jackal-among-snakes-16091326
chapter-100

Argrave stepped through a pool of dark red water, the sound of the sloshing echoing out across the lower levels. The Sentinels were near, but they gave the three of them a cautious distance. The disgusting wetness at Argrave’s feet made his skin crawl, but he had to bear with it. There was a sense of urgency to his step that spurred his feet forward, yet the persistent aching in his chest made him check his speed.

Despite Argrave’s grand show of faux power in causing the canals to overflow, what he had created was, in effect, a scarecrow. Upon seeing the ridiculous, people were far more amenable to suggestion. Bloodred water flooding the lower levels coupled with Argrave’s leading words—his solution had worked for now, but if the Sentinels were to examine things closer, they would see Argrave’s construction was of straw and wood, not ancient royal heritage as he posited.

“Are you sure the scalpel will be where you lead us?” questioned Anneliese quietly.

“No,” returned Argrave happily. “Might be things have deviated. The scalpel may have been moved. If that’s the case, we will be… in an unfavorable position.”

“’Deviated,’” Anneliese repeated. “Interesting word. It implies a set course.”

Argrave looked at Anneliese. “You know another interesting word? Deviant. Stop making me out to be one. And stop being one yourself, while we’re at it.”

Anneliese laughed quietly, and Argrave felt some his tension dispel with their light banter. He took a deep breath, wincing when his lungs ached, and soldiered on.

“Some of the Sentinels are watching us,” Galamon noted. “They were assigned to do so by Alasdair. The remainder are giving us a decent distance.”

Argrave nodded, directing his companion, “Keep me posted.”

As they proceeded further into the lower levels of the Order’s headquarters, the water level slowly dissipated until the only sound echoing out was the squishing of their wet boots against the stone. They kept a respectable pace, heading into the right hallway. Argrave’s spell light illuminated the path ahead.

After proceeding down the hallway for a time, an opening to the side revealed stairs descending lower yet. Argrave took them, keeping a steady pace and ensuring he kept his hand on the handrail. He wanted to rush, but his feet were heavy with water and he didn’t want to strain himself.

The sights down the stairs were untouched by the water. The fresh corpses of Guardians, vampires, and Sentinels littered the place. Argrave did his best to ignore them and press on.

“Has to be at the farthest point, doesn’t it…” Argrave muttered to himself.

The rooms they passed by had once been places of study, but years being the sole home of the vampires in the Low Way had made those origins almost unrecognizable. There were strange paintings on the walls, with a crudeness likened to what one might see in Neanderthalic cave paintings. They were very obviously made of blood. Some were calendars, while others were strange depictions of people and the sceneries of the Low Way.

In the game, they had merely been undetailed textures. Now, though, some of the paintings were unimaginably detailed, as though made by an artist who’d had hundreds of years to perfect the craft—and indeed, some of the vampires may have been creating these crude paintings for a time as long as that. But despite the quality of the art, something could be seen beneath each painting—a strange sense of twisted savagery. It reminded Argrave of an exhibit he had seen once: artwork made by the mentally ill. Regardless of what was conveyed by the paintings, knowing who had made it twisted his perception.

Beyond that, other oddities filled the halls—sculptures, woodcarvings, artwork all and innumerable in count. Each were hobbies taken up by the vampires to pass the centuries. They were all wrong in some varied ways. Faces on sculptures were twisted, for instance. They were alien in the sense that they didn’t seem to be made to appeal to human emotions.

Argrave noticed, though, that Galamon’s eyes lingered on many of the pieces for an especially long time. Perhaps there was something intrinsic to the art that appealed to the vampiric condition. Regardless, Argrave was glad when they turned a corner, and he saw the door he was looking for just ahead.

Argrave prodded Galamon, pointing to the door. “That’s our destination.”

“…Right,” the elf responded after an unusually long pause. He had to tear his gaze away from a statue. He moved forward hastily, grabbing the door and pulling it open. He looked around for adversaries, then motioned Argrave in.

Argrave entered the room, spell light illuminating the place. The scene was not familiar. There was an altar in the center, but it had been overturned by three bodies—a vampire grappling with two Guardians. All three seemed to have died together. One of the Guardians had been torn in three and scattered, while the other impaled the vampire through the head with a spear. Remnants of spells lingered in the room, frost most prominently.

“No…” Argrave said despairingly, walking towards the overturned altar. He saw a glass display case with a velvet cushion that had been splayed out across the room. He kneeled down, picking up the box and looking about. “Come on… where?”

Argrave looked through the glass, searching for a white knife. Behind him, Anneliese noticed something, and bent down to pick it up. She raised it into the air.

“Argrave,” she spoke.

He turned when his name was called. Anneliese held a white scalpel in two fingers, its blade no larger than Argrave’s thumbnail. It shone with red inscriptions, like glistening rubies embedded in elaborate weaving patterns.

“Haha!” Argrave said excitedly, stepping forward. He held one hand out, and Anneliese gingerly handed the thing over.

“Be careful. I can… feel it,” she cautioned in a quiet murmur.

Argrave looked her in the eyes, then delicately took the scalpel. And indeed, she was right—he felt a resonance coming from the blade, like the repulsion from a magnet near another magnet. In this case, though, the scalpel seemed to reject everything that was not itself.

“The Unsullied Knife,” Argrave said, taking a deep breath. Despite the pain in his chest, he felt a rising triumph. “Now… we can finally start getting the hell out of here.” He clenched the handle tight.