The Pulver Chronicles – 18. A Hopeless Wanderer

“A what?” Marrmad said, his long ears sagging in an expression of confusion.

“A leave of absence,” Jackson repeated. “Or, uh, whatever you call it, I guess.”

“What is it you’re asking for, exactly?”

The young man scratched the nape of his neck, glancing around at the headquarters’ main room. Argyro, Durnin, and Enita were playing a game of bleekes; as often, Durnin was in the lead. While the Orc was focusing on the game, trying to compensate for the considerable losses she had gone through in the last couple of hands, the two Humans kept peeking at Marrmad and Jackson, following their exchange with one ear.

“I, uh… I’m leaving Atvello soon, for some time. I don’t know how long, exactly.”

“Ah,” Marrmad said, pulling on the lapels of his frock coat. “Well, then, that’s no issue. As I explained, you’re not a servant among the Children of Nayros, let alone a slave. If one of us wishes to leave, they may do so at any time.”

“Right, okay, that’s good. But, um… It’s probably just going to be temporary. I’d like to know if, when I come back, I’ll still have a place here.”

Durnin answered before Marrmad. “You’re our brother, Greenleaf. You’ll always be one of us.”

Marrmad agreed with a nod. Jackson breathed. Although he expected as much, hearing this still came as a relief. Jackson didn’t want to be done with the Children of Nayros. His time with them had been short, but it had been some of the happiest days of his life. Furthermore, Byron had suggested he could use their support in the future, and Jackson agreed.

“Okay, great,” Jackson said.

“I appreciate your forewarning,” Marrmad said. “When will you be leaving?”

“I don’t know, actually. I kinda need to prepare first. For starters, do you know a place where I can get a horse?”

“There are several stables outside the walls,” Durnin said. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“The Vertrisian lands,” Jackson said, taking a seat at the table.

“Vertrisia? Ah, that’s more difficult,” he said, rubbing the underneath of his nose. “It’s rather remote. I doubt anyone will rent you a horse for such a long journey -not for a price you can afford, at least.”

Jackson adjusted his seating posture, a little uncomfortable. The subject of money had become a source of worries recently. The Days of Gold and Azure, and the quantities of food and the rivers of alcohol they had brought, had been a drain on his finances. The money he had earned from the Otzando job was almost all spent. He had some savings from the previous jobs, but they didn’t amount to much.

“Uh, yeah, so…”

“If you’re going away for a long time,” Durnin said, “it might make more sense to buy a horse.”

“Buy a horse!” Jackson exclaimed.

“It’ll be expensive, for sure, but it’s an investment. A good horse will last you a good couple of decades. And it’s good for many things, not just traveling. Warring, hunting, racing… Or you can get yourself a strong one and work the land. Always good money in that.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Jackson had had his experience with farming, and was in no hurry to get back to it.

“It’s what I’ll do once I’m too old or too lame to be a mercenary,” Durnin said. “A big, strong Hastadish horse, a lovely plot of land somewhere in the Heartlands, and a warm bed with hopefully a little wife in it.”

“Good luck affording all that,” Enita said, “after you paid back every whore and every alemaker in the city.”

“Leave a man his hope. My fate’s either that or a sword between the ribs.”

“How pessimistic!” Marrmad said. “I think death by drowning in a jug of mead is a more plausible issue.”

Enita and Jackson laughed, while Durnin made a rude gesture in fake anger.

“Cohort,” Argyro announced, placing a card in front of her.

“What?” Durnin exclaimed. “Cunning Tewiz, how did I not see this?”

“How much would a horse cost?” Jackson asked. “I don’t suppose they ever go on sale.”

“Oh, they often sell horses,” Enita said, once again misunderstanding his colloquialism. “As to the price, it depends on the type of horse you’re after. You’ll probably not be able to afford a destrier; not unless you’re related to the wealthiest nobility in the Empire. I’m not even sure they breed them in the South. A rouncey is more likely in your range, maybe a courser if you can find one.”

“You’ll want a courser, really,” Durnin said, grimacing as Argyro counted her winnings. “War is probably but a few weeks away now; you’ll be thankful to have a courser then.”

“All right, I’ll see what they’ve got available,” Jackson said. “What else? Oh, yeah, I’ll need food.”

“Vertrisia is a two weeks journey,” Durnin said. “More, if the heat becomes too intense; you’ll not want to push your horse too much then, and will have to keep off the sun. You’re not one of those ascetic monks from the C’leir desert, so I doubt you’ll be able to pack enough food for so long.”

“I’ll stop on the way. Gotta be some villages on the road, right?”

“Only a few, and none around Vertrisia. The region is wild, don’t you know? You’ll have to live off the land. Are you familiar with the plants in the Southern Marches?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re none too different from those you’ll have seen in the Empire.”

“Err… Let’s assume I’m not familiar with those either.”

“No?” Durnin gathered the cards, shuffled them, gathered them in a deck, then let Enita cut it. “Are you sure you wish to make the journey alone?”

“I mean…” 

Actually, Jackson wished he could bring the Children of Nayros with him on his quest. He had even discussed the possibility with Byron, who shot it down with a few reasonable points. First of all, he would have had to explain exactly what the quest was about -including the weird visions and everything. That would involve revealing a few details, notably about himself, that he preferred not to. Secondly, even assuming his brethren believed him, and didn’t agree with Byron that going after Alizana was probably a snipe hunt, involving them in this affair might be putting them in danger. And thirdly and more importantly, expecting them to drop their affairs and follow him on a search that could take a very long time and yield no reward was optimistic to the point of naivete. A family they might be, but they remained mercenaries, mercenaries who needed food, clothes, and amenities.

“This is something I have to do alone, I guess,” Jackson said.

“Still, it would be irresponsible to let someone as green as you go unprepared,” Durnin said, half-teasing, half-serious. “If you can delay your departure by a few days, I could teach you a few helpful things.”

“Could you? Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”

“And it’ll only cost you ten oxen.” Jackson made a face; Durnin exploded in laughter. “Just pulling your leg, lad!”

Jackson grumbled.

The young man actually wanted to leave Atvello and begin his search as soon as possible, but the more reasonable part of him -as well as Byron, who often embodied that part- preferred not to rush this. This wasn’t Earth: if he ran out of food or water on the side of the road, there would be no gas station or emergency telephones to get help. Plus, he wasn’t ready to leave just yet anyway: the horse issue still needed to be solved.

The next day, the two of them took a little trip on foot to a neighborhood forest, making sure to pack light. Durnin proved to be a good teacher. He was less stern than Byron, and -in Jackson’s opinion- more patient. He often peppered his lessons with personal anecdotes, describing times where he had to make do by himself away from civilization.

“The next thing I remember, it’s two days later and I’m sleeping in a stable, with a mare pissing all over me,” he said, concluding a story. “So whatever you do, lad, don’t try those beige mushrooms with black dots.”

“Yeah, no kidding. But the white and gray ones are fine, right?”

“More than fine. They make a very good stew. You can eat them as is, too, if you don’t mind chewing.”

Jackson nodded, and tried one of the mushrooms. It was indeed pretty tough, but the taste was fine.

“All right, lad,” Durnin said. “Show me what you’ve learned. See those bushes over there? And those trees? Gather us enough for two meals.”

Jackson began rummaging through the bushes, and the ground foliage at the bottom of the trees. He picked up a wealth of berries, making sure to separate the ripe ones from the unripe, then gathered as many nuts as he could find. His belt’s pouches proved very useful for the task, although he would have to clean them afterwards.

“Not bad,” Durnin said when he came back. “You might want to avoid those yellow berries, though. Your stomach will be fine with them, but your bowels won’t.”

“Oof. Noted,” Jackson said, throwing the offending fruits away.

They both sat on the floor. Durnin had gathered dry wood and leaves while Jackson was collecting food; he placed a small iron pot on top of it, then retrieved a strange steel tool that looked a little like a horseshoe from his pocket. He made the ends click together several times over the leaves.

“What’s that?” Jackson thought-asked Byron.

“A steel fire,” the veteran said. “Basically, a medieval lighter. He’s trying to create a spark.”

“Oh?” Out loud, he said to Durnin: “Hey, hold on. I got this.”

He pulled out Lawrence’s old Zippo lighter from another of his pouches, lit it up, then approached the flame from the leaves. It took a few tries, but eventually, they had a fire going.

“Nice little tool,” Durnin said. “Where did you get such a thing?”

“It was a friend’s. I kept it as a memento… And, uh, also because it’s kind of cool, gotta admit.”

“Memento, eh? I have some as well, mostly in the form of scars.”

He sliced open a few nuts -which looked like bigger, more weirdly shaped chestnuts-, dropped them in the pot, then poured water from his gourd over them. They waited a few minutes, then began picking them with the point of their pocket knives to peel them. Jackson took a look at the lighter. It still had some faint scratches left by Lawrence’s claws. Sighing, he quickly put it away, concerned that if he looked at it for a second more, he’d start reminiscing about his late friend… and his eventual fate.

Durnin, who was watching him in silence, pulled out a small decorated flask made out of some kind of steel. He held it up for a toast.

“To our fallen comrades-at-arms,” he said.

The man drank, then offered the bottle to Jackson.

“How did you know?” Jackson asked. He smelled the liquid in the flask, but couldn’t identify it. Something strong, no doubt.

“That look you had, lad. I’ve seen it on enough soldiers to know it.”

Jackson took a swig… and immediately a coughing fit, feeling as if his throat had been burned. It was strong. It reminded him of the one time he had tried doing shots of tequila.

“What… is that?”

“Foxflower liqueur, brewed in the Gilded Plains of the Hexacracy. Quite flavorful, eh?”

“Christ, I can’t even tell if it has a flavor at all. My taste buds have been burned off.”

Durnin chuckled condescendingly. “You know, the warrior-monks of the Order of Anjramaynya drink this with their breakfast.”

“Of course they do,” Jackson grumbled.

He tried another -much smaller- swig. His reaction was not as bad, this time around, but he still felt like he was choking. Deciding that it was an acquired taste -and one he didn’t particularly care to acquire- Jackson gave the flask back to its owner. Durnin drank the strong alcohol without flinching, then went on to tell another story, this time about the scar he had on the back of his left hand. It involved a job in the Western Mountains, and some nasty birds of prey who nested there (“let that be a lesson to you: if ever you find a nest in the wild, just leave it there, nevermind how big the eggs are”).

“Have you ever been in a war?” Jackson asked, munching on some whiteberries.

Durnin nodded. “Oh, aye, a couple. There was that pirate queen, Jadatyy, some seven years ago. Not sure it counted as a war, though, her whole fleet was scattered in about eight months, and the woman herself was captured when she tried to raid Atvello. I’ve also been hired by one of the Leagues of C’fa during one of their endless conflicts with the maliks further south.”

“You’ve been in some battles, then.”

“I had my share, yes.”

“What was it like?” Jackson said.

The man sighed and ruffled his hair. Despite the fact that his flask must have been two-thirds empty by now, he seemed suddenly quite sober. 

“Lad, there are no words to describe something like that. “Chaos” might do, maybe, or “mayhem”. I was on the sidelines with the auxiliaries, but I could never really tell what was going on. Two armies met and clashed. Lots of people died on both sides. Eventually, one army decided it had enough and retreated.”

“Were you on the losing side?”

He let out a small, unamused chuckle. “I couldn’t even tell you, really. On several occasions, the commander seemed satisfied with the outcome, even when he had lost more men than the enemy. All I know is I survived and got paid, that’s all that truly mattered to me.” Sighing, he concluded: “Military strategy is a mystery I’ll never be privy to, I suppose.”

Jackson picked one of the last nuts in the pot. “They say we’re going to be at war soon.”

“Aye. Peasants are looking to abandon their lands to find refuge in fortified towns and cities.”

“Do you think the merchants are going to flee?” Jackson said, thinking about what Otzando had said.

“Some will, no doubt. Traders are rarely the brave, loyal sort. The Gilded Council, though, I’m not sure. Most of their wealth is tied to Atvello. Fleeing would cost them. Not to mention the other Prince Merchants would happily take over the assets of those who run.”

“What about you guys? What are you going to do?”

Durnin picked the last nut, offered it to Jackson who declined it, then chewed on it thoughtfully.

“I don’t know, lad. Maybe we’ll stay. Atvello has been good to us, and it’s not a given that the war will come to it. What about you?”

Jackson scratched the beard he had been growing for a few weeks. “I’m, uh… I’m not sure. There’s this thing I gotta do in Vertrisia. I don’t really know how long that’s gonna take.”

“You don’t know if you’re coming back,” Durnin said.

“I…” 

No, he didn’t know. Once again, he was moving forward without any plan. Usually, that didn’t matter to him. Planning was something he left to others, like discipline or the ability to remain serious in every situation; he just didn’t see the point to those things. Yet, this time, for some reason, the fact that he had no idea what his next step looked like… It concerned him. Why? He wasn’t sure, but it might have to do with the fact that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he had a good thing going on. A good job, good friends, a nice enough place to live… Something to lose, in other words. And now, he was about to leave it behind -maybe for good- so he could follow his… his… He really didn’t want to call it an obsession.

Durnin picked a leaf of a plant growing at the bottom of a tree, placed it between his lips, and began sucking on it. Jackson imitated him. Whatever the plant was, it had a strong, fresh taste, not unlike mint. A nice finish for a meal.

“It’s a woman, innit?” Durnin said.

“What?”

“A man drops everything out of nowhere to ride to an unknown, remote land, there’s got to be a woman behind all this.”

“It’s not like that,” Jackson said.

“Lad, you’ve got that look on your face.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do, actually,” Byron sighed.

“Is there no woman, then?” Durnin asked with false innocence.

“Yeah. No.” Jackson grunted. “I mean, yes, there is, but it’s not like that. Look, it’s really complicated, but the short version is: someone needs my help.”

Durnin showed a strange expression for an instant. He seemed moved, or perhaps saddened.

“What?” Jackson said.

“Oh, nothing. For a moment there, you reminded me of someone I used to know.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Oh, a young boy, brave, naive, gentle, and a little mad. Not too mad, though, just enough to go through a fight, only to ask for more. Then, one day, he got himself into a dangerous situation, with many lives at risk -including his own. Most people would have fled, but he said something similar to what you just said, and instead jumped into the lion’s den to save some innocent lives.”

“And did he? Save them, I mean.”

Durnin’s lips twitched into a temporary grimace, as if he had eaten something bad. “No. He had no idea what he was doing. It turns out, throwing yourself blindly in a dangerous situation is not heroism; it’s just recklessness.”

“Hear, hear,” Byron said.

“Did he die?” Jackson asked slowly.

“Oh, no, he lived. Part of him died, though. It hurt for a long time, but after a while, it was just one scar among many others.”

“Oh,” Jackson muttered.

Durnin considered his flask, then closed it and put it away. Jackson remained quiet for a moment, but then felt compelled to ask:

“Is that a real story or are you lecturing me?”

Durnin chuckled. “Don’t see why it can’t be both, lad.”

Jackson scratched his ear pensively. There were a few berries left in his pouch, but he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Well, I know what I’m doing,” he said, somewhat defensively.

Both Byron and Durnin shot him the same look of disbelief, though Durnin’s was more amused.

“Mostly,” Jackson completed. “I mean, this is why I’m doing this.” He gestured to the fire, the pot, and the leftover fruits. “I’m preparing.”

“And I think you’re just about ready,” Durnin said. “Make sure to give an offering to Ullur, before you leave. A pinch of dirt or sand to guarantee a safe journey.”

“Myeah, maybe.”

During his stay in Atvello, Jackson had shown limited interest in the various deities worshiped by the locals. This was in part because there were just too many of them: there was Tewiz, goddess of wisdom and cleverness, Ullur, god of travelers and nomads, Baiy, god of the weather, Viadia, goddess of strife and struggle -but not of war-, Astar, god of luck and defying fate… There was the Divine, worshiped by the Imperial Cult, and the Armilus, who Jackson understood to be the equivalent of the Devil, except for people in the Hexacracy for whom it was the other way around. A real spiritual clutter. Occasionally, Jackson had done some praying, and given some offerings, partly out of curiosity, partly to be part of the local culture, and partly because… well, just in case.

And speaking of “just in case”, Jackson thought there was something else he could do in order to make sure he had all the luck he could get. Indeed, while he didn’t really believe in any of the gods of this world, he did believe in magic.

After lingering a bit longer, Durnin and Jackson packed it up, threw dirt over the fire, and headed back to Atvello. Durnin went back to the headquarters, while Jackson went straight to Faithful Hill. The neighborhood had been left relatively untouched by the festivities, almost certainly because the militia had tripled its patrols there; in fact, quite a few temples had their own security, be they mercenaries or devotees. Jackson quickly found the building he was looking for, and entered it.

“Hey there. Remember me?”

From his expression, it appeared that Vakdag did indeed remember him. The seer was once again in his crossed-legged sitting position -Jackson wondered whether he spent his entire days like this-, but wearing a different djellaba.

“What fortune do you seek?” the Demon seer asked.

He really asks that every time, Jackson thought. Probably part of his whole mystical act.

“Same as usual, Vakdag,” he said. “I need to find someone.” Guessing the seer’s next question, he quickly added: “Her name is Alizana. I don’t really know what she is -some kind of Werewolf is my guess-, but I’m linked to her.”

Vakdag held out his hand, and Jackson dropped ten silver steeds in its palm.

“Focus your thoughts on her,” Vakdag said.

That was very easy. The image of the beastly woman imposed itself on Jackson’s mind, erasing all other thoughts. He could even hear her voice again. Vakdag did his little ritual once more, lighting up some incense and inhaling the fumes. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and sang his habitual litany. There was a longer lull than usual before he said:

“I… see her.”

His voice had wavered.

“What’s wrong?”

Vakdag opened his eyes again. “My vision is hindered. I cannot locate her accurately. I see… trees… hills… a forest… It’s blurred.”

“Is someone blocking her?”

“Maybe… No, I think not. Some magic in the land is causing this, I believe, but I don’t know what.” He frowned. “And… Wait. I sense another mage’s power around her. Watching her as well.”

“Someone else is spying on her,” Jackson said.

“Yes, but their scrying is fainter. They’re tracking her, not actively observing her.”

“It has to be the Hexacracy,” Byron said.

“Is there any way to track whoever’s doing that?” Jackson asked.

Vakdag’s jaw tensed in concentration. “I don’t think so. The trace is very faint. No… This, I cannot do.”

“Ask him if he can block someone from tracking you in the same way,” Byron said.

“Good idea.” Jackson did just that.

“That might be possible,” Vakdag said, “but it will only be temporary. And difficult.” He looked straight at Jackson, who understood the message.

“Right. How about ten more steeds?”

“The offering will suffice,” Vakdag replied with a solemn nod. 

Jackson rolled his eyes, then glanced at his purse with a sigh. The seer put the money away, then pulled out a small knife.

“I will need your pendant.”

The young man looked down at the dogtags he habitually wore around his neck.

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“I’m going to imbue it in my blood so that my magic can protect you from his.”

“Seriously?…” Jackson groaned, then took off the tags. “Fine. I hope it’s just a couple of drops…”

It wasn’t. Vakdag cut the ball of his index finger, then drew a strange symbol on the bag of one of the tags. The blood dried almost instantly, unnaturally fast, but still seemed to shine in the light of the burning incense. The seer gave the dogtags back to Jackson, who put them around his neck again –over his shirt, this time.

Vakdag instructed him to touch the symbol on the plates, which he did. The small metal plate raised slightly, bumping against the underneath of his leather vest. An instant later, it went still.

“Is it working now?” he asked.

“Yes. The same mage who is tracking the person you seek should not be able to track you in the same way.”

“Cool! How long will it work for?”

“I imbued enough of my magic to last over a fortnight, possibly three weeks.”

That was perfect, Jackson thought with a smile. He said his goodbyes to the Demon seer, then headed to the city’s northernmost gate. Next to it, almost directly at the bottom of the wall, Jackson found the stables Marrmad had suggested to him. They were called the Ashmane Stables, although all of the horses Jackson could see had rather pale white or yellow manes. He took a deep breath, then hailed the stable master and inquired about his prices. As it turned out, they were almost as high as he feared. Mentioning Marrmad’s name got him a small discount, but even so he would only be able to afford a rouncey, similar to the one that once brought him to Atvello. It cleared a large chunk of the money he had left. At least the stable master agreed to include the tack in the price, complete with a nice, clean saddle.

The horse’s name was Florid; so named because, according to the stable master, he loved to eat flowers. Jackson liked that name, in part because it reminded him of Florida, a state he had once planned on visiting after he was done with the army. On that thought, he glanced back at Atvello. Hot weather, lots of ships, big parties… I guess it’s not too different from Florida.

Florid was rather young, having just turned into an adult. He had light brown hair with a slightly darker mane, and seemed to have a rather placid demeanor. Jackson approached him calmly, and patted him on the head, just above the muzzle. The horse didn’t react, other than to snort.

“I think you’ll do just fine, Florid.”

Jackson thanked the stable master, who grunted back before going to mind the rest of his horses. Then, he placed his foot in one of the stirrups, got in the saddle, and decided to take Florid for a ride into town. There were still a few things he needed to buy; hopefully, he would have enough money left.

His first stop was a food stall on the marketplace. With Byron’s advice, he bought a lot of foodstuffs that could keep for some time; most of it was salted, cured, or dried. Jackson got enough to fill several of his saddle’s satchels, but even so Byron told him not to expect to last more than a week and change. And speaking of time, Jackson still had little idea how to travel to Vertrisia. His second stop was thus the cartographer’s guild near the port. Durnin had suggested the place if Jackson needed to obtain a map -which Byron strongly advised.

At the guild, a man, who judging by his built physique and his tanned skin had seen much of the world himself before age caught up with him, showed Jackson some maps. There were quite a few available, all of them quite detailed, and drawn by hand; that last part impressed Jackson. As Byron pointed out, in a time before the printing press, handwriting and drawing were the rule. To draw them with so much detail had to take a considerable amount of work. 

Still, the maps were visibly not as accurate as the ones Jackson was used to, especially not the ones he was trained to use in the army, but they would still be a considerable help. After considering a few maps, Jackson eventually bought a recent one of the Southern Marches. While he was there, Jackson asked the cartographer for advice on traveling to Vertrisia. The old man agreed to give him a few pointers for free.

“For the first part of the journey,” he said, “you’ll want to follow the road south of here, and follow the coast for five or six days until the village of Marlinquay. It is somewhat out of the way, but it is better than venturing away from the roads. From Marlinquay, a small trail north will take you to a little hamlet called Thornstead after four days of travel; not much there but a few houses, some fields, and an old cairn that not a single druid uses anymore. 

“At that point, you’ll have done most of the journey. Unfortunately, that’s the easiest part of it. From Thornstead on, there will be no roads, no trail, not even a single desire path. In addition, the terrain becomes quite hilly. Ride east by northeast until you reach a river.” He pointed it on the map. “That is the Yellow Neeth. It joins the White Neeth further south, which ends in the C’fan Sea. Follow the Yellow Neeth upstream for… I would say two days, until you see the Silver Crown, which is the highest peak of the Vertrisian Mountains. The Silver Crown is just about at the center of Vertrisia, surrounded by the mountains which are themselves encircled by the forest.

“After that,” the old cartographer concluded, “good luck! I would not enter the Vertrisian Forest even if I was paid half the Marches’ worth in land to do so. You’re hardly unarmed, and I can tell you’ve had some training, but all the same caution will be your best defense.”

“Why?” Jackson asked. “Are there wild animals there?”

“Oh, of course. In abundance. Bears, boars, wolves… Even the does you should stay away from, for their stags are never too far. But these are not the threat I was alluding to.”

“What, then?”

“The Vertrisian Elves,” the cartographer said. “It is not widely known, but Elvish tribes claim these woods as their home. Like many other tribes in the Empire, you might say, but these Elves are different. Ever since the Southern War -during which it is said they fought against both the Empire and the Hexacracy-, they have enjoyed complete independence; an independence they now jealously protect.”

“Ah, I see. They don’t take kindly to strangers, uh?”

“Not at all. They barely tolerate traders, and only as a means to obtain the resources they lack and the items they can’t produce. As to the others…” He shook his head. “Rumors abound about Vertrisia. They say there’s more than just Elves living there. There are Dryads too, according to some; some merchants claim they get their dryadelle from this place. Others claim the woods themselves are magic. That the spirits protect them.”

“Sounds like an ideal place to hide from the Hexacracy,” Byron said. “It would also explain the interference our friend Vakdag got.”

“So I don’t know what your business is in that place,” the cartographer said, “but I hope it’s life or death.”

“It probably is,” Jackson said.

“Then good luck. You should probably hire a guide, by the way. There’s not one mad enough to guide you into the woods, but it will at least make the journey there safer and possibly shorter.”

It did sound like a good idea; unfortunately, it was also a costly one, and Jackson wanted to preserve as much as possible what little money he had left. Still, with Durnin’s training, with his map, and with a Delta Force veteran by his side, he felt confident he could do without a guide.

After the guild, there was only one last thing Jackson needed to do. He went back to the Temple of the Living Flame for the first time since his second day in Atvello, to retrieve some of the items he had deposited there. The place looked very much the same, still very dark and unsettling. No one came to greet him this time. After a few moments of waiting in the poor light of the brazeros, he just started walking in what he assumed was the same direction as last time. Eventually, he found the curved hallway heading underground. His steps led him to a door, which an unexplainable instinct told him was the door to his vault. He placed his hand on it, trying to remember how he did it the last time. Once again, the door burst into flames, so abruptly Jackson jumped back.

His items were still there, exactly as he left them, without even a hint of dust covering them. Jackson quickly picked up one of the disassembled rifles, one of the tents, the rest of the food rations (of which there was enough for five days), two grenades (one flash, one explosive), and a pair of binoculars. He kept looking over his shoulder as he placed them in his backpack, as if he were worried there were watchers hiding in the penumbra around him. His belongings securely packed and well-hidden, he left the vault; the door reappeared in another burst of flames. Then, he then found his way back to the surface and the exit, still not entirely sure how. As he left the temple behind him, he thought of how this place was certainly the one part of Atvello he wouldn’t miss.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so Jackson decided to laze around the docks as usual, then dine from his reserves at the headquarters. He woke up the next day before dawn -Byron was an effective alarm clock. Nobody else was awake, which to Jackson was a bonus: he had never been one for goodbyes. Especially since that particular goodbye might well have been a farewell. He packed his belongings on Florid’s saddle, then rode to the southern gate -the Lathered Gate, as it was called.

As he led his ride towards the southern road, indicated by painted rocks, he turned back to cast one last look at the city of Atvello, as its walls disappeared behind the hills. With a sigh and a pinch in his stomach, he reported his gaze to the road.

The first day of travel proved completely uneventful. The road followed the coastline closely. On the left side were farmlands. Harvest season was in full swing, with dozens of people working the fields all day, save for the hottest part of the afternoon, during which everyone got out of the sun, usually to nap. Jackson himself elected to take a break from riding, and hid under a large tree until the temperature became tolerable again. Before going back on the road, he approached a farmer and offered to buy his hat for a silver stead. There was no way he’d ride for several days under such a sun without any head protection, and the cowl of his cape was too heavy. The hat was made out of some rough leather and wasn’t particularly pretty to look at; it clashed with the rest of Jackson’s outfit. The young man didn’t care about that, though. All that mattered was that his head and neck were adequately shaded, but could still breathe.

When the evening came, Jackson found an adequate spot under a big, leaning rock to rest for the night. He unwrapped his cot on the floor, and laid under the cover, trying to go to sleep as quickly as possible. The horse was tied to a tree with a very long rein, so he could graze to his heart’s content.

The next few days were more of the same. The scenery barely changed; only the nature of the crops differed, offering more colors to the panorama. Jackson managed to cover more distance by making fewer stops. He took his lunch while still on the saddle, and neglected his bladder until it got too painful. Marlinquay appeared before him on the fifth day, shortly before the sky turned orange. The quaint little fishing village had been built in a small cove in the coastal cliff. Jackson counted about three dozen houses, plus a small market near the piers. There was also a wooden tower built on top of the cliff, in all likelihood a watchtower for raiding ships. A strange smell floated above the village, mixed with the ocean’s iodine. Jackson eventually found out that it came from a particular house used for smoking fishes. There was a single tavern in Marlinquay, but it did not serve as an inn. Jackson managed to talk a local into letting him sleep in the stables.

Like the cartographer had said, the actual road ended at Marlinquay. From there, the only path was a dirt trail, just large enough for Florid. The ride got uncomfortable from this point on, as the path was uneven, and the terrain became hilly. In addition, as Jackson traveled further away from the coast, the wind calmed down, and the climate grew warmer. Jackson had no thermometer on hand, but he guessed the temperature was in the three digits, or very close. He carried on for two days, wishing for a single cloud, and feeling his willpower melt out of his pores. On the third day, he happened upon a small pond, just as a dehydration-induced migraine forced him to take a break. The water was a little brackish, but that didn’t stop him from nearly throwing himself in it. It tasted distinctly of dirt, but was almost miraculously cold. After drinking as much as he could, he refilled his two gourds -one attached to his belt, one to his saddle- in it.

On the morning of the fourth day after he left Marlinquay, he finally happened upon Thornstead, sitting on top of a hill and surrounded by fields. It was indeed a very small place: there were barely five buildings here, including the mill roughly at the center. There was also a small well near one of the houses. Only the mill was made out of stone -rough, uncut stones, too-, the small houses were made out of wood, with straw roofs. The hamlet was empty when Jackson arrived, save for an old woman sitting on a large stone, sculpting something out of a block of wood with a small knife. Jackson guessed that everyone else was in the fields. As he approached the woman, she raised her head. The skin on her face was red and wrinkled, likely from decades spent working under the sun; Jackson could see calluses in her hands.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, unable to resist the impulse to tilt his hat at her. “I’m looking for the Yellow Neeth.”

The old woman stared at him in silence for a while, and Jackson began to wonder if she was hard of hearing. But then, she said with a frown that enhanced the wrinkles of her forehead:

“Quite a lot of travelers, lately! And this one is armed, as well. Are our lands not so far remote that the war can still reach it?”

“Someone else went through here?” Jackson asked.

“Oh, not through here, but my grandchildren saw a group of riders cross our fields in the north. A right scare it gave them! They told me they were all up in arms. We thought they might be a bunch of raiders, coming to fill their stomachs with our crops.”

“When was this?”

The woman scratched her throat and hummed. “Two days ago, late in the day.”

“It’s gotta be the people tracking Alizana,” Jackson thought-said to Byron. “I may be able to catch on to them.”

“Possibly,” the veteran replied. “I can help you follow their tracks.”

“Good idea. They’ll take us to her, and then… We’ll hunt the hunters. But first…” He asked the woman again: “So, how do I get to the Yellow Neeth?”

She pointed her knife in a direction to her left, through one of the houses. “This way. It takes a man about three summer hours to get there on foot, so I’d say your horse would take you there in half that time.”

“Appreciate your help, ma’am.”

The old woman nodded, and went back to her sculpting. Heading in the direction the woman indicated, Jackson was forced to go through a crop field, as there was no path circumventing it. In fact, as soon as he left the limits of the very small community, there was no path whatsoever. As soon as the last bit of farmland was out of sight, Jackson found himself in the wilderness, with no sight of civilization in any direction. He arrived at the river in about an hour, scaring away a couple of foxes as he came near the edge to let Florid drink.

After the horse had drunk to satiety, Jackson began his journey upstream. Maybe ten to twenty minutes later (Jackson had a hard time telling the passage of time without any watches or clocks), Byron spotted some horseshoe prints in the dirt. He estimated that they were indeed two days old, and that the group that left them was made out of between fifteen and twenty horses. More traces were found as they followed the river, confirming that the group was going the same way. Byron gauged their speed by the relative freshness of the prints, and guessed that Jackson could catch up to them in about a day, provided he hastened his horse’s pace. Jackson agreed to do that. Later that day, some time after the sun had reached its zenith, he happened upon the remains of what had to have been a campsite. The group had thought to clean up after them, barely leaving some crumbs, some horse hair, and a few threads that most likely came from a saddle blanket.

The day after, Jackson quickly realized he had underestimated how taxing an entire day of galloping could be. Not so much for Florid, who had more than enough stamina, but for himself. After only a few hours, he already had cramps in his legs, and couldn’t feel his behind anymore. Jesus! he thought. Here’s hoping I’ll still be able to walk when I find these guys.

The gamble paid off. Late in the afternoon, Byron asked Jackson to stop so he could analyze more traces on the ground; Jackson was all too happy to do so, and to take the opportunity to get off his horse and relieve both the muscles of his lower body and his bladder. Byron then told Jackson to pick up some breadcrumbs he found in the grass, and to rub it between the tip of his fingers.

“Still fresh,” Jackson said as he did so.

“They’re a couple of hours away tops,” Byron said, looking at a couple of trampled flowers. “We should be able to catch on to them before nightfall.”

“Thank God for that…”

“Is it safe to assume you don’t have a plan as to what you’re going to do next?”

“Wrong-o,” Jackson said, smirking. “My plan is to follow them until they get where Alizana is. What? You thought I was going to search the entire Vertrisian Forest until I found her?”

“I did, yes. Because that’s exactly what you were thinking of doing until you learned about this group tracking Alizana.”

Jackson got back in the saddle without acknowledging Byron’s retort. This ten minute break had barely alleviated the pain in his legs, but at least he felt a bit lighter. He ignored the soreness of his muscles by focusing on his goal.

As Byron predicted, the group appeared on the horizon as the sun was descending. He advised Jackson to slow down and keep out of their sight; as he said, if Jackson could see them, they would be able to see him as well. The spell on Jackson’s dog tags only prevented him from being found out with magic, not with a simple look. Florid slowed down his pace to a trot, and the group soon vanished from sight. Jackson could still occasionally hear their horses by lending an ear.

“They’ll soon stop to make camp,” Byron said. “When they do, I’d like you to try to sneak closer, and get a better look.”

“Okay. By the way, I was thinking: could I, like, infiltrate them? You know, kill one of them and replace him?”

Byron had that expression he always had when Jackson spoke without thinking. “These people -who, for all you know, may all be Humanoids or women- have been riding together for days, probably weeks. They know each other. They recognize each other.”

“Right, right. Well… Then, I could pose as reinforcement or something.”

“Do you know if they expect any reinforcements?” Byron asked patiently.

“I mean, no, but…”

“So how do you expect that to work?”

“Because I have this.”

He pulled something out of one of his satchels. It was a small wax seal, with an elaborate sigil impressed in it.

“You took that from the Archdemon’s letters?” Byron said.

“Technically, I found it at the bottom of the chest. It must have fallen off one of the enveloppes.”

“I told you not to take anything from the chest.”

“One loose seal? Even if she notices it’s gone, she’ll just think she misplaced it.”

Byron pursed his lower lip and groaned. “Right. Well, this might work, but it’s a gamble. At best. For now, please just do as I asked.”

The temperature dropped sharply as soon as it got dark. In addition, the wind started blowing, leading a grumbling Jackson to wonder why it couldn’t have come during the day. He found a discreet place to camp for the night, tied Florid’s reins to a tree, then climbed the highest nearby hill, binoculars in hand. The hunting party he had been following had made their own camp about twenty feet from the river. Said camp consisted of ten tents, built around a fire; the horses -nineteen in total- were tied to a group of trees to the side. Jackson laid down in the grass, and observed it through his binoculars.

Sitting near the campfire was a single Human male, no doubt the lookout. He was wearing an armor of padded leather, and clad in a cape that, judging from his occasional shivering, didn’t offer much protection from the wind. A spear was lying against his left shoulder, sharpened end pointing at the sky. He was smoking a pipe, and blowing rings of smoke to entertain himself.

Jackson observed the tents. Through their openings, he could see that they were each made for two people, except for the smallest one which only had one occupant. Jackson assumed this was the leader of the group. From what he could see from here, they seemed to be mostly Human, with a couple of Demons in their ranks as well. Everyone slept near their equipment, it appeared, including their weapons.

“Nineteen people, all armed and armored,” Byron said. He was standing on the hill, having no need to hide. “They seemed to be pretty well trained, as well.”

“You can tell from the way they sleep?” Jackson snarked.

“From the way they organized their camp. Far enough from the hills for visibility, and with several possible routes in case they need to escape quickly. They haven’t put up any traps or decoys… I guess they’re not expecting to be ambushed here. The lookout seems to be pretty aware of his surroundings, though.”

“That guy? He just looks bored out of his mind.”

“Ars est celare artem,” Byron replied.

“What?” Jackson blurted out, confused.

“I think it would help to identify which one of them is the mage,” the veteran said. “Hmmm.” He scratched his chin. “If I was that mage, I’d make sure not to have any distinguishing features to avoid being targeted. It’s like being a medic. If he is the one tracking their target, then he will either lead the troop, or be close with the leader.”

Jackson hummed. “Why would it help to figure out which one he is? They’re leading us where we want to be anyway.”

“What if something happens? What if they are attacked, and forced to disperse? At least if we know who the mage is, we’ll know who to follow.”

“Myeah, I guess. Can we pull it, now? I’m freezing, and I’m gonna fall asleep any minute now.”

Indeed, sleep took him right as he laid down on his sleeping bag, before he could even remove his boots. Byron stood vigil through the entire night, immune as he was to tiredness, and woke him up when the hunting party saddled up the next morning at dawn.

Jackson followed the group again through an entire day, and then another. Mountains appeared in the distance, and the vegetation grew denser. Finally, on the third day, the nine horsemen arrived at the edge of a forest. Said forest was large enough to fill almost the whole horizon, and to completely encompass the mountains. It was much larger and denser than the one Jackson went into in the search of the attacked caravan. It reminded him more of that trek in the woods he took a few months ago, the one that led him into this world… and killed nearly his whole squad.

The hunting party seemed apprehensive as well. They took a break before the treeline, and dismounted to make some preparations. Jackson observed them again through his binoculars. Though he couldn’t make out what they were saying, he could see the worry on some of their faces -as well as the annoyance on their leader’s expression, who snapped them out of it.

“They still haven’t figured out that I’m following them,” Jackson thought-said.

“People tracking someone often forget they may be tracked in turn,” Byron said. “As it is, I think they’re too focused on their target to mind anything else.”

“Guess this is a big job for them. Can you figure out who the mage is, now?”

Byron pointed out one of the men, a small-statured Human with a large head and beady eyes. The leader -a six-foot tall male Demon with dark-red skin and a broken horn- conferred with him several times as the group prepared for their trip into the forest. At one point, the leader ordered something to the small Human, who nodded sharply and pulled out a knife as well as a small object, apparently some kind of talisman made out of wood. Jackson observed attentively as he cut the prick of his finger, then drew a figure with his blood over the wooden object, similarly to what Vakdag had done with Jackson’s dog tags. Then, he clutched the talisman in his hand, lowered his head, and muttered something. A few seconds passed, then he looked back at his leader, who was staring at him, and said something. The leader nodded, then whistled sharply to his men. They gathered before him, and he gave them some kind of quick pep talk. The men reacted by saying something sounding like “yes, sir”, and got back on their horses.

“Ride closer to them,” Byron told Jackson. “Twenty minutes lead tops.”

“Why? Harder to follow someone in the forest?”

“Somewhat, yes. But more importantly, they’re clearly worried they might get attacked, and from what we’ve heard in Atvello, that’s a valid concern.”

As he entered the woods, Jackson agreed the place would be ideal for an ambush. The forest was dense and wild. Without Byron to help him, he would probably have gotten lost quickly. The canopy was thick enough in some parts that Jackson couldn’t see the sky. This, combined with some unidentified -probably animal- noises meant Jackson soon shared the group’s concerns. He tried to dispel them by telling himself that said group would make for a more likely target, but he still kept a hand on his sword’s handle.

Several hours passed in relative silence as Jackson made his way through the woods, tailing the party far enough that he was reasonably sure they couldn’t see nor hear him and his horse, but close enough that he could catch up to them within a few minutes of galloping. The group had considerably reduced its speed, and, judging once again by their traces, each member now stayed close to the others.

“What are you going to do when they find her?” Byron said, walking besides Florid.

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” Jackson said.

“Shocker. You realize it may happen any time now?”

“Well… Uh… Obviously, they’re here to try and kill her. And, uh, obviously, I have to prevent that.”

“Right, but that’s the objective. What’s your plan to reach that objective?”

Some sort of bug laid on Jackson’s nape, who slapped it off. “I…”

“Surely you’re not thinking of attacking all nineteen of these men all by your lonesome?”

“I, um, I was kinda hoping that you’d do it,” the young man said with a sorry smile. “I mean, you took care of those bandits in that cave.”

“A disorganized, poorly-trained, ill-equipped bunch of highwaymen. That’s not the same thing as a trained team of soldiers, all armed and armored, one of whom is a mage.” He clenched his teeth as he said the last part.

Jackson remembered what had happened the last time Byron had -unknowingly- engaged a mage, and understood his reservation.

“Yeah… Uh, how about doing the Die Hard thing?”

“The Die Hard thing,” Byron said slowly, his voice weary like it was whenever he expected Jackson to say something very stupid.

“You know, take them out one by one.”

The veteran rubbed the underneath of his jaw. “Admittedly, a better idea than the previous one. I suppose we could try sneaking into their camp at night again. No doubt they’ll be much more wary of their surroundings, though. If I was their leader, I would put two people on the lookout from now on, not just one.”

Byron was correct. The next night, as Jackson observed their camp once again, he noticed that two men were standing guard. They didn’t just sit by the fire anymore, either, but actually patrolled around the tents. As Byron pointed out, they made sure to remain in each other’s eyesight as they did. One of them, a Demon with several scars around his mouth, was particularly agitated, constantly looking left and right, his hands clenching the handle of his ax.

“Do you still feel confident about your Die Hard plan?” Byron asked Jackson.

“Honestly, I-”

“-Expected me to do it instead,” the veteran completed, annoyed. “When exactly did I become your obedient little soldier?”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry,” Jackson said.

After a few minutes of observation, Jackson elected to once again wait until tomorrow before committing to any plan. He turned on his heels and went back to his horse, left about a mile away. He fed Florid a wild carrot he had found during the day, and brushed off some dirt from the side of his neck. Then, he went to bed. It proved more difficult to go to sleep that night; the scenery proved a lot more disquieting in the dark. The moon was nearly full, but it could hardly be seen through the canopy. Jackson closed his eyes, and tried that breathing technique he was taught while… Oh. Actually, that breathing technique had been taught to Byron while he was in Delta Force. No matter the case, it worked.

… Until he was woken up by a sharp pain in his arm. Grunting, he opened his eyes to find Byron kicking him.

“What the hell?”

“Get up, now!” Byron said.

It took a full minute for Jackson to get his bearings. He looked at Florid, who was still asleep, then in the direction of the hunting party’s camp. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful.

“Are we under attack?” Jackson asked, half-sarcastic.

“No, but they are going to be. Come on, get up.”

At a guess based on nothing but intuition, Jackson had slept barely an hour. He drank a good portion of eyelet milk to help him wake up. He had made sure to save some, knowing this sort of situation might arise. It took some time for the liquid to work its magic.

“What makes you think that?” Jackson said, putting on his belt.

“I saw movement in the trees, going their way. Go, already! Take the horse.”

Thankfully, Florid was not as sound a sleeper as his rider, and woke up quickly when Jackson got in the saddle. Jackson hurried back to the camp, dismounting about fifty feet away to hide behind a tree.

Everything was quiet. The two lookouts were still patrolling around, now looking less anxious and more tired. Jackson scrutinized the trees, attentive to any sound or move that couldn’t be explained away by the wind.

“I don’t see anything,” he thought-said. “Are you su-”

A muffled yelp startled Jackson, interrupting him. One of the lookouts had been taken out, dropped by what looked like a boulder thrown at the speed of a cannonball. His comrade gasped in surprise, then opened his mouth, no doubt to shout the rest of the group awake. Then, out of blue, something -someone- dropped on him as well, seemingly coming out of nowhere. There were a series of sickening wet sounds, and the second lookout, struggling on the ground, stopped moving.

“Oh shit,” Jackson muttered, grabbing his sword’s handle. He thought for a second, then decided to go for his pistol instead.

The attackers stood up again. Jackson could now see their silhouettes, but not their features. In the campfire’s low lighting, they looked like fur-covered, wolf-like giants -the smallest of the two was maybe seven feet and change. They moved towards the tents, surprisingly silent despite their stature, their large hands raised slightly. Those hands, about as large as a Human face, were tipped by what Jackson initially believed to be small knives, but were actually sharp-looking claws.

Jackson had to act quickly. Pointing his pistol at the sky, he pressed the trigger. The gunshot resonated through the woods, shaking the entire camp awake in an instant. The two intruders staggered, and looked around them. One of the hunting party’s members screamed the alarm. Thank God they’re not the kind to sleep through a thunderstorm, Jackson thought.

As the whole camp woke up, Jackson expected the two creatures to run away, having lost the element of surprise. But instead, they stood their ground, clearly prepared to finish what they had started. With two against seventeen, Jackson didn’t give them much of a chance. And clearly, neither did the hunting party, who drew their weapons and attacked them head-on. One of the men drew his bow, but, either because of the darkness or the confusion, he too decided to handle the enemy in close quarters.

The wolf-like creatures moved faster than greased lightning. The first spearman thrusted his weapon towards one of them, who dodged it so quickly Jackson needed a moment to comprehend what he saw. In a heartbeat, the creature stepped closer to its assailant and, with just as fast a move, slashed his torso and his knee with their claws. The spearman’s leather armor didn’t seem to offer much protection. Ropes of dark liquid shot out of him, and he fell back, screaming in pain.

At the same time, two swordsmen had engaged the other creature. They tried to encircle it in order to attack it from two directions simultaneously, but once again the creature proved quicker. This time, Jackson couldn’t be sure at all what happened, between the rapidity of the action and the lack of visibility. All he knew was that at one moment, one of the swordsmen moved to attack, and the next moment, the creature had thrown him at his comrade-at-arms. Both fell to the ground. One of them -the one beneath- scrambled to get up, only for the creature to finish him off by slashing his thigh open.

The situation became harder to decipher for Jackson after that, as the rest of the hunting party charged, and the ensuing melee quickly turned to chaos. There were screams, grunts, shouts, and whimpers. The rest of the hunting party proved a lot more careful than the men they had lost, and chose to stay on the defensive. There was one more casualty in the minute that followed, but the men left, including the leader, held their own. But only just. With more than half of the group gone in a short amount of time, the issue of the fight seemed obvious.

Jackson noticed that one of the men had not joined the fray, choosing rather to hide beneath a tree. Even so far from the campfire, Jackson recognized him as the mage. He was whispering something into his cupped hands, no doubt preparing to cast some spell that he believed would turn the tide. Jackson had to do something again. Either the mage was wrong, and the group would soon be turned to ground beef -which Jackson didn’t want-, or he was right, and the two creatures, Alizana’s allies, would be subdued, possibly killed. Jackson especially did not want that.

After a quick bit of thinking, he opened one of his belt’s pouches, and pulled out the flash grenade he had retrieved in the House of the Living Flame’s vault. He pulled the pin, then threw it at the creatures, taking advantage of the fact that the hunting party had decided to fall back to let the mage do his thing.

Jackson had just enough time to turn away, close his eyes, and place his hands over his ears. He heard the detonation, then counted five seconds before looking again. The creatures were stumbling around, growling in pain and confusion. The men, who had been further away from the grenade when it went off, were less affected, but also seemed to have trouble merely standing. Even the mage was wiping his tears-filled eyes. Jackson raised his gun again, and fired three more shots in the air. 

The violent noises, compounded by the flash grenade’s nasty effects, proved enough to sap the creatures’ will to fight. Confronted by an enemy they couldn’t comprehend or even see, they retreated, disappearing in the woods as fast as they had appeared. Jackson made to run away as well, until he heard:

“Over there! There’s someone else!”

Jackson looked over his shoulder to see the mage pointing right at him. Muttering under his breath, he weighed his options again. He could still run. The men were still dazed -except for the mage-, so it probably wouldn’t be too difficult to lose them. Except they now knew he was there. No doubt they would try to go after him, maybe trail him -and those were trained hunters. Alternatively, they could start to cover their tracks, meaning Jackson could lose them, and Alizana. 

No, Jackson decided. He had to go with plan B. Time to give the performance of a lifetime.

He hid his pistol, then came out of the woods and walked into the campfire’s light, affecting a confidence he didn’t have. The party, having mostly recovered from the skirmish and the flash grenade, raised their weapons. Their leader shouted:

“Who are you? Are you with them?”

“Is that a serious question?” Jackson said. “I just saved you from them!”

“Take out your sword and drop it on the floor,” one of the men ordered, his voice shaky.

“In this place?” Jackson stared down that man like he was the stupidest person he had ever met. “I don’t think so. Just because we survived that ambush -barely-, doesn’t mean there won’t be another.” Keeping to the role he had decided to play, he went on: “Seriously, you call that a camp? Two sentries? No traps, no decoys? You should thank whatever gods you worship that I made it in time. And that these two were probably just scouts who happened to find you.”

“Speaking of which,” the leader said, “are we to believe you too just happened to be nearby when the attack started?”

“Of course not, I’ve been following you for a while.”

The mage, who had joined the rest, dropped a horrified: “What?!”

“I take it you didn’t notice.” He smiled wryly. “Just like you didn’t notice these two closing in on you.”

The leader’s hostility towards Jackson waned a little, but not his suspicion. “You still haven’t told us who you are.”

“The name’s Madison,” Jackson said. “People call me Mad.”

“Really?” Byron said, baring his teeth with a sneer.

“You certainly have to be mad,” Lutzeg said, “to show up in front of me and tell me you’ve been trailing my band.”

As if responding to an invisible signal, one of the men flanking him made a move towards Jackson, his spear pointed at his chest.

“Woah, there,” Jackson said, trying to keep his composure. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on your side.”

“That is for me to decide,” the leader said. “Who sent you?”

“I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t the Emperor. And if you need another hint…” He took out Azazel’s seal and showed it in the palm of his hand.

The leader peeled his eyes to try to see it in the dark, then nodded at one of his men to bring it to him. As the man got closer, Jackson got a better look at him. He too was a Demon, as evidenced by the two black horns on the side of his face, poking out of his messy black hair. The Demon looked uncertain as he held out his hand and Jackson dropped the seal in it, as if he feared the young man was going to attack him. The leader of the party muttered something as he got a closer look at the seal. He passed it over to the mage, and whispered a few words to him. The mage nodded.

“This appears to be real,” the leader said, giving the seal back to Jackson. “But it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, following us.”

“My employer thought you’d need the extra help. Guess she was right.”

With a grunt, the leader ordered his remaining men to lower their weapons. Internally, Jackson relaxed.

“I would like to know how Azazel heard about this,” the leader asked.

“I bet you would,” Jackson said.

The quip made the other man snort, though mostly in annoyance. He turned to his men and said:

“All right, lads. Let’s drag the bodies away from camp; Yonn will handle them. Don’t forget to take their weapons.”

Four of the men moved the bodies. From their expression, it didn’t seem like they were close to the deceased, and one of them at least appeared to be used to being near dead bodies. They placed them in a pile a few feet away from the tents, then the mage -Yonn- used one of his spells to burn them. The fire took surprisingly quickly, and soon the corpses looked like the charred remains of Jackson’s unit, all those months ago. The horrible stench it created didn’t stick, thankfully.

“Let’s go to sleep,” the leader said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Can I use one of your tents?” Jackson asked.

The leader gave a shrug that Jackson took as a sign of approbation. As he went to retrieve his horse, Byron reappeared and said:

“Well played.”

“You think they bought it?”

“I believe so, yes. Don’t relax just yet, though. Putting on the mask is the easy part.”

“What’s the hard part, then?”

“Making sure it stays on,” Byron said.

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