Jackal Among Snakes: Book 2, A GameLit Fantasy, page 38
Yet even still, something did not feel right. A deceiver remained a deceiver. Even their efforts to prove the contrary were merely grander shows of deceit. Alasdair knew this well, because he was a deceiver himself. Though he played the part of the honorable master sentinel, well concerned for the welfare of those beneath him, he truly only cared for the position of grandmaster. He had wasted his youth in this doomed knightly order—at the very least, he would be its master before his death.
Alasdair watched the blood, his old and scarred face tense beneath his stifling plate helmet. After a time of staring, his face relaxed, eyes locked on the blood. He knelt down, retrieving a rock with a frown on his face. He dropped it, and it impacted with the floor a story below. Ripples spread out—quick and shallow, but present.
“Mixed with water… It’s not just blood,” Alasdair said aloud in awe as he came to the answer.
At once, he moved to the stairs, rushing down them as quick as his heavy armor would allow. He walked out to the door, out into the city of Nodremaid, ignoring the confused cries of the sentinels behind him. Moving alone in the Low Way was ill-advised, but Alasdair was too overcome with excitement to allow his caution to control him.
He rushed to the side of the platform, leaning out and staring across the canals. As his eyes took in the sights, he started to realize something.
The flow is different. The sluices have been moved.
The realization brought a smile to his face, though it could not be seen beneath his helmet. The sentinels beneath him, concerned for his well-being, caught up to him.
“Alasdair, sir,” one called out, not overloud because of their location.
“One of you, return back to the lower levels. Gather everyone serving beneath me,” he commanded, removing his sash of stone roses around his chest. “Use this to ensure their obedience. The rest of you… we search the city, checking the sluice control points for the severed head.” Alasdair turned his head back to the canals, where the water rose especially high. “Argrave is no prince. He used the floodgates to create an overflow.”
***
“Someone approaches,” Galamon informed Argrave, stepping in front of him.
They were in the final hallway out of the lower levels, and towards freedom, ostensibly—once they were on the road towards the Crimson Wellspring, their days of dealing with the sentinels would be over. A fight awaited them to claim the artifact, but despite his weakened state, Argrave felt extremely confident it would be easy.
“Someone?” Argrave pressed.
“A lone armored footman—a sentinel,” Galamon told Argrave.
Argrave considered this. “Alright. Let’s keep going. Tell me of anything more.”
They proceeded forward, Argrave readjusting the backpack on his back. Their food rations were greatly reduced, and it felt much lighter than before. Still, he kept a slow pace, being careful not to overexert his lungs.
Galamon looked back. “He has a sash bearing stone roses.”
Argrave frowned. “You mean… another one, besides the one on his chest?”
“Aye. It has near twenty.”
Argrave didn’t know what to make of that. Fortunately, Anneliese supplied, “These sashes are a sign of command, as you told me.” She looked to Argrave. “If so, it would be given to a subordinate to deliver an order with their authority.”
“I see.” Argrave looked at the ground, then at Anneliese. “So… Alasdair has something important to get to the rest of the group. My cover story’s been exposed, maybe.”
Both said nothing, but that was answer enough for Argrave. Even still, he spent a long while deliberating on the matter before giving his answer. This person might be delivering an order that could compromise a lot of their future progress. He might not be, though.
“Stand aside, let him pass.”
“What?” asked Galamon incredulously.
“Let him pass a bit,” Argrave amended. “Then… deal with him. In whatever way you deem… most efficient,” Argrave finished bitterly.
Galamon nodded slowly, then patted Argrave on the shoulder as though to reassure him the choice was correct. Argrave didn’t feel any less terrible about it, though.
Soon enough, the sentinel approached. Their party of three stood aside, Galamon even giving a polite nod to the sentinel as he jogged past. As much as Argrave didn’t want to watch, he didn’t dare look away considering the potential danger. Perhaps he should have, though—Galamon grabbed the sentinel’s helmet with one hand and quickly dispatched him by jamming his enchanted knife into his neck. The sentinel struggled only once before dying. It was hauntingly similar to the way Galamon had killed the one outside the Low Way.
“…I believe we would be best off hiding the body,” Anneliese suggested. “Argrave cannot move especially quickly anyway, and it only benefits us. We can dump it into the canal.”
Argrave nodded, and then moved forward. “Not wrong… I’ll try to hurry. Alasdair is probably looking for Garm. He can take care of himself, but… we’d still better be quick. Quick as I can manage, at least.” He touched his chest, then rolled his shoulder, pulling the heavy gray duster over his shoulders. Galamon hefted the body over his shoulder, then moved forward.
***
Alasdair entered into one of the sluice control rooms. He had been examining the way that the sluices were set up, and by his estimation, this one would be pivotal had Argrave genuinely flooded the lower levels with the canals.
The sluice control room was narrow and simple, made of stone and filled with an unpleasant mildew. It was dark, no light prevailing. In the center, three rusted chains descended below. Alasdair looked into the hole, and he could see rushing red water just beyond it. The sluices could be raised and lowered in this room.
Alasdair walked about, scanning the room as best he could in the lack of light. He felt along the wall, trying to feel things out. The only source of light came from the doorway. The light of Nodremaid was faint outside, but it was doubly so within buildings.
Eventually, he came to a turn wheel quite similar to the one just before the Menagerie. Alasdair tugged at it, and despite the fact that it was quite old, it moved easily—evidence it had been used recently.
He heard footsteps behind and lowered himself. Soon enough, both of his men entered into the room, and Alasdair stood quietly.
“No luck?” Alasdair inquired.
“No, sir,” both replied asynchronously.
“We’ve searched all of the other nearby sluice gates,” one followed up.
“Then search this one.” Alasdair pointed down. “Carefully. Considering everything, this place is the most vital. If anywhere, I suspect the head will be here.”
They entered deeper, combing along the walls and heading for the back. Once the two were deep enough in, a light flickered at the entrance. An arrow shot out, glowing in the light. Alasdair, reflexes trained for decades against vampires and guardians, nimbly ducked behind the sluice controls, and a burst of fire scorched where the arrow struck the stone.
“Find cover,” Alasdair directed calmly. “They’re here. They have enchanted arrows.”
Alasdair breathed out silently as his sentinels moved to obey. The situation was desperate, he knew, but he had survived much worse. He drew his sword from his waist, holding it at attention.
“Argrave,” Alasdair called out. “That abominable head of yours—I have it. It’s in my hands,” he bluffed.
“My head is still attached to me, last I checked,” a familiar hoarse voice rang out at once.
“You want it back. You want to gain access to all of the places within the Low Way, take all its treasures for yourself,” Alasdair continued. “I can take that away.”
Another arrow shot out, and Alasdair shrunk away. A yelp of pain sounded out in the distance alongside the crackle of electricity, and Alasdair clenched his teeth tight. That warrior the boy brought along isn’t for show…
“Rolf?” Alasdair questioned.
“I’m… fine, sir. My left arm is shot, though.”
Alasdair grit his teeth, taking better cover. Damn it all. Why are they out so quick? Thought it would take an hour, minimum, for them to find what they need… Nowhere to escape… Think, damn it.
“Fire another shot, I kill the head,” Alasdair bluffed once more.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you will,” Argrave said, sarcastic voice betraying his utter lack of belief.
“Fine, I’ll do as you did. Flood the lower levels. Everyone will come here. Your ruse will be broken.”
Alasdair pivoted forward, grabbing the turn wheel for the sluice. Remaining in cover, he started to raise it once more. The chains groaned in protest. The sound disguised the sound as another arrow fired out, but Alasdair managed to avoid being hit narrowly, a trail of magic whizzing by his hand.
Just as he started to hear a torrent of water rushing by below as the sluice rose, Alasdair felt hot pain on the back of his head. The blow did little damage on account of the helmet, but Alasdair staggered forth. As if expecting this, the gargantuan elf rushed forth, already swinging his blade. The blow seemed to fall short, so Alasdair stepped back. A blade of wind leapt out, and Alasdair, panicked, raised his own to block it.
The blade of wind struck Alasdair’s sword, and the ferocity of the enchanted weapon’s attack knocked the sword out of his hand. The elf still rushed forth, charge undeterred. Alasdair fell to his back and thrust his feet out, trying to stop the charge as a pikeman might stop cavalry. Alasdair barely saw the curved greatsword flying towards his face before it pierced his neck, sliding beneath his helmet.
The elf pulled out his blade mercilessly, stepping past Alasdair. Alasdair’s head fell back as he clutched at his neck. In his last moments, he tried to search out what had struck him. Had one of his own betrayed him? The very idea filled him with an indignant wrath.
Then he saw it. A brown-haired head, impaled on a stake. Its cold black and gold eyes stared down at Alasdair as he writhed. He reached out for it in vain, and it watched passively. When Alasdair’s hand finally grew near, he felt the last bit of strength drain from his body. He watched as magic swirled about the head, a blade of wind appearing right above his eyes.
“Die, mutt.”
The blade descended, and darkness took Alasdair, master sentinel of the Stonepetal Sentinels.
Chapter 54
Argrave stared into the rushing red water, watching it rise and writhe against the red-stained stone. He leaned against a railing just before the canal. Anneliese stood just beside him, looking around Nodremaid with Garm in her hand. Evidently she had grown to tolerate the place much better, for she was less troubled than Argrave.
He was coming to terms with the fact that Berendar had changed him. Beyond the initial rush of fear, uncertainty, and panic that cropped up in the act itself, he wasn’t bothered by what had happened today. Four people had died, their bodies cast into the canals. He had been the engine behind their deaths, even if he had not killed himself. Despite that, their deaths did not weigh at his thoughts as the druids had. Perhaps it was because he had come to loathe the sentinels. Perhaps it was merely that he was different, now.
The smells, the sounds, and the horrors of Nodremaid and the Low Way had already made their effects known, Argrave supposed. Experiencing day after day of the horrible and the bizarre… he didn’t dare think he was some sort of mentally untouchable iron man now, but the tasks ahead seemed less harrowing. Confronting the grim realities of the Low Way, morbid though they might be, might have served as the tempering he needed to continue.
If I can survive this, I can handle anything, surely?
“Maybe this was a good thing,” Argrave muttered, straightening his back a little. “A jolt to the system to wake me up.”
“What?” Anneliese asked, not hearing Argrave.
“Nothing,” he dismissed.
Galamon stepped out from one of the sluice control buildings, stepping up to Argrave. “You said that was the last one?”
“Should be.” Argrave nodded, not looking away from the canal.
The change in the water was not instantly perceptible. It continued to rush along its path, spattering the walls with wetness. Argrave noticed he saw more of the walls, first, and after, the constant flow of the water started to slow. Eventually, as more and more water came by, the flow ceased entirely, the water dispersing across the surface.
The bottom of the canal was filthy—all sorts of twisted aquatic growth grew from the bottom, unpleasant crimson barnacles blocking most of the smooth stone. Much of the canal had eroded over the years from the constant rush of water, and the terrain was uneven and jagged. That, coupled with years of debris, made a very unpleasant and wet walkway. There were weapons and bones in abundance, likely from the corpses of guardians that had fallen into the canal.
Argrave stopped leaning against the railing. “There’s our path. We should move quickly.”
“And if someone raises the sluice?” questioned Anneliese. “The remainder of the sentinels will emerge eventually. If they notice something amiss…”
“The whole walkway isn’t on the route of the canal,” Argrave disclosed, walking up to a set of stairs leading down into the canal for maintenance. “It branches off into a cave. This cave leads up to the Crimson Wellspring.” Argrave looked at the sluice. “Even if we’re really unfortunate, and a tide of water comes rushing towards us… I suspect our B-rank wards in tandem should be enough to buy us time sufficient for an escape.”
“Two wards against a tide of water? Gods, you’re mental,” Garm said from Anneliese’s hands. “Throwing everyone into danger time and time again. Perhaps I would have been better with the sentinels.”
“Maybe.” Argrave adjusted his pack, and then descended into the canal below. “We’re at the final stretch. A fight awaits us. It’s the one I told you two about, way back when we still had grass beneath our feet instead of corpses and gore. We’re well-prepared for it, despite the setbacks we faced here.” Argrave stopped a little down the stairs, glancing between Galamon and Anneliese. “Let’s finish this with the same caution we entered.”
The two of them nodded. Garm raised a disbelieving brow at the mention of ‘caution’ but seemed somewhat relieved.
With a nod and as deep a breath as his scarred lungs would allow, Argrave stepped down the stairs, heading for the drained canal.
***
“Induen gave me an ultimatum?” Elenore questioned, her legs crossed in her seat at the fountain. One could barely see the stumps where her two feet once were, though they were mostly concealed by her unblemished white dress.
“He did,” Therese, Elenore’s new personal maid, replied. Evidently, the orange-haired maid had been training her movements for some time, for she did not nod for her blind master as she had those weeks ago.
“He must be under great duress,” Elenore mused, placing her fingers on her chin. “Despite Severin’s reports, I am unsure of what he intends to achieve at Elbraille.”
“Will we do something about Argrave, as he demanded?” Therese questioned, and noticing that Elenore’s teacup was empty, moved to refill it from the dainty white floral pot nearby. “New tea, my princess. Be careful. It is still hot.”
“I don’t know where Argrave is.” Elenore shook her head, then felt around until she placed her hands around the teacup, enjoying the warmth. “He left Jast, and then… nothing. Elaine reported a shipment of books from some fringe town with an Order branch. He is, fundamentally, an unpredictable variable. He claims to know me. Even of that, I am unsure.”
“Then perhaps it would be best to allow Induen his way, punish Argrave when he resurfaces, and stabilize things?” Therese moved to suggest, having gained boldness being so close underneath Elenore.
Elenore smiled. “I told you that I wanted to create chaos. Shake the box.” Elenore held her fingers against the lip of the cup to ensure no liquid overflowed as she raised it to her mouth, then took a drink of the tea. “We will do nothing to Argrave.”
Therese looked surprised, but said, “Yes, my princess. But…”
“Why?” Elenore finished. “Induen is growing to be just as unpredictable as Argrave. In times of peace, where none would dare oppose his activities, he was relatively stable. Now…” The princess paused, placing her hands back on the teacup. “…Now, he faces widespread disobedience. For someone like him, I imagine that causes great mental stress. His impulsivity manifests more frequently—an unideal trait for someone aiding in my navigation.”
“I… cannot follow, my princess.” Therese lowered her head.
“Provided Argrave is not simply another victim of the coil of war…” Elenore took another slow drink. “When he resurfaces, and should Induen grow incensed with him once again… I will merely quietly disclose his location. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“To what end?”
“To decide which unpredictability is worth supporting.” Elenore turned her head up at Therese. “If Induen should deem it necessary to reevaluate the worth my advice, I find it necessary to test if he is up for what comes ahead.” Her thin hands clenched a little tighter on the teacup, turning her knuckles white. “It is something I would never have considered, had he not said what he did. But… trust is a commodity, it seems, even between kin.”
Therese stared down at the princess, her face sad. “Then, Argrave… You believe he can…?”
“Prevail?” Elenore picked up the teacup, and then set it down once more. “If they confront each other directly, it seems ridiculous. A prince, accompanied by royal knights, versus a bastard with known health problems. I know little of his two companions, but Elaine said he trusts them without compunction. He is smart, sidestepping and solving problems in a multitude of ways. In the face of all that, Induen is uncompromisingly relentless and a talented spellcaster and warrior both.”
“We can only wait,” Therese concluded.
Elenore said nothing, and then nodded after a fair amount of time had passed. “Yes. Regardless of the result, it would be best not to latch too firmly to any one person.” Elenore crossed her arms. “Disappointment is my sole companion, these days.”
