Jackal Among Snakes

Beyond that, Argrave had come here with many questions—large questions—but they were questions that no one would truly have the answer to save Gerechtigkeit himself. Just because Vasquer had endured one of the cycles of judgment did not mean that she knew all of the answers. Even Argrave himself only knew so much even with the complete access and repeatability granted by Heroes of Berendar.

Whether he asked where divinity might manifest, or whether Gerechtigkeit himself might manifest where Argrave remembered, Vasquer offered no answer beyond guesswork. Argrave knew where certain gods would appear on the continent… but that had been in Heroes of Berendar, of course. Experience had proven that this logic might be tossed to the wind. Still, the ancient snake’s insights did solidify some of the things Argrave thought to be true.

He was certain that Gerechtigkeit would manifest here. But beyond that, all else of what he knew about the coming troubles could be tossed to the wayside, to be recreated against from the ground up.

Argrave looked at Orion. “Do you want some more time?”

The prince lowered his hand from the snake’s scales and shook his head. “I can move when you wish, Your Majesty.”

Argrave was about to walk away, but he stopped. Some of the things that he’d been grappling with surfaced in his head—the constant drive forward, the confidence, the strange and active person he’d become. Anneliese had been discussing this with him in length, but… he found he sought another’s opinion. One who could see all of what lay inside his head, not some.

With this in mind, Argrave touched Vasquer once again, baring himself utterly. Instead of reassurance and comfort—the constant from this matriarch of theirs—what came to him was amusement. A memory came to him. It was a time in the distant past, when a man with a marked resemblance to Argrave faltered because he felt unfamiliar confidence. Finally, when he embraced it, his failings turned to success. There was a large difference between earned confidence and unearned confidence.

With the comparison made between himself and a hero of legend, Argrave felt strange. He pulled his hand away and turned around.

“I guess it’s time to get going.”

#####

Argrave and Anneliese were staring at a mountain of black stone in one moment, and a glacial field in the next. This was the power of shamanic magic—a power undoubtedly to be unleashed on the surface in short order, given they’d found a helmet belonging to the Ebon Cult. As befitted the mid-game magic, it already demonstrated its ability to completely shift the scale of power.

“Where did you take us?” Argrave questioned, before he answered his own question as he spotted a rather notable landmark.

“Outside the wall of Vei—” Anneliese trailed off, her eyes falling upon something.

Argrave remembered coming to this place. It was the ancient stone city of Veiden, and the whole of it had been shielded by a wall of blue ice that never melted. Far from evoking déjà vu, it evoked shock; half of this seemingly indomitable wall of ice was toppled. Nothing around suggested what might have caused this massive bit of destruction.

“Halt!” someone shouted at them, even when they had been halting for a solid minute by that point.

Spears were readied and arrows of Ebonice took aim at them, but neither moved to strike. There had been a patrol of footmen on the road, and now they attempted to surround Argrave.

“You’re commanding the patriarch’s daughter,” Argrave said with a small smile, looking upon this force of Veidimen. “A terrible career move, all things considered.”

Once, facing fifty or so Veidimen was the greatest threat he’d endured. Now he felt calm even as one of them raised a horn up to call for reinforcements. He waited for tensions to calm somewhat before speaking… but when his plans were drowned out by a roar loud enough to bleed the eardrums, his calm wavered a bit. He looked up and to the left…

Crystal Wind, a white dragon with blue eyes, clung to the wall, peering down at them. He wasn’t quite sure if he could claim to be calm, anymore.

#####

The arrival of Rowe’s dragon, though it made Argrave’s heart beat uncomfortably fast, proved to be a good thing. They were taken inside the city in short order, ignoring most ceremony or security. They entered the ancient stone city of Veiden, the capital of the similarly named nation of the snow elves. Rowe took them right to the palace, that they might speak privately.

“You got lucky.” Rowe the Righteous tapped his staff on the ground, his voice sharp as a whip even after the time that passed. He looked as old as ever—tall, bony, and bald, the S-rank spellcaster was much more wizened than he looked… and he already looked quite old. His floppy lips curled in a smile as he boasted, “The dragon was in a good mood, elsewise you’d be dead or dying.”

Anneliese looked around the old stone palace of the Veidimen where tribal chiefs once met. Now, it was the home to Patriarch Dras. They’d asked, but he wasn’t here—the man liked to travel frequently, touring his vast icy land. This palace was carved stone, all of it, heavy and gray and solemn. Rowe was their sole company.

Finally, Anneliese’s gaze settled upon Rowe. “Your dragon seemed injured.”

“Hmm.” Rowe narrowed his eyes. “Things happened.”

“Things grand enough to break down that wall?” Argrave gestured with his thumb outside.

Rowe groaned in displeasure. “Galamon did that.”

Argrave blinked, thinking he’d misheard. “Galamon? As in, my good friend Galamon? Last I checked he was just a big guy, not an S-rank mage.”

Rowe fixed his white eyes upon Argrave, and they seemed colder than ice. “Do you think an S-rank mage could break that wall? It’s disrespectful to even insinuate that.”

“But it did break. And Galamon broke it?” Anneliese stepped around, alight with curiosity. “What happened here? Where is Galamon?”

“Yes—I wish I could answer that question, too.” Rowe smiled bitterly. “Galamon went on a journey. When he came back, he was fighting this… this bizarre winged frost creature. He fought with more strength than I’ve ever seen anyone possess. In the end, they ended up on the wall. Galamon’s finishing blow put an end to the monster. It also put an end to a fortification that’s guarded this city for as long as we have records,” he spat, then rapped his staff against the ground. “The man’s recovering.”

“Good lord…” Argrave shifted on his feet anxiously. “Where is he? I mean, does he… How is he?”

“He needs to wake up, answer my damned questions.” Rowe shook his head. “You know he’s monstrously strong. He’ll be fine, I suppose, unless that beast put some strange curse on him. Maybe he’s a werewolf this time. Or maybe he’s been possessed,” the S-rank spellcaster said drolly. “Whatever the case—"

“Stop dragging your feet and take us to him,” Anneliese said urgently.

“Who do you think—” Rowe began, but slowly narrowed his eyes just as Argrave prepared to remind him of Anneliese’s rank in the Veidimen’s hierarchy triumphantly. “Ah. I forgot. You know exactly who you are… you’re the patriarch’s adopted daughter. It’s bad enough taking orders from him… but you?” He inhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Come along then.”

Argrave followed behind Rowe as the old man walked off with surprising agility. He had been looking forward to bragging to the old spellcaster about his A-rank ascension, but upon hearing of Galamon’s plight all of these thoughts vanished to the wind. Many ideas floated through Argrave’s head—had the former vampire been blessed by Veid? But her blessing didn’t grant raw physical strength. The thing he had been fighting sounded like an ice wraith—certainly a midgame enemy, and certainly something that someone might need to destroy a magic wall or two to kill.

Rowe stopped near a doorway, standing just outside and gesturing within. Argrave took slow, tentative steps through. The first person he saw was a small woman—by snow elf standards, at least—sitting in a chair, knitting something. She had shoulder-length bright blonde hair, and when she turned her head, her deep purple eyes widened in surprise.

“You’re… Argrave,” Muriem, Galamon’s wife, said softly.

Argrave’s eyes wandered to who she sat beside. Galamon rested there on the bed, his long white hair splayed over a pillow. His lower body was covered by a blanket, but his upper body was exposed. His broad, powerful chest was disturbed by large gouges and one particularly haunting wound on his shoulder. Seeing this, Argrave stepped deeper in, feeling a rising discomfort in his chest. Seeing him hurt like this pained Argrave.

“I think he’ll be fine,” Muriem said softly, comforting Argrave when she saw his blatant panic. “His wounds… they rejected healing magic, but… even without it, they heal so quickly it’s astonishing. And he woke up for a little while.” She took his huge hand, then leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Argrave stared for a time, unsure of what to say. His eyes wandered elsewhere in the room, until they finally settled upon another person in the room. He lowered his gaze, confused. The man was short, squat, and wore a white robed vestment with short sleeves that revealed powerful arms. It was kept secured by a golden belt, and beneath his curly brown hair, earrings dangled brilliantly.

“Why do you stare at me?” the dwarf said, voice stern and dignified. He crossed his large arms, then said as though aggrieved, “I have explained myself enough to you looming creatures. Wait for the man to awake, and he shall vouch for me.”

Indeed, a dwarf. Not a man with dwarfism, but rather a person of the dwarven race from the cities miles beneath the earth.