Jackal Among Snakes, Book 4: A GameLit Fantasy, page 29
But the arrow did hit the jongleur. It had to have done so, elsewise the gaping hole in his chest and his missing head were quite the coincidence.
The jongleur’s body spun about wildly from the tremendous force, the sword still held in hand. It twisted through the air, falling atop the Waxknights and Sentinels both as they fought. The jongleur landed in the middle of the battle, like a statement to their foes.
Argrave gasped, half a laugh and half a groan of pain. He tried to rise to his feet, ready to shout, “Time for a Blessing!”
He quickly found rising to his feet was a mistake. His vision went white once again, his hearing vanished… and soon, the white was replaced by blackness. He felt his feet leave the ground, his head leaning forward.
***
Anneliese gazed upon the corpse of the Jolly Jongleur. His hands were near as large as she was, and still clung to the sword it held. Much of its torso and all of its head had simply… vanished, transformed into naught but a fine red mist, still scattering across the battlefield even now. She felt a fool, but glanced back to where the shot had come from.
She found she was not a fool rather quickly, as Argrave tumbled off the gaping hole in the wall, body limp and unconscious.
Her mind very nearly shut down as she juggled variables—she was the commander of the battle, the Barefaced Bard was behind her, yet Argrave had planned to use the Blessing of Supersession, and he was unconscious and could be vulnerable—all these thoughts came so quickly.
When she saw Galamon jump down from the hole in the wall and coming to Argrave’s side, she felt immeasurable relief. She spared a glance back toward the Waxknights and Durran, then said, “Step back!” once again. “Silvic! Full attention!”
With that last order given, she ran toward Argrave in a panic far unlike what she was used to experiencing. When she neared, she slid toward him recklessly. Galamon already attempted to rouse him, shaking him lightly but intently.
“Don’t shake him,” she scolded, yet felt a fool not moments after—she merely did not wish to see him hurt.
Galamon stood and said, “I will guard.”
Argrave’s eyes blinked open, unfocused, and she felt immeasurable relief. Trying her best to remain calm, she scanned his body for injuries. His armor had scuffs on it, likely preventing genuine harm from the fall.
“One shot,” she heard him mutter. “Air shot. One shot.” He giggled deliriously.
Anneliese used the B-rank healing spell [Bounteous Vitality], an all-purpose general heal that might solve some issues, even if it did nothing for the loss of blood. It seemed to have an immediate effect. His blinking lost its drowsy nature, and his black and gold eyes regained sharpness.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” she insisted, hoping to all she held dear it was true.
He looked at her, confused. When Galamon slew something behind them, he shouted, “Christ!” and sat up quickly.
Anneliese wished to tell him he should take it easy, ensure he was not harmed… yet she knew she could not say that. Instead, she stood and pulled him to his feet. Behind, Silvic stepped free from where she had been hiding, moving to aid the Waxknights and Durran, who fell back even still.
“We move.” She grabbed his arm.
Argrave looked to the battle ahead, clutching his head in pain and trying to retain his balance. She supported him. He looked around. Though the Jolly Jongleur was dead, his servants began to catch up with him, and the battle with the Barefaced Bard was not yet won. “Still got… work to do, looks like,” he concluded.
Chapter 42
Argrave felt a fog within all of his body. His actions were stiff and vague, as though he had just been thawed out after being frozen for years. He could barely focus on the task at hand, and even keeping his head held up was difficult. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. But he’d long ago set aside what he wanted. This was about what needed to be done.
Kill the enemy, kill the enemy, kill the enemy, he repeated again and again, half of the time saying it aloud, and the other half saying it in his head. It was the only way he could stay focused on the task before him. He felt as though he was fumbling for a light switch while drunk as he tried to recall how to use the Blessing of Supersession.
Yet once he felt the spring of limitless power vested in him by Erlebnis permeate his being… he felt like a dull knife that had finally found a whetstone, and everything fell into place.
His vision sharpened, and his ears felt as though earplugs had been removed from them. His golden-eyed gaze fell upon the scene before him, and he straightened, now aware Anneliese had been the only reason he was standing up.
The Waxknights, alongside Durran, struggled against a tide of vicious Sentinels and supporting animals. More had joined since Argrave last saw them—the towering rockhide hippos, the gibbons in no small numbers… now, the Barefaced Bard fought directly against Silvic, their war a proxy battle of twisting roots and writhing plants. Silvic was losing, and badly.
Argrave straightened his back and held out both of his hands. Sword and shield, he remembered: sword and shield. His right hand conjured [Electric Eels], and the C-rank spells danced upward into the sky, awaiting his command. His left became ablaze with wide, sweeping spells that carved a path before him.
He pressed deeper and deeper into the thick of things, adrenaline keeping his mind utterly focused despite his aching mind and body. He never wanted for foes—their rush at him was unending, and even though the animals feared him, they charged. He called upon every resource, using Garm’s eyes to cast spells with abandon. He felt he could not stop walking forward, strangely.
“Guard the back! Reinforcements approach!” he heard Anneliese command. That meant she had confidence he alone was enough to handle all before him. That stuck in the back of his head, making his task seem all the more urgent.
Teeth, claw, fang, and nature itself sought to tear into Argrave’s throat and end him. Drawing upon instinct, he met them with teeth and claw of his own. He conjured great maws of flame from [Wargfire], the icy claws of [Wraith’s Grasp], thick [Windswept Blades] cutting through them all. The enemies were blasted away, some dying outright. Those that did not die met his sword—dozens of [Electric Eels] striking from the sky like lightning, dispatching any hardy foes.
Argrave felt like he could not stop—he felt as though he held on to a machine that was running wild, and that if he released it, it would spell his death. He felt ash beneath his boots, frozen corpses, and the faint shock of still-sparking electricity, yet still he pressed. At some point, his vision became a mix of so many lights, he questioned if he was still in the archduke’s palace.
Yet then, the Barefaced Bard came into his view. The former wetland spirit towered over him, and yet it was the one shying away from him, childlike, eyeless face looking as though it was going to cry. It regarded him like a hedgehog, a pufferfish, or a burning flame, backing away cautiously. Yet like a cat hunting a scorpion, it swung out its hands, giving testing blows.
Argrave moved to the side, and the Barefaced Bard moved opposite him, the two circling each other. In truth, Argrave merely wished to have his back to the wall, so that no foes could circle around him. All the while, he warded his foes away, still using his tried-and-true strategy—a sword and shield. He was an indomitable giant of a knight, he told himself.
The Barefaced Bard climbed to the wall of the archduke’s palace, almost in a panic. It sought refuge behind a tower. As it fled, Argrave’s [Electric Eels] grew all the more numerous in the sky, and the attacking force grew demoralized from their leader’s retreat.
Silvic, who was badly beaten from doing battle with the Barefaced Bard, did not remain idle. She assaulted the bard even still, staying his retreat. As the number of sparking eels neared the hundreds… Argrave’s blessing wore out.
His shield of wide, sweeping spells faltered as the limitless magic within dissipated… yet his sword persisted still. He spurred the electric eels, and the countless sparking constructs pursued the Barefaced Bard as was his will. The bolts of lightning rained down upon the childlike face embedded in the bard’s wooden body. The attacks were relentless and seemingly unceasing, and the bard became a great glow of light before emerging changed, naught but a smoking pile of wreckage.
The bard still lived, yet barely. It tumbled over the wall, falling in the courtyard while scrabbling desperately to move. Silvic disentangled her roots from the ground and sprinted across the badly destroyed granite pathway. Her hand morphed into a spike… and she put an end to the Barefaced Bard, plunging her arm right into that childlike face.
Argrave leaned against a wall, all fight lost. His foes, unaware of their commander’s death, rushed at him. All Argrave could do was curl up, relying on his enchanted duster to shield him while protecting his neck and his head.
Blows and bites and scratches rained upon him, and pain assailed every part of his body. It never overwhelmed him, though, as much as he waited for it to end. Gradually, the sensation faded. He was vaguely aware of people trying to move him, help him. They received blows in his stead. Nevertheless, he faded away.
I’ve done enough. Everyone else can handle the rest, he thought, happily embracing the grayness.
***
Orion stepped upon a purple velvet carpet, walking down the center of it. In stark contrast to all that was around him in the palace, his steps left dirt and mud tracks, and he appeared to be the filthy thing in this palace amidst the wetlands.
The throne room was a vast place, held up by six thick pillars of black marble veined with gold. Black and gold filled the room with abundance, so much so it was difficult to refrain from calling it gaudy. Black sconces held golden flames, the black walls were trimmed with gold, and even the stained-glass windows had been stained gold. It was a decadent place, yet had a grim air to it nonetheless.
Banners hung from the walls just beside the windows. The field was black, and it depicted a golden snake. It was not the banner of the royal family, though—this golden snake curled around nothing, and stood before a shield. Orion recognized it as the personal sigil of his uncle, Archduke Regene.
At the end of the velvet carpet where the stairs moved up to the throne room, there was a majestic golden stag, with shining antlers stretching up ten feet into the air. It lay on the floor, legs collapsed beneath it and snout against the ground, eyes dead and lifeless. Its antlers had perfect symmetry, forming a strange, webbed pattern.
A woman sat atop the stag’s head, its snout seeming a perfect seat, its antlers a perfect throne. Her skin was the light green color of the swamp folk, and her eyes a rich and piercingly light yellow. She wore a motley outfit of a dark purple contrasted with a lighter purple. A large jester’s hat rested above her brow, three points poking out the top like a half star. Golden rings hung at the end of these points, half a dozen bells on each ring. One leg was crossed over the other on her stag throne. She held a scepter with a miniature version of her face wrought of silver, hat and all, smiling brightly as it dangled from the loose grip of her left hand.
“If you’ve come seeking the lord,” the Plague Jester began in a sneering act, “I am afraid he is rather busy. Considering everyone else is either dead or in a similar state, I happen to be the regent of this archduchy. Funny thing, a fool being named regent. My favorite jest, and that’s speaking as a jester. Nevertheless, I’ve kept the place well-maintained.”
Just beyond the stag, where the stairs rose up, three thrones stood. One held the archduke, his body so well-preserved, he seemed alive. The other held his wife—Orion vaguely remembered the blonde woman, but could not recall her name. The archduke’s son sat in the third throne. They all sat upright like they were alive, but were so unmoving they could not be.
Orion pointed his mace. “Will you repent, Plague Jester, and kill yourself?”
The jester laughed. She had a fast-paced, wry giggle that sounded fake. “Only a fool would do that—thought a different sort of fool than the one you people made me. Why do you point a mace? It is not a sword, and can—”
Orion threw his mace, and it traveled through the air incredibly quickly. The jester uncrossed her legs, kicking the bottom of the fast-moving projectile and sending it upward into the air, whereupon it fell into her right hand.
“I’m glad you came, scion of Vasquer,” the jester said, voice smooth and calm, her tittering jester’s act dropped entirely. “Once I defeat you, I will put you beside your kin. They’re alive, you know. Well, alive enough to understand things, at the very least. You, the archduke… all of those outside… all of you will watch as your kingdom and its people rot away, turned as ugly outside as they are within. You will despair for decades, as I have.”
“The gods will be the judge of that,” Orion declared, entirely unaffected. “Yet your god lies beneath your feet, sapped and drained by your… antics. You are no faithful, and you have no righteous cause. You are an abomination, and the whole world wishes you dead.”
“Just as I wish the world dead,” the jester rebutted, tossing Orion’s mace aside.
The Plague Jester rose to her feet, stepping off the stag’s head. Bells on her jester’s hat and her pointed shoes rang as she moved, chimes echoing against the empty marble walls. She was half the height of Orion, yet she did not seem smaller at all.
“They say the one who grows irate at the jester’s jests is the biggest fool of all,” she noted, holding her scepter out as she strutted forward, ringing and chiming.
Orion rushed forth, far too fast for one armored in metal, and the Plague Jester let out another fake laugh before preparing to fight.
Chapter 43
“Here he is,” said Durran, his breathing heavy. He handed Argrave off to Galamon, his body limp. “Lighter than he looks.” They were in the small house Argrave had been holed up in. His Brumesingers stayed by his side, protecting him by shrouding the environment with their mist.
“Because he has little blood,” Galamon concluded. “You…” He looked down at Durran’s hands. His left hand was covered in blood and seemed misshapen.
“Just a few fingers gone.” Durran laughed, though his voice was tense and betrayed his pain. He gazed at his hand—the middle, ring, and pinky finger were all gone, torn off by a bite. “Someone had to save him. Couldn’t trust the Waxknights. A few fingers is a small price, in my eyes. He’s… quite the scary one, looks like. Conjured that magic show.” His gaze lingered on Argrave, who looked half a corpse. He had countless cuts, yet they did not bleed.
Galamon looked at Durran, judging. Eventually, he nodded. “Rejoin the fight,” he directed. “I will ensure Argrave is safe.”
Durran nodded. He ran outside, grabbing his glaive. He cast healing magic on his hand—though the fingers did not regrow, the wound did close. He handled his glaive awkwardly, possessing considerably less grace than he typically did.
Anneliese strode toward Durran. She looked a mess, hair wild and unruly, enchanted armor damaged in half a dozen places… yet her steps were strong and decisive. “How is he?”
“Galamon is keeping him safe,” Durran assured her at once.
She did not seem quite relieved, yet Anneliese contented herself with that. “That centaur has returned with reinforcements,” she informed him curtly. “You are needed.”
“Argrave gave you command,” he reminded her.
“I know this. And I have a plan.” Anneliese nodded. “The bulk of the forces within the palace are routed. Not dead, mind you—I suspect they will join up with the host approaching the palace alongside the centaur. They acted reasonably, meaning another one of the fortress commanders is with them, commanding them.”
“How many got away, do you think?” he questioned, looking around. The place was a mess of inhuman corpses, and even now the Waxknights stood diligently, waiting for more to come. Their numbers had thinned. Some were badly injured.
“Hard to say. I must assume over one hundred, for the sake of surety.” Anneliese looked around. “Neither the gate nor the walls are enchanted. Even if they were… that centaur was large enough to bound over them.”
“And you said he brought one of the commanders from the fortresses,” Durran noted.
Anneliese put her hands on her hips. “This place was not made for defending. Only four of the Waxknights are still capable of fighting, even. I have little magic left, and the Waxknights are the same. We could not even heal Argrave.”
“Yet you have a plan?” Durran took off his helmet, wincing as sliced flesh stuck to it.
“First—destroy the host’s morale,” she stated plainly. “We must take the corpses of the jongleur and bard both, string them up above the gates. It will have little effect on the animalistic creatures… yet the leaders are the ones we target, here. We must instill caution in them. Considering their clumsy strategy on display in this palace… they are not capable of scouting.”
“What’s the bottom line?” Durran pressed.
“Stall desperately,” Anneliese admitted. “Orion can turn the tide, I believe. Failing that, I am considering retreating. Either will be immensely challenging, to be sure. I may… need to disobey Argrave.”
Durran looked to the distant main palace, taking a deep breath. “Good gods… I never thought I’d be hoping to see that man desperately.”
***
Orion seldom fought foes that could keep up with him. His father had been one—though that had been ten years ago, and the king had never deigned to do it again.
This Jester, though… she could.
On their first exchange, Orion rushed in bullheadedly, intending to contest strength with strength… yet the Plague Jester played a different game. She charged forth just as he did, yet when they neared confrontation, she darted down, sweeping his legs with the scepter in her hand. When he stepped over her blow, she planted a palm against his chest powerfully.
