Jackal Among Snakes

Chapter 121: Metal CLashing

“He has his hands wrapped around something vital,” Argrave nodded, then he looked to Anneliese. “But look at things this way—we skipped a step.”

“What?” asked Galamon.

“His trust,” Argrave lowered his head, staring at the road before Cyprus. “He thinks that he has power over us… and so he’s more willing to implement us in his plans.”

“’He thinks?’” repeated Anneliese. “He does have power over us. Perhaps we should make sure that Garm is safe.”

“I don’t think that Garm is in danger,” Argrave shook his head. “But if you judge differently, we can go back and make sure right now.”

Anneliese sighed and crossed her arms. “If only we still had our druidic bonds, we might confirm that without needing to move…”

“We’ll get new ones soon enough,” Argrave assured. “Perhaps quicker than I thought. Ones better than that dragon our… he’s our friend, I suppose… better than what Rowe has.”

“…what?” she looked at him incredulously.

“In terms of utility, certainly. But for now… I say we go along with what Brium asks of us.” Argrave turned to her.

She looked very torn. But after a while, she gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

#####

Brium and his escort of four Vessels stopped just before a plain gray building that was no more than a simple dome of cold stone. Argrave’s party was off to the side, not fully integrated with the rest of the Lord of Copper’s retinue.

“Before we enter… allow me to relay my expectations,” Brium spoke to Argrave, though did not turn his head. “This place is called simply ‘the Stone.’ It is a neutral meeting ground for the Vessels in this city.”

“The place from which all of the Lords of Sethia were born—mined from the Stone, forged by Fellhorn into metal,” Argrave finished. “I know.”

“That’s correct,” Brium smiled and nodded. “My distant ancestors were pagan lords, but Fellhorn’s coming changed that.”

“What’s expected of us?” Argrave pressed.

“I don’t suspect you will have cause to speak much,” Brium confessed. “Here is your role—you are mercenaries, hired by me. Your presence is meant to provoke them into action.”

Argrave nodded seriously, then questioned, “Against the tribals? Or…?”

“Against me,” Brium’s smile faded. “The other Lords—they are constant, calm, just like the waters of Fellhorn. The southern tribals have been belligerent for years, and yet not once have the Lords retaliated. We Vessels only enforce rules on our subjects.”

“And you are not fond of that refusal to retaliate,” Anneliese noted. “Why are you different from them?”

“They are all literalists. Traditionalists,” Brium said contemptuously. “They plan to be but a Vessel all of their lives—a stagnant pool, a still lake, growing only as rivers deposit their rainwater into them. Their power grows, certainly. But… Fellhorn is the god of rain and floods.”

The Vessels alongside Brium nodded eagerly, his zealous followers drinking in his words.

Anneliese pointed to him. “And you wish to become the flood?”

“The southern tribals of the mountains have learned, grown, and adapted. Our current way nets us nothing. The literalist way—remaining as a stagnant pool, offering drink to those who submit—is insufficient to spread Fellhorn’s eternal rain further,” Brium shook his head and clenched his fist, genuinely aggrieved. “I cannot see the faith stagnate like this. Even if I must be the one to stir the waters, they must begin to move.”

“What is the benefit of provoking action against you?” Galamon questioned.

“When is wood weakest?” Brium questioned, stepping up to Galamon and staring up at him. “When it is rotten inside.”

Galamon stared unflinchingly. “Your point?”

“When will an enemy attack?” Brium held his hands out. “When their foe is at their weakest. And the southern tribals have been looking for an avenue to attack for many years now.”

“Provocation after provocation,” Argrave shook his head. “You certainly have your work cut out for you. All of this just to lure the southern tribals down from the mountains? Seems far-fetched. Too many things left to chance,” he baited, trying to get some information out of the talkative Lord of Copper.

“My people need to wake up to the realities. I am certain Fellhorn will see fit to bestow upon me the luck I need. I am certain that the tribals will be ready,” Brium smiled and shook his head.

Now it’s all but confirmed. Brium is working with some tribals. Even if it isn’t Durran who’s talking with them, if I can get contact with these tribals… I can make this flood hit a dam. Of course, he’s not going to let me meet them easily. He’ll hide their existence until the day of the attack.

“I see you’re pleased,” Brium noted, staring at Argrave.

Argrave hadn’t realized it, but he was smiling. He ran his hand across his face to suppress his expression, then said, “Just feels like things are finally going my way for once. Long road ahead, but I’m eager to trod it. I have some ideas to swing things in our favor ever more. But those can come at another time, certainly.”

“Indeed,” Brium nodded. “What I’ve told you, I will soon tell those inside this building. I feared I might have to use the leash around your neck, but you convince me I was mistaken. It matters not.”

“I am glad of that,” Argrave said simply.

“Now, the lords Argent and Aurum have been kept waiting for twenty minutes. I am positive they will be incensed.” Brium stepped ahead into the Stone.

#####

The three Lords of Sethia were each and all as remarkable as the copper skinned Brium and matched their titles absolutely, embodying them in their appearance and dress. These appearances were not something coincidental. Each of the three had been tailored over generations to better fit their role, and to cement their status as the Lord of their tower.

Argrave knew how they maintained these appearances—breeding systems within their towers. People with desirable traits were ‘hired’ to bear a Vessel for the tower. They were technically free, but realistically forced to remain in the tower, living luxuriously for the purpose of producing heirs with the desired physical traits.

Now, these three Lords sat at a table in the center of the Stone, flanked by their own personal retinue of lesser Vessels. Argrave felt out of place. He usually did, though.

The three lords sat in a triangle on the circular table, neither facing the other fully. The Lord of Silver, Quarrus, was a tall albino man—his skin, hair, and eyes lacked all pigment, making all of his features resplendently white. He had a sharp look about him and seemed to be angry constantly. He kept his hair long as though to show it off, and wore only silver jewelry and clothing. His status as a Vessel seemed to preclude the usual vision defects associated with albinism.

The Lord of Gold, Crislia, was a woman with very strong elven features. Her skin was vaguely gold-like but lacked the intensity of the real metal and was further muted by the wet skin natural to the Vessels. Her hair, though, was a perfect match for the word gold. On top of all that, she wore enough accessories of the precious metal to afford a king’s ransom.

Quarrus leaned forward into the table, clenching his fists as he stared at Brium. “We agreed to meet here with you out of respect for the long-standing title of the Lord of Copper, and of respect for the greatness that has come out of Cyprus in the distant past…” Quarrus slammed his fist and stood. “But you insult Argent by bringing a mockery of our features?” He pointed to Anneliese.

Argrave pulled her back and stepped forward almost instinctively, immediately on edge. Brium raised his hands up to pacify Quarrus.

“You’ve misread me entirely, Quarrus,” he said pacifyingly.

“Silver hair, pale skin—what else am I to make of this?!” Quarrus shouted angrily. “You would make one with the features of the Lord of Silver subordinate?”

“They aren’t subordinate,” Brium said calmly, still holding his hands out. “They’re mercenaries. Above all, they’re a fitting response to what happened to your tower.”

Quarrus breathed heavily for a few moments, staring at Anneliese. After a long time of tension, the Lord of Silver turned, picking up his chair that had been tossed to the ground in his outburst. He corrected it and sat, still a ball of wrath.

Crislia, Lord of Gold, had been waiting for her time to interject, and did so now. “Let us not forget the purpose of this meeting. Yesterday, you called a meeting between you and Quarrus, for the purpose of—”

“I understand why he brought us here, now,” Anneliese whispered into Argrave’s ear, drowning out Crislia’s voice.

Ear tingling, he turned his head slightly at her voice while waiting for her to continue.

“To mark us as his—to bind us closer, eliminating our political mobility in the city. It would be all but impossible to cooperate with Argent or Aurum now. Argent views us as a public insult. Aurum would not risk offending Argent.”

Enlightened, Argrave directed his focus back to the conversation ahead. The Lord of Gold had finished summarizing the purpose of this meeting, remaining the calm mediator.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Brium?” Quarrus insisted, leaning in.

“The meeting…” Brium began. “It was a coincidence that it matched with the time of the raid.”

His words were met with a complete, almost incredulous silence throughout the Stone. Quarrus leaned back in his chair, face taut as he stared at Brium.

“Is it so surprising these things should happen?” Brium raised his hand into the air. “Every time the southern tribals raid, they receive very little retaliation. At the best of times, we send a party to demand back what was stolen.”

“Retaliation is not the way of Fellhorn. He rains only water, never blood,” Crislia shook her head. “All those living may still become a part of His eternal rain.”

Brium leaned in. “Things cannot remain as they are. We must retaliate—we must flood those mountains they hide upon, wiping them all clean. If we do this… We dirty our hands but once, and Fellhorn’s influence spreads to those damnable mountains once and for all.”

“You verge on blasphemy,” Quarrus noted, his anger turning to alarm.

“This city was the first to be claimed by us Vessels of Fellhorn,” Brium tapped the table. “And now… we do not expand. Fellhorn’s rain remains constant, nothing more. We lose as much as we gain by the day. All of this… because we allow a cyst to persist!”

He’s genuinely trying to persuade them, Argrave thought. A last-ditch effort to wake them up to follow his deluded fantasies of grandeur.

Yet the two other lords were unmoved by the Lord of Copper’s pleas, both staring at him coldly. Brium stood, becoming animate in his passion.

“We must march into the mountains, induct them into the faith. We have the capability. We have Fellhorn at our backs. If He deems us unworthy, He will make his will known!” Brium pleaded. “But until we take that plunge, we remain as we are—constant, stagnant.”

“Core tenets of Fellhorn’s will, both,” Crislia noted coldly. “We came here with the impression this was merely the actions of a misguided young Vessel… but the issue seems to be much deeper than that.”

“Issue? There is nothing wrong with me,” Brium said defeatedly as he lowered himself back into the chair. “But you two refuse to listen.”

“And you did this as some attempt to wake us up?” Quarrus questioned. “A ridiculous notion. I am done here.” Quarrus rose to his feet and made to leave.

“As am I,” Crislia agreed. “Things must change, Brium, you are right. But not for the faith. For you.” she shook her head, then moved away.

Brium was left as the last sitting at the circular table of the Stone. Things had gone nearly exactly as he outlined, but Argrave thought he didn’t look the least bit happy.

“It’s time to get to work, before they decide to handle things,” he said, rising to his feet.

Argrave took a deep breath. The days to come would be turbulent, without a doubt.