Jackal Among Snakes

The Supreme Myriarch commanded five myriarchs, who then commanded the officers of groups of one thousand, who then commanded the leaders of groups of one hundred, who then commanded groups of ten. It was a simple yet brutally effective military hierarchy, combining autonomy of individual leaders with discipline of a drilled army in a show of unimaginable unity. They were a force one could never take lightly.

And with this elven army came their gods, walking ahead like a divine escort. Ghan, the patriarch, walked in the front. He was a walking storm, and all that flew near fell victim to lightning conjured by his divine power. Deafening bolts appeared from nowhere, smiting any fool that had wings and too much loyalty to their god. The electricity struck without warning or obvious source.

Merata walked to Ghan’s right, dragging his crook along the ground just beside his too-long hair. The trees responded to him like a pet reunited with their owner. Argrave reasoned that might be more than a metaphor—perhaps it had been Merata that planted all of these great redwoods a millennium ago when these gods last walked the Bloodwoods. Whatever the case, all of the roots that had writhed out of place at Kirel’s behest scrambled to retract and return and obey the elven god of agriculture. He was their master.

Ahead of the elven army, the roots entwined together and then sank back into the earth to form a perfect path toward their destination. Though the earthenware ants were thousands and the titans they made enduring, Merata’s sieve of roots was enough to catch them. Catch them and crush them, namely. In but a moment, all of the ground forces blocking their path were forcibly merged with the earth, leaving behind only a wicker path that served as the perfect road for the elven army. With no more impediments, the Supreme Myriarch ordered the march. This path of roots continued as they advanced like a carpet laid out for a royal progress.

Argrave and his coterie were hard pressed to keep up with the relentless elven push north. He felt eager to help these people out, looking for any enemies he might use his magic on. Before long, however… he realized that it was unnecessary. From the beginning, they had one task alone—watching the rear.

Few of the winged demons made it past Ghan, walking storm and heart of the battlefield that he was. His lightning rocked the world in precise bursts, killing enemies while leaving even the leaves of the wounded forest untouched. The deity walked forward with conviction. Like a true patriarch ought to, he fought so that those behind him did not need to.

And what few enemies did escape Ghan’s wrath did not find easy foes in the other gods. Merata, the eldest son, ensured that all walked upon an easy road. The others dealt with any threats that neared—whether fire, water, the brutal physicality of Chiteng, or the quadruplets’ clever tactics, each of the elven gods protected those they would call Woodschildren with the ferocity of a neglectful parent trying to redeem themselves. Argrave just happened to be caught in the glow, he felt like.

“Is this what we deal with?” Orion said, aghast as he stared at the carnage around this procession of war. “Is that what threat knocks on the gates of our kingdom?”

Argrave looked around with him, taking in the scene. It could be said their plan of a feigned retreat to stretch the enemy thin worked—they were allowed to proceed without facing hordes of Kirel’s servants, as the Amaroks, Mishis, and giants inhabiting the forest were forced to fight to defend their land just like the elves. But without the gods… did they have hope of progress?

“Yes. This is what true gods are, Orion,” he confirmed. “But we brought them here. Don’t forget that crucial piece of information.”

whose kick slammed a winged monster against a redwood. The tree cracked, breaking in the center. The creature cracked far worse. “How can we survive when this

still grow stronger

in the face of these deities standing hundreds of feet tall, the words felt small. And looking at those who’d come with… be it Anneliese or the Veidimen, fearless as they were, or Moriatran and Vasilisa, Magisters at the apex of human power… none of them felt at ease beholding the terrible

was soon to come

answer no one else asked anything further. The march was fast, passing by in

became sluggish as dying trees struggled to heed his direction. Conversely, light became stronger, and the smells of the forest faded in way of an open plain. Kirel had left his mark here, closer to the breach. He wanted to

more trees. It ended here, making way for a vast

god commanded, his voice low and

of the forest, a thousand redwoods lay toppled. Argrave thought there were strange twigs atop them, but when wings fluttered he realized they were moths of some kind. Their wings acted as

They slowly gained form and mass as they bunched together, and before long a wiry

one of Kirel’s primary servants, his only match here would be the elven gods. The thousands of moths eating away the toppled redwoods came to life, fluttering around the Sprawling Giant like white petals in a

Anneliese grabbed Argrave, shaking him as a

turned around, where already arrows soared over his head to combat the coming threat. He had no place in a battle between the lieutenant and the elven gods. Instead, chasing foes awaited him… and though he was at the rear before, with their convoy paused he now stood at the

the druids, the Lily Lurkers, the Guardians of the Low Way, the Vessels of Fellhorn, the abominations of the wetlands, or the tribals of Vysenn. But in the face of this threat, he did not reach for the Blessing of Supersession. After all, he

flew. And with all of them in the sky, partially hidden between his fingers, he lapsed into his practice in the elven realms. He called upon his blood echoes. Argrave became three—himself in the center, two blood echoes on his side. He walked forward with

right. On his left, the other prepared [Bloodfeud Bow], taking ample time to charge as he engaged with the enemy. Bloodbriar spells were B-rank blood spells

Argrave with their spears as the [Nine-Tailed Bloodbriars] charged forth, each of the nine maroon tails of the whip snapping to intercept a foe. The tails met flesh with a nauseatingly brutal crack that seemed louder than thunder, and the first of the fliers fell. Each tail that struck a foe faded away, but Argrave

cracked through foe after foe. Kirel’s servants assaulted from the sky without mercy, and he gave no quarter in kind. They sundered the flesh of harpies and tore into the bodies of flying archers. Dive bombing bats tried to end him, but Artur’s enchantments proved able to ward them off, deflecting the bats with wind. The giant moths joined the fray at some point, and though the moths were lightning-fast the