Jackal Among Snakes

“Now that is done,” Rowe said, stepping in front of Argrave and his party. “I won’t be denied my answer any longer, Galamon. Do you intend to break your word? Has your time in this place of twisted morals sullied the honor I know you once had?”

“I’ll answer,” Galamon refuted, shaking his head. “Ask.”

“Then let us go somewhere private,” Rowe waved.

“No,” Galamon stopped Rowe. “Ask here. These two would never cease pestering me if you ask elsewhere.”

“Galamon ‘the Great,’ brought to heel by children not a quarter his age,” Rowe mused. “Fine. It’s your business, anyway. I’ll give our audience context, then.” Rowe tapped his staff against the ground and a white magic ward spread out, enveloping the four of them.

“That day they found you having succumbed to vampirism, your brother’s head was crushed,” Rowe began. “Most believe you killed your brother Berran in feral rage after he turned you into a vampire. You always refused to answer. How did your brother die?”

Despite the ceremony behind the question, Galamon did not seem deeply rattled as he answered, “When I awoke, Berran apologized for what he had done and killed himself. He used a wedge to lift a boulder, placed his head beneath it, and then allowed it to fall. His death was instant.”

“Then it’s as I thought,” Rowe said. “Your brother was coerced into turning you.”

“His children were at risk. I do not blame him,” Galamon shook his head. “And it matters little. Those responsible are dead. Dras promised me he would uproot them before he sent me away, and I know he kept that promise.”

“Who was responsible?” questioned Anneliese, a query which made Argrave nod in solidarity.

“The Ebon Cult,” said Galamon, his guttural voice carrying a pure hatred that made Argrave shudder.

“Aye. They were before your time, girl. Dras slaughtered them like the dogs they were,” Rowe lowered his head. “They were once the Ebon tribe. They discovered Ebonice. Some people abhor using the stuff for that reason.”

Argrave stepped forward, then turned to face Galamon. “The Ebon Cult existed in Veiden?”

Galamon’s pupils fell on Argrave, their whiteness seeming especially cold today. “What do you mean, ‘existed in?’” he questioned.

“It could be a cult of the same name—darkness, blackness, and other such stygian descriptors are trendy in cult circles, I hear—but the Ebon Cult is alive and well in Berendar, living deep in the crust of the world.”

Galamon grabbed Argrave’s shoulders, which dredged up some unpleasant memories and made Argrave freeze. “Describe them,” he said insistently, pulling Argrave closer.

Anneliese put her hand on Galamon’s wrist. “Let go, first,” she said.

Galamon took a deep breath and then released Argrave. “Forgive me. I need to hear their descriptions.”

“Well…” Argrave rolled his shoulders, still feeling a soreness where Galamon had grasped. “They’re a multiracial group, which is perhaps their most inclusive trait. They dwell in the old dwarven cities, whose creators have long ago migrated deeper into the earth. They use necromancy, shamanic magic, and blood magic, all of which they are masters at. In truth, they are more a nation than a cult—a religious state beneath the earth.”

“What are their ideals—what do they worship?” Galamon said impatiently.

“A false god,” Argrave shook his head. “They’re trying to turn that falsehood into reality—not that that’s even possible. His name is Mozzahr, the Castellan of the Empty. I’d say he’s a spellcaster at Rowe’s level.”

“A bold claim,” snorted Rowe.

“You’re right. Mozzahr is probably stronger,” Argrave nodded. “Shamanic magic is a pain, after all.”

Rowe raised a bushy brow, gritting his teeth. Galamon turned his head away, silent. When the awkward silence stretched out, Argrave followed up, asking, “What? Does that name mean anything to you?”

“It’s unfamiliar,” Galamon said musingly. “Rowe?”

“Sounds like nonsense to me. Castellan of the Empty? What does that mean? Did he go to an open field and declare himself its governor?” The S-rank spellcaster shook his head. “I did not review what was taken during the razing of the Ebon tribe. Patriarch Dras might know better. I can inquire.”

“Castellan of the Empty could mean a lot of things. ‘Empty’ meaning ‘empty people,’ or meaning ‘void.’ Hard to govern either, I’d suspect. We can ask him when the time comes, if indeed he’s amenable to conversation at that time.”

“Ask him? What does that mean?” Galamon demanded.

“He has to die, eventually. He’ll cause problems in the future,” Argrave declared. “This cult rivals Vasquer in power. They’ve done us a favor by going to the dwarven cities, deep underground, but we still have to bury them. We have to make sure they never come out of their holes.” Argrave shrugged, then added, “In time, of course. We have other priorities.”

“Do you have a plan for every step until Gerechtigkeit manifests?” Rowe asked curiously.

“I do,” Argrave nodded. “I have a very, very busy schedule, which scarcely offers time even to sleep. I’ve divided it into phases, recently. First, I solidify my power and deal with immediate problems—like Vasquer, for instance. We’re on that phase,” Argrave pointed to the ground. “Second, I gain support and alliances. It’d be impossible to persuade the human world of Gerechtigkeit’s existence presently, especially with an all-consuming civil war occurring. We’ll have to wait for Gerechtigkeit to make itself known—and believe me, it will.”

“And the third?” queried Rowe.

“I am become Death, the destroyer of the destroyer of worlds.” Argrave held his hands out in faux grandiosity. “We end Gerechtigkeit. This won’t be a battle. It’ll be a war.”

Rowe gripped his staff tightly. “You have the odd and decidedly dangerous habit of rousing my blood, Argrave,” he said. It was the first time the old elf had said his name, Argrave was sure. “Most times in anger, and now, in… vigor, I suppose.”

Argrave laughed. “Let’s hope it persists for three more years. You’ll need it then, not now.”

“I am aware, boy,” the elf reprimanded. “Now, all this talk has reminded me of the duty that the Patriarch has given to me. We’ve tended to your needs, and after hearing your little speech, I can concur it was worth my time. That said, my task strengthens Veiden, and your aid is long overdue.”

“Then I suppose I am at your disposal, provided this won’t take too long,” Argrave nodded.

“That depends on your capabilities,” Rowe said, dispelling the ward around them as effortlessly as he had created it.

#####

“Do you bring a library everywhere you go?” questioned Rowe as he stepped into their dormitory. “Books here, books there, books on the bed, books on the chair,” he rhymed. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You seem the type that would like to own books for the sole purpose of decoration.”

“Books do look nice, but I’ll learn all of these eventually,” Argrave picked up a spellbook and waited for the rest of his party to enter before shutting the door. “It’ll merely take some time.”

“Mmm… if your willpower doesn’t fail first, your memory will,” Rowe disagreed. He moved some books off a chair and sat down, letting out a huff of air. He leaned his staff against the table.

“I’m not an old man at the cusp of losing his mind. My memory is good,” Argrave countered. “So, things have been settled with Elias thanks to your help. What could the unfathomably powerful S-rank mage want with the weak and altogether not-helpful me?” Argrave sat down adjacent to Rowe. “Frankly, I can’t believe you’re here. Don’t you have important functions in Veiden?”

“Yes, but I hate doing them,” Rowe said blatantly. His gaze wandered to Anneliese and Galamon, who took their seats at the table. “Patriarch Dras chose me specifically for two reasons—of everyone in Veiden, I’ve come to understand enchantments the best.” Rowe held up one finger. “And two: he wishes to pass some… untraditional reforms, shall we say, and doesn’t want my meddling.”

“Despite knowing that, you’re here?” Argrave asked curiously.

“I get tired of making sure people don’t hurt themselves,” Rowe shook his head. Seeing Argrave’s incredulous expression, he added, “You try holding the line against the younger generations for hundreds and hundreds of years. There’s only one me, but they keep making more damned babies. Hard to see the value in life when you realize it’s a renewable resource.

“Time was I had some ideological allies in Veiden, but I’ve outlived all of them.” Rowe shook his head, and then waved his hand as though shooing something. “Besides, Dras is reasonably intelligent. He won’t ruin things too much, and I can fix what he does when I return.”

“I see.” Argrave didn’t think too deeply into the matter—now that Veiden had ceased its progress into the mainland, his business with them would be done for a time. “You mentioned enchantments earlier. Is that related to your business here?”

“Aye.” Rowe tapped his finger against the table. “Our attack on that city… Mateth, was it? It was illuminating.”

“Did you have a moment of epiphany where you realized the foolishness of war?” Argrave asked drolly. “That would be the best outcome. Embrace pacifism, live peacefully.”

“No. What we realized was the foolishness of the way we warred,” Row shook his head. “Some mages tried attacking the enchanted walls with magic, you know.” Rowe gestured to Argrave, then continued bitterly, “The spells rebounded, exploding in the ranks of our own men. Dozens dead, so I’m told.”

“Yeah. House Monticci is—well, was—strong,” Argrave amended. “Their walls have never fallen, and their navy had never been beaten before. Some say their sigil should have been a golden turtle. But Veiden annihilated their navy; at that, at least, you can take pride. Your extremely poorly timed invasion was well done.”

“What does it matter whether their navy had been beaten before? To Veiden, they’re all the same—enemies to be conquered in time.”

“All the same? With that approach, Veiden’s bound to fail. There’s a reason I killed your druids, Rowe. Intelligence is paramount.” Argrave placed his elbows on the table. “Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories. Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win,” he spoke, acting up the part of the sagely scholar for his own amusement.

“I don’t care to hear your platitudes,” Rowe shook his head. “And knowing our enemy is precisely the reason why I am here.”

“Will you keep speaking vagaries or get to the point?” Galamon placed his arm on the table.

“Hmph. Impatient as ever,” Rowe glared at Galamon.

“No. You like to speak too much. I know that well.”

“Those whose words are worth hearing should make them heard,” Rowe responded to Galamon, then turned his gaze back to Argrave. “Putting it plainly, we need to correct our insufficiencies in comparison to humanity.”

“Alright,” Argrave nodded. “You’ve still yet to tell me what to do.”

“Can’t you extrapolate things? Must I spell everything out?” Rowe shook his head. “I wish to know of enchanted architecture of note. I intend to visit and examine it. Furthermore, I must more closely examine illusion magic and enchantments. You taught Veiden how to create low-level enchantments, but none of those are capable of what was achieved at Mateth.” Rowe leaned in. “It is not enough. Veiden must be strengthened. This serves your interests, too—we will aid you against Gerechtigkeit.”

“Then perhaps you should have been nicer to Elaine,” Argrave said, a faintly amused smile forming his face. “I can’t be your tour guide, nor can I give you all the secrets you need. She can, though.”

“I did not expect one so weak to hold a powerful position. But she won’t help now, no question,” Rowe followed. “Hmm…”

“No, she’ll have a question, I’m sure,” Argrave disagreed. “The question will be… how much can you pay for her help?”

“Dras has given me the liberties of using Veiden’s coffers, if need be,” Rowe stated as though it was the natural course of things.

“Then your answer to that question should be ‘a hell of a lot,” Argrave smiled. “If you’re nice, I’ll try and mark down the price. I think I can civilize you yet. Fortunately, I intended to meet with her shortly. She’ll be coming with to the banquet, and I need to invite her.” Argrave stood up from his chair. “If you’d like, you may come along now. Two birds, one stone.”