Jackal Among Snakes

“We should press on as quickly as possible, even if we need to march through the night,” Argrave spoke to Orion.

The prince’s gray-eyed gaze was stern and serious, freezing lesser men in place. “Do you believe so?”

“Absolutely. The journey this time around was not so exhausting. Allowing the enemy an entire night to group up and prepare for our coming attack with be a disaster,” Argrave nodded insistently.

“My feet can tread for thousands of miles without issue,” Orion said, staring him down. “Yet it is not myself I fear for. It is you and yours. Not all are blessed as I am. This speech is not spurred by arrogance, I assure you. I merely worry.”

Argrave put his hands to his hips and looked to the Waxknights, and then his own companions in turn. He could not deny travelling so much with anemia weighing upon him had been utterly exhausting. And exhaustion alone was not the issue. They would need to endure a night march when the wetlands were at their coldest. This final stretch spanned the most distance. What’s more, they’d face an undoubtedly difficult battle at its conclusion.

“What do you think?” Argrave asked his companions.

Anneliese was the first to speak, saying in favor, “Strategically… it is a good assumption that arriving early might make the following battle less insurmountable. If Argrave is correct, we will face the Plague Jester and more, even foes we’ve avoided thus far.”

Durran opened his mouth to speak, but Galamon cut in, “I have no issue.”

Argrave thought Galamon was reliable enough it was pointless for him to confirm that, but he still nodded in quiet satisfaction. Orion stepped past him, though, walking to stand before Galamon.

“Take off your helmet,” Orion said. “I would look at you.”

Argrave felt some panic seize him—had the prince noticed something amiss about his companion? The elven vampire wore a helmet that covered his eyes and the top of his head, yet the mouth was left exposed. Though Galamon’s teeth were not unexplainably large, it was still noticeable.

Galamon did nothing, and his white-eyed gaze turned to Argrave for command.

“…take it off,” Argrave nodded, preparing excuses in his head for any discrepancies Orion might have noticed.

Galamon removed his helm, and his white hair fell across his pale white skin. He fixed his hair with one gauntleted hand, then stared at Orion dispassionately.

Orion put one hand on Galamon’s shoulder, just beside his neck, then said seriously, “You are an able protector, and steadfastly loyal.” He looked back to Argrave. “When this is done, I must ensure you are better armored to protect my brother.” He patted his shoulder, then turned away.

Argrave raised his brow at the promise from the prince. He felt he was being yet deeper entangled with the Holy Fool, yet he could not balk at the promise from a royal of better armor. They still had artifacts comparable to the crown embedded in Galamon’s armor, if not vastly outmatching it. Their defensive capabilities, too, were much higher.

“And you, Durran?” Orion spoke to him, causing a seemingly involuntarily flinch from the tribal. “Can you handle a night march?”

“If you carry me, I might be able to sleep,” Durran suggested. Argrave thought it was a joke and chuckled, but as he stared at Durran, he realized the man might be serious.

“Hmm…” Orion scratched beneath his beard. “Yet, it would be unfair to the others.”

“Clear it with them,” Durran continued. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.”

“Durran’s joking,” Argrave cut in after some hesitation. “Considering there may be attacks, no one will be able to sleep.”

The former tribal looked at Argrave bitterly, then laughed. “I’m fine. A bit sore, but I’ve fought battles on less sleep. Once the adrenaline kicks in…”

None as fatal as this one promises to be, Argrave thought.

“I know my men will be capable of this,” Orion nodded. “And you, Argrave? We must not neglect you. Though you have grown broader, I still recall your many troubles with disease, broken bones… I would not have you kill yourself for the sake of this. If need be, I would face all of our enemies by my lonesome, drive them utterly into the earth, and—"

“I’m a big boy,” Argrave held out his hand to stifle Orion. “Then… there is no time for breaks, for rest. We must march.” He looked to Silvic. “Scout out the final path,” he directed her, though the words were for Anneliese.

#####

A simple stick waved in front of Elias’ face, back and forth.

“I cannot see it,” Elias said. One hand covered his right eye, while the left eye was free and unblemished. He was shirtless presently, exposing a warrior’s body. A large streak of waxpox had corrupted most of his forearm, some of his upper arm, while a single streak rose up his neck and consumed part of his face. One of his eyes had gone gray.

Helmuth, the spellcaster with abyssal purple eyes, stopped moving the stick in front of Elias’ face. “Uncover your eye,” he commanded, then set the stick down.

Elias lowered his hand. “It’s well and truly blind, then.”

Helmuth nodded and stepped away, saying nothing. There was another in the room—a mage belonging to the Order of the Gray Owl. He was quite an old, portly man.

“I’ve done all in my power to stop it from spreading to the brain,” the spellcaster said. “But… it still persists. This disease feeds on magic. Your power hastens its spread. It is truly a cursed thing.”

“Thank you. I appreciate Count Delbraun sending you to help.” He took a deep breath and sighed, moving his one good eye about. “It’ll never heal, will it?” Elias questioned. His tone was as though he was not discussing his own sight. “I suppose a spellcaster needs sight less than a warrior. It is a good thing I took the path I did, I suppose.”

“Even the princess of this nation remains blind,” the spellcaster from Jast informed Elias. “Broken bones, cuts, gouges… easy enough to heal, as all that was there is still present. But severed limbs, rotted or gouged eyes?” the spellcaster shook his head.

Elias nodded passively. “The riots are mostly suppressed by this point, and the people are cooperating. But… I still have to keep moving, root out the corruption in this city. I promised as much to the people.” Elias rose. “Let’s go.”

Helmuth put his hand to his temple, greatly frustrated. The focus of his frustration appeared to be himself. Nevertheless, he straightened and followed.

#####

Princess Elenore of Vasquer faced the three maids kneeling before her, her raw pink empty eye sockets hauntingly empty. She combed her long, obsidian hair back, styling it with practiced movements. She wore a black mourning dress that hid much of her pale, smooth skin.

“If Induen won’t return, something must be done,” Elenore mused. “If he is in Veden, whatever I order done will happen much slower.”

“Mina is his sole influence for staying, my princess,” one of the maids counseled.

“Yet if she is removed, Induen will take centuries to return to the capital. He is stubbornly committed to seeking vengeance on whatever deprived him of an amusement or a gain. Elbraille is proof enough of that.” Elenore shook her head. “Mina, who visited Orion’s camp for the sole purpose of speaking to Argrave… Mina, who is close friends to Nikoletta…” she sighed ponderously, then set her hairbrush down on the table before her.

“…you might leave the capital, my princess,” another suggested. “You might manipulate things all the better, while allowing Induen to remain where he is.”

Elenore turned her head a different direction as though her empty eye sockets still saw. “I cannot leave the greenhouse. I cannot disentangle from Dirracha. King Felipe III has forbidden such a thing,” she said, saying no words that hinted at genuine treason. “Well, even if it is a clumsy hand, I can think of no way to pull Induen away from his task without playing my hand overtly. Perhaps it is better this way. This plague is even more dangerous than the war, I suspect.”

She lowered her head. “Encourage Induen in his efforts to fight the plague,” she finally directed, lifting her head up quickly and sharply. “I believe… I believe that Argrave was not boasting when he organized his expedition into the wetlands. The strange spirit he pulled from the wetlands… the reports are too numerous and consistent to be fake. And Argrave…”

“He worries you, my princess?”

Elenore tilted her head. “I think he knows. Or at least suspects. Elaine’s reports…”

“Suspects what?”

The princess shifted in her chair. “Suspects me. What I do. What we do, here in this greenhouse.”

The maids looked between each other, disquieted.

“Orion’s royal knights all ceased giving me reports once he… I don’t even know what he’s done to them, exactly. My informants say they are monsters. Regardless, things must be brought to a head. When Argrave returns—if he returns successfully,” Elenore amended, “Induen must be fully committed to solving this plague. Get him invested. Get him involved. Make it feel important to him, special to him. All the while… subtly stroke his hatred towards Argrave. When Argrave is heralded as a savior, the one who fixed the problem Induen had been trying to desperately to solve… well, I’m sure you know how my dear brother might react. I need instability. There is no better way to make it than with this.”