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.

burns while most from wicked cuts. He looked more a strongman or a thug than a duke, and his jutting brows cast a

the new arrival said. “Reports from local fortifications suggest their force is a thousand strong. Positionally, it’s a nightmare. If they march in

it about with his hand. “Weak stuff,” he muttered,

middle-aged man whose elaborate facial hair only gave him dignity because

with mock enthusiasm as he looked

Felipe is captured. Despite this, you firmly herald him. Is this best for the kingdom?” he insisted

the king… best for the kingdom. What an insightful question,” Rovostar laughed

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 Dirracha lost to us… there are other ways to end wars than by the

king is not dead. He won’t be anytime

from the earth, the tree will wither!” the count insisted. “How can you be so unfailingly faithful to a

Felipe…” Rovostar took another long drink. “He

The count looked perplexed.

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

battlefields for years, collecting and selling weapons and armor for paltry scraps of 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 do that from now on

But… he is beaten, duke. The king has been torn from his

understand, Agnil. The reason why you stand here, gritting your teeth at me yet unable to say what you really want to, is because of His Majesty. The men around you—tanners, butchers, farmhands. We were all lowly, yet he evaluated us by talent alone, raised us to take our place by his side. He put

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

you can ever imagine. Time 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 North Sea wearing plate armor, yet still he lives. Call him a cockroach if you will, but he’s a gilded one,” Rovostar said amusedly. “And yet you ask why I remain faithful? Because something can happen only so many

with one thick, 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

#####

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

the bottle onto his finger to get some liquid, then put the dragon blood in the center of the disc. The eye became animate once again. Traugott stared at it with his dark eyes, his shadow dancing behind him like a twisted tail of some sort that betrayed his anticipation. The eye locked onto him, and he convulsed. His shadow became frantic and inhuman, morphing into twisted spikes and unnatural shapes. Then… it solidified once more, a patch of darkness

Magister stared up at the gray-green disc, then closed his eyes. His breathing was irregular. After a time, he opened his eyes once more. He tipped the bottle onto the palm of his hand, and the black blood came dripping out noiselessly, creating a puddle of inky liquid on the man’s hand that stained his already

the bottle upon that ground as he watched to ensure that none of the delicately balanced liquid spilled. His shadow wrapped around the bottle, shrouding