Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave reached into his duster’s breast pocket and pulled free a silver medallion. It was of crude make, with strange letters and a worn image of a woman pouring water from a horn. He twisted it between his fingers as he looked out at the gathering crowd of centaurs, using it to allay his fears. He’d felt it weighing on him the whole journey—a reminder of what was coming as constant as the bronze hand mirror.

When the half-man, half-equine race gathered in one place like this, they were intimidating beyond belief. Armored in steel, far taller than even men on horseback, and with bows that could fire arrows as thick as Argrave’s arm... to say the least, it was easy to see why they rivalled the wood elves, forcing them into that ridiculously organized militarized society. The centaurs’ bows were made for hunting giants—he didn’t care to test how good Artur’s enchantments were at deflecting their arrows.

“Why exactly did they scurry back home?” Argrave looked to Anneliese.

Anneliese stared ahead as she answered, “The elves block the entrances as we speak. The centaurs are deciding upon a course of action.”

Argrave winced and said beneath his breath, “God damn it.” He looked to Ganbaatar. “Might not get your wish.”

“My wish?” Ganbaatar repeated.

“The centaurs and the elves might fight after all.” Argrave looked away from the elf, thinking hard.

Ganbaatar shrugged. “I don’t care if that happens. It’s been happening for centuries. It’s why we are as we are. Or have you forgotten that? You, who used my customs to gain my trust?”

“Speak respectfully,” Orion reminded the elf, but Argrave waved at the prince to refrain from undue persecution.

Argrave placed the medallion in the palm of his right hand, then traced the rim of it with his left thumb. Finally, with his mind made up, he closed his palm. “Plan doesn’t change. If fights happen, they happen. So long as I can make the world whole, it changes nothing.”

“And if you can’t?” Mina pointed out.

“He led us through that assault out there, didn’t he?” Artur pointed out somewhat sycophantically.

Argrave stowed the silver medallion away in his pocket once again, closing it shut with a button he seldom used to ensure it didn’t fall out. “For now… let’s just get to the root of the problem. Grimalt, Rasten, Bastal—tell them to get ready.”

Some people seemed displeased the king could make a joke in the middle of such tension, while others seemed eased by the pun even Argrave would admit was bad. Maybe a polarized reaction was the point, though, for Anneliese was the only who could see how nervous Argrave was about this next endeavor.

#####

Argrave felt some visceral satisfaction as he watched the Veidimen boost each other up to a high ledge one after the other. Heroes of Berendar didn’t have too many of these moments in the game, but he remembered this one feeling particularly insulting. What was it, exactly? Why, a shortcut. Specifically, a shortcut that took the player from the end of the dungeon back to the beginning. He didn’t mind using them, of course. He was simply always frustrated that having knowledge of them didn’t allow the player to exploit them, heading straight from the beginning to the end.

Soon enough, it was his turn to be boosted up to the ledge. Once up there, Artur waited, suspended in the air as ever. He looked at Argrave peculiarly.

Argrave rubbed his hands together and sought an update, asking, “What? Have trouble with that door?”

head. “I’m simply wondering how you learned

Argrave plainly said. “The important thing in both uncertainties is that it’s working

his eyes danced with myriad colors. “It was never about you. It was about me,

comes. We’re all on the same level. That’s what makes it a calamity—no matter who you are, it affects you.” He looked to the side as some people pushed past the cramped

us can move the door, even with the enchantments gone and the armor bolstering

and then Orion threw himself up. He dusted off his armor—pointless, considering how battered it was—and then walked forward. “I’ll

he’d handle something. The people parted for him, revealing a stone door with ornate floral carvings. It had swirls and vortexes. Seeing the designs alone birthed nostalgia. The Veidimen struggled to open the door, using rocks to employ leverage or more simply scrabbling at a grabbable

a few moments of failure, he moved on to try using leverage. Almost

began to suggest,

folded inward. It collapsed onto itself in two split slabs of intricately carved stone. The prince looked

Argrave

when he felt a rumble in the earth. He held the wall to steady himself, but the shaking was even more intense by the wall. It wasn’t

a ward above. It proved unnecessary—only what was beyond the door caved in. Dust

up straight once again and sighed. “Well…” he closed his eyes, thinking of the longer path that he’d need to take. Suddenly, he opened them again, their grayness alight with fire. “We’re taking this path.” He walked forward, then crouched. He picked

#####

regular path would’ve been quicker.

was that it was far safer, too. No enemies, no centaurs, no nothing. Quick and easy, right to the heart. But the reason that Argrave was so nervous about this endeavor was quite simple—he was putting a theory to

of careful excavation, the path was clear enough to walk without moving more rocks aside. The Veidimen took the lead, scouting things out. They entered a great circular stone chamber with a high ceiling and a strange altar in the center. It was difficult to see the walls of the room, for the roots of the redwoods pushed

came Argrave and the Magisters. Argrave stepped right past them, heading for the altar. He came to it and leaned on it. It had a great depression in the center of it, making it seem like a big wash basin.

is one of my people’s holy sites, certainly,” Ganbaatar confirmed. “That altar isn’t familiar, but at times we visited a place just like this. Still, I don’t see how you’re going to make this get the elves to the bargaining table. The Holy Army of the Wind is the only Tumen in the Bloodwoods that still follows the gods. Most have lost their faith. Even if

raised a finger to his

the altar, the four of them peering down into it like it was a pond they didn’t dare jump into. He felt their fear through his link, and by extension Anneliese stalked up behind them, her arms crossed as

He held up his hand, a spell matrix whirling. It completed, dissipating

cough. Argrave felt pained as he watched them hack and cough, and his fingers gripped the edge of the basin altar tightly. After an unpleasant while, one of them lowered its head and seemed to retch. A golden mist seeped out its mouth, so rich it was almost like honey. The gas seemed thick and heavy, and

tense. Ganbaatar was watching all of

but used by the centaurs… your people weren’t always

Ganbaatar

centaurs made sacrifices to these altars in the distant past.

do try the alternative—sacrifice—that might not work, Argrave

they talked, all four of the Brumesingers continued to puke this golden mist into the basin of the altar. It spread out, pooling inside. As they coughed, the black Brumesingers lost some shade in

its lid placed back on. Then, the roiling gas stopped moving, almost as if seized by something. Argrave immediately cast a spell to command his Brumesingers to stop. Anneliese stepped closer, transfixed, as the mist grew denser and denser and settled into

something that he did down in the old dwarven cities, with the Ebon Cult. He’s helping gods escape earlier so they can ruin this place, make it