Jackal Among Snakes

Once the revolt was suppressed, the people went back to their usual schedule with an odd sense of normalcy, returning to the forges and the mines that they had been operating with an almost routine disappointment. The disappointment didn’t seem to stem from the Vessels’ victory—that seemed an inevitability. Rather, it was almost as though they had been deprived of an interesting happening.

As Argrave advanced with Anneliese and Galamon, they were still treated to oddities. The aftermath of the fight left water everywhere in some places, but the puddles on the ground bubbled as though boiling. Miniscule drops rose into the air, seeking out their origin: the Vessels of Fellhorn from whence they had been born.

Argrave walked aimlessly for a while, observing the carnage alongside all the others. There were bodies to be sure, but most had been captured alive. The Vessels Drained them. It was a gruesome thing. The Vessel would grip their forehead, and then the victim’s body would shrink, their skin would crack and curl, and dust would scatter everywhere. The screams made it clear it was not a painless thing.

During these executions, the Vessels remained the picture of politeness. They would smile or bow at Argrave and Anneliese as they stood wrapped in improvised cloth to cover their nude bodies after reversion from their immaterial form. Their propriety served to display they viewed this suppression of dissidents as a triviality.

Despite their concerted effort to find Titus, they found not a hint of the man—not his caravan nor his person.

“If we haven’t seen any of him, that’s a good portent, no?” Argrave asked Anneliese as they walked, the water still dancing in the air around them.

“There is a reason I asked you to do this beyond the mere concern about his well-being,” Anneliese said, keeping her arms crossed as she advanced. “He was especially anticipatory arriving here… as though he had something large planned. Nervous, especially.”

“Meaning… more so than you might expect?”

Anneliese pondered that. “I cannot say for sure. Some people are more nervous than others. It may merely be a—”

“Red herring,” Argrave finished, pausing on the road.

“I do not follow,” she paused with him. Galamon stepped ahead, scanning all nearby warily.

“Something misleading,” Argrave explained quickly. “We’ve been walking around for a while now, though. Are you satisfied enough to move on?”

Anneliese sighed. “Yes. Thank you for your indulgence, Argrave.”

“Sure. Let’s just not make a habit of overindulging,” he said dismissively, turning. “We should get moving while the weather is clear. Don’t want to deal with another sandstorm.”

#####

Argrave fell to the sand, black sand billowing past his face. He held Titus’ compass in his right hand, while a spell matrix formed in the other. When it materialized, a thin translucent ward spread out, no thicker than a piece of paper, but the whipping sand ceased. Argrave took a few minutes to clear himself of sand, shaking his face and hood to dislodge the small black grains. Anneliese and Galamon came to join Argrave, cooped up beneath his ward.

Above and around, the black sand billowed about them. The sandstorm made it seem as though a thousand mosquitoes moved past them, or as if the night itself made to consume them. Despite Argrave’s insistency to move quickly, his haste had only landed them in the middle of the situation he had most been hoping to avoid. The ward abated the sound, creating an odd zone of quiet that was disconcerting when contrasted with the chaos outside.

“God… damn it,” sighed Argrave, out of breath and weary. “I guess we made good progress. Can’t deny I’m struggling, though.”

“Take off the helmet, please,” pleaded Garm. “Got sand in my nose. Shake me about.”

Argrave looked over, then stood before either of his companions could do anything. He lifted Galamon’s helmet off, and then did as the severed head bid, spinning and shaking the head about.

“Stop, stop!” he said at once. “Gods. Somehow, you’re the least gentle one.”

“Are you sand-free?” questioned Argrave.

“Yes. Just set me down. You have shaky hands.”

“It’s called a ‘benign tremor,’” Argrave said in faux condescension as he fulfilled Garm’s request, sticking the stake deep into the sand. After, Argrave fell to the sand, opening up the lid of the compass and moving it to line up properly.

“We’re headed the proper direction?” questioned Galamon.

“Yeah,” Argrave shut the compass. “If I could keep up with you two, might be we’d be at our next stop by now. Unfortunately… well, you saw.”

“Least you can walk,” Garm commented.

Argrave ignored the head’s comment, feeling that nothing could be achieved by responding to him. He settled down, getting as comfortable as one could atop the sand dune. “We can only wait this out,” Argrave commented.

The other two agreed and took their positions. Silence settled over them as people grew to relax.

Argrave stared up at Garm, rubbing his hands together as he deliberated whether or not to say something. The head was ignorant of his gaze, for he faced forward.

“Garm,” Argrave broke the silence.

“What?”

Argrave adjusted himself so that he could look at the head. “What are your plans for regaining your body?” Garm’s eyes fell upon Argrave, unshaking. After a long while without an answer, Argrave continued, “Because I don’t see a way forward for you.”

“And what would you know?” Garm retorted at once. “Some half-baked C-rank mage, never dipped a finger into necromancy.”

Argrave chuckled quietly, lowering his head. “Necromancy’s all but died out as a school of magic. The only practitioners remaining are criminals and exiles.” Argrave looked up to meet Garm’s gaze. “Not exactly people you’d trust with your soul… doubly so when they realize the value of what’s in your head.”

“So what?” Garm pressed. “I have nothing but time.”

“My point is…” Argrave sat cross-legged. “You will never be able to fix this problem on your own. You are limited as you are now.”

“Real keen insight. The severed head has limited options,” Garm mocked.

“Back at the Low Way, you said that you had to be adaptable,” Argrave recounted. “I haven’t seen any of that, since. All I’ve seen is a stubborn adhesion to this mire you’ve been forced into.”

Garm closed his eyes. “What do you want from me? Openness? Honesty?” he said with disdain. “I can’t teach you spells. I can’t inscribe them, in case you haven’t realized. I can give guidance for what you already have, and nothing more.”

“I don’t know what I want from you,” confessed Argrave.

Garm kept his eyes closed, and silence settled within the ward once more. Argrave recast the spell so that no sand would leak, waiting.

“Why did you come to this place?” Garm finally opened his eyes, staring at Argrave passively. “I can’t discern that.”

“To fix my body. I get sick easily,” Argrave answered after a moment’s pause.

“How?” Garm continued.

“We have to get one more item. The Wraith’s Heart.” Argrave flipped open the compass, mentally routing the path to Argent based on his memories of the game’s map. “After that… we have to go talk to an alchemist living elsewhere in the Burnt Desert. He’ll make me Black Blooded.”

“So, this alchemist promised a cure for you, provided you collect some artifacts for him. The Unsullied Knife. The Crimson Wellspring,” Garm tried to conclude.

Argrave shook his head. “Never met this alchemist. Few people remember his name, and he doesn’t know these artifacts even exist. But I know he can and will fix the problems I’m dealing with.” Argrave settled back comfortably.

“So, you’re delusional,” Garm posited as though he’d finally figured things out.

“Maybe. Care to make a bet?” Argrave smirked. “I know a little too much about a lot of things. What I just outlined… I bet everything will happen the way I say it will. There might be some twists and turns along the way, but by and large, all that I say is true.”

Garm furrowed his brows, but Argrave was certain there was some intrigue on his face. “What are you trying to convey to me, here?”

“The things I know—and I do mean know—aren’t limited to Gerechtigkeit’s coming.” Argrave leaned in a bit closer to Garm. “If you want some proof of Gerechtigkeit, I can’t offer that. You’ll come to know in the future, naturally, but I can’t give you anything now.”

“Because you’re delusional,” Garm concluded, repeating his earlier observation.

“Believe what you want. If there’s one thing I can’t control, it’s what’s in your head.” Argrave tapped his temple. “But there is one thing I can offer you. I can promise you’ll see some proof that my knowledge is genuine, at the very least. You’ve already seen some of it. You’ll see a hell of a lot more in the future.”

For the first time that Argrave could recall, Garm looked overwhelmed. Argrave laid down against the black sand, staring up at the writhing sandstorm. He kicked his feet back and closed his eyes, letting out a self-satisfied sigh.

#####

In the corner of a ridiculously luxurious room, there was a man with a rather large frame leaning up against the wall. He sat atop a bed, listlessly staring out the window at the setting suns. Despite the luxury of the room, he was extremely emaciated, his skin drawn tight against his bones. His hair was long and uncut, shining like blood against the sunlight. His eyes shone like two rubies.

The rattling of metal echoed out across the room, and the man’s head turned. He pushed away from the wall, moving to sit at the edge of the bed with a weary caution. After a long time of shaking, a final click echoed out, and a large metal door opened up.

A knight stepped into the room, each step slow and cautious. He came to stand in the center. For some reason, his breath was labored.

“…you’re not one of the guards,” the red-haired man spoke, his voice hoarse and tired.

The man removed his gauntlet and pulled free a dagger. He took two unsteady steps forward.

“I see,” said the man sitting. “You’re here to kill me.”

“Don’t make any noise,” the knight said, though his voice was strained and shaky.

“I can’t comply with that,” said the emaciated man, though he did not move to call for help. “Why are you doing this? Do you hate House Parbon? Do you have another reason?”

The knight froze like a child caught doing something bad.

“At least answer the man you’re to kill,” Bruno of Parbon said. “Why are you doing this?”

“M…. M-my family,” the knight sputtered. “I have to,” he said with conviction and desperation. “I have to.”

“They threatened them,” Bruno nodded, brows furrowed in understanding. “Who?”

“I… I…” the knight stepped forward, holding the knife and breathing quickly.

Bruno stood up. He was much taller than the man and had great presence despite his emaciated state. “You don’t know, do you?”

The knight wordlessly pointed the knife at Bruno, his training enabling him to keep a steady hand.

“If you want to save your family, I won’t fight back.” Bruno spread his arms. “I never had any hope of getting out of this alive. Let my life save others, at the very least. I know enough of politics to know that my brother will only benefit if I die. Vasquer will lose a card. Chaos will seize the northern lands—a noble murdered under house arrest. Such a thing is an affront to the oaths between monarch and lord.”

The knight’s breathing grew more erratic, and he stepped forward. Bruno turned around, and knelt on the floor. He sat, head held high, neck clearly exposed.

“Just do it,” Bruno said with conviction. “Ensure, at least, you keep your family safe henceforth.”

The knight’s breathing slowed and steadied. He took a step forward, the knife raised into the air. The knight struck out at Bruno’s neck with all the speed of a snake, and the room was dyed crimson.