Jackal Among Snakes

Merata walked to Ghan’s right, dragging his crook along the ground just beside his too-long hair. The trees responded to him like a pet reunited with their owner. Argrave reasoned that might be more than a metaphor—perhaps it had been Merata that planted all of these great redwoods a millennium ago when these gods last walked the Bloodwoods. Whatever the case, all of the roots that had writhed out of place at Kirel’s behest scrambled to retract and return and obey the elven god of agriculture. He was their master.

Ahead of the elven army, the roots entwined together and then sank back into the earth to form a perfect path toward their destination. Though the earthenware ants were thousands and the titans they made enduring, Merata’s sieve of roots was enough to catch them. Catch them and crush them, namely. In but a moment, all of the ground forces blocking their path were forcibly merged with the earth, leaving behind only a wicker path that served as the perfect road for the elven army. With no more impediments, the Supreme Myriarch ordered the march. This path of roots continued as they advanced like a carpet laid out for a royal progress.

Argrave and his coterie were hard pressed to keep up with the relentless elven push north. He felt eager to help these people out, looking for any enemies he might use his magic on. Before long, however… he realized that it was unnecessary. From the beginning, they had one task alone—watching the rear.

Few of the winged demons made it past Ghan, walking storm and heart of the battlefield that he was. His lightning rocked the world in precise bursts, killing enemies while leaving even the leaves of the wounded forest untouched. The deity walked forward with conviction. Like a true patriarch ought to, he fought so that those behind him did not need to.

And what few enemies did escape Ghan’s wrath did not find easy foes in the other gods. Merata, the eldest son, ensured that all walked upon an easy road. The others dealt with any threats that neared—whether fire, water, the brutal physicality of Chiteng, or the quadruplets’ clever tactics, each of the elven gods protected those they would call Woodschildren with the ferocity of a neglectful parent trying to redeem themselves. Argrave just happened to be caught in the glow, he felt like.

“Is this what we deal with?” Orion said, aghast as he stared at the carnage around this procession of war. “Is that what threat knocks on the gates of our kingdom?”

Argrave looked around with him, taking in the scene. It could be said their plan of a feigned retreat to stretch the enemy thin worked—they were allowed to proceed without facing hordes of Kirel’s servants, as the Amaroks, Mishis, and giants inhabiting the forest were forced to fight to defend their land just like the elves. But without the gods… did they have hope of progress?

“Yes. This is what true gods are, Orion,” he confirmed. “But we brought them here. Don’t forget that crucial piece of information.”

“But… how…?” Orion looked at Chiteng, whose kick slammed a winged monster against a redwood. The tree cracked, breaking in the center. The creature cracked far worse. “How can we survive when this comes to us?”

“We can still grow stronger yet,” Argrave promised.

But even as he said it, in the face of these deities standing hundreds of feet tall, the words felt small. And looking at those who’d come with… be it Anneliese or the Veidimen, fearless as they were, or Moriatran and Vasilisa, Magisters at the apex of human power… none of them felt at ease beholding the terrible power of the gods.

They all knew the same was soon to come to their kingdom. Argrave had promised that.

Orion did not ask any more questions, and though Argrave did not feel he gave the prince a satisfactory answer no one else asked anything further. The march was fast, passing by in an intense blur. He felt like he was trapped in a cage on the back of a car, the bars rattling as they sped ceaselessly toward their destination.

As they proceeded, Argrave could veritably feel life dying. It wasn’t the elves, but rather the redwoods themselves. The further they went north, the more the forest seemed unwell. The pine green became pine gray, and Merata’s weaving of the roots became sluggish as dying trees struggled to heed his direction. Conversely, light became stronger, and the smells of the forest faded in way of an open plain. Kirel had left his mark here, closer to the breach. He wanted to kill this forest, turn it into a expanse of only land and sky. And he was succeeding, here.

When Argrave looked past the legs of deities, he realized that he could see no more trees. It ended here, making way for a vast area of land and sky. Just then, Ghan looked back, holding his arm toward them.

“Halt,” the god commanded, his voice low and commanding. “Hold the line.”

The Supreme Myriarch relayed that command to his Tumen, and only then did the elves obey. As Argrave watched, the elven gods stepped out into the open clearing, leaving the army exposed. At the edge of the forest, a thousand redwoods lay toppled. Argrave thought there were strange twigs atop them, but when wings fluttered he realized they were moths of some kind. Their wings acted as perfect camouflage to bark. They chewed through the wood vigorously, but as the gods neared their eating slowed.

In the center of this moth feast, something rose to a greater height, consolidating. Creeping plants sprawled across the ground rolled inward onto themselves, returning back to their source. They slowly gained form and mass as they bunched together, and before long a wiry figure of plants rose to a towering height. Argrave recognized the figure: the game dubbed him the Sprawling Giant, but his true name was unknown. He was one of Kirel’s lieutenants.

The Sprawling Giant was likely the one responsible for controlling the Bloodwoods to absorb harmful substances like salt and sulphur… and as one of Kirel’s primary servants, his only match here would be the elven gods. The thousands of moths eating away the toppled redwoods came to life, fluttering around the Sprawling Giant like white petals in a storm. The elven gods walked forth to do battle, entering this storm without fear.

“Hold the line, he said.” Anneliese grabbed Argrave, shaking him as a reminder.

Argrave was pushed back to reality and turned around, where already arrows soared over his head to combat the coming threat. He had no place in a battle between the lieutenant and the elven gods. Instead, chasing foes awaited him… and though he was at the rear before, with their convoy paused he now stood at the heart of the action.

An army confronted Argrave, moving forth bravely against a thousand arrows soaring above their heads. Already, the dive-bombing bats birthed by the Sky Mothers assaulted their armies, suicidally rushing into all of them. It was an equal to any force he’d encountered before, be that the druids, the Lily Lurkers, the Guardians of the Low Way, the Vessels of Fellhorn, the abominations of the wetlands, or the tribals of Vysenn. But in the face of this threat, he did not reach for the Blessing of Supersession. After all, he had his own strength now.

Argrave walked forward, holding one hand up in the sky where demons flew. And with all of them in the sky, partially hidden between his fingers, he lapsed into his practice in the elven realms. He called upon his blood echoes. Argrave became three—himself in the center, two blood echoes on his side. He walked forward with a confidence backed by desperation, calling upon the spells he’d practiced time and time again.

A wicked briar whip with nine tails erupted free from Argrave’s hands and from the blood echo to his right. On his left, the other prepared [Bloodfeud Bow], taking ample time to charge as he engaged with the enemy. Bloodbriar spells were B-rank blood spells designed by the Order of the Rose in the likeness of whips, and this one imitated the cat o’ nine tails.

Harpoon-bearing male harpies lunged at Argrave with their spears as the [Nine-Tailed Bloodbriars] charged forth, each of the nine maroon tails of the whip snapping to intercept a foe. The tails met flesh with a nauseatingly brutal crack that seemed louder than thunder, and the first of the fliers fell. Each tail that struck a foe faded away, but Argrave did not hesitate in casting the spells again and again as more came.

His nine-tailed whips cracked through foe after foe. Kirel’s servants assaulted from the sky without mercy, and he gave no quarter in kind. They sundered the flesh of harpies and tore into the bodies of flying archers. Dive bombing bats tried to end him, but Artur’s enchantments proved able to ward them off, deflecting the bats with wind. The giant moths joined the fray at some point, and though the moths were lightning-fast the whips could move to match them just as easily, turning them into a puff of broken white wings drifting through the air like paper.

The cracks of Argrave’s [Nine-Tailed Bloodbriars] seemed a mirror to the raging fight Ghan led at the front, the god’s noise from thunder and Argrave’s noise from his whips. The only break to his slaughter was when [Bloodfeud Bow] finished preparing. Argrave would fire its maroon bolt off at a distant Sky Mother so they could birth no more of the dive-bombing bats.

Anneliese, Orion, and the others were present, surely, and helping as they could… but in the rote chaos of battle, all of Argrave’s focus was directed towards himself and his destruction. If he used his hands alone, there were eighteen whip tails from himself, and thirty-six with the echo. He made certain they struck thirty-six foes as fast as he could manage. This was no time to hold back.

All before Argrave became a battered mess of inhuman corpses and gashed earth, torn asunder from the sheer force of the countless whips. When he realized he struck at nothing, Argrave paused his relentless assault, panting. The enemies still came, though distantly. And looking back, Argrave had moved far ahead from the main force. He’d need to regroup.

He spotted movement from above, and Argrave raised his head just in came to see a huge brown hand coming to crush him. He readied to cast a ward, but before he could Anneliese already protected him. The hand slammed against her A-rank spell, letting out a dreadful noise as it held. Orion came to stand beside him to protect him further, but Argrave’s gaze followed the arm to its source.

Perhaps Argrave should have realized he killed no ants—all enemies he fought came from the sky. He killed none because they weren’t coming around to be killed. Even as he watched, a half-complete titan built itself. The earthenware ants, their carapaces like pottery, could come together to be as grand or miniscule as they wished. And now a titan was manifesting before Argrave, its face some twisted angry demon.

Argrave looked back, hoping for aid from the elven gods. They still fought against the Sprawling Giant—though thin and wiry, it was a true servant of divinity, and fought with its long hammer with ferocity enough to keep the gods at bay. It seemed to be losing solidly, but… Argrave could count on no help, not immediately.

No divine help, at least.

“Moriatran! Vasilisa!” Argrave shouted. “Hit the big bastard hard!”

Mana ripples flashed behind Argrave, and two S-rank spells soared through the air—one of fire, one of wind. The titan of earthenware ants raised its arms to block and took the hit. Hundreds of ants exploded outwards, lacerated or aflame. But still the clay demon stood.

Seems it’s time to see the extent of my echoes, Argrave thought, looking up at his foe.