Jackal Among Snakes

The casualties from the assault of the silver knight were staggering. Elenore reviewed the figures as she sat.

A great deal of the most prominent spellcasters in the world had been in Blackgard, and many went in its defense. As it turned out, their being clustered together so tightly was a hindrance rather than a boon. Great Chu and visiting Veiden scholars did not participate as much in the defense, so the bulk of the deaths were concentrated in Vasquer natives. Figures were of yet unclear, but one thing was certain: the Order of the Gray Owl’s upper echelon halved in size. Castro’s successor also perished, leaving a void of power at the top of the organization that brought her great unease.

The army, which had been mobilized to get the citizens to safety, had not been hit as hard… yet it was hit. Their numbers had swelled to twenty-three thousand before the attack, and preliminary reports suggested they had lost three to four thousand. It would put a huge strain on the kingdom’s treasury to pay out their families as was promised, but now more than ever, Elenore needed to show that enlistment in the army was a viable career option and that the government did value its soldiers.

The civilian population faced similar losses to the army. No attacks pierced their defenses directly, yet the silver knight’s reckless blows caused landslides, collapses, sinkholes, and other such tragedies. Beyond utterly wrecking the painstakingly-established infrastructure, deaths were also in the thousands. Blackgard had attracted such immigration because of its reputation of invulnerability—with such a devastating attack on it, the influx of immigrants might slow.

Rook had sustained a dire injury, apparently, and now considered his debt to Argrave, which had been incurred after treacherously killing Erlebnis, paid. Law had been humiliated, arriving yet achieving little—but more than that, Elenore felt the reputation of the Kingdom of Vasquer within the Blackgard Union might’ve been damaged by her calling such a dramatic mobilization. So much tragedy, and damage, and death… all spurred by one attacker.

But there was someone that hadn’t died.

Elenore lowered her reports, staring at Orion as he laid there. When she’d had some people rush in and retrieve him, he was in the worst condition imaginable. His orbital socket had been shattered—it was a wonder his eyes hadn’t popped out during battle. His hands were completely frozen, and needed to be amputated so they could regrow properly. A metal shard from his helmet had embedded itself in his head, and needed to be removed. Many of his internal organs had been cooked, both from electricity and fire.

As for his legs… he couldn’t use them, for now. The finishing blow from the silver knight had blown a great hole in his waist, completely eviscerating a huge section of his spine. That should have killed him. Had Elenore taken seconds longer to have her people go, it would have. Even if he could awake now, he wouldn’t be able to walk. Not just because the spinal injury—in the battle, he’d fractured his femur in countless places, and both of his lower legs had separated after a spiral fracture.

Beaten, broken, battered, and facing a foe that could strike down gods… and still Orion had charged forth, fighting desperately. It had been his righteous defense that had spurred other defenders to keep fighting still. And in the end, though she had been planning some grand stratagem wherein the Fruit of Being was used to wipe away this scourge… Orion, all but alone, had won that battle and defended Blackgard. And he would make a full recovery, ridiculous being that he was.

The damage of this battle would last years, maybe even decades. It could echo out into the infrastructure of the whole kingdom, spelling weakness. She would do her best to let it be known that this was the beginning of Gerechtigkeit’s wrath in efforts to unite all beneath their banner. Yet despite all of that, the whole ordeal had seemed a contravention against fate.

After talking to Sophia, who’d had a strange reaction to this event, it seemed Gerechtigkeit—now certainly confirmed to be Griffin—had weaponized that idealistic dream the siblings had once shared in Sandelabara. Raven’s observations suggested he’d used the Gilderwatcher’s strength of will to bring that dream into existence, sending it forth to ‘save’ Sophia.

Fortunately, Sophia’s dream of a perfect knight proved lacking before the real thing.

Elenore gently laid her hand atop Orion’s cheek as he slept. “Rest well, brother.”

Leaving that quiet whisper behind, Elenore gathered her papers and made to leave. There was work to do to ensure that this city he’d nearly spent his life protecting remained grand. She’d had her small moment of vulnerability with her brother—now, it was time to let the others that he’d fought so hard for have their time. His wife. His mother. Little Sophia, who still seemed in disbelief this was all over.

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When Argrave came back, she’d have to be certain that Orion was given a proper reward. She owed him that much. Whatever he’d done, or not done, in the past, she had forgiven Orion. More than forgiven him, she might go so far as to say the role of favorite brother was a little less clearly distinguished than it once was.

#####

Argrave, Anneliese, and their merry band of the semi-grateful dead managed to secure right of passage from the Hopeful. Now that they’d earned that right, they used and abused it as best they could. They spent an ample amount of time gaining a grasp on the rewritten white and black terrain. Once they’d carved out a significant territory around their foe’s base of operations, they spent an even more ample amount of time studying the Manumitter and his makeshift liberation army. They revealed how he fought, and what he was aiming for.

Apparently, the Manumitter could free someone of the hierarchy imposed by the Hopeful with touch alone. That made him a potent weapon, indeed—yet the fact he hadn’t been roaming about the place, indiscriminately groping Shadowlanders demonstrated a fundamental weakness: Traugott himself. They assumed he was weak. Perhaps it wasn’t exceptional that creatures capable of destroying entire cities were stronger than him. Or perhaps it wasn’t weakness. Perhaps his ability itself had fundamental flaws that he kept secret.

Regardless, Traugott had amassed a sizable fighting force. The crowning jewel of that was one of the Hopeful’s lieutenants. Rather troublingly, the black knight that had come with Argrave could provide neither name nor description. They had all, before Argrave’s arrival, existed in a formless void that lacked the same sensations their world did. Words could not describe what they were, excluding a notable exception.

“She is anger. Stubborn defiance. Iron will. Principled,” the rider described. “Descriptions of emotions and temperament, at least, are something we both share.”

Their purpose in spending so long formulating their plan wasn’t merely to develop a concrete plan of attack against Traugott. It was as much to plot how to fight against the yoke of the Hopeful once he no longer had any need for them. They spoke in hushed tones and euphemisms, only talking frankly when their escort returned to the shadows. He was frustrated by their slow progress, but neither side ever broke the status quo. Argrave and company were needed. The Manumitter was a threat the Hopeful could not easily kill—each and all he sent forth might turn their blades against him and strengthen the rebels.

Though exhaustion never found them in this colorless realm, even these ancient heroes were stretched to their mental limits in the sleepless weeks they spent seeking some grand strategy to achieve a flawless victory. Perfection was an impossible ideal to reach for, doubly so when it came to something so complex as a battle involving hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unimaginably fierce beings. But at the end of it all…

“I’m not pleased about it. Not pleased at all,” Argrave pointed out, his voice unable to express his indignance in light of the enforced monotony in this realm.

“Yet you can offer no opposing viewpoint, and our time here is not eternal,” Emperor Balzat outlined poignantly. “We have spent perhaps half the time that Garm allotted us.”

Argrave bit his lip, displeased yet with no suitable counterproposal. He had to admit it… after workshopping their strategy for a long, long while, it had come to an advanced point with contingencies atop contingencies. Anything further was summarized by the simple little phrase, ‘analysis paralysis.’ They had a solid plan.

The only problem was it involved Anneliese fighting Traugott, far apart from Argrave.

She wouldn’t be alone, naturally. But with her weapon forged of Veid’s heart, she could lock him into a duel from which he could not escape. Their basic plan was simple. Argrave would cause a brilliant distraction by rewriting the world those rebel Shadowlanders resided in, then beginning a straight-out attack. That sort of bombastic entrance was meant to give Anneliese ample time to sneak up, initiate the duel, and ideally assassinate Traugott right away.

From there, they veered into the complicated—getting away. They had ideas, but practice made perfect, and practice wars didn’t exist anyplace besides Argrave’s own head.

But even the first part—distracting the rebel leader—would be immensely difficult. The act of rewriting the Shadowlands would make any notion of surprise vanish. Traugott might simply flee before Anneliese ever found her opportunity. A small battalion serving beneath their rider escort was waiting, but given Traugott’s ability, they couldn’t be relied upon. Traugott, furthermore, was an unknown variable. How powerful was he really?

Still… with things as they are, they had no choice. It was do or die time.

“Alright then.” Argrave nodded. “Anneliese’s squad hunts down Traugott, ends him. Meanwhile, my squad… we take the liberation army, and try to start a revolution.”

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