JACKAL AMONG SNAKES-Novel

Chapter 32: Blood Drive

Galamon rode his horse onwards, leaning on its head. He felt the exposed flesh on his torso burn, and now that the archers had perished and deprived him of distraction, he could feel the pain of the sunlight. He tried to focus on the pain to drive away the bestial curse of vampirism swirling through his blood. He kept his eyes fixed on the wooden palisades ahead. It was not much longer before his task would be finished.

When he came near, he jumped from the horse. It neighed in pain, and the sheer force toppled the creature to the ground. Galamon cleared the wooden stakes easily, crashing amidst some jars full of water. He heard screams from the houses beside him—they sounded loud, so sharp were his senses. He crawled away from the sunlight like a deranged spider, retreating further into the shadows.

He could smell blood all around him. The smell of the ocean wind carried it. He could smell it seeping into the wooden planks at the docks, could smell it in the earth, the grass… he kept his hand on his neck, squeezing tightly. The world seemed tinted red. Galamon kept to the shadows, waiting until the beast realized it was caged; that he owned it, not the other way around.

He heard rushed footfalls heading towards him, and with it, a scent of blood. He heard the heartbeat—frantic, fast, driven by fear and excitement.

“Galamon,” a voice called out. “Hot damn. I knew you could do it.”

“Listen. I know that you just finished with that one thing, but I don’t have time to mince words. Where are you? Damned dark back here. Could you come out?”

Galamon lunged forward towards the welcoming voice, throwing his helmet aside. He grasped the prey and fell on it. His sharp teeth sunk into something hot, and he drank. It tasted sweet—like a cup of water after traversing a desert, or a piece of meat after a long hunt. This was the best feeling, Galamon supposed.

His prey struggled with weak, vain hits at his side, pushing and struggling. Galamon did not care. He held on tightly, enjoying the blood. This seemed especially pure and powerful—a mages’ blood, he could tell. It had a faint tinge to it—magic in the blood.

“Think…” the voice whispered, struggling against Galamon.

“Would your family… want this?”

Galamon’s mind spun, and his world of red shattered. He looked down and saw his brother, battered and broken, bleeding from the neck. The image slowly faded, and Argrave’s face replaced his brother’s.

Galamon tossed Argrave away and leapt back, in panic. He slammed his back against the house’s wall. Argrave crawled away, holding his still-bleeding neck.

“By Veid… I-I…” Galamon gingerly reached forward. Argrave stared at him with hollow gray eyes.

#####

Argrave watched Galamon. The unshakable elf was, for the first time Argrave had ever seen, panicking. He tried to think of something witty to say, but his neck stung, and his brain felt like it had a heavy fog over it. Lethargy threatened to consume him, his breathing was too fast, and he felt dreadfully weak. He blinked and bit his lips, knowing that sleeping here might mean his death.

Galamon rushed forward, reaching into Argrave’s satchel. He pulled free a stamina potion, and then held it to Argrave’s lips with trembling fingers. Argrave caught it with his teeth and tilted his head back. It did not make the pain diminish, nor stop the bleeding, but it did allow him to regain his focus.

Argrave used the last of his magic to cast healing magic, sealing the wound. Galamon collapsed backwards, staring at Argrave with an all-too-complicated expression. Panic, fear, guilt, anger… it was a veritable salad of regret.

“Whew,” Argrave sighed with a hoarse voice. “I knew you were dissatisfied, but you proved your point.”

“It was not my intent to… the beast… it battered, twisted…”

“I know,” said Argrave. “I know.”

Galamon sat there, mouth agape. Those fangs of his looked very ominous now that they had bitten a piece of him off.

“You run one hell of a blood drive. I hope I’m the right blood type for the donor.” Argrave tried to stand, but he collapsed amidst a shattered pot. His muscles were cramped.

Galamon stood, trying to help Argrave but hesitant to approach. It was very evident he was afraid of hurting him.

“Damn it. Can’t stand,” Argrave complained. His took a deep breath, and then looked around. “Came here to tell you you’re needed. Take your Ebonice axe, head to the gate. Anneliese can probably position you. Go.”

Galamon frowned. “But you need help.”

“I’ll live. Just a little… drained, that’s all.” Argrave let out a low, dry laugh. “But seriously… go. The tomb guardians will kill us all if you don’t. Anneliese will explain things. Look for the beautiful woman with long white hair. Wait… you met her already. Can’t think straight.”

“Argrave… I-I’m sorry. I never… my wound just… the curse…” Galamon stammered.

“I knew the risks when I hired you. Stop talking. Move your feet. Make use of the blood I so graciously donated. You could probably use it better than me right now, anyway.” Argrave laid his head against the wall.

After watching for a time, Galamon picked up his Ebonice axe from where he’d dropped it, and then ran to the gate as Argrave instructed. Argrave laid there, biting his lips to ensure he didn’t fall asleep.

With one shaky step after the other, Argrave walked forward, arm held against the side of the wall for support. His breaths were quick and rapid, and he could feel his heart struggling. He passed the corner of the house and fell against a barrel, holding himself up shakily. Ahead, the tomb guardians were walking through the gate. Galamon and a few other snow elves were making short work of them.

“One of them… is doing it wrong. He’s in line of sight. He’s going to die.”

Argrave tried to push away from the barrel and go to them, but the barrel moved and he stumbled, collapsing onto the grass. Things went dark.

#####

Knight Ryles watched the snow elves butcher those men made of metal. The snow elf commander refused to allow them to participate, citing that they were not as strong as Veidimen. Ryles assumed ‘Veidimen’ was what those abominable elves called themselves.

He turned his head to look at a horse. The wizard Argrave had ridden it into here, assumed the position of an advisor abruptly using the Mark of Monticci, and then enacted this ‘cooperation’ with the snow elves. The man had been willing to risk life and limb, so Ryles did not question that he came from the Duke’s orders. Now that things had proceeded the way they had…

“Knight Symon,” Ryles said quietly, staring at the horse.

“Yes, Commander Ryles?”

Ryles strode towards the horse. “Take command. I am going to return to Mateth.”

“What, sir? Why?”

“I must tell the duke what has transpired here. Something is off. Though the battle has been postponed, the Wizard has other motives.”

Ryles clambered atop the horse, and then spurred it towards the gate opposite where they were doing battle with the metal creatures. He rode away, passing by the dead bodies left by the recently transpired battle.

#####

“Argrave, wake up!” a voice called.

Argrave blinked open his eyes. He was standing.

“You have to get ready for school,” someone chided him.

“But I don’t go to school,” Argrave answered. “I’m a fantasy man now.”

“Stop acting like a child,” the voice chided again. It was vaguely familiar—female, young.

Argrave was in the school courtyard. He had to go to gym class. He ran around, the environment shifting around him. Everyone was staring at him. He realized he was nude.

He opened the door to the gymnasium. It was wide, as colossal as a stadium. The bleachers were made of stone. Argrave remembered he had to get something from the supply closet. He opened the door to the supply closet and entered.

Someone was sitting by the hearthplace where a fire raged. Argrave walked closer to them. They turned their head. Their eyes had melted away, and their skin was cracked and burned.

“Want a cigarette?” the person held out a cigarette.

“No. I only smoked when I was a teenager,” said Argrave. “My friend was looking for you.”

“No, I was looking for him,” the person said. He reached into a bag of popcorn, pulling out a fistful of tiny people. He tossed them into the fire. Their crackling cries were like music in rain. It was a song— ‘This Must Be the Place’ by Talking Heads.

“You killed me,” the man said. He turned back to Argrave.

“I had to,” Argrave said.

“It hurt.”

“I bet. I can see it on your face.”

“I’m going to throw these people in the fire,” the man said.

The world shifted. Argrave was sitting above the fire, dangling from a chair hung by a chain. He held a bunch of people in his hands. There were so many—they were slipping out of his hands.

“You can stop this,” said the burned man. He was watching from the side.

“I’m trying. There’s too many,” Argrave said, panicking.

“There’s only one way to really stop this.”

“How’s that?”

“Want a cigarette?” the man held out a very large cigarette.

“Just tell me how!”

The burned man shrugged. “Just jump in. Either way, you’ll smoke.”

Argrave looked down at the fire. He heard David Byrne’s voice from the flames. It repeated, ‘I guess I must be having fun,’ over and over again.

“It’s you or them,” the burned man said.

“I don’t like getting hurt. I don’t want to.”

“Either way, you’ll smoke.” The burned man turned around and walked away.

Argrave stood on the chair. It swung in the air. He took a diver’s stance and jumped into the fire.