Jackal Among Snakes

Chapter 638: Justified Fear of the Unknown

From the beginning, their group had agreed upon some strategies. One such strategy was a devastating opening salvo combining the grim virtues of necromancy and Argrave’s blood magic. As the dull steps of the Shadowlanders filled the air before them, Bhaltair, founder of the Order of the Rose, tapped Argrave’s shoulder.

“Bhaltair speaking,” he said quietly, predatory orange eyes gleaming. He was a large man, bulging with fat in places that hardly seemed possible. “Fifteen blades should suffice for the first wave. Over.”

Argrave gave him a nod, then sent out blood echoes. He spent the whole of them to conjure fifteen swords of his black blood, and they fell into the white ground ahead. Bhaltair moved to the center of this circle of blades, then gripped the bottom of his jaw. He unhinged it, then gray flesh spewed forth out of his mouth like something highly pressurized had just removed its lid. Undead beings resembling goblins sprawled out over the floor, already moving to grip the blades Argrave had prepared. They rushed into combat, moving with an animalistic grace. Bhaltair had lost some weight after he expunged what was inside—unlike most people, he had a genuine excuse for his obese appearance. He stored undead inside his body.

With Bhaltair’s undead facing one side equipped with black-blooded weapons, Argrave was content to consider that front held. The reason why became immediately clear—their frontrunner undead held his hand out, and Bhaltair cast an S-rank spell through it. Much like Argrave’s blood echoes, Bhaltair could cast spells at a distance—unlike Argrave, he wasn’t limited in rank, and his undead were merely a conduit for his magic rather than a reservoir.

A great blast of colorless electricity erupted from the undead and buffeted the coming Shadowlanders. Shortly after, Bhaltair’s undead fell upon the hardest hit, swinging their weapons in brutal arcs. As the blades Argrave conjured bit into their stone-like flesh, Argrave felt their life energy pass to Anneliese. She, in turn, replenished everyone’s supply of magic with the wellspring of power.

The dragon roared in the dead voice that everyone shared, and Argrave looked up at it. It soared through the air toward them.

“Archchief speaking,” he said, using his title instead of his name—perhaps arrogance, or perhaps it was because he genuinely preferred to go by that. “I’ll take to the skies. That thing, and other fliers, poses the greatest threat. I’ll keep it off us. Over.”

Without further ado, he clambered aboard his zombified wyvern and lifted off with tremendous speed. Argrave decided to trust the confidence of the southern tribal, turning back to the three most vulnerable fronts. To call it vulnerable, though, implied they were at risk of being overrun. They cast S-rank spells recklessly, knowing Anneliese could replenish what was lost. The Shadowlanders, however, took the damage like they were arrows instead of great bombs. To end them, one needed exceptional firepower—and Argrave intended to provide.

S-rank blood magic was few and far between. Few casters had the desire, the talent in the field, or above all, the simple lifeforce to cast a sacrificial spell of that magnitude without dying. The few that did were not human. Vampires were the most common higher blood mages. They expected their supernatural body to regenerate any damage done. Argrave expected rather the same, but a pure S-rank blood magic spell was far different than an S-rank elemental spell infused with blood magic.

Still, Argrave declared a ceasefire to his allies and walked forth, bringing to the front of his mind the terrible spell known as [Apollyon]. He completed the spell with his right hand outstretched toward the approaching Shadowlanders.

Argrave felt the skin on his hand part, making holes for the beings born of his blood to free themselves. Locusts of black blood erupted out of his hand, leaving half a thousand holes for their fellows following soon after. Were they outside of this realm, Argrave could imagine the pain was unimaginable. Even here, Argrave could feel his vitality draining far faster than it could be replaced. The locusts began to burst free of his wrist, then his forearm, then his upper arm, and soon came near the neck…

When Argrave felt certain that he would soon feel locusts bursting out of his eyes, the spell met its mark, and Anneliese let loose a flood of vitality into his body to replenish what was vanishing. His wounds closed rapidly, and the locusts again began to emerge only from his hand. Argrave kept an intense focus, manipulating his hand about so it hit everything approaching.

The blood locusts, chittering in a dull tone mandated by this realm, were a scourge upon all that they touched. The first Shadowlander they fell upon was consumed, bursting into colorless fire for half a second before vanishing entirely beneath their biting teeth and cutting wings. They spread out mindlessly, seeking any movement in front of them.

A gargantuan four-legged whale creature swallowed the locusts, yet mere seconds later they burst out of it from eight directions. An octopus spat inky darkness at them, but it was all burnt away seconds before the bugs fell upon it and erased it from the world. An abyssal mole-man sought shelter inside the earth of the plateau, yet the locusts tore through the earth to remove him. Their reckless pursuit broke away a huge section of the plateau, sending some creatures tumbling. The locusts ate both them and the falling rocks, leaving only dust behind.

Countless Shadowlanders chose to jump off the plateau rather than meet this cloud of death, yet still the locust swarm followed. Argrave could feel his creations tearing through enemies that had not yet arrived at this summit. When nothing more came, they dispersed into the Shadowlands, eating away at the endless darkness so that Anneliese might rewrite what was there.

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Argrave only realized what a toll that [Apollyon] had taken upon him when his knees buckled, and he fell to the grass. The spell finally finished, unleashing its hold on his vitality. His allies folded around him to guard him from any projectiles that might come, and Anneliese flooded him with the energy still pouring in from its aftermath. The vampire that had created this spell did so with the intention they should eat away anything except blood. There was no blood here, so they destroyed without an end. If Argrave hadn’t the benefit of Anneliese, who could replenish him based off what he killed… that may well have wounded him badly enough he’d die. If it had taken any longer, the locusts would’ve been forged out of the blood in his brain—which, needless to say, wouldn’t have fared well for him.

“Elzbieta speaking,” said the founder of the Order of the Gray Owl. “We can handle the ground from here, but the Archchief seems overwhelmed holding back the dragon. If you could do some of the same up there, this battle is as good as… over.”

Argrave shakily rose to his feet, using his staff as a support. He looked up. The Archchief stood aback his wyvern, holding its reins tightly with one hand while the other cast spells that buffeted away the dragon that sought to descend on top of them. Against it, he held his own—but other flying enemies harried him, and the zombified wyvern already showed wounds. They moved fast enough that any attempts for a counter seemed futile.

Seeing that, Argrave thought it was time for good ol’ reliable.

“Argrave speaking,” he said, then looked at the former emperor of the southron elves. “Ghislain. I need you to hide a largescale attack. Those fliers seem maneuverable enough to dodge if they see it coming. Can you conceal over a thousand projectiles about the size of my arm? Over.”

“Ghislain speaking to say he can, over,” the man confirmed rapidly.

With that, Argrave needed no more convincing. He sent out blood echoes, and had each conjure [Electric Eels] infused with his blood. Meanwhile, he waited a few moments for his vitality to recover, then took a familiar stance. In it, he conjured [Bloodfeud Bow]. Its rate of consumption felt generous after the apocalyptic power of [Apollyon]. It built up that familiar devastating power in his hands.

“Ghislain speaking. Bring your projectiles above me, if you can, over,” he requested.

Argrave obliged. The man seemed to write in the air with his fingers, and soon enough, each of the malignant looking eels faded away until nothing but emptiness seemed to linger above. If Argrave couldn’t feel them with his will, he might think they had dissipated.

“Argrave speaking. Aurore, tell the Archchief to fall back to the ground if he doesn’t want to get killed, over,” he shouted.

Aurore looked at Argrave. She opened her mouth, then cast a spell inside. Then, she craned her neck. When she shouted, her words erupted with the force of a powerful wind spell.

“Archchief! Come down or Argrave will kill you!” she shouted brashly, foregoing their signal in the wake of her pure volume.

Argrave was worried personalities might clash from her commanding tone, but the Archchief’s wyvern bunched together its wings and plummeted like a rock. Only once it seemed liable to plant against the ground did it spread its wings and land, and then Argrave sent forth the cloud of invisible [Electric Eels]. The pursuers had nearly caught up with the Archchief, but they met with an invisible wall of bloodied eels, and the skies became a thunderstorm. The descending dragon hovered cautiously before it, and Argrave saw his shot.

[Bloodfeud Bow] exploded upward toward the dragon, and in only a moment, Argrave saw it pierce right through the dragon’s stomach and push through the back. Somehow, even with such a great hole in its body, it remained flying. It veered, heading back toward the shadows with its great wound making it appear drunk. Argrave sent what little remained of the [Electric Eels] after it, but it vanished into the unexplored area of the Shadowlands before he could finish it.

“Roland speaking. The horseman’s incoming!” he shouted, evidently noticing something through the mark he’d put upon their foe. Argrave looked around, then spotted what he referenced—the shadowy horseman galloped across the field, sword held to his side.

Argrave stepped ahead of everyone, casting high-ranked spells infused with blood recklessly. The horseman parried one after another, rushing in a clear path toward their group. When his attacks proved fruitless, Argrave channeled a powerful blood weapon into the scepter of Artur’s creation. A blade took shape, and Argrave held it like a spear as the horseman approached.

His practice with Orion ran through his mind as the horse sped faster and faster. Argrave thrust the spear forth. The rider brought his blade in, parrying it upward. The force was tremendous, and Argrave exerted all the strength he could to keep it in his hand. Due to the nature of this realm, he felt little pain—but he saw his elbows bend the wrong way, and knew this foe was powerful.

But what his foe didn’t know was that this weapon’s foundation was the Resonant Pillar. When struck on one point, the other side could return that power equally. Argrave twisted and thrust the opposite end of the scepter forth, and slammed it into the front of the horse. Mount and rider parted forcefully, but even along the way, the rider scored a great gash across Argrave’s chest.

The horse collapsed to the ground, dead. Peering down, Argrave knew that cut might’ve killed him had he not been changed by the Fruit of Being. It slowly healed, closing itself, and Argrave’s broken arms became functional once again. The knight held his blade aloft, gripped its edge with his hand, and cut himself. A puddle of blood took shape beneath his feet, and from it, a new horse jumped out. He clambered atop it and sped away into the darkness.

“It’s gone… and going fast,” Roland confirmed, his ability to track vitality proving its usefulness already.

Looking around… Bhaltair’s undead were killing the last of the Shadowlanders. They seemed to have temporary reprieve from this assault. But it was abundantly clear their long journey into this hellish place was just beginning—and they were hunted just as much as they were hunting.

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