JACKAL AMONG SNAKES-Novel

Chapter 86: Stone and Bone

Argrave looked back, seeing none of the moonlit night beyond. The Stonepetal Sentinel’s encampments was far beyond them. “Galamon… anyone behind us?” he asked uneasily.

“No,” the elven vampire answered after a moment’s pause.

Argrave breathed a sigh of relief, and then conjured an E-rank spell for light. It jumped into the air and Argrave’s eyes closed instinctively, adjusting to the new brightness. Soon enough, his eyes opened, and he saw the spell light reflecting off the gray stone around them.

The beginnings of the Low Way of the Rose were well-made, each stair descending downwards in perfect order. The pillars were carved in the likeness of rose stems, thorns poking out along their surface. Torch sconces were cleverly disguised into the thorns, but they had neither lamp nor torch in them at this point.

“What a disaster,” Argrave said, both to himself and his companions. “Flew too close to the sun, and the gods burnt my wings.”

“We should be moving,” Galamon said, unheeding of Argrave’s comments. “No telling if… or when… pursuit will come. We need a comfortable distance ahead.”

“Yeah… yeah,” Argrave nodded, and then they continued down the stairs. Their pace was a moderate one—a little slower than a jog. Each stair was very large, and it was difficult to proceed down them quickly. Argrave was certain that his knees would ache tomorrow. “In a while yet, the tunnel will open up into the real Low Way. There, we can reassess things,” he called out to both as they proceeded.

The briars about the ceiling and walls gave the impression the room was twisting and writhing as they proceeded downwards. Had Argrave not known the name of this place, he might’ve assumed the thorns everywhere were spikes, and this place the abode of some fell creature. Thinking of what was ahead, Argrave realized that impression was not entirely false.

“Rowe was right. I got cocksure, and now look where we are—enemies ahead, enemies behind.” Argrave shook his head. “The plans I had—up in smoke.”

“Neither of us questioned your judgement, Argrave,” Anneliese argued as she moved beside him. “The fault is not yours alone.”

“How could you question my judgement?” Argrave said interspersed with laughter. “I didn’t share it. I just insisted you follow along. Everything went so damned well in Jast, I thought the world was my oyster. Fat chance of that if I keep counting chickens before they hatch. Things went to hell in a day.”

Galamon spared a brief glance backwards but said nothing. Silence settled over them as they proceeded.

Anneliese finally broke the silence. “After Thorngorge Citadel, when I could hardly stand, you asked me a question. I will return it to you now, in hopes you understand the point I intend to make.” She pulled ahead of Argrave, stopping him. “What do you want to do about it?”

Argrave stared down at her, regaining his breath. After letting her words sink in, he slowly nodded. “You’re right. Should reflect on mistakes, not dwell on them.” He looked down the tunnel. “Probably getting close to the end of this stairway.”

“Yes. The air shifts ahead, and I hear the rush of water echoing against cavernous walls,” Galamon said. “Not much further.”

Anxiety rose up as a tide within Argrave’s chest as they resumed their journey downwards. Faint, reddish light greeted them, draped like a mist over the cold gray stone of the stairs. A horrifically potent and sharp smell reminiscent of truffle oil and iron invaded his nostrils, but Argrave shook his head and pushed past the feeling. The sounds of rushing water grew louder as they approached the red light.

The tunnel that led into the Low Way was grand in scope, its ceiling towering hundreds of feet above them. That, though, seemed small in comparison to the grand chamber that opened up before them. The Low Way of the Rose was truly massive, enough to house the grandest of cities—and indeed, at some point, it had.

“Welcome to the trading city of Nodremaid,” Argrave announced.

Nodremaid had been, once, a city of impeccable order. That order remained in the architecture. Several terraced pyramids held tall stone buildings, residential and commercial both. Stairways led from terrace to terrace and pyramid to pyramid, giving Argrave an impression not entirely dissimilar to a teocalli. These terraced pyramids were divided by large canals that moved beneath sets of stairs, each flowing to the center.

The order brought by the angular paths and canals was entirely destroyed by that which had grown over it. The walls and the ceilings housed vines of bone and flesh that wound in and out of the stone, flowers blooming at points that held the image of twisted faces. They had seen one of these ‘plants’ at Thorngorge Citadel—these in the Low Way were intended to support the ceiling and provide light. Their eyes, ever open and shining like spotlights, illuminated the dead city of Nodremaid with red light.

Though the waterways were mostly clean, pure water, at points they merged with viscous flows of blood pouring out from a waterfall in the far end of the cavern opposite them. Over the years, strange plants had begun to grow by the canals, and much of Nodremaid was consumed by foliage. The majority of the growth was hued red, offering little reprieve from that color.

Galamon and Anneliese both looked around with some confused mixture of awe and horror. Even Argrave felt some, despite knowing fully what to expect. Few people save the Stonepetal Sentinels understood just what the Order of the Rose had left in their wake.

“This place… how could people have lived here?” Anneliese gazed at the flesh plants in the ceiling. “How could anyone feel at ease here?”

“Wasn’t always this bad, I don’t think.” Argrave looked about. “Even were that not the case, if you see something every day, you get used to it, I suppose.”

“We’re out in the open here,” Galamon said. “I smell the same rotten blood as in Thorngorge Citadel. It’s in the water, the buildings, the ceilings… this place reeks of debased flesh.”

“Then let us go and reassess what we must do,” Anneliese said.

“Right. Don’t let your guard down.” Argrave adjusted the collar of his gray enchanted duster, then pulled his hood over.

#####

“Looks to be an enchanted weapon that killed him, not magic. Fire-based. Probably a dagger,” commented Jean, kneeling beside a body. The corpse had been stripped of its armor barring the helmet, which had partially fused with his face from the heat.

“Can you recover the helmet?” Alasdair questioned, standing at the head of a crowd of people.

Ossian scoffed. “Nice priorities, old man,” he rebuked.

Alasdair cast a reproachful glance at Ossian while Jean shook her head and said, “No. The enchantments on the helm are ruined anyway. Meant to protect against threats without, not within, and the person who attacked knew this.”

Alasdair nodded, then directed his voice to the crowd. “On the morrow, he’ll be buried, the proper hymns sung to send him to the gods’ hands.”

“What of the three that did this?” one of the knights asked, clearly emotional for the person who’d died.

“Why are you asking him?” questioned Ossian. “He’s a Master Sentinel, not our leader. Why was this done without approval from anyone, Alasdair? You mobilize men without a majority vote from the other Master Sentinels?”

Alasdair turned and spat angrily, “You mean to tell me you wouldn’t have done the same?”

Ossian pointed at Alasdair. “Don’t deflect. Doesn’t matter what I would have done. You aren’t our leader, Alasdair. Claude is. Until a month passes, and he’s declared dead, we’re in a state of interregnum.”

Alasdair waved dismissively. “They may have already intended to enter the Low Way.”

“Oh, and they happened to do so just before you stormed their tent while they slept,” Ossian laughed. “Just rich timing on their part, then?”

Alasdair crossed his arms, metal armor creaking. “We should strengthen the guard around the tunnels. In pairs, something like this won’t happen again.”

“Hold on a minute,” Ossian interrupted. “It sounds to me like we aren’t going to be chasing after them.”

“You were the one most eager to welcome those three,” Alasdair deflected. “Now you wish to hunt them down?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ossian shook his head, undeterred. “Are we going to chase after them? Time is of the essence.”

Alasdair glared at Ossian. “It’s not reasonable. The Low Way is vast and dangerous. If they aren’t killed by us, they’ll be killed by the dangers within. Few save us Sentinels can survive for long in there.”

“I can’t believe this,” Ossian said, too surprised for indignance. “They kill one of our own, and you’re simply going to wait them out?”

“They’re dead men walking,” Alasdair insisted. “Those on the surface are ignorant of what lies beneath these mountains. If they return at all, it will be from where they entered.”

Ossian made to leave, but Alasdair called out, “Stop.”

Ossian ignored him. “I won’t leave justice unmeted.” He spread his arms out. “Anyone that wishes to come with, follow me. Elsewise, I’ll go alone.”

Though the knight’s words were brash and passionate, the sentiments resounded with many within the crowd, who stirred on their feet as though their bodies told them to follow. Ossian simply walked towards the tunnel with purpose, then turned on his heel, waiting for any who would step forward.

“Ossian. This is foolish,” Alasdair reprimanded, stepping out in front of the crowd. “Gathering men to confine a potentially dangerous individual was reasonable. Scouring the Low Way for a fugitive is simply… foolish,” the aged knight repeated, unable to think of another word to describe the situation.

“Time is of the essence. Who will come?” asked Ossian, ignoring Alasdair entirely.

When the first stepped forward, he was soon joined by others. Ossian stared at Alasdair passively. Soon enough, he was flanked by many others. Some of the female spellcasters even moved to join him, too.

“Then I am off. Wish me luck,” Ossian said neutrally.

“Ossian!” Alasdair shouted urgently as the man started to move towards the tunnel. “Be reasonable!”

But Alasdair’s words were not answered. Their group, numbering near twenty, proceeded into the Low Way of the Rose. As they entered, six pigeons perched atop a cliff above the Low Way watched, each far more focused on their party than the birds ought to be.

Alasdair clenched his gauntleted hands. “Reckless, Ossian…” he muttered. “But that’s what I’d hoped to see.” His traces of displeasure were nowhere to be seen.