Chapter 380: Gordian Knot

Argrave tried to talk with the centaurs for a long, long while. Their reply was rather consistent—namely, a barrage of arrows.

Despite Argrave’s restraint, they called him genocider, as they thought he came to kill their people in party with the elves. They called him defiler, as they’d witnessed Argrave removing a braid from Sarikiz’s hair to bridge the gap between realms. His name was a slur in their tongue, it would seem, and despite claims to the contrary his word never gained the weight it needed.

Try as Argrave might to employ reason or play upon their self-benefit to speak to the centaurs, their resistance was stubborn and persistent. It was rather difficult to engage with someone who thought he quite literally intended to genocide their people… even if Argrave was presently passing up the perfect opportunity to annihilate their people, trapped in a pit and defenseless as they were. A few S-rank spells from the Magisters on hand, the bulk of them would disappear. From there, hunt down the rest—a simple thing.

He even told them this fact again and again, but any attempt at persuasion was met with hostility. They treated him as though if they listened to even one of his words he’d ensnare and entrap them, eating their souls. The elves had been like this, even if Argrave hadn’t attempted to engage them in conversation as he had here. He’d only overcome that by waving gods in their face to calm them down. Without the same groundwork, he would earn no ground.

But Sarakiz… unlike the elven gods, her realm was wide open yet she refused to rouse. Her sleep was deeper than that of Chiteng and his family. Nearly all of the centaurs worshipped her, and so hers was not a lethargy brought on by waning power and influence. The Holy Mother’s slumber was something that only the centaurs themselves could solve—with Argrave’s help, naturally.

“You have no tribal quirk you can call upon to persuade them?” Mina brainstormed with Argrave, cross-legged across from him as they sat far out of reach of the pit. “You did that with the snow elves. You know, that weird tribal signal. They all stopped fighting.”

“No… there’s no weird tribal quirk,” Argrave shook his head, lost in thought.

“The Veelstron used back then is meant for snowstorms and natural disasters, largely,” Anneliese informed her. “And possible only because ours is an honorable society.”

“Then, uhh…” Mina ran her fingers through her long golden hair. “I don’t know. Can you play mind games on one of them, use him to earn support in their group?”

“Even if I had mind games sophisticated enough to get an agent on the inside, it’d be impossible to isolate any one of them,” Argrave looked at her squarely and shook his head.

“You’ve seen it,” Moriatran cut in, looking back at Argrave. “They can’t be reasoned with. Though trapped for now, they regather themselves. If nothing is done, they will eventually make it out of that pit. Best kill all here, be done with it. It’s war. Those who refuse to surrender die. You would lose no honor, Your Majesty.”

When Argrave looked at the old Magister in disappointment, he was a little surprised to see that was the most popular sentiment. Barring Orion, Anneliese, Nikoletta, and perhaps Vasilisa, none seemed to hold issue with this solution. Ganbaatar and the Kheshig seemed enthusiastic at the idea, even.

Argrave had to admit… it did end the problem. Completely.

“Good lord, listen to yourself,” Argrave said both to Moriatran and himself. “Wipe out an entire race because they act ignorantly? That might be something Felipe would do, but I won’t turn this into a pogrom of some kind. It’d do only one thing, and that’s prove them right.”

“Enough of them avoided the collapse,” Moriatran argued. “They could rebuild, repopulate. You do only what’s prudent. They aren’t even human or elven. They’re only a little more than beasts—and their bestial nature is plainly enough on display here today, as they refuse your requests for peace.”

“Prudent?” Argrave looked at him. “You want to send thousands of highly skilled combatants to their graves, expending out own fighting force doing so, and call it prudent? I must ensure each and every one of their bows will be turned against our enemies… unless you think I’m incapable of doing that?” Argrave challenged him.

Magister Moriatran rolled his shoulders, the wrinkles on his skin shifting. Eventually, he said, “No.”

“No what?” Orion pressed, stepping towards the old man. This time, Argrave didn’t feel his brother was overstepping in demanding respect.

“No, I do not think you are incapable, Your Majesty,” Moriatran said slowly.

As Argrave chewed on those words, he didn’t want to leave a sour taste hanging in either the air or Moriatran’s mouth.

To defuse things, Argrave joked, “I’m sure that Moriatran was just a little awed by my A-rank ascension, wanted to see it put into action again. I can’t exactly blame him. I want to see it myself…” he raised his hand, clenching it. “But that’s not the way I want to handle things. They might be brutes, but I intend us to be better than that. That’s what stops us from being brutes, right?”

When vague words of affirmation came, Argrave left them be and eyed Anneliese. She caught the signal, and the two of them walked off.

“Stubborn bastards,” Argrave swore to her once they were alone. “They’d really let me kill them down there, the damned psychos. What is it with them?”

“There is an inciter in them, agitating them before and during our attempts to end things peaceably,” Anneliese proposed. “Someone whispers ill of you in their ears, well-prepared for this. If this is Erlebnis’ scheme, then I grow yet more confused as to what he might actually want. I cannot think how this serves him.”

“He works in mysterious ways…” Argrave closed his eyes and sighed. “We have to walk. But so many of them broke their legs, hurt themselves in that fall… without a doubt, their roving horde will be out of commission for some time. That was the bare minimum goal—buying time, diverting the threat.”

“I take it this does not satisfy you,” Anneliese guessed.

Argrave opened his eyes and looked at her. “This is why we’re together. You know me so well.” He looked back to the distant pit, where centaurs already dug at the loosened soil with their swords to try and burrow a path out. “I’m thinking this is a Gordian Knot.”

“A Gordian Knot?” Anneliese repeated.

“Some conqueror guy named Alexander got challenged to untie a knot, and if he did they’d give him… I don’t remember what it was,” Argrave shook his head. “This fancy tie was puzzling enough even you’d double-take at how to do it. But Alexander, he pulls out his sword…” Argrave raised his hand up and slashed it down. “…and cuts the thing in two.” Argrave held his hands out. “It seemed complex, but a direct and simple solution untied that baby immediately.”

“Intriguing,” Anneliese tilted her head. “What is your sword in this metaphor, then??”

“They don’t want to fight for us? Fine. I’ll make them,” Argrave looked back to the pit, where Orion pushed down a centaur scrabbling to climb up past.

#####

A man in a gray robe with blue-green decorations on it peered into the golden portal on the altar. Rather than curiosity, his eyes seemed evaluating. As though sensing something, he turned around. On cue, black mist materialized into an elven woman with white hair and long floppy ears. She held out her hand.

“Here they are,” Onychinusa said, handing off two purple berries.

Dimocles received them, looking at them curiously. “Fruits from the elven realm… said to purify any soil they grow on, no matter how poisoned.” He looked at her. “Thank you. It must’ve been a trouble to steal them from a travelling elven envoy.”

“Don’t talk. Just serve the Lord,” Onychinusa reprimanded, socially inept as ever.

Dimocles went quiet but smiled at her all the same. She crossed her arms and looked away in discomfort. “It will be some time before we end up using this one, but it’s a vital component for things.”

“One? Why did you ask for two?” Onychinusa dared glances from the corner of her eyes.

“One for my home,” Dimocles put one of his hands to his gray and green-blue robes, smiling pleasantly. “I have an extremely talented alchemist and gardener in my service.”

“I want you to drown,” she answered back suddenly. “I’m told it’s one of the most painful ways to die.”

Dimocles looked taken aback but managed a laugh. “We all have things we want but cannot have.”

“Just tell me what to do next and stop talking to me,” Onychinusa insisted, clearly uncomfortable.

“Fulfilling both those requests at once would be hard,” Dimocles shook his head. “There is little left, Onychinusa. We wait, watch, and the Lord positions himself for the next part of the plan. You have freedom to act however you wish, though the emissaries request you report back daily. I convinced them to let you act freely, seeing how badly you wish to learn more of your very distant kin,” the collector wrapped his hands together.

“I’m going to watch the king’s party,” Onychinusa said, and then she was gone, bursting in a black mist as quickly as she ever did.

Dimocles stood there, staring at nothing, and then his face slowly widened into a faint grin. He retrieved a notebook and flipped to a page, then wrote in it with a strange jewel embedded into the tip of his finger. It left fanciful lettering on its surface.

#####

Whew. The past three chapters were typed with one hand and a pinky. I hated doing that, but I'm proud I did it. No damn boiling water is gonna keep me down. I'm going to take it easy for the weekend. 

The blisters and the pain are bad, sure, but to top it all off... I can't even play Tears of the Kingdom on my days off :(