Jackal Among Snakes

“Hmm…” Rowe grunted as Argrave set down the quill, leaning over the parchment Argrave had been writing on. Anneliese was on the other side of him, just as interested.

“That’s the simple illusion spell, [Muffle].” He pointed at another diagram. “And there is how you translate [Muffle] to an Inscription. Once you will magic into it, the enchantment will be complete. This one will muffle sounds, naturally. Higher-ranked mages with larger magic pools like you mostly resist illusion magic, and plenty of enchantments or spells exist that help prevent people’s senses from being twisted.”

“Very prudent to use a spell I don’t know to teach me enchanting. Quite the amazing teacher you are, aye,” the aged elf said sarcastically. Rowe reached out and touched the paper without asking Argrave for permission. “Aye, I feel it. I can put magic into this.” He did so, and the inscription shone briefly before fading back into ordinary looking paper.

Argrave picked up a gold coin and dropped it onto the paper. It was near soundless. Rowe watched this with brows furrowed. Argrave ripped the paper, and it was completely soundless. Rowe stopped him. “I get it. Stop wasting paper. You know how much this stuff is worth?”

Anneliese picked up a piece of paper and moved away. Rowe turned to Argrave. “Then that is that. If I had known this matter was so simple, I might not have agreed to this trade.”

“Yeah, sure. You would have definitely figured it out without me. Spare me the prideful nonsense,” Argrave said dismissively. “Now, I’ll get you those illusion spellbooks at Jast. Might be a pain, but I need druidic magic. Best way to scout and watch for enemies in the entire world.”

“I’m glad you see that,” Rowe said with some measure of pride. He stepped a bit closer, locking gazes with Argrave and speaking quietly. “So, that one is coming with you?” Rowe inquired. Argrave turned his head. Anneliese was writing something.

Argrave looked back to Rowe, nodding. “Yeah. Why?”

“That’s what I should be asking you, boy. I have responsibilities here, but I could give you a higher-ranked mage. I’m sure I could talk one of the A-rank mages into coming with you. A devastating force on that continent of Berendar, as far as I’m aware. Invaluable in… whatever it is you’re doing to stop He Who Would Judge the Gods,” Rowe said, shaking his head quickly.

A loud poof came from behind Argrave, and he turned his head to spot a small mushroom cloud of smoke fading into nothingness. Anneliese stepped back from a burning piece of paper.

“That’s why I’m bringing her. Latent genius, that one. She has great talent,” Argrave said, pointing with his thumb. “Some enchantments are really quite useless, like that one you saw there; one-time uses that only destroy whatever it is they’re written on. Others, like warding magic, are immeasurably useful. Trial-and-error, really.”

Rowe walked forward slowly and jabbed his walking stick in Anneliese’s foot. She let out a little yelp and jumped back. “Damned girl. Be more careful with paper,” he reprimanded, picking up the smoldering piece of paper where the blackened remnants of an inscription could be vaguely seen. He cast a glance at Anneliese.

“Besides, I need people of good character at my side.” Argrave walked forward, shrugging. “I trust Anneliese and Galamon more than any unknown element that is far stronger than me, magically speaking. Well, probably physically speaking, too.”

Rowe cast some fire magic and finished burning the paper, scattering the ashes while wiping his hands off with his fur robes. “Trust. Bah. You’ve known her for three days, maybe. Keep being so trusting, you’ll end up on a spit with the Tenebrous Reaper pissing on your still-warm body.”

“What’s with you and piss?” Argrave shook his head. “I haven’t been wrong since you’ve met me. Never will be, if I can help it.”

“You were wrong once,” Rowe said condescendingly. “Told me to ‘divine with animal guts,’ but that’s tripe. There’s no validity to it. Might as well toss a coin in the air to decide.”

“Tripe,” Argrave repeated. “Very nice pun.”

“Disgusting.” Rowe waved his hand and started to move away.

“Hold a moment,” Argrave stopped him. “I might need some help carrying the books and navigating this place. Can you call some people? I’ll get a list ready of the spells I need.”

“A list?” Rowe frowned. “You don’t know the spells themselves, but you can make a list?”

“I know their names and what they do. Otherwise, I’m out of luck.” Argrave picked up a quill. “Oh, also, if you could get one of your mages to cast [Cure Disease] on me, I think I caught another cold. Want to squash it before it gets worse.”

“Right. One might think you’re the patriarch the way you order me about. Savor it; it won’t last.” Rowe shook his head. “I’ll get some of the young ones to do your bidding.”

“The books will have to be carried to Katla,” Argrave called out as Rowe walked away. “This is the last thing I need before returning to Berendar.”

#####

Argrave walked through the gates of Katla with Anneliese by his side. Ahead, one snow elf lugged a great chest over his shoulder. It was full of books, so it could not be light. The Veidimen before them chose to carry it over his shoulder out of bravado, but now his expression was faded and tired after the walk from the city of Veiden to Katla.

“Are you going to say goodbye to your family?” Argrave questioned his new travelling companion. “Your grandmother excluded, of course.”

“They live deeper inland, past Veiden,” Anneliese said, amber eyes looking off to the side. “And I do not think they would care overmuch, either.”

“Your call. Filial piety isn’t exactly my thing, either,” Argrave said sympathetically.

Anneliese crossed her arms. Argrave had gathered that she had problems with her family. Some were blatant, like her grandmother. Others were only Argrave’s assumptions, and so he would not press the matter.

Near the docks to Katla, Argrave could see a great gathering of snow elves. He craned his head to try and see what was happening, but unlike in Berendar he was not always the tallest in crowds and could not see over the people easily. He walked a bit faster, his cane tapping against the ground until he moved around the person carrying the books.

Once the docks were in sight, he saw battered and wounded Veidimen being escorted off a ship in the far distance. At the center of the crowd, Argrave recognized one of the prominent snow elves in Veiden speaking to Patriarch Dras.

“They were well-prepared, my Patriarch. There was nothing we could do,” the one speaking to Dras said with a shrug. He was a big man, but his demeanor was withdrawn and battered. “They had counters ready for our primary strategy. Even the druid Alcazar died.”

Patriarch Dras was much smaller, but his presence seemed large in comparison as he rebutted, “I thought you said Alcazar used an A-rank spell before he died. If they were ready, that would never have happened.”

Argrave pushed past the crowd, using his cane to push some of the snow elves aside. People looked at him angrily before they recognized him, and then the crowd promptly made way for him. Patriarch Dras turned his head at Argrave’s approach.

“You’re back from the capital.” His white eyes looked past Argrave to the snow elf lugging around the chest. “And it seems you came back with something.”

Did you trick me? Argrave wanted to ask immediately, mind dwelling on Mateth. He had always liked Dras when playing ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ Now, after what Anneliese had told him, much of the goodwill he’d had was gone. Even still, Argrave knew he only had himself to blame. He knew Dras was not entirely forthcoming; he should have prepared for that.

“Was looking for a piece of gold, but found a bag of silver,” Argrave said with a shrug. “Rowe and I worked out a little deal. You can ask him for the details.”

Patriarch Dras’ face remained stoic. “Seems I understand, now, why you were so quick to give up trying to save that city. You had something in mind the whole time.”

Argrave tried to keep his expression passive, but he was undeniably surprised and hopeful. “Meaning?”

Patriarch Dras crossed his arms and walked closer. “I’ll have to collect a more complete report for study, but the bulk of it was a high-ranking spellcaster. What few mages are still alive believe he used S-rank elemental magic. Your city remains in human hands, and I’ll keep my word.”

S-rank magic? That narrows down the scope a lot. Excluding the unaffiliated mages, there’s maybe a few dozen people in the Order of the Gray Owl capable of magic of that tier, and not many that use elemental magic. If Duke Enrico placed a lot of value on my words, he might’ve called in a favor… Argrave’s head spun, but he could think of nothing.

His breathing threatened to spiral out of control as Dras’ words set in. Mateth had not fallen. Argrave had been worried his actions might have prolonged the battle, ultimately worsening the result. Instead… Mateth never fell at all. He clenched his hand tightly against the cane in his hand. The unknowns of what had happened still wore at his conscience. Just because the city had not fallen did not mean there were no damages… or loss of life.

“We left it to fate,” Argrave said after pausing for a long time. “Like we agreed, right?”

With this occurrence, Argrave’s growing thoughts became confirmed; the world had already shifted far beyond its normal course. Perhaps it was immeasurably naïve to think the world would be constant as it was in a video game. He stuck with what he knew, and though his knowledge had been immeasurably helpful, it wouldn’t be enough going forward. Though the variables would remain the same, the equation would be different. Argrave would need to be more flexible and predictive. One failure could cost him his life, or indeed everyone’s life. That was what the bronze hand mirror in his pocket told him, symbolically.

“Aye,” Dras said with a nod. “I’ve prepared a ship to send you back, along with an escort.”

“Escort?” Argrave probed. “That necessary?”

“You can row the ship yourself,” Dras posited. “Might make those wrists a little thicker, but I think you’ll just never leave the docks.”

“Hey,” Argrave protested defensively, cradling his wrists beneath his clothes. “Wrist thickness is about bones, not muscles. Believe me, if I could run more than fifty feet without coughing blood, I’d do so.” Seeing Dras’ expression turn somewhat contemptuous, he added, “That’s a metaphor. I think I can run fifty feet fine. Never tried it.”

Dras snorted. “One questions why Erlebnis would choose one so… physically deficient, shall we say, to do his bidding.”

“Some people have heart and brain, and those things are a lot more valuable than bulging muscles,” Argrave said, waving to Dras. “I don’t exactly see you on the frontlines.”

The one who had been speaking to Dras before Argrave arrived interrupted, saying, “Show some respect for the Patriarch.”

“Chief Relliden. If I found him disrespectful, I would make that known,” Dras reprimanded immediately. “Go take care of the remainder of the vanguard that made it back.”

Relliden grit his teeth but could only turn away and leave. Argrave turned his head as Anneliese and the luggage-carrier caught up. The man put down the chest, and a cloud of white burst up into the air as snow scattered from its weight.

“You should leave soon. Snow is coming,” Dras said. He turned his head to some of the guards nearby. “Frant, get those daggers I had made.”

“Yes, Patriarch,” the elf responded, running off.

“And…” the Patriarch reached into his armor, and then pulled out a piece of paper. “The draft of the contract. Peruse it for yourself,” he offered.

“A draft? I’m sure your best wizard will be furious. Rowe talked about how expensive paper was,” Argrave commented, but took the paper. He read through it.

“Seems fine, barring the mention of my ties to Erlebnis,” Argrave finished with special emphasis. “You crazy? In Berendar, they have an established pantheon. Ancient gods are a no-go. Don’t want the world to know how my skin looks when it’s being burnt at the stake.”

“Hmph,” Dras snorted. “Such a backwards people.” He took the paper back. “I’ll amend it, then. For now…”

Dras turned back to where the elf he’d sent away was just returning. He brought a wooden case and offered it to Dras deferentially. The Patriarch took it and opened it up. Argrave craned his head to see what was inside, but then Dras flipped it around, showing it to Argrave.

“Some of my mages have these. Ebonice daggers. A lot quicker to swing than an axe, but they offer little range. I thought I might give you some. They suit you best, I think. Sell them if you want. Not my business what you do with a gift.”

Argrave reached out. “Hoh. These are nice.” He took one. It had a dark wooden handle, like mahogany, and felt comfortable in his hand. He examined the blade, and found it looked plenty sharp. Then again, he knew nothing of knives or swords or any weapon.

“While you’re gone, I’ll ensure the warrior’s blood stays roused in my men. When He Who Would Judge the Gods comes… we’ll be ready for it. I won’t lead my tribe to its death. There is more I need to do after this. As such, we’ll make this a crushing victory,” Dras said decisively.

“A crushing victory, hmm? Might a bit easier had you not wasted lives on an invasion you planned to cease anyway,” Argrave chided.

Dras narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t protest. We left it to fate.”

“Things were already in motion by the time we spoke, no? You never planned to allow me to protest.” Anneliese looked at Argrave warily as he used her conjecture to confront Dras.

Dras pushed his tongue against his cheek as he thought of his response. “I’ll admit it,” he nodded.

“Bad start for a partnership if one can’t be straight with the other from the get-go.” Argrave put the knife back in the crate and stepped forward. He was a fair bit taller than Dras. “All those lives lost… and all you achieved is making the people of Berendar hate the snow elves a little more. I’m told since you conquered the tribes, the population has doubled. You undid a lot of that today.”

Some of the Veidimen warriors grew tense as Argrave grew closer. Dras stared up, smiling.

“The first attack… a failure.” Argrave nodded. “Might want to rethink that dream of yours. Instead of leading your people to glory, you led them to death.”

“There is glory in death,” Dras said calmly.

“You say that standing on your own soil with unbloodied hands.” Argrave looked around. “You’ve done enough ‘good.’ Just prepare for Gerechtigkeit. Don’t get cocky. This thing… is never easy,” he cautioned, voice low.

Patriarch Dras thought of his response for a long time. Eventually, the tension faded from his face, and he nodded. “Be well. Give Galamon my love.” He held out his hand.

Argrave shook his hand. “I will, to both.” He looked back to Anneliese. “Let’s be off, then.”