Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave felt a fog within all of his body. His actions were stiff and vague as though he had just been thawed out after being frozen for years. He could barely focus on the task at hand, and even keeping his head held up was difficult. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. But he’d long ago set aside what he wanted. This was about what needed to be done.

Kill the enemy, kill the enemy, kill the enemy, he repeated again and again, half of the time saying it aloud, and the other half saying it in his head. It was the only way he could stay focused on the task before him. He felt as though he was fumbling for a light switch while drunk as he tried to recall how to use the Blessing of Supersession.

Yet once he felt the spring of limitless power vested in him by Erlebnis permeate his being… he felt like a dull knife that had finally found a whetstone, and everything fell into place.

His vision sharpened, and his ears felt as though earplugs had been removed from them. His golden-eyed gaze fell upon the scene before him, and he straightened, now aware Anneliese had been the only reason Argrave was standing up.

The Waxknights, alongside Durran, struggled against a tide of vicious Sentinels and supporting animals. More had joined since Argrave last saw them—the towering rockhide hippos, the gibbons in no small numbers… now, the Barefaced Bard fought directly against Silvic, their war a proxy battle of twisting roots and writhing plants. Silvic was losing, and badly.

Argrave straightened his back and held out both of his hands. Sword and shield, he remembered: sword and shield. His right hand conjured [Electric Eels], and the C-rank spells danced upwards into the sky, awaiting his command. His left became ablaze with wide, sweeping spells that carved a path before him.

He pressed deeper and deeper into the thick of things, adrenaline keeping his mind utterly focused despite his aching mind and body. He never wanted for foes—their rush at him was unending, and even though the animals feared him, they charged. He called upon every resource, using Garm’s eyes to cast spells with abandon. He felt he could not stop walking forward, strangely.

“Guard the back! Reinforcements approach!” he heard Anneliese command. That meant she had confidence he alone was enough to handle all before him. That stuck in the back of his head, making his task seem all the more urgent.

Teeth, claw, fang, and nature itself sought to tear into Argrave’s throat and end him. Drawing upon instinct, he met them with teeth and claw of his own. He conjured great maws of flame from [Wargfire], the icy claws of [Wraith’s Grasp], thick [Windswept Blades] cutting through them all. The enemies were blasted away, some dying outright. Those that did not die met his sword—dozens of [Electric Eels] striking from the sky like lightning, dispatching any hardy foes.

Argrave felt like he could not stop—he felt as though he held on to a machine that was running wild, and that if he released it, it would spell his death. He felt ash beneath his boots, frozen corpses, and the faint shock of still-sparking electricity, yet still he pressed. At some point, his vision became a mix of so many lights, he questioned if he was still in the Archduke’s palace.

Yet then, the Barefaced Bard came into his view. The former wetland spirit towered over him, and yet it was the one shying away from him, childlike but eyeless face looking as though it was going to cry. It regarded him like a hedgehog, a pufferfish, or a burning flame, backing away cautiously. Yet like a cat hunting a scorpion, it swung out its hands, giving testing blows.

Argrave moved to the side, and the Barefaced Bard moved opposite him, the two circling each other. In truth, Argrave merely wished to have his back to the wall so that no foes could circle around him. All the while, he warded his foes away, still using his tried-and-true strategy—a sword and shield. He was an indomitable giant of a knight, he told himself.

The Barefaced Bard climbed to the wall of the Archduke’s palace, almost in a panic. It sought refuge behind a tower. As it fled, Argrave’s [Electric Eels] grew all the more numerous in the sky, and the attacking force grew demoralized from their leader’s retreat.

Silvic, who was badly beaten from doing battle with the Barefaced Bard, did not remain idle. She assaulted the bard even still, staying his retreat. As the number of sparking eels neared the hundreds… Argrave’s blessing wore out.

His shield of wide, sweeping spells faltered as the limitless magic within dissipated… yet his sword persisted still. He spurred the electric eels, and the countless sparking constructs pursued the Barefaced Bard as was his will. The bolts of lightning rained down upon the childlike face embedded in the bard’s wooden body. The attacks were relentless and seemingly unceasing, and the bard became a great glow of light before emerging changed, naught but a smoking pile of wreckage.

The bard still lived, yet barely. It tumbled over the wall, falling in the courtyard while scrabbling desperately to move. Silvic disentangled her roots from the ground and sprinted across the badly destroyed granite pathway. Her hand morphed into a spike… and she put an end to the Barefaced Bard, plunging her arm right into that childlike face.

Argrave leaned against a wall, all fight lost. His foes, unaware of their commander’s death, rushed at him. All Argrave could do was curl up, relying on his enchanted duster to shield him while protecting his neck and his head.

Blows and bites and scratches rained upon him, and pain assailed every part of his body. It never overwhelmed him, though, as much as he waited for it to end. Gradually, the sensation faded. He was vaguely aware of people trying to move him, help him. They received blows in his stead. Nevertheless, he faded away.

I’ve done enough. Everyone else can handle the rest, he thought, happily embracing the grayness.

#####

Orion stepped upon a purple velvet carpet, walking down the center of it. In stark contrast to all that was around him in the palace, his steps left dirt and mud tracking, and he appeared to be the filthy thing in this palace amidst the wetlands.

The throne room was a vast place, held up by six thick pillars of black marble veined with gold. Black and gold filled the room with abundance, so much so it was difficult to refrain from calling it gaudy. Black sconces held golden flames, the black walls were trimmed with gold, and even the stained glass windows had been stained gold. It was a decadent place, yet had a grim air to it nonetheless.

Banners hung from the walls just beside the windows. The field was black, and it depicted a golden snake. It was not the banner of the royal family, though—this golden snake curled around nothing, and stood before a shield. Orion recognized it as the personal sigil of his uncle, the Archduke Regene.

At the end of the velvet carpet where the stairs moved up to the throne room, there was a majestic golden stag, with shining antlers stretching up ten feet into the air. It lied on the floor, legs collapsed beneath it and snout against the ground, eyes dead and lifeless. Its antlers had perfect symmetry, forming a strange, webbed pattern.

A woman sat atop the stag’s head, its snout seeming a perfect seat, its antlers a perfect throne. Her skin was the light green color of the swamp folk, and her eyes a rich and piercingly light yellow. She wore a motley outfit of a dark purple contrasted with a lighter purple. A large jester’s hat rested above her brow, three points poking out the top like a half star. Golden rings hung at the end of these points, half a dozen bells on each ring. One leg was crossed over the other on her stag throne. She held a scepter with a miniature version of her face wrought of silver, hat and all, smiling brightly as it dangled from the loose grip of her left hand.

“If you’ve come seeking the lord,” the Plague Jester began in a sneering act, “I am afraid he is rather busy. Considering everyone else is either dead or in a similar state, I happen to be the regent of this Archduchy. Funny thing, a fool being named regent. My favorite jest, and that’s speaking as a jester. Nevertheless, I’ve kept the place well-maintained.”

Just beyond the stag, where the stairs rose up, three thrones stood. One held the Archduke, his body so well-preserved he seemed alive. The other held his wife—Orion vaguely remembered the blonde woman but could not recall her name. The Archduke’s son sat in the third throne. They all sat upright like they were alive, but were so unmoving they could not be.

Orion pointed his mace. “Will you repent, Plague Jester, and kill yourself?”

The jester laughed. She had a fast-paced, wry giggle that sounded fake. “Only a fool would do that—thought a different sort of fool than the one you people made me. Why do you point a mace? It is not a sword, and can—”

Orion threw his mace, and it travelled through the air incredibly quickly. The jester uncrossed her legs, kicking the bottom of the fast-moving projectile and sending it upwards into the air, whereupon it fell into her right hand.

“I’m glad you came, scion of Vasquer,” the jester said, voice smooth and calm, her tittering jester’s act dropped entirely. “Once I defeat you, I will put you beside your kin. They’re alive, you know. Well, alive enough to understand things, at the very least. You, the Archduke… all of those outside… all of you will watch as your kingdom and its people rot away, turned as ugly outside as they are within. You will despair for decades, as I had.”

“The gods will be the judge of that,” Orion declared, entirely unaffected. “Yet your god lies beneath your feet, sapped and drained by your… antics. You are no faithful, and you have no righteous cause. You are an abomination, and the whole world wishes you dead.”

“Just as I wish the world dead,” the jester rebutted, tossing aside Orion’s mace.

The Plague Jester rose to her feet, stepping off the stag’s head. Bells on her jester’s hat and her pointed shoes rang as she moved, chimes echoing against the empty marble walls. She was half the height of Orion, yet she did not seem smaller at all.

“They say the one who grows irate at the jester’s jests is the biggest fool of all,” she noted, holding her scepter out as she strutted forward, ringing and chiming.

Orion rushed forth, far too fast for one armored in metal, and the Plague Jester let out another fake laugh before preparing to fight.