Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave’s hand emerged from a still body of water, grasping onto a sandy beach. The sand fell away, and he fell back in. A second later, his hand came back up, and he used his elbow to raise himself up out of the water.

“Christ,” he gasped, water dripping off his face. “Cold. Didn’t think about how much of a nightmare this place would be.”

Argrave felt a colder glaive pointed against his neck, and he raised his head up, blinking water out of his eyes.

“That’s because it’s an emergency entrance to this place,” Corentin said, staring down at Argrave with his one good eye. “And I’m questioning how you knew of it.”

Argrave shamelessly grabbed Corentin’s glaive, and the old one-eyed veteran laughed and helped Argrave out of the pool. Soon enough, Anneliese emerged, having little trouble freeing herself from the pool.

Lastly, Galamon came up. Weighed down by plate armor, he had to climb up the side of the wall, digging his hands and feet into the sand bank. Corentin offered a hand, but Galamon refused it, coming to stand tall.

“…I’ll have to do rust treatment. Again,” Galamon said bitterly.

“Who’s this one?” Corentin inquired, staring at Anneliese.

“Another friend, completely trustworthy,” said Argrave, rising to his feet while shivering. “Water’s too cold. I hate this.”

“Welcome to Otraccia. You’ve come a little too quickly,” Corentin shook his head. “We’ve only just migrated here. Beyond telling Durran what you’ve told us, we haven’t had time to do anything else, least of all deliver supplies to the southern tribals.”

“Yeah,” Argrave nodded, shaking himself about to cast off some of the water. The Brumesingers jumped out of his duster, shaking themselves off of all water. Argrave shied away as he was pelted with water droplets. “That’s because things are moving a little too quickly,” Argrave said grimly, shaking cold water off himself.

“What do you mean?” Corentin stabbed his glaive into the sand and crossed his arms.

“The battle will happen tomorrow morning,” Argrave conjured fire, holding his face a little close to ward off the cold. “Things have gone a lot faster than I thought they might.”

Corentin’s one eye grew distant. “Gods above.”

“The Lord of Copper sent me here to gather fighters—something I don’t intend on doing, naturally,” Argrave assured at once. “I know well that your people aren’t exactly fit for a large-scale confrontation of this sort. I was hoping, though, that I might get some of the war relics you promised the southern tribals. A Sand Courser, most preferably. We have backpacks. We left them outside the illusory entrance, because they’re filled with books. Not exactly suited for water.”

Nor is Garm, Argrave thought, but kept that to himself. It wouldn’t be dangerous, per se, but he still felt hesitant to bring the head into the town in case something unforeseen should come to pass.

Corentin took a deep breath and exhaled, then nodded intently. “A Sand Courser? I can’t decide this. Wait here. I’ll bring the others. They’re checking out the old buildings, making sure the forges and such still function.”

The one-eyed veteran took off in a steady jog, but Argrave paused before sitting down. The enchantments on his gear had warded off the majority of the water from seeping in, but his clothes were still a bit heavier.

“Do you think these supplies will help, if we even get them?” Anneliese questioned.

“If we get them, they’ll do more than just ‘help.’ It’ll probably be our lynchpin for the raid on Argent.” Argrave sat cross-legged in the sand, waiting. “Maybe I didn’t talk them up enough. I just never thought we’d be the one to use them.”

Anneliese sat down beside him. Galamon was removing his armor, shaking the water off it annoyedly.

“I’m a bit nervous,” he confessed to Anneliese. The Brumesingers came to him, curling up near his legs.

“A bit?” she repeated.

Argrave furrowed his brows, then shook his head defeatedly. “Fine. I’m really nervous.”

She laughed, then grabbed his wrist, giving silent support with a gentle grip. Argrave turned his head, locking eyes with her. He said nothing for a time—he didn’t know what to say. Something finally came to mind.

“What happened here? We feed a stray dog, it follows us to our new home,” Morvan No-Nose shouted out, prompting Argrave to turn quickly and leave his words unspoken. “And it brings friends,” the southron elf noted, coming to stand before them.

“Morvan,” Argrave greeted, rising to his feet. “Everyone. Didn’t expect to see me again so quickly, I’m betting.”

“It’s like I was telling them. He just missed us too much,” Corentin shouted out from the back.

The old veterans laughed, and Florimund came to stand before Argrave. “Corentin informed us of the situation. The battle is to start tomorrow?”

“According to everything I’ve been told, yes,” Argrave nodded.

Florimund turned around, looking at his men. He said nothing, lost in thought, but eventually turned back to face Argrave. “Alright. We’ll lend our support.”

Argrave smiled and nodded excitedly. “That’s good. That’s great!” he praised.

“The boys and I—we’ve been talking,” Florimund continued. “We’re old. Some of us… well, most of us… we’re almost too old.”

“Yeah, Florimund has a hard time functioning as a man anymore,” Yann called out.

“I’ll give you a crack in the head, ‘can’t function,’” Florimund turned about, laughing. Their easy-going banter seeped into Argrave’s mind, easing his frayed nerves somewhat. “As I was saying, we’re old enough to fight… but too old to be of much use for much longer.”

“What are you driving at?” Argrave held his hands out.

“The southern tribals,” Florimund turned back. “There’s bad blood between us. For centuries, there has been. Giving them arms, armor—that won’t be enough to put that to bed.” He looked back to the veterans. “We’ll be joining you.”

Argrave’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Even if the Vessels are wiped out, we have to make peace with the tribals,” Morvan noted. “We can’t function if we keep wandering about, isolated migrants roaming from hidden town to hidden town.”

Florimund nodded. “We need a place in this new world. And we won’t have one if we don’t get involved. The tribals need to know we’re their allies, not their enemies.” The old elf crossed his arms. “Durran’s a good man, but he can’t control everyone’s actions, everyone’s thoughts. Fighting with them, side-by-side… they’ll never forget that.”

“It’ll help if they’re afraid of us, too,” Yann noted.

“Well…” Argrave put his hand to his chin. “I’m not in the position to say ‘no.’ I can take every bit of help I can get.”

“Then it’s settled,” Florimund reached up, grasping Argrave’s shoulder. “We’ll prepare. And then, tomorrow, I’ll lead my men into battle at your side.”

#####

It was a cold morning. Durran sat there, watching the suns rise ever higher above the sky. He had donned his armor—wyvern scale armor—and sat atop rocks, arm wrapped around his glaive as it leaned against his shoulder. His wyvern, a great gray beast, lounged nearby, resting.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” Boarmask noted, staring out. “It’ll be a fine day for things.”

“Clouds mean rain,” Durran said. “It hasn’t rained in years.”

Boarmask grew silent at Durran’s answer, and the two watched the rising suns in silence.

“I meant what I said,” Boarmask broke the silence. “I’ll help you with Titus, when things are done.”

“And what will you do, hmm?” Durran turned his head. “Give him a fair trial? I don’t think we have the same idea of ‘justice.’”

“Every man deserves a fair trial,” Boarmask crossed his arms, plate armor creaking. “No matter what they’ve done.”

Durran shook his head. “Life isn’t fair. Don’t bother trying to make it so. You’ll just end up with a gut full of spite, loathing this twisted world.”

“Durran!” someone called out, and Durran twisted his head back. A warrior wearing wyvern scale hopped over the rocks, making his way over to the pair of them. “Durran, it’s your father.”

“What happened?” Durran rose to his feet. “Has he gotten worse?”

“No,” the warrior shook his head. “Better, actually. Best I’ve seen him all year. But… he’s asking to see you.”

Durran ground his teeth together. Then, he held his glaive towards Boarmask. “Hold this. If you see Brium’s signal, blow the horn. You know the drill.”

Boarmask took the glaive, and then Durran set out, scrambling up the rocks adeptly. Eventually, the mountains cleared up into a large, open valley. The place was beautiful, overgrown with life, a large river running down its center. Homes had been built into the side of the valley, carved out from the rocks. Nearly each and every home had a wyvern just above it, nesting in a cave. People flew about atop wyverns from place to place, and the place was a hive of activity.

Durran ran up the center of the valley, moving past the great mass of people as he followed the river. All were readying for war, their weapons prepared for combat and their armor at the ready. People seemed to bubble with excitement, young and old.

In the back, there was a crude stone palace. Durran paused at its foot, catching his breath, and then entered with slow, steady steps. The stream running down the valley originated from this place, and consequently, it was well-guarded. Wyverns and men both stood at attention here, watching and waiting. None barred Durran’s entry, and he made his way for the back.

Inside, there was a bed of stone holding an emaciated man with a large frame. His wispy white hair was silver from age, but the man still had powerful golden eyes. He rather resembled Durran, though seemed much sterner. A young woman attended to him.

As soon as Durran entered, his father’s golden eyes locked on him. “Boy,” he called out, voice hoarse.

Though his father’s voice was nowhere near as powerful as it once was, his words still had an almost instinctive effect. At once, he ran to his father’s bedside and kneeled.

His father grabbed his armor and shook him weakly. “What are you thinking?”

Durran offered token resistance, then seized his father’s wrist and pulled it away. “Father, you’ve just woken up. Don’t strain yourself. You may make things worse.” He looked to the woman attending him. “Give us some space.”

“Worse?” his father repeated as the attendant left. “I’ve got one foot in the grave, how much damned worse can it get?” he wheezed, then coughed. “But I hear it. Outside. Men preparing for war—it’s a sound I’d never forget. The nervous cheers.”

Durran took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Stop this foolishness,” his father said at once. “You bear my name, ‘Durran.’ We don’t have the numbers to do this.”

“But I—”

“I won’t hear it. I am still chief. This ends, now,” Durran’s father commanded. “You will go outside. You will tell them my order. I will not have the last of our people, the last of our great beasts of war, perish in this assault.”

Durran stared at his father, saying nothing.

“Don’t give me that look, boy,” Durran’s father reprimanded. “I am still chief. Disobedience will not be tolerated. You have nephews eager and willing to take your place. You’re my son, true enough, but the tribe comes before you, before me.”

“You’re talking about banishing me?”

“Not talking about. Threatening. Key difference, boy,” the chief shook his head. “Now, go. Go!” he shouted, pointing out the door.

Durran rose to his feet, walking to the entrance. The female attendant made to go back inside, but Durran grabbed her wrist.

“My father said he wished for some time to be alone with his thoughts,” Durran said. “Give him some time. He’ll call you when you’re needed.”

The female attendant nodded, and Durran walked outside, staring out across the valley. His gaze was grim and torn, and he clenched his fists tight.

“All the times he chided me for being weak… now he wants me to back off?” Durran muttered.