Jackal Among Snakes

Galamon blinked his eyes open. The whole of him felt heavy, but it was considerably better than the numbing pain that had come after his battle with the demon of ice. That had been one of the fiercest opponents he’d ever faced, beaten only by the Shadowlander in Dirracha. But for foes that he’d fought personally, and killed personally, it took the prize by a large degree.

He felt a slight grip on his hand, and remembered that the last time he’d awakened, his wife had been by his side. He saw her there even still, and felt a sense of peace that he had seldom felt in Berendar during all his years of wandering as a mercenary. But he also saw two others sitting quietly. They wore familiar dusters and a breastplate bearing an indented symbol he’d come to know quite well—the sun-and-snake, Argrave’s personal heraldry.

“I believe he’s awake, king,” Muriem said, grabbing Argrave’s attention.

King Argrave rose from his chair quickly and looked down at him, Queen Anneliese waiting patiently with arms behind her back. The king said, “Galamon. You had me worried there.” He planted his hand on his wrist, then said vigorously, “Getting injured after big battles was my thing. I never wanted you to take up that role. You’re feeling better, I hope?”

Galamon focused, briefly questioning if he was hallucinating. Finally, he said only, “Yes.”

“Anything about these wounds I should know? Is this concerning?” Argrave continued, looking over him.

“No,” Galamon answered. “It’s passed.”

Argrave let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.” He sat back down in a chair he’d pulled up. “Provided you’re up to snuff… let’s talk about why there’s a big hole in the city wall, and why this out-of-place fellow is here.”

Galamon looked to his dwarven companion, Anestis. The man gave him very pleading eyes.

“I’m not sure myself.” Galamon rested his head back on his pillow.

#####

For the early game of Heroes of Berendar, warriors and rogues had quite the rough go of things. Sure, spellcasters started off very bad—F and D-rank spells could kill people, but generally a warrior or rogue could walk up and cut someone down far faster than a spellcaster might zap someone to death. Magic was a limited resource, too, by and large. Argrave had recklessly met Erlebnis to mitigate that fact, then pranced about avoiding battles when he couldn’t use the ancient god’s blessing.

But by C and B-rank, it was abundantly clear spellcasters had the true damage-dealing ability. The gap could be bridged with enchantments, and the physical classes were generally hardier than mages, but in terms of raw power magic users outclassed warriors and rogues by a good magnitude.

Berendar was, after all, a game—one class shouldn’t outperform another by an extremely obvious margin for the entire duration. The developers had to create some illusion of balance, even if it might not be totally so. And so by the midgame, options opened up for the mundane classes. Better

warrior—Orion. His strength was unparalleled, and using nothing but his body, he could conjure waves of flames, sparking trails, and walls of ice. This power of his came from blessings. They were a part of his being, however, unable to

which employed spirits to achieve devastating effects. If spirits were only available to

huge bowl of stew. Muriem was

as a sort of currency to me, once.” Anneliese said to

on the opposite side of the bed. “As a matter of fact… what happened was wasteful, dangerous,

someone with dwarfism like Artur, but a racial dwarf born deep, deep within the depths of the earth. Their people persisted even below the Ebon Cult, exposed to extreme pressures and high temperatures at all times of the year. Down there, the Dwarven Senate colonized the underground bit by bit. They sought to avoid the cycle of judgment entirely, leaving the rest of the surface-dwellers to

the Greeks of antiquity, and ranged from all skin tones just as humans did. Anestis, though, had rather tan skin that contrasted harshly with the pale Veidimen. The dwarves were extremely isolationist and took many cues from ancient empires

classes, and safety from war, Argrave might’ve enjoyed waking up there. After so long being seven feet tall, perhaps the other end of the height spectrum might enlighten him somewhat.

defended himself, the disdain on his voice bleeding

you still have

his

had four prongs in particular locations, each of which could be manipulated in specific ways for specific results. And it’s

dwarven device that collects spirits. The way that you used it, the spirits were processed and projected into Galamon’s body, where their essence was expended to give him a temporary boost of strength. Mortal bodies weren’t made for divinity, and so it burned through

his mouth, then lowered it

sink back further into his chair. “Yes,

spirits to empower oneself was infinitely less useful than using shamanic magic. On the optimal side of things, one could offer spirits to gods, earning their favor and

Anestis. He did not know this dwarf. Unlike Veiden, the dwarven realms could be reached in Heroes of

to make dwarven metals once more?” Argrave asked

great person. Then again, judging people like this had failed him in the past.

come for precisely that,”

the Ebon tribe returned. Lot of bodies, and more investigations… but no results. Eventually, I found a lead. It was fading fast, so I took a risk, went into the undergrounds. Went into a dwarven city. Found this man…

no dwarven city,” Anestis protested. “It was the works of our ancestors, thousands of years ago. Our

shutting the dwarf up. He looked back to Galamon and asked in exasperation, “You really went looking for the Ebon Cult?” He stared an unflinching Galamon down, then sighed deeply while rubbing his forehead. “Good

Galamon grunted in response.