jackal-among-snakes-16091326
chapter-176

The air grew colder as they moved further north. For Anneliese, Galamon, it was no issue—indeed, it may have been some respite. Argrave was largely unbothered. After the experience in becoming Black Blooded, it was easy to overlook minor annoyances. Durran, though, who’d spent his whole life in a desert, suffered all throughout the journey, and requested more blankets at night.

Argrave’s Brumesingers, desert creatures that they were, sought refuge in Argrave’s warmth during the night. At daytime, they scouted when they rode. Anneliese bound all of the spellcasters in the party with the druidic spell [Progenitor]. It decreased the maximum magic that she had, but it remained constantly active without expenditure. Anything Argrave’s druidic bonds informed him of, she would know if it, too. Like this, she became the perfect advance scout, all while remaining in the safety of the party. They had to sidestep roaming horsemen many times. They might not be dangerous… but considering it was avoidable, they took no chances.

Despite these factors, they made steady progress. As they strayed further from the temperate south, they started to see snow. It was thin at first, but soon it blanketed the barren hibernating trees of the forests they traversed. They had chosen to travel on horseback to better conceal their movements, but it made the journey more than a little difficult. Without three spellcasters enabling a little recklessness, the journey would not have been as simple.

Though they struggled, after about a week and a half, they came into the Midwest portion of Vasquer—the County of Veden. Though not as grand as the mercantile city of Mateth, Veden was rich. The city had walls perhaps twenty-feet tall, painted white by snowfall. A fortress stood strong at the top of the hill, separate from but overlooking the city. It was the seat of Elgar, the Count of Veden.

Several rivers passed through the area, making farmland abundant. Veden’s fields were empty during the winter and blanketed with thin sheets of snow. Or rather, the unoccupied fields were snow-covered. The plague brought with it refugees from the rural villages of the Midwest, seeking the aid of the Count of Veden.

Argrave had been preparing himself to see chaos… but things were better organized than he thought. Instead of being barred from the walls, the people had been divided into orderly camps in the harvested fields, watched over by the city’s guards and knights. There seemed to be no efforts to aid, but the refugee crisis was certainly maintained. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ the chaos had disrupted many of Veden’s vital operations—to see it halted here by efficient handling was a welcome, if perplexing, thing.

“We stopping here?” questioned Durran, rubbing the back of his horse’s head. Even without druidic magic, the man had a natural affinity with animals. He wore the Humorless Mask just as Anneliese did.

Argrave watched the camps, gaze distant. “No reason to. We have food enough to make the rest of the journey, and Galamon is an able hunter even if we run out.”

Durran cursed, but Argrave was too distracted to pay him any heed.

Argrave pulled on his horse’s reins, then said to the rest of his party, “Wait here. I want to go check something out. No more than two minutes,” he directed, then led his horse away without waiting for a response.

He rode near the camps for refugees, not entering them properly. The tents were filled with the disease-ridden and seemed to be given only simple mats of straw. People eyed him cautiously, and eventually, Argrave found what he was looking for—a household knight, bearing a white hare across his breastplate. That hare was the symbol of House Veden. He rode up to the man.

“Hail,” Argrave called out, drawing his horse to a stop. “These are camps for the refugees?” he questioned.

“Aye, sir, they are,” the man confirmed, voice echoey from beneath his helmet. “Best keep your distance. Dangerous, they are. The plague rots all. Rots away a man’s everything. The waxpox, they call it.”

Argrave shifted. The disease had been given its official name already—the waxpox. Argrave wasn’t sure if it could be classified as such—the waxy skin seen in the diseased might not qualify as a pox—but the name matched with what it had been called in the game.

He focused back on the matter at hand, following up, “And the Count of Veden ordered this?”

“…aye, that would be the natural order of things. Sir,” the knight finished respectfully. Argrave presumed it was the horse that lent the knight that polite attitude—not many could afford horses in this day and age.

Argrave looked around once again. “But I know Count Elgar. I don’t think this is something he would do without counsel. Can you tell me anything else about these camps?” Argrave fished into his pocket and pulled free a gold coin, holding it up to the sun.

“Well…” the knight trailed off, the shine of the coin making him work his head. “People say it’s because of one of his children’s advice. This one, she returned from an academy of sorts, head brimming with ideas—she’s the one to suggest it, sir, to the best of my knowledge.”

“Does the name Mina of Veden jog your memory?” Argrave followed up.

“That’s it, sir,” the knight nodded, helmet clanging against his breastplate.

“Then that’s all from me. Catch,” Argrave flicked the coin and then rode away, lost in thought.

She shouldn’t be here. Mina should be at Mateth, with Nikoletta, Argrave reasoned. And even if she were, Mina was never the sort to order something like this built. What’s changed?

He was curious, and somewhat apprehensive, about the answers to that question. He rejoined his group of three. His companions had questions written on their face.

“It was nothing important,” Argrave shook his head. It did nothing to think on this—thought it might be he’d ruined something, the plague still took his priority. “Two more days, I’m certain, till we make it to where I don’t want to be. Let’s ride. There are problems to be fixed.”