Jackal Among Snakes

“We came all this way for a bunch of spheres?” Melanie asked, drawing him from his haze.

Dario looked back from the box full of orbs just before him. “Not spheres. Cores. They powered the golems that traversed the lava. They’re empty, but Elenore gave me permission to power them with spirits.”

Melanie nodded understandingly, but furrowed her brows after she thought deeper. “Not sure if hunks of metal have the agility to catch the shadows. And you don’t have golems, do you?”

“No.” Dario sifted through them, picking one up. “I intend to ignite them.”

“Good god…” Melanie sighed. “Argrave mentioned something about them exploding. Is that what you mean? He didn’t clock you for a terrorist.” She caressed her forehead than asked, “Bombs? Against a spellcaster? Sounds like we’re asking to be buried and forgotten.”

“Powered with spirits, one of these could heavily wound a Shadowlander.” Dario looked back and tossed one, and though it was unpowered, Melanie’s face still flashed with caution after his bold statement and she caught it delicately. “One of Traugott’s wards might block it, provided he was far enough away...”

“Yet you’re still bringing them,” Melanie criticized, hefting the thing in hand.

“I said ‘one.’” He looked back. “We have more than one.”

The former mercenary’s mind worked, calculating the possible outcomes of her mission with a would-be martyr whose first instinct was to retrieve a huge load of bombs. She couldn’t say she had many points of reference to draw upon—only this lunk, and he had a poor track record.

“Set a few off near him, he’s red mist and bone meal. Ignite it, throw it into the Shadowlands… won’t even be gore, just a forgotten man and a rapidly-closing portal. If I touch him, if he comes close enough for me to grab… no matter what’s between us, I’ll end him.”

Dario stuffed some cores into the pockets of his clothes. They’d likely remain there, keeping an explosive finish to any fight as a ready option. Pushing a button, turning a knob—a lot easier than succumbing to a slow death. He wouldn’t even have time to feel the pain before it was all wiped away, along with a few stories of whatever building they found themselves in. And hopefully, Traugott himself.

“How the hell did you live this long, even? Your first solution’s always killing yourself.” Melanie tossed the core back in the box, and the metal clattered noisily. “Ever heard of throwing things? It’s worked for me.”

“Don’t want to die. Historically, things trend toward that, though. We’ll see how the dice land.” Dario put the lid on the box, then picked it up.

“They’ll land far the hell away from me, I hope,” Melanie muttered under her breath.

#####

Argrave stood at the head of an army. This wasn’t a place he enjoyed being, especially. It meant one of two things—he was facing one, or leading one. Either choice resulted in him being the first to clash against enemy forces. Verbal spars appealed to him much more than real ones… but as time had proven, there weren’t many other options at times. There’d be time enough for talking when the war was won.

His company bolstered him, somewhat. They weren’t good conversationalists. Indeed, if he hoped for dialogue, he’d need to crane his neck; they were twenty feet tall. He doubted that they would respond overmuch if he tried, but where they suffered in social graces they made up for in pure power. Wearing shiny white-gold armor, wielding swords far taller than he was, and infused with a golden aura that permeated the air nearby… Law’s Justiciars were decidedly more assuring than even Argrave’s own royal guard.

Fifty Justiciars stood behind Argrave—countless more dotted the army of spellcasters further beyond, protecting and watching all the members of this army. And all above, like an aurora borealis weaved of golden mist, was the god of justice himself. Law was the only deity that would be joining them here, while the rest would stand with Galamon and Veid in the south. Law’s decrees would empower the northern army just as his physical form battled whatever enemies Kirel Qircassia was sure to send down, while the rest of the gods would fight alongside the southern army.

They stood before the jagged maw that was the northern passage to the Palace of Heaven. The great valley leading to the fortress was overshadowed only by the building itself. Circular, cold, sheer—many words described its sleek gray surface crowning the mountain, but Argrave thought of one above all. Efficiency. The imperial palace was all glitter and glamor, but the Palace of Heaven? It was the steel beneath the gold plating, the iron by which an empire of countless millennia had endured, the function to the form.

Elenore’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Galamon is ready. Whenever you are, the southern army will march.”

Argrave closed his eyes, nervousness welling up like boiling water through his guts. He rolled his shoulders and looked to Anneliese, standing by his side. Governor Zen, Orion, the Alchemist… he looked past them all, right into her eyes.

“Want to go hiking?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she answered, understanding what he asked despite the humorous way he asked it.

The others looked at him, confused.

“Alright. Let’s go, then. Let’s not forget the umbrella—it could rain.” He looked back, where the man who’d been designated to blow the horn waited, and gave the signal with his hands.

The hornblower, with one purpose in life, blew the horn. Argrave expected grand things—the man had been training his entire life for this moment. He raised it to his lips, filled those practiced, spacious lungs with air, and blew. It was an adequate blow. Perhaps the expectation made it seem lesser than it was.

As it sounded, Argrave told Elenore, “Start the march.”

With his command to her, Argrave began the long march toward heaven one step at a time. Law’s Justiciars walked ahead, folding around the leading cadre like a protective shell. Following shortly after was a great rumble as all the powers they’d gathered spurred into action. Thousands marched—thousands with great gluts of power, and countless empires worth of knowledge. They struck at heaven, striving for it as countless others before them… but would this time be different? Statistically speaking, the answer was no… but most gamblers quit just before they make it big.

As their feet moved from the loose dirt at the base of the mountain to the rough-hewn stone road curving and winding ahead of them, Argrave felt a shift in the air before he heard a noise in the sky. He didn’t stop the march, but his eyes danced upward. The enemy had a hornblower of their own, it would seem. Their horn was the sky tower, and the blower Kirel Qircassia. Exponentially larger than Argrave’s, it made a much more impressive noise.

Kirel Qircassia’s fortress of clouds—once bombarding the whole of the Great Chu—changed its target. Now, great balls of hellfire spouted into the air as a solid wave of fire, then descended downward toward the mountain as a firefall. The tower itself split open as the Qircassian Coalition finally reared its head in earnest. Deities of all stripes prepared to descend, prepared to defend the last barrier between them and the heavens. In the clouds, past all the movement, Argrave saw the barest hint of Qircassia’s body—scales as white as bone, and streaked with black. Just as the door opened, so did it close, and that hint of his presence was gone.

The sky tower was not the only thing coming to life. Beneath the earth, Argrave could feel magic coming to life, taking hold of the earth beneath them. The stone felt firmer, the air felt different. The cold steel efficiency of the Palace of Heaven was soon adorned by a glamor of its own. Arcane magics danced into the air, forming a crown above the circular stone fortress above them. The battlefield fixed into place, and the shield that had repelled gods and armies uncountable stood in their way.

People took their place on the battlements of the Palace of the Heaven. Upon first glance, they seemed to be soldiers like any other. But past the haze of chaos, one could see their misshapen forms, their monstrous figures. They were the emissaries of Erlebnis. Somewhere behind this mess of power, the ancient god of knowledge waited. His servants manned the battlements, and the deity himself commanded them, the tricks and guiles of millennia coming to bear for this final confrontation.

Erlebnis’ library, his servants… they were made of the flesh and blood of the fallen. He had engineered the Alchemist’s transformation into the Smiling Raven. He had provided the means for the ancient elven empire to fall. Countless other atrocities lost to history lined his plate, and he’d already attempted some in this millennia—trying to supplant the Bloodwoods, trying to completely destroy the Great Chu from within. Now, it was the Blackgard Union turn. They had survived his machinations, and dealt blows of their own in turn.

But if he were so easy to slay, he would’ve died countless cycles ago.