Jackal Among Snakes

A vast mountain towered overhead, like a sheer wall of gray stone warding off all who would dare approach. At its base, a great opening gave way into sheer darkness. The hole was so large that it could be seen far in the distance—indeed, if one could see the mountain, one could likely see the gaping entrance.

The opening was a perfect half-circle. Perhaps one hundred men could walk side-by-side and enter without issue, and its highest point was about three hundred feet tall. Briars carved from stone seemed to emerge from the tunnels, clawing up the side of the mountain before blossoming into brilliant stone roses. The years had defaced both the briars and the roses, many chipped or discolored by the elements.

A great wall of stone formed a half-ring fortress around the tunnel, and though formidable, it still paled in comparison to the entrance it protected. Much of the stone fortification had crumbled, yet people still persisted within, pitching tents and hosting fires in the vacant courtyard of the ruined castle. Much of the fortifications had been repurposed—instead of protecting against invaders that would come to the tunnel, they protected against that which might emerge from it.

Heavily armored knights roamed the entrance, keeping watch on the inky darkness beyond. Their armor bore a surcoat with a rose on the front, though all of the colors had faded to gray, and many bore miscolored patches as a consequence of repair. Despite the poor look of the surcoat, the steel was polished and glimmering. Magic persisted on the armor’s surface, each set thoroughly enchanted. Many of the knights bore sashes across their chest. These sashes had roses carved of stone pinned to them, each of identical quality. Some knights had many stone roses, while others had only one or two.

Light flickered in the darkness inside the tunnels. Most of the knights quickly came to attention. One, a knight bearing at least twenty stone roses on his sash, grabbed a horn from his side and raised his visor. He stepped past the simple stone fortifications, scarred face deathly still and serious as though awaiting a threat. The light came ever closer, dancing out of the darkness.

The sound of steel clanking echoed out. It soon became clear the light was torchlight, and the ones bearing it were knights just the same as those watching outside. The old knight relaxed somewhat, and then raised the horn to his lips, taking a deep breath. The sound echoed out across the ruined castle, and at once, people came from their tents, most armed and ready.

The old knight took off his helmet entirely, letting his unruly and matted gray hair fall to his shoulders. He stepped towards the entrance of the tunnel with slow, measured steps, moving to meet the emerging party. Once he had moved close enough to them, the emerging party slowed, and then pounded their fist against their heart.

“Greetings to Master Sentinel Alasdair!” they all shouted, somewhat synchronously.

“Relax, men,” Alasdair said, raising a hand. “Where is Knight Dirk?”

One of the sentinels stepped forward. “Reporting, sir. Knight Dirk died.”

“A Knight of a Dozen Roses died on a simple culling trip?” Alasdair said incredulously. “Have the beasts grown bolder yet?”

“No, sir.” The knight removed his helmet. “A portion of the road collapsed beneath him as he led. He fell and broke his neck.”

Alasdair sighed, raising a gauntleted hand to his mouth. “The fool. Too skilled, but overeager.” Alasdair looked up. “His body?”

“Lost, sir.” The knight could not look up. “He… his body fell too far. It tipped into the canals.”

Alasdair looked to the rest of the knights. None of them looked accomplished, merely weary and defeated. Deciding there was no point in harping on the matter, Alasdair nodded.

“It was unavoidable.” He grabbed the knight’s shoulders. “We must fight on with Dirk in our memories.”

“My memories of the dead are starting to replace each other,” a Sentinel said, stepping forward and removing his helmet. He had dark hair, barely green, and a mischievous look about him coupled with shrewd eyes. “I’m starting to confuse them. Was Dirk the one with one-eye, or that scar across his forehead?”

“Ossian,” Alasdair said coldly. “Show respect.”

“I don’t need to obey you, not anymore. I lived another journey: I receive another rose. We’re both Master Sentinels, you and I, Alasdair.” Ossian walked forth, his hand held out. “Do the honors.”

Alasdair glared at the younger knight. “Do it yourself, if you’re my equal.”

Ossian clenched his outstretched hand and smiled. “With pleasure.” He looked around, then moved to a rock. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand, before tossing it aside and picking up another. Satisfied, he cast a spell. He shook it, and stone fell away from the rock, revealing a perfect rose. He raised it and pinned it to the top of his sash.

“There we have it. Twenty journeys, twenty survivals. I do believe I am the youngest Master in the Sentinels.” Ossian smiled.

“You’ll never be given command, you know,” Alasdair said coldly.

Ossian waved his hands. “I don’t need such a thing.” He spared one last glance at the group he’d emerged from the tunnels with, and then shook his head. “Well, I’m going to eat and sleep. The rest can do the report.”

Alasdair glared at Ossian, veritably trying to bore holes in the knight’s helmet with his gaze alone. The younger knight walked away, helmet dangling from his hands.

“Alasdair, sir…” the knight who’d reported Dirk’s death began. “Ossian led us out of there. After the collapse, he took us all out and made sure we met our quota of kills. Not one of us died.”

Alasdair looked to the knight, brows furrowed. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but a horn sounded across their encampment. They came to attention, looking at the wall the sound came from. The horn blew twice more.

“Visitors?” Alasdair muttered, stepping away.

#####

“Jesus. Did they really need to blow the horn?” Argrave complained, nervously adjusting the pack on his back. “Three people, they blow a damn horn. Can’t I just have a quiet entry? I’m tired of a host of well-armed men greeting me whenever I go someplace.”

Argrave trudged ahead, while Anneliese and Galamon marveled at the vast tunnel behind the half-ring fort. Argrave found that the entrance was so large it was vaguely unsettling.

“I go to Veiden, there’s a bunch of warriors and a damned dragon sitting there. I return from Veiden, Nikoletta commits battery against me with a parade of steel trailing behind, and now here…”

Argrave watched as more and more people showed up to the walls. They peered down. The gates of the fort were already open, as the walls of the fortress had deteriorated to the point where keeping it closed would be pointless.

“Not many humans come to Veiden. Fewer return from it. Both noteworthy events,” Anneliese rebutted. “And now, not many people are brazen enough to approach a ‘paramilitary organization,’ as you called it, in their fortress.”

“Just let me complain. It makes me less nervous,” said Argrave distantly, focused on what lay ahead of them.

A man stepped beneath the open portcullis at the front of the fortress, his helmet off. His hair was gray and unruly, matted and stifled from being suppressed beneath a helmet for so long. He marched deliberately towards them, alone barring the three waiting at the gate. As Argrave advanced, he started to recognize the man: Master Sentinel Alasdair.

“Great. Of all the people to greet me, I get Alasdair…” Argrave muttered, then stepped forward, greeting warmly, “Hello!”

“Halt. Keep your distance,” Alasdair held out his hand. “Outsiders are not welcome. If you seek shelter, leave now. This is a knightly order, not a place for refugees.”

“Are you…” Argrave trailed off, as though grasping for a name. “Master Sentinel Alasdair?”

Alasdair, not anticipating being recognized, place his hand on the pommel of the sword at his waist. The motion earned Galamon’s caution, who came to attention. Argrave tried to warn the vampire with his eyes, but little could be communicated with glances alone.

“I am. How do you recognize me?” He frowned, pondering. “One of the servants for the merchants we use for supply, perhaps?” His gray eyes scrutinized Argrave. “No… your clothes are too well-made for that. Enchanted leather. And elven companions. Who are you?”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve heard tales of you, sir,” Argrave said excitedly. He was doing his best to put on an act reminiscent of an overexcited, naïve nobleman fed stories about the Sentinels. “I am Argrave of Blackgard. I hail from the distant north. My family once presided over the Blackridge Citadel, in the times when the Order of the Rose still held prominence in Vasquer.”

“How…?” Alasdair trailed off, then looked away, shifting on his feet. “I don’t know Blackgard, but the name Blackridge Citadel is familiar. I think I get it. You’re a fallen noble from a house with connections to the Order of the Rose.” Alasdair shook his head. “My answer is unchanged. We don’t accept refugees. We don’t get involved with politics, either. If you’ve any delusions—"

“I’m not here for refuge. I’m here for the Low Way, sir,” Argrave said seriously. “I’ve been marching for months. I thought my last stop would be Thorngorge Citadel—perhaps you know of it, sir?”

Alasdair bit his lips, looking vaguely as though he didn’t care. Once the name clicked, he looked to Argrave suspiciously. “It’s that place near Jast… I don’t think it’s publicly known.”

“Indeed, it isn’t,” confirmed Argrave. “I went there in search of a relic of antiquity—an heirloom of my family. I didn’t find it in Thorngorge Citadel. I did, however, find documents that spoke of its transfer. It was given to a group known as the ‘Wayward Thorns.’”

“Really?” Alasdair said coldly. “This heirloom—what was it?”

“My family called it the Unbloodied Blade. It’s a scalpel.” Argrave used a false name for the artifact. It would be too suspicious if he gave it the moniker the vampires had assigned to it. “It’s elven in origin. It’s useless for combat, and indeed may be useless in general… but it is my family’s, and the last place it was seen was here.”

“And you wish to march into the Low Way and die young?” Alasdair shook his head. “Live longer, boy. Leave us here to our vigil.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You have your pride, and I have mine—I’ll match you piece for piece, and still be left with some,” Argrave challenged, matching arrogance with arrogance. “That name, ‘Wayward Thorns…’ I thought about it. I know there’s a coven of vampires within the Low Way. And I know their origins—apprentices of the Wayward Thorns.”

“Then you should know well to leave this place alone. I don’t know what your family taught you of this place, but—”

“My family is dead. I am the last Blackgard. All I have left is what I wear, and my father’s servants who walk with me even still,” Argrave interrupted. “I know the dangers of the Low Way. Necromantic abominations, vampires, and even the very ground itself are all enemies abounding within. Even if I should die, I wish to try and reclaim my family’s legacy, meagre though it has become. Will you deny me?”

Alasdair was taken aback. He ground his teeth together, staring at Argrave. The silence festered for a time, enflaming the anxiety in Argrave’s chest. He waited, biding his time, and then struck with the killing blow.

“I can even take you to where the Wayward Thorn’s apprentices are likely hiding.”

Alasdair craned his head back, looking at Argrave in the eyes. Their gazes stayed locked for a time, and then Alasdair looked back to the half-ring fortress behind them.

“Come,” he waved his hand, gesturing Argrave to follow as he turned and walked.

Once he passed through the threshold of the fortress, though, he commanded a nearby knight, “Fetch Jean. I have something to check, eliminate any uncertainty.”