Jackal Among Snakes

If Erlebnis’ play had been only to inspire paranoia, then he succeeded splendidly.

In the time to come living in the unnamed elven city, they ate meat aplenty and drank that strange brew of firemilk. But their time was occupied with darker tasks than eating and drinking, naturally. Argrave and Anneliese made a point of surveying each and every member of their party. They had time to spare while Batbayar assembled a team and prowled the land, determining where there might be a newly-induced foundational weakness caused by the upheaval of roots. The elven commander assured it would not take long.

The first subjects of their examination were the Magisters. They were both the most potent and the most suspect. Artur had already been under scrutiny by the both of them, considering that he was the first point of contact by Onychinusa and then later Dimocles. Vasilisa had long ago proven her trustworthiness, and they saw no way she could be even an unwitting informant.

Naturally, their lens of scrutiny was drawn to Moriatran. The man stayed in one of the Veidimen tents pitched on the ground beneath a particularly sizable root. They visited him one night.

They asked him pointed questions—why he had decided to come with them, what he intended to gain, what he thought of the direction of the expedition… but through each and every inquiry, the man answered the questions naturally. Eventually, Argrave just decided to ask a very decisive question.

“Do you have experience with any gods in your days? You’ve lived a while. What do you make of this?”

The old man looked at them, his eyes dark and shadowed from the light on his woodstove. “I avoid the gods. I’ve lost pupils to them, seen even Magisters go mad. But before today, I never thought they’d take physical form…” the man sat back, and then slowly rose to his feet with a painful grunt. “Perhaps I ought to clear the air, Your Majesty.”

Argrave raised one brow. “Please.”

“I don’t want anything from you. I don’t work for anyone. The fact is, you asked for volunteers to help you in this journey. I came because you impressed me, with word and with deed. That’s it.” The old man spread his arms out as though to profess innocence. “I do not intend to so meekly fade into history books beneath greater names. That is all this old man at the end of his days seeks.”

With that, Argrave looked to Anneliese… but her expression solidified there was no room for doubt.

And so their search began once again. Nikoletta and Mina proved no problems. Ganbaatar was reliable. Orion would sooner die. The Veidimen officers Grimalt, Bastel, and Rasten were uncorrupted… so in the end, they were forced to delve into the ranks of the Veidimen honor guard.

The Veidimen camped in tents of five, and so Argrave and Anneliese visited them in groups of five. They surveyed group after group, learning names, inquiring about injuries, and occasionally slipping in questions about gods and belief. Apparently it proved very effective in earning respect and endearment, but beyond that…

Nothing. Anneliese’s near-supernatural empathy, which Argrave had seen fail only on the Alchemist, suggested that none of their subordinates were compromised by Erlebnis.

Argrave and Anneliese sat alone in their room, an entire day wasted. “This means… the only option I can think of it that we were followed, spied on,” Argrave waved his hand in frustration. “But I swear, what Dimocles said… he had to know what we were doing. And if not our people, then…?”

“I would agree,” Anneliese nodded, though a look of doubt was on her face. “Maybe… maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

Argrave stared at her amber eyes sternly. “Do you genuinely believe that, or are you just surprised that nothing came up?”

“Just… surprised,” Anneliese admitted quietly.

“Thought so.” Argrave rubbed his face, sighing, “Good lord. I am immeasurably glad we don’t have to work closely with the elven gods. I’d be sweating enough to fill a tub.”

“If we were spied on by somoene…” Orion spoke up. “They avoided my senses. That is a difficult feat.”

Anneliese and Argrave both agreed silently, then looked at each other. Both seemed to wait for the other to tell what happened next.

“The only thing I can think that would help us investigate more is shamanic magic. We could look for any taint of divinity.” Argrave shook his head. “Shamanic magic employs spirits—fragments of divinity. But we lack spirits, and we lack shamanic magic. The only place I can think of finding some… it’s the place the dryads are, and it has one without the other,” Argrave shrugged. “But the dryads don’t have to be found if they don’t want to be. We can’t get there, not without the elves’ guidance. And as things stand, they simply don’t trust us enough to do that.”

“What if your Blessing is the culprit?” Anneliese asked in a whisper.

“Couldn’t be.” Argrave shook his head firmly. “Just not what it does. It’s a one-way road. I could fight Erlebnis with his own Blessing—that is why they’re seldom given to the unaffiliated like myself.”

Anneliese sighed, and then threw up her hands. “Then I have nothing more, Argrave. What can we do but keep our eyes open and our mouths shut?”

Argrave thought for minutes in total silence. Orion turned his head to the right after a time and declared, “Someone comes.”

True to his word, an elven warrior came down.

“Myriarch Batbayar has surveyed out a few locations,” the warrior said. “He’d like to speak with you when you are prepared for battle—tomorrow, perhaps.”

Argrave rose to his feet at once. “How about right now?”

#####

Myriarch Batbayar was sitting leisurely and enjoying a drink when Argrave arrived. The commander paused, seeming surprised, and then rose to his feet.

“I thought we would talk morning.”

“Forget that. I need to do something useful today,” Argrave said, and then came to him. “So—you have a spot?”

“Spots,” Batbayar nodded. “Some of them are far from the centaurs. One of them is close, but somewhat awkward.” He stared at Argrave. “You need not rush. Already, I have men working them towards this spot. Come morning, the battle will come. If we fail there, we lure them again to the next spot. And again, and again, if need be. So as I suggested… tomorrow morning.”

“Well…” Argrave scratched his head, somewhat disappointed. “Alright. You’re Ganbaatar’s mentor, so I trust you. I’m going to sleep, then.”

As Argrave made to leave, Batbayar called out, “King Argrave. If I may… can I ask you some questions?”

Argrave turned. “Can you? That’s up to you.”

“What are gods? And how did you awaken ours?”

Argrave paused, then slowly walked towards him. “Big question you’re asking.”

“When I was a boy, I had grandiose images of what the gods were. But they look like us,” he said quietly.

Argrave nodded. “Because they were like you, once. It was Ghan and Ujin, father and mother. Then Merata, the eldest. Chiteng, Dairi, Gunlik, and then the quadruplets Lunho, Orda, Murgid, and Volgar.” He chuckled. “Time was, the most notable thing about them was the fact they had quadruplets. But at some point… the mortal that they were became a little blended together with the actions that they took.”

“You mean… they were mortal,” Batbayar said, narrowing his eyes. “Certainly, it… it would fit, but… that’s possible?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Argrave held his hand out to caution the man. “It won’t happen on Berendar. Can’t. But that family, when they took part in the slave rebell—”

“Not another word,” Batbayar interrupted, glancing around at others in the room. He lowered his head. “Apologies, King Argrave.”

“Ah. Said something I shouldn’t have, anyhow,” he shrugged, knowing the slave rebellion was a secret shared only by the leadership.

“I should have been more tactful,” Batbayar lowered his head further. “That you know our history and our gods well… it surprises me.” He straightened. “I look forward to working with you on the morrow. The Supreme Myriarch has promised his Kheshig, but I will offer men of my own. And we will be sure that our grand ambition is not impeded by the centaurs.”

#####

“You can hear them from here…” Argrave muttered, peering through the great Redwoods. Ganbaatar and a few other members of the Supreme Myriarch’s Kheshig had carried the royal pair up here, and now Anneliese and he crouched side by side. He watched with his eyes, while she watched with her bird.

Far below his feet, thousands of foul animals fled from the rampaging horde. The Amaroks, great wolves that they were, resisted fiercely but died or fled before fire and steel. The leonine Mishis fared better, possessing their lengthy spiked tails to ward away foes from a distance, but most thought it more prudent to flee than face harsh resistance. Great arrows as thick as pillars soared up into the sky, leaving wide holes in trees as the centaurs sought to end retreating elves.

Argrave raised his fingers to his lips, angling them in a peculiar yet familiar way. When he blew, a loud whistle echoed throughout the canopy. He’d learned this trick from Anneliese, and now he was glad he had. It was loud, yet quieter than the elven horns—perfect for their needs. Soon enough, the whistle echoed once, twice, and thrice, sending signals to all who needed it.

But really… only those near the ground did.

Argrave took a step off the tree, falling through the canopy. Now, it seemed, was the time to use Artur’s slowfall. He drifted daintily down, keeping one hand to the tree trunk as he saw the horde of rampaging beast-men come ever closer.

#####

Orion strode over the wild roots of the forest floor. In his left hand, he carried an axe of Ebonice, lent by one of the Veidimen warriors. His right was empty… but a red apparition appeared beside him, a matrix swirling in its hand. When the spell completed, a maroon greatsword manifested, plummeting toward the ground. The prince caught its handle easily, staring at it even as the centaurs moved forth.

This greatsword of blood… it had been the same spell his father had cast in combat against him. It was this greatsword that he used to cut off his father’s hands and end his career as a spellcaster. Orion held it near his face, examining the edge of it. It brought back memories, though the uneasy familiarity was slightly quelled by the black blood his brother possessed, far unlike the blade in his memory.

When he lowered it, he saw only the rampant horde of the centaurs, growing ever closer in their destructive mayhem. He raised his left hand and pushed down the golden visor of his helm with his thumb, and then bounded over the roots steadily. And soon enough, the horde noticed him.

The first attack came—an arrow as tall as Orion and thick as his arm, headed straight for his chest. He strafed it easily, then took the next step. More arrows came one after the other. Orion raised his foot and stomped down. One of his blessings caused wind to surge, diverting all projectiles upward.

Soon the whole of them came, their arrows shooting one after the other with meteoric strength. He dodged or blocked all he could and held steadfastly against all those he couldn’t. Their projectiles were fast enough to break his steel-like bones, yet still he came, ignoring all pain from wounds received as he walked right into the heart of his king’s foes.

Their van cast aside their bows, reaching at their equine backs to draw swords and ready lances. Spellcasters stepped forth, casting a wave of fire forth to clear the land ahead of obstructive roots. In unified tandem they began to gallop in the path cleared. The armored man-beasts with lances in arms made the charge of heavy cavalry seem pathetic by comparison—tons each, armored in steel head to hoof… they were a roving wall of destruction, ready to roll over the prince.

Orion held wide the Ebonice axe and the greatsword of black blood and shouted, “For Argrave!”

The prince rushed towards the first lance, cutting its tip off with his sword while his axe batted what remained aside. The centaur advanced, thinking to crush him with its body, but Orion braced down, planted his knuckles firmly against its body, and tossed it over his head while delivering a slash. The man-beast shouted in surprise but crashed to the earth in an ungraceful sprawl on the other side, its stomach opened.

With their initial charge failed, the centaurs abandoned their lances and took their swords firmly in hand. In an organized yet barbaric fashion, they circled around him, taking turns rushing in and swinging their blades to claim his head. Orion circled about wildly, batting aside blows of strength enough his arm shook.

“For Argrave!” he continued to shout, again and again.

And it was his truth. This was for Argrave. He knew not his purpose for existing now that he learned the truth of the Vasquer pantheon, but he knew this—his brother was a force for good, and someone well worth serving. Perhaps whatever being that conspired to send him here was well worth worship… but until that being was known to him, he would shout his brother’s name until his death, in glorious service. This made him happy, more than anything else. It made him feel alive, feel righteous, and this was all he knew. Even if unhealthy, this was all he could do.

As the centaur’s blades shattered against Orion’s, and as the supporting elves of the Kheshig rained arrows on them down from above, more chargers joined the fray of battle. The fresh blood came hard, rushing at fast speeds and swinging wicked blades to claim his head. But he met them with his blade, with his blessings, and with his battle cry.

But these were but the van of the horde, and the rest was soon to come. They were to come to this stretch of weak land.

The arrows of unearthly power returned slowly at first—one or two slipping past the charges of the leaders, easily enough blocked by blessings or dodged. But as the ground rumbled beneath the approaching steel-toed hooves of the centaurs, what was one arrow became ten. And what came from the front soon came from the left and right both, targeting Orion and the elves supporting him in the trees.

Orion saw it then, beyond the chaos of battle. The horde writhed around him, splitting like flowing water against a rock in the stream. Their archers circled around, surrounding him. As first they were two thin tendrils of foes, wrapping around the back and firing arrows as they did. But the whole of the horde soon caught pace, and it was as though he stood in the center of a tornado of arrows and magic.

Arrow after arrow and spell after spell flew so quickly from every direction Orion could think of nothing other than dodging. Each projectile that hit the ground dug into it three feet deep, and even with the wind, fire, and ice of his blessings rising in defense, it was insufficient. He swung his greatsword at one projectile that flew towards his face, and though it cut easily both ends of the arrow struck his helmet, sending him reeling.

Another arrow struck his calf, breaking past armor and tearing through flesh. He fell to one knee, supporting himself with his sword. He slammed his fist down to call wind, but wind was incapable of stopping spells of lightning, and he spasmed as they struck him one after another.

He will help, Orion knew. He will come, just as he came to Dirracha.

Abandoning defense, Orion looked up towards the sky. There, above… he saw eight red figures, hovering just above this spiraling whirlpool of death and destruction. They held vast bows in their hand. And right above Orion’s head, Argrave floated down with bewitching maroon echoes trailed his descent. He mimicked shooting an arrow, and his blood echoes followed this movement exactly.

And then, with force greater than anything Orion felt before, these echoes released their arrows. Eight maroon bolts struck the edges of the spiral, burrowing deep into the earth. The impact spread through the whole ground, rattling Orion’s whole body with its intense force.

With eight points struck roughly equidistantly in a circle… the ground finally folded, collapsing. As it gave beneath Orion’s feet, he smiled up at his brother.

“For Argrave!” he shouted one last time before the ground gave way into the cavern beneath.

Orion raised the greatsword given to him and released it. As planned, a knife with a wire flew towards him, and he gripped its blade. Though he fell freely for a few seconds, soon the wire was pulled taut. Orion raised his arm pulled himself up, bloody and broken in more places than he thought he was. Even now his body worked at reconstituting itself.

Soon enough he collapsed at Argrave’s side, peering out across the great hole still crumbling even now. The great mass of centaurs had been caught in this trap of theirs. It was Orion’s duty to gather them just above this low-lying cavern. Their equine forms struggled in heaps of rock and dirt, utterly incapacitated. Even with arms, they were not made for this terrain.

“You must like doing this,” Magister Vasilisa noted, staring at Argrave warily. “Collapsing the floor.”

“Ground, this time,” Argrave said, his breathing a little rapid from tension. “Excellent job, Orion.”

“It was my honor and my pleasure, Your Majesty!” Orion saluted, utterly invigorated. “A joyous experience. Your power is unmatched.”

“Whatever you say…” Argrave kneeled down. “That’s most of them. And more than enough to convince them to retreat.” He looked to the Kheshig, even now returning from this task. “You can tell the Supreme Myriarch that we’ll have no impediments to the plan.”

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