Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave chuckled and smiled, watching as she walked away. When he turned back, his party was waiting. It was the smallest, yet perhaps the most potent—Artur, Vasilisa, Orion, Ganbaatar, and some of the first people he’d met on this realm… namely, Nikoletta and Mina. He’d changed a lot since meeting the two of them. And maybe they’d changed, too.

Orion carried a glowing section of Sarikiz’s dreaded hair, bound in a red rope that made it look like magical wheat. Artur relaxed on the grassy ground, staring up into the sky nonchalantly. Mina and Nikoletta talked amongst themselves, and Vasilisa caressed her forehead as though she had a headache. Ganbaatar seemed eager to move.

“You two are probably wondering why I wanted you with me,” Argrave said, directing his voice towards the ducal heir and her good friend. “Well, it’s simple. I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten about my promise to ask the elves to search for Duke Rovostar and your father.”

Nikoletta looked surprised, and she crossed her arms and said quietly, “That’s… benevolent.”

Argrave stared at her when she gave that response. Things had changed, he was realizing. Now that he was king, people called basic human kindness ‘benevolence.’ All he was doing was what he thought was right. Maybe that had never changed.

He rolled his shoulders to dismiss his thoughts and said, “Let’s go.”

#####

As they walked across the grasslands, Argrave found himself very out of sorts. Galamon, Durran, and now even Anneliese were absent. He wasn’t quite at ease with Orion yet, and though he liked Vasilisa well enough he’d yet to build the same rapport he had with his mainstay companions. And as they walked…

“Might I steal a moment of your time, Your Majesty?”

Argrave looked to his right, and then far down to spot Artur’s shaggy head of brown hair. The Magister had expended much of his magic reserves in the fight against the wood elves’ Tumen and had asked them to slow so that he might walk with them—his enchantments drew from his magic supply, after all, and he needed that to replenish.

“Steal? Didn’t take you for a thief,” Argrave said lightly, giving a non-answer.

Artur laughed, though Argrave didn’t think his own joke was particularly funny. When he settled, the Magister cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to be blunt, Your Majesty, because I don’t think you care for delicate speech.”

Argrave spared the stunted man a glance, then turned his head back to the grasslands ahead. His cynicism flared, telling him that now was the time the cost of this man’s favor showed up on the balance sheet.

“I have a certain fondness for delicate speech,” Argrave admitted. “It’s saved my life a few times. And now I’m going to go talk to a god again—I hope I have a talent for it, as I think I do.”

“Again?” Artur repeated.

“Never mind that,” Argrave shook his head. “Say what you want to say.”

Artur focused his eyes on Argrave. They were strange eyes—sometimes gold, sometimes green, sometimes every color one could conceive. It probably had something to do with his A-rank ascension.

The Magister said seriously, “I hope that Your Majesty will allow me to create an institution subordinate to the crown, focusing on rediscovery, research, and development of new enchantments.”

Everyone in their small group save Ganbaatar turned their heads at this declaration. That was a significant statement, to say the least. Argrave took a long time to think about it before he said anything—time which Artur spent patiently waiting.

After a long moment, Argrave responded slowly, “The Order of the Gray Owl does that already. Technically, they’re supposed to have a monopoly on all magical knowledge… but such a thing is almost impossible to enforce, given the autonomy of each Order member. Still, it has prevented other rival magical organizations from popping up in the kingdom.” Argrave turned his head. “…given the request, I imagine you want me to change that.”

“Yes,” Artur admitted. “I would prefer to be completely unrelated to the Order. I think that, in the years to come, the title of Magister won’t have much weight to it anymore. And I think you’re to blame, Your Majesty. You know things. This journey here is enough to demonstrate that.”

Argrave took a deep breath, thinking. He hoped to delay the conversation and joked, “Well, we still have to talk to a god, first. Might not make it out of that alive.”

“I can guarantee Your Majesty that the armor you wear has no modern equal,” the Magister continued, unwilling to allow himself to be diverted. “And as more and more relics of ancient civilizations surface… I can make their secrets mine, I’m sure of it. Physical enhancements, sight in darkness, resistance to poison or disease, or things like that silver bracer on your arm,” he pointed up to Argrave’ wrist. “If you allow me, I can give all of that to the crown. All of what you know, I can bring to life.”

Argrave listened patiently, then let the silence hang as they walked towards the distant altar. Argrave could hear their boots cutting through the grass as his mind thought of the matter. He didn’t think Artur was overselling his abilities.

“Why?” Argrave asked. “What’s your angle?”

“I think Your Majesty would realize the value of such an organization… and investments would be made,” Artur said diplomatically. “To do away with delicate speech—money. Money, manpower, resources, and—”

“Power,” Argrave finished.

Artur looked at Argrave for a few moments, and then back to the grasslands ahead. “I suppose you could call it that, yes. But… no. No, I don’t think it is that. All I want is something very simple. I want to ensure that no one can disregard me. Or, as it was put to me recently… look down on me,” he finished with bitter emphasis.

It was moments like these that reminded Argrave why he preferred to go everywhere with Anneliese. That sounded a plausible enough answer, but Argrave couldn’t tell what the man was really feeling.

“I heard about what happened to you on the day of the royal summit,” Argrave said quietly. “If you intend to get back at the Order… I’ll say only that I intend to promote development so long as it doesn’t come at the expense of another.”

“As I would expect of a king forged as you were,” Artur nodded like that was expected. “When I was young, I learned something. My parents were farmers in the farthest northern region of Atrus, just beyond the southern border of the old Queendom of Quadreign. Farming was tremendously difficult work, and doubly so in that region of cold, infertile fields. They had no use for a child like me. With this stunted body of mine, I was incapable of so much of what they needed—stout labor, endurance, general physical capability. I learned, then, a simple lesson. If they did not need me, why feed me? To fill my stomach… I had to be needed. Irreplaceable.

“Without my body, I had my mind. I took up administration of taxes in the village. The tax collectors veritably extorted the villagers who were ignorant of how much was in a single bushel—this was long before Felipe’s conquest of the region. I was… ten, perhaps? From there, I took on more and more… I became literate, helped people with trade, learned medicine… it was a life of constantly striving to fill roles that were needed. It was only at thirty that I learned I had a talent for magic. It felt like a blessing beyond compare…” he closed his eyes. “But even having learned so late in life, I made it here.”

Argrave listened curiously, having never heard this backstory before. He knew Artur was from a peasant family, but not much more.

“The point is this, Your Majesty. You might balk at hearing my motivations for founding this institution, but if you allow me, I will become an irreplaceable help to you. I’ve been doing it my entire life, after all. I didn’t wallow in self-pity. I would have succumbed to starvation long ago if I had. I can be what you need.”

Argrave finally reached the altar, and he put his hands on the altar as everyone else gathered around. If being needed was all that mattered to you, would you have advanced so far? That was the main question he could think of, but he didn’t want to ask it. There was no need to alienate the man.

“Who do you need to be needed by, at this stage? You’re an S-rank spellcaster,” Nikoletta pointed out, voicing Argrave’s thoughts for him.

Artur regarded her with a glance, then looked back to Argrave in expectation without answering her.

Argrave leaned against the stone and watched. “Anneliese has a similar sentiment about self-pity.”

“Her Highness?” Artur raised a brow.

“Yeah,” Argrave nodded. “I hear what you’re saying. You’ve proven yourself many times over in that engagement back there alone. But it’s not my sole decision, anymore. You’re on the parliament—you know I intend for a future where it has more importance in day-to-day governance of Vasquer.” He looked at Orion. “For now, we take care of all this. And when the time comes, your proposal will be put to the parliament.”

Artur looked briefly disconcerted, but he gathered his composure quickly and wrung his hands together as he nodded. “So it is, Your Majesty. So long as you know my will, I am content for now.”

#####

Argrave blinked open his eyes. He had returned to the realm he’d come from, standing there on stone like he’d always been there. Back in the grasslands, it had been a strange experience to watch something that looked like hair burn and turn into liquids. Sarikiz had the souls of sixty tribes trapped in her hair—though perhaps trapped is the wrong word, for it implied that it was not a willing thing. Regardless, it suited their needs for bridging the gap between realms.

Argrave cast a simple spell to illuminate the place and threw it up into the air so that it might bathe the room in light. This new stone building was much the same as the first underground altar they had entered in many ways. It varied in two ways—namely, the fact that there were many more entrances, and the fact that it was flooded with blood. Argrave lifted his right foot up and looked at it, grimacing as thick, congealed fluid dripped off his boot like visceral sludge.

Orion and the rest soon emerged from the portal, blinking open awake just as he did. Orion’s hand went to his sword at once the moment he saw the room lit by spell light. “Easy, now,” Argrave told him. “Might be you swing at one of the others coming from the altar.”

“What in the gods’ name is this?” Orion asked, stepping up to a slightly elevated place where the blood had yet to reach.

“It means one of two things,” Argrave said. “It’s going to be far less challenging to rouse our friend, Chiteng… or he’s already woken up.”

Orion looked uneased. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Argrave said distantly. “All I know is that it smells terrible in here.”

As more and more came through, he explained to each of them what was happening. When they’d all gathered, Argrave waded through the thick, viscous blood flooding the underground altar. He’d thought going through the wetlands of northwestern Vasquer had been torturous, but to walk through heavy red blood was far more unpleasant. Fortunately, the source was not too far from them.

Ahead, there was a circular rock wreathed in roots. The blood flowed down the plant life almost artfully, yet it all began from the stone. The rock was unadorned and unmarked, yet blood flowed in three places. With two side and by side, and one coming out from a crescent between and below… the simple, circular rock looked like a face bleeding from its eyes and mouth.

“Ganbaatar and Orion—I think you’ve already agreed to come with me to the elven realm. As for the rest of you… what do you think? Who wants to go?”

Artur had elected to use his enchanted mantle to hover above the blood once again. He asked tentatively, “Will you hold it against me if I decline, Your Majesty?”

“If I did, I’d never say that,” Argrave shrugged.

“Then I think that I will take my chances and gracefully decline,” Artur tipped his head. “So long as the opportunity is open, of course.”

“I’m of a like mind,” Mina said. “I like being ignorant of the divine… and if it’s not the divine and you’re wrong, I like staying out of whatever you intend to stick your hand into.”

Vasilisa stepped forward to join Argrave. “Whatever. I’ll go,” she told Argrave, fully committed to this endeavor even despite her crassness.

Nikoletta stepped forward, too, though offered no commentary. Argrave raised a surprised brow but didn’t intend to dissuade her. She and Mina exchanged some urgent and muttered words, and then the two parted.

“Right then,” Argrave nodded, turning back to the bleeding-face stone. “I suggest the rest of you back away a far distance, lest you get caught.”

They backed away obediently from the shrine Argrave stood before. Back at the other shrines, those four separate—and far more numerous—groups would be taking much simpler actions. Gods of other realms could be called upon using collective will and intricate knowledge alone. That method could be likened to lighting a fuse. Here, though… Argrave simply intended to light the bomb personally.

He retrieved Fellhorn’s inheritance medallion and held it up to the bleeding-face stone. Orion handed him the next items—a mallet and stake. The Veidimen had used these to make their tents, but Argrave had a different purpose for them here. He secured the medallion in place with the stake, feeling a deep sense of nervousness regarding what he was about to do. In Heroes of Berendar, items with divinity like this inheritance medallion could be destroyed before the shrines of deities. That was the sole way the player had to interact with many of the other realms.

He was fairly certain this would work… but if his method was incorrect, he’d anger Fellhorn for no good reason and look a fool before plenty of important people. But he’d been both a fool and a king, and the two had their ups and down. He pushed the spike against the silver medallion, pulled the hammer back, and pounded. On the first, it bent. On the second, it sunk in deep. And on the third…

A loud clang ran out as the medallion snapped in half. The noise was far too loud for what had been done, and the two pieces of the medallion tumbled down while releasing black smoke, before plopping into the blood at Argrave’s feet. It hissed audibly, and slowly… the inanimate liquid began to bubble, churn, as though boiling. No, it didn’t seem to be boiling. It was. Argrave lifted his feet up as he felt a heat in his leg.

A great hand formed of blood pushed up beneath them, sending them into the air. Argrave saw five spirits in each of the hand’s fingers and knew then that he could resist if he so wished as he had done with Onychinusa and her shamanic magic. But now… now, he didn’t care to. The great hand’s fingers clenched, almost as though to crush them. And then they were elsewhere.