Jackal Among Snakes, Book 3: A GameLit Fantasy, page 2
Even Anneliese could not hide that the idea intrigued her, but Galamon put his hand on Argrave’s shoulder.
“Look.” He pointed out.
Argrave followed his finger. Far away, there was a great black cloud visibly writhing despite the distance. It was no thundercloud. And even Argrave could tell that it was heading toward them, not away from them.
“Our first sandstorm. I suppose I should be glad that was not our welcome. Well, let’s jump into the water, so to speak—to Delphasium,” Argrave said positively. He pulled his duster’s hood down, shaking some sand out of it, then started walking toward the wall of black clay in the distance.
When they neared the wall, a smell that Argrave had been glad to leave behind in the Low Way entered his nostrils: death and decay. Fortunately, it was not an all-encompassing smell, but rather one originating from a place in particular. There was a dead body leaning against the walls. The dark-skinned body was male and unhealthily thin, ribs and bones poking out against the flesh as though trying to escape. His was not the only corpse.
There were other people taking shelter near the walls. Numbering near fifty, they were unmoving, each and all incredibly skinny. Argrave had thought he looked far too gaunt, but these people’s sunken faces and exposed bony frames were uncomfortable merely to look at. Their loose woolen clothing seemed all the looser on their thin bodies. Their dark skin was lined with deformed tattoos, the ink’s shapes distorted by their starvation. They huddled underneath cloth canopies held up by wooden stakes.
Rats tried to get at the corpses, yet the people would ward them off with weak rebuttals. The rats stayed near, waiting in the shade, waiting for an opportunity. Elsewhere, a group of four ate something—as Argrave grew nearer, he saw it to be one of the rodents. Nothing was wasted—they drank its blood for moisture, and they ate all of its bits, even gnawing on the bone with their brittle teeth. Most striking was the lack of greed; all of the people divided the rat’s parts in equal portions, prioritizing the youngest.
These people stayed still, staring from the shade as Argrave and his companions passed. None seemed to expect or want something from them, and despite their state, there was a proud warning in their gazes. Their eyes were the color of gold; bright, sharp, and brilliant. Though they lacked the strength to bury the dead man, they seemed insistent on defending him from the rats, both for sustenance and for the sake of the fallen. Anneliese watched them with intense curiosity, and they held her gaze, watching as she passed.
Once they were far away, Anneliese stepped up beside Argrave.
“Those are the southern tribals,” Anneliese stated.
Argrave interpreted it as a question in part, and so confirmed, “Yes. The Vessels won’t kill them outright. Aggression is against their faith, so they resort to passive aggression. Instead of the usual snide comments, they bar them from the town. The guards throw rats over the walls, directly into their camps. Enough to sustain them, but not enough for them to really live. They want to break them—have them submit to thralldom like those within the city.”
“I see.” Anneliese nodded. “Do the southron elves share their skin tone?”
“Darker, actually,” Argrave answered. “We won’t see much of them, I suspect. They’re all but wiped out.”
“I had wished to speak to my distant kin. Disappointing,” she said, sparing one last glance at the people they’d passed.
“Try not to dwell on those people,” Argrave advised. “We cannot solve this solution to benefit the world with such a small number. Even if it bothers you… we cannot right the wrongs here, not if we must do what needs to be done. Gerechtigkeit will kill all. Picture that, if it helps.”
Anneliese turned away. She could not meet his eyes, but she nodded. Argrave hoped what he said was enough. His words certainly felt empty, even to him.
They followed along the outside of the walls, Argrave leading them toward an entrance to the town that he knew of. Eventually, they saw an established path—though partially buried beneath black sand, the stone road was largely well-maintained.
Six people stood at the gate, guarding the entrance casually. Doubtless they were more numerous to prevent the southern tribals outside from trying to sneak or force their way in. They wore loose-fitting dark gray clothes with chain mail for armor. They wore traces of purple at points, purely for decoration—sashes, tassels, the like. Their helmets were simple domes with a spike on the center, yet they wore masks to protect their faces from the sand.
Argrave saw their weapons—two knives on their belt, plus a spear in hand—and once again lamented that he had not paid off his debt to Erlebnis after using his Blessing of Supersession in the Low Way. He had completely exhausted his supply of liquid magic from the Amaranthine Heart, yet he suspected there would still be two or three days before he regained his ability to use the Blessing.
Seeing Argrave and his company approaching, the guards came to attention. Galamon placed himself ahead of Argrave, ever the diligent protector. His presence was large enough that the watchmen looked visibly nervous—doubtless Anneliese and Argrave’s tall stature amplified that effect.
The guardsmen gathered in front of the gate, and Argrave stopped Galamon.
“Hold.” One stepped forward, using the spear as a walking stick. “State your business.”
“Just traveling, looking to stay within the town. I was told there were plenty of inns here at Delphasium.” Argrave stepped up beside Galamon.
The guard stared up at Argrave, expression mostly indiscernible behind his white mask. His eyes were suspicious, though, and he asked, “Traveling where?”
“Deep south. Argent. Visiting an old friend,” Argrave supplied.
“Some friendship, to travel so far over the Burnt Desert,” the guard noted, his suspicions somewhat abated by Argrave’s knowledge of a city deep within the desert. “You come from the north?”
“Not Vasquer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Argrave shook his head, knowing well the hostility between those in the Burnt Desert and Vasquer. “We came from further north, where the land is frozen most of the year. It’s why we’re so pale. Also why we came during the winter—suspect we’d melt in the hottest time of the year.”
The guard let out a wheezing laugh at that. “Alright.” He nodded. “You can enter. There are no tolls here, not for travelers. Do you know our laws?”
“Pay the taxes. No violence, no theft, and no using magic within the city… unless you’re associated with the Vessels of Fellhorn. And lastly… don’t give water to outsiders.”
“That last rule… that’s the one to remember.” The guard nodded. “Merchants will check for this mark on the back of your hand.” He raised his hand up, revealing a blue cross with four Xs on the tips. There was something mystical about the tattoo—it shimmered like sapphire lake water on the back of the man’s hand. “Since you don’t have them, you’ll have to pay the taxes. As a traveler, you can stay for no more than a week.”
“Got it.” Argrave nodded. The tattoo marked a person as a citizen sworn to a Vessel. They doubled as constant monitors, ensuring those that broke the laws could not do so secretly. Calling it ‘thralldom’ was not entirely off.
The man lowered his hand, gaze moving from between Galamon and Anneliese. “Northern elves, hmm? Rumor has it they sacked a city in Vasquer.”
“I’ve heard the same.” Argrave nodded. “Didn’t confirm it, though.”
The guard’s gaze lingered on them. “Make sure they cause no trouble,” he finally warned, stepping aside.
They passed by the guards, Argrave leading them ahead. Most of their attention stayed on Galamon. Argrave felt a little nervous, wondering if any would be able to see Garm, but he didn’t dare let that show in his actions or expression.
They passed beneath the black clay walls of Delphasium, entering into the town beyond. No comment was made about the helmet hiding a severed head on Galamon’s back, and so they entered into the oasis town without issue. The change in scenery was dramatic.
The outside had been a desolate wasteland of blackness utterly devoid of flora, yet within the walls was a drastic change. The buildings and streets were all made of a clean white rock reminiscent of marble. Black plants lined the walkways, reminiscent of agave or aloe vera, while palm trees with black leaves bearing bright purple fruits filled vast orchards. Though plants black in color were most abundant, extremely bright crops persisted everywhere—reds, purples, yellows, and blues. There were peppers, olives, wildflowers, and other such hardy desert plants.
Though the streets were not exceptionally busy, they were still somewhat crowded. The people wore multicolored loose-fitting robes and adorned themselves with plentiful jewelry. The denizens of the Burnt Desert were disparate from the pale people of Vasquer, skin tones ranging from a light tan color to a dark brown. Their hair was dark, and much of it was bound with golden ornaments bearing bright jewelry or silken cloth with bright dye.
Argrave, Anneliese, and Galamon could not stick out more if they tried. They were ridiculously tall, pale, and majority elven—Argrave had grown used to being watched, lumbering stick that he was, but it redoubled in this place. People openly spoke of them, pointing as they passed. It was a wonder they were not stopped by random people on the street. Perhaps only Galamon’s intimidating presence spared them that.
Yet Argrave walked by, trying his best to ignore things. Eventually, they came to the central square. There a great marble sculpture stood tall, depicting a naked woman holding a horn overflowing with fruit. Two spouts of water rose beside her. It was a depiction of Fellhorn—not the god itself, but of its harvest.
Argrave paused at the fountain, watching the water spray the central square wantonly. His mind involuntarily conjured images of the southern tribals outside the walls, starved and dehydrated. He had known what to expect coming here, but seeing it in person was a different experience entirely.
He bit his lip, mindful not to express his disapproval visually lest he gain the ire of the watching crowd. He turned to Galamon. “The place—it’s this way. It’ll be a bit more expensive because we’re using Vasquer coins, but I think we should be able to pass by the night.” He pointed to both of them. “Now, something to note—don’t let people touch your skin easily. If a Vessel of Fellhorn has skin contact, they can do a hell of a lot of damage in seconds. Shake hands, your hand will shrivel in seconds.”
Both nodded seriously.
“That sandstorm—think it’s going to occupy the south,” Galamon commented, staring beyond the walls. “I’m told they can last days.”
Argrave followed his gaze. If he had been playing Heroes of Berendar, a sandstorm simply meant that his vision would be obscured—in reality, though, traveling during a sandstorm was all but a death sentence.
“We worry about that tomorrow. I need to wash the taste of that cyrello out of my mouth,” said Argrave, stepping away from the water fountain. “You can try spicy food, Anneliese. This will be entertaining,” he said with a smile.
“You speak from experience?” Anneliese raised a curious brow. “You must tell me of the food of the place you come from,” she began, following him.
The three ventured deeper into the oasis town. Near the fountain, a well-dressed man watched them leave. His gaze lingered for a long while, and then he turned, heading for a palatial estate in the distance.
Chapter 3
Elias of House Parbon opened a set of thick stone doors, stepping into a cold hall. His father, Margrave Reinhardt and now leader of the rebellion against Vasquer, sat there at his desk. Looking at the two of them, their blood relation was obvious—both had bright red hair, both had sharp ruby eyes, and both had a robust physique. At Elias’ entry, the margrave set down a dagger.
“Father,” Elias greeted a bit stiffly.
Margrave Reinhardt stared at his son. He said nothing for an uncomfortably long period, and Elias felt the need to squirm. He managed to stay still, though only with his best effort.
“Where is your fiancée?” the margrave asked. “The one that Argrave chose for you to cement our newfound alliance with Jast. Without my knowledge.”
“I… introduced her to Rose.” Elias stepped forward, boldly sticking to his decision. “I figured she should know my sister if she is to be a part of the family. They seemed to be getting along when you called me,” he said optimistically. “Both enjoy books. The two are similar, I think. Ridia is near as sweet as Rose.”
Reinhardt nodded. “I’m glad there is some affection forming between the two of you.”
Elias hung his head. “…I’m sorry. I know I should have—”
“Don’t apologize,” Reinhardt interrupted. “Despite my words… and my frustration… I think you did well.”
Elias raised his head back up, red eyes wide.
“You made a decisive choice as a leader to earn a benefit, and to protect your people. By allying with House Jast, Count Delbraun fights against Vasquer. Powerful allies are a boon to our people. Proactivity is something that I wanted you to learn, and you learned it.” Reinhardt spread his arms out. “The fact that you ignored my authority doesn’t matter, because you considered the people first. I would be a hypocrite to punish you for rebelling when I am doing the same against my liege, the king.”
“Well, I… Argrave is the one who made this happen,” Elias deflected. He’d promised to take the blame for Argrave, but now that derision had turned into praise, he willingly mentioned his name. “He was the smart one. He saw what would happen and made it a reality. I just… was led around.”
Reinhardt looked away with a sigh. “Why has that one become the sole force of change in this family?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then said dismissively, “It doesn’t matter.” Reinhardt grabbed the dagger on his desk, tossing it aside. He retrieved a paper, handing it to Elias. “This came not hours ago.”
Elias took two steps forward, retrieving the paper. He oriented it to read it properly, then furrowed his brows. After a time, he raised his head. “Elbraille declared its support of our cause?”
Margrave Reinhardt nodded.
Elias smiled. “That’s… That’s great! Argrave said this would happen, but I wasn’t entirely sure.”
“That boy you brought, Stain…” Reinhardt continued, not sharing his son’s jubilation. “He tells me of some things. He’s been… He said he was ‘keeping his ears on the beating heart of the underworld.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but he elaborated that he was keeping track of rumors.” Reinhardt sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s saying half the time.”
“He’s a good one at heart, even if he does like to do some… less than reputable things. He didn’t have a good chi—”
“Let me finish.” Reinhardt held out his big hand. “Despite this letter… Stain says a lot of people are talking about unrest in Elbraille. He says people claim someone is stirring the people against the lord, bringing to light certain injustices. Unjust taxes, corrupt guards, malfeasance by those near the duke…”
“That’s… Is that true? These incidents, that is,” Elias questioned.
“I’m not saying Duke Marauch is a saint—far from it—but we need his support in the war. Someone is moving against him, trying to oust him from power.”
Elias stepped away, thinking, then turned back and nodded seriously. “What do we do about it?”
Reinhardt leaned back in the chair, his brawny frame completely hiding the backrest. He sighed for a long, long while. “I don’t know.”
Elias was taken aback, as though he’d never heard his father say that.
“But we need to figure it out,” the margrave said. “Tomorrow, I’ll call together some advisors I trust. We’ll discuss this, decide how to act. Personally, I think that you and Stain should go there and maintain order. Doubtless the duke will welcome it.”
“If someone is trying to undermine the duke, it’s definitely going to be a supporter of Vasquer,” Elias said. “It would be dangerous to go there.”
“I will keep that in mind, should this come to pass.” The margrave shook his head. “But this person, or group of persons, evidently lacks the strength for an outright coup.”
“I see.” Elias nodded.
Reinhardt pointed at Elias. “Tomorrow, I want you up early. Come to me here. We’ll talk more then. For now… ensure your fiancée is comfortable here.” Reinhardt leaned forward once more, picking up the dagger he’d set aside and examining it.
“Thank you, Father,” Elias said, lowering his head slightly. He turned and opened the stone door, stepping out. As he made to leave, he stopped.
Elias turned, grabbing the stone door. “Argrave told me something at the Tower of the Gray Owl.”
Reinhardt kept the dagger in hand, looking up coldly toward his son. “And?”
“He said there was a… salamander. On the hills of Vysenn,” Elias proceeded carefully.
“That volcanic region. Is this pertinent?” the margrave questioned.
“Argrave seemed to be under the impression this salamander might hold some secret in healing Rose.” Elias took his hand off the stone door and stepped back into the room. “I looked into this… and, well, some of it holds true. There are barbarians in Vysenn, known for their regenerative abilities. These salamanders, too…”
The margrave turned his ruby eyes away from his son. “If you think it has merit… look into it further.”
“Thank you, Father,” Elias said once more, a little more excitement on his tone. He left and shut the door quickly.
The margrave dropped the dagger, and it clattered against the desk. “This boy… Maybe I need to meet him once more.” Reinhardt rubbed his forehead, clearly torn.
***
Argrave sat at a table outside in the chilly air of the dawn, warming himself up beneath the sun’s beams. Anneliese sat adjacent to him. The inn they’d stayed at had goat for breakfast—the cost had been exorbitant, but Argrave did not lack money even still. Though Argrave might’ve found the prospect of a new type of meat unappealing, for the first time in a long while, the meat was seasoned—rock salt, peppers, and other such things to give it flavor.
