Jackal Among Snakes

The staves of the tephramancers beat down upon the soil of the earth, sending an echoing boom out into the world. It was a marching drum of war that stirred the spirit and could be felt for miles. Every time their rods met the ground, the basalt storm about them whirled faster, then died down until the next drum came. In the darkness of night, the black mass about hid their advance. The only sign of their approach was the rumbling noise erupting from the beaten magic.

Argrave could feel it pounding in his soul. The drumming was heavier than his heartbeat, heavier than the giant bear at their side, and heavier than fear. It sounded as though some giant, four-legged monstrosity had been freed on the earth and ran to hunt its prey with the primal rhythm of a predator. But just as much as that sound emboldened the alabaster warriors of the tribes of Vysenn, so too did it spur Argrave’s steps ahead.

They crested a hill and set eyes upon a great horde of troops—their troops, Argrave reflected. And his banner—the sun, with four snake heads emerging from its rays—hung in the sky, repeated again and again and again. And so, Argrave called out, “Only a little further!”

But his words were unnecessary, and his colleagues rushed past him as they headed for the army. It might be a dangerous proposition to approach an encampment so quickly, but Argrave had sent foreword. They headed for where the torches were thickest. Soon enough, people shouted. In a blur, Argrave exchanged words with several people, getting his point across as quickly as he could. And before long…

“Argrave!” he heard a familiar voice, then turned to watch Elenore moving the fastest he’d ever seen her. Durran’s prosthetics, it seemed, helped her greatly.

“You’re here,” he greeted her, sparing no time for a warm reunion. “Have you any ideas?”

“None beyond what Anneliese shared,” Elenore shook her head at once, breathing a little thin as she came to a stop. “The soldiers at Castle Cookpot are moving. People are emerging from the mountainside—the guerilla force of the Unhanded Coalition. We face attack from two sides. We outnumber them, but… qualitatively… it’s in the air,” she said quietly, then asked hopefully, “Your force of mages…?”

“They march, but… it will be some time before they arrive.” Argrave looked out to the distance. “You cannot see it from here, but you can just barely feel it. That… drumming. The barbarians come.” He turned to her. “The prospect of a peaceful venture into Vysenn seems to have died on the vine.”

“Argrave, your pack,” Anneliese interrupted them.

Though Argrave was curious what she referred to, he did set his pack down. She rummaged through it and retrieved a white mask—the Humorless Mask, which spawned pure air mixed with healing magic. He watched, puzzled, as she pulled its strap behind her head and wore it.

“Elenore—your men will be torn to bits fighting against the tribals,” Anneliese declared boldly, setting her own pack down and ensuring her gray duster fit well on her person. “The storm of tephra—I have seen it, felt it, and I know its power well. Crossbowmen will be useless against it. Send them and all lightly armored troops to engage with the other force. We need heavily armored units and nothing else.”

Elenore digested that but still looked to Argrave for confirmation of the order.

“Galamon—you’ll take

hair with incredible speed so that it would not hinder her in battle, then pulled her hood up to cover it completely. “I know you are our leader, Argrave, but I see only one way out of this with minimal losses. Namely… with the two of us against the enemy, backed by the force

bursting from Anneliese in this dire situation. He saw the sense in

your ability here?” Argrave

“I do,” Anneliese nodded.

“Then… us, alone, against the storm. My

interrupted. “I think that you might find a better use for it. Hear

#####

their drastic orders with startling efficiency, largely because Argrave had sent warning to this encampment ahead of time and all were prepared to move. Though dividing

Argrave stood at the top of the hill. Anneliese held her hand out, and a great ball of light appeared from a spell matrix. It danced upwards into

Galamon headed them, five under him as officers.

of Vasquer, of Relize…” Argrave called out, then said simply, “Calm your nerves. I intend to make good

certain it had the intended effect. Nonetheless, he looked towards Anneliese. With an exchanged nod, the two of them stepped

crescendo. Argrave’s Brumesingers stepped down from their hidden places, their eerie chiming echoing as their warriors of mist mimicking southron elf warriors joined to march by Argrave’s side. As the volcanic storm roared to match the furious rhythmic

The war drums of their foes became the sound of a thousand horses running across the plains, and a charge of black lances surged towards them, seeking to break Argrave and Anneliese and all beyond them to begin a momentum that utterly annihilated. The spring grass and the earth beneath it shattered in the wake of the deathly force approaching, gashes marring the earth in their wake. The pair in front held out

thick—a simple spell of C-rank. The moment the charge met the wall, the structure splintered, cracked, and broke… yet it did slow what came. And by the time the

bellowed

so, their two spells unleashed. Argrave used the B-rank wind spell [Furor], and a howl like a crowd’s rage surged from his hand in the form of an unstoppable gale travelling in a straight, directed line. Anneliese concurrently cast [Rip Current], and

back like a panicked horse, its battle of force briefly lost to their spells. Alabaster skinned warriors, steadfast in their march, briefly appeared in vision. But

boldly, Argrave cautiously, and before long… the sound of metal boots clanged behind them. Galamon, his officers, and all their knights walked into the darkness of the storm of pyroclastic rock.

such a way to inspire a brash hot bloodedness unlike anything Argrave had ever experienced before—perhaps this inspiration was a part of their

rushed fiercer than the storm surrounding them. Whether individually or in groups, their steps never faltered. Five rushed Argrave, and the mist warriors of his Brumesingers rose to defend him. The blades of the elven warriors fell upon the tribals… yet their pale skin was as tough