Jackal Among Snakes: Book 2, A GameLit Fantasy, page 27
“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.
***
“Good Lord. 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 to reclaim my family’s legacy, meager 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,” Argrave declared.
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 one knight, “Fetch Jean. I have something to check.”
Chapter 37
Argrave and Galamon sat around a campfire, engaging with the Stonepetal Sentinels. One sentinel seemed to be recounting a story, and Argrave was asking him questions. Though there was a cautious distance between the two parties, there was also an undeniable curiosity from both—by all accounts, an engaging conversation.
Meanwhile, though, far out of either’s sight, something else was happening.
Alasdair leaned on a table with his arms crossed, standing just across from a woman who examined a long piece of parchment with spell light. The woman was old, with wrinkled skin and thinning gray hair, all concealed by robes bearing a rose on the shoulder. They were in a tent that had been enveloped by a ward to block out any would-be listeners.
“The lords of Blackridge Citadel were the Tullens. Even the minor nobles in the regions—the castellan, the treasurer, et cetera… none of them were named Blackgard, Alasdair.” The old woman looked up at the master sentinel.
Alasdair sighed, then kneaded his forehead. “Is there even a noble house with the name Blackgard affiliated with the Order?”
“These records aren’t perfect, but they’re just about so. Blackgard was never a house associated with the Order of the Rose.”
“Slippery bastard. Had everyone under his thumb the whole time. Played us like an instrument, now I’ll string him like one…” Alasdair muttered. “Thank you, Jean.”
“What will you do with him?” Jean asked neutrally.
Alasdair deliberated for half a second and then declared, “Confine him. Find out why he’s here, why he knows so much about the Stonepetal Sentinels, and… after that, I’m unsure. Depends on what he says. We’ll probably confiscate his things. Both he and that female servant of his have items worth at least a year’s supply.”
“Those two are both mages,” Jean contributed. “The she-elf is probably B-rank, judging by how much magic she has. Argrave, or whatever his real name might be, is likely C-rank.”
“What about the big snow elf?” Alasdair pressed.
“A warrior alone. You’d know better than me about his skills.” She shook her head.
“Alright. Thank you.” Alasdair leaned off the table, walking about the tent. “We’ll gather some people before they fall asleep. Veterans, mages… all our men are here, and I’ll take no chances. Can’t be sure what these people want. I’ll be sure they rue this deception, though.”
“Acting without the approval of the other master sentinels?” Jean clicked her tongue. “You’re taking liberties with the leader gone, Alasdair. I thought you were the honest one.”
“You know as well as I do that Claude would do the same were he here,” Alasdair refuted passively. “We’ll keep them engaged, make sure they feel welcome. It’s important we find out why they’re here, and who sent them, if anyone. Claude would agree with me.”
Jeaned rolled up the parchment. “Not my place to argue. I’ll return to the lady’s tents, gather some spellcasters to help.”
***
It was night. With the moon behind the mountain, the fort in front of the Low Way of the Rose was deathly dark. In one of the tents closest to the walls, a set of white eyes peered out into the darkness, watching ever carefully. Galamon drank from a flask quietly, guarding and waiting.
His gaze flitted from the work in his hands—maintaining his armor—and watching the outside. He continued like this in relative silence, the silence of the night broken only by Argrave and Anneliese’s quiet breathing.
After a time, though, Galamon brought his busy hands to a stop, his eyes focused solely on the night beyond. He watched for a time, body completely still, and then put the gauntlet he had been cleaning back on his hand. He stood and moved to Argrave, kneeling down beside the sleeping bag. He grabbed Argrave’s shoulder and shook him gently.
Argrave, ever the light sleeper, woke immediately. He mumbled something incomprehensible, blinking quickly.
“Be quiet,” Galamon insisted.
Argrave mumbled something to the effect of, ‘Is it morning already?’
Galamon flicked his forehead, and Argrave winced in surprise. “A lot of people moving outside. Something’s happening.”
“Probably just preparing to enter the tunnel,” Argrave dismissed, too tired for a proper response.
“Did they mention these plans in your long talk with them last night?” Galamon said sternly. “They’re giving our area a wide berth and muffling their noises with spellcasters.”
Argrave blinked, thinking. “You don’t mean…”
“This is what I would do if I wanted to capture potentially dangerous people without casualties.” Galamon nodded.
“You’re sure? Not jumping the gun?” Argrave asked, some awareness returning.
Galamon frowned. “Do you know me to be paranoid?”
“This damn…” Argrave blinked quicker, still evidently very tired. He slapped his face twice, then shook his head as though to jolt himself awake. “Alright. Alright.” He pulled out of the sleeping bag, rising to his feet. The commotion awoke Anneliese, who turned over to look at the both of them.
Galamon walked back over to the tent flap, watching outside. Argrave looked around frantically. “Already dressed, everything’s packed…” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what the hell am I doing?” he asked himself, trying to gather his thought process.
“What is wrong?” Anneliese asked, sitting up.
Galamon said nothing, but Argrave replied distantly, “Our hosts seem to have taken issue with us.”
“We’re right by the wall. I remember where there’s a caved-in portion. Can’t sense any people blocking it. We move quickly, we exit without issue,” Galamon said, planning everything out thoroughly. “We’ll lose this tent, but nothing else.”
“Right. Right.” Argrave nodded at first, but it quickly turned into a headshake. “No, no… this won’t do. I don’t know what the hell happened, but I need to get into the Low Way. All the other entrances are miserable to get to.”
Galamon turned his head away from the outside. “You’re thinking about this now? We have a quick and easy out. We take it,” he refuted.
“And then we have to sneak in when they’re ready for us? Forget that. These guys are some of the best-equipped knights in the kingdom of Vasquer. It’d be ridiculous to even try. We have them unawares. They won’t be focused on the entrance. We have to go now,” Argrave whispered intently.
“And instead we should rush past when they’re prepared to apprehend us?” Galamon’s voice held disdain. “Ridiculous. Cut your losses, Argrave. Acknowledge when you have no other options but retreat.”
“Hold,” Anneliese said, pulling both of their attention. “We can…” She rubbed her eyes. “…weave out the nearby hole, and then follow the wall until the base of the mountain. There is another collapsed portion there. We can enter right next to the entrance to the Low Way and walk the rest of the way relatively unmolested.”
Argrave pointed insistently to Anneliese, feeling his point supported.
Galamon questioned, “You’re sure there’s another collapsed portion near the base of the mountain?”
“I am.” Anneliese nodded, getting up from her sleeping bag. “While Argrave was speaking to the Stonepetal Sentinels, I was examining the walls and the tunnel. It was difficult to be around them. I could tell they were not fond of me,” she justified herself.
“Okay. That’s enough for me,” Argrave said eagerly. “Galamon, you have everything?”
Galamon put his helmet back on. “It’s dark. Light will attract attention. I will lead you two through the darkness.”
“As ever,” Argrave retorted, his mind starting to come alive.
Argrave and Anneliese moved urgently to put what few things of theirs remained unpacked back in their bags. Soon enough, the tent was left with only their sleeping bags on the grass, and Argrave put the backpack over his shoulder. He checked to be sure everyone else was ready, and then Galamon opened the tent, leading out into the darkness.
Chest ablaze with anxiety, Argrave took a deep breath and followed. He could hear nothing beyond the sounds of his companions and his own feet hitting the ground, and the night was so dark he could only follow after Galamon. True to Galamon’s word, it did not take long before their feet left the courtyard’s grass and stumbled over fallen stone bricks.
They emerged from the half-ring fortress, standing before the plains. Argrave felt the wind at his cheek, and his hair moved. Realizing this might be the last time he felt open air for a long, long while, he felt another wave of nervousness.
Galamon grabbed Argrave’s shoulder, pulling him from his daze. They followed along the wall as it winded, taking quiet yet quick steps. With the wall to guide them, Argrave felt some confidence return.
“Damn it all. It had to be something I said. What did I say, Galamon? Where did I ruin things? I thought I did pretty well…” he whispered, knowing well his companion’s sharp hearing would catch his mutters.
“I don’t know. You spoke a lot, and the acting you were doing was insufferable,” Galamon returned. “I tuned much of it out.”
“Gee, thanks. Real helpful,” Argrave retorted.
“Be quiet,” Galamon veritably growled. “Focus on what to do, not how it happened. Dwell on this later, when we stand with stone over our heads and the Low Way beneath our feet.”
“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to enter it,” Argrave muttered, but then heeded Galamon’s advice and remained quiet.
They followed along the wall with the sheer gray mountain base looming closer after every step. Though they passed by multiple collapsed portions, Anneliese urged them onwards, insisting she knew of one closer to the entrance. Argrave trusted her, but at the same time felt uneasy, numerous ‘what if’ scenarios echoing in his head.
Eventually, they did indeed find a collapsed portion of the wall all but touching the base of the mountain. Argrave breathed a sigh of relief, trying to peer out into the darkness beyond. He saw a few torches lit near the entrance to the Low Way, but all else was covered in shadow. He saw a few people and felt terribly exposed with them in sight.
“It’s dark. Can’t see a damn thing. I’ll just follow your lead, Galamon.” Argrave shook his head.
Galamon nodded. “Grab onto me if you must.”
Shouts sounded out across the night, making Argrave freeze. He listened, trying to discern their voices. It was a fruitless effort, though, but it helped confirm one thing—they were indeed targets. The voices came from where they had been sleeping.
“Let’s go now,” Argrave said insistently, trying to suppress his fear with action.
Galamon stepped back into the fortress, and Argrave followed just behind. After a few steps, a horn sounded out, the sound bouncing off the mountain walls and echoing dreadfully.
Damn it all, Argrave despaired silently, following after Galamon.
They proceeded across the empty courtyard towards the entrance to the Low Way. All those that had been guarding turned their heads to the sound of the horn. None of them seemed to move. Just as they neared the perimeter near the tunnel, though, someone broke away, taking the torch off its sconce and rushing towards the blown horn.
Galamon drew his dagger and rushed away. Argrave called out weakly, “Wait!” but to little avail. The elven vampire caught the man’s wrist which held the torch, pulled him forward, and then plunged his dagger beneath the man’s helmet. The fiery enchantments on the dagger burst from the visor, and then Galamon pulled it away. The man’s body dropped.
