Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave awoke strangely early in the morning. He was used to waking early, but never so early that the sunlight was not yet through the windows. He considered it might be because the expedition began tomorrow—some psychological nervousness causing him to sleep worse. As his brain gained clarity, he heard shouts. He lifted his head groggily, paying more attention, and the shouts continued.

With that, he roused fully, turning his body and standing. Anneliese stirred due to his actions, and as he pulled on his boots and put on his duster to go see what was happening, she also moved into action without a word. Before a minute could pass, they were ready to go.

Trailed by his Brumesingers, they left their room in Orion’s keep, moving to see what was happening. Light was dim, and the suns still had perhaps two hours to appear over the horizon. It was sufficient to see without casting a spell, though.

A large crowd of refugees murmured as two Waxknights dragged someone to the keep. It took Argrave only a second to distinguish that it was Magnus. It took him seconds longer to distinguish that he was not resisting. Then, he placed it—the dead don’t offer much resistance.

The Waxknights set down Magnus’ body in the center of the square before Orion’s keep, and then one went off to fetch Orion. Argrave glanced around furiously, looking for Durran. He knew that the tribal had spent some time getting close to the man—everyone in the camp did, in fact. If Durran had killed him, this was truly a disastrous thing.

Having no luck in finding Durran, he stepped closer to the body. Argrave knelt down, examining it despite the stare of the crowd around. The cause of death was readily apparent. A knife of wood jutted out of the prince’s neck. The handle was ebony, smooth and polished wood. It sprouted roots in the prince’s neck, which seemed to be absorbing his blood.

As his mind whirled, what little tiredness still remained vanished. Anneliese put her hand on Argrave’s shoulder and pulled him away. He tightened his jaw.

“Find Durran. I’ll keep you safe while you look,” he told her quietly.

Anneliese nodded, and the Starsparrow on her shoulder darted up and away into the air faster than the eye could track. He held onto her elbow, keeping her steady. As time passed, the whispers of the crowd continued, and Argrave’s gaze stayed locked on the wooden dagger imbedded in Magnus’ throat. He wasn’t torn up seeing the man dead—it just didn’t feel real.

A big hand on his shoulder drew him from his thoughts. Galamon looked upon the scene, brows furrowed.

“Where’s Silvic?” Argrave questioned at once.

“In her spot. Safe,” he said, not sparing a glance at Argrave.

“Get her,” Argrave commanded. “Be careful.”

Galamon nodded, then stepped away to where Silvic was staying, far from the camp.

After Galamon had left, Argrave focused back on the scene before him. The Starsparrow disturbed the air as it landed back on Anneliese’s shoulder. She opened her eyes, inhaling deeply, then disclosed, “He was sleeping. I woke him, and he’s on his way.”

Argrave furrowed his brows, then nodded. He briefly considered if it would be better if Durran was found sleeping, but Magnus seemed to have been dead for some time, so finding the tribal sleeping was not evidence he had nothing to do with this.

“This is very bad,” Argrave whispered to her.

“Perhaps that was—no, never mind,” she shook her head. Argrave looked to her, about to ask what she intended to say, but she continued, “We would be best off focusing on how to solve this problem.”

Argrave agreed, turning his head away. Midturn, he spotted someone towering above the crowd, and his head whipped back. Orion stepped out of the keep, passing right by Argrave. He came to stand before Magnus’ corpse. He stood there for a long, long while, as still as a pillar of stone.

Then, slowly, Orion reached for the robe wrapped around his armor. He pulled apart a bit of the silken cloth, and it came free. He knelt down in the dirt, ever-so-carefully wrapping the silk around Magnus’ body until he was but a bundle of white. Then, he scooped his arms underneath him and stood, holding Magnus in his arms as though he weighed nothing at all.

Prince Orion looked more intimidating by tenfold standing there in his dark gray plate armor. His face was expressionless, and he held his dead brother with a delicacy far unlike his usual brutish displays of force.

He stepped up to two of his Waxknights, and commanded quietly, “Take him to my chambers and place him on the bed, that he might rest in peace,” Orion held him out. “Send a rider out to Dirracha, informing my father of what has happened here.” His voice grew cold as he finished, “And ensure not a single soul leaves these wetlands.”

The two Waxknights move diligently to fulfill their master’s command, one of them taking Prince Magnus’ body in their arms and moving off to the keep. Orion stepped forward and shouted, “Who brought his body here?”

“I did, your Holiness,” one of the Waxknights stepped forward and kneeled.

Orion grabbed his neck and pulled him up like he was a bag of cloth and not flesh and blood. “You drag him before a crowd of onlookers, humiliating the family?! You take him from the site where it occurred, that any and all evidence is yet more obfuscated? Why? What were you thinking? Were you thinking?! Are you responsible?!”

The knight sputtered for air as Orion’s gauntleted hands dug into his flesh, drawing blood. Argrave shouted, “Orion, you’ll kill him!”

Orion threw the Waxknight, and the man flew ten feet before collapsing like a doll. He grasped at his throat, yet the breath still did not come. Durran had appeared just in time to witness this scene, and he took a cautious step back. Argrave glared at him, a thousand questions running through his head. He saw only shock and surprise on the tribal’s face.

“His windpipe is probably collapsed,” Argrave shouted as he moved towards the enraged Orion. “Any mage, tend to him,” he commanded, and some people moved to obey.

As he neared Orion, the giant of a man staggered towards him, making Argrave’s heart skip a beat. Orion latched onto him, weeping into his shoulder. Argrave was sorely pressed to support the weight of him, back arching.

“Our brother…” he cried. “Our brother is gone.”

Argrave said nothing, feeling a headache sprout in his head as fast as it ever had. His brain was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this situation.

“Your Holiness, I would not embrace that one so readily.”

Just as quickly as it had fallen upon him, Argrave was relieved of the burden. Orion strode up to the person who had spoken—another Waxknight—and grasped his gorget, shaking the man.

“What do you speak of? That man is my brother!” Orion shouted down at his subordinate.

“The company he keeps,” the knight continued, undaunted. “That tribal began hovering near Magnus at all times not days before this occurs.”

Orion’s hostility ceased, and he released the knight’s gorget. His head turned to Durran, who stood just behind Anneliese. He took steady, heavy steps towards him, and Anneliese stepped aside in fear. Argrave moved, holding his hands out to stay Orion ineffectually. The prince pushed past him, coming to stand before Durran.

Galamon returned, bringing along Silvic. The Waxknight stepped up behind Orion, continuing, “The weapon used to slay Magnus was made of wood, just as that foul and unholy wetland spirit,” he pointed.

“Some of your knights and I were both guarding Silvic. Nothing occurred last night,” Galamon contributed at once, voice low and guttural so as to cow the crowd.

Orion stared down at Durran, gray eyes frigid and stony. Durran seemed the size of a child before the gargantuan prince, and though the man boldly held his gaze, his nervousness shone through.

“Your Holiness, all due respect, but who can say what that creature is capable of?” another Waxknight contributed. “It’s a foul and unholy being and demonstrated clearly it’s capable of casting fell magic. The weapon, Orion’s chambers—they’re a mess of evil magics that surely share this wetland spirit’s origins.”

“Orion, I can assure you that this is not something Silvic is responsible for,” Argrave placed his hand to Orion’s chest, attempting to place himself between Durran and the prince without success.

A refugee contributed, “The tribals don’t share our gods, your Holiness! What’s more, that man hovered near Magnus day in and day out before the attack, as sycophantic as they come!”

Orion stared down at Durran, his breathing deep and powerful. Durran fearlessly said, “I had nothing to do with this.”

“The spirit has motive,” the first Waxknight noted. “You killed its underling, that foul heretic that struck you, your Holiness.”

Orion’s gaze jumped to Silvic, and Argrave said in panic, “Don’t do anything hasty, Orion. Take time to think this through. Durran’s like family to me, and I’ll never forgive you if you do something to him,” he threatened. “We need Silvic to traverse the wetlands. Let’s calm down, think rationally.”

The prince stared at Silvic, wrath brewing in his eyes, before he turned his head back to Durran, who still stood boldly before him.

“Do you believe in the gods of Vasquer?” Orion questioned.

“Of course I do,” Durran answered at once.

Orion reached a hand up and placed it on Durran’s shoulder—the prince’s hand was bigger than his head. “We shall see,” he said, pulling Durran forward. “Men—keep watch on the heretical spirit.”

Prince Orion walked away, pulling Durran along. Though the tribal resisted, it meant little before Orion’s might, and the best he could do was avoid falling.

“Orion,” Argrave called out, stepping after him. “I meant what I said! What are you going to do?”

Orion said nothing, leading Durran into the keep.

“Orion,” Argrave continued to shout, trailing after him. “Orion!”

Yet no answer came, and Prince Orion led Durran into the keep, heading for a place Argrave could not begin to guess.