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?”

his head. “I’m simply wondering how

degrees on supporting my kingship,” Argrave plainly said. “The important thing

brow, and his eyes danced with myriad colors. “It was never

King or peasant, you can die all the same when the end comes. We’re all on the same level. That’s what makes it a calamity—no matter who you are, it

Majesty,” Grimalt greeted. “None of us can move the door, even with the enchantments gone

dusted off his

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

as they did. After a few moments of failure, he moved on to try using leverage. Almost immediately, the rock snapped. Orion stepped back,

suggest, “We

door cracked and folded inward. It collapsed onto

works,” Argrave conceded,

the shaking was even more intense by the wall. It wasn’t a shaking, per se—instead, it was like a bunch of sharp

stepped beside Argrave and conjured a ward above. It proved unnecessary—only what was beyond the door caved in. Dust filtered

once again and sighed. “Well…” he closed his eyes, thinking of the longer path that he’d need to take. Suddenly, he opened them

#####

the way, even with Vasilisa, Moriatran, and Artur aiding with earth magic. Argrave wasn’t sure if taking the regular path would’ve been quicker. Even if the regular path had been years quicker, Argrave wouldn’t have taken it. It was the principle—doing

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

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 past the stone and curled around various circular mosaics. At points, the roots seemed to be stopping the building

right past them, heading for the altar. He came to it and leaned on it. It had a

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.

a finger

dare jump into.

here,” Argrave said. He held up his hand,

to 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.

of this, and he inquired, “What exactly are

by the elves but used by the centaurs… your people weren’t always enemies, you

Ganbaatar shook

past. Offerings of life. I’m giving these things a substitute—souls. And

even if we do try the alternative—sacrifice—that

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 their fur, turning from jet to a lighter black. They were expelling the souls they ate, and

as if seized by something. Argrave

laughter as his grip tightened on the basin atop the altar. “I knew it. I knew it, you sly bastard.” He looked at Anneliese. “I was right. Gerechtigkeit was doing something