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.

size to him. Scars lined his face, some from burns while most from wicked cuts. He looked more a strongman or a thug than a duke, and his jutting brows cast a harsh shadow

suggest their force is a thousand strong. Positionally, it’s a nightmare. If they march in force, we cannot hold many places for long at

downed all of the wine in one go, then set the glass down, twisting it about with his hand. “Weak stuff,” he muttered, then focused on this new arrival.

hair only gave him dignity because of the rich clothes he wore. “I think it’s best I

said with mock enthusiasm

herald him. Is this

kingdom. What an insightful question,” Rovostar laughed and

He decided to change his approach. “The situation is hopeless for us. Outnumbered both in terms of sword and spells,

He won’t be anytime soon. The situation is fine,”

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

long drink. “He is a little more than most

The count looked perplexed.

“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

in the far northern kingdoms in that region of Atrus that existed before Felipe’s conquests. I scavenged the 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

that? But… he is beaten, duke. The king has been torn from his seat by his son. And despite his meager

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

that man made a promise, he delivered it shortly after: soldier’s pay, rewards, land, or titles, it mattered not. He’s earned our

His Majesty wishes, you are rewarded. If you fail to do so… your punishment will be far crueler than 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

soon forget the message taught in His Majesty’s conquests. That promising new herald of the crown

#####

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

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,

tipped the bottle onto the palm of his hand, and the black blood came dripping out noiselessly,

slowly, setting the bottle upon that ground as he watched to