Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave stepped through a pool of dark red water, the sound of the sloshing echoing out across the lower levels. The Sentinels were near, but they gave the three of them a cautious distance. The disgusting wetness at Argrave’s feet made his skin crawl, but he had to bear with it. There was a sense of urgency to his step that spurred his feet forward, yet the persistent aching in his chest made him check his speed.

Despite Argrave’s grand show of faux power in causing the canals to overflow, what he had created was, in effect, a scarecrow. Upon seeing the ridiculous, people were far more amenable to suggestion. Bloodred water flooding the lower levels coupled with Argrave’s leading words—his solution had worked for now, but if the Sentinels were to examine things closer, they would see Argrave’s construction was of straw and wood, not ancient royal heritage as he posited.

“Are you sure the scalpel will be where you lead us?” questioned Anneliese quietly.

“No,” returned Argrave happily. “Might be things have deviated. The scalpel may have been moved. If that’s the case, we will be… in an unfavorable position.”

“’Deviated,’” Anneliese repeated. “Interesting word. It implies a set course.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese. “You know another interesting word? Deviant. Stop making me out to be one. And stop being one yourself, while we’re at it.”

Anneliese laughed quietly, and Argrave felt some his tension dispel with their light banter. He took a deep breath, wincing when his lungs ached, and soldiered on.

“Some of the Sentinels are watching us,” Galamon noted. “They were assigned to do so by Alasdair. The remainder are giving us a decent distance.”

Argrave nodded, directing his companion, “Keep me posted.”

As they proceeded further into the lower levels of the Order’s headquarters, the water level slowly dissipated until the only sound echoing out was the squishing of their wet boots against the stone. They kept a respectable pace, heading into the right hallway. Argrave’s spell light illuminated the path ahead.

After proceeding down the hallway for a time, an opening to the side revealed stairs descending lower yet. Argrave took them, keeping a steady pace and ensuring he kept his hand on the handrail. He wanted to rush, but his feet were heavy with water and he didn’t want to strain himself.

The sights down the stairs were untouched by the water. The fresh corpses of Guardians, vampires, and Sentinels littered the place. Argrave did his best to ignore them and press on.

“Has to be at the farthest point, doesn’t it…” Argrave muttered to himself.

The rooms they passed by had once been places of study, but years being the sole home of the vampires in the Low Way had made those origins almost unrecognizable. There were strange paintings on the walls, with a crudeness likened to what one might see in Neanderthalic cave paintings. They were very obviously made of blood. Some were calendars, while others were strange depictions of people and the sceneries of the Low Way.

In the game, they had merely been undetailed textures. Now, though, some of the paintings were unimaginably detailed, as though made by an artist who’d had hundreds of years to perfect the craft—and indeed, some of the vampires may have been creating these crude paintings for a time as long as that. But despite the quality of the art, something could be seen beneath each painting—a strange sense of twisted savagery. It reminded Argrave of an exhibit he had seen once: artwork made by the mentally ill. Regardless of what was conveyed by the paintings, knowing who had made it twisted his perception.

Beyond that, other oddities filled the halls—sculptures, woodcarvings, artwork all and innumerable in count. Each were hobbies taken up by the vampires to pass the centuries. They were all wrong in some varied ways. Faces on sculptures were twisted, for instance. They were alien in the sense that they didn’t seem to be made to appeal to human emotions.

Argrave noticed, though, that Galamon’s eyes lingered on many of the pieces for an especially long time. Perhaps there was something intrinsic to the art that appealed to the vampiric condition. Regardless, Argrave was glad when they turned a corner, and he saw the door he was looking for just ahead.

Argrave prodded Galamon, pointing to the door. “That’s our destination.”

“…Right,” the elf responded after an unusually long pause. He had to tear his gaze away from a statue. He moved forward hastily, grabbing the door and pulling it open. He looked around for adversaries, then motioned Argrave in.

Argrave entered the room, spell light illuminating the place. The scene was not familiar. There was an altar in the center, but it had been overturned by three bodies—a vampire grappling with two Guardians. All three seemed to have died together. One of the Guardians had been torn in three and scattered, while the other impaled the vampire through the head with a spear. Remnants of spells lingered in the room, frost most prominently.

“No…” Argrave said despairingly, walking towards the overturned altar. He saw a glass display case with a velvet cushion that had been splayed out across the room. He kneeled down, picking up the box and looking about. “Come on… where?”

Argrave looked through the glass, searching for a white knife. Behind him, Anneliese noticed something, and bent down to pick it up. She raised it into the air.

“Argrave,” she spoke.

He turned when his name was called. Anneliese held a white scalpel in two fingers, its blade no larger than Argrave’s thumbnail. It shone with red inscriptions, like glistening rubies embedded in elaborate weaving patterns.

“Haha!” Argrave said excitedly, stepping forward. He held one hand out, and Anneliese gingerly handed the thing over.

“Be careful. I can… feel it,” she cautioned in a quiet murmur.

Argrave looked her in the eyes, then delicately took the scalpel. And indeed, she was right—he felt a resonance coming from the blade, like the repulsion from a magnet near another magnet. In this case, though, the scalpel seemed to reject everything that was not itself.

“The Unsullied Knife,” Argrave said, taking a deep breath. Despite the pain in his chest, he felt a rising triumph. “Now… we can finally start getting the hell out of here.” He clenched the handle tight.

#####

An innkeeper cleaned a wooden flagon far too thoroughly, scrubbing it clean with a washcloth as he stared up at the roof. His face was cautious and tense, as though whatever lay on the second floor made him greatly uneasy. There was a rhythmic tapping sounding out, and each time it came a little bit of dust sprinkled out into the empty first floor.

The innkeeper could not know, of course, that the man in his room was not merely some well-armored entourage. The heir to the throne of Vasquer had gone through great lengths to remain in Elbraille without drawing attention. No—the innkeeper merely knew that there was a very angry, and very dangerous person on his second floor.

Induen of Vasquer held his head in one hand as he sat at a table. His royal knight escort stood before him, silent, as he tapped his foot against the floor. They were tense, as though expecting punishment.

“My accursed brother,” he said, nodding his head. “He’s the reason I’m still here, doing what I am… and I had to learn this secondhand?” Induen lifted his head up. “None of you were able to find out this information? No one knew that my half-brother,” Induen tapped his chest, “brokered the alliance between Jast and Parbon?”

None of the royal knights said anything, standing silently with heads lowered and arms behind their backs.

Induen nodded, tapping his fingers against the table. “Wasn’t Orion. Wasn’t any of my other half-brothers—Levin, Magnus, none of them, no.” Induen wagged his finger. “No… it was the half-dead bamboo shoot. The weak-willed one. The weak-bodied one. About as strong as a twig.”

Induen laughed and shook his head, feeling as though the entire situation was ridiculous. “That’s my sworn enemy,” the prince’s laughter grew to a crescendo, and then Induen continued grimly, “He’s dedicated himself to setting the road ahead of me aflame,” Induen nodded, gaze distant.

“Should have strangled him there, right in Mateth.” Induen raised his hands up, emulating what he described. “Choke him ‘til those beady eyes pop out of his head… fed him to rats…” Induen closed his eyes and took deep breaths, evidently trying to calm himself.

After a long time had passed, Induen turned his head over to the knights. “Severin. Take off your helmet, step up,” he gestured with his hand, then rose to his feet.

The knight in question stepped out cautiously, removing his helmet slowly. He was an older man—a grizzled veteran, with a scar across his face. Induen walked up, towering before the man.

“Is there anything you want to say to me?” the prince waved his hand between himself and the knight.

“My… my prince,” the knight said, unable to meet Induen’s gaze. “I-I’m not sure…”

Induen raised a hand up and grabbed the knight’s face, pushing the man’s cheeks together ungracefully like he was a small child being punished by his parents. “Enough of this tiptoeing around. I know you work for my sister. I thought it was cute, her little spying mission… and you never hindered me, so I kept you around. Now… it’s different. She knew about this. She could have reached out, but she didn’t.”

Severin raised his hands up, clearly wanting to grab Induen’s wrist but unwilling to touch the prince’s body without permission.

Induen raised his other hand and pointed it at Severin’s face. “Right now, I’ve got the temptation to go and find that bastard and smash his face into ten thousand pieces, like I should have done months ago.”

The prince released his grip and pushed Severin away in one motion. The knight staggered, then moved his cheeks about, dispelling the feeling.

“But I won’t. I’ve got the urge… and I won’t. My business here in Elbraille is just starting. I can’t afford to leave.” Induen placed his hand on Severin’s shoulder. “But here’s the point to remember. I want satisfaction. I want my sister… to deliver my retribution. I’ll set aside my impulses, my urges, if she can prove to me that it’s worth my time.”

Severin looked up at Induen and slowly nodded.

“So, next time you go to your little secret meeting, or deliver your secret letters…” Induen tapped Severin’s chestplate thrice. “You get this to her. I expect some good results. Elsewise, well…” Induen trailed off, and then stepped away. “I’ll have to reevaluate the role of her advice.”

Induen stepped to the window, peering out into Elbraille. Despite the night, the city was well-lit by expensive magic lamps that showed smooth cobblestone roads.

“But I’ll put this behind me, for now. If Duke Marauch is unwilling to support me… then his Dukedom will rot from within, and another will take his place. I will not let what is mine be taken from me,” Induen said, teeth clenched. “Least of all by any brother of mine. My mother died giving birth to me. I killed her,” Induen turned back to Severin. “And I can kill my kin again. Tell my sister that.”