Jackal Among Snakes

“I’ll be watching,” Vasilisa told Argrave. “But like I said, it’s not like there’s much I can do to help. This is your battle, not mine.”

Argrave nodded at her, then turned his head back to the ocean ahead. Most of his clothes barring his underclothes had been removed and set aside. He knelt in the sand before the bloody ocean, facing Chiteng. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t be at ease unless the giant elven god was in his sight. He didn’t think he was in danger, yet even still he couldn’t dispel this idiosyncrasy of his.

He had gone through this procedure in his head half a thousand times. Even then, he wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to do it right, so he ran through it again. The fundamentals of this A-rank ascension had been peer reviewed by peers that weren’t really peers—namely, they were people far better than him at magic. People like Anneliese, Castro, Rowe, Vasilisa, Hegazar, Vera, and essentially every powerful friend he’d made had their hands on this process of Argrave’s.

They had refined the method greatly. Argrave thought that his undying soul was a clear and necessary element for this procedure, but Rowe and Castro had analyzed that idea and applied it to a normal soul. After redevelopment, they made it work with any person, not just someone who so happened to be very lucky and born with an undying soul. Or unlucky, depending on whether or not a necromancer got their hands on them.

Having an undying soul amplified the power of this A-rank ascension beyond compare, however. Argrave’s base idea was simple, inspired by seeing the vampiric beast within Galamon. He would use his soul as an anchor for what he called ‘blood echoes.’ Like the silver bracer on his arm currently, these would store the essence of blood magic, eliminating the need for the caster to use their own blood in blood magic. Additionally, they could be projected and used elsewhere.

With an undying soul… Argrave could create as many of these echoes as he wanted. He had the heaviest anchor in this world for them to attach to. And with his black blood, forget blood magic—these echoes could be a store for all magic. He could project these bloody apparitions and make a firing squad of deadly magic—deadly blood magic, at that. All of this… at zero cost to health and wealth.

The idea was simple. Was doing it simple? Not particularly. Argrave needed to rewire his veins, essentially. It wasn’t his veins, in truth—it was more so the magic conduits that drew blood from the body when blood magic was cast. He had to link those to his soul, inextricably. The ‘inextricable’ part was the tricky bit. These conduits were fussy. Blood echoes were foreign to them, and they liked to revert to the mean.

These conduits would become both the method for the creation of blood echoes, and the path by which A-rank matrixes were completed. It was similar to other ascensions involving blood magic—Argrave hoped that meant Blood Infusion into other spells would be viable for this method. Regardless, he had to place his blood pipes into their proper place.

Naturally, toying about with the pipes made for blood magic wasn’t risk-free. And so Argrave came here.

Argrave’s breathing grew heavier as he recognized what he was about to do. He held out his hand and cast an exceedingly simple spell of blood magic. He was cognizant of slight pain as the spell completed, but ignored that and sought out the conduits that siphoned his blood into the primal power of the sacrificial magic.

After a time, he found one, drawing away his blood for its purpose. Then another, another, all up and down the vessel that was his body. His will was a tangible thing in his body, like a sparking imagination moving through his body with his hand guiding it. He slowly took a survey of all the spots in his body siphoning his vital essence into magic. One after another, he got his hands on them. He found his soul, too—Vasquer had helped him with this part, so it was considerably easier.

With everything in place, he pulled the conduits away.

Fiery pain lit up Argrave’s entire body, yet he stayed firm. He moved these conduits towards his soul, hoping to get them all into rough place where he might then do a more precise manipulation. It was a trying task, like trying to pull fifty separate wires precisely with only two hands. And the pain… the pain didn’t stop. The pressure kept growing and growing, pushing out against the container that held it in—namely, his mind.

Argrave felt pulled back to this world with startling clarity. He hunched over and puked blood into the already-red ocean. It wasn’t just puking, though—his eyes, ears, nose, all of him was bleeding. He heard people panicking behind him—Vasilisa, Orion, Nikoletta. He succumbed to the terrible sensation. Meanwhile, a great budding warmth spread up within him, mending the wounds as quickly as they came. It was the power of this elven realm.

After a long, long while, Argrave felt cognizant of the world again. Vasilisa held him, preventing him from dipping headfirst in the red ocean. Her blue eyes were wide, concerned, and trembling.

“I’m fine,” he told her, blood still leaking through his lips. “Small pipe leak. I’ll get it fixed in no time.” He started laughing when he said that. Forget fixing it—everything he’d done had already been reverted. He’d made no progress.

“What in the god damn is wrong with you?” Vasilisa held him, shaking. “You were crying blood. What is this, some kind of sacrifice?”

Argrave wiped blood from his eyes to see better. “Take it easy. Not my first time bleeding from every part of my body,” he told her, laughing again.

He finally straightened, then looked at his body. Already, the pain was gone—the elven realm had healed him, just as he suspected. He took an assessment of himself as everyone nearby watched in confused panic.

“Alright,” Argrave nodded. “Again.”

Nikoletta stepped up beside him. “Again?! Argrave, you—”

“Again,” Argrave said firmly, then raised his hand with the spell already formed.

#####

“I was surprised when you contacted me,” said a tall blonde man, a steel helmet depicting a boar resting in the crook of his arm. The rest of his equipment was laid out before him, polished and ready. All that remained was putting it on.

“Surprised I could, or surprised I would?” Durran asked, leaning up against the wall with his glaive to his left. He was fully armored in gray wyvern scale, seemingly ready for war. Off to the side, his gargantuan black bear slept peacefully.

“Both,” Boarmask said simply. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

Durran nodded slowly. “Because of Titus, largely.”

“…yet I ended up leaving the Burnt Desert, nothing done all the same.” Boarmask shook his head and laughed.

The golden-eyed man shrugged. “Hey, I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy when I left Sethia. You saw what became of me there. Paraded about through town, mocked, called a traitor… I was ready to do something regrettable.”

“So, why go back?” Boarmask stared, curiosity lining his blue eyes.

“You must’ve heard the news a long time ago,” Durran pointed, then fixed his dark hair back with the other hand.

“Gerechtigkeit,” Boarmask nodded, then placed his helmet down. “I thought you worked under Argrave.”

“I did. Do,” Durran corrected. “Actually… I was mostly working under his sister in the latter days. Still, she’s got people willing and able to replace me. That’s just the problem.”

Boarmask narrowed his eyes. “Meaning…?”

“Bad things are happening. I need to do something that no one else can do. Something no one else is willing to do.” Durran looked off to the side. “Plan’s pretty simple. Argrave told me Fellhorn’s going to come to the Burnt Desert, eventually. Before that happens, I’m going to unite it all under one nation.”

Boarmask laughed, stepping away. Durran only stared with a serious smile on his face, and Boarmask gradually began to understand that his friend wasn’t joking.

“I hope there’s some pivotal details I’m missing,” Boarmask took slow, steady steps forward, disbelief writ on his face.

Durran nodded. “About half a hundred. But you can learn them as we go, see.”

Boarmask looked a little relieved. “Right. There’s no way you’d do this with just the two of us, of course.” He watched Durran’s face, and when he saw the same serious smile as earlier demanded, “There’s no way, right?”

“A nation isn’t one person, so of course not. But Argrave started alone, and look where he is now,” Durran waved his hands.

“He was the royal bastard of King Felipe III,” Boarmask spread his arms out.

“And I’m the sole male heir to the last wyvern-rearing tribe in all the Burnt Desert,” Durran pointed his thumb at his chest.

“Sole disinherited heir, last I checked,” Boarmask rapped his knuckles against his helmet, sighing. “What in the blazes goes on in that head of yours?”

“The whispers of a severed head,” Durran nodded. “Want to know a little secret?”

“From you? I hesitate,” Boarmask quipped.

Durran held his hand up and cast a spell. Boarmask backed away in fear, but Durran never willed magic into the matrix. It stood there, suspended and spinning.

“I don’t know what that is, Durran,” Boarmask shook his head.

“A B-rank spell.” He closed his fist, and the magic dissipated. “It was… really, really easy to learn. I have no idea why, but it was.” He shrugged. “Actually, I do have an idea why, but I think that’s best left in my head. Mine and Garm’s.”

“Do you plan on killing every Vessel in the Burnt Desert with those mighty spells of yours?” Boarmask waved his hands up in the air.

Durran chuckled. “I remember you being more somber,” he noted. “Well, no. I don’t intend on fighting all of them. I can’t, really, not alone. But with Gerechtigkeit coming—gods be damned, with Fellhorn alone coming, the Burnt Desert is at its tipping point. The region can either remain forever doomed to be a wasteland ruled by tyrants or divided into petty warring tribes as it was before my birth… or, better yet, I can make something good out of these existential threats. I can unite all the people of my blackened and burnt desert to fight in the war these gods wage against the world, so that I can hold my head high when I mention my homeland,” Durran finished with his voice loud and firm.

Boarmask went silent at the passion in the other’s voice. He stepped away, thinking. “That’s a nice sentiment,” he finally said when he turned back. “But if there’s anything I can attest to, it’s that hot sentiments mean nothing before cold truths. They once called me the Romantic Warrior. I had to learn that lesson the hard way, but I learned it. And our world is quite the cold one, need I remind you. Vessels, Titus, and tribals who think you a traitor. That’s your homeland, Durran.”

Durrna crossed his arms, leaning his glaive up against his shoulder. “Believe you me, I know how cold the truth is. I’ve touched that godless ice enough for the both of us… enough to know that I should use it in my favor.”

Boarmask took a deep breath and sighed. “Well… and gods be damned, but I’ll say this: if your plan makes sense, I’ll help you.” He sighed once again. “Can’t believe I said that. After being with Orion for a little, nothing really feels dangerous anymore.”

Durran’s eyes widened. “You too? You met him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Boarmask held his hand up. His eyes wandered to the giant bear. “You’re, uhh… bringing a bear to the desert?”

“No. I contacted a friend of mine—he’s sending someone to pick it up by boat.” Durran looked at the creature. “It was a gift. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but I don’t want him burning up in the desert. Besides… that beast was made for someone else, I’m certain. The letter Galamon wrote back in reply was the happiest I’ve ever heard him. And this was letters on a page we’re talking about.”

The bear lifted his head up when the name ‘Galamon’ was uttered.

“See? Mention his name alone, the beast perks up,” Durran gestured.

Boarmask chuckled. “So… what is your plan, then?”

Durran looked at him. “Metal people, dead people, earth people, elf people, et cetera. I learned a lot from a friend of mine. I intend to exceed his expectations. His… and maybe a certain Alchemist’s.”