The Pulver Chronicles – 23. Ar chas doñv ‘yelo da ouez

Jackson’s stomach made another strange sound. He massaged it with his only available hand, the other still clutching his sword. As far as he could remember, this was the most stressed out he had ever been. He was even more stressed out than before the job at the Lionfish’s estate. And with good reason, he thought: the stakes were higher. Considerably higher, as were his odds of losing life or limb. After all, this wasn’t just a home invasion with a side of breaking and entering. This was an ambush. This was war.

It’s gonna be fine, he kept telling himself. You’ve done this before.

This was true. The situation was, at least in theory, not too different from the time he had attacked that hunting party that was coming after Alizana and her tribe. Those were pretty high stakes as well: it was a dangerous situation all over, and in addition it was very possibly his once chance of proving himself to Alizana. Well, there were some differences, of course. Namely the fact that the hunting party was in the Vertrisian Forest, a perfect place for an ambush. In addition, the Hellhounds outnumbered their enemy then. 

Here, Jackson and his comrades-at-arms had to choose a hilly location covered in high grass, which, while still a good spot for a surprise attack, was just not as good as a forest. On top of that, they deliberately decided to take only a dozen people, to face an estimated twenty enemies. Easier to hide a small force, and all that. But that was fine. It was fine, because there was a plan. And the sun was coming down, so the darkness would hide them. And as to the numbers, Byron had said it himself: they don’t always guarantee victory. Well, he had actually said: “Numbers don’t always guarantee victory, but they’re certainly a factor.”

But it was fine. It would be fine. Jackson just needed to relax. And to breathe, he needed to breathe. In… and out. In… Okay, maybe he should breathe less deeply. He was making noise, for one thing, and also the flowers in the tall grass surrounding him were heavy with pollen. Another breath…

Someone tapped his shoulder, and he nearly jumped. It was Sathariel.

“Sorry!” the Demon whispered. “Are you alright? You seem really tense.”

“I’ll be fine. What about you?”

“I, um… Err, honestly, I’m a little bit scared.” He chuckled nervously.

Jackson smiled. “Yeah, me too. But that’s good, in a way. It means we’re not crazy.”

“Well, I’m not crazy. You, I’m not sure, Mad. Especially considering the plan you came up with.”

The young Demon had a point. The plan was, at least at first glance, pretty crazy. Given their situation, and the strength of their enemies, one would have thought that the best thing for the Hellhounds to do would be to keep a low profile, hidden away in their section of the Vertrisian Forest. Surely, to a sane person, this would have seemed to be the smartest strategy.

But Byron had a different opinion.

“Doing nothing as the war goes on and the Southern Marches are invaded is not a strategy. It’s the opposite of a strategy.”

“I don’t disagree,” Jackson had said. “But I didn’t say to do nothing. Also there’s a difference between doing nothing and actually attacking-”

“Right now, there’s only one way to survive this conflict, and that is for the Hexacracy and the Empire to wear each other down. The Empire may be strong enough to take on the Hexacracy; we’re not.”

“Again, we’re on the same page. But how does that translate to launching our own attacks? Wouldn’t it make more sense to let the Empire do it?”

“It would, and if the Empire was yet in any position to do so, that’s exactly what we would do. But the Hexacrat early invasion has caught the Empire by surprise. It will take some time before they can gather their armies and launch their campaigns, time during which the Hexacracy will basically be free to do whatever they want in the Marches.”

“Right,” Jackson had said, “apparently the Empire expected the Hexacracy to strike later, when their armies will be completely assembled. Probably during the fall, when the temperatures will be bearable again. Okay, but I still don’t get what this means for us.”

“It means we need to make more time. Delay the Hexacrat armies as much as possible, slow down their progression, and prevent them from getting too powerful in the Southern Marches.”

“Until the Empire can get in on the fun.”

“That’s right. And in order to do that, we must strike the Hexacracy where it hurts.”

From there, Jackson had worked out for himself where that was: the logistics. Still, Byron had given a short lesson on the importance of logistics in times of war. “An army marches on its stomach,” he had said, quoting someone who, for once, wasn’t his namesake. Armies, he had explained, needed supplies to do anything: food, weapons, arrows, equipment… There was only so much they could carry with them, so the rest had to be brought using convoys and caravans.

Crippling the enemy’s war effort by hitting their supply lines was a concept about as old as war itself, and there was a reason it had been used by every army, in every era: it worked. Byron went as far as to call it the crux of asymmetric warfare. Thus, it became the crux of his plan.

The first step of said plan had consisted of tracking the Hexacracy’s convoys. Gathering information had proved difficult at first, especially with the Hellhounds’ need to avoid any unnecessary attention. But then, Jackson had remembered that the Vertrisian Elves had been keeping an eye on the continent’s powers, which meant they had their own intelligence. So he had contacted Bonnie to find out whether the Elves could possibly share said intelligence. As it turned out, the Elves had posted quite a few scouts over the Southern Marches, mostly in the western region, with watchers as far as the Hexacrat border. Sharing their intel, sadly, was out of the question; simply put, the relationship between Elves and Hellhounds was nowhere near strong enough for that level of trust. Bonnie, however, managed to convince her clan chief to trade some information. 

The trade had clearly been in favor of the Elves, but still the information sold had proved valuable, and had allowed Byron to locate several caravans, and estimate their contents. Then, it was a simple matter of deciding which one to strike. Ideally, they wanted something not too dangerous, that wouldn’t require too much manpower -which would make an ambush more difficult, or even impossible-, but still rewarding enough. After a day spent pondering, Byron had finally settled on one traveling southeast from Aurus Colles. The information gathered by the Elves indicated it carried a heavy shipment.

And here they were, for the last part of phase one: the ambush itself. Byron had been surprised when Jackson had insisted on being part of it, and honestly so had Jackson himself. But it made sense: the whole thing was Jackson’s idea -at least, from the Hellhounds’ perspective. It wouldn’t have been right to have someone else do it, and potentially put their life on the line for it. Of course, it had seemed simpler and less anxiety-inducing then.

A whistling sound in the air brought Jackson back to the present. Rather, it wasn’t the sound itself, but Sathariel’s reaction to it. Jackson, once again, proved unable to hear the sound made by what he ascertained was the sentry his party had posted down the road. Maybe tinnitus took out some of my hearing, he thought.

“They’re coming, Jack,” Sathariel whispered, nervously adjusting the red scarf obfuscating half of his face.

He took out his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. His fingers trembled as he nocked the arrow.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jackson said.

“Yes. It’s, um, it’s just been a while since I used a bow. Also, err, the target wasn’t moving then.”

“This target won’t be moving either if the plan works. At least, not much.”

The sun had sunk beneath the hilly horizon, but some red and orange still painted the darkened sky. The moon was almost waning crescent. Jackson had noticed before how that world’s moon was different from the one he was familiar with. He had been something of an amateur astronomer during his time with the Dorsetts -it was one of the few hobbies he could have on their farm-, but even a beginner would have noticed how that moon was bigger -or possibly closer- and how different its features were; even its color was different, somewhat darker.

“Mind on the game,” Byron said. “They’re nearly there.”

Right, right. Jackson pulled himself out of his thoughts, and focused his eyes on the road. It wasn’t much of a road, actually. Like in many places in the Southern Marches, it was just a dirt path. He couldn’t see much in the darkness and through the tall grass, but he could hear very well. The clip-clop of hoofsteps, accompanied by the clanking noises of cartwheels, coming closer and closer. He couldn’t see the other Hellhounds either, but he could almost feel their anticipation.

They appeared, finally, riding past the top of a hill. The convoy was composed of three carts, was led by four horsemen, and closed by four others, with twelve more in between the carts. Twenty in total, just what the scouts had reported. So far, so good. They were light cavalry, again as the scouts’ report had said, and as Byron had predicted. Lightly armored, and armed with swords and bows. It seemed they were slowing down, probably preparing to stop for the night as soon as they found a suitable place for a camp.

Now, it was a matter of identifying the superior officer. According to Byron, every unit had to have someone in charge to give the orders in case something unplanned happened. Something like, say, an ambush. Jackson and Byron both scrutinized every horseman to find him. Predictably, not one of them was wearing any sign on their clothing that could indicate rank.

“Central group, second from the left,” Byron suddenly said.

The one he had singled out was a middle-aged Human male with broad shoulders and a large head. Jackson frowned, unable to find any indication that he was the officer of the group; in fact, aside from his flattened nose, he looked like the other Humans.

“How do you know?”

“His attitude, the quality of his sword, the wear and tear of his armor… Just take my word for it.”

Byron had alluded before that he had experience in this sort of thing, thus why he had come up with this ambush’s tactic. So Jackson decided to trust him, and pointed out the man to Sathariel. The young Demon nodded, took aim, and drew. He was forcing himself to breathe through the nose to help steady his hands. This wouldn’t be an easy shot, but at least the target would be close. Provided the plan works, Jackson thought.

The caravan was very close, now. Jackson could smell the horses. Thirty feet, twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet… The first riders passed before him. Any second now. He braced himself, ax firmly in hand, and made sure his red scarf was still in place. Any second. The horsemen were now close enough that he could see the details of their armors, including their weak spots. Any sec-

Sathariel flinched, meaning there had been another whistle. Not even a second later, four Hellhounds leaped from hiding. They attacked the men at the front and at the back simultaneously. One of the horsemen was thrown off his ride by the sheer strength of his assailant.

The young Demon hesitated for a fraction of a second, then let his arrow loose. The purported officer received it in his throat. Jackson leaped into action as well the very next moment, his ax striking the closest rider in the thigh, where the skin was only protected by cloth. He must have hit an artery, as blood poured out in great quantities immediately. The man tried to retaliate by taking his sword, still in its scabbard, only for Jackson to grab his wrist and strike him again, this time a few inches under the armpit.

What had been a quiet scene one moment ago had turned into a screaming brawl. Jackson barely paid attention to what was happening around him, focused as he was on his target, but he could distinctly hear the growls of the Hellhounds and the screams of the horsemen. The whole scene strongly reminded him of Natial’s memories. A few horses whinnied, and one of them dropped to the ground with a fleshy sound. The man Jackson was attacking, while growing weaker by the second, still tried to fight back, using his available hand to pull out a knife and try to stab Jackson in the face. Jackson managed to dodge the small blade, then jumped to strike the man’s throat.

As he fell wordlessly to the ground, Jackson noticed that the cart right next to him -the one in front of the others- had begun to move again. Its driver had seemingly got over his surprise, and was now trying to make a run for it. Bolstered by the adrenaline flooding his brain, and guided by Byron’s thoughts mingling with his own, he jumped on the back of the cart, and managed to climb on before it could build up too much speed. 

The cart was filled with large crates and a couple of barrels. They offered little for Jackson to hang on to as the cart accelerated down the bumpy dirt road. Still, he stumbled his way towards the driver. A particularly strong bump threw him down, his face painfully slamming against a crate. A familiar taste of metal tinged his tongue. His ax slipped from his hand and dropped off the cart; Jackson swore and pulled out his sword. With good balance and a little additional effort, he managed to reach the driver. Jackson pushed the blade against his throat and screamed:

“Stop the cart. Now!”

The driver -whom Jackson noticed only then was a Demon male- only hesitated for a moment before he pulled on his reins. The two horses pulling the cart came to a quick stop.

“Great. Now, pull around and go back.”

He did just that. Pulling a cart around on a bumpy, hilly dirt road was more difficult and a lot less comfortable than making a K-turn in a car, Jackson found out. It probably didn’t help that the driver was scared out of his mind. Sweat covered his forehead, rolling along his cheeks down his throat, and the nocturnal heat was likely not the main reason.

“Look, just- just take the merchandise and leave me be,” the driver said, his voice somehow both hoarse and high-pitched.

“Just drive that thing back and nothing will happen to you,” Jackson said.

The driver did not seem the least bit reassured. It seemed the disguise had worked, and he was convinced Jackson and his group were Redthroats, and as such had little in the way of mercy or moral restraint.

As the cart passed a hill, Jackson saw Sathariel standing aside the road. The Demon gestured at his friend, his hand holding Byron’s ax. Jackson helped him climb onboard, and was given back his weapon.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sathariel glanced at the crates in the back. “Looks pretty heavy. Do you think there’s some food in there?”

“Hopefully,” Jackson said. “And hopefully it won’t be meat. We sure eat enough of that.”

Looking down, he noticed his friend’s hands were still trembling, a lot more so than before the ambush.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

The young Demon turned to answer, but was interrupted by one of the Hellhounds’ hail as the cart went back to the scene of the attack. Said attack was now over. The horsemen were now all dead, their bloodied corpses strewn around between the three carts. Several of their horses had been killed as well, and at least two had fled.

“Cool. Get out of here,” Jackson told the driver.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere! At least give me one of the horses.”

“Dude, I spare your life and you’re making demands? There’s a hamlet down the path, it’s about a two days walk.”

“You had better start running,” Sathariel said. “The others may not be so generous.”

The driver glanced at his fallen comrades, and got off the cart to run in the direction of the hamlet. Jackson and Sathariel climbed down as well to help the Hellhounds retrieve the deceased’s possessions. Jackson was not enthused at the prospect of this task, but he understood that it was necessary. As disgusting as it was to rob the dead, the Hellhounds would need every sword, every armor, and every coin they could get their hands -well, their paws- on. Wars, as Byron had put it, were costly affairs, in addition to being messy and deadly.

The weapons collected were of good quality, and seemed mostly new, having likely been forged shortly before the war. Several of them would have to be cleaned up, predictably. As to the armors, while they were also well-made, many of them had been damaged quite badly during the fight. A skilled leatherworker might have been able to fix them, but Byron said it wasn’t worth the cost. Still, the group collected the few of them that were still mostly intact.

Jackson got to the officer’s body. He noticed his sword, which as Byron had mentioned, seemed to be of higher quality than the rest. Byron pointed out the particular steel used to forge it, and the decorated pommel. Jackson kneeled to untie the scabbard off the dead man’s belt, then turned to Sathariel, who was trying to recover someone’s boots a few feet away.

“Hey, Seth! You want this one? It’s your kill, after all.”

Sathariel made a gesture of polite refusal. Suddenly, his eyes grew big and he screamed:

“Watch out!”

The young man saw movement at the corner of his eye. Time slew down. The Demon officer, who as it turned out was not entirely dead, had pulled out a dagger and made a large, quick slashing motion. Jackson barely had time to fall back, but the blade still skimmed against his forehead, cutting off a few hairs of his head. A strangled grunt came out of the officer’s mouth, who cocked his arm for another attack.

Jackson reacted quicker. Or rather: Byron reacted quicker. Just like with the two street bandits during his second night in Atvello, the veteran’s reflexes and fighting skills merged with Jackson’s. He -they?- blocked the officer’s wrists with both hands. The dagger’s point stabbed his forearm’s skin, deep enough to draw blood. Using a move Byron had honed in his Delta Force days, Jackson twisted his assailant’s wrist, and turned it so that the weapon would be turned against the Demon’s own chest. Then, he weighed heavily on it. The officer screamed as the blade’s pointed end perforated his plexus. The scream became garbled as blood began to pour out of his mouth, then died along with the rage in his eyes.

Sathariel got here a second later.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Jackson said abruptly. “I’m fine. Fuck.”

He wiped his forehead, and noticed that his sweat seemed thicker and warmer. Ah, shit, he got me, Jackson thought as he realized he was bleeding from there too.

“Let me take care of that,” Sathariel said.

The adrenaline wore off while Sathariel found some tissues to create a bandage, and the cut on Jackson’s forehead started stinging something fierce. The young Demon placed a large tissue over the cut, and told him to hold it. Then, he tore another piece of tissue, apparently from one of the dead horsemen’s shirt, and took some strange herbs from one of his pockets. He shoved the herbs in his mouth and chewed for a while before spitting them on the tissue. Mixed with his saliva, the herbs had formed some kind of dark green paste. Sathariel chewed more of it, until there was enough of the paste to cover the bandage.

“What are you…?” Jackson said.

“Little trick I learned in training,” Sathariel explained.

He replaced the bloodied piece of tissue on Jackson’s forehead with the paste-covered one. Jackson let out a “huh” when he realized the bandage adhered to his skin, the paste having turned it into a makeshift poultice.

“The cut is rather thin,” Sathariel said, “and it looks like it barely grazed your skull. It should heal properly in a few days.”

“I hope his concoction acts as a disinfectant,” Byron said. “I doubt they have anything like antibiotics in this world.”

“Well, they do have magic,” Jackson thought-said. “Hopefully spells can treat an infection.”

Meanwhile, the Hellhounds had finished looting the dead, and two of them were now piling up the corpses in a depression, preparing to burn them. Jackson was also queasy about that, but it was better than just leaving them in the open for the scavengers to munch on, and burying them would have once again taken too long. He looked away as one of the Hellhounds started the fire, afraid that this sight might bring back memories of his old squad’s fate. Thankfully, he was upwind from the burning bodies.

The rest of the group was taking care of the carts, replacing the horses that had been killed during the fight, and inspecting the contents of the crates. Weapons composed most of the loot; spears mostly, but also swords and axes. There were also three barrels filled with arrows. Maybe the Elves will want those. Two other barrels contained foodstuffs, mostly dried meat and vegetables. Finally, one last barrel contained a red wine with a strong bouquet.

“How are we doing?” he asked the Hellhounds. “Any wounded?”

“A few,” one of them said. “But nothing to worry about.”

A total of six Hellhounds had been injured, two of them lightly. Among the four others, one had suffered a wound on her left cheek, all the way down to the jawline. In spite of how bad it looked and the quantity of her own blood staining her clothes and her fur, she seemed quite unconcerned, even chuckling as one of her tribemates tended to her.

“We call her Laughs-in-Pain,” the first Hellhound told him.

“No wonder why. Is she really going to be okay? It looks like she got cut pretty deep.”

“Oh, yes. Takes a lot to kill a Hellhound.”

You’re not kidding, Jackson thought as he, once again, peered at what was left of their enemies. All of them must have been trained soldiers, some of them possibly even experienced veterans. Yet the Hellhounds laid waste to them with nary a loss. Between the efficiency and the frenzy of their attacks, it looked less like a skirmish and more like wolves hunting goats, with the only difference that the Hellhounds did not consume their victims’ flesh.

It was time to get the loot back to camp. As it turned out, none of the Hellhounds had even driven a cart before. Jackson had had some experience with that, and Sathariel once worked for traders, so the both of them gave a quick lesson to two of the Hellhounds. Sathariel proved a better instructor and more patient than Jackson, possibly on account of his greater knowledge of the subject. The lesson was thankfully learned quickly, and soon, all three carts were on the move, along with the stolen horses. The path got bumpier the closer they got to the forest, to the point where the crates and barrels often jumped in the back of the carts. It got even worse when the path ended. The terrain had become so bad they often had to find alternative ways to circumvent obstacles that the carts could not cross. The fact that the sun was especially hot on the next day did not make things easier; at least not to Jackson and Sathariel, the Hellhounds seemed to fare just fine in the heat, even enjoying it, in spite of their thick fur.

The difficult and unpleasant journey ended a little before dusk, soon after they passed the edge of the forest, as the carts could not go any further. In fact, one of them had broken a wheel. Jackson asked Sathariel if he happened to know anything about the fixing of cart wheels. He did not. The Hellhound driving the cart shrugged and suggested dismantling it and using the wood. Sathariel thought it would be a waste of good transport, and instead recommended buying a new wheel, perhaps in Gunully.

“We’ll sort that debate later,” Jackson said. “Right now, we need to get all that stuff to camp. The question is how. We can’t use the carts and there’s no way we can carry it all by hand.”

“We have another way of moving loads,” the Hellhound driver -Jackson believed her name was Bend-the-Spears- said.

Before Jackson could inquire as to what this way was, Bend-the-Spears spoke to one of her tribemates in their strange language. The other acknowledged whatever was said with a nod, then took off running towards the camp.

“Is she gonna get help?” Jackson asked.

“Yes, and some material. You’ll see. In the meantime, we need to cut some trees.”

The Hellhounds got busy finding long, thin trees and cutting them down, before removing the branches. They had gathered about a dozen of them when the runner came back, accompanied by two more tribemates. The three of them carried several lengths of rope. The Hellhounds untied the horses, and tied the trees in pairs, forming a cross on the horses’ back. Then, they used the ropes to create some kind of net on the wooden structure.

“Travois,” Byron said. “Ingenious. With their knowledge of the forest, this should do the job.”

“Tra-what?” Jackson said. “No, wait, I know this. Aren’t those the things the Indians used? Yeah, I guess that would work.”

The crates were loaded on the travois. Only one crate could be placed on each, so it was decided that two trips would be necessary, as there was not enough rope to create more travois.

With the recovered loot of the attack, and even with the merchandise already set aside to be traded with the Elves, the storage tent was overflowing with goods. Some of it had to be sent to other tribes’ camps. With other raids planned and already in preparation, the decision was quickly made to build additional storage tents.

Jackson had actually been concerned about these additional raids. Wouldn’t the Hexacracy react to those? Their cover as Redthroats might not work for long. He had shared those concerns with Byron, who had shrugged them off.

“Obviously, they will soon start to increase their caravans’ protection,” he had said. “That is the point. More soldiers protecting the caravans means less soldiers on the front.”

“Yeah, but won’t they eventually try to stop these attacks altogether? Like, figure out where they come from? They could find out about us.”

“Of course they’ll try to find the source, but that will take some time. At first, they will suspect the Redthroats, and possibly conduct some raids against them. But even if they figure out the bandits are not the real culprit -which I believe they eventually will-, their main suspect won’t be the Hellhounds.”

“No?”

“No. The most logical suspect will be the marquesses and their armies. From what I understand, quite a few of them like their independence, and are not keen on pledging their loyalty to the Hexacracy. If such an option will be even offered to them; it could be that the Six will simply replace the marquesses they deem insufficiently trustworthy.”

“You think it will be that easy to keep under the radar even as we attack them?”

“The fog of war makes for an excellent cover,” Byron had said. “Especially in a pre-industrial world with limited communication.”

Once more, Jackson had decided to trust that Byron knew what he was doing.

The Elven traders arrived at the camp in the early afternoon the day after that. Their caravan consisted of seven people, one horse and four mules, the latter dragging two small carts. Bonnie was among them, still carrying her sniper rifle, but without her leafy cape. Jackson asked whether she took her rifle everywhere she went, and she said:

“I’m trying to learn the bow, to save on bullets. But it’s really not as easy as it looks, especially if you want to reach the level of the Vertrisian Elves. Their hunters and their warriors start training when they’re kids!”

“Speaking of bullets, how many do you have left?”

She pursed her lips. “Two boxes left, and then this thing turns into an unwieldy club.”

“What does it chamber, 5.56?” Jackson asked.

“7.62,” Bonnie said. “Why, you got some?”

Jackson hummed as he thought back to the ammunition he had recovered. He couldn’t say for sure as he hadn’t analyzed them all, but he believed there had been some 7.62mm bullets. There had been two snipers in the squad, one in each team.

“Not on me,” he answered. “I just have some 5.56, and some 9mm for my pistol.”

“I could use some 5.56, actually, for Woods’ rifle. I almost emptied the clip when I got out of that forest. Err… Not sure what I can trade for it, though. I mean, those are super rare, so it’d have to be something valuable…”

She looked back at the stuff her people had brought, scratching her head.

“Bonnie, hold out your hand.”

She cupped her left hand. Jackson retrieved the rifle bullets he was keeping in one of his pouches, the ones he had retrieved from the assault rifle he had brought with him, and dropped them in her palm.

“You’re just gonna give them to me?” she said, eyes wide open.

“Come on, Bonn, we served together. Call it camaraderie, or esprit de corps or whatever.”

“Jack, no. Those are worth too much here. You can’t just give them away.”

“They’re not really worth anything to anyone except you and me,” Jackson pointed out. “Look, if it bothers you, think of it as a, uh, a diplomatic gift. Like, I’m schmoozing you so you’ll make me look good with your leaders.”

Bonnie laughed.

“Where are we on that, by the way? Did you talk to them?”

“I did,” she said. “As I thought, it’s gonna be a hard sell.”

Jackson rubbed the side of his jaw, scratching his five o’clock shadow. “Right. Is there anything we can do to help our case?”

“Well… The main problem is that we still don’t know you people. We have a mutual interest in that alliance, what with the war and everything, but that’s not enough. We need to build some kind of trust between us, and it’s hard to trust when we don’t know what exactly you are. Are you deserters from the Hexacracy?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“I don’t even recognize these creatures,” Bonnie said. “They look like…”

“Werewolves on steroids?” Jackson suggested.

“Yeah. That. We didn’t have anything like them on Earth, did we?”

He shook his head.

“Yeah, I would have remembered those”

“Look, I said we would talk…” Jackson thought for a moment. “How about this? We’re having a little party tonight. Why don’t we stay with us? You can talk to Alizana, ask her more questions if you have any.”

Bonnie tapped her chin with her index finger. “Yeah, okay.”

Smiling, Jackson gave her shoulder a friendly slap, then went to see the merchandise the Elves had brought. It was mostly tools and utensils, but there were also some foodstuffs, such as a variety of spices and a few sauces, including…

“Is that tomato sauce?” Jackson asked Bonnie, pointing at a jar containing a thick, red liquid.

“Something like that. My people call those fruits “laelkäe”; they grow in the wild, at the bottom of big trees. They’re the closest thing to tomatoes we’ve got in this world.”

Tomatoes, spices… That got Jackson thinking. What if?…

“Have you got any brown sugar?”

“Brown sugar?” Bonnie said. “Sugarcanes don’t grow on Varda. If you want brown sugar, you’ll have to import it from C’fa, and that’s gonna cost you.”

“Damn,” Jackson muttered. “How about, err, maple syrup?”

The Elven woman frowned. “Hmm. Haven’t seen any maple trees around here. If they exist in this world, they’re probably not in the Southern Marches.”

“Honey?”

“Oh, lots of honey in this forest,” a Hellhound said. Jackson turned around, and recognized Grabs-the-Blades. “Just have to find a hive.”

“She’s right,” Bonnie said. “Wherever you have flowers, you have bees. And wherever you have bees, you have honey, obviously. This world is not so different from Earth.”

She had said that last part in English, so that Grabs-the-Blades wouldn’t understand it.

Jackson hesitated. “A hive? Err… I don’t suppose you’ve got one of these beekeepers’ outfits?”

Bonnie shook her head, while Grabs-the-Blades laughed. 

“Scared of a little sting?” the Hellhound said.

“No, I’m scared of a thousand little stings. Not all of us have skin thicker than a tree’s bark, Grabby.”

She laughed again. “I’ll get you your honey.”

“You will?”

“Aye. Give me until the evening.”

Jackson was about to ask what she wanted in exchange, but then thought better of it. Members of the Hellhound tribes apparently often did random acts of helping each other like this one. It was either that, or she had forgotten to demand a trade off, and Jackson was certainly not going to remind her. He took some tomato sauce, tried a few spices until he found one that would do, then decided to take his lunch; the hardtacks he had eaten on the ride back had not filled him completely. Sathariel joined him. As the young Demon filled his bowl with the broth they had made, Jackson noticed an absent-mindedness in his eyes, and some shaking still in his hands.

“So, ah, we did it,” he said. “Again. We lived through another fight.”

“We sure did,” Jackson said. “You don’t seem okay, though.”

“Hmm?” He looked at his hands. “Oh, no, it’s going to be fine. It’s just, ah…”

He left his sentence hanging, then punctuated it with a spoonful of soup.

“What’s wrong, Seth? Talk to me.”

 “It’s just…” Sathariel exhaled, and took another spoonful. “I don’t know that I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“The fighting. The violence. The killing. It’s… I don’t think it’s in me.”

A mirthless smile stretched on his lips.

“I keep seeing him.”

“Who?”

“That man from the hunting party,” Sathariel said. “The one that was going to kill you. The one I, uh…”

Jackson nodded.

“I keep seeing him. At night, when I try to go to sleep, I see his eyes as he died. I see the blood running along my blade. I see his corpse, and it’s like he’s looking back at me.”

“If you hadn’t killed him,” Jackson reminded him softly, “he would have killed me.”

“I know, I know.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand holding the spoon. “And now there’s this other man, this officer. I killed him too, but this time, I didn’t have the excuse of defending someone. It was an ambush; I killed him in cold blood.” He put his bowl down on the ground, apparently unable to drink one more spoonful. “That first kill haunts me, and it was justified. What will this second one do to me?”

“Well, you didn’t actually kill that officer, but… I get what you’re saying. I’m sorry.”

“This is not your fault, Jack.”

“I feel like it kind of is, actually,” Jackson said. “I’m the one who dragged you into this. I got you in with the Hellhounds, for starters.”

“You didn’t drag me anywhere. You offered me a choice, remember?”

“I remember you saying it was either this or become a pariah.”

“Well, without you it would have been: become a pariah or die,” Sathariel said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I like it here. I like these people.”

A tentative smile appeared on Jackson’s lips, but the feeling of guilt tightening his throat only eased partially. “I’m the one who convinced you to join the ambush.”

“Not really. You offered me to join, and you only did so because I told you I was doing well since the other time. Which… I honestly believed I was. Now, I’m not sure. Is this going to follow me for… for…”

“I don’t know,” Jackson honestly said. “The first man I killed, I still sometimes get visions of him, and that was months ago. I… If it helps, I think it got easier.”

“The visions or the killing?”

“Well, both, I guess.”

Sathariel sighed and stared into the distance.

“It’s okay, Seth,” Jackson said. “You don’t have to do this. If you’re not cut out for this kind of thing… Hell, I get it. It can be a lot. Shit, you wouldn’t be human if it didn’t affect you. I mean- Ah, you get what I mean.”

They chuckled.

“But I want to help them with the war,” Sathariel said. “Those Hellhounds are in a similar situation to mine. And they welcomed me among them, gave me a place when I was lost; Alizana even said we could become members of the tribe. I can’t not help them. I owe them.”

“Preaching to the choir, brother. Well, then, you can help in other ways. There’s stuff to do back at camp. You can cook, you can fix stuff, you can gather food…” He leaned towards him and whispered: “You can offer to bath and massage those damn fine lady warriors when they return triumphant…”

Their chuckles turned into laughter.

“Maybe,” Sathariel said. “It just doesn’t feel like enough, though. They are risking their lives out here. Shouldn’t I do more than cooking meals and sewing clothes?”

“Food and clothes have their importance. Hard to win a battle while starving and buck-naked.”

“I suppose…”

“I get that you want to do more,” Jackson said, wrapping an arm around the Demon’s shoulders. “But I’m sure you’ll find something. In the meantime, give yourself a break, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Sathariel said. Jackson noticed the Demon didn’t ask him to explain his idiom. Apparently, he was getting used to them. “It’s just… Watching you, you make it seem so easy. When that officer attacked you, you reacted so quickly, and with such precision.”

“Yeah, well… You could say I was a different person then.”

“That you were! Mad Jack indeed.”

Jackson thought to say something about that nickname. But, upon reflection, he decided he quite liked it. A lot more than Greenleaf, at any rate.

The feast began about an hour before sunset. It took place in a small clearing a little over a mile away from camp, near another tribe’s camp. The guests arrived in small groups, coming from various tribes around the forest. Fourty, fifty, sixty, a hundred and sixty… Jackson stopped counting, and just assumed there were about two or three hundreds of those lupine creatures. To his surprise, there weren’t only Hellhounds: a few dozen Demons and several Humans were among them. Most of them were peasants from the Hexacracy, who had been expropriated after their revolt was quelled and had decided to follow the Hellhounds in their exodus. Sathariel went to mingle with them, happy to have found some countrymen.

Each tribe had brought food, as if this were the medieval equivalent of a potluck. It mostly consisted of meat, predictably, although some guests had been kind enough to also bring fruits and vegetables. The barrel of wine captured earlier today was opened, and cups of it were offered to everyone. It had a fruity taste, with a sweet finish. Its texture was a bit thick, though; it was clearly not a fine wine, not the kind that would be served at a noble’s table.

Several campfires were built around the clearing, both for heating and for those who wished to cook their food. Jackson had brought the ingredients to his little project, including the honey which Grabs-the-Blade had procured him. She had actually just grabbed about twenty honeycombs straight off several hives, then simply dropped them on his lap as he was cleaning his sword, not even waiting for a thank you. Collecting the honey from them had been difficult, especially as there were a few bees stuck in it (one of which was still alive), but Jackson was confident it would be worth it.

Sitting near one of the fires, Jackson installed his grill. It was one of the tools traded by the Elves; the grid was made out of copper, and the legs out of some kind of fireproof wood. In a series of bowls, he mixed the tomato sauce, the honey, and the spices. It took a few tries and some taste-testing to get the proportions right, but the result was very close to what he had in mind.

Using a paint brush, he covered several slabs of meat with his mixture before placing them on the grill. Jackson wasn’t sure this sauce would work with boar meat. He set aside a piece for himself, the one that looked like a rib. This was a wise move, as Hellhounds soon approached his grill, drawn by the smell, and looking like they would quickly rob him of every grilled piece of meat.

“What is this?” one of them inquired. Jackson did not recognize her, and assumed she was from another tribe.

“A recipe from my country,” he said. “Wanna try?”

Before he could blink, the curious Hellhound had grabbed a piece of grilled meat. She sniffed it, then took a small, cautious bite. Her eyebrows jumped up, and she took a much bigger bite. Her slab was consumed in a matter of seconds, and she immediately went for seconds, eliciting complaints from her tribemates who quickly took some slabs as well.

Their exclamations of joy as they devoured Jackson’s cooking felt like the best form of flattery.

“Make more,” one Hellhound said, kneeling beside him.

It was Grabs-the-Blades. She had gotten herself two pieces of meat, leaving the grill empty. Jackson scoffed.

“Sure thing, your highness.”

Thankfully, there was a profusion of meat. The same could not be said of the sauce, however: Jackson only had enough ingredients for a couple of pints.

“So this is what you needed honey for?” Grabs-the-Blades said. “Thought you were going to bake a cake.”

“This is better than a damn cake, don’t you think?” Jackson said.

She wordlessly agreed, her eyes glued to the grill, her lips curled into a gluttonous grin. Seeing Bonnie approaching the small group, Jackson cut a portion of his rib and offered it to her. She tasted it, and laughed.

“You’re kidding me! You actually made some barbecue sauce?”

“Sure did, and it ain’t half bad if I dare say so myself.”

Bonnie agreed, took another piece, and went back to the other Elves. Some of the Hellhounds were now singing, accompanied by the music of drums and of strange wind instruments. Several of the guests had begun dancing.

“Not bad at all,” Grabs-the-Blades said, engulfing yet another piece of meat. “How hard is it to make? I can get you more honey.”

“Already addicted, huh?” Jackson smiled. “I can show you how to make some, it’s pretty easy.”

“I’m no cook,” she said with a derisive sniff. “I’m a warrior.”

“I’m a warrior too, you know,” he retorted, a little defensive.

“True. My sister tells me you have some skills for that as well.”

“Which sister?”

“You know her as Laughs-in-Pain.”

Figures, Jackson thought. They both seem to have a thing for pain.

“How is she doing?” he asked.

Grabs-the-Blades answered by pointing her out in the crowd, dancing around one of the fires with great enthusiasm, a cup of wine in hand. She still had a bandage on the side of her face, but it looked clean. Either it had been changed recently or the bleeding had already stopped.

“Looks like she’s got some energy to spend,” Jackson said.

“So do I,” Grabs-the-Blades said.

There was a hungry look in the Hellhound’s eyes, but it wasn’t the meat being grilled she was staring at; it was Jackson. She blatantly looked him over, and Jackson responded in kind. While all Hellhounds, it seemed, had an athletic build, Grabs-the-Blade had really developed muscles, especially in the arms. She had a rough, angular face, and scruffy ears poking out of her equally-scruffy hair.

She leaned towards him, her nose quivering as she smelled him. Jackson didn’t move. Ah, what the hell, he thought. Wine, women, and song. She’s not hard on the eyes, either. Grabs-the-Blades leaned further, hoisting herself up on her knuckles. Then, with a quick move of her paw, she pushed on his plexus, throwing him down on the grass.

“Where are your reflexes, warrior?” she mocked as she kneeled on top of him.

“Same place you left your subtlety, I guess,” he said.

She barked in laughter, dropping a bit of spit on his neck. After finishing her drink and throwing her cup, she placed her paws on Jackson’s shoulders, her grin widening as she moved her lips closer to his. But as she was about to seal the kiss, she glanced above the two of them, and the glint of mischief in her eye died, replaced by something looking like worry. An instant later, she rose up in a crouching position, and let go of him.

“Hey! What just happened?” Jackson asked.

“Sorry,” Grabs-the-Blades said. “You’d make for a fine mate, no doubt, but you’re not worth this fight.”

“What? What fight?”

Without explaining herself further, she jumped on her feet and scampered off, leaving a miffed and bemused Jackson to stand back up in a sitting position, scratching his head. Then, he noticed that another person was present, about five feet away.

“Hey, Liz,” he said. “Nice party.”

“It is.” 

Alizana’s face was as serious as ever, yet, in the low lighting, Jackson thought he could see some nuance in it, something that might have been joy or levity. Or maybe it was just the wine. He stood up, dusting his pants. 

“I don’t suppose we’re gonna throw one every time we raid a caravan? My liver couldn’t take it.”

“The feast is not just for the raid. I wanted some of my people to gather and rejoice. It may be our last opportunity to do so in a while, since we are going to war.”

“True.” He recovered his cup, which he had dropped when Grabs-the-Blades pushed him down.

“And there was something else, as well. Come with me.”

Curious, Jackson followed her as she headed towards the center of the clearing. He noticed that Sathariel was already there, accompanied by another Demon, a hornless man with dark red skin. In the fire’s light illuminating the right side of his face, he looked barely older than Sathariel and Jackson.

“Enjoying your evening so far, Jack?” Sathariel said. “By the way, this is Nadikel.”

“Hey, Nadikel. I’m Jackson. Are you with one of the tribes?”

The Demon pointed at one of the Hellhounds, some twenty feet away.

“What’s it called?”

Nadikel pointed at his open mouth, then made a sign with his fingers that Jackson didn’t recognize.

“He’s a mute,” Sathariel explained.

The other Demon turned his head, showing the left side of his face… and the large burn scar on his cheek, extending from his ear all the way to the corner of his mouth. It reminded Jackson of the branding the Dorsetts did on their cattle.

“Jesus,” he blurted out.

“He’s an outcast,” Sathariel said.

“Wow. I’m really sorry.”

Nadikel made another gesture, which Jackson took to mean “it’s okay” or “it’s not your fault”. One of the Hellhounds called out to him, and he left to join her.

“Yeah, no wonder you didn’t want to go back to the Hexacracy,” Jackson said to Sathariel. “Do you think that’s why he’s mute?” he mentally asked Byron.

“Possibly,” the veteran said. “The shock, maybe.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “Uh… On a happier subject, Liz, what’s going on?”

“It’s time,” Alizana said.

Before Jackson could ask what she meant with this cryptic answer, she turned her back to the fire, raised her hands in the air, and called out for everyone’s attention. It took several tries, as some couldn’t hear her over the music or their conversations. Ultimately, she threw her head back and howled loudly, and the clearing got quiet.

“Everyone, I have an announcement to make.”

“Quick one, then, before I sober up!” someone said, raising some laughs.

“For a while now, these two” Alizana gestured towards Jackson and Sathariel “have been living with my tribe. They shared our food, our tents, our chores, the same as any of my tribemates. They even defended us against hunters sent by the Hexacracy. But today, they went one step further: they attacked our enemies alongside us, risking their lives for us when they had no need to. In fact, this one did more than just fight,” she added, placing a firm paw on Jackson’s shoulder. “He actually planned the raid a few days ago, and saw it through.”

A few Hellhounds, mainly those who had taken part in that raid, clamored. Jackson felt a bit hot under the collar, and it had nothing to do with the fire roaring behind him. Instinctively, he put his hand over Alizana’s paw.

“Some time ago, I mentioned the possibility of making them full members of my tribe,” Alizana continued. “Today, I’d say they earned that right. Neha, what do you say?”

“Aye!” several members of the tribe said. Grabs-the-Blades was among them.

“Chieftains, what do you say?”

Ten Hellhounds stood out from the crowd. Most of them seemed older than the rest of the Hellhounds, and half of them sported quite a few scars; one was even missing an ear.

“We accept Demons and Humans as our own, now?” one of them said. Jackson mentally called her Large-Nose, for obvious reasons. “There’s no precedent for that.”

“We have no precedents for anything,” another chieftain -dubbed Mismatched-Eyes by Jackson- said. “We are a young people, our traditions are still to be written.”

“Well, I say we make this a tradition,” a third chieftain -Scarred-Ear- said. “If they bleed for us, then they’re one of us.”

“I’m of a mind with Aleo,” a fourth said. Jackson did not see any distinctive sign on her, so he just called her Short-Hair. “And anyway, unless we want our generation of Hellhounds to be the last, we’ll have to welcome other races among us. This decision makes sense pragmatically too.”

“We don’t need to make them members to mate them, do we?” Large-Nose said, scrunching her titular facial feature. “We don’t even need to keep them around once the deed is done.”

“Shame on you,” Scarred-Ear -or rather, Aleo- spat at her. “You’d use men the same way the Hexacracy used us?”

Large-Nose’s acerbic retort to that was drowned in the grumble of the other chieftains, a few of whom were defending her, but most of whom were siding with Aleo against her. That had begun as a discussion had quickly descended into a squabble.

“The Hexacracy has us outnumbered about fifteen to one,” one chieftain said. “If they want to fight with us, I say let them.”

More words were exchanged, some in Imperial, others in their own language. Alizana called for the silence again, this time with a shout.

“All right, I heard your opinions,” she said. “Let us vote. Who agrees that Humans and Demons should be able to join our tribes?”

Paws were raised. The pinch in Jackson’s stomach eased when he counted more than half. In fact, all but two chieftains had voted in favor of Alizana’s motion. Interestingly, only one chieftain voted against -Large-Nose, predictably-, leaving the last one a holdout.

“So it’s decided,” Alizana said. She thought for a moment, then turned to Jackson and Sathariel. “Right, so I’m not one for ceremonies and I don’t care for big speeches, so let’s just do this. Do you want to become part of the Neha tribe?”

“Yeah,” Jackson said enthusiastically.

“Of course,” Sathariel said with the same energy.

“Then it’s done. You are now my people, same as any of my sisters. Let’s drink to that.”

New cups were brought. Jackson thought that the barrel of wine they had looted had to be mostly empty at this point. Also, he was starting to be pretty buzzed. Alizana raised her cup.

“To our new tribemates,” she said.

“To the tribe!” Sathariel said.

“To the rebellion!” Jackson said.

Some of the other chieftains toasted as well, others just emptied their cups. Then, they all went back to mingle with the crowd. Sathariel went to get some food, leaving Jackson and Alizana alone.

“I hope you didn’t mind the lack of formality,” she said. “Like Neili said, we have little in the way of traditions, ever since we rejected those of the Hexacracy.”

“Didn’t mind at all,” Jackson said. “I… I don’t know how to say thank you. For this.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

Had she inched closer to him? He thought she had. And… was she smiling? With the fire only lighting the back of her head, it was hard to tell for sure.

Without thinking, Jackson put his hand on her shoulder, which was about at nose-level for him, and mingled his fingers in her fur. He tilted his head back to look at the stars above; so did Alizana. Sipping his wine, Jackson realized then that this was without a doubt one the happiest moments of his life. Here, in this clearing, surrounded by these people –his people-, with Alizana at his side, warmed by a nice fire, and with the starry sky as witness, all felt right. This was where he wanted to be. This was where he wanted to stay.

They eventually lowered their eyes, which met for a moment that lasted just a bit too long. Jackson had never truly noticed what a bright shade of orange her eyes were. And that night, they were underlined by strange orange lines, going from the eyes to the middle of her cheeks. On an impulse, he trailed one of those lines with his finger; she let him. Her skin was warm to the touch, the line even warmer. She was still staring into his eyes; his own gaze descended to her lips. They were black in color with a bit of gray where they were chaffed, and full and pulpy.

One of Alizana’s tribemates -no: one of their tribemates- called her attention. She and several others had gathered around the grill.

“Alizana, have you tried this?” she said, holding the pot containing Jackson’s barbecue sauce. “It could use more spice, but it’s rather good.”

Alizana joined the group to try the sauce as well. Jackson threw back his head with a sigh of frustration. Byron appeared, hovering his hands in front of the fire, in spite of the fact that he couldn’t feel its warmth.

“Quicker, next time,” he said.

“Shut up.”

Jackson didn’t see Alizana again for the rest of the night. More of her tribemates and several of the other chieftains accosted her, dragging her further away. But between the food, the drinks, the music, and the dancing, Jackson still managed to have a good time. Enough to temporarily soothe the pinch of regret in his stomach.

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