Jackal Among Snakes, Book 3: A GameLit Fantasy, page 17
Argrave might’ve been uneased by the banter bandied about, but he felt it was actually a good sign coming from these people. If the southron elves hated you, they acted polite. If they welcomed you, they always said what was on their mind, even if it was incredibly rude.
Florimond handed the tools off to the other warriors, who eagerly took them from his hands and examined them. “Why are you showing us these?”
“I’m giving them to you.” Argrave held his gaze.
They all cast a glance at Argrave in that moment—surprise and suspicion bundled together.
Argrave held his hand up. “They’re Gebicca’s, by right. She told me of the tomb. And I’m pretty certain she’d want to give it to you.”
“Don’t pull that noble nonsense.” Corentin waved his hand. “You can’t use it, so you’re giving it to us.”
Argrave laughed. “Even if I could use it, I’d give it to you. Not because I’m some saint, but because I don’t have a use for it.” The people bristled at him when he said that, like he was contesting some point of pride of theirs. Argrave quickly added, “They’re largely stationary things—entryways, traps. I very rarely sleep in the same place twice.”
“Hmph. Stationary.” Florimond chuckled. “You must never have seen our glaives at work.”
Think I’ve hooked them, Argrave thought, but feigned ignorance, shaking his head.
“Warriors have a hard time of things,” one of the veteran southron elves said—a one-handed man named Yann. “Compared to spellcasters like you… vastly different trajectory. Mages start off piss-weak—a militiaman with a spear could slaughter most mages up to D-rank. The spells are slow, then, lacking power, lacking control.”
Argrave nodded, agreeing with this assessment.
“But mages… they don’t have the same ceiling,” Yann continued. “There’s only so much a warrior can do with his body alone. The spellcasters keep getting stronger and stronger, and before long, they leave the warriors in the dust.”
“Of course, not everyone is cut out to be a spellcaster, elsewise we’d still have a few more eyeballs and limbs, I suspect. None of us can cast a spell for crap.” Florimond stood. “At some point, we warriors have to look for other ways to handle things. Ways to exceed the constraints of our bodies.”
Florimond walked to the corner of the room, retrieving a glaive. He turned back to Argrave and Galamon. “Does the big one care to have a spar?”
Galamon placed his hand on the pommel of his greatsword, adjusting his position. He looked down to Argrave, who gave him a nod of approval.
“My blade is enchanted.” Galamon tapped his sword. “I’ll have to use my axe.”
“I’m too old for a real spar.” Florimond shook his head.
“Don’t listen to him,” Morvan interrupted. “He’s a damned force of nature.”
Florimond grinned, then shook his head. “I’ll use the blunt end of the glaive. All you have to do… is block or dodge a swing.”
“Do it outside,” the female loom worker chastised.
Florimond cleared his throat, and then stepped outside. Everyone rose to their feet, following. Galamon drew his axe and moved to stand opposite Florimond. The veteran southron elf twirled the glaive about before holding it in front of him, at the ready.
“If you’ve got enchanted weaponry, you’ve already realized the limits of your body,” Florimond called out.
“Hmm,” grunted Galamon.
“Let’s begin,” Florimond said. He stepped forward, swinging his glaive toward Galamon incredibly simply. Galamon pivoted, holding the axe out to intercept it.
Then, in a manner that made no visual sense at all, the back of Florimond’s glaive struck Galamon in the neck. Galamon twisted his body, moving with the blow, and stepped away. He stepped back, then raised his head, white brows furrowed in confusion.
The old southron elf smiled, while some of the veterans hooted and hollered. Florimond planted the bottom of the glaive in the ground. “You’ve got damned sharp instincts, quick reflexes. Had I been using the sharp side, I don’t think my blow would’ve killed you. You’d be bleeding bad, though, can guarantee you that.”
Galamon rubbed at his neck. He stepped forward, holding his axe out. “Again,” he commanded.
Florimond kicked the bottom of his glaive, setting it spinning about in his hand. With a final flourish, he held it at attention. “Once more, then,” he said, moving forward with a snarl.
The glaive moved once more. The blow was not exceptionally fancy or fast, and Galamon braced himself to receive it. Argrave paid special attention this time—the blade of the glaive seemed to move with a will of its own, and Galamon twisted the axe about, yet never caught it. Finally, it struck him squarely on the forehead.
“Ooh.” Florimond winced. “A bit worse this time. You get caught up in your own head, make a mistake. Seen it happen a thousand times before.”
Galamon stared at Florimond, unoffended. He hefted the Ebonice axe in his hand, and then took a step back. “Again,” he repeated.
“The man loves to get beat.” Corentin crossed his arms, one eye watching the spectacle.
Florimond took his stance, as serious as the first time. He stepped forward, swung, and Galamon waited. He did not move his axe about wildly. Instead, he calmly moved to receive the blow. It didn’t look like it would catch anything, but then, a ringing echoed out.
The distortion settled, and the axe had met the glaive. Galamon locked the beard of his axe around the blade and pulled forward. Florimond was pulled forward briefly but released the glaive. Galamon advanced, then held his hand out and flicked Florimond in the forehead.
The crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, and Florimond stopped himself from falling by placing his hand against the ground. He rose to his feet, rubbing his forehead, then took the glaive out of Galamon’s grasp.
Once the uproar had settled, Florimond called out, “I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, you’d better be!” Yann shouted, then broke off into laughter.
“It’s the blade that’s wrong. Had to follow the way your hand, your arm, your wrists moved,” Galamon noted, staring at the glaive. “That told me where the glaive really was.”
“Took Durran twenty tries to grasp that principle, and I thought he was fast at it.” Florimond shook his head. “Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it wasn’t. But you get the point I was making, no? This is what we achieve with the Way of Worldbending.” Florimond held the glaive up into the air. “Blades that lie. Arrows that should miss. Outcomes that shouldn’t be.”
Argrave felt pride in his choice of companions, hearing that Galamon outperformed Durran.
“You didn’t see the blade, either,” Galamon claimed.
“Very sharp.” Florimond nodded. “We have to learn our weapons extensively. The sensation of the weight, the resistance—we have to use that instead of our eyes. But back in the day, when our empire rode against the tribals, Brumesingers leaving a melody of war in our wake, each swing uncontested, our charge relentless… nothing could stop us.” Florimond lowered his head, reminiscing.
“And what brought you here?” Galamon pressed. “What changed?”
“Everything. Everything except us.” Florimond shook his head.
“Not too late for you,” Argrave suggested. “Put aside your enmity, help Durran and his people wipe out the Vessels.”
“Hey, there’s a time and a place, huh?” Corentin reprimanded.
“The kid isn’t wrong.” Yann shook his head.
“We can’t afford to wage war.” Florimond stepped forward, using the glaive as a walking staff. “There’s maybe a hundred of us. We’re all trained, all dangerous, but… too few.”
“Maybe I’m wrong… but Durran wants equipment, no?” Argrave raised a brow. “I’m sure you’ve told him the same thing you just told me.”
“That’s right.” Florimond nodded. “You’re sharp, too, it seems, though in a different way from that one.” He pointed to Galamon. “I’ll work something out with Durran. Settling a thousand-year grudge… can’t be done with an outsider as a mediator.” He looked at Argrave deliberately. “But I will tell you this. You wipe out the Vessels from Sethia, as you claim… I can make your elven companion’s weapons like this glaive, here—the axe, the sword, the arrows, it matters not.”
Argrave raised a brow. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, are you serious?” Corentin questioned. “We’re talking about our people’s secrets, Florimond.”
“Come off it,” Morvan interrupted. “Maybe our knowledge will live on. Look at us here—before long, we won’t have any choice but to inbreed. Population’s thin and grows thinner every year. Can’t we see the writing on the wall?”
Florimond turned and half-shouted, “Let’s not have this conversation here, now,” he said pointedly, and that seemed to gather everyone’s thoughts.
Once everyone settled, Florimond directed his attention back to the two of them. “For now, you may consider yourselves to be welcome among us. We will spread word of you to our people… though I suspect everyone already knows of your presence. We will speak to Durran.”
“I was hoping you could stand as the point of contact between the two of us.” Argrave waved between them. “Difficult for me to do so, in my position.”
“Then we can do that. We will migrate, soon. Take the sword in the desert for us when you leave—destroy it. That will sever the illusion magic. We will travel through the mountains, to Otraccia. Do you know of it?”
“I do.” Argrave nodded. “I’ll return in some days.”
“Then we will look forward to good news from you.” Florimond held out his hand. “I am sure the others will wish to say their goodbyes. Come, won’t you?”
Chapter 25
“…So, in time, I’ll need to return to them to officiate things. The date of the attack, who they’re collaborating with… so on and so forth,” Argrave explained to Brium, sitting across from him. Yarra stood behind him, hands behind her rigid back like she was a bodyguard.
They had returned from the oasis town of the southron elves. It was very late in the evening, and Argrave was quite hungry—he had not eaten since morning. Business came before that, though. As Florimond had instructed, Argrave had broken the sword in the desert. The southron elves were soon to migrate, traveling through the mountains to another home of theirs.
Anneliese had ensured Yarra did nothing out of place the whole while, and as far as Argrave could tell, no one suspected anything. The manifold uses of druidic magic were making themselves known already, though the Brumesingers were far from manifesting their full capabilities. Argrave needed to feed them souls. A strange need, truthfully, but considering the commonality of death, it was much better than your standard pet food.
“Hmm… the southron elves,” Brium mused. “It’s a little unbelievable, but those illusion magics… no one else can replicate them, certainly. They’ve caused the Vessels no end of trouble. How many were they?”
“If you mean ready to fight? Near two hundred,” Argrave exaggerated, attempting to bolster Brium’s confidence.
“Then… excellent work.” Brium leaned back into the chair. “But it doesn’t escape me that you used Yarra to bolster your personal wealth—those pets of yours. They’re certainly more for you than for my cause.”
“Well…” One of the Brumesingers poked itself out of Argrave’s clothes, and he pet its giant furry ears. “I’m no saint.”
Brium chuckled—it sounded fake. After, he raised his hand to his face. “I think I’ve figured you out.”
Argrave furrowed his brows, thrown off. The Brumesinger, no longer being pet, hid itself away once more.
“You’re testing the limits. I don’t think it’s of any genuine concern, presently.” Brium held a hand out, reassuring Argrave. “I’ll warn you, though. A limit broken before a Vessel will not result in merely a warning.” Brium leaned in. “It should not escape you that the punishment for any crime is death. Considering what I know…”
“I also know that you’re compelled to punish me. Not forced,” Argrave returned. “We’re doing great work together, so far.”
Brium stared down Argrave, running a hand across his coppery skin. Eventually he nodded. “You’ve done well. The Vessels have been looking for the southron elves for centuries. No one succeeded before you came along—people only found abandoned towns, ruined places. There has been little cause to hunt them in recent decades. Their mages are all dead and gone, and we seized and burned their books of spells. Nothing more remains of them to challenge Fellhorn’s authority.”
“Any predictions on when Aurum and Argent will make their move?” Argrave probed.
“They’re gathering guards,” the Lord of Copper answered idly at once. “Negating my influence in the city, trying to stifle my income and my workers. Vessels beneath me are being tempted with wealth, power… but the core of my power isn’t in Sethia. I keep that which truly belongs to me in Cyprus. Here.”
“But when?” Argrave pressed. “I don’t want to be caught unprepared.”
“A week, most likely two.” Brium shook his head. “You have time to do more before the fighting.”
Argrave tilted his head. “Not planning on letting me closer into the machinations?”
Brium’s gaze intensified at that moment, as though challenged. “What are you implying?”
Argrave shrugged. “I just don’t think that you’re leaving things to chance with the tribals.”
Brium stared at him for a long while. “I have to speak with Yarra. Go, rest,” he finally said, pointing toward the door. “She’ll rejoin you in time. For now, do nothing.”
***
Argrave stepped out of Cyprus a little relieved to be free of Yarra, though he was not pleased to be carrying around his own backpack once again. Between the three furballs roaming about in his duster and the backpack, he was hauling quite a large load.
“Let’s return to our room quickly. We have a little time to talk. Things are going well so far,” Argrave commented, walking quickly down the road. He felt the old sting of the scars in his lungs.
He spotted someone ahead, wearing a set of baggy robes. They carried a large stick of sorts, the top of it wrapped it cloth. Argrave merely felt it was unusual, ready to pass it by. The person started to approach, though, and Galamon grabbed Argrave.
“That’s a weapon. Be cautious,” he urged, stepping ahead of Argrave.
Argrave kept his eye on the man. He questioned if they would simply pass him by, but the robed figure came to stand boldly before them. He didn’t lower his hood, but as Argrave stared, he started to recognize the person.
“You’re my saviors, is that right?” remarked Durran.
Argrave’s breath caught in his chest at once. Durran had quite an eye-catching appearance. He had a golden tattoo just below his eye, acting like an extension of his golden pupils, and a handsome, confident face that practically screamed ‘heartbreaker.’ His eyes had a certain wildness to them, and his grin never seemed to fade. Coupled with his tan skin and dark hair, he was difficult to forget.
“The hell are you doing here?” Argrave whispered, looking around frantically. No one was near, but that meant little—they were in the middle of a wide-open road, and anyone could be watching.
“Well, I don’t really like talking through third parties. I like to confront my admirers directly,” Durran said, staring uncaringly.
His words confirmed that the southron elves had already talked to him. It had been such a short time, and Argrave hadn’t expected Durran to talk to him at all. The unexpected situation left him at a loss.
“You’re tall. They were right.” He nodded musingly.
“Yeah, great observation, hawk-like vision on you,” Argrave whispered, eliciting a chuckle from Durran. “Get the hell out of here. You maybe think there’s a reason I went to a hell of a lot of effort to avoid talking to you directly? If Brium sees us talking—”
“So you do know me,” Durran noted. “Pretty strange. I’m sure I’d remember meeting you.”
“It must’ve slipped your mind. You had too much to drink that night,” dismissed Argrave. “Forget this. Keep walking,” Argrave directed his companions, and then moved toward the gate of Sethia.
“Gebicca died when I last saw her. I was the last she spoke to, and I stumbled across her by pure chance. I’m pretty damned sure she’d mention any meeting with a weird looking party like you three,” Durran called out as they walked away.
Argrave paused. Durran strode back up to him.
“Let’s have a little date, us four.” He looked between them. “And don’t deny me. You’ve already given me a key to turn your lives upside down. I don’t think Brium would react kindly to the correspondence between you and my elven friends.”
“Probably kill you, too, now that you’ve got some suspicion he’s two-faced,” Argrave called out his bluff.
“I think I could get away with it.” Durran shrugged.
Argrave stared down at him, questioning if the man he knew was crazy enough to do something like this. The worst part was that Argrave wasn’t certain.
“You’re paying for our meals,” he eventually decided.
Durran grinned. “We’ll see about that.”
***
Elias stared out into the distance, where the looming walls of Elbraille were not even visible in the all-consuming darkness. He and Stain sat in their carriage, moving through the night and toward the city. Their cavalry marched quietly toward the gates of the city, but there was a somber air throughout the whole party. The death of Bruno had affected more than simply Elias, he knew, but he needed to put on a brave front.
“You’re sure about this, Stain?” Elias questioned. “Can’t see more than a couple feet away. Maybe we should light things up. We have the—”
“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Stain returned. “The guy in this city—or girl, I suppose, no need for me to be like that—they’re trying to manipulate the populace, stir them against Duke Marauch. If they wanted to do something against you, they’d want to do it in public. In daylight.”
