Jackal Among Snakes

Though Argrave knew that something needed to be said to Orion, those words did not come to his head immediately as the two of them walked away from the rest of the party. They entered into the keep of the fortress that had manifested after the battle had concluded. Argrave glanced around at decrepit wooden furniture covered in equal parts by wood rot and growths from the wetlands.

Argrave came to stand over a table. Orion stood opposite it, staring at Argrave with curiosity as he waited for him to speak. Though Argrave briefly contemplated sitting in a chair, he saw its thin, shaky legs rotted out and decided against it.

“That centaur getting away bodes ill,” Argrave began, starting at the problem Orion had caused. “Centaurs—they’re closer to man than beast, and they can communicate with our foes. He can report to the commanders of the other fortresses, or even the Plague Jester herself.”

“You fear our enemies will take note of us? They already have—they harass us during this whole journey, brother,” Orion stepped around the table.

Argrave mirrored his brother’s steps, circling around the table opposite him. “This is different. These beasts that assail as we travel… they sense intruders and hunt them, but little else—now, you’ve displayed your power, stated your intent plainly. If the commanders are warned, the final assault will be all the more difficult. They’ll group up.”

Orion lowered his head. “I apologize.”

Argrave sighed. “I don’t get why this is happening. Back at camp, you lunged at Silvic as though she were your nemesis without any provocation whatsoever. Now, someone attacks you first, and you let them stab you? You let their ally get away?”

“I apologize,” Orion repeated sincerely, lowering his head further.

“I don’t want an apology. I want to know why,” Argrave insisted.

Orion raised a hand to the table before him, placing his fingers against it almost gingerly. The battle he’d just endured had destroyed both of his gauntlets, leaving only scraps of loosely hanging metal with broken enchantments behind.

“Do you ever grow lonely, Argrave?” Orion raised his head, gray eyes emotionless.

Argrave thought for half a second before answering, “Not lately. But I did, once. A lot.”

Orion brushed his fingers against the decrepit table, pushing it lightly and watching the thin wood bend and bounce back into place. “I cannot grow lonely. I always have company. The gods accompany me through life. Since my birth, they have always been here.”

Argrave had grown rather less afraid of Orion lately, so he dared say, “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why do you act differently from how you did?”

Orion slammed his fist against the table and the wood buckled easily. Argrave didn’t move an inch as wood splinters fell at his feet. “Because I don’t understand,” Orion said, voice far too calm in the wake of his outburst.

Argrave waited for an elaboration, and it came as Orion continued, “I know the gods. My faith is unshakable. All is part of the natural order, and the world can only truly be perfect when their dominion extends from the tall mountains of Dirracha to the distant corners of the world. I have ninety-eight parents, brother—my mother, our father, and all the gods of Vasquer. Each and all taught me as much of the world as the other.

“And now, I go out into the world with their teachings in my mind, with the support of all my parents, both within and without…” Orion clenched his fist. “And I find that learning to do something is wholly different from putting it into action. The task is simple: spread the faith. Yet the ways are manifold, subtle and direct in equal turns. Each path I might take has its own application that excels at different points. You enlightened me to that,” he pointed.

“Me?” Argrave questioned. “What?”

“You abided heretics and enemies to help the faith in tremendous ways,” Orion continued, stepping across the wrecked table to stand before Argrave. “The people whisper of you staying an invasion from the Veidimen by treating with them in their land. This action saved the lives of thousands of faithful in Mateth. What’s more, Durran described your exploits against the foul heralds of Fellhorn. All of this… I could never have done it. I don’t understand it.”

Orion stepped away and put his hands on his hips. “I am not particularly smart. I confess… I confess I am quite stupid. I have always been slow to read books, last to comprehend lectures. Though my instincts and will are second to none, and I have my parents at my back… I am impulsive, easily angered. Yet personality is not a static thing, and wisdom is more than equal to intelligence. Personality changes and morphs based on what happens. I am trying to understand, trying to grow, trying to learn from these experiences. I am trying to be a better faithful.”

Argrave stayed silent in the wake of Orion’s openness. He had never seen Orion express anything of this sort to anyone—certainly never the player in ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ Maybe it was because things had changed. Or maybe it was because the two of them were family, and Orion trusted him easier.

“There will be better times in the future to try and learn,” Argrave said gently. “Right now… right now, we have only allies and enemies. Even I am aware of that. Our foe seeks to genocide Vasquer with disease and rot. Will you let that happen?”

“Then what of that wetland spirit?” Orion turned back. “She is the enemy, yet you use her to help the faithful. You see? I cannot…”

Argrave felt conflicted. On the one hand, he felt some sympathy for Orion. From birth, he was molded and twisted into what he is now. He was a convergence of so many forces, stretched so thin by so many it was a wonder he was functional at all. If Argrave might teach him something to be a better person, shouldn’t he take that opportunity?

Yet the fact remained this: Orion’s attempts to be a better person might sabotage their journey to cure the plague. Millions could die if Orion continued to act indecisively as he had earlier. It would be tremendously stupid to prioritize Orion’s personal growth over the fate of the continent.

But then… the two weren’t mutually exclusive. And Argrave could get more time, if he got himself deeper involved with Orion.

Argrave knew the words he needed to say to get that. He took a deep breath, battling with his desire to be disentangled from the man before him. Orion was dangerous. They had already become too closely bound for Argrave’s liking. Yet that problem, when weighed with the consequences of failing their current task…

“I’ll teach you,” Argrave said quietly. “When things are all done, I can help you with that. Experience. Understanding. Growth.” He took a step forward, looking up at the prince. “For now, put all of that out of your mind. The world needs you as you are, Orion. The world needs an unwavering crusader. We can work at more later. Together.”

#####

Though Orion seemed pleased by his vague offer and his empty assurances, Argrave was not entirely sure that things would resume their normal course.

Nevertheless, the second day ended. Without a book to consume, Argrave was forced to relax and rest. He did not realize how much he needed such a thing until he had it, but once his mind had rejuvenated he was consumed by feelings of impatience and frustration. He felt the need to do something, anything. As such, he and Anneliese spent the remainder of the day talking.

Argrave was coming to realize their relationship was strange. They seldom argued or fought, and their few disagreements were settled in less than minutes. Much of that was due to her, he suspected—she understood him without him needing to say much at all. Argrave had recalled some people claiming that arguments and fights were the sign of a growing relationship—if they did not argue, it was uninteresting and pointless. Argrave supposed their life was interesting enough to make up for it and was content to let that festering worry die.

On the morrow, Argrave rose with a headache not quite as severe as yesterday. The Waxknights had better morale, having lost none of their own, and things were prepared in short order. The only truly miserable was Durran.

“I spend all night fretting and worrying about what Orion taught me, and then I get it right,” he explained hollowly to Argrave as he adjusted his wyvern scale helmet. “But then… but then, he dumps just as much as I learned yesterday.”

“You want my advice?” Argrave began, then gave it before Durran could answer, “Just keep asking him questions if you’re uncertain. He’ll surely be happy anytime.”

Durran shook his head. “That man has no conception of personal boundaries, and you want me to spend more time with him?”

Argrave put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “When this is all over, I’ve got a plan for you. Something you’ll like, if I know you right. And I do.”

“I’m a different man, now,” Durran shook his head, exaggeratedly harrowed.

Barring that, they began the third day largely rejuvenated. And yet, it was not at all the same as the first and second days.

Their travels began as normal, with Anneliese scouting out a proper route to the fortress they intended to take their respite in before pressing onwards to deal with the Plague Jester. Once they began their travels, though, things remained eerily quiet. The only thing to assault them was leeches in the water, which the party did not often have genuine trouble with.

The lack of assaults was a disquieting thing, and Argrave made sure to remain cautious with every step they took. No matter how paranoid Argrave remained, it did not prove warranted. Even the Waxknights came to relax somewhat. Argrave thought it was a portent that his fears regarding the centaur had been realized, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

The wetland trees, thick and alive with life earlier in their path, became twisted and stiff by the waxpox. They more resembled sculptures of rock made in the shape of trees after they had pressed deep enough. The water was thick with dead fish, dead bugs, dead everything—the abundant presence of the plague made Argrave ensure his companions drank potions to boost their immunity every few hours, and he kept checking to be sure their Humorless Masks were tight on their faces.

As the stone of a distant fortress came into view shining like an angler fish’s light, Argrave once again spoke to his companions, ensuring they would know the plan for the battle well. Their role, just as it had been with the troubadour, was not to be so pivotal. It was precisely why he had been so insistent on correcting Orion’s behavior.

Yet as they pressed into the heart of the fortress, steeled for battle… the only thing that greeted them was a desolate place. Argrave felt an ambush might be waiting, and had people scour the place thoroughly… yet no enemies came, not from within or without.

Argrave stood in front of their warband of Waxknights, Orion, a wetland spirit, and his own companions, each and all looking for direction. Argrave said grimly but loudly, “It seems that the worst may have come to pass, and victory has become all the more challenging.”

The enemies had retreated and merged. They would not be fighting the Plague Jester alone.