time I saw it happen—the king on the verge of defeat, the guillotine hanging over his head. He’s been poisoned, buried beneath a mountain, and hurled into the

meaty finger. “The north will not soon forget the message taught in His Majesty’s conquests. That promising new herald of the crown is there, completing His Majesty’s project for Atrus. As for the south… I have designs of my own. The Margrave lives

#####

held dark secrets. He held a bottle in one hand—it had been the bottle that Master Castro had brought to this meeting chamber. The dragon blood within activated this disc and convinced all of the Magisters of the existence of Gerechtigkeit. The

it with his dark eyes, his shadow dancing behind him like a

eyes. His breathing was irregular. After a time, he opened his eyes once more. He tipped the bottle onto

ever so slowly, setting the bottle upon that ground as he watched to ensure that none of the delicately balanced liquid spilled. His shadow