Jackal Among Snakes

“Artur is one of the best craftsmen in the world,” Anneliese said to Argrave. “I do believe the idea of letting him choose another method to utilize the fruit holds some merit.”

Argrave cleaned off his armor of black dirt accrued in the cave of volcanic rock—armor of Artur’s make, upon reflection—as he listened to Anneliese. Raven had derided Argrave somewhat for cowardice, but even he eventually admitted it might be foolish to press further. He remained behind to gather more information, while Argrave returned to preside over Blackgard and Vasquer.

“Yeah, but…” Argrave conjured some water, rubbing across it with a rough cloth. “Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, he can feed himself for a lifetime. Imagine the things Artur might be able to make if he does eat the fruit. He could turn anything he touches into a work of art.”

Anneliese narrowed her eyes. “In this scenario, we would be feeding him the fruit.”

He tried to think of some way to rework the idiom in this context, but eventually gave up and set aside his mostly-clean armor. “Consider this. Giving the fruit to Durran might have given us the ability to loosen Gerechtigkeit’s control over the undead. On the other end of the spectrum, giving the fruit to Artur might unlock some way to prevent automatons from falling under his sway.”

Anneliese considered that deeply, then shook her head. “I don’t see it. If it were Dario, perhaps. Artur has no relation to automatons.”

“All I know is I’d much rather have King Arthur on my side than Excalibur.” He shook his head. “A special artifact. Whoopee. Unless it can duplicate itself indefinitely, cut through space and time, and kill Gerechtigkeit in one strike, what’s the point?”

“You were reserving the last fruit to help us invade the Shadowlands, as they’re allegedly vastly different from both mortal and divine realms,” Anneliese pointed out. “Perhaps we can give the task of creating an artifact that would allow us to breach the Shadowlands upon Artur.”

“That’s…” Argrave tossed the idea around in his head, and as he saw its merit, his back grew rigid as his depleted vigor returned. “That’s wonderful. And if it’s Artur that handles things, it might do far more than allow us to infiltrate the Shadowlands. I won’t say no to a key item that gives some other buffs. But… I don’t know. What the hell do you craft out of a fruit? A smoothie? Wine? Maybe you use the skin to make a lampshade?”

“Artur is the crafter, not us. I believe the idea will appeal to him greatly. Asking him not to change his body, but to employ his well-earned craftsmanship to create something unparalleled… that might ignite his fervor far more than the research team did.”

Argrave studied her. “He’s not so enthusiastic, eh? Not a team player?”

“Well…” Anneliese crossed her arms. “He left the Order of the Gray Owl for a reason. He has a stubbornly independent personality which prohibits him from effective cooperation, yet also bestows that fiercely entrepreneurial spirit that allowed the Hall of Enchantment to arise. Some people aren’t suited to working with others. They only prosper if they can command unilaterally.”

Argrave’s mind wandered to the unflattering scenes of Artur shouting down his employees about quotas. It was hard to imagine the man meekly working with people in the team. He dismissed the thought and asked, “Besides that, how was the first day?”

Anneliese practically bounced with eagerness as she said, “It’s so much fun, Argrave! Developing hypotheses, testing them, revising the theory again and again as we press toward an answer. Of course, it had some politicking at the beginning. Everything does, sadly, but I’ve grown rather accustomed to it. And because I’m the chairman, I don’t write the notes. Someone else takes notes for me. That was always my least favorite part, but now it’s gone!” She sighed wistfully. “Frankly, the only thing that might improve it is if you were there with me.”

“Sweet talker,” Argrave smiled.

“Oh.” Anneliese pointed at him, remembering something. “Garm needs to be reigned in. He showed up drunk, and he was complaining about the Domain of Order over the city that prevents lawlessness. He inquired to various members of the team about where he could buy certain herbs which I presume were drugs of some kind. I elected to have him removed. I wasn’t able to learn what he gathered from studying Llewellen.”

Argrave sighed. “One night of stipend, and he’s already… well, fine. I’ll talk with him.”Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

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“How is anyone going to take you seriously if you act like this?” Argrave sat by Garm’s bedside.

“I don’t want them to take me seriously,” Garm answered back, his words still slurred. Argrave wondered just how much he had to drink. “I want them to think I’m a worthless nobody. Because if I can’t work with your research team, you’ll be forced to get me a new body, a new identity, so I can begin again. Heee…” he grinned cheekily in his drunken state, showing the beggar’s yellow teeth.

Argrave crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. It had been long enough he’d forgotten how conniving Garm could be.

“Besides, I was used to just…” Garm ran his hands over his body. “Cast a spell, and the alcohol goes away. All fun, no pain. I was so happy, I kind of forgot I can’t do that.” He giggled deliriously.

“Raven has said he can prepare a body that meets your standards, but it’ll take some time,” Argrave said. “In the meantime, I need you to act with the dignity and gravity that everyone else acts with. We’re dealing with a very serious matter. Quite literally the highest stakes.”

“Do you know…?” Garm looked at Argrave, a subdued smile on his face. “The last thing I remember… you were in the Alchemist’s little workshop, getting worked and shopped. The last few centuries before we met I had spent in a haze, running through my head again and again why my own son would put my head on a stake. I was alive… but not alive. A head on a stake.” He smiled. “I chose to die. I died fighting, but I did die. I died, you little bastard. I died. For the third damned time. No… second, actually.”

“You got better,” Argrave countered. “Because of us.”

“I died,” continued Garm, practically ignoring Argrave. “Then, ‘snap.’ Wake up in Durran’s head. When I last saw this place, this kingdom, it was the half size and the Order of the Rose reigned supreme. We had an empire paved. We of the Order of the Rose were more kings that any of Vasquer ever were. I don’t even know how it all fell apart.” He grabbed a pillow and sighed into it, then threw it aside clumsily. “Now… you, supreme king. Order of the Gray Owl. Gods on earth. Biggest calamity ever. And me, a little figment on Durran’s tapestry. Still dead, but a little less so. Can I just take a moment… to have a little fun? Do I have to hop on the trolley heading for the crusade against the devil immediately? I got my life back. Can I enjoy it, while it lasts?”

“While it lasts?” Argrave repeated.

“You’ll be rather relieved to know I’m not eternal,” Garm grinned broadly. “Especially not if I do what I should do.”

Argrave narrowed his eyes. “You mean to say you’re dying?”

“I died. I died! Catch up, you two-legged bastard…” Garm covered his mouth, and Argrave thought he was about to retch.

“Why don’t you tell me what you mean,” Argrave suggested.

“I’m a tribute to Garm. An impression. I’m not the real thing, just a collection of what he was, assembled to replicate him,” he said. “Well… what’s the difference, anyways, if it all ends in death? All roads end the same way. What’s the use in doing anything?” He scratched as his nose. “I’m a tornado. I’m a coin spinning on the table. Once the initial push stops, I’ll settle down, rattling… and cease to be, just like I was. I got it all back…” Garm held up both his arms, clenching his hands into fists. “Only to see a timer of the time I got. A countdown to the third death. The universe’s fucked me so good that I’ve come to like it. Ergo, hedonism. Debauchery. Why not do all I missed the first two times? I don’t even have to care about the body I end up in, because you’ll get me a new one.”

Argrave saw it all—the big talk, the humor, the scheming, the callous disregard for others… and he felt incredibly sad. Were these truly the death throes of the man Argrave had thought was incredibly lucky? Darkly enough, he wondered if he wasn’t being played. Garm was certainly capable of such a thing. Anneliese wasn’t present, but perhaps he could call her.

For now, Argrave would try it on his own.

“How much time do you really have?” Argrave pressed. If Garm was lying, he hoped further scrutiny might make it all fall apart, or clarify its veracity.

“I only know I’m fading,” Garm said. “But if I can notice it, it must not be long.”

“What are you supposed to do—that thing you said earlier?”

Garm looked at Argrave. “I could give life to other impressions, like myself. Or, I could just recreate myself. That was my original intention. Split the fun, maybe? Perhaps I could do something insanely twisted with two of me… or perhaps we’d just fight. But that might be fun, too.”

“You mean… bring others back from the dead?” Argrave said in surprise.

“Mmhmm.” Garm scratched at his face. “A sequel to your favorite dead people. I could even bring back that Llewellen fellow. But if I do, I would have to surrender some of my time, some of my own life. So, why bother?”